The present hour, flattered by all,
Reflects not on the last;
But I, like a sad factor, shall
To account my life each moment call,
And only weep the past.
My mem❜ry tracks each several way,
Since reason did begin
Over my actions her first sway;
And teacheth me, that each new day
Did only vary sin.
Poor bankrupt conscience! where are those
Rich hours, but farm'd to thee?
How carelessly I some did lose,
And other to my lust dispose,
As no rent-day should be?
I have infected with impure
Disorders my past years;
But I'll to penitence inure
Those that succeed.
"I DESIRE TO DEPART."-ST. PAUL.
THE Soul, which doth with God unite,
Those gaieties how doth she slight
Which o'er opinion sway!
Like sacred virgin wax, which shines
On altars or on martyrs' shrines,
How doth she burn away!
How violent are her throes, till she
From envious earth delivered be,
Which doth her flight restrain !
How doth she dote on whips and racks,
On fires, and the so dreaded axe,
And every murd'ring pain!
How soon she leaves the pride of wealth,
The flatteries of youth and health,
And fame's more precious breath;
And every gaudy circumstance,
That doth the pomp of lite advance,
At the approach of death!
The cunning of astrologers
Observes each motion of the stars,
Placing all knowledge there;
And lovers in their mistress' eyes
Contract those wonders of the skies,
And seek no higher sphere.
The wand'ring pilot sweats to find
The causes that produce the wind,
Still gazing on the pole:
The politician scorns all art,
But what doth pride and power impart, And swells the ambitious soul.
But he, whom heavenly fire doth warm,
And 'gainst these powerful follies arm,
Doth soberly disdain
All these fond human mysteries,
As the deceitful and unwise
Distempers of our brain.
He as a burden bears his clay,
Yet vainly throws it not away
On every idle cause :
But, with the same untroubled eye,
Can or resolve to live or die,
Regardless of the applause.
My God! if 'tis thy great decree
That this must the last moment be
Wherein I breathe this air;
My heart obeys, joy'd to retreat
From the false favours of the great,
And treachery of the fair.
When thou shalt please this soul to enthrone Above impure corruption,
What should I grieve or fear,
To think this breathless body must
Become a loathsome heap of dust,
And ne'er again appear?
For in the fire when ore is tried,
And by that torment purified,
Do we deplore the loss?
And, when thou shalt my soul refine,
That it thereby may purer shine,
Shall I grieve for the dross?
FRANCIS DAVISON is chiefly known as editor of and principal contributor to the "Poetical Rhapsody," a valuable collection of miscellaneous verses, first published in 1602. The two first of the pleasing specimens of his poetical abilities, here given, are from his "Divine Poems."
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