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Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, Nor any thought of greenness, leaf or bark.

And yet, as if some deep hate and dissent,

Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, Were still alive, thou dost great storms resent Before they come, and know'st how near they be.

Else all at rest thou lyest, and the fierce breath
Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease;
But this thy strange resentment after death
Means onely those who broke in life thy peace.

So murthered man, when lovely life is done,

And his blood freez'd, keeps in the center still Some secret sense, which makes the dead blood run At his approach that did the body kill.

And is there any murth'rer worse than sin?
Or any storms more foul than a lewd life?
Or what resentient can work more within

Than true remorse, when with past sins at strife?

He that hath left life's vain joys and vain care,
And truly hates to be detain'd on earth,
Hath got an house where many mansions are,
And keeps his soul unto eternal mirth.

But though thus dead unto the world, and ceas'd From sin, he walks a narrow, private way;

Yet grief and old wounds make him sore displeas'd, And all his life a rainy, weeping day.

For though he should forsake the world, and live
As meer a stranger as men long since dead,
Yet joy itself will make a right soul grieve
To think he should be so long vainly led.

But as shades set off light, so tears and grief, Though of themselves but a sad blubber'd story, By shewing the sin great, shew the relief

Far greater, and so speak my Saviour's glory.

If my way lies through deserts and wilde woods,

Where all the land with scorching heat is curst, Better the pools should flow with rain and floods To fill my bottle than I die with thirst.

Blest showers they are, and streams sent from above,
Begetting virgins where they use to flow;
The trees of life no other waters love [grow.
Than upper springs, and none else make them

But these chaste fountains flow not till we dye:
Some drops may fall before, but a clear spring
And ever running, till we leave to fling
Dirt in her way, will keep above the skie.

Rom. vi. 7.

He that is dead is freed from sin.

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Of

THE JEWS.

WHEN the fair year

your Deliverer comes,

And that long frost which now benums Your hearts shall thaw; when angels here Shall yet to man appear,

And familiarly confer

Beneath the oke.and juniper;
When the bright Dove,

Which now these many, many springs

Hath kept above,

Shall with spread wings

Descend, and living waters flow

To make drie dust, and dead trees grow;

O then that I

Might live, and see the olive bear
Her proper branches, which now lie
Scattered each where,

And, without root and sap, decay,
Cast by the husbandman away!
And sure it is not far!

For as your fast and foul decays,

Forerunning the bright morning star,

Did sadly note his healing rayes

Would shine elsewere, since you were blind,

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And would be cross, when God was kinde,

So, by all signs

Our fulness too is now come in ;

And the same sun, which here declines And sets, will few hours hence begin

To rise on you again, and look

Towards old Mamre and Eshcol's brook. For surely He

Who lov'd the world so as to give

His onely Son to make it free, Whose Spirit too doth mourn and grieve To see man lost, will for old love From your dark hearts this veil remove.

Faith sojourn'd first on earth in you,
You were the dear and chosen stock:
The arm of God, glorious and true,
Was first reveal'd to be your rock.

You were the eldest childe; and, when
Your stony hearts despised love,
The youngest, ev'n the Gentiles, then
Were chear'd your jealousie to move.

Thus, Righteous Father! doest thou deal
With brutish men: thy gifts go round

By turns, and timely, and so heal
The lost son by the newly found.

P

BEGGING.

AYE do not go ! thou know'st I'll dye!
My spring and fall are in thy book!
Or, if thou goest, do not deny

To lend me, though from far, one look!

My sins long since have made thee strange,
A very stranger unto me;

No morning meetings since this change,
Nor evening walks have I with thee.

Why is my God thus slow and cold,
When I am most, most sick and sad?

Well fare those blessed days of old,
When thou didst hear the weeping lad !*

O do not thou do as I did,

Do not despise a love-sick heart! What though some clouds defiance bid, Thy sun must shine in every part.

Though I have spoil'd, O spoil not thou! Hate not thine own dear gift and token! Poor birds sing best, and prettiest show, When their nest is faln and broken.

* Ishmael.

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