Conscious of no evil drift,
This, I cried, is Love indeed—
"Tis the Giver, not the Gift,
Whence the joys I feel proceed.

But foon humbled, and laid low,
Stript of all thou hast conferr'd,
Nothing left but fin and woe,
I perceived how I had err'd.

Oh, the vain conceit of man,
Dreaming of a good his own,
Arrogating all he can,

Though the Lord is good alone!

He the graces thou haft wrought
Makes fubfervient to his pride;
Ignorant, that one fuch thought
Paffes all his fin befide.

Such his folly-proved, at last,
By the lofs of that repofe
Self-complacence cannot taste,
Only Love Divine bestows.

'Tis by this reproof fevere,
And by this reproof alone,
His defects at last appear,
Man is to himself made known.

Learn, all Earth! that feeble man,
Sprung from this terreftrial clod,
Nothing is, and nothing can;
Life and power are all in God.

36. LOVE INCREASED BY SUFFERING.

LOVE the Lord," is ftill the ftrain
This heart delights to fing;

But I reply-Your thoughts are vain,
Perhaps 'tis no fuch thing.

Before the power of Love Divine

Creation fades away;

Till only God is feen to fhine

In all that we furvey.

In gulfs of awful night we find
The God of our defires;

'Tis there he stamps the yielding mind,
And doubles all its fires.

Flames of encircling love inveft,

And pierce it sweetly through;
'Tis fill'd with facred joy, yet press'd
With facred forrow too.

Ah Love! my heart is in the right—
Amidst a thousand woes,

To thee, its ever new delight,
And all its peace it owes.

Fresh causes of diftrefs occur
Where'er I look or move;

The comforts I to all prefer
Are folitude and love.

Nor exile I nor prison fear;

Love makes my courage great;
I find a Saviour every where,
His grace in every state.

Nor caftle walls, nor dungeons deep,
Exclude his quickening beams;
There I can fit, and fing, and weep,
And dwell on heavenly themes.

There forrow, for his fake, is found
A joy beyond compare;
There no prefumptuous thoughts abound,
No pride can enter there.

A Saviour doubles all my joys,
And sweetens all my pains,
His strength in my defence employs,

Confoles me and fuftains.

I fear no ill, resent no wrong,

Nor feel a paffion move,

When malice whets her flanderous tongue;

Such patience is in love.

37. SCENES FAVOURABLE TO MEDITATION.

ILDS horrid and dark with o'erfhadow

ing trees,

Rocks that ivy and briers infold,

Scenes nature with dread and astonishment fees,

But I with a pleasure untold.

Though awfully filent, and fhaggy, and rude,
I am charm'd with the peace ye afford,
Your shades are a temple where none will intrude,
The abode of my Lover and Lord.

I am fick of thy fplendour, O Fountain of day,
And here I am hid from its beams,
Here fafely contemplate a brighter display
Of the nobleft and holiest of themes.

Ye Forests, that yield me my sweetest repose,
Where stillness and folitude reign,

To you I fecurely and boldly disclose
The dear anguish of which I complain.

Here, fweetly forgetting and wholly forgot
By the world and its turbulent throng,
The birds and the streams lend me many a note
That aids meditation and fong.

Here wandering in scenes that are facred to night,
Love wears me and wastes me away,

And often the fun has spent much of his light
Ere yet I perceive it is day.

While a mantle of darkness envelopes the sphere,
My forrows are fadly rehearsed,
To me the dark hours are all equally dear,
And the laft is as sweet as the first.

Here I and the beafts of the deferts agree,
Mankind are the wolves that I fear,

They grudge me my natural right to be free,
But nobody questions it here.

Though little is found in this dreary abode
That appetite wishes to find,

My spirit is foothed by the presence of God,
And appetite wholly refign'd.

Ye defolate scenes, to your folitude led,
My life I in praises employ,

And scarce know the fource of the tears that I shed, Proceed they from forrow or joy.

There's nothing I feem to have skill to difcern,
I feel out my way in the dark,

Love reigns in my bosom, I constantly burn,
Yet hardly distinguish the spark.

I live, yet I seem to myself to be dead,
Such a riddle is not to be found,

I am nourish'd without knowing how I am fed,
I have nothing, and yet I abound.

Oh Love! who in darkness art pleased to abide, Though dimly, yet surely I fee

That these contrarieties only refide

In the foul that is chofen of thee.

Ah send me not back to the race of mankind,
Perversely by folly beguiled,

For where, in the crowds I have left, fhall I find
The spirit and heart of a child.

Here let me, though fix'd in a defert, be free;
A little one whom they despise,

Though loft to the world, if in union with Thee,
Shall be holy and happy and wife.