O purer years of light and grace!
Great is the difference, as the space,
"Twixt you and us, who blindly run
After false fires, and leave the sun.
Is not fair nature of herself
Much richer than dull paint and pelf?
And are not streams at the spring head
More sweet than in carved stone or lead?
But fancy and some artist's tools
Frame a religion for fools.
The truth, which once was plainly taught,
With thorns and briars now is fraught.
Some part is with bold fables spotted,
Some by strange comments wildly blotted;
And discord, old corruption's crest,
With blood and blame have stained the rest.
So snow, which in its first descents
A whiteness like pure heaven presents,
When touched by man is quickly soiled,
And after trodden down and spoiled.
O lead me where I may be free
In truth and spirit to serve Thee!
Where undisturbed I may converse
With thy great Self; and there rehearse
Thy gifts with thanks; and from thy store,
Who art all blessings, beg much more.
Give me the wisdom of the bee,
And her unwearied industrie!
That, from the wild gourds of these days,
I may extract health, and thy praise,
Who canst turn darkness into light,
And in my weakness shew thy might.
Suffer me not in any want
To seek refreshment from a plant
Thou didst not set; since all must be
Plucked up, whose growth is not from thee.
'Tis not the garden and the bowers,
Nor sense and forms, that give to flowers
Their wholesomeness; but thy good will,
Which truth and pureness purchase still..
Then, since corrupt man hath driven hence
Thy kind and saving influence,
And balm is no more to be had
In all the coasts of Gilead;
Go with me to the shade and cell,
Where thy best servants once did dwell.
There let me know thy will, and see
Exiled religion owned by thee;
For thou canst turn dark grots to halls,
And make hills blossome like the vales,
Decking their untilled heads with flowers,
And fresh delights for all sad hours;
Till from them, like a laden bee,
may fly home, and hive with thee!
TO CHRISTIAN RELIGION.
FAREWELL, thou true and tried refection
Of the still poor and meek election!
Farewell, soul's joy, the quickening health
Of spirits, and their surest wealth!
Farewell, my morning star, the bright
And dawning looks of the true light!
O blessed shiner, tell me whither
Thou wilt be gone, when night comes hither!
A seër that observed thee in
Thy course, and watched the growth of sin,
Hath given his judgment, and foretold,
That westward hence thy course will hold;
And, when the day with us is done,
There fix and shine a glorious sun.
O hated shades and darkness! when
You have got here the sway again,
And like unwholesome fogs withstood
The light, and blasted all that's good,
Who shall the happy shepherds be
To watch the next nativity
Of truth and brightness, and make way
For the returning rising day?
O what year will bring back our bliss?
Or who shall live, when God doth this?
Thou Rock of ages! and the Rest
Of all that for thee are oppressed?
Send down the Spirit of thy truth;
That Spirit which the tender youth,
And first growths of thy spouse, did spread
Through all the world from one small head!
Then, if to blood we must resist,
Let thy mild Dove, and our High Priest,
Help us, when man proves false, or frowns,
To bear the cross, and save our crowns.
O honour those that honour thee!
Make babes to still the enemie!
And teach an infant of few days
To perfect by his death thy praise!
Let none defile what thou didst wed,
Nor tear the garland from her head!
But chaste and cheerful let her dye,
And precious in the Bridegroom's eye!
So, to thy glory, and her praise,
These last shall be her brightest dayes.
"The Spirit and the Bride say, Come."
DAPHNIS, AN ELEGIAC ECLOGUE.
ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. THOMAS VAUGHAN.
WHAT clouds, Menalcas, do oppress thy brow?
Flowers in a sunshine never look so low:
Is Nisa still cold flint? or have thy lambs
Met with the fox by straying from their dams?
Ali, Damon, no! my lambs are safe; and she
Is kind, and much more white than they can be.
But what doth life, when most serene, afford
Without a worm which gnaws her fairest gourd?
Our days of gladness are but short reliefs,
Given to reserve us for enduring griefs:
So smiling calms close tempests breed, which break
Like spoilers out, and kill our flocks where weak.
I heard last May, and May is still high spring,
The pleasant Philomel her vespers sing.
The green wood glittered with the golden sun,
And all the west like silver shined; not one
Black cloud appeared; no rags, no spot did stain
The welkin's beauty; nothing frowned like rain.
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