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I hold no more commerce with hell,

My dearest lusts shall all depart; But let thine image ever dwell

Stamp'd as a seal upon my heart.



In imitation of Isaiah, Ixiii, 1, 2, 3. What heavenly Man, or lovely God,

Comes marching downward from the skies, Array'd in garments rollid in blood,

With joy and pity in his eyes? The Lord! the Saviour! yes, 'tis he,

I know him by the smiles he wears : Dear glorious Man, that died for me,

Drench'd deep in agonies and tears!

Lo, he reveals his shining breast;

I own those wounds, and I adore : Lo, he prepares a royal feast,

Sweet fruit of the sharp pangs he bore !

Whence flow these favours so divine ?

Lord! why so lavish of thy blood ? Why for such earthly souls as mine,

This heavenly flesh, this sacred food?

'Twas his own love that made him bleed,

That nail'd him to the cursed tree; 'Twas his own love this table spread

For such unworthy worms as we.

Then let us taste the Saviour's love,

Come faith, and feed upon the Lord : With glad consent our lips shall move,

And sweet hosannas crown the board.


I'm tir'd with visits, modes, and forms,
And flatteries paid to fellow-worms:

Their conversation cloys;
Their vain amours, and empty stuff:

But I can ne'er enjoy enough
Of thy bless'd company, my Lord, thou life of all

my joys!
When he begins to tell his love,
Through every vein my passions move,

The captives of his tongue :
In midnight shades, on frosty ground,

I could attend the pleasing sound,
Nor should I feel December cold, nor think the

darkness long.

There, while I hear my Saviour-God
Count o’er the sins (a heavy load)

He bore upon the tree;
Inward I blush with secret shame,

And weep, and love, and bless the name,
That knew not guilt nor grief his own, but bare

it all for me.

Next he describes the thorns he wore,
And talks his bloody passion o'er,

Till I am drown'd in tears: Yet with the sympathetic smart

There's a strange joy beats round my heart ! The cursed tree has blessings in't, my sweetest

balm it bears. I hear the glorious sufferer tell, How on his cross he vanquish'd hell,

And all the powers beneath: Transported and inspir'd, my tongue

Attempts his triumphs in a song; . How has the Serpent lost his sting, and where's

thy victory, Death ?'
But when he shows his hands and heart,
With those dear prints of dying smart,

He sets my soul on fire:
Not the beloved John could rest

With more delight upon that breast,
Nor Thomas pry into those wounds with more

intense desire. Kindly he opens me his ear, And bids me pour my sorrows there,

And tell him all my pains: Thus while I ease my burden'd heart, In every woe he bears a part, His arms embrace me, and his hand my drooping

head sustains. Fly from my thoughts, all human things, And sporting swains, and fighting kings,

And tales of wanton love : My soul disdains that little snare, The tangles of Amira's hair ; Thine arms, my God, are sweeter bands, nor can

my heart remove.



Solomon's Song, i. 3. and ii. 5. and vi. 5.

Tell me, fairest of thy kind,
Tell me, Shepherd, all divine,
Where this fainting head reclin'd
May relieve such cares as mine:

Shepherd, lead me to thy grove;
If burning noon infect the sky
The sickening sheep to covert fly,
The sheep not half so faint as I,

Thus overcome with love.

Say, thou dear Sovereign of my breast,
Where dost thou lead thy flock to rest ?

Why should I appear like one'
Wild and wandering all alone,
Unbeloved and unknown?
O my Great Redeemer, say,

Shall I turn my feet astray?
Will Jesus bear to see me rove,
To see me seek another love?

Ne'er had I known his dearest name,

Ne'er had I felt his inward flame, sound : Had not his heart-strings first began the tender Nor can I bear the thought, that he

Should leave the sky,

Should bleed and die, Should love a wretch so vile as me, · Without returns of passion for his dying wound.

His eyes are glory mix'd with grace;
In his delightful awful face
Sits majesty and gentleness.
So tender is my bleeding heart

That with a frown he kills;
His absence is perpetual smart;
Nor is my soul refin'd enough
To bear the beaming of his love,

And feel his warmer smiles.
Where shall I rest this drooping head?
I love, I love the Sun, and yet I want the shade.

My sinking spirits feebly strive

To' endure the ecstasy;
Beneath these rays I cannot live,

And yet, without them, die.
None knows the pleasure and the pain

That all my inward powers sustain, [again. But such as feel a Saviour's love, and love the God

Oh, why should beauty heavenly bright

Stoop to charm a mortal's sight,
And torture with the sweet excess of light?

Our hearts, alas! how frail their make!

With their own weight of joy they break, 0! why is love so strong, and nature's self so weak.

Turn, turn away thine eyes,
- Ascend the azure hills, and shine
Amongst the happy tenants of the skies;
They can sustain a vision so divine.

O turn thy lovely glories from me,
The joys are too intense, the glories overcome me.

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