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DIVINITY.

As men for fear the stars should sleep and nod,
And trip at night, have spheres supplied;
As if a star were duller than a clod,

Which knows his way without a guide:

Just so the other heav'n they also serve,
Divinity's transcendent sky:

Which with the edge of wit they cut and carve.
Reason triumphs, and faith lies by.

Could not that wisdom, which first broach'd the wine,

Have thicken'd it with definitions ?

And jagg'd his seamless coat, had that been fine,
With curious questions and divisions?

But all the doctrine which he taught and gave,
Was clear as heav'n from whence it came:
At least, those beams of truth, which only save,
Surpass in brightness any flame.

Love God, and love your neighbour;'

and pray ;'

'Do as you would be done unto :'

O dark instructions, ev'n as dark as day!
Who can these Gordian knots undo?

'Watch

But he doth bid us take his blood for wine.
Bid what he please; yet I am sure,
To take and taste what he doth there design,
Is all that saves, and not obscure.

Then burn thy epicycles, foolish man;

Break all thy spheres, and save thy head. Faith needs no staff of flesh, but stoutly can To heav'n alone both go and lead.

JUSTICE.

( DREADFUL Justice, what a fright and terror, Wast thou of old,

When sin and error

Did show and shape thy looks to me,
And through their glass discolour thee!
He that did but look up, was proud and bold.

The dishes of thy balance seem'd to gape,
Like two great pits;

The beam and scape

Did like some tort'ring engine show: Thy hand above did burn and glow, Daunting the stoutest hearts, the proudest wits.

But now that Christ's pure veil presents the sight, I see no fears:

Thy hand is white,

Thy scales like buckets, which attend
And interchangeably descend,

Lifting to heaven from this well of tears.

For where before thou didst call on me,
Now I still touch

And harp on thee.

God's promises have made thee mine: Why should I justice now decline? Against me there is none, but for me much.

THE PILGRIMAGE.

I TRAVEL on, seeing the hill, where lay
My expectation.

A long it was and weary way.
The gloomy cave of Desperation
I left on th' one, and on the other side
The rock of pride.

And so I came to Fancy's meadow, strow'd
With many a flower:

Fain would I here have made abode,

But I was quicken'd by my hour.

So to Care's copse I came, and there got through With much ado.

That led me to the wild of Passion; which
Some call the world;

A wasted place, but sometimes rich.
Here I was robb'd of all my gold,
Save one good angel, which a friend had tied
Close to my side.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill,
Where lay my hope,

Where lay my heart; and climbing still,
When I had gain'd the brow and top,
A lake of brackish waters on the ground
Was all I found.

With that abash'd, and struck with many a sting, Of swarming fears,

I fell, and cried, "Alas, my King!

Can both the way and end be tears ?" Yet taking heart, I rose, and then perceiv'd I was deceived.

My hill was farther; so I slunk away;
Yet heard a cry

Just as I went, "None goes that way
And lives" If that be all, said I,
After so foul a journey death is fair,
And but a chair.

THE HOLD-FAST.

I THREATENED to observe the sweet decree Of my dear God with all my power and might: But I was told by one it could not be; Yet I might trust in God to be my light.

‹ Then will I trust,' said I,' in him alone.'
Nay, ev'n to trust in him, was also his :
We must confess, that nothing is our own.
Then I confess that he my succour is.'

But to have nought is ours; not, to confess That we have nought. I stood amaz'd at this, Much troubled; till I heard a friend express, That all things were more ours by being his. What Adam had, and forfeited for all, Christ keepeth now who cannot fail or fall.

LONGING.

WITH sick and famish'd eyes, With doubling knees, and weary bones, To thee my cries,

To thee my groans,

To thee my sighs, my tears ascend:

No end?

My throat, my soul is hoarse, My heart is wither'd like a ground Which thou dost curse.

My thoughts run round,

And make me giddy: Lord, I fall,—

Yet call.

From thee all pity flows. Mothers are kind, because thou art, And dost dispose

To them a part:

Their infants them, and they seek thee

Bowels of pity, hear!

More free.

Lord of my soul, love of my mind,
Bown down thine ear!

Let not the wind

Scatter my words, and in the same

Thy name!

Look on my sorrows round! Mark well my furnace! O what flames,

What heats abound!

What griefs, what shames!

Consider, Lord; Lord, bow thine ear,

Lord Jesu, thou didst bow

And hear!

Thy dying head upon the tree:
O be not now

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