There's nothing round these painted skies, Nothing, my soul, that's worth thy joys, "Tis heav'n on earth to taste his love, Is but to see his face. Why move my years in slow delay ? O God of ages! why? Let the spheres cleave, and mark my way Dear Sov'reign, break these vital strings SELF-CONSECRATION. IT grieves me, Lord, it grieves me sore, And wasted half my days; My inward pow'rs shall burn and flame With zeal and passion for thy name, I would not speak but for my God, nor move but to his praise. What are my eyes but aids to see The Glories of the Deity Inscrib'd with beams of light, On flow'rs and stars? Lord, I behold The shining azure, green, and gold; But when I try to read thy name a dimness veils my sight. Mine ears are rais'd when Virgil sings And drink the music in: Why should the trumpet's brazen voice, Or oaten reed awake my joys, And yet my heart so senseless lie when sacred hymns begin? Change me, O God! my flesh shall be And thou the notes inspire: My tongue shall keep the heav'nly chime, And sweet variety of sound shall in thy praise conspire. The dearest nerve about my heart, With my melodious breath, I'd tear away the vital chord, A bloody victim to my Lord, And live without that impious string, or show my zeal in death. THE PENITENT PARDONED. HENCE from my soul, my sins, depart, Ye gave my dying Lord his wound, Black heavy thoughts, like mountains, roll Forgive my treasons, Prince of Grace- Great advocate! look down and see A wretch, whose smarting sorrows bleed: O plead the same excuse for me; For, Lord, I knew not what I did. Peace, my complaints; let every groan Lo, from the everlasting skies How sweet the voice of pardon sounds! 1 feel the balm that heals my wounds THE HUMBLE ENQUIRY. A FRENCH SONNET IMITATED. Grand Dieu, tes Jugemens, &c. GRACE rules below, and sits enthron'd above, How few the sparks of wrath! how slow they move! And drop and die in boundless seas of love! But me, vile wretch! should pitying love embrace And flash, and burn me thro' the boundless space. Yea, Lord, my guilt to such a vastness grown Thine honour bids, avenge thine injur'd name, Should heav'n grow black, almighty thunder roar, Yet can those bolts of death, that cleave the flood A HYMN OF PRAISE FOR THREE GREAT SALVATIONS, viz. 1. From the Spanish Invasion, 1588;-2. From the Gunpowder-Plot, Nov. 5, 1605;-3. From Popery and Slavery, by King William, of glorious memory, who landed Nov. 5, 1698. Composed, Nov. 5, 1695. INFINITE God, thy counsels stand From pole to pole thy name is known, Part of thy church, by thy command, In vain the Spanish ocean roar'd; "Come," said the sons of bloody Rome, "Let us provide new arms from hell:" |