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Neither his bloudy passions mind,

Nor one day blesse his birth ?
Alas, my God! thy birth now here
Must not be numbred in the year. *

THE CHECK.

PEACE, peace! I blush to hear thee; when thou A dusty story,

[art A speechlesse heap, and in the midst my heart,

In the same livery drest,

Lyes tame as all the rest ;
When six years thence digg'd up, some youthfull eie

Seeks there for symmetry,
But, finding none, shall leave thee to the wind,

Or the next foot to crush,

Scatt'ring thy kind
And humble dust, tell then, dear flesh,

Where is thy glory?

II.

As he that in the midst of day expects

The hideous night,
Sleeps not, but, shaking off sloth and neglects,

Works with the sun, and sets

Paying the day its debts;
That, for repose and darkness bound, he might

Rest from the fears i'th' night;
The Puritans abolished the celebration of Christmas.

So should we too. All things teach us to die,

And point us out the way;

While we passe by,
And mind it not; play not away

Thy glimpse of light.

III.

View thy forerunners. Creatures, giv'n to be

Thy youth's companions, Take their leave, and die ; birds, beasts, each tree,

All that hath growth or breath,

Have one large language, Death!
O then play not! but strive to Him who can

Make these sad shades pure sun,
Turning their mists to beams, their damps to day;

Whose pow'r doth so excell

As to make clay
A spirit, and true glory dwell

In dust and stones.

IV.

Heark, how he doth invite thee! with what voice

Of love and sorrow
He begs and calls ! O that in these thy days

Thou knew'st but thy own good!
Shall not the

crys

of bloud, Of God's own bloud, awake thee? He bids beware

Of drunknes, surfeits, care; But thou sleep'st on: where's now thy protestation,

Thy lines, thy love? Away!

Redeem the day;
The day that gives no observation

Perhaps to-morrow.

DISORDER AND FRAILTY.

I.

WHEN first thou did'st, even from the grave
And womb of darkness, becken out
My brutish soul, and to thy slave
Becam'st thyself both guide and scout;

Even from that hour
Thou got'st my heart; and though here tost
By winds, and bit with frost,

I pine and shrink,

Breaking the link "Twixt thee and me; and oftimes creep Into the old silence and dead sleep,

Quitting thy way

All the long day;
Yet sure, my God! I love thee most.

Alas, thy love!

II.

I threaten heaven, and from my cell
Of clay and frailty break and bud,
Touch'd by thy fire and breath; thy bloud,
Too, is my dew, and springing well.

But while I grow,
And stretch to thee, ayming at all
Thy stars and spangled hall,

Each fly doth taste,

Poyson, and blast
My yielding leaves; sometimes a showr
Beats them quite off; and, in an hour,

Not one poor shoot,

But the bare root,
Hid under ground, survives the fall.

Alas, frail weed !

III.

Thus like some sleeping exhalation,
Which, wak’d by heat and beams, makes up
Unto that comforter, the sun,
And soars and shines, but, ere we sup,

And walk two steps,
Cool'd by the damps of night, descends,
And, whence it sprung, there ends,
Doth

my

weak fire
Pine and retire;
And, after all my hight of flames,
In sickly expirations tames,

Leaving me dead
On
my

first bed, Until thy sun again ascends.

Poor, falling star!

IV.

O, yes ! but give wings to my fire;
And hatch my soul, until it fly
Up where thou art, amongst thy tire
Of stars, above infirmity;

Let not perverse
And foolish thoughts adde to my bill
Of forward sins, and kill

That seed which thou
In me didst sow;

But dresse, and water with thy grace,
Together with the seed, the place;

And, for His sake

Who died to stake
His life for mine, tune to thy will

My heart, my verse.

Hosea vi. 4.

0 Ephraim, what shall I do unto thee? O Judah, how shall I intreat thee? for thy goodness is as a morning cloud, and as the early dew it goeth away.

IDLE VERSE.

Go, go, queint follies, sugred sin,

Shadow no more my door!
I will no longer cobwebs spin ;

I'm too much on the score.

For since amidst my youth and night

My great Preserver smiles,
Wee'l make a match, my only light,

And joyn against their wiles.

Blind, desp’rate fits, that study how

To dresse and trim our shame,
That gild rank poyson, and allow

Vice in a fairer name;

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