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But here, commission'd by a black self-will,

The sons the father kill;

The children chase the mother, and would heal The wounds they give by crying zeale.

Then cast her bloud and tears upon thy book,
Where they for fashion look;

And, like that lamb which had the dragon's voice,
Seem mild, but are known by their noise.

Thus, by our lusts disorder'd into wars,
Our guides prove wandring stars,

Which for these mists and black days were reserv'd,
What time we from our first love swerv'd.

Yet O for His sake who sits now by thee
All crown'd with victory,

So guide us through this darkness, that we may
Be more and more in love with day!

Settle and fix our hearts, that we may move
In order, peace, and love;

And, taught obedience by thy whole creation,
Become an humble, holy nation!

Give to thy spouse her perfect and pure dress,
Beauty and holiness;

And so repair these rents, that men may see,
And say, "Where God is, all agree."

M

THE SHEPHEARDS.

SWEET, harmless lives! on whose holy leisure
Waits innocence and pleasure,

Whose leaders to those pastures and cleer springs
Were patriarchs, saints, and kings;

How happend it, that, in the dead of night,
You only saw true light,

While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay
Without one thought of day?

Was it because those first and blessed swains
Were pilgrims on those plains,

When they receiv'd the promise, for which now 'Twas there first shown to you?

'Tis true, he loves that dust whereon they go
That serve him here below,

And therefore might, for memory of those,
His love there first disclose;

But wretched Salem, once his love, must now
No voice nor vision know;

Her stately piles, with all their height and pride,
Now languished and died,

And Bethlem's humble cotts above them stept,
While all her seers slept;

Her cedar, firr, hew'd stones, and gold were all
Polluted through their fall;

And those once sacred mansions were now
Meer emptiness and show.

This made the angel call at reeds and thatch,
Yet where the shepheards watch,

And God's own lodging, though he could not lack,
To be a common kack;

No costly pride, no soft-cloath'd luxurie,
In those thin cels could lie ;

Each stirring wind and storm blew thro' their cots,
Which never harbour'd plots;

Only content and love and humble joys
Lived there without all noise;

Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day
Did in their bosomes play,

As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook,
What springs or shades to look:

But that was all; and now, with gladsome care,
They for the town prepare;

They leave their flock, and, in a busie talk,
All towards Bethlem walk

To see their soul's great Shepheard, who was come To bring all straglers home;

Where now they find him out, and, taught before, That Lamb of God adore;

That Lamb whose daies great kings and prophets And long'd to see, but miss'd. [wish'd

The first light they beheld was bright and gay,
And turn'd their night to day;

But, to this later light they saw in him,

Their day was dark and dim.

MISERY.

LORD, bind me up, and let me lye

A pris'ner to my libertie,

If such a state at all can be
As an impris'ment serving thee:
The wind, though gather'd in thy fist,
Yet doth it blow still where it list;
And yet, shouldst thou let go thy hold,
Those gusts might quarrel, and grow bold.

As waters here, headlong and loose,
The lower grounds still chase and choose,
Where, spreading all the way, they seek
And search out every hole and creek;
So my spilt thoughts, winding from thee,
Take the down-rode to vanitie,

Where they all stray and strive, which shall
Find out the first and steepest fall.
I cheer their flow, giving supply
To what's already grown too high;
And, having thus perform'd that part,
Feed on those vomits of my heart.
I break the fence my own hands made,
Then lay that trespasse in the shade;
Some fig-leafs stil I do devise,

As if thou hadst nor ears nor eyes.
Excesse of friends, of words, and wine
Take up my day, while thou dost shine

All unregarded, and thy book

Hath not so much as one poor look. If thou steal in amidst the mirth, And kindly tell me I am earth, I shut thee out, and let that slip, Such musick spoils good fellowship. Thus wretched I, and most unkind, Exclude my dear God from my mind; Exclude him thence, who of that cell Would make a court, should he there dwell. He goes, he yields; and, troubled sore, His Holy Spirit grieves therefore; The mighty God, th' eternal King, Doth grieve for dust, and dust doth sing. But I go on, haste to divest Myself of reason, till opprest And buried in my surfeits, I Prove my own shame and miserie. Next day I call and cry for thee, Who shouldst not then come neer to me; But now it is thy servant's pleasure Thou must and dost give him his measure. Thou dost, thou com'st, and, in a shower Of healing sweets, thyself dost pour Into my wounds; and now thy grace (I know it well) fills all the place; I sit with thee by this new light, And for that hour thou'rt my delight; No man can more the world despise, Or thy great mercies better prize.

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