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All must descend

Not to an end,

But quickned by this deep and rocky grave, Rise to a longer course more bright and brave.

Dear stream! dear bank! where often I
Have sate, and pleas'd my pensive eye;
Why, since each drop of thy quick store
Runs thither whence it flow'd before,
Should poor souls fear a shade or night,
Who came sure from a sea of light?
Or since those drops are all sent back
So sure to thee that none doth lack,
Why should frail flesh doubt any more
That what God takes he'll not restore?

O useful element and clear!

My sacred wash and cleanser here;
My first consigner unto those

Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes!

What sublime truths and wholesome themes
Lodge in thy mystical, deep streams!

Such as dull man can never finde,
Unless that Spirit lead his minde,
Which first upon thy face did move,
And hatch'd all with his quickning love.
As this loud brook's incessant fall
In streaming rings restagnates all,
Which reach by course the bank, and then
Are no more seen, just so pass men.

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my invisible estate,

My glorious liberty, still late!

Thou art the channel my soul seeks,
Not this with cataracts and creeks.

QUICKNESS.

FALSE life! a foil, and no more, when Wilt thou begone?

Thou foul deception of all men,

That would not have the true come on?

Thou art a moon-like toil; a blinde

Self-posing state;

A dark contest of waves and winde;
A meer tempestuous debate.

Life is a fix'd, discerning light,
A knowing joy;

No chance, or fit: but ever bright
And calm and full, yet doth not cloy.

'Tis such a blissful thing, that still Doth vivifie,

And shine and smile, and hath the skill To please without eternity.

Thou art a toylsom mole, or less
A moving mist:

But life is, what none can express,
A quickness, which my God hath kist.

THE WREATH.

SINCE I in storms us'd most to be,
And seldom yielded flowers,
How shall I get a wreath for thee
From those rude, barren hours?
The softer dressings of the spring,
Or summer's later store,
I will not for thy temples bring,
Which thorns, not roses, wore.

But a twin'd wreath of grief and praise,
Praise soil'd with tears, and tears again
Shining with joy, like dewy days,
This day I bring for all thy pain;
Thy causless pain! and, sad as death,
Which sadness breeds in the most vain,
(O not in vain!) now beg thy breath,
Thy quickning breath, which gladly bears
Through saddest clouds to that glad place,
Where cloudless quires sing without tears,
Sing thy just praise, and see thy face.

THE QUEER.

O TELL me whence that joy doth spring, Whose diet is divine and fair,

Which wears heaven like a bridal ring,

And tramples on doubts and despair?

Whose eastern traffique deals in bright And boundless empyrean themes, Mountains of spice, day-stars and light, Green trees of life, and living streams?

Tell me, O tell, who did thee bring,
And here without my knowledge plac'd,
Till thou didst grow and get a wing,
A wing with eyes, and eyes that taste?

Sure, holyness the magnet is,

And love the lure that woos thee down; Which makes the high transcendent bliss Of knowing thee, so rarely known!

TILE BOOK.

ETERNAL God! Maker of all

That have liv'd here since the man's fall!

The Rock of ages! in whose shade

They live unseen, when here they fade!

Thou knew'st this papyr, when it was
Meer seed, and after that but grass;
Before 'twas drest or spun, and when

Made linen, who did wear it then:

What were their lifes, their thoughts and deeds, Whether good corn or fruitless weeds.

Thou knew'st this tree, when a green shade
Cover'd it since a cover made,

And where it flourish'd, grew, and spread,
As if it never should be dead.

Thou knew'st this harmless beast, when he
Did live and feed by thy decree

On each green thing; then slept well fed
Cloath'd with this skin, which now lies spred
A covering o're this aged book,

Which makes me wisely weep, and look
On my own dust; meer dust it is,

But not so dry and clean as this.

Thou knew'st and saw'st them all, and though Now scatter'd thus, dost know them so.

O knowing, glorious Spirit! when

Thou shalt restore trees, beasts, and men;
When thou shalt make all new again,
Destroying onely death and pain;
Give him amongst thy works a place,
Who in them lov'd and sought thy face!

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