These are thy wonders, Lord of love, To make us see we are but flowers that glide; Which when we once can find and prove, Thou hast a garden for us where to 'bide. Who would be more,
Swelling through store
Forfeit their paradise by their pride.
FALSE glossing pleasures: casks of happiness : Foolish night-fires: women's and children's wishes: Chases, in arras: gilded emptiness:
Shadows, well mounted: dreams in a career: Embroidered lies: nothing, between two dishes:- These are the pleasures here.
True, earnest sorrows: rooted miseries: Anguish, in grain: vexations, ripe and blown :
Sure-footed griefs: solid calamities:
Plain demonstrations, evident and clear, Touching their proofs e'en from the very bone :— These are the sorrows here.
But oh, the folly of distracted men,
Who griefs in earnest, joys in jest, pursue: Preferring, like brute beasts, a loathsome den Before a court-e'en that above, so clear- Where are no sorrows, but delights, more true Than miseries are here!
LET foreign nations of their language boast, What fine variety each tongue affords:
I like our language, as our men, and coast; Who cannot dress it well, want wit, not words. How neatly do we give one only name To parents' issue, and the sonne's bright star! A sonne is light and fruit; a fruitful flame, Chasing the Father's dimness: carried far From the first man in th' east, to fresh and new Western discoveries of posterity.
So, in one word, our Lord's humility
We turn upon him, in a sense most true;
For, what Christ once in humbleness began, We him in glory call, The Sonne of man.
My Joy, my Life, my Crown! My heart was meaning all the day, Somewhat it fain would say ;
And still it runneth, muttering, up and down, With only this, my Joy, my Life, my Crown!
Yet slight not these few words; If truly said, they may take part Among the best in art.
The fineness which a hymn or psalm affords, Is, when the soul unto the lines accords.
He, who craves all the mind
And all the soul, and strength, and time; If the words only rhyme,
Justly complains, that somewhat is behind To make his verse, or write a hymn in kind.
Whereas, if th' heart be moved, Although the verse be somewhat scant, God doth supply the want.
As when th' heart says, sighing to be approved, "Oh, could I love!" and stops; God writeth, loved.
My comforts drop, and melt away like snow. I shake my head; and all the thoughts and ends, Which my fierce youth did bandy, fall and flow, Like leaves, about me, or like summer friends, Flies of estates and sunshine. But, to all Who think me eager, hot, and undertaking; But in my prosecutions slack and small;- As a young exhalation, newly waking, Scorns his first bed of dirt, and means the sky; But, cooling by the way, grows pursy and slow, And settling to a cloud, doth live and die In that dark state of tears;-to all, that so Shew me, and set me, I have one reply;
Which they, that know the rest, know more than I.
C. ALAS, poor Death! where is thy glory? Where is thy famous force,-thy ancient sting?
D. Alas, poor mortal, void of story!
Go, spell, and read how I have killed thy King.
C. Poor Death! and who was hurt thereby? Thy curse, being laid on him, makes thee accursed.
D. Let losers talk: yet thou shalt die.
These arms shall crush thee.
Spare not; do thy worst.
I shall be, one day, better than before: Thou so much worse, that thou shalt be no more.
THOU, who dost dwell and linger here below,— Since the condition of this world is frail, Where, of all plants, afflictions soonest grow ;- If troubles overtake thee, do not wail:
For who can look for less, that loveth
But rather turn the pipe and water's course To serve thy sins, and furnish thee with store Of sovereign tears, springing from true remorse; That so in pureness thou mayst him adore,
Who gives to man, as he sees fit,
THOU, who condemnest Jewish hate,
For choosing Barabbas, a murderer, Before the Lord of glory;
Look back upon thine own estate, Call home thine eye, that busy wanderer: That choice may be thy story.
He, that doth love, and love amiss, This world's delights before true Christian joy, Hath made a Jewish choice.
The world an ancient murderer is; Thousands of souls it hath and doth destroy, With her enchanting voice.
He, that hath made a sorry wedding Between his soul and gold, and hath preferred False gain before the true,
Hath done what he condemns in reading. For he hath sold for money his dear Lord, And is a Judas-Jew.
Thus we prevent the last great day, And judge ourselves. That light, which sin and passion Did before dim and choke,
When once those snuffs are taken away, Shines bright and clear; e'en unto condemnation, Without excuse or cloak.
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