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But what like his, whose blood peace brings,
Shall, when they rise, "speak better things"
Than Abel's doth! may Abel be
Still single heard, while these agree
With his milde blood in voice and will,
Who pray'd for those that did him kill!


FAIR, solitary path! whose blessed shades

The old, white prophets planted first and drest; Leaving for us, whose goodness quickly fades, A shelter all the way, and bowers to rest;

Who is the man that walks in thee? who loves Heav'n's secret solitude, those fair abodes Where turtles build, and carelese sparrows move, Without to-morrow's evils and future loads?

Who hath the upright heart, the single eye,

The clean, pure hand, which never medled pitch? Who sees invisibles, and doth comply

With hidden treasures that make truly rich?

He that doth seek and love
The things above,

Whose spirit ever poor is meek and low;

Who simple still and wise,
Still homewards flies,

Quick to advance, and to retreat most slow.

Whose acts, words, and pretence
Have all one sense,

One aim and end; who walks not by his sight:
Whose eyes are both put out,
And goes about

Guided by faith, not by exterior light.

Who spills no blood, nor spreds
Thorns in the beds

Of the distrest, hasting their overthrow;

Making the time they had

Bitter and sad,

Like chronic pains, which surely kill, though slow.

Who knows earth nothing hath
Worth love or wrath,

But in his hope and rock is ever glad.
Who seeks and follows peace,
When with the ease

And health of conscience it is to be had.

Who bears his cross with joy,
And doth imploy

His heart and tongue in prayers for his foes;
Who lends not to be paid,

And gives full aid

Without that bribe which usurers impose.

Who never looks on man
Fearful and wan,

But firmly trusts in God; the great man's measure,
Though high and haughty, must
Be ta'en in dust;

But the good man is God's peculiar treasure.

Who doth thus, and doth not
These good deeds blot

With bad, or with neglect; and heaps not wrath
By secret filth, nor feeds

Some snake, or weeds,

Cheating himself,

that man walks in this path.


Mr God and King! to thee
I bow my knee;

I bow my troubled soul, and greet
With my foul heart thy holy feet.
Cast it, or tread it, it shall do

Even what thou wilt, and praise thee too!

My God, could I weep blood,
Gladly I would;

Or if thou wilt give me that art,

Which through the eyes pours out the heart,

I will exhaust it all, and make
Myself all tears, a weeping lake.

O! 'tis an easie thing
To write and sing;

But to write true, unfeigned verse
Is very hard! O God! disperse
These weights, and give my spirit leave
To act as well as to conceive!

O my God, hear my cry,
Or let me dye!


O WHEN my God, my glory, brings
His white and holy train

Unto those clear and living springs
Where comes no stain !

Where all is light, and flowers, and fruit,
And joy, and rest,

Make me amongst them, 'tis my suit!
The last one and the least.

And when they all are fed, and have
Drunk of thy living stream,
Bid thy poor ass, with tears I crave,
Drink after them.

Thy love claims highest thanks, my sin
The lowest pitch:

But if he pays, who loves much, then
Thou hast made beggers rich.


I SEE the temple in thy pillar reared,

And that dread glory which thy children feared, In milde, clear visions, without a frown,

Unto thy solitary self is shown.

"Tis number makes a schism: throngs are rude, And God himself dyed by the multitude.

This made him put on clouds, and fire, and smoke;
Hence he in thunder to thy offspring spoke.
The small, still voice at some low cottage knocks,
But a strong wind must break thy lofty rocks.

The first true worship of the world's great King From private and selected hearts did spring; But he most willing to save all mankinde, Inlarg'd that light, and to the bad was kinde. Hence catholick or universal came

A most fair notion, but a very name.

For this rich pearl, like some more common stone, When once made publique, is esteem'd by none.

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