But hearts are not so kind: false, short delights And wrap us in imaginary flights Wide of a faithfull grave. Thus Lazarus was carried out of town; By distance all good objects first to drown, But I will be my own death's-head;' and though The flatt'rer say, 'I live,' Because incertainties we cannot know, Be sure, not to believe. M PEACE. Y soul, there is a countric Where stands a winged centrie All skilfull in the wars: There, above noise, and danger, Sweet Peace sits crown'd with smiles, A reference either to the old Egyptian custom of bringing in a death's head at feasts, or less probably, to a death's head memorial-ring. G. And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious friend And-O my soul awake!— Did in pure love descen 1, To die here for thy sake. If thou canst get but thither, There growes the flowre of Peace, The Rose that cannot wither, Thy fortresse, and thy ease. THE PASSION. MY chief good! My dear, dear God! When Thy best bloud Did issue forth forc'd by the rod, What pain didst Thou Feel in each blow! How didst Thou weep, And Thy self steep In Thy own precious, saving teares! What cruell smart Did teare Thy heart! How didst Thou grone it In the spirit, O Thou, whom my soul loves, and feares! 2. Most blessed Vine! Whose juice so good I feel as wine, But Thy faire branches felt as bloud, How wert Thou prest To be my feast! In what deep anguish Didst Thou languish ! What springs of sweat and bloud did drown Thee! How in one path Did the full wrath Of Thy great Father Crowd and gather, Doubling Thy griefs, when none would own Thee! 3. How did the weight Of all our sinnes, And death unite To wrench, and rack Thy blessed limbes! How pale, and bloudie Lookt Thy body! How bruis'd, and broke With every stroke! How meek, and patient was Thy spirit? How didst Thou cry, And grone on high Father forgive, And let them live! I dye to make my foes inherit!' 4. O blessed Lamb; That took'st my sinne, That took'st my shame, How shall thy' dust Thy praises sing! I would I were One hearty tear! One constant spring! Then would I bring 2 These, two small mites, and be at strife 1 = Which should most vie, My heart, or eye, Teaching my years 'my' i. e, the Poet's, therefore (to distinguish) not printed with a capital T and similarly elsewhere. G. The old Puritans love to tell of the two mites' that every one may render' to the Lord, body and soul. G. In smiles and tears To weep, to sing, Thy death, my life. Rom[ans] cap. 8. ver. 19. Etenim res create exerto capite observantes expectant revelationem filiorum Dei. ND do they so? have they a sense Of ought but influence? Can they their heads lift, and expect, And grone too? why th' elect, Can do no more; my volumes sed They were all dull, and dead; They judg'd them senslesse, and their state. Go, go; Seal up thy looks, And burn thy books! 2. I would I were a stone, or tree, Or some poor high-way herb, or spring Then should I-tyed to one sure state All day expect my date; But I am sadly loose, and stray |