And to procure these outward woes
Have thus enwrapt me unaware;
Thou should'st by much more careful be,
Since greater foes lay wait for thee.
By my late hopes that are now crost,
Consider those that firmer be,
And make the freedom I have lost
A means that may remember thee,
Had Christ not thy Redeemer been,
What horrid state had'st thou been in!
Or when through me thou se'st a man
Condemn'd unto a mortal death,
How sad he looks, how pale, how wan,
Drawing, with fear, his panting breath:
Think if in that such grief thou see,
How sad will "Go ye cursed" be!
These iron chains, these bolts of steel,
Which often poor offenders grind;
The wants and cares which they do feel
May bring some greater things to mind;
For by their grief thou shalt do well
To think upon the pains of Hell.
Again, when he that fear'd to die
(Past hope) doth see his pardon brought,
Read but the joy that's in his eye,
And then convey it to thy thought:
Then think between thy heart and thee,
How glad will "Come ye blessed" be!
ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint,
Instead of dirges, this complaint;
And, for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse,
Receive a strew of weeping verse
From thy griev'd friend, whom thou might'st see
Quite melted into tears for thee.
Dear loss since thy untimely fate
My task hath been to meditate
On thee, on thee: thou art the book,
The library whereon I look,
Though almost blind, for thee, lov'd clay,
I languish out, not live the day,—
Thou hast benighted me; thy set
This eve of blackness did beget,
Who wast my day (though overcast
Before thou hast thy noon-tide past),
And I remember must, in tears,
Thou scarce hadst seen so many years
As day tells hours. By thy clear sun
My love and fortune first did run;
But thou wilt never more appear
Folded within my hemisphere,
Since both thy light and motion
Like a fled star is fall'n and gone,-
I could allow thee for a time
To darken me and my sad clime,
Were it a month, a year, or ten,
I would thy exile live till then;
And all that space my mirth adjourn,
So thou wouldst promise to return-
But woe is me! the longest date
Too narrow is to calculate
These empty hopes never shall I
Be so much blest as to descry
A glimpse of thee, till that day come
Which shall the earth to cinders doom,
And a fierce fever must calcine
The body of this world like thine.
-Then we shall rise,
And view ourselves with clearer eyes
In that calm region, where no night
Can hide us from each other's sight.
Meantime, thou hast her, Earth.
With a most free and bounteous grief,
I give thee what I could not keep-
Be kind to her, and, prithee, look
Thou write into thy doomsday-book
Each parcel of this rarity
Which in thy casket shrin'd doth lie;
For thou must audit on thy trust
Each grain and atom of this dust,
As thou wilt answer Him that lent,
Not gave thee, my dear monument;
So close the ground, and 'bout her shade
Black curtains draw, my bride is laid.
Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed
Never to be disquieted!
My last good-night! thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall over-take;
Till age, or grief, or sickness, must
Marry my body to that dust
It so much loves; and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there; I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee.
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morning I rise nearer my west
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail,
Than when sleep breath'd his drowsy gale.
'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield,
Thou, like the van, first took'st the field,
And gotten hast the victory
In thus adventuring to die
Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.
But hark! my pulse like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And slow, howe'er, my marches be,
I shall at last sit down by thee.
The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort: Dear, (forgive
The crime) I am content to live,
Divided with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet and never part.
LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT.
IN the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart, and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drown'd in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep; Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the artless Doctor sees
No one hope, but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees;
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the passing-bell doth toll,
And the Furies, in a shoal,
Come to fright a parting soul;
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true;
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
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