« AnteriorContinuar »
The purles of youthfull bloud and bowles,
Lust in the robes of love,
Sick with a scarf or glove;
Let it suffice my warmer days
Simper’d and shin'd on you ;
Or roses with my yewgh.
Go, go, seek out some greener thing;
It snows and freezeth here;
Winter is all my year.
BRIGHT shadows of true rest! some shoots of blisse;
Heaven once a week;
A day to seek;
The pulleys unto headlong map ;. time's bower;
The narrow way;
The cool o'th' day!
The creature's jubile; God's parle with dust; Heaven here; man on those hills of myrrh and
flowres; Angels descending; the returns of trust; A gleam of glory after six-days-showres !
The churche's love-feasts; time's prerogative,
And interest Deducted from the whole ; the combs and hive,
And home of rest. The milky way chalkt out with suns; a clue, That guides through erring hours; and in full story A taste of heav'n on earth; the pledge and cue Of a full feast; and the out-courts of glory.
LORD, since thou didst in this vile clay
That sacred ray,
With that one grain's infused wealth,
Both growth and power; checking the health And heat of thine: that little gate
And narrow way, by which to thee The passage is, he term’d a grate
And entrance to captivitie;
Thy laws but nets, where some small birds,
And those but seldome too, were caught ; Thy promises but empty words,
Which none but children heard or taught. This I believed; and, though a friend
Came oft from far, and whisper'd, No; Yet, that not sorting to my end,
I wholy listen'd to my foe.
Seduced soul sighs up to thee;
And seest all things just as they be.
Of heavy sins, my high transgressions, Which I confesse with all
my My God, accept of my confession !
It was last day,
The bitter cup,
The blades of grasse thy creatures feeding ;
The dew thy herbs drink up by night,
O my dear God!
love! Most blessed Lamb! and mildest Dove! Forgive your penitent offender, And no more his sins remember; Scatter these shades of death, and give Light to my soul, that it may live; Cut me not off for my transgressions, Wilful rebellions, and suppressions ; But give them in those streams a part Whose spring is in my Saviour's heart. Lord, I confesse the heynous score, And pray I may do so no more; Though then all sinners I exceed; O think on this, thy Son did bleed ! O call to mind his wounds, his woes, His agony, and bloudie throes ; Then look on all that thou hast made, And mark how they do fail and fade; The heavens themselves, though fair and bright, Are dark and unclean in thy sight;
How then, with thee, can man be holy,
His pure perfection quits all score;
And fills the boxes of his poor; He is the center of long life and light; I am but finite, He is infinite. O let thy justice then in him confine; And through his merits make thy mercy mine!
THE BURIAL OF AN INFANT.
Blest infant-bud, whose blossome-life