LXVII. LONGING TO BE WITH CHRIST.

To Jesus, the Crown of my hope,

My soul is in haste to be gone:

O bear me, ye cherubim, up,

And waft me away to his throne!

My Saviour, whom absent I love,

Whom, not having seen, I adore;

Whose name is exalted above

All glory, dominion, and power;

Dissolve thou these bonds, that detain

My soul from her portion in thee;

Ah! strike off this adamant chain

And make me eternally free.

When that happy era begins,

When array'd in thy glories I shine,

Nor grieve any more, by my sins,

The bosom on which I recline:

O then shall the veil be remov'd,

And round me thy brightness be pour'd;

I shall meet him whom absent I lov'd,

I shall see whom unseen I ador'd.

And then, never more shall the fears,

The trials, temptations, and woes,

Which darken this valley of tears,

Intrude on my blissful repose.

Or, if yet remember'd above,

Remembrance no sadness shall raise;

They will be but new signs of thy love,

New themes for my wonder and praise.

Thus the strokes which from sin and from pain

Shall set me eternally free,

Will but strengthen and rivet the chain,

Which binds me, my Saviour, to thee.

LXVIII. LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS.

God moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform;

He plants his footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,

And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,

The clouds ye so much dread

Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

But trust him for his grace:

Behind a frowning providence

He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,[914]

And scan his work in vain:

God is his own interpreter,

And he will make it plain.

[914] John xiii. 7.

BRIEF ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION,

AND OF

THE MYSTIC WRITERS.

The mystic writers, though the object of so much public attention

in France, towards the close of the seventeenth century, have never

attracted much notice in this country, and are known rather as a

matter of historical fact than of personal interest. It is to Cowper

that we are indebted for the translation of the Hymns of Madame

Guion, the founder, or rather reviver, of the Mystics; for it is

evident from ecclesiastical history that they existed so early as

in the third and fourth centuries, and that the habits of profound

contemplation and retirement from the world, in which they indulged,

led to the monastic seclusion of which St. Anthony was the most

eminent example. Dionysius the Areopagite is, however, generally

considered to be the founder of this sect in the fourth century.

Macarius and Hilarion are also included among its supporters. The

celebrated Thomas à Kempis, in the fifteenth century, adopted a kind

of purified mysticism. Molino, a Spanish priest, though resident

at Rome, still further extended these views; till at length Madame

Guion, in the reign of Louis XIV. embodied them in their present

form, which is known in France under the name of Quietism, from

the calm repose and indifference to external objects which is

characteristic of these principles.

The Mystics professed to elevate the soul above all sensible and

terrestrial objects, and to unite it to the Deity in an ineffable

manner; to inculcate a pure and absolutely disinterested love of

God, for his own sake, and on account of his adorable perfections;

to maintain a close and intimate communion with him by mortifying

all the senses, by a profound submission to his will, even under the

consciousness of perdition, and by an internal sanctity of heart,

strengthened by a holy and sublime contemplation. We shall shortly

examine this system, and inquire how far this indifference to

salvation, from a supposed conformity to the will of God, is founded

either on reason or Scripture; and whether the pure love of God,

independent of his love to us, and of our personal interest in the

blessings of redemption, is a state of mind to be generally attained.

But we shall first advert to the manner in which Madame Guoion was

led to embrace these views, and illustrate them by a reference to

her own writings. After endeavouring, by unceasing efforts, and

many acts of external piety, to raise her mind to a high tone of

religious perfection, without being able to attain it, she meets

with an ecclesiastic of the order of St. Francis, and requests him

to explain the cause of this failure. His reply, and the remarkable

consequences by which it was followed, is thus recorded by herself

in the narrative of her own life. "_It is, madam, because you seek

WITHOUT what you have WITHIN. Accustom yourself to seek God in your

heart, and you will there find him._"

"Having said these words, he left me. They were to me like the

stroke of a dart, which penetrated through my heart. I felt at this

instant a very deep wound, a wound so delightful that I desired

not to be cured. These words brought into my heart what I had been

seeking so many years; or rather, they discovered to me what was

there, and which I had not enjoyed for want of knowing it. Oh my

Lord! thou wast in my heart, and demandedst only a simple turning

of my mind inward, to make me perceive thy presence. Oh infinite

Goodness! How was I running hither and thither to seek thee; my life

was a burden to me, though my happiness was in myself. I was poor in

the midst of riches, and ready to perish with hunger, near a table

plentifully spread, and a continual feast. Oh Beauty, ancient and

new! Why have I known thee so late! Alas! I sought thee where thou

wast not, and did not seek thee where thou wast. It was for want of

understanding these words of thy gospel, 'The kingdom of God cometh

not with observation: neither shall they say, Lo here, or Lo there.

For behold the kingdom of God is within you.' This I experienced;

for thou becamest my king, and my heart thy kingdom, wherein thou

didst reign supreme, and perform all thy sacred will."

Hours, she observes, now passed away like moments, and she could

hardly do any thing else but pray. She enters at the same time upon

a strict course of penances, deprives herself of the most innocent

indulgences, and succeeds so far that she could scarcely prefer one

thing to another. Her senses are severely mortified, and kept under

uniform restraint. She aims at nothing less than the death of the

senses, and the utter extinction of self. "It is only by a total

death to self," she remarks, "that we can be lost in God."

At length these continual efforts become painful to her, and she

is far from realizing either inward peace or the grace of true

holiness. In describing her state of mind, she observes:

"I began to experience an insupportable weight, in that very piety

which had formerly been so easy and delightful to me; not that I did

not love it extremely, but I found myself defective in that noble

practice of it to which I aspired. The more I loved it, the more

I laboured to acquire what I saw I failed in. But alas! I seemed

continually to be overcome by that which was contrary to it. My

heart, indeed, was detached from all sensual pleasures. For these

several years past it has seemed to me that my mind is so detached

and absent from the body, that I do things as if I did them not.

If I eat or refresh myself, it is done with such an absence, or

separation, as I wonder at, and with an entire mortification of the

keenness of sensation in all the natural functions."

In addition to this dissatisfaction with herself, it is her lot

to be married to a man who is strongly opposed to her views and

principles. Her domestic trials aggravate her wretchedness, and she

enjoys peace neither in herself, in others, nor in God.

"I could now no longer pray as formerly. Heaven seemed shut to me,

and I thought justly too. I could get no consolation, nor make any

complaint thereupon; nor had I any creature on earth to apply to,

or to whom I might impart my condition. I found myself banished

from all beings, without finding a support or refuge in any thing.

I could no more practise any virtue with facility. Such as had

formerly been familiar to me seemed now to have left me. 'Alas!'

said I, 'is it possible that this heart, formerly all on fire,

should now become like ice?' Laden with a weight of past sins, and

a multitude of new ones, I could not think God would ever pardon

me, but looked on myself as a victim of hell. Whatever I tried

for a remedy, seemed only to increase the malady. I may say that

tears were my drink, and sorrow my food. I had within myself an

executioner who tortured me without respite."

We believe the case of Madame Guion to be by no means singular. Many

aim at high attainments in religion, with the utmost sincerity of

intention, but, being ignorant of the true way of peace, to which

a more scriptural view would infallibly lead them, they load the

conscience with heavy burdens, till it sinks under the weight of

the oppression. Peace of mind is not to be found in self-inflicted

austerities, in overstrained efforts, nor even in the way of

internal holiness. This is seeking the living among the dead. We

first find God, not by what we try to do for ourselves, but in a

firm reliance on what Christ the Lord has done for us. "He was

wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities;

the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we

are healed." This is the only true ground of acceptance. This is the

foundation laid in Zion. "He is our peace." Holiness follows, but

does not go before; it is the effect, but not the cause. Mysticism

inverts the order, and seems to give more honour to the sanctifying

Spirit, than to a crucified Saviour and Redeemer.

However specious, therefore, the counsel given by the priest might

seem to be, and powerfully as she was impressed by it for a season,

yet it failed in imparting the whole truth. He led her to derive

peace from contemplating Christ _within_; but true peace can flow

only from contemplating Christ _without_. The "water" and the

"blood" are emblematical of a _double_ operation. Each is necessary,

Christ in the heart for sanctification, Christ on the cross for

justification and pardon of sin. To neglect the latter, and to fix

our inmost thoughts on the former only, what is it but to make a

Saviour of sanctification, and to render the cross of none effect?

In the midst of her internal disquietude, the husband of Madame

Guion dies. "At last," she writes, "after having passed twelve years

and four months in the crosses of marriage, as great as possible,

except poverty, which I never knew, though I had much desired it,

God drew me out of that state to give me still stronger crosses to

bear, and of such a nature as I had never met with before."

Her life from this period was a continual scene of trials and

persecutions, to which her views and principles uniformly exposed

her.

Relieved now from all external restraint, this devoted woman

dedicates herself to the Lord by a solemn surrender, which she calls

a marriage contract, and engages to live wholly to him and to his

glory for the remainder of her days.

Her state of mind, and the joy and happiness which it led to, are

thus expressed.

"At this time I found that I had the _perfect chastity_ of love

to God, mine being without any reserve, division, or view of

interest;--_perfect poverty_, by the total privation of every thing

that was mine both inwardly and outwardly;--_perfect obedience to

the will_ of God, _submission to the church_, _and honour to_ Jesus

Christ in loving himself only."

"The joy which such a soul possesses in its God is so great, that

it experiences the truth of those words of the royal prophet, 'All

they who are in thee, O Lord, are like persons ravished with

joy.' To such a soul the words of our Lord seem to be addressed,

'Your joy no man shall take from you.' John xvi. 22. It is as it

were plunged in a river of peace: its prayer is continual: nothing

can hinder it from praying to God, or from loving him. It amply

verifies these words in the Canticles, 'I sleep, but my heart

waketh;' for it finds that even sleep itself does not hinder it from

praying. Oh, unutterable happiness! Who could ever have thought

that a soul, which seemed to be in the utmost misery, should ever

find a happiness equal to this? Oh happy _poverty_, happy _loss_,

happy _nothingness_, which gives no less than God himself in his

own immensity, no more circumscribed to the limited manner of the

creature, but always drawing it out of that to plunge it wholly into

his own divine essence.

"What then renders this soul so perfectly content? It neither knows,

nor wants to know any thing but what God calls it to. Herein it

enjoys divine content, after a manner vast, immense, independent

of exterior events; more satisfied in its humiliation, and in the

opposition of all creatures, by the order of Providence, than on the

throne of its own choice.

"It is here that the apostolic life begins. But is every one called

to that state? Very few, indeed, as far as I can comprehend; and of

the few that are called to it fewer still walk in true purity."

This entire surrender of the soul to God, or self-abandonment, she

thus describes.

"Abandonment is a matter of the greatest importance in our process;

it is the key to the inner court; so that whosoever knoweth truly

how to abandon himself, soon becomes perfect. We must, therefore,

continue stedfast and immoveable therein, nor listen to the voice

of natural reason. Great faith produces great abandonment; we must

confide in God, 'hoping against hope.' (Rom. iv. 18.)

"Abandonment is the casting off all selfish care, that we may be

altogether at the Divine disposal. All Christians are exhorted to

this resignation; for it is said to all, 'Take no thought, saying,

What shall we eat? or, what shall we drink? or, wherewithal shall we

be clothed? for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of

all these things.' (Matt. vi. 31, 32.) 'In all thy ways acknowledge

him, and he shall direct thy paths.' (Prov. iii. 6.) 'Commit thy

ways unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established.' (Prov.

xvi. 3.) 'Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he

shall bring it to pass.' (Psalm xxxvii. 5.)

"Our abandonment then should be as fully applied to external as

internal things, giving up all our concerns into the hands of God,

forgetting ourselves, and thinking only of him; by which the heart

will remain always disengaged, free, and at peace. It is practised

by continually losing our own will in the will of God; by renouncing

every particular inclination as soon as it arises, however good

it may appear, that we may stand in indifference with respect to

ourselves, and only will that which God from eternity had willed;

by being resigned in all things, whether for soul or body, whether

for time or eternity; by leaving what is past in oblivion, what is

to come to Providence, and devoting the present moment to God, which

brings with itself God's eternal order, and it is as infallible a

declaration to us of his will, as it is inevitable and common to

all; by attributing nothing that befalls us to the creature, but

regarding all things in God, and looking upon all, excepting only

our sins, as infallibly proceeding from him. Surrender yourselves,

then, to be led and disposed of just as God pleaseth, with respect

both to your outward and inward state."

There is also another term, of frequent occurrence in Madame Guion's

writings, called _the annihilation of the powers or senses_,

(anéantissement des puissances,) by which she means that all the

senses and passions are to be completely mortified and suppressed,

in order that the soul, freed from the heavy incumbrance, may aspire

to full and unrestrained communion with God.

Such is the outline of mysticism, which we have endeavoured to

illustrate in her own words. Indiscriminate censure would be no less

opposed to the real truth than indiscriminate praise.

The proselytes made to this doctrine in France were numerous,

consisting of names distinguished by their piety and rank. Among

these, she had the honour of including the great Fénélon, who,

though he had too much taste and judgment to adopt the extremes of

her system, listened with delight when she descanted before him, at

the Hôtel de Beauvilliers, on the pure and disinterested love of

God.[915]

[915] Life of Fénélon.

It was in vain that the celebrated Bishop of Meaux[916] exposed her

doctrines with all the powers of his wit, aided by the splendour of

his eloquence. Her persecutions awakened new interest. She was sent

to the castle of Vincennes, as if she had been a prisoner of state.

[916] Bossuet.

There she employed her lonely hours in pouring out the effusions

of her heart, in hymns expressive of her love to God, and of the

fervour of her devotion. Some of these compositions, written under

circumstances so interesting, we shall present to the reader. They

are indebted for their English dress to the poet Cowper, and to the

suggestion of the Rev. Mr. Bull of Newport Pagnell, who conceived

that the spirit which they breathe could not fail to be congenial to

a mind like his.

We shall now venture to offer a few remarks on this system.

What we admire in Madame Guion is, the purity of her heart, its

incessant aspirations after holiness, its secret and close communion

with God. These are qualifications in which there is reason to

believe that the great bulk of professing Christians are greatly

deficient. Religion, even among reflecting minds, partakes more

of a philosophical than a spiritual character. The fire is in the

intellect, the ice is in the heart. In the social circle, the essay,

or review, how often is spiritual religion branded with the title of

enthusiasm, and the wings of devotion clipped, lest she should soar

with too lofty an elevation, and pass beyond the limits which a cold

and calculating policy would prescribe.

Among others again, who are the professed followers of Christ, how

far do all fall short in the sublime and devotional feeling of

love to God! The higher attainments of Christian piety, the inward

fervency of spirit, and the entire surrender of the soul, are not

sufficiently realized. Men do not rise to the elevation of Bible

Christianity. Religion is considered too much in the light of a

struggle and a warfare, and too little as a state of inward repose

and joy unspeakable and full of glory.

It is in this respect that we think the devotional spirit of Madame

Guion may be contemplated with profit, if by a wise discrimination

we can adopt what is excellent, and reject what is overstrained,

legal, and visionary.

There is, however, a familiarity in her addresses to the Deity

incompatible with the reverence due to a sense of his majesty and

greatness. In exposing this objectionable part of her writings,

Bossuet beautifully apostrophizes the seraphs, and entreats them to

bring burning coals from the altar to purify his lips, lest they

should have been defiled by the impurities which he had been obliged

to record.[917]

[917] See Butler's Life of Fenelon.

With respect to the distinguishing feature of mysticism, the pure

and disinterested love of God, for his own sake, and without any

consideration of _self_, that the mind may, at particular seasons,

rise to this degree of holy contemplation, we believe to be

possible; but we are persuaded that such a state of feeling cannot

be habitually sustained, and that it is beyond the general standard

and capacities of human nature. God's love to us is recorded in

the Scripture as the foundation of our love to him:--"We love him,

because he first loved us." Even glorified spirits, whose devotion

we may justly suppose to have attained its highest degree of

perfection, are represented as making their own salvation the theme

of adoring gratitude and praise. "For thou hast redeemed us to God

by thy blood, and hast made us unto our God kings and priests."

Besides, it is in the great work of redemption that the divine

attributes are so gloriously displayed; that the most affecting

appeals are made to our fears and hopes; and the most animating

motives held forth for our obedience. Man's personal interest is

therefore so interwoven with the display of the divine perfections,

that the former can never be excluded without obscuring the glory of

the very attributes which mysticism requires us to adore.

Again, the doctrine of the Mystics proposes the utter suppression of

the passions of hope and fear; the annihilation, as it is called, of

all our natural feelings, and an entire abstraction from the world.

The annihilation of our natural feelings, that the heart may be

wholly filled with the love and contemplation of the Deity, is

not possible, nor, if it were possible, would it be desirable, as

we should cease, in that case, to be men, without acquiring the

nature of angels. It is not the suppression, but the due control

and consecration of our feelings to the purest ends that the Bible

proposes; not the exclusion of what is human, but the admixture of

what is divine. The apostles, though gifted with the Holy Ghost from

heaven, were still "men of like passions with ourselves," and the

Saviour who was transfigured on Mount Tabor, thirsted at the well of

Sychar, and wept at the grave of Lazarus.

Nor is it abstraction from the world, but from its spirit, that

the Bible enjoins as a duty on the Christian. "Let us open this

wonderful book," observes an elegant writer, "where we may, we

meet no mystical abstraction. We feel _our whole mind_ to be

addressed at once; no faculty, active or passive, being left

without its provision. Human nature is every where made to furnish

the machinery, which may work most effectually on itself. To

withdraw the mind from sensible ideas while reading the Bible,

is absolutely impossible. It places real life before us, in all

its most interesting and most impressive forms; and obliges us to

converse with 'men of like passions with ourselves,' even while it

is teaching us the way of God most perfectly.

"Instead of abstracting us from the world, it makes it a school of

wisdom to us; and teaches us, by example as well as precept, to

proceed in making it so daily to ourselves. We discover that while

it is the scene of the devil's temptations, it is also the scene

of God's providence; and that, as on the former account we must be

ever vigilant against its seductions, so, on the latter account,

we cannot but be deeply interested in its various movements, past,

present, and future. To be regardless of these would be to overlook

the volume of prophecy, as well as that kingdom of the Messiah

upon earth, of whose gradual advancement the prophetic oracles

chiefly treat, and in whose final triumph all their brightest

rays concentre. It is not, therefore, a mystical escape from the

world to which the Christian is called. His vocation is much more

glorious; he is to keep himself 'unspotted from the world;' but

he is to remain in it, that he may maintain, as far as in him

lies, his Lord's right to it, and promote his interest in it. He

is taught this by the Redeemer's last prayer for his followers:

'I pray _not_ that thou shouldest take them out of the world, but

that thou shouldest keep them from the evil.' And he is still more

fully instructed by our Lord's own example; who made every walk of

human life the scene of his beneficence, and turned every object

and occurrence into a means of the most interesting and deepest

instruction."[918]

[918] See "Remains of Alexander Knox, Esq." vol. i. pp. 303, 304.

There is one more feature in mysticism entitled to be considered,

because it was subsequently adopted by Fenelon, viz. the possibility

of the soul acquiescing in its own destruction, if such were the

will of God, from a profound submission to his will and a desire

to promote his glory. But this supposition involves a manifest

absurdity, because a profound submission to the will of God

is a gracious principle, and how can the soul, which is under

gracious impressions, ever be the object of perdition, or God be

glorified in its destruction? The case of Moses, who prayed to be

blotted out of the book which God had written, if the Israelites

might be spared,[919] or that of St. Paul, who wished that he

might be accursed, for the sake of his brethren, according to

the flesh,[920]--these passages might be quoted; but they are to

be considered as referring to the present and not to the future

life, in reference to the latter of which they would be obviously

repugnant to the justice and goodness of God.

[919] Exodus xxxii. 32.

[920] Scott and Henry both agree in this interpretation, viz. a

willingness to be treated as an Anathema, and to be cut off from

all church communion and privileges, but not to be eternally lost.

It is evident from what has been said, that the religious views of

Madame Guion, excellent as they were in their principle, in so far

as they inculcated the supreme love of God, profound submission

to his will, the calm retirement of the soul, and deadness to the

spirit of the world, were nevertheless too overstrained to be suited

to the character and constitution of human nature. Wesley translated

her life, and observes, "Such another Life as that of Madam Guion,

I doubt whether the world ever saw. It contains an abundance of

excellent things, uncommonly excellent; several things which are

utterly false and unscriptural; nay, such as are dangerously false.

As to Madam Guion herself, I believe she was not only a good woman,

but good in an eminent degree; deeply devoted to God, and often

favoured with uncommon communications of his Spirit."

The persecutions in which she was thus involved were unremitting and

painful. Her doctrines underwent a solemn inquiry at Issy, before

three commissioners appointed by Louis XIV. for that purpose: viz.

the Bishop of Meaux, the Bishop of Chartres, (afterwards Cardinal de

Noailles,) and M. Tronson, the Superior of the congregation of St.

Sulpice. After a discussion which lasted six months, her writings

received a formal condemnation, in which Fenelon refused to concur.

By this apparent sanction of her principles, and still more by his

celebrated "Maxims of the Saints," in which he incorporated the

more spiritual part of her system, he exposed himself to a series

of painful reverses. He was banished the court by Louis XIV., who

probably never read his book, nor comprehended his principles, but

who never forgave the author of Telemachus. By the same authority

he was removed from the office of preceptor to the Dukes of

Burgundy, Anjou, and Berri; and commanded to retire to Cambray,

which he embellished with his exalted virtues. But a further scene

of humiliation awaited him. His powerful opponent, the celebrated

Bossuet, not content with attacking his writings, endeavoured to

procure their condemnation at the court of Rome, which led to a

_bon-mot_ of the Pope, that "Fenelon was in fault for too great

love to God, and his enemies equally in fault for too little love

of their neighbour." The Brief was at length obtained, though not

without considerable delay and reluctance. Fenelon received this act

of censure with calm serenity, and in obedience to papal authority,

ascended his pulpit at Cambray with his Maxims in one hand and the

Brief in the other. He then read the condemnation of his own book,

amidst the tears and admiration of his congregation; thus evincing

a magnanimity which rendered him greater in his defeat than his

enemies appeared in their triumph.

Madame Guion spent ten years in prison, during which she composed

many hymns, with poems on various spiritual subjects, filling

no less than five octavo volumes. Speaking of the period of her

imprisonment at Vincennes, she observes, "I passed my time in great

peace, content to spend the rest of my life there, if such were

the will of God. I sang songs of joy, which the maid who served

me learned by heart, as fast as I made them: and we sang together

thy praises, O my God! The stones of my prison looked in my eyes

like rubies. I esteemed them more than all the gaudy brilliancies

of a vain world." We cannot state this fact without doing homage to

the virtues of Madame Guion. The piety that could convert a prison

into a sanctuary, and transform sufferings into an occasion for

joy and thanksgiving, must have been elevated and sincere, however

mingled with enthusiasm. Her doctrine of profound submission, under

circumstances the most adverse, was no speculative thesis; it was

evidently carried into the life and practice.

Who is not reminded by this act of what is recorded in the

apostolical times? "And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and

sang praises unto God." The rigour of her persecutions, in our

opinion, conveys a strong censure against her zealous but misguided

opponents. But the case is by no means solitary. The world is always

indulgent to the errors of our practice, but severe to the errors

of our creed. True policy and humanity would have suggested a

different course. Extravagances, when left to themselves, generally

work their own cure; but, when visited with persecution, acquire

dignity and importance, and never fail to awaken sympathy for the

sufferers.

After her long imprisonment, Madam Guion lived a retired life for

more than seven years at Blois, where she died June 9, 1717, in

the seventieth year of her age, celebrated for her misfortunes and

devotion, though her principles, which once convulsed France, and

awakened the thunders of the Vatican, are now nearly forgotten.

The following selection from her poems, executed by Cowper, is

highly devotional, and may be read with interest and edification. It

exhibits a happy specimen of her religious views in their best form;

and Cowper has given to them the charms of versification, united

with a taste and discrimination that ensure their popularity. The

poem on the Nativity is a sublime and bold composition, and proves

that the piety which warms the heart, seldom fails to enlarge and

invigorate the faculties of the mind.

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

THE FRENCH OF MADAME DE LA MOTHE GUION.

THE NATIVITY.

'Tis folly all--let me no more be told

Of Parian porticos, and roofs of gold;

Delightful views of nature, dress'd by art,

Enchant no longer this indifferent heart;

The Lord of all things, in his humble birth,

Makes mean the proud magnificence of earth;

The straw, the manger, and the mouldering wall,

Eclipse its lustre; and I scorn it all.

Canals, and fountains, and delicious vales,

Green slopes and plains, whose plenty never fails;

Deep-rooted groves, whose heads sublimely rise,

Earth-born, and yet ambitious of the skies;

The abundant foliage of whose gloomy shades,

Vainly the sun in all its power invades;

Where warbled airs of sprightly birds resound,

Whose verdure lives while Winter scowls around;

Rocks, lofty mountains, caverns dark and deep,

And torrents raving down the rugged steep;

Smooth downs, whose fragrant herbs the spirits cheer;

Meads crown'd with flowers; streams musical and clear.

Whose silver waters, and whose murmurs, join

Their artless charms, to make the scene divine;

The fruitful vineyard, and the furrow'd plain,

That seems a rolling sea of golden grain:

All, all have lost the charms they once possess'd;

An infant God reigns sovereign in my breast;

From Bethlehem's bosom I no more will rove;

There dwells the Saviour, and there rests my love.

Ye mightier rivers, that, with sounding force,

Urge down the valleys your impetuous course!

Winds, clouds, and lightnings! and, ye waves, whose heads,

Curl'd into monstrous forms, the seaman dreads!

Horrid abyss, where all experience fails,

Spread with the wreck of planks and shatter'd sails;

On whose broad back grim Death triumphant rides,

While havoc floats on all thy swelling tides,

Thy shores a scene of ruin strew'd around

With vessels bulged, and bodies of the drown'd!

Ye fish, that sport beneath the boundless waves,

And rest, secure from man, in rocky caves;

Swift-darting sharks, and whales of hideous size,

Whom all the aquatic world with terror eyes!

Had I but faith immoveable and true,

I might defy the fiercest storm, like you:

The world, a more disturb'd and boisterous sea,

When Jesus shows a smile, affrights not me;

He hides me, and in vain the billows roar,

Break harmless at my feet, and leave the shore.

Thou azure vault where, through the gloom of night,

Thick sown, we see such countless worlds of light!

Thou moon, whose car, encompassing the skies,

Restores lost nature to our wondering eyes;

Again retiring, when the brighter sun

Begins the course he seems in haste to run!

Behold him where he shines! His rapid rays,

Themselves unmeasured, measure all our days;

Nothing impedes the race he would pursue,

Nothing escapes his penetrating view,

A thousand lands confess his quickening heat,

And all he cheers are fruitful, fair, and sweet.

Far from enjoying what these scenes disclose,

I feel the thorn, alas! but miss the rose:

Too well I know this aching heart requires

More solid gold to fill its vast desires;

In vain they represent his matchless might,

Who call'd them out of deep primeval night;

Their form and beauty but augment my woe,

I seek the Giver of those charms they show:

Nor, Him beside, throughout the world he made,

Lives there in whom I trust for cure or aid.

Infinite God, thou great unrivall'd One!

Whose glory makes a blot of yonder sun;

Compar'd with thine, how dim his beauty seems,

How quench'd the radiance of his golden beams!

Thou art my bliss, the light by which I move;

In thee alone dwells all that I can love.

All darkness flies when thou art pleased to appear,

A sudden spring renews the fading year;

Where'er I turn I see thy power and grace

The watchful guardians of our heedless race;

Thy various creatures in one strain agree,

All, in all times and places, speak of thee;

E'en I, with trembling heart and stammering tongue,

Attempt thy praise, and join the general song.

Almighty Former of this wondrous plan,

Faintly reflected in thine image, man--

Holy and just--the greatness of whose name

Fills and supports this universal frame,

Diffused throughout the infinitude of space,

Who art thyself thine own vast dwelling place;

Soul of our soul, whom yet no sense of ours

Discerns, eluding our most active powers;

Encircling shades attend thine awful throne,

That veil thy face, and keep thee still unknown;

Unknown, though dwelling in our inmost part,

Lord of the thoughts, and Sovereign of the heart!

Repeat the charming truth that never tires,

No God is like the God my soul desires;

He at whose voice heaven trembles, even He,

Great as he is, knows how to stoop to me--

Lo! there he lies--that smiling infant said,

"Heaven, earth, and sea, exist!"--and they obey'd.

E'en he, whose being swells beyond the skies,

Is born of woman, lives, and mourns, and dies;

Eternal and immortal, seems to cast

That glory from his brows, and breathes his last.

Trivial and vain the works that man has wrought,

How do they shrink and vanish at the thought!

Sweet solitude, and scene of my repose!

This rustic sight assuages all my woes--

That crib contains the Lord, whom I adore;

And earth's a shade that I pursue no more.

He is my firm support, my rock, my tower,

I dwell secure beneath his sheltering power,

And hold this mean retreat for ever dear,

For all I love, my soul's delight is here.

I see the Almighty swathed in infant bands,

Tied helpless down the thunder-bearer's hands!

And, in this shed, that mystery discern,

Which faith and love, and they alone, can learn.

Ye tempests, spare the slumbers of your Lord!

Ye zephyrs, all your whisper'd sweets afford!

Confess the God, that guides the rolling year;

Heaven, do him homage; and thou, earth, revere!

Ye shepherds, monarchs, sages, hither bring

Your hearts an offering, and adore your King!

Pure be those hearts, and rich in faith and love;

Join, in his praise, the harmonious world above;

To Bethlehem haste, rejoice in his repose,

And praise him there for all that he bestows!

Man, busy man, alas! can ill afford

To obey the summons, and attend the Lord;

Perverted reason revels and runs wild,

By glittering shows of pomp and wealth beguiled;

And, blind to genuine excellence and grace,

Finds not her author in so mean a place.

Ye unbelieving! learn a wiser part,

Distrust your erring sense, and search your heart;

There soon ye shall perceive a kindling flame

Glow for that infant God, from whom it came;

Resist not, quench not, that divine desire,

Melt all your adamant in heavenly fire!

Not so will I requite thee, gentle love!

Yielding and soft this heart shall ever prove;

And every heart beneath thy power should fall,

Glad to submit, could mine contain them all.

But I am poor, oblation I have none,

None for a Saviour, but himself alone:

Whate'er I render thee, from thee it came:

And, if I give my body to the flame,

My patience, love, and energy divine

Of heart, and soul, and spirit, all are thine.

Ah, vain attempt to expunge the mighty score!

The more I pay, I owe thee still the more.

Upon my meanness, poverty, and guilt,

The trophy of thy glory shall be built;

My self-disdain shall be the unshaken base,

And my deformity its fairest grace;

For destitute of good, and rich in ill,

Must be my state and my description still.

And do I grieve at such an humbling lot?

Nay, but I cherish and enjoy the thought--

Vain pageantry and pomp of earth, adieu!

I have no wish, no memory for you;

The more I feel my misery, I adore

The sacred inmate of my soul the more;

Rich in his love, I feel my noblest pride

Spring from the sense of having nought beside.

In Thee I find wealth, comfort, virtue, might;

My wanderings prove thy wisdom infinite;

All that I have I give thee; and then see

All contrarieties unite in thee;

For thou hast join'd them, taking up our woe,

And pouring out thy bliss on worms below,

By filling with thy grace and love divine

A gulf of evil in this heart of mine.

This is, indeed, to bid the valleys rise,

And the hills sink--'tis matching earth and skies;

I feel my weakness, thank thee, and deplore

An aching heart, that throbs to thank thee more;

The more I love thee, I the more reprove

A soul so lifeless, and so slow to love;

Till, on a deluge of thy mercy toss'd,

I plunge into that sea, and there am lost.

GOD NEITHER KNOWN NOR LOVED BY THE WORLD.

Ye linnets, let us try, beneath this grove,

Which shall be loudest in our Maker's praise!

In quest of some forlorn retreat I rove,

For all the world is blind, and wanders from his ways.

That God alone should prop the sinking soul.

Fills them with rage against his empire now:

I traverse earth in vain from pole to pole,

To seek one simple heart, set free from all below.

They speak of love, yet little feel its sway,

While in their bosoms many an idol lurks;

Their base desires, well satisfied, obey,

Leave the Creator's hand, and lean upon his works.

'Tis therefore I can dwell with man no more;

Your fellowship, ye warblers! suits me best:

Pure love has lost its price, though prized of yore,

Profaned by modern tongues, and slighted as a jest.

My God, who form'd you for his praise alone,

Beholds his purpose well fulfill'd in you;

Come, let us join the choir before his throne,

Partaking in his praise with spirits just and true.

Yes, I will always love; and, as I ought,

Tune to the praise of love my ceaseless voice;

Preferring love too vast for human thought,

In spite of erring men, who cavil at my choice.

Why have I not a thousand thousand hearts,

Lord of my soul! that they might all be thine?

If thou approve--the zeal thy smile imparts,

How should it ever fail! can such a fire decline?

Love, pure and holy, is a deathless fire;

Its object heavenly, it must ever blaze:

Eternal love a God must needs inspire,

When once he wins the heart, and fits it for his praise.

Self-love dismiss'd--'tis then we live indeed--

In her embrace, death, only death is found:

Come, then, one noble effort, and succeed,

Cast off the chain of self with which thy soul is bound!

Oh! I could cry, that all the world might hear,

Ye self-tormentors, love your God alone;

Let his unequall'd excellence be dear,

Dear to your inmost souls, and make him all your own!

They hear me not--alas! how fond to rove

In endless chase of folly's specious lure!

'Tis here alone, beneath this shady grove,

I taste the sweets of truth--here only am secure.

THE SWALLOW.

I am fond of the swallow--I learn from her flight,

Had I skill to improve it, a lesson of love:

How seldom on earth do we see her alight!

She dwells in the skies, she is ever above.

It is on the wing that she takes her repose,

Suspended and poised in the regions of air,

'Tis not in our fields that her sustenance grows,

It is wing'd like herself, 'tis ethereal fare.

She comes in the spring, all the summer she stays,

And, dreading the cold, still follows the sun--

So, true to our love, we should covet his rays,

And the place where he shines not immediately shun.

Our light should be love, and our nourishment prayer;

It is dangerous food that we find upon earth;

The fruit of this world is beset with a snare,

In itself it is hurtful, as vile in its birth.

'Tis rarely, if ever, she settles below,

And only when building a nest for her young;

Were it not for her brood, she would never bestow

A thought upon any thing filthy as dung.

Let us leave it ourselves, ('tis a mortal abode,)

To bask every moment in infinite love;

Let us fly the dark winter, and follow the road

That leads to the dayspring appearing above.

THE TRIUMPH OF HEAVENLY LOVE DESIRED.

Ah! reign, wherever man is found,

My spouse, beloved and divine!

Then I am rich, and I abound,

When every human heart is thine.

A thousand sorrows pierce my soul,

To think that all are not thine own:

Ah! be adored from pole to pole;

Where is thy zeal? arise; be known!

All hearts are cold, in every place,

Yet earthly good with warmth pursue;

Dissolve them with a flash of grace,

Thaw these of ice, and give us new!

A FIGURATIVE DESCRIPTION OF THE PROCEDURE OF DIVINE LOVE

IN BRINGING A SOUL TO THE POINT OF SELF-RENUNCIATION AND ABSOLUTE

ACQUIESCENCE.

'Twas my purpose, on a day,

To embark, and sail away.

As I climb'd the vessel's side,

Love was sporting in the tide;

"Come," he said,--"ascend--make haste,

Launch into the boundless waste."

Many mariners were there,

Having each his separate care;

They that row'd us held their eyes

Fix'd upon the starry skies;

Others steer'd, or turn'd the sails

To receive the shifting gales.

Love, with power divine supplied,

Suddenly my courage tried;

In a moment it was night,

Ship and skies were out of sight;

On the briny wave I lay,

Floating rushes all my stay.

Did I with resentment burn

At this unexpected turn?

Did I wish myself on shore,

Never to forsake it more?

No--"My soul," I cried, "be still;

If I must be lost, I will."

Next he hasten'd to convey

Both my frail supports away;

Seized my rushes; bade the waves

Yawn into a thousand graves:

Down I went, and sunk as lead,

Ocean closing o'er my head.

Still, however, life was safe;

And I saw him turn and laugh:

"Friend," he cried, "adieu! lie low,

While the wintry storms shall blow;

When the spring has calm'd the main,

You shall rise and float again."

Soon I saw him, with dismay,

Spread his plumes, and soar away;

Now I mark his rapid flight;

Now he leaves my aching sight;

He is gone whom I adore,

'Tis in vain to seek him more.

How I trembled then and fear'd,

When my love had disappear'd!

"Wilt thou leave me thus," I cried,

"Whelm'd beneath the rolling tide?"

Vain attempt to reach his ear!

Love was gone, and would not hear.

Ah! return, and love me still;

See me subject to thy will;

Frown with wrath, or smile with grace,

Only let me see thy face!

Evil I have none to fear,

All is good, if thou art near.

Yet he leaves me--cruel fate!

Leaves me in my lost estate--

Have I sinn'd? Oh say wherein;

Tell me, and forgive my sin!

King, and Lord, whom I adore,

Shall I see thy face no more?

Be not angry; I resign,

Henceforth, all my will to thine:

I consent that thou depart,

Though thine absence breaks my heart;

Go then, and for ever too:

All is right that thou wilt do.

This was just what Love intended,

He was now no more offended;

Soon as I became a child,

Love return'd to me and smiled:

Never strife shall more betide

'Twixt the bridegroom and his bride.

A CHILD OF GOD LONGING TO SEE HIM BELOVED.

There's not an echo round me,

But I am glad should learn,

How pure a fire has found me,

The love with which I burn.

For none attends with pleasure

To what I would reveal;

They slight me out of measure,

And laugh at all I feel.

The rocks receive less proudly

The story of my flame;

When I approach, they loudly

Reverberate his name.

I speak to them of sadness,

And comforts at a stand;

They bid me look for gladness,

And better days at hand.

Far from all habitation,

I heard a happy sound;

Big with the consolation,

That I have often found.

I said, "My lot is sorrow,

My grief has no alloy;"

The rocks replied--"To-morrow,

To-morrow brings thee joy."

These sweet and sacred tidings,

What bliss it is to hear!

For, spite of all my chidings,

My weakness and my fear,

No sooner I receive them,

Than I forget my pain,

And, happy to believe them,

I love as much again.

I fly to scenes romantic,

Where never men resort;

For in an age so frantic

Impiety is sport.

For riot and confusion

They barter things above;

Condemning, as delusion,

The joy of perfect love.

In this sequester'd corner,

None hears what I express;

Deliver'd from the scorner,

What peace do I possess!

Beneath the boughs reclining,

Or roving o'er the wild,

I live as undesigning

And harmless as a child.

No troubles here surprise me,

I innocently play,

While Providence supplies me,

And guards me all the day:

My dear and kind defender

Preserves me safely here,

From men of pomp and splendour,

Who fill a child with fear.

ASPIRATIONS OF THE SOUL AFTER GOD.

My Spouse! in whose presence I live,

Sole object of all my desires,

Who know'st what a flame I conceive,

And canst easily double its fires!

How pleasant is all that I meet!

From fear of adversity free,

I find even sorrow made sweet;

Because 'tis assign'd me by thee.

Transported I see thee display

Thy riches and glory divine;

I have only my life to repay,

Take what I would gladly resign.

Thy will is the treasure I seek,

For thou art as faithful as strong;

There let me, obedient and meek,

Repose myself all the day long.

My spirit and faculties fail;

Oh finish what love has begun!

Destroy what is sinful and frail,

And dwell in the soul thou hast won!

Dear theme of my wonder and praise,

I cry, who is worthy as thou?

I can only be silent and gaze!

'Tis all that is left to me now.

Oh glory in which I am lost,

Too deep for the plummet of thought;

On an ocean of Deity toss'd,

I am swallow'd, I sink into nought.

Yet, lost and absorb'd as I seem,

I chant to the praise of my King;

And, though overwhelm'd by the theme,

Am happy whenever I sing.

GRATITUDE AND LOVE TO GOD.

All are indebted much to thee,

But I far more than all,

From many a deadly snare set free,

And raised from many a fall.

Overwhelm me, from above,

Daily, with thy boundless love.

What bonds of gratitude I feel

No language can declare;

Beneath the oppressive weight I reel,

'Tis more than I can bear:

When shall I that blessing prove,

To return thee love for love?

Spirit of charity, dispense

Thy grace to every heart;

Expel all other spirits thence,

Drive self from every part;

Charity divine, draw nigh,

Break the chains in which we lie!

All selfish souls, whate'er they feign,

Have still a slavish lot;

They boast of liberty in vain,

Of love, and feel it not.

He whose bosom glows with thee,

He, and he alone, is free.

Oh blessedness, all bliss above,

When thy pure fires prevail!

Love only teaches what is love:

All other lessons fail:

We learn its name, but not its powers,

Experience only makes it ours.

HAPPY SOLITUDE--UNHAPPY MEN.

My heart is easy, and my burden light;

I smile, though sad, when thou art in my sight:

The more my woes in secret I deplore,

I taste thy goodness, and I love thee more.

There, while a solemn stillness reigns around,

Faith, love, and hope within my soul abound;

And, while the world suppose me lost in care,

The joys of angels, unperceived, I share.

Thy creatures wrong thee, O thou sovereign good!

Thou art not loved, because not understood;

This grieves me most, that vain pursuits beguile

Ungrateful men, regardless of thy smile.

Frail beauty and false honour are adored;

While Thee they scorn, and trifle with thy word;

Pass, unconcern'd, a Saviour's sorrows by;

And hunt their ruin with a zeal to die.

LIVING WATER.

The fountain in its source,

No drought of summer fears;

The farther it pursues its course,

The nobler it appears.

But shallow cisterns yield

A scanty short supply;

The morning sees them amply fill'd,

At evening they are dry.

TRUTH AND DIVINE LOVE REJECTED BY THE WORLD.

O love, of pure and heavenly birth!

O simple truth, scarce known on earth!

Whom men resist with stubborn will;

And, more perverse and daring still,

Smother and quench, with reasonings vain,

While error and deception reign.

Whence comes it, that, your power the same

As His on high from whence you came,

Ye rarely find a listening ear,

Or heart that makes you welcome here?--

Because ye bring reproach and pain,

Where'er ye visit, in your train.

The world is proud, and cannot bear

The scorn and calumny ye share;

The praise of men the mark they mean,

They fly the place where ye are seen;

Pure love, with scandal in the rear,

Suits not the vain; it costs too dear.

Then, let the price be what it may,

Though poor, I am prepared to pay;

Come shame, come sorrow; spite of tears,

Weakness, and heart-oppressing fears;

One soul, at least, shall not repine,

To give you room; come, reign in mine!

DIVINE JUSTICE AMIABLE.

Thou hast no lightnings, O thou Just!

Or I their force should know;

And, if thou strike me into dust,

My soul approves the blow.

The heart, that values less its ease

Than it adores thy ways,

In thine avenging anger sees

A subject of its praise.

Pleased I could lie, conceal'd and lost,

In shades of central night;

Not to avoid thy wrath, thou know'st,

But lest I grieve thy sight.

Smite me, O thou, whom I provoke!

And I will love thee still:

The well deserved and righteous stroke

Shall please me, though it kill.

Am I not worthy to sustain

The worst thou canst devise;

And dare I seek thy throne again,

And meet thy sacred eyes?

Far from afflicting, thou art kind;

And, in my saddest hours,

An unction of thy grace I find,

Pervading all my powers.

Alas! thou sparest me yet again;

And, when thy wrath should move,

Too gentle to endure my pain,

Thou soothest me with thy love.

I have no punishment to fear;

But, ah! that smile from thee

Imparts a pang far more severe

Than woe itself would be.

THE SOUL THAT LOVES GOD FINDS HIM EVERY WHERE.

Oh thou, by long experience tried,

Near whom no grief can long abide;

My love! how full of sweet content

I pass my years of banishment!

All scenes alike engaging prove

To souls impress'd with sacred love!

Where'er they dwell, they dwell in thee;

In heaven, in earth, or on the sea.

To me remains nor place nor time;

My country is in every clime;

I can be calm and free from care

On any shore, since God is there.

While place we seek, or place we shun,

The soul finds happiness in none;

But, with a God to guide our way,

'Tis equal joy to go or stay.

Could I be cast where thou art not,

That were indeed a dreadful lot;

But regions none remote I call,

Secure of finding God in all.

My country, Lord, art thou alone;

Nor other can I claim or own;

The point where all my wishes meet;

My law, my love, life's only sweet!

I hold by nothing here below;

Appoint my journey and I go;

Though pierced by scorn, oppress'd by pride,

I feel thee good--feel nought beside.

No frowns of men can hurtful prove

To souls on fire with heavenly love;

Though men and devils both condemn,

No gloomy days arise from them.

Ah then! to his embrace repair;

My soul, thou art no stranger there;

There love divine shall be thy guard,

And peace and safety thy reward.

THE TESTIMONY OF DIVINE ADOPTION.

How happy are the new-born race,

Partakers of adopting grace;

How pure the bliss they share!

Hid from the world and all its eyes,

Within their heart the blessing lies,

And conscience feels it there.

The moment we believe, 'tis ours;

And if we love with all our powers

The God from whom it came;

And if we serve with hearts sincere,

'Tis still discernible and clear,

An undisputed claim.

But, ah! if foul and wilful sin

Stain and dishonour us within,

Farewell the joy we knew;

Again the slaves of nature's sway,

In labyrinths of our own we stray,

Without a guide or clue.

The chaste and pure, who fear to grieve

The gracious Spirit they receive,

His work distinctly trace:

And, strong in undissembling love,

Boldly assert and clearly prove

Their hearts his dwelling place.

Oh messenger of dear delight,

Whose voice dispels the deepest night,

Sweet peace-proclaiming Dove!

With thee at hand, to soothe our pains,

No wish unsatisfied remains,

No task but that of love.

'Tis love unites what sin divides;

The centre, where all bliss resides;

To which the soul once brought,

Reclining on the first great cause,

From his abounding sweetness draws

Peace passing human thought.

Sorrow foregoes its nature there,

And life assumes a tranquil air,

Divested of its woes;

There sovereign goodness soothes the breast,

Till then incapable of rest,

In sacred sure repose.

DIVINE LOVE ENDURES NO RIVAL.

Love is the Lord whom I obey,

Whose will transported I perform;

The centre of my rest, my stay,

Love's all in all to me, myself a worm.

For uncreated charms I burn,

Oppress'd by slavish fear no more,

For One in whom I may discern,

E'en when he frowns, a sweetness I adore.

He little loves him who complains,

And finds him rigorous and severe;

His heart is sordid, and he feigns,

Though loud in boasting of a soul sincere.

Love causes grief, but 'tis to move

And stimulate the slumbering mind;

And he has never tasted love,

Who shuns a pang so graciously design'd.

Sweet is the cross, above all sweets,

To souls enamour'd with thy smiles;

The keenest woe life ever meets,

Love strips of all its terrors, and beguiles.

'Tis just that God should not be dear

Where self engrosses all the thought,

And groans and murmurs make it clear,

Whatever else is loved, the Lord is not.

The love of thee flows just as much

As that of ebbing self subsides;

Our hearts, their scantiness is such,

Bear not the conflict of two rival tides.

Both cannot govern in one soul;

Then let self-love be dispossess'd;

The love of God deserves the whole,

And will not dwell with so despised a guest.

SELF-DIFFIDENCE.

Source of love, and light of day,

Tear me from myself away;

Every view and thought of mine

Cast into the mould of thine;

Teach, O teach this faithless heart

A consistent constant part;

Or, if it must live to grow

More rebellious, break it now!

Is it thus that I requite

Grace and goodness infinite?

Every trace of every boon

Cancell'd and erased so soon!

Can I grieve thee, whom I love;

Thee, in whom I live and move?

If my sorrow touch thee still,

Save me from so great an ill!

Oh! the oppressive, irksome weight,

Felt in an uncertain state;

Comfort, peace, and rest, adieu,

Should I prove at last untrue!

Still I choose thee, follow still

Every notice of thy will;

But, unstable, strangely weak,

Still let slip the good I seek.

Self-confiding wretch, I thought

I could serve thee as I ought,

Win thee, and deserve to feel

All the love thou canst reveal;

Trusting self, a bruised reed,

Is to be deceived indeed:

Save me from this harm and loss,

Lest my gold turn all to dross?

Self is earthly--faith alone

Makes an unseen world our own;

Faith relinquish'd, how we roam,

Feel our way, and leave our home!

Spurious gems our hopes entice,

While we scorn the pearl of price;

And, preferring servants' pay,

Cast the children's bread away.

THE ACQUIESCENCE OF PURE LOVE.

Love! if thy destined sacrifice am I,

Come, slay thy victim, and prepare thy fires;

Plunged in thy depths of mercy, let me die

The death which every soul that lives desires!

I watch my hours, and see them fleet away;

The time is long that I have languish'd here;

Yet all my thoughts thy purposes obey,

With no reluctance, cheerful and sincere.

To me 'tis equal, whether love ordain

My life or death, appoint me pain or ease;

My soul perceives no real ill in pain;

In ease or health no real good she sees.

One good she covets, and that good alone,

To choose thy will, from selfish bias free;

And to prefer a cottage to a throne,

And grief to comfort, if it pleases thee.

That we should bear the cross is thy command,

Die to the world, and live to self no more;

Suffer, unmoved, beneath the rudest hand,

As pleased when shipwreck'd as when safe on shore.

REPOSE IN GOD.

Blest! who, far from all mankind

This world's shadows left behind,

Hears from heaven a gentle strain

Whispering love, and loves again.

Blest! who, free from self-esteem,

Dives into the great Supreme,

All desire beside discards,

Joys inferior none regards.

Blest! who in thy bosom seeks

Rest that nothing earthly breaks,

Dead to self and worldly things,

Lost in thee, thou King of kings!

Ye that know my secret fire,

Softly speak and soon retire;

Favour my divine repose,

Spare the sleep a God bestows.

GLORY TO GOD ALONE.

Oh loved! but not enough--though dearer far

Than self and its most loved enjoyments are;

None duly loves thee, but who, nobly free

From sensual objects, finds his all in thee.

Glory of God! thou stranger here below,

Whom man nor knows, nor feels a wish to know;

Our faith and reason are both shock'd to find

Man in the post of honour--Thee behind.

Reason exclaims--"Let every creature fall,

Ashamed, abased, before the Lord of all;"

And faith, o'erwhelm'd with such a dazzling blaze,

Feebly describes the beauty she surveys.

Yet man, dim-sighted man, and rash as blind,

Deaf to the dictates of his better mind,

In frantic competition dares the skies,

And claims precedence of the Only wise.

Oh lost in vanity, till once self-known!

Nothing is great, or good, but God alone;

When thou shalt stand before his awful face,

Then, at the last, thy pride shall know his place.

Glorious, Almighty, First, and without end!

When wilt thou melt the mountains and descend?

When wilt thou shoot abroad thy conquering rays,

And teach these atoms, thou hast made, thy praise?

Thy glory is the sweetest heaven I feel;

And, if I seek it with too fierce a zeal,

Thy love, triumphant o'er a selfish will,

Taught me the passion, and inspires it still.

My reason, all my faculties, unite,

To make thy glory their supreme delight;

Forbid it, fountain of my brightest days,

That I should rob thee, and usurp thy praise!

My soul! rest happy in thy low estate,

Nor hope, nor wish, to be esteem'd or great;

To take the impression of a will divine,

Be that thy glory, and those riches thine.

Confess him righteous in his just decrees,

Love what he loves, and let his pleasure please;

Die daily; from the touch of sin recede;

Then thou hast crown'd him, and he reigns indeed.

SELF-LOVE AND TRUTH INCOMPATIBLE.

From thorny wilds a monster came,

That fill'd my soul with fear and shame;

The birds, forgetful of their mirth,

Droop'd at the sight, and fell to earth;

When thus a sage address'd mine ear,

Himself unconscious of a fear:

"Whence all this terror and surprise,

Distracted looks, and streaming eyes?

Far from the world and its affairs,

The joy it boasts, the pain it shares,

Surrender, without guile or art,

To God an undivided heart;

The savage form, so fear'd before,

Shall scare your trembling soul no more;

For, loathsome as the sight may be,

'Tis but the love of self you see.

Fix all your love on God alone,

Choose but his will, and hate your own:

No fear shall in your path be found,

The dreary waste shall bloom around,

And you, through all your happy days,

Shall bless his name, and sing his praise."

Oh lovely solitude, how sweet

The silence of this calm retreat!

Here Truth, the fair whom I pursue,

Gives all her beauty to my view;

The simple, unadorn'd display

Charms every pain and fear away.

O Truth, whom millions proudly slight;

O Truth, my treasure and delight;

Accept this tribute to thy name,

And this poor heart from which it came!

THE LOVE OF GOD, THE END OF LIFE.

Since life in sorrow must be spent,

So be it--I am well content,

And meekly wait my last remove,

Seeking only growth in love.

No bliss I seek, but to fulfil

In life, in death, thy lovely will;

No succours in my woes I want,

Save what thou art pleased to grant.

Our days are number'd, let us spare

Our anxious hearts a needless care:

'Tis thine to number out our days;

Ours to give them to thy praise.

Love is our only business here,

Love, simple, constant, and sincere;

O blessed days, thy servants see,

Spent, O Lord! in pleasing thee!

LOVE FAITHFUL IN THE ABSENCE OF THE BELOVED.

In vain ye woo me to your harmless joys,

Ye pleasant bowers, remote from strife and noise;

Your shades, the witnesses of many a vow,

Breathed forth in happier days, are irksome now;

Denied that smile 'twas once my heaven to see,

Such scenes, such pleasures, are all past with me.

In vain he leaves me, I shall love him still;

And, though I mourn, not murmur at his will;

I have no cause--an object all divine,

Might well grow weary of a soul like mine;

Yet pity me, great God! forlorn, alone,

Heartless and hopeless, life and love all gone.

LOVE PURE AND FERVENT.

Jealous, and with love o'erflowing,

God demands a fervent heart;

Grace and bounty still bestowing,

Calls us to a grateful part.

Oh, then, with supreme affection

His paternal will regard!

If it cost us some dejection,

Every sigh has its reward.

Perfect love has power to soften

Cares that might our peace destroy,

Nay, does more--transforms them often,

Changing sorrow into joy.

Sovereign Love appoints the measure,

And the number of our pains;

And is pleased when we find pleasure

In the trials he ordains.

THE ENTIRE SURRENDER.

Peace has unveil'd her smiling face,

And wooes thy soul to her embrace,

Enjoy'd with ease, if thou refrain

From earthly love, else sought in vain;

She dwells with all who truth prefer,

But seeks not them who seek not her.

Yield to the Lord, with simple heart,

All that thou hast, and all thou art;

Renounce all strength but strength divine;

And peace shall be for ever thine:

Behold the path which I have trod,

My path, till I go home to God.

THE PERFECT SACRIFICE.

I place an offering at thy shrine,

From taint and blemish clear,

Simple and pure in its design,

Of all that I hold dear.

I yield thee back thy gifts again,

Thy gifts which most I prize;

Desirous only to retain

The notice of thine eyes.

But if, by thine adored decree,

That blessing be denied;

Resign'd, and unreluctant, see

My every wish subside.

Thy will in all things I approve,

Exalted or cast down;

Thy will in every state I love,

And even in thy frown.

GOD HIDES HIS PEOPLE.

To lay the soul that loves him low,

Becomes the Only-wise:

To hide, beneath a veil of woe,

The children of the skies.

Man, though a worm, would yet be great;

Though feeble, would seem strong;

Assumes an independent state,

By sacrilege and wrong.

Strange the reverse, which, once abased,

The haughty creature proves!

He feels his soul a barren waste,

Nor dares affirm he loves.

Scorn'd by the thoughtless and the vain,

To God he presses near;

Superior to the world's disdain,

And happy in its sneer.

Oh welcome, in his heart he says,

Humility and shame!

Farewell the wish for human praise,

The music of a name!

But will not scandal mar the good

That I might else perform?

And can God work it, if he would,

By so despised a worm?

Ah, vainly anxious!--leave the Lord

To rule thee, and dispose;

Sweet is the mandate of his word,

And gracious all he does.

He draws from human littleness

His grandeur and renown;

And generous hearts with joy confess

The triumph all his own.

Down then with self-exalting thoughts;

Thy faith and hope employ,

To welcome all that he allots,

And suffer shame with joy.

No longer, then, thou wilt encroach

On his eternal right;

And he shall smile at thy approach,

And make thee his delight.

THE SECRETS OF DIVINE LOVE ARE TO BE KEPT.

Sun! stay thy course, this moment stay--

Suspend the o'erflowing tide of day,

Divulge not such a love as mine,

Ah! hide the mystery divine;

Lest man, who deems my glory shame,

Should learn the secret of my flame.

O night! propitious to my views,

Thy sable awning wide diffuse;

Conceal alike my joy and pain,

Nor draw thy curtain back again,

Though morning, by the tears she shows,

Seems to participate my woes.

Ye stars! whose faint and feeble fires

Express my languishing desires,

Whose slender beams pervade the skies,

As silent as my secret sighs,

Those emanations of a soul,

That darts her fires beyond the Pole;

Your rays, that scarce assist the sight,

That pierce, but not displace the night,

That shine indeed, but nothing show

Of all those various scenes below,

Bring no disturbance, rather prove

Incentives to a sacred love.

Thou moon! whose never-failing course

Bespeaks a providential force,

Go, tell the tidings of my flame

To Him who calls the stars by name;

Whose absence kills, whose presence cheers;

Who blots, or brightens, all my years.

While, in the blue abyss of space,

Thine orb performs its rapid race;

Still whisper in his listening ears

The language of my sighs and tears;

Tell him, I seek him, far below,

Lost in a wilderness of woe.

Ye thought-composing, silent hours,

Diffusing peace o'er all my powers;

Friends of the pensive, who conceal,

In darkest shades, the flames I feel;

To you I trust, and safely may,

The love that wastes my strength away.

In sylvan scenes and caverns rude,

I taste the sweets of solitude;

Retired indeed, but not alone,

I share them with a spouse unknown,

Who hides me here from envious eyes,

From all intrusion and surprise.

Imbowering shades and dens profound!

Where echo rolls the voice around;

Mountains! whose elevated heads

A moist and misty veil o'erspreads;

Disclose a solitary bride

To him I love--to none beside.

Ye rills, that, murmuring all the way,

Among the polish'd pebbles stray;

Creep silently along the ground,

Lest, drawn by that harmonious sound,

Some wanderer, whom I would not meet,

Should stumble on my loved retreat.

Enamell'd meads, and hillocks green,

And streams that water all the scene,

Ye torrents, loud in distant ears,

Ye fountains, that receive my tears,

Ah! still conceal, with caution due,

A charge I trust with none but you!

If, when my pain and grief increase

I seem to enjoy the sweetest peace,

It is because I find so fair

The charming object of my care,

That I can sport and pleasure make

Of torment suffer'd for his sake.

Ye meads and groves, unconscious things!

Ye know not whence my pleasure springs;

Ye know not, and ye cannot know,

The source from which my sorrows flow:

The dear sole cause of all I feel,--

He knows, and understands them well.

Ye deserts, where the wild beasts rove,

Scenes sacred to my hours of love;

Ye forests, in whose shades I stray,

Benighted under burning day;

Ah! whisper not how blest am I,

Nor while I live, nor when I die.

Ye lambs, who sport beneath these shades,

And bound along the mossy glades;

Be taught a salutary fear,

And cease to bleat when I am near:

The wolf may hear your harmless cry,

Whom ye should dread as much as I.

How calm, amid these scenes, my mind!

How perfect is the peace I find!

Oh hush, be still, my every part,

My tongue, my pulse, my beating heart!

That love, aspiring to its cause,

May suffer not a moment's pause.

Ye swift-finn'd nations, that abide

In seas, as fathomless as wide;

And, unsuspicious of a snare,

Pursue at large your pleasures there;

Poor sportive fools! how soon does man

Your heedless ignorance trepan.

Away! dive deep into the brine,

Where never yet sunk plummet line;

Trust me, the vast leviathan

Is merciful, compared with man;

Avoid his arts, forsake the beach,

And never play within his reach.

My soul her bondage ill endures

I pant for liberty like yours;

I long for that immense profound,

That knows no bottom and no bound;

Lost in infinity, to prove

The incomprehensible of love.

Ye birds, that lessen as ye fly,

And vanish in the distant sky;

To whom yon airy waste belongs,

Resounding with your cheerful songs;

Haste to escape from human sight;

Fear less the vulture and the kite.

How blest and how secure am I,

When, quitting earth, I soar on high;

When lost, like you I disappear,

And float in a sublimer sphere;

Whence falling, within human view,

I am ensnared, and caught like you!

Omniscient God, whose notice deigns

To try the heart and search the reins,

Compassionate the numerous woes,

I dare not, e'en to thee, disclose;

Oh save me from the cruel hands

Of men, who fear not thy commands!

Love, all-subduing and divine,

Care for a creature truly thine;

Reign in a heart, disposed to own

No sovereign but thyself alone;

Cherish a bride who cannot rove,

Nor quit thee for a meaner love!

THE VICISSITUDES EXPERIENCED IN THE CHRISTIAN LIFE.

I suffer fruitless anguish day by day,

Each moment, as it passes, marks my pain;

Scarce knowing whither, doubtfully I stray,

And see no end of all that I sustain.

The more I strive the more I am withstood;

Anxiety increasing every hour,

My spirit finds no rest, performs no good,

And nought remains of all my former power.

My peace of heart is fled, I know not where;

My happy hours, like shadows, pass'd away;

Their sweet remembrance doubles all my care,

Night darker seems, succeeding such a day.

Dear faded joys and impotent regret,

What profit is there in incessant tears?

Oh thou, whom, once beheld, we ne'er forget,

Reveal thy love, and banish all my fears!

Alas he flies me--treats me as his foe,

Views not my sorrows, hears not when I plead;

Woe such as mine, despised, neglected woe,

Unless it shortens life, is vain indeed.

Pierced with a thousand wounds, I yet survive;

My pangs are keen, but no complaint transpires;

And, while in terrors of thy wrath I live,

Hell seems to loose its less tremendous fires.

Has hell a pain I would not gladly bear,

So thy severe displeasure might subside?

Hopeless of ease, I seem already there,

My life extinguish'd, and yet death denied.

Is this the joy so promised--this the love,

The unchanging love, so sworn in better days?

Ah! dangerous glories! shown me, but to prove

How lovely thou, and I how rash to gaze.

Why did I see them? had I still remain'd

Untaught, still ignorant how fair thou art,

My humbler wishes I had soon obtain'd,

Nor known the torments of a doubting heart.

Deprived of all, yet feeling no desires,

Whence then, I cry, the pangs that I sustain?

Dubious and uninform'd, my soul inquires,

Ought she to cherish or shake off her pain.

Suffering, I suffer not--sincerely love,

Yet feel no touch of that enlivening flame;

As chance inclines me, unconcern'd I move,

All times, and all events, to me the same.

I search my heart, and not a wish is there

But burns with zeal that hated self may fall;

Such is the sad disquietude I share,

A sea of doubts, and self the source of all.

I ask not life, nor do I wish to die;

And, if thine hand accomplish not my cure,

I would not purchase with a single sigh

A free discharge from all that I endure.

I groan in chains, yet want not a release;

Am sick, and know not the distemper'd part;

Am just as void of purpose as of peace;

Have neither plan, nor fear, nor hope, nor heart.

My claim to life, though sought with earnest care,

No light within me, or without me, shows;

Once I had faith, but now in self-despair

Find my chief cordial and my best repose.

My soul is a forgotten thing; she sinks,

Sinks and is lost, without a wish to rise;

Feels an indifference she abhors, and thinks

Her name erased for ever from the skies.

Language affords not my distress a name,--

Yet it is real and no sickly dream;

'Tis love inflicts it; though to feel that flame

Is all I know of happiness supreme.

When love departs, a chaos wide and vast,

And dark as hell, is open'd in the soul;

When love returns, the gloomy scene is past,

No tempests shake her, and no fears control.

Then tell me why these ages of delay?

Oh love, all-excellent, once more appear;

Disperse the shades, and snatch me into day,

From this abyss of night, these floods of fear!

No--love is angry, will not now endure

A sigh of mine, or suffer a complaint;

He smites me, wounds me, and withholds the cure;

Exhausts my powers, and leaves me sick and faint.

He wounds, and hides the hand that gave the blow;

He flies, he re-appears, and wounds again--

Was ever heart that loved thee treated so?

Yet I adore thee, though it seem in vain.

And wilt thou leave me, whom, when lost and blind,

Thou didst distinguish and vouchsafe to choose,

Before thy laws were written in my mind,

While yet the world had all my thoughts and views?

Now leave me, when, enamour'd of thy laws,

I make thy glory my supreme delight?

Now blot me from thy register, and cause

A faithful soul to perish from thy sight?

What can have caused the change which I deplore?

Is it to prove me, if my heart be true?

Permit me then, while prostrate I adore,

To draw, and place its picture in thy view.

'Tis thine without reserve, most simply thine;

So given to thee, that it is not my own;

A willing captive of thy grace divine;

And loves, and seeks thee, for thyself alone.

Pain cannot move it, danger cannot scare;

Pleasure and wealth, in its esteem, are dust;

It loves thee, e'en when least inclined to spare

Its tenderest feelings, and avows thee just.

'Tis all thine own; my spirit is so too,

An undivided offering at thy shrine;

It seeks thy glory with no double view,

Thy glory, with no secret bent to mine.

Love, holy love! and art thou not severe,

To slight me, thus devoted, and thus fix'd?

Mine is an everlasting ardour, clear

From all self-bias, generous and unmix'd.

But I am silent, seeing what I see--

And fear, with cause, that I am self-deceived;

Not e'en my faith is from suspicion free,

And that I love seems not to be believed.

Live thou, and reign for ever, glorious Lord!

My last, least offering I present thee now--

Renounce me, leave me, and be still adored!

Slay me, my God, and I applaud the blow.

WATCHING UNTO GOD IN THE NIGHT SEASON.

Sleep at last has fled these eyes,

Nor do I regret his flight,

More alert my spirits rise,

And my heart is free and light.

Nature silent all around,

Not a single witness near;

God as soon as sought is found;

And the flame of love burns clear.

Interruption, all day long,

Checks the current of my joys;

Creatures press me with a throng,

And perplex me with their noise.

Undisturb'd I muse all night,

On the first Eternal Fair;

Nothing there obstructs delight,

Love is renovated there.

Life, with its perpetual stir,

Proves a foe to love and me;

Fresh entanglements occur--

Comes the night, and sets me free.

Never more, sweet sleep, suspend

My enjoyments, always new:

Leave me to possess my friend;

Other eyes and hearts subdue.

Hush the world, that I may wake

To the taste of pure delights;

Oh the pleasures I partake--

God, the partner of my nights!

David, for the selfsame cause,

Night preferr'd to busy day;

Hearts whom heavenly beauty draws,

Wish the glaring sun away.

Sleep, self-lovers, is for you--

Souls that love celestial know

Fairer scenes by night can view

Than the sun could ever show.

ON THE SAME.

Season of my purest pleasure,

Sealer of observing eyes!

When, in larger, freer measure,

I can commune with the skies;

While, beneath thy shade extended,

Weary man forgets his woes,

I, my daily trouble ended,

Find, in watching, my repose.

Silence all around prevailing,

Nature hush'd in slumber sweet,

No rude noise mine ears assailing,

Now my God and I can meet:

Universal nature slumbers,

And my soul partakes the calm,

Breathes her ardour out in numbers,

Plaintive song or lofty psalm.

Now my passion, pure and holy

Shines and burns without restraint;

Which the day's fatigue and folly

Cause to languish, dim and faint:

Charming hours of relaxation!

How I dread the ascending sun!

Surely, idle conversation

Is an evil match'd by none.

Worldly prate and babble hurt me;

Unintelligible prove;

Neither teach me nor divert me;

I have ears for none but love.

Me they rude esteem, and foolish,

Hearing my absurd replies;

I have neither art's fine polish,

Nor the knowledge of the wise.

Simple souls, and unpolluted

By conversing with the great,

Have a mind and taste ill suited

To their dignity and state;

All their talking, reading, writing,

Are but talents misapplied;

Infants' prattle I delight in,

Nothing human choose beside.

'Tis the secret fear of sinning

Checks my tongue, or I should say,

When I see the night beginning,

I am glad of parting day:

Love this gentle admonition

Whispers soft within my breast;

"Choice befits not thy condition,

Acquiescence suits thee best."

Henceforth, the repose and pleasure

Night affords me I resign;

And thy will shall be the measure,

Wisdom infinite! of mine:

Wishing is but inclination

Quarrelling with thy decrees;

Wayward nature finds the occasion--

'Tis her folly and disease.

Night, with its sublime enjoyments,

Now no longer will I choose;

Nor the day, with its employments,

Irksome as they seem, refuse;

Lessons of a God's inspiring

Neither time nor place impedes;

From our wishing and desiring

Our unhappiness proceeds.

ON THE SAME.

Night! how I love thy silent shades,

My spirits they compose;

The bliss of heaven my soul pervades,

In spite of all my woes.

While sleep instils her poppy dews

In every slumbering eye,

I watch to meditate and muse,

In blest tranquillity.

And when I feel a God immense

Familiarly impart,

With every proof he can dispense,

His favour to my heart;

My native meanness I lament,

Though most divinely fill'd

With all the ineffable content

That Deity can yield.

His purpose and his course he keeps;

Treads all my reasonings down;

Commands me out of nature's deeps,

And hides me in his own.

When in the dust, its proper place,

Our pride of heart we lay;

'Tis then a deluge of his grace

Bears all our sins away.

Thou whom I serve, and whose I am,

Whose influence from on high

Refines, and still refines my flame,

And makes my fetters fly;

How wretched is the creature's state

Who thwarts thy gracious power;

Crush'd under sin's enormous weight,

Increasing every hour!

The night, when pass'd entire with thee,

How luminous and clear!

Then sleep has no delights for me,

Lest thou shouldst disappear.

My Saviour! occupy me still

In this secure recess;

Let reason slumber if she will,

My joy shall not be less.

Let reason slumber out the night;

But if thou deign to make

My soul the abode of truth and light,

Ah, keep my heart awake!

THE JOY OF THE CROSS.

Long plunged in sorrow, I resign

My soul to that dear hand of thine,

Without reserve or fear;

That hand shall wipe my streaming eyes;

Or into smiles of glad surprise

Transform the falling tear.

My sole possession is thy love;

In earth beneath, or heaven above,

I have no other store;

And, though with fervent suit I pray,

And importune thee night and day,

I ask thee nothing more.

My rapid hours pursue the course

Prescribed them by love's sweetest force,

And I thy sovereign will,

Without a wish to escape my doom;

Though still a sufferer from the womb,

And doom'd to suffer still.

By thy command, where'er I stray,

Sorrow attends me all my way,

A never-failing friend;

And, if my sufferings may augment

Thy praise, behold me well content--

Let sorrow still attend!

It cost me no regret, that she,

Who follow'd Christ, should follow me,

And though, where'er she goes,

Thorns spring spontaneous at her feet,

I love her, and extract a sweet

From all my bitter woes.

Adieu! ye vain delights of earth,

Insipid sports, and childish mirth,

I taste no sweets in you;

Unknown delights are in the cross,

All joy beside to me is dross;

And Jesus thought so too.

The cross! Oh ravishment and bliss--

How grateful e'en its anguish is;

Its bitterness how sweet!

There every sense, and all the mind,

In all her faculties refined,

Tastes happiness complete.

Souls once enabled to disdain

Base sublunary joys, maintain

Their dignity secure;

The fever of desire is pass'd,

And love has all its genuine taste,

Is delicate and pure.

Self-love no grace in sorrow sees,

Consults her own peculiar ease;

'Tis all the bliss she knows;

But nobler aims true Love employ;

In self-denial is her joy,

In suffering her repose.

Sorrow and love go side by side;

Nor height nor depth can e'er divide

Their heaven-appointed bands;

Those dear associates still are one,

Nor till the race of life is run

Disjoin their wedded hands.

Jesus, avenger of our fall,

Thou faithful lover, above all

The cross has ever borne!

Oh tell me,--life is in thy voice--

How much afflictions were thy choice,

And sloth and ease thy scorn!

Thy choice and mine shall be the same

Inspirer of that holy flame,

Which must for ever blaze!

To take the cross and follow thee,

Where love and duty lead, shall be

My portion and my praise.

JOY IN MARTYRDOM.

Sweet tenants of this grove!

Who sing without design,

A song of artless love,

In unison with mine:

These echoing shades return

Full many a note of ours,

That wise ones cannot learn,

With all their boasted powers.

O thou! whose sacred charms

These hearts so seldom love,

Although thy beauty warms

And blesses all above;

How slow are human things,

To choose their happiest lot!

All-glorious King of kings,

Say why we love thee not?

This heart, that cannot rest,

Shall thine for ever prove;

Though bleeding and distress'd,

Yet joyful in thy love:

'Tis happy though it breaks

Beneath thy chastening hand;

And speechless, yet it speaks,

What thou canst understand.

SIMPLE TRUST.

Still, still, without ceasing,

I feel it increasing,

This fervour of holy desire;

And often exclaim,

Let me die in the flame

Of a love that can never expire!

Had I words to explain

What she must sustain

Who dies to the world and its ways;

How joy and affright,

Distress and delight,

Alternately chequer her days:

Thou, sweetly severe!

I would make thee appear,

In all thou art pleased to award.

Not more in the sweet

Than the bitter I meet

My tender and merciful Lord.

This faith, in the dark,

Pursuing its mark,

Through many sharp trials of love,

Is the sorrowful waste

That is to be pass'd

On the way to the Canaan above.

THE NECESSITY OF SELF-ABASEMENT.

Source of love, my brighter sun,

Thou alone my comfort art;

See, my race is almost run;

Hast thou left this trembling heart?

In my youth thy charming eyes

Drew me from the ways of men;

Then I drank unmingled joys;

Frown of thine saw never then.

Spouse of Christ was then my name;

And, devoted all to thee,

Strangely jealous I became,

Jealous of this self in me.

Thee to love, and none beside,

Was my darling, sole employ;

While alternately I died,

Now of grief, and now of joy.

Through the dark and silent night

On thy radiant smiles I dwelt;

And to see the dawning light

Was the keenest pain I felt.

Thou my gracious teacher wert;

And thine eye, so close applied,

While it watch'd thy pupil's heart,

Seem'd to look at none beside.

Conscious of no evil drift,

This, I cried, is love indeed--

'Tis the giver, not the gift,

Whence the joys I feel proceed.

But, soon humbled and laid low,

Stript of all thou hadst conferr'd,

Nothing left but sin 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 hast wrought

Makes subservient to his pride;

Ignorant that one such thought

Passes all his sin beside.

Such his folly--proved, at last

By the loss of that repose,

Self-complacence cannot taste,

Only love divine bestows.

'Tis by this reproof severe,

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 terrestrial clod,

Nothing is, and nothing can;

Life and power are all in God.

LOVE INCREASED BY SUFFERING.

"I love the Lord," is still the strain

This heart delights to sing:

But I reply--your thoughts are vain,

Perhaps 'tis no such thing.

Before the power of love divine

Creation fades away;

Till only God is seen to shine

In all that we survey.

In gulfs of awful night we find

The God of our desires;

'Tis there he stamps the yielding mind,

And doubles all its fires.

Flames of encircling love invest,

And pierce it sweetly through;

'Tis fill'd with sacred joy, yet press'd

With sacred sorrow 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 distress occur

Where'er I look or move;

The comforts I to all prefer

Are solitude 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 castle walls, nor dungeons deep,

Exclude his quickening beams;

There I can sit, and sing, and weep,

And dwell on heavenly themes.

There sorrow, for his sake, is found

A joy beyond compare;

There no presumptuous thoughts abound,

No pride can enter there.

A Saviour doubles all my joys,

And sweetens all my pains,

His strength in my defence employs,

Consoles me and sustains.

I fear no ill, resent no wrong;

Nor feel a passion move,

When malice whets her slanderous tongue;

Such patience is in love.

SCENES FAVOURABLE TO MEDITATION.

Wilds horrid and dark with o'ershadowing trees,

Rocks that ivy and briers infold,

Scenes nature with dread and astonishment sees,

But I with a pleasure untold;

Though awfully silent, and shaggy, 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 sick of thy splendour, O fountain of day,

And here I am hid from its beams,

Here safely contemplate a brighter display

Of the noblest and holiest of themes.

Ye forests, that yield me my sweetest repose,

Where stillness and solitude reign,

To you I securely and boldly disclose

The dear anguish of which I complain.

Here, sweetly 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 song.

Here, wandering in scenes that are sacred to night,

Love wears me and wastes me away,

And often the sun has spent much of his light

Ere yet I perceive it is day.

While a mantle of darkness envelops the sphere,

My sorrows are sadly rehearsed,

To me the dark hours are all equally dear,

And the last is as sweet as the first.

Here I and the beasts of the deserts 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 soothed by the presence of God,

And appetite wholly resign'd.

Ye desolate scenes, to your solitude led,

My life I in praises employ,

And scarce know the source of the tears that I shed,

Proceed they from sorrow or joy.

There's nothing I seem to have skill to discern,

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 see

That these contrarieties only reside

In the soul that is chosen of thee.

Ah! send me not back to the race of mankind,

Perversely by folly beguiled,

For where, in the crowds I have left, shall I find

The spirit and heart of a child?

Here let me, though fix'd in a desert, be free;

A little one whom they despise,

Though lost to the world, if in union with thee,

Shall be holy, and happy, and wise.

TRANSLATIONS

OF THE

LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS OF MILTON.

ELEGY I.

TO CHARLES DEODATI.

At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come,

Charged with thy kindness, to their destined home;

They come, at length, from Deva's Western side,

Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide.

Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be,

Though born of foreign race, yet born for me,

And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam,

Must seek again so soon his wonted home,

I well content, where Thames with influent tide

My native city laves, meantime reside,

Nor zeal nor duty now my steps impel

To reedy Cam, and my forbidden cell.

Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I,

That to the musing bard all shade deny.

'Tis time that I a pedant's threats disdain,

And fly from wrongs my soul will ne'er sustain.

If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent

Beneath my father's roof, be banishment,

Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuse

A name expressive of the lot I choose.

I would that, exiled to the Pontic shore,

Rome's hapless bard had suffer'd nothing more.

He then had equall'd even Homer's lays,

And, Virgil! thou hadst won but second praise:

For here I woo the muse, with no control,

And here my books--my life--absorb me whole.

Here too I visit, or to smile or weep,

The winding theatre's majestic sweep;

The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits

My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits;

Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir,

Suitor, or soldier, now unarm'd, be there,

Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause,

Thunder the Norman gibberish of the laws.

The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire,

And, artful, speeds the enamour'd son's desire.

There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove,

What love is know not, yet, unknowing, love.

Or, if impassion'd tragedy wield high

The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly,

Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye,

I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief.

At times, e'en bitter tears yield sweet relief,

As, when from bliss untasted torn away,

Some youth dies, hapless, on his bridal day;

Or when the ghost, sent back from shades below,

Fills the assassin's heart with vengeful woe;

When Troy, or Argos, the dire scene affords,

Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords.

Nor always city-pent, or pent at home,

I dwell; but, when spring calls me forth to roam,

Expatiate in our proud suburban shades

Of branching elm that never sun pervades.

Here many a virgin troop I may descry,

Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by.

Oh forms divine! oh looks that might inspire

E'en Jove himself, grown old, with young desire,

Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes,

Out-sparkling every star that gilds the skies;

Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestow'd

By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road!

Bright locks, love's golden snare! these falling low,

Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow!

Cheeks, too, more winning sweet than after shower

Adonis turn'd to Flora's favourite flower!

Yield, heroines, yield, and ye who shared the embrace

Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place!

Give place, ye turban'd fair of Persia's coast!

And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast!

Submit, ye nymphs of Greece! ye, once the bloom

Of Ilion! and all ye, of haughty Rome,

Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains

Redundant, and still live in classic strains!

To British damsels beauty's palm is due;

Aliens! to follow them is fame for you.

Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands,

Whose towering front the circling realm commands,

Too blest abode! no loveliness we see

In all the earth, but it abounds in thee.

The virgin multitude that daily meets,

Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets,

Outnumbers all her train of starry fires

With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires.

Fame says that, wafted hither by her doves,

With all her host of quiver-bearing loves,

Venus, preferring Paphian scenes no more,

Has fix'd her empire on thy nobler shore.

But, lest the sightless boy enforce my stay,

I leave these happy walls while yet I may.

Immortal Moly shall secure my heart

From all the sorcery of Circæan art,

And I will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools,

To face once more the warfare of the schools.

Meantime accept this trifle! rhymes though few,

Yet such as prove thy friend's remembrance true!

ELEGY II.

ON THE DEATH OF THE UNIVERSITY BEADLE AT CAMBRIDGE.

Thee, whose refulgent staff and summons clear

Minerva's flock long time was wont to obey,

Although thyself a herald, famous here,

The last of heralds, death, has snatch'd away.

He calls on all alike, nor even deigns

To spare the office that himself sustains.

Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd

By Leda's paramour in ancient time;

But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd,

Or, Æson-like, to know a second prime,

Worthy, for whom some goddess should have won

New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son.

Commission'd to convene with hasty call

The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou stand!

So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall,

Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command!

And so Eurybates, when he address'd

To Peleus' son Atrides' proud behest.

Dread queen of sepulchres! whose rigorous laws

And watchful eyes run through the realms below,

Oh, oft too adverse to Minerva's cause!

Too often to the muse not less a foe!

Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim

Pierce useless drones, earth's burden and its shame!

Flow, therefore, tears for him from every eye,

All ye disciples of the muses, weep!

Assembling all in robes of sable dye,

Around his bier lament his endless sleep!

And let complaining Elegy rehearse

In every school her sweetest, saddest verse.

ELEGY III.

ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

Silent I sat, dejected and alone,

Making, in thought, the public woes my own,

When first arose the image in my breast

Of England's suffering by that scourge, the pest!

How Death, his funeral torch and scythe in hand,

Entering the lordliest mansions of the land,

Has laid the gem-illumined palace low,

And levell'd tribes of nobles at a blow.

I next deplored the famed paternal pair,

Too soon to ashes turn'd and empty air!

The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies,

All Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs;

But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most,

Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast!

Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said:

"Death, next in power to Him who rules the dead!

Is it not enough that all the woodlands yield

To thy fell force, and every verdant field;

That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine,

And e'en the Cyprian queen's own roses pine;

That oaks themselves, although the running rill

Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will;

That all the winged nations, even those

Whose heaven-directed flight the future shows,

And all the beasts that in dark forests stray,

And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey.

Ah envious! arm'd with powers so unconfined!

Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind?

Why take delight, with darts that never roam,

To chase a heaven-born spirit from her home?"

While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening stood,

Now newly risen above the western flood,

And Phoebus from his morning goal again

Had reach'd the gulfs of the Iberian main.

I wish'd repose, and, on my couch reclined,

Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd:

When--oh for words to paint what I beheld!

I seem'd to wander in a spacious field,

Where all the champaign glow'd with purple light,

Like that of sunrise on the mountain height;

Flowers over all the field, of every hue

That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew.

Nor Chloris, with whom amorous Zephyrs play,

E'er dress'd Alcinous' garden half so gay.

A silver current, like the Tagus, roll'd

O'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold;

With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flowers,

With airs awaken'd under rosy bowers.

Such, poets feign, irradiated all o'er

The sun's abode on India's utmost shore.

While I that splendour, and the mingled shade

Of fruitful vines, with wonder fix'd, survey'd,

At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace,

The seer of Winton stood before my face.

His snowy vesture's hem descending low,

His golden sandals swept, and, pure as snow

New fallen, shone the mitre on his brow.

Where'er he trod, a tremulous sweet sound

Of gladness shook the flowery scene around:

Attendant angels clap their starry wings,

The trumpet shakes the sky, all ether rings;

Each chants his welcome, folds him to his breast,

And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest:

"Ascend, my son! thy Father's kingdom share!

My son! henceforth be freed from every care!"

So spake the voice, and at its tender close

With psaltery's sound the angelic band arose;

Then night retired, and, chased by dawning day,

The visionary bliss pass'd all away.

I mourn'd my banish'd sleep with fond concern;

Frequent to me may dreams like this return!

ELEGY IV.

TO HIS TUTOR, THOMAS YOUNG,

CHAPLAIN TO THE ENGLISH FACTORY AT HAMBURGH.

Hence, my epistle--skim the deep--fly o'er

Yon smooth expanse to the Teutonic shore!

Haste--lest a friend should grieve for thy delay--

And the gods grant that nothing thwart thy way!

I will myself invoke the king who binds

In his Sicanian echoing vault the winds,

With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng

Of azure gods, to speed thee safe along.

But rather, to ensure thy happier haste,

Ascend Medea's chariot, if thou mayst;

Or that whence young Triptolemus of yore

Descended, welcome on the Scythian shore.

The sands that line the German coast descried,

To opulent Hamburga turn aside!

So call'd, if legendary fame be true,

From Hama, whom a club-arm'd Cimbrian slew!

There lives, deep learn'd and primitively just,

A faithful steward of his Christian trust,

My friend, and favourite inmate of my heart,

That now is forced to want its better part!

What mountains now, and seas, alas! how wide!

From me this other, dearer self divide,

Dear as the sage renown'd for moral truth

To the prime spirit of the Attic youth!

Dear as the Stagyrite to Ammon's son,

His pupil, who disdain'd the world he won!

Nor so did Chiron, or so Phoenix shine

In young Achilles' eyes, as he in mine.

First led by him through sweet Aonian shade,

Each sacred haunt of Pindus I survey'd;

And, favoured by the muse, whom I implored,

Thrice on my lip the hallow'd stream I pour'd.

But thrice the sun's resplendent chariot roll'd

To Aries, has new tinged his fleece with gold,

And Chloris twice has dress'd the meadows gay,

And twice has summer parch'd their bloom away,

Since last delighted on his looks I hung

Or my ear drank the music of his tongue:

Fly, therefore, and surpass the tempest's speed;

Aware thyself that there is urgent need!

Him, entering, thou shalt haply seated see

Beside his spouse, his infants on his knee;

Or turning, page by page, with studious look,

Some bulky father, or God's holy book;

Or ministering (which is his weightiest care)

To Christ's assembled flock their heavenly fare.

Give him, whatever his employment be,

Such gratulation as he claims from me!

And, with a downcast eye, and carriage meek,

Addressing him, forget not thus to speak:

"If compass'd round with arms thou canst attend

To verse, verse greets thee from a distant friend.

Long due, and late, I left the English shore;

But make me welcome for that cause the more!

Such from Ulysses, his chaste wife to cheer,

The slow epistle came, though late, sincere.

But wherefore this? why palliate I the deed

For which the culprit's self could hardly plead?

Self-charged, and self-condemned, his proper part

He feels neglected, with an aching heart;

But thou forgive--delinquents, who confess,

And pray forgiveness, merit anger less;

From timid foes the lion turns away,

Nor yawns upon or rends a crouching prey.

E'en pike-wielding Thracians learn to spare,

Won by soft influence of a suppliant prayer;

And heaven's dread thunderbolt arrested stands

By a cheap victim and uplifted hands.

Long had he wish'd to write, but was withheld,

And writes at last, by love alone compell'd,

For fame, too often true, when she alarms,

Reports thy neighbouring fields a scene of arms;

Thy city against fierce besiegers barr'd,

And all the Saxon chiefs for fight prepared.

Enyo wastes thy country wide around,

And saturates with blood the tainted ground;

Mars rests contented in his Thrace no more,

But goads his steeds to fields of German gore,

The ever verdant olive fades and dies,

And Peace, the trumpet-hating goddess, flies,

Flies from that earth which justice long had left,

And leaves the world of its last guard bereft."

Thus horror girds thee round. Meantime alone

Thou dwell'st, and helpless, in a soil unknown;

Poor, and receiving from a foreign hand

The aid denied thee in thy native land.

Oh, ruthless country, and unfeeling more

Than thy own billow-beaten chalky shore!

Leavest thou to foreign care the worthies given

By Providence to guide thy steps to heaven?

His ministers, commissioned to proclaim

Eternal blessings in a Saviour's name!

Ah then most worthy, with a soul unfed,

In Stygian night to lie for ever dead!

So once the venerable Tishbite stray'd

An exiled fugitive from shade to shade,

When, flying Ahab and his fury wife,

In lone Arabian wilds he shelter'd life;

So from Philippa wander'd forth forlorn,

Cilician Paul, with sounding scourges torn;

And Christ himself, so left, and trod no more

The thankless Gergesene's forbidden shore.

But thou take courage! strive against despair!

Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care!

Grim war indeed on every side appears,

And thou art menaced by a thousand spears;

Yet none shall drink thy blood, or shall offend

E'en the defenceless bosom of my friend.

For thee the Ægis of thy God shall hide,

Jehovah's self shall combat on thy side.

The same who vanquish'd under Sion's towers

At silent midnight all Assyria's powers,

The same who overthrew in ages past

Damascus' sons that laid Samaria waste!

Their king he fill'd and them with fatal fears,

By mimic sounds of clarions in their ears,

Of hoofs, and wheels, and neighings from afar,

Of clashing armour, and the din of war.

Thou, therefore, (as the most afflicted may,)

Still hope, and triumph o'er thy evil day!

Look forth, expecting happier times to come,

And to enjoy, once more, thy native home!

ELEGY V.

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Time, never wandering from his annual round,

Bids zephyr breathe the spring, and thaw the ground;

Bleak winter flies, new verdure clothes the plain,

And earth assumes her transient youth again.

Dream I, or also to the spring belong

Increase of genius, and new powers of song?

Spring gives them, and, how strange soe'er it seems,

Impels me now to some harmonious themes.

Castalia's fountain, and the forked hill

By day, by night, my raptured fancy fill;

My bosom burns and heaves, I hear within

A sacred sound that prompts me to begin.

Lo! Phoebus comes, with his bright hair he blends

The radiant laurel wreath; Phoebus descends!

I mount, and undepress'd by cumbrous clay,

Through cloudy regions win my easy way;

Rapt through poetic shadowy haunts I fly:

The shrines all open to my dauntless eye,

My spirit searches all the realms of light,

And no Tartarean gulfs elude my sight.

But this ecstatic trance--this glorious storm

Of inspiration--what will it perform?

Spring claims the verse that with his influence glows,

And shall be paid with what himself bestows.

Thou, veil'd with opening foliage, lead'st the throng

Of feather'd minstrels, Philomel! in song;

Let us, in concert, to the season sing,

Civic and sylvan heralds of the spring!

With notes triumphant spring's approach declare!

To spring, ye muses, annual tribute bear!

The Orient left, and Ethiopia's plains,

The sun now northward turns his golden reins;

Night creeps not now; yet rules with gentle sway,

And drives her dusky horrors swift away;

Now less fatigued, on this ethereal plain

Boötes follows his celestial wain;

And now the radiant sentinels above,

Less numerous, watch around the courts of Jove,

For, with the night, force, ambush, slaughter fly,

And no gigantic guilt alarms the sky.

Now, haply says some shepherd, while he views,

Recumbent on a rock, the reddening dews,

This night, this, surely, Phoebus miss'd the fair,

Who stops his chariot by her amorous care.

Cynthia, delighted by the morning's glow,

Speeds to the woodland, and resumes her bow;

Resigns her beams, and, glad to disappear,

Blesses his aid, who shortens her career.

Come--Phoebus cries--Aurora, come--too late

Thou lingerest, slumbering, with thy wither'd mate;

Leave him, and to Hymettus' top repair!

Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there.

The goddess with a blush her love betrays,

But mounts, and, driving rapidly, obeys.

Earth now desires thee, Phoebus! and, to engage

Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age;

Desires thee, and deserves; for who so sweet

When her rich bosom courts thy genial heat?

Her breath imparts to every breeze that blows

Arabia's harvest and the Paphian rose.

Her lofty front she diadems around

With sacred pines, like Ops on Ida crown'd;

Her dewy locks with various flowers new blown

She interweaves, various, and all her own;

For Proserpine, in such a wreath attired,

Tænarian Dis himself with love inspired.

Fear not, lest, cold and coy, the nymph refuse!

Herself, with all her sighing zephyrs, sues;

Each courts thee, fanning soft his scented wing,

And all her groves with warbled wishes ring.

Nor, unendow'd and indigent, aspires

The amorous Earth to engage thy warm desires,

But, rich in balmy drugs, assists thy claim,

Divine Physician! to that glorious name.

If splendid recompence, if gifts, can move

Desire in thee, (gifts often purchase love,)

She offers all the wealth her mountains hide,

And all that rests beneath the boundless tide.

How oft, when headlong from the heavenly steep

She sees thee playing in the western deep,

How oft she cries--"Ah Phoebus, why repair

Thy wasted force, why seek refreshment there?

Can Tethys win thee? wherefore shouldst thou lave

A face so fair in her unpleasant wave?

Come, seek my green retreats, and rather choose

To cool thy tresses in my crystal dews.

The grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest;

Come, lay thy evening glories on my breast,

And breathing fresh, through many a humid rose,

Soft whispering airs shall lull thee to repose!

No fears I feel like Semele to die,

Nor lest thy burning wheels approach too nigh,

For thou canst govern them, here therefore rest,

And lay thy evening glories on my breast!"

Thus breathes the wanton Earth her amorous flame,

And all her countless offspring feel the same;

For Cupid now through every region strays,

Brightening his faded fires with solar rays;

His new-strung bow sends forth a deadlier sound,

And his new-pointed shafts more deeply wound;

Nor Dian's self escapes him now untried,

Nor even Vesta at her altar-side;

His mother too repairs her beauty's wane,

And seems sprung newly from the deep again.

Exulting youths the hymeneal sing,

With Hymen's name roofs, rocks, and valleys ring;

He, new-attired, and by the season drest,

Proceeds, all fragrant, in his saffron vest.

Now many a golden-cinctured virgin roves

To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves,

All wish, and each alike, some favourite youth

Hers, in the bonds of hymeneal truth.

Now pipes the shepherd through his reeds again,

Nor Phillis wants a song that suits the strain;

With songs the seaman hails the starry sphere,

And dolphins rise from the abyss to hear:

Jove feels himself the season, sports again

With his fair spouse, and banquets all his train.

Now too the satyrs, in the dusk of eve,

Their mazy dance through flowery meadows weave,

And, neither god nor goat, but both in kind,

Silvanus, wreathed with cypress, skips behind.

The dryads leave their hollow sylvan cells

To roam the banks and solitary dells;

Pan riots now; and from his amorous chafe

Ceres and Cybele seem hardly safe,

And Faunus, all on fire to reach the prize,

In chase of some enticing oread flies;

She bounds before, but fears too swift a bound,

And hidden lies, but wishes to be found.

Our shades entice the immortals from above,

And some kind power presides o'er every grove;

And long, ye powers, o'er every grove preside,

For all is safe, and blest, where ye abide!

Return, O Jove! the age of gold restore--

Why choose to dwell where storms and thunder roar?

At least thou, Phoebus! moderate thy speed!

Let not the vernal hours too swift proceed,

Command rough winter back, nor yield the pole

Too soon to night's encroaching, long control!

ELEGY VI.

TO CHARLES DEODATI,

Who, while he spent his Christmas in the country, sent the

Author a poetical epistle, in which he requested that his

verses, if not so good as usual, might be excused on account

of the many feasts to which his friends invited him, and which

would not allow him leisure to finish them as he wished.