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But what like his, whose blood peace brings,
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
Whose spirit ever poor is meek and low;
Who simple still and wise,
Quick to advance, and to retreat most slow.
Whose acts, words, and pretence
One aim and end; who walks not by his sight:
Guided by faith, not by exterior light.
Who spills no blood, nor spreds
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
But in his hope and rock is ever glad.
And health of conscience it is to be had.
Who bears his cross with joy,
His heart and tongue in prayers for his foes;
And gives full aid
Without that bribe which usurers impose.
Who never looks on man
But firmly trusts in God; the great man's measure,
But the good man is God's peculiar treasure.
Who doth thus, and doth not
With bad, or with neglect; and heaps not wrath
Some snake, or weeds,
that man walks in this path.
Mr God and King! to thee
I bow my troubled soul, and greet
Even what thou wilt, and praise thee too!
My God, could I weep blood,
Or if thou wilt give me that art,
Which through the eyes pours out the heart,
I will exhaust it all, and make
O! 'tis an easie thing
But to write true, unfeigned verse
O my God, hear my cry,
O WHEN my God, my glory, brings
Unto those clear and living springs
Where all is light, and flowers, and fruit,
Make me amongst them, 'tis my suit!
And when they all are fed, and have
Thy love claims highest thanks, my sin
But if he pays, who loves much, then
JACOB'S PILLOW AND PILLAR.
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;
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.