Then further purenefs to thy fervant grant, Another heart, or change in this, I want. Create another, or the change create, For now my vile corruption is so great, It feems a new creation, to restore
Its fall'n eftate to what it was before. Renew my fpirit, raging in my breast, And all its paffions in their course arreft; Or turn their motions, widely gone aftray, And fix their footsteps in thy righteous way; When this is granted, when again I'm whole, es Oh ne'er withdraw thy presence from my foul: There let it fhine, fo let me be reftor'd
To prefent joy, which conscious hopes afford. There let it fweetly fhine, and o'er my breaft, Diffuse the dawning of eternal reft ; Then fhall the wicked this compaffion fee, And learn thy worship, and thy works, from me. For I, to fuch occafions of thy praise,
Will tune my lyre, and confecrate my lays.
Unfeal my lips, where guilt and shame have hung, To stop the paffage of my grateful tongue, And let my prayer and fong afcend, my prayer Here join'd with faints, my fong with angels there; Yet neither prayer I'd give, nor fongs alone, If either offerings were as much thy own : But thine 's the contrite fpirit, thine's an heart Opprefs'd with forrow, broke with inward finart; That at thy footstool in confeffion shews,
How well its faults, how well the judgę it knows ;
That fin with fober resolution flies, This gift thy mercy never will defpife. Then in my foul a myftic altar rear, And fuch a facrifice I'll offer there. There shall it stand, in vows of virtue bound, There falling tears shall wash it all around; And sharp remorse,. yet sharper edg'd by woe, Deserv'd and fear'd, inflict the bleeding blow; There fhall my thoughts to holy breathings fly, Inftead of incenfe, to perfume the sky, And thence my willing heart afpires above, A victim panting in the flames of love.
AS through the Pfalms, from theme to theme, I chang'd,
Methinks like Eve in Paradise I rang'd; And every grace of fong I feem'd to fee, As the gay pride of every season she; She, gently treading all the walks around, Admir'd the fpringing beauties of the ground, The lily, gliftering with the morning dew, The rofe in red, the violet in blue,
The pink in pale, the bells in purple rows, And tulips colour'd in a thousand shows : Then here and there perhaps the pull'd a flower, To ftrew with moss, and paint her leafy bower; And here and there, like her, I went along, Chofe a bright ftrain, and bid it deck my song.
But now the facred Singer leaves mine eye, Crown'd as he was, I think he mounts on high; Ere this devotion bore his heavenly Pfalms, And now himself bears up his harp and palms. Go, faint triumphant, leave the changing fight, So fitted out, you fuit the realms of light; But let thy glorious robe at parting go, Thofe realms have robes of more effulgent fhow It flies, it falls, the fluttering silk I see; Thy fon has caught it, and he fings like thee, With fuch election of a theme divine,
And such sweet grace, as conquers all but thine. Hence every writer o'er the fabled streams, Where frolic fancies fport with idle dreams; Or round the fight enchanted clouds difpofe, Whence wanton Cupids fhoot with gilded bows, A nobler writer, ftrains more brightly wrought, Themes more exalted, fill my wondering thought: The parted fkies are track'd with flames above, As love defcends to meet afcending love; The feasons flourish where the spouses meet, And earth in gardens spreads beneath their feet; This fresh-bloom prospect in the bosom throngs, When Solomon begins his fong of fongs, Bids the wrapt foul to Lebanon repair, And lays the fcene of all his actions there; Where as he wrote, and from the bower furvey'd The fcenting groves, or anfwering knots he made, His facred art the fights of nature brings, Beyond their ufe, to figure heavenly things.
Great Son of God! whofe gospel pleas'd to throw Round thy rich glory veils of earthly show;
Who made the vineyard oft thy church defign, Who made the marriage-feaft a type of thine i verses, which attempt to trace
The fhadow'd beauties of celeftial grace,
And with illapfes of feraphic fire
The work which pleas'd thee once, once more inspire. Look, or Illufion's airy vifions draw,
Or now I walk the gardens which I faw, Where lver waters feed a flowering spring, And winds falute it with a balmy wing. There, on a bank, whofe fhades directly rife, To fcreen the fun, and not exclude the fkies, There fits the facred church; methinks I view The spouse's afpect, and her enfigns too. Her face has features where the Virtues reign, Her hands the book of facred Love contain, A light (Truth's emblem) on her bofom fhines, And at her fide the meekeft lamb reclines : And oft on heavenly lectures in the book, And oft on heaven itself the casts a look, Sweet, humble, fervent zeal, that works within, At length burfts forth, and raptures thus begin: Let Him, that Him my foul adores above, In close communions breathe his holy love; For these blefs'd words his pleafing lips impart, Beyond all cordials, chear the fainting heart. As rich and sweet the precious ointments stream, So rich thy graces flow, so sweet thy name
Diffuses facred joy; 'tis hence we find Affection rais'd in every virgin mind;
For this we come, the daughters here, and I, Still draw we forward, and behold I fly; I fly through mercy, when my king invites, To tread his chambers of fincere delights; There, join'd by myftic union, I rejoice, Exalt my temper, and enlarge my voice, And celebrate thy joys, fupremely more Than earthly blifs; thus upright hearts adore, Nor you, ye maids, who breathe of Salem's air, Nor you refufe that I conduct you there;
Though clouding darknefs hath eclips'd my face, Dark as I am, I fhine with beams of grace, As the black tents, where Ishmael's line abides, With glittering trophies dress their inward fides; Or as thy curtains, Solomon, are feen, Whofe plaits conceal a golden throne within. 'Twere wrong to judge me by the carnal fight, And yet my visage was by nature white; But fiery funs, which perfecute the meek, Found me abroad, and fcorch'd my rofy cheek. The world, my brethren, they were angry grown, They made me dress a vineyard not my own, Among their rites (their vines) I learn'd to dwell, And in the mean employ my beauty fell; By frailty loft, I gave my labour o'er, And my own vineyard grew deform'd the more. Behold I turn; O fay, my foul's desire, Where doft thou feed thy flock, and where retire
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