Jefus, then, purge my

crimes away,

'Tis guilt creates my fears,

'Tis guilt gives death its fierce array,
And all the arms it bears.

Oh! if my threatening fins were gone,
And death had loft his fting,

I could invite the angel on,
And chide his lazy wing.

Away these interpofing days,
And let the lovers meet;
The angel has a cold embrace,

But kind, and foft, and sweet.

I'd leap at once my feventy years,
I'd rush into his arms,

And lofe my breath, and all my cares,
Amidst those heavenly charms.

Joyful I'd lay this body down,
And leave the lifeless clay,
Without a figh, without a groan,
And ftretch and foar away.

ALMIGHTY Maker, God!

How wondrous is thy name!

Thy glories how diffus'd abroad
Through the creation's frame !

Nature

Nature in every

drefs

Her humble homage pays,

And finds a thousand ways t' express

Thine undiffembled praise,

In native white and red

The rose and lily stand,

And, free from pride, their beauties spread,

To fhew thy fkilful hand.

The lark mounts up the sky,

With unambitious fong,

And bears her Maker's praise on high

Upon her artless tongue.

My foul would rise and fing

To her Creator too,

Fain would my tongue adore my King,

And pay the worship due.

But pride, that busy sin,
Spoils all that I perform;

Curs'd pride, that creeps fecurely in,

And fwells a haughty worm.

Thy glories I abate,

Or praise thee with design;
Some of the favours I forget,
Or think the merit mine,

The very fongs I frame
Are faithless to thy cause,

And steal the honours of thy name

To build their own applause.

Create

Elfe all my worship's vain;

This wretched heart will ne'er be true,

Until 'tis form'd again.

Defcend, celeftial fire,

And feize me from above; Melt me in flames of pure defire, A facrifice to love.

Let joy and worship spend

The remnant of my days,

And to my God, my foul, afcend,

In fweet perfumes of praife.

TRUE LEARNING.

Partly imitated from a French Sonnet of Mr. Poiret.

HAPPY the feet that shining Truth has led
With her own hand to tread the path the please,

To fee her native luftre round her spread,

Without a veil, without a fhade,

All beauty, and all light, as in herself she is.

Our fenfes cheat us with the preffing crowds
Of painted shapes they thruft upon the mind :
The truth they fhew lies wrap'd in fevenfold shrouds,
Our fenfes caft a thousand clouds

On unenlighten'd fouls, and leave them doubly blind.

I hate the duft that fierce difputers raise,
And lofe the mind in a wild maze of thought:
What empty triflings, and what fubtle ways,

To fence and guard by rule and rote !

Our God will never charge us, That we knew them Not.
Touch, heavenly Word, O touch these curious fouls;
Since I have heard but one foft hint from Thee,
From all the vain opinions of the schools
(That pageantry of knowing fools)

I feel my powers releas'd, and stand divinely free.
'Twas this Almighty Word that all things made,
He grafps whole nature in his fingle hand;
All the eternal truths in him are laid,

The ground of all things, and their head,

The circle where they move, and centre where they stand.

Without his aid I have no sure defence,

From troops of errors that befiege me round;
But he that refts his reafon and his fenfe

Faft here, and never wanders hence,
Unmoveable he dwells upon unshaken ground.

Infinite Truth, the life of

my defires,

Come from the iky, and join thyself to me;
I'm tir'd with hearing, and this reading tires
But never tir'd of telling Thee,

'Tis thy fair face alone my spirit burns to fee.
Speak to my foul, alone, no other hand
Shall mark my path out with delufive art:
All nature filent in his prefence ftand;

Creatures, be dumb at his command,
And leave his fingle voice to whisper to my

heart.

Retire,

Retire, my foul, within thy felf retire,
Away from sense and every outward show :
Now let my thoughts to loftier themes aspire,
My knowledge now on wheels of fire
May mount and spread above, surveying all below.

The Lord grows lavish of his heavenly light,
And pours whole floods on fuch a mind as this:
Fled from the eyes, the gains a piercing fight,
She dives into the infinite,

And fees unutterable things in that unknown abyss.

PRO

TRUE WISDO M.

Ronounce him bleft, my Muse, whom Wisdom guides In her own path to her own heavenly feat; Through all the ftorms his foul securely glides,

Nor can the tempefts, nor the tides,

That rife and roar around, fupplant his steady feet.

Earth, you may let your golden arrows fly,
And seek, in vain, a paffage to his breast,
Spread all your painted toys to court his eye,
He fmiles, and fees them vainly try
To lure his foul afide from her eternal reft.

Our head-strong lufts, like a young fiery horse,
Start, and flee raging in a violent course;

He tames and breaks them, manages and rides them,

Checks their career, and turns and guides them,

And bids his reafon bridle their licentious force.

Lord