When yet I had not walked above
A mile or two from my first love;
And looking back, at that short space,
Could see a glimpse of his bright face;
When on some gilded cloud or flower
My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;

Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinful sound;
Or had the black art to dispense
A several sin to every sense;
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.
O how I long to travel back
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plain,
Where first I left my glorious train;
'From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees
That shady city of palm-trees;
But, ah! my soul with too much stay
Is drunk, and staggers in the way.
Some men a forward motion love,
But I by backward steps would move;
And when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came, return.

THE STORM.

I SEE the use; and know my blood

Is not a sea,

But a shallow, bounded flood,

Though red as he;

Yet have I flows as strong as his,

And boiling streams that rave

With the same curling force and hiss,

As doth the mountain'd wave.

But when his waters billow thus,
Dark storms and wind

Incite them to that fierce discuss,
Else not inclined;

Thus the enlarg'd, enraged air

Uncalms these to a flood,

But still the weather that's most fair,
Breeds tempests in my blood.

Lord, then round me with weeping clouds,
And let my mind

In quick blasts sigh beneath those shrouds
A spirit-wind;

So shall that storm purge this recluse
Which sinful ease made foul,

And wind and water to thy use

Both wash and wing my soul.

PEACE.

My soul, there is a country
Far beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged sentry

All skilful in the wars:
There, above noise and danger,

Sweet peace sits crown'd with smiles;

And one born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend,
And, O my soul, awake!
Did in pure love descend

To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither,
the flower of peace,
grows

There

The rose that cannot whither,
Thy fortress and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure,
But one who never changes,
Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

ROM. VIII. VER. 15.

"For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God."

AND do they so? have they a sense
Of ought but influence?

Can they their heads lift, and expect,
And groan too? why the elect
Can do no more: my volumes said
They were all dull and dead;

They judged them senseless, and their state
Wholly inanimate.

Go, go, seal up thy looks,
And burn thy books.

I would I were a stone, or tree,

Or flower, by pedigree;

Or some poor highway herb, or spring
To flow, or bird to sing!

Then should I, tied to one sure state,
All day expect my date;

But I am sadly loose, and stray,
A giddy blast each way:

O let me not thus range!—
Thou canst not change.

Sometimes I sit with thee, and tarry
An hour or so, then vary.

Thy other creatures in this scene
Thee only aim, and mean;

Some rise to seek thee, and with heads
Erect peep from their beds;
Others, whose birth is in the tomb,
And cannot quit the womb,
Sigh there, and groan for thee,
Their liberty.

O let not me do less! shall they
Watch, while I sleep or play?
Shall I thy mercies still abuse

With fancies, friends, or news?
O brook it not! thy blood is mine,
And my soul shall be thine;
O brook it not! why wilt thou stop
After whole showers one drop?
Sure, thou wilt joy to see
Thy sheep with thee.

UNPROFITABLENESS.

How rich, O Lord! how fresh thy visits are! 'Twas but just now my bleak leaves hopeless hung

Sullied with dust and mud ;

Each snarling blast shot through me, and did share Their youth and beauty; cold showers nipt and

wrung

Their spiciness and blood;

But since thou didst in one sweet glance survey
Their sad decays, I flourish, and once more
Breathe all perfumes and spice;

I smell a dew like myrrh, and all the day
Wear in my bosom a full sun; such store
Hath one beam from thy eyes.

But, ah, my God! what fruit hast thou of this?
What one poor leaf did ever I let fall

To wait upon thy wreath?

Thus thou all day a thankless weed dost dress,
And when th' hast done, a stench or fog is all
The odour I bequeath.

CHRIST'S NATIVITY.

AWAKE, glad heart! get up, and sing!
It is the birth-day of thy King;
Awake! awake!

The sun doth shake

Light from his locks, and all the way
Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

Awake! awake! hark, how th' wood rings;
Winds whisper, and the busy springs

A concert make:

Awake, awake!

Man is their high-priest, and should rise
To offer up the sacrifice.