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From lust to lust, when wanton flesh invites,
From old worn pleasures, to new choice delights,
At length, corrected by the filial rod
Of his offended, and his gracious God,
And lashed from sins to sighs, and by degrees
From sighs to vows, from vows to bended knees;
From bended knees, to a true pensive breast;
From thence to torments, not by tongues exprest,
Returns; and (from his sinful self exiled,)
Finds a glad Father; He, a welcome child :
Oh! then it lives! Oh! then it lives involved
In secret raptures; pants to be dissolved:
The royal offspring of a second birth,
Sets ope to heaven, and shuts the door to earth.
If love-sick Jove commanded clouds should hap
To rain such showers as quickened Danae's lap;
Or dogs, (far kinder than their purple master,)
Should lick his sores, he laughs nor weeps the

faster.
If earth, heaven's rival, dart her idle ray,
To heaven 'tis wax, and to the world 'tis clay.
If earth present delights, it scorns to draw;
But like the jet unrubbed, disdains that straw;
No hope deceives it, and no doubt divides it,
No grief disturbs it, and no error guides it,
No good contemns it, and no virtue blames it,
No guilt condemns it, and no folly shames it,
No sloth besots it, and no lust enthrals it,
No scorn afflicts it, and no passion galls it;
It is a carcanet of immortal life,
An ark of peace, the lists of sacred strife,

A purer piece of endless transitory,
A shrine of grace, a little throne of glory,
A heaven-born offspring of a new-born birth,
An earthly heaven, an ounce of heavenly earth.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

The Entreaty.
O LORD! another day is flown,

And we, a lonely band,
Are met once more before Thy throne,

To bless Thy fostering hand.
And wilt Thou bend a listening ear,

To praises low as ours ?
Thou wilt! for Thou dost love to hear

The song which meekness pours.
And Jesus, Thou Thy smiles wilt deign,

As we before Thee pray;
For Thou didst bless the infant train,

And we are less than they.
Oh! let Thy grace perform its part,

And let contention cease;
And shed abroad in every heart

Thine everlasting peace!
Thus chastened, cleansed, entirely thine,

A flock by Jesus led;
The Sun of Holiness shall shine,

In glory on our head.

And Thou wilt turn our wandering feet,

And Thou wilt bless our way;
Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet
The dawn of lasting day.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

Universal Beauty. TIKE Nature's law, no eloquence persuades,

The mute harangue our every sense invades; The apparent precepts of the eternal will, His every work, and every object fill; Round with our eyes his revelation wheels, Our every touch his demonstration feels. And, O Supreme! whene'er we cease to know Thee, the sole source whence sense and science

flow; Then must all faculty, all knowledge fail. And more than monster o'er the man prevail.

Not thus he gave our optics' vital glance, Amid omniscient art, to search for chance, Blind to the charms of Nature's beauteous frame; Nor made our organ vocal to blaspheme: Nor thus he willed the creatures of his nod, And made the mortal to unmake his God; Breathed on the globe, and brooded o'er the wave, And bid the wide obsequious world conceive; Spoke into being myriads, myriads rise, And, with young transport, gaze the novel skies:

Glance from the surge, beneath the surface scud,
Or cleave enormous the reluctant flood:
Or roll vermicular, their wanton maze,
And the bright path with wild meanders glaze;
Frisk in the vale, or o'er the mountains bound,
Or in huge gambols shake the trembling ground:
Swarm in the beam, or spread the plumy sail-
The plume creates, and then directs the gale;
While active gaiety, and aspect bright,
In each expressive, sums up all delight.

HENRY BROOKE.

Virtue.
SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
W The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to night;

For thou must die.
Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in the grave;

And thou must die.
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie,-
My music shows you have your closes,

And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul

Like seasoned timber never gives ;
But though the whole world turn to a coal,

Then chiefly lives.
GEORGE HERBERT.

VJesper Thoughts. THE summer day is closed—the sun is set; 1 Well they have done their office, those bright

hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out In the red West. The green blade of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young

twig Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil, From bursting cells, and in their graves await Their resurrection. Insects from the pools Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, That now are still for ever; painted moths Have wandered the blue sky, and died again; The mother-bird have broken for her brood Their prison shell, or shoved them from the nest, Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves, In woodland cottages with barky walls, In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe. Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out And filled, and closed. This day hath parted

friends That ne'er before were parted; it hath knit New friendships ; it hath seen the maiden plight Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long

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