There fiery seeds of anger lurk,
      Which often hurt my frame;
    And wait but for the tempter's work,
      To fan them to a flame.

    Legality holds out a bribe
      To purchase life from thee;
    And discontent would fain prescribe
      How thou shalt deal with me.

    While unbelief withstands thy grace,
      And puts the mercy by;
    Presumption, with a brow of brass,
      Says, "Give me, or I die."

    How eager are my thoughts to roam
      In quest of what they love!
    But ah! when duty calls them home,
      How heavily they move!

    Oh, cleanse me in a Saviour's blood,
      Transform me by thy power,
    And make me thy beloved abode,
      And let me rove no more.

XLIII. PRAYER FOR PATIENCE.

    Lord, who hast suffer'd all for me,
      My peace and pardon to procure,
    The lighter cross I bear for thee,
      Help me with patience to endure.

    The storm of loud repining hush,
      I would in humble silence mourn;
    Why should the unburnt though burning bush,
      Be angry as the crackling thorn?

    Man should not faint at thy rebuke,
      Like Joshua falling on his face,[900]
    When the curst thing that Achan took
      Brought Israel into just disgrace.

    Perhaps some golden wedge suppress'd,
      Some secret sin offends my God;
    Perhaps that Babylonish vest,
      Self-righteousness, provokes the rod.

    Ah! were I buffeted all day,
      Mock'd, crown'd with thorns, and spit upon;
    I yet should have no right to say,
      My great distress is mine alone.

    Let me not angrily declare
      No pain was ever sharp like mine;
    Nor murmur at the cross I bear,
      But rather weep, remembering thine.

  [900] Joshua vii. 10, 11.

XLIV. SUBMISSION.

    O Lord, my best desire fulfil,
      And help me to resign
    Life, health, and comfort to thy will,
      And make thy pleasure mine.

    Why should I shrink at thy command,
      Whose love forbids my fears?
    Or tremble at the gracious hand
      That wipes away my tears?

    No, let me rather freely yield
      What most I prize to thee;
    Who never hast a good withheld,
      Or wilt withhold, from me.

    Thy favour, all my journey through,
      Thou art engaged to grant;
    What else I want, or think I do,
      'Tis better still to want.

    Wisdom and mercy guide my way,
      Shall I resist them both?
    A poor blind creature of a day,
      And crush'd before the moth!

    But ah! my inward spirit cries,
      Still bind me to thy sway;
    Else the next cloud that veils the skies,
      Drives all these thoughts away.

XLV. THE HAPPY CHANGE.

    How blest thy creature is, O God,
      When, with a single eye,
    He views the lustre of thy word,
      The dayspring from on high!

    Through all the storms that veil the skies,
      And frown on earthly things,
    The Sun of Righteousness he eyes,
      With healing on his wings.

    Struck by that light, the human heart,
      A barren soil no more,
    Sends the sweet smell of grace abroad,
      Where serpents lurk'd before.[901]

    The soul a dreary province once
      Of Satan's dark domain,
    Feels a new empire form'd within,
      And owns a heavenly reign.

    The glorious orb, whose golden beams
      The fruitful year control,
    Since first, obedient to thy word,
      He started from the goal;

    Has cheer'd the nations with the joys
      His orient rays impart;
    But, Jesus, 'tis thy light alone
      Can shine upon the heart.

  [901] Isaiah xxxv. 7.

XLVI. RETIREMENT.

    Far from the world, O Lord, I flee,
      From strife and tumult far;
    From scenes where Satan wages still
      His most successful war.

    The calm retreat, the silent shade,
      With prayer and praise agree;
    And seem by thy sweet bounty made
      For those who follow thee.

    There, if thy Spirit touch the soul,
      And grace her mean abode,
    Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love,
      She communes with her God!

    There like the nightingale she pours
      Her solitary lays;
    Nor asks a witness of her song,
      Nor thirsts for human praise.

    Author and Guardian of my life,
      Sweet source of light divine,
    And (all harmonious names in one)
      My Saviour, thou art mine!

    What thanks I owe thee, and what love,
      A boundless, endless store,
    Shall echo through the realms above
      When time shall be no more.

XLVII. THE HIDDEN LIFE.

    To tell the Saviour all my wants,
      How pleasing is the task!
    Nor less to praise him when he grants
      Beyond what I can ask.

    My labouring spirit vainly seeks
      To tell but half the joy;
    With how much tenderness he speaks,
      And helps me to reply.

    Nor were it wise, nor should I choose,
      Such secrets to declare;
    Like precious wines their tastes they lose,
      Exposed to open air.

    But this with boldness I proclaim,
      Nor care if thousands hear,
    Sweet is the ointment of his name,
      Not life is half so dear.

    And can you frown, my former friends,
      Who knew what once I was;
    And blame the song that thus commends
      The Man who bore the cross?

    Trust me, I draw the likeness true,
      And not as fancy paints;
    Such honour may he give to you,
      For such have all his saints.

XLVIII. JOY AND PEACE IN BELIEVING.

    Sometimes a light surprises
      The Christian while he sings;
    It is the Lord who rises
      With healing in his wings:
    When comforts are declining,
      He grants the soul again
    A season of clear shining,
      To cheer it after rain.

    In holy contemplation,
      We sweetly then pursue
    The theme of God's salvation,
      And find it ever new.
    Set free from present sorrow
      We cheerfully can say,
    E'en let the unknown to-morrow[902]
      Bring with it what it may.

    It can bring with it nothing,
      But he will bear us through;
    Who gives the lilies clothing,
      Will clothe his people too;
    Beneath the spreading heavens
      No creature but is fed;
    And he who feeds the ravens,
      Will give his children bread.

    The vine nor fig-tree neither[903]
      Their wonted fruit should bear,
    Though all the field should wither,
      Nor flocks nor herds be there:
    Yet God the same abiding,
      His praise shall tune my voice;
    For, while in him confiding,
      I cannot but rejoice.

  [902] Matthew vi. 34.

  [903] Habakkuk iii. 17, 18.

XLIX. TRUE PLEASURES.

    Lord, my soul with pleasure springs,
      When Jesus' name I hear;
    And when God the Spirit brings
      The word of promise near:
    Beauties too, in holiness,
      Still delighted I perceive;
    Nor have words that can express
      The joys thy precepts give.

    Clothed in sanctity and grace,
      How sweet it is to see
    Those who love thee as they pass,
      Or when they wait on thee:
    Pleasant too, to sit and tell
      What we owe to love divine;
    Till our bosoms grateful swell,
      And eyes begin to shine.

    Those the comforts I possess,
      Which God shall still increase,
    All his ways are pleasantness,[904]
      And all his paths are peace.
    Nothing Jesus did or spoke,
      Henceforth let me ever slight;
    For I love his easy yoke,[905]
      And find his burden light.

  [904] Prov. iii. 17.

  [905] Matt. xi. 30.

L. THE CHRISTIAN.

    Honour and happiness unite
      To make the Christian's name a praise;
    How fair the scene, how clear the light,
      That fills the remnant of his days!

    A kingly character he bears,
      No change his priestly office knows;
    Unfading is the crown he wears,
      His joys can never reach a close.

    Adorn'd with glory from on high,
      Salvation shines upon his face;
    His robe is of the ethereal dye,
      His steps are dignity and grace.

    Inferior honours he disdains,
      Nor stoops to take applause from earth:
    The King of kings himself maintains
      The expenses of his heavenly birth.

    The noblest creature seen below,
      Ordain'd to fill a throne above;
    God gives him all he can bestow,
      His kingdom of eternal love!

    My soul is ravish'd at the thought!
      Methinks from earth I see him rise!
    Angels congratulate his lot,
      And shout him welcome to the skies!

LI. LIVELY HOPE AND GRACIOUS FEAR.

    I was a grovelling creature once,
      And basely cleaved to earth;
    I wanted spirit to renounce
      The clod that gave me birth.

    But God has breath'd upon a worm,
      And sent me, from above,
    Wings such as clothe an angel's form,
      The wings of joy and love.

    With these to Pisgah's top I fly,
      And there delighted stand,
    To view beneath a shining sky
      The spacious promised land.

    The Lord of all the vast domain
      Has promised it to me;
    The length and breadth of all the plain,
      As far as faith can see.

    How glorious is my privilege!
      To thee for help I call;
    I stand upon a mountain's edge,
      Oh save me, lest I fall!

    Though much exalted in the Lord,
      My strength is not my own;
    Then let me tremble at his word,
      And none shall cast me down.

LII. FOR THE POOR.

    When Hagar found the bottle spent,
      And wept o'er Ishmael,
    A message from the Lord was sent
      To guide her to a well.[906]

    Should not Elijah's cake and cruse[907]
      Convince us at this day,
    A gracious God will not refuse
      Provisions by the way?

    His saints and servants shall be fed,
      The promise is secure;
    "Bread shall be given them," he has said,
      "Their water shall be sure."[908]

    Repasts far richer they shall prove,
      Than all earth's dainties are;
    'Tis sweet to taste a Saviour's love,
      Though in the meanest fare.

    To Jesus then your trouble bring,
      Nor murmur at your lot;
    While you are poor and he is King,
      You shall not be forgot.

  [906] Gen. xxi. 19.

  [907] 1 Kings xvii. 14.

  [908] Isa. xxxiii. 16.

LIII. MY SOUL THIRSTETH FOR GOD.

    I thirst, but not as once I did,
      The vain delights of earth to share;
    Thy wounds, Emmanuel, all forbid
      That I should seek my pleasures there.

    It was the sight of thy dear cross
      First wean'd my soul from earthly things;
    And taught me to esteem as dross
      The mirth of fools and pomp of kings.

    I want that grace that springs from thee,
      That quickens all things where it flows,
    And makes a wretched thorn like me
      Bloom as the myrtle or the rose.

    Dear fountain of delight unknown!
      No longer sink below the brim;
    But overflow, and pour me down
      A living and life-giving stream!

    For sure, of all the plants that share
      The notice of thy Father's eye,
    None proves less grateful to his care,
      Or yields him meaner fruit than I.

LIV. LOVE CONSTRAINING TO OBEDIENCE.

    No strength of nature can suffice
      To serve the Lord aright:
    And what she has she misapplies,
      For want of clearer light.

    How long beneath the law I lay
      In bondage and distress!
    I toil'd the precept to obey,
      But toil'd without success.

    Then, to abstain from outward sin
      Was more than I could do;
    Now, if I feel its power within,
      I feel I hate it too.

    Then, all my servile works were done
      A righteousness to raise;
    Now, freely chosen in the Son,
      I freely choose his ways.

    "What shall I do," was then the word,
      "That I may worthier grow?"
    "What shall I render to the Lord?"
      Is my inquiry now.

    To see the law by Christ fulfill'd,
      And hear his pardoning voice,
    Changes a slave into a child,[909]
      And duty into choice.

  [909] Romans iii. 31.

LV. THE HEART HEALED AND CHANGED BY MERCY.

    Sin enslaved me many years,
      And led me bound and blind;
    Till at length a thousand fears
      Came swarming o'er my mind.
    "Where," I said, in deep distress,
      "Will these sinful pleasures end?
    How shall I secure my peace,
      And make the Lord my friend?"

    Friends and ministers said much
      The gospel to enforce;
    But my blindness still was such,
      I chose a legal course:
    Much I fasted, watch'd, and strove,
      Scarce would show my face abroad,
    Fear'd almost to speak or move,
      A stranger still to God.

    Thus afraid to trust his grace,
      Long time did I rebel;
    Till, despairing of my case.
      Down at his feet I fell:
    Then my stubborn heart he broke,
      And subdued me to his sway;
    By a simple word he spoke,
      "Thy sins are done away."

LVI. HATRED OF SIN.

    Holy Lord God! I love thy truth,
      Nor dare thy least commandment slight;
    Yet pierced by sin, the serpent's tooth,
      I mourn the anguish of the bite.

    But, though the poison lurks within,
      Hope bids me still with patience wait;
    Till death shall set me free from sin,
      Free from the only thing I hate.

    Had I a throne above the rest,
      Where angels and archangels dwell,
    One sin, unslain, within my breast,
      Would make that heaven as dark as hell.

    The prisoner, sent to breathe fresh air,
      And bless'd with liberty again,
    Would mourn, were he condemned to wear
      One link of all his former chain.

    But, oh! no foe invades the bliss,
      When glory crowns the Christian's head;
    One view of Jesus as he is
      Will strike all sin for ever dead.

LVII. THE NEW CONVERT.

    The new-born child of gospel grace,
      Like some fair tree when summer's nigh,
    Beneath Emmanuel's shining face
      Lifts up his blooming branch on high.

    No fears he feels, he sees no foes,
      No conflict yet his faith employs,
    Nor has he learnt to whom he owes
      The strength and peace his soul enjoys.

    But sin soon darts its cruel sting,
      And comforts sinking day by day:
    What seem'd his own, a self-fed spring,
      Proves but a brook that glides away.

    When Gideon arm'd his numerous host,
      The Lord soon made his numbers less;
    And said, "Lest Israel vainly boast,[910]
      'My arm procured me this success,'"

    Thus will he bring our spirits down,
      And draw our ebbing comforts low,
    That, saved by grace, but not our own,
      We may not claim the praise we owe.

  [910] Judges vii. 2.

LVIII. TRUE AND FALSE COMFORTS.

    O God, whose favourable eye
      The sin-sick soul revives,
    Holy and heavenly is the joy
      Thy shining presence gives.

    Not such as hypocrites suppose,
      Who with a graceless heart
    Taste not of thee, but drink a dose,
      Prepared by Satan's art.

    Intoxicating joys are theirs,
      Who, while they boast their light,
    And seem to soar above the stars,
      Are plunging into night.

    Lull'd in a soft and fatal sleep,
      They sin, and yet rejoice;
    Were they indeed the Saviour's sheep,
      Would they not hear his voice?

    Be mine the comforts that reclaim
      The soul from Satan's power;
    That make me blush for what I am,
      And hate my sin the more.

    'Tis joy enough, my All in All,
      At thy dear feet to lie;
    Thou wilt not let me lower fall,
      And none can higher fly.

LIX. A LIVING AND A DEAD FAITH.

    The Lord receives his highest praise
      From humble minds and hearts sincere;
    While all the loud professor says
      Offends the righteous Judge's ear.

    To walk as children of the day,
      To mark the precepts' holy light,
    To wage the warfare, watch, and pray,
      Show who are pleasing in his sight.

    Not words alone it cost the Lord,
      To purchase pardon for his own;
    Nor will a soul, by grace restored,
      Return the Saviour words alone.

    With golden bells, the priestly vest,
      And rich pomegranates border'd round,[911]
    The need of holiness express'd,
      And call'd for fruit, as well as sound.

    Easy, indeed, it were to reach
      A mansion in the courts above,
    If swelling words and fluent speech
      Might serve, instead of faith and love.

    But none shall gain the blissful place,
      Or God's unclouded glory see,
    Who talks of free and sovereign grace,
      Unless that grace has made him free!

  [911] Exod. xxviii. 33.

LX. ABUSE OF THE GOSPEL.

    Too many, Lord, abuse thy grace,
      In this licentious day;
    And while they boast they see thy face,
      They turn their own away.

    Thy book displays a gracious light
      That can the blind restore;
    But these are dazzled by the sight,
      And blinded still the more.

    The pardon, such presume upon,
      They do not beg, but steal;
    And when they plead it at thy throne,
      Oh! where's the Spirit's seal?

    Was it for this, ye lawless tribe,
      The dear Redeemer bled?
    Is this the grace the saints imbibe
      From Christ the living head?

    Ah, Lord, we know thy chosen few
      Are fed with heavenly fare;
    But these, the wretched husks they chew
      Proclaim them what they are.

    The liberty our hearts implore
      Is not to live in sin;
    But still to wait at wisdom's door,
      Till mercy calls us in.

LXI. THE NARROW WAY.

    What thousands never knew the road!
      What thousands hate it when 'tis known!
    None but the chosen tribes of God
      Will seek or choose it for their own.

    A thousand ways in ruin end,
      One, only, leads to joys on high;
    By that my willing steps ascend,
      Pleased with a journey to the sky.

    No more I ask, or hope to find,
      Delight or happiness below;
    Sorrow may well possess the mind
      That feeds where thorns and thistles grow.

    The joy that fades is not for me,
      I seek immortal joys above;
    There glory without end shall be
      The bright reward of faith and love.

    Cleave to the world, ye sordid worms,
      Contented lick your native dust,
    But God shall fight with all his storms
      Against the idol of your trust.

LXII. DEPENDENCE.

      To keep the lamp alive,
      With oil we fill the bowl;
    'Tis water makes the willow thrive,
      And grace that feeds the soul.

      The Lord's unsparing hand
      Supplies the living stream;
    It is not at our own command,
      But still derived from him.

      Beware of Peter's word,[912]
      Nor confidently say,
    "I never will deny thee, Lord,"
      But, "Grant I never may!"

      Man's wisdom is to seek
      His strength in God alone;
    And e'en an angel would be weak,
      Who trusted in his own.

      Retreat beneath his wings,
      And in his grace confide;
    This more exalts the King of kings[913]
      Than all your works beside.

      In Jesus is our store,
      Grace issues from his throne;
    Whoever says, "I want no more,"
      Confesses he has none.

  [912] Matthew xxvi. 33.

  [913] John vi. 29.

LXIII. NOT OF WORKS.

    Grace, triumphant in the throne,
    Scorns a rival, reigns alone;
    Come and bow beneath her sway,
    Cast your idol works away.
    Works of man, when made his plea,
    Never shall accepted be;
    Fruits of pride (vain-glorious worm!)
    Are the best he can perform.

    Self, the god his soul adores,
    Influences all his powers;
    Jesus is a slighted name,
    Self-advancement all his aim:
    But when God the Judge shall come,
    To pronounce the final doom,
    Then for rocks and hills to hide
    All his works and all his pride!

    Still the boasting heart replies,
    What! the worthy and the wise,
    Friends to temperance and peace,
    Have not these a righteousness?
    Banish every vain pretence
    Built on human excellence;
    Perish every thing in man,
    But the grace that never can.

LXIV. PRAISE FOR FAITH.

    Of all the gifts thine hand bestows,
      Thou Giver of all good!
    Not heaven itself a richer knows
      Than my Redeemer's blood.

    Faith too, the blood-receiving grace,
      From the same hand we gain;
    Else, sweetly as it suits our case,
      That gift had been in vain.

    Till thou thy teaching power apply,
      Our hearts refuse to see,
    And weak, as a distemper'd eye,
      Shut out the view of thee.

    Blind to the merits of thy Son,
      What misery we endure!
    Yet fly that hand from which alone
      We could expect a cure.

    We praise thee, and would praise thee more,
      To thee our all we owe;
    The precious Saviour, and the power
      That makes him precious too.

LXV. GRACE AND PROVIDENCE.

    Almighty King! whose wondrous hand
    Supports the weight of sea and land,
    Whose grace is such a boundless store,
    No heart shall break that sighs for more.

    Thy providence supplies my food,
    And 'tis thy blessing makes it good;
    My soul is nourish'd by thy word,
    Let soul and body praise the Lord.

    My streams of outward comfort came
    From him who built this earthly frame;
    Whate'er I want his bounty gives,
    By whom my soul for ever lives.

    Either his hand preserves from pain,
    Or, if I feel it, heals again;
    From Satan's malice shields my breast,
    Or overrules it for the best.

    Forgive the song that falls so low
    Beneath the gratitude I owe!
    It means thy praise, however poor,
    An angel's song can do no more.

LXVI. I WILL PRAISE THE LORD AT ALL TIMES.

    Winter has a joy for me,
      While the Saviour's charms I read,
    Lowly, meek, from blemish free,
      In the snowdrop's pensive head.

    Spring returns, and brings along
      Life-invigorating suns:
    Hark! the turtle's plaintive song
      Seems to speak his dying groans!

    Summer has a thousand charms,
      All expressive of his worth;
    'Tis his sun that lights and warms,
      His the air that cools the earth.

    What! has Autumn left to say
      Nothing of a Saviour's grace?
    Yes, the beams of milder day
      Tell me of his smiling face.

    Light appears with early dawn,
      While the sun makes haste to rise;
    See his bleeding beauties drawn
      On the blushes of the skies.

    Evening with a silent pace,
      Slowly moving in the west,
    Shows an emblem of his grace,
      Points to an eternal rest.

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!