Struck loud his faithful string;

It was thy wood he meant should make the throne For a more than Solomon.

Large throne of Love! royally spread

With purple of too rich a red :

Thy crime is too much duty;

Thy burthen too much beauty!

Glorious or grievous more? thus to make good Thy costly excellence with thy King's own blood.

Even balance of both worlds! our world of sin, And that of grace heav'n weigh'd in Him, Us with our price thou weighed'st; Our price for us thou payed'st;

Soon as the right-hand scale rejoiced to prove How much death weigh'd more light than Love.

Hail, our alone Hope! let Thy fair head shoot Aloft; and fill the nations with Thy noble fruit. The while our hearts and we

Thus graft ourselves on Thee,

Grow Thou, and they; and be Thy fair increase The sinner's pardon, and the just man's peace.

Live, O, for ever live and reign,

The Lamb whom His own love has slain !

And let Thy lost sheep live t' inherit

That kingdom which this Cross did merit. Amen.

CHARITAS NIMIA,

Or the Dear Bargain.

ORD, what is man? why should he cost
Thee

So dear? what had his ruin lost Thee?
Lord, what is man? that Thou hast over-bought
So much a thing of nought?

Love is too kind, I see, and can
Make but a simple merchantman.
'Twas for such sorry merchandise
Bold painters have put out his eyes.

Alas, sweet Lord! what were't to Thee
If there were no such worms as we?
Heav'n ne'ertheless still heav'n would be.
Should mankind dwell

In the deep hell,

What have his woes to do with Thee?

Let him go weep

O'er his own wounds;

Seraphim will not sleep,

Nor spheres let fall their faithful rounds.

Still would the youthful spirits sing, And still Thy spacious palace ring;

Still would those beauteous ministers of light
Burn all as bright,

And bow their flaming heads before Thee; Still thrones and dominations would adore Thee; Still would those ever-wakeful sons of fire Keep warm Thy praise

Both nights and days,

And teach Thy loved name to their noble lyre.

Let froward dust then do its kind, And give itself for sport to the proud wind. Why should a piece of peevish clay plead shares In the eternity of Thy old cares?

Why shouldst Thou bow Thy awful breast to see What mine own madnesses have done with me?

Should not the king still keep his throne
Because some desperate fool's undone ?
Or will the world's illustrious eyes
Weep for every worm that dies?

Will the gallant sun

E'er the less glorious run?

Will he hang down his golden head,

Or e'er the sooner seek his western bed,
Because some foolish fly

Grows wanton, and will die?

If I were lost in misery,

What was it to Thy heav'n, and Thee?

What did the Lamb that He should die?
What did the Lamb that He should need,
When the wolf sins, Himself to bleed?

If my base lust

Bargain'd with death and well-beseeming dust, Why should the white

Lamb's bosom write

The purple name

Of my sin's shame?

Why should His unstain'd breast make good My blushes with His own heart blood?

O, my Saviour, make me see How dearly Thou hast paid for me,

That, lost again, my life may prove As then in death, so now in love!

SANCTA MARIA DOLORUM,

Or the Mother of Sorrows; a Pathetical descant upon the devout plainsong of "Stabat Mater

dolorosa."

N shade of death's sad tree

Stood doleful she;

Ah, she now by none other

Name to be known, alas! but Sorrow's Mother.

Before her eyes

Her's, and the whole world's joys,
Hanging all torn, she sees, and in His woes

And pains her pangs and throes.

Each wound of His from every part,

All, more at home in Her own heart.

What kind of marble, then,

Is that cold man

Who can look on and see,

Nor keep such noble sorrow's company?
Sure even from you,

My flints, some drops are due,

To see so many unkind swords contest
So fast for one soft breast;

While with a faithful, mutual flood

Her

eyes bleed tears, His wounds

weep

blood!