DEAR, beauteous saint! more white than day, When in his naked, pure array;
Fresher than morning flowers, which shew,
As thou in tears dost, best in dew.
How art thou chang'd; how lively fair,
Pleasing and innocent an air,
Not tutor❜d by thy glass, but free,
pure, shines now in thee! But since thy beauty doth still keep Bloomy and fresh, why dost thou weep?
This dusky state of sighs and tears
Durst not look on those smiling years,
When Magdal-castle was thy seat,
Where all was sumptuous, rare, and neat.
Why lies this hair despised now,
Which once thy care and art did shew?
Who then did dress the much-lov'd toy,
In spires, globes, angry curls and coy,
Which with skill'd negligence seem'd shed
About thy curious, wilde, young head?
Why is this rich, this pistic nard
Spilt, and the box quite broke and marr'd?
What pretty sullenness did haste
Thy easie hands to do this waste?
Why are thou humbled thus, and low
As earth thy lovely head dost bow?
Dear soul! thou knew'st, flowers here on earth
At their Lord's footstool have their birth;
Therefore thy wither'd self in haste
Beneath his blest feet thou didst cast,
That, at the root of this green tree,
Thy great decays restor'd might be.
Thy curious vanities and rare,
Oderous ointments kept with care,
And dearly bought, when thou didst see
They could not cure nor comfort thee;
Like a wise, early penitent,
Thou sadly didst to him present,
Whose interceding, meek, and calm
Blood is the world's. all-healing balm.
This, this divine restorative
Call'd forth thy tears, which ran in live
And hasty drops, as if they had
(Their Lord so near) sense to be glad.
Learn, ladies, here the faithful cure
Makes beauty lasting, fresh, and pure;
Learn Mary's art of tears, and then
Say, You have got the day from men.
Cheap, mighty art! her art of love,
Who lov'd much, and much more could move;
Her art! whose memory must last
Till truth through all the world be past;
Till his abus'd, despised flame
Return to heaven from whence it came,
And send a fire down, that shall bring
Destruction on his ruddy wing.
Her art! whose pensive, weeping eyes
Were once sin's loose and tempting spies;
But now are fixed stars, whose light
Helps such dark straglers to their sight.
Self-boasting Pharisee! how blinde
A judge wert thou, and how unkinde!
It was impossible, that thou,
Who wert all false, should'st true grief know.
Is't just to judge her faithful tears
By that foul rheum thy false eye wears?
"This woman," say'st thou, "is a sinner!"
And sate there none such at thy dinner?
Go, leper, go! wash till thy flesh
Comes like a childe's, spotless and fresh ;
He is still leprous that still paints:
Who saint themselves, they are no saints.
STILL young and fine! but what is still in view
We slight as old and soil'd, though fresh and new.
How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye
Thy burnisht, flaming arch did first descry!.
When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot,
The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot,
Did with intentive looks watch every hour
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair,
Forms turn to musick, clouds to smiles and air;
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours
Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers.
Bright pledge of peace and sun-shine! the sure tye
Of thy Lord's hand, the object* of his eye!
When I behold thee, though my light be dim,
Distant, and low, I can in thine see Him
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne,
And mindes the covenant 'twixt all and One.
O foul, deceitful men! my God doth keep
His promise still, but we break ours and sleep.
After the Fall, the first sin was in blood,
And drunkenness quickly did succeed the flood;
But since Christ dyed, (as if we did devise
To lose him too, as well as paradise,)
These two grand sins we joyn and act together, Though blood and drunkenness make but foul, foul weather.
Water, though both heaven's windows and the deep
Full forty days o'r the drown'd world did weep,
Could not reform us; and blood in despight,
Yea, God's own blood, we tread upon and slight.
So those bad daughters, which God sav'd from fire,
While Sodom yet did smoke lay with their sire.
Then peaceful, signal bow, but in a cloud
Still lodged, where all thy unseen arrows shrowd; I will on thee as on a comet look,
A comet, the sad world's ill-boding book;
Thy light as luctual and stain'd with woes
I'll judge, where penal flames sit mixt and close.
But though some think thou shin'st but to restrain
Bold storms, and simply dost attend on rain;
Yet I know well, and so our sins require,
Thou dost but court cold rain, till rain turns fire.
THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY.
St. Mark, iv. 26.
If this world's friends might see but once
What some poor man may often feel,
Glory and gold, and crowns and thrones,
They would soon quit, and learn to kneel.
My dew, my dew! my early love,
My soul's bright food, thy absence kills! Hover not long, eternal Dove!
Life without thee is loose, and spills.
Something I had, which long ago
Did learn to suck and sip and taste; But now grown sickly, sad, and slow, Doth fret and wrangle, pine and waste.
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