By his providing hand; observ'd, attended
By his indulgent grace; preserv'd, defended
By his prevailing arm: this man, I say,
Is more ungrateful, more obdure than they.
By him we live and move, from him we have
What blessings he can give, or we can crave:
Food for our hunger, dainties for our pleasure;
Trades for our business; pastimes for our leisure.
In grief, he is our joy; in want, our wealth;
In bondage, freedom; and in sickness, health;
In peace, our council; and in war, our leader;
At sea, our pilot; and in suits, our pleader;
In pain, our help; in triumph, our renown;
In life, our comfort; and in death, our crown:
Yet man, O most ungrateful man, can ever
Enjoy thy gift, but never mind the giver;
And like the swine, though pamper'd with enough,
His eyes are never higher than the trough.
We still receive; our hearts we seldom lift
To heaven; but drown the giver in the gift;
We taste the scollops, and return the shells—
Our sweet pomegranates want their silver bells:
We take the gift; the hand that did present it
We oft reward; forget the friend that sent it.
A blessing given to those will not disburse
Some thanks, is little better than a curse.
Great giver of all blessings, thou that art
The Lord of gifts, give me a grateful heart:
O give me that, or keep thy favours from me!
I wish no blessings with a vengeance to me.
THE SUFFERINGS OF JERUSALEM,
AND RFLECTIONS UPON THEM:
SION'S ELEGIES," A PARAPHRASE OF THE
LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH.
ALAS! my torments, my distracted fears
Have no commerce with reasonable tears :
How hath heaven's absence dark'ned the renown
Of Sion's glory with one angry frown!
How hath the Almighty clouded those bright beams,
And chang'd her beauties' streamers into streams!
Sion, the glory of whose refulgent fame
Gave earnest of an everlasting name,
Is now become an indigested mass,
And ruin is, where that brave glory was.
How hath heaven struck her earth-admired name
From th' height of honour, to the depth of shame!
O! HOW unsufferable is the weight
Of sin how miserable is their state,
The silence of whose secret sin conceals
The smart, till justice to revenge appeals!
How ponderous are my crimes, whose ample scroll
Weighs down the pillars of my broken soul!
Their sour, masked with sweetness, oversway'd
And with their smiling kisses, they betray'd me;
Betray'd me to my foes, and what is worse,
Betray'd me to myself, and heaven's curse,
Betray'd my soul to an eternal grief,
Devoid of hope, for e'er to find relief.
TURN where I list, new cause of woe presents
My poor distracted soul with new laments:
Where shall I turn? shall I implore my friends?
Ah, summer friendship with the summer ends;
In vain to them my groans, in vain my tears,
For harvest friends can find no winter ears.
Or shall I call my sacred priests for aid?
Alas! my pined priests are all betray'd
To death and famine; in the streets they cried
For bread, and whilst they sought for bread, they
died.
Vengeance could never strike so hard a blow, As when she sends an unlamented woe.
You noisome weeds, that lift your crests so high,
When better plants for want of moisture die;
Think you to flourish ever? and (unspied)
To shoot the flowers of your fruitless pride?
If plants be cropt, because their fruits are small, Think you to thrive, that bear no fruit at all? Look down, great God, and from their places
These weeds, that suck the juice should make us bear:
Undew'd with showers, let them see no sun,
But feel those frosts, that thy poor plants have
O cleanse thy garden, that the world may know We are the seed that thy right hand did sow.
NEVER, ah! never yet, did vengeance brand
A state with deeper ruin, than thy land;
Dear Sion, how could mischief be more keen,
Or strike thy glory with a sharper spleen?
Whereto, Jerusalem, to what shall I
Compare this thy unequall'd misery?
Turn back to ages past, search deep records :
Theirs are, thine cannot be, express'd in words.
Would, would to God, my life's cheap price
might be
Esteem'd of value, but to ransom thee!
Would I could cure thy grief! but who is able
To heal that wound that is immedicable?
PEOPLE that travel through thy wasted land,
Gaze on thy ruins, and amazed stand,
They shake their spleenful heads, disdain, deride
The sudden downfal of so fair a pride,
They clap their joyful hands, and fill their tongues
With hisses, ballads, and with lyric songs:
Her torments give their empty lips new matter,
And with their scornful fingers point they at her:
"Is this," say they, "that place, whose wonted
Made troubled earth to tremble at her name?
Is this that state? are these those goodly stations?
Is this that mistress, and that queen of nations ?"
TRUST not thy eyelids, lest a flattering sleep
Bribe them to rest, and they forget to weep:
Pour out thy heart, thy heart dissolv'd in tears,
Weep forth thy plaints in the Almighty's ears:
O let thy cries, thy cries to heaven addressed,
Disturb the silence of thy midnight rest;
Prefer the sad petitions of thy soul
To heaven, ne'er close thy lips, till heaven condole.
Confounded Sion, and her wounded weal,
That God that smit, oh move that God to heal! Oh, let thy tongue ne'er cease to call, thine eye To weep, thy pensive heart ne'er cease to cry!
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