O infinitely happy are those heavenly virtues, which are able to praise thee in holiness and purity with excessive sweetness, and unutterable exaltation! From thence they praise thee, from whence they rejoice, because they continually see for what they rejoice, for what they praise thee: but we, pressed down with this burden of flesh, far removed from thy countenance in this pilgrimage, and blown up with worldly vanities, cannot worthily praise thee we praise thee by faith, not face to face; but those angelical spirits praise thee face to face, and not by faith.-S. AUGUST. Med. Cap. xxxiii.

EPIG. 15.

Did I refuse to sing? Said I, these times

Were not for songs, nor music for these climes?
It was my error! are not groans and tears
Harmonious raptures in th' Almighty's ears?

BOOK THE FIFTH.

No. I.

Illustration-One sitting sad on the ground; Virgins passing by. I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, that ye tell him, that I am sick of love.-CANTICLES V. 8.

1 YE holy virgins, that so oft surround

The city's sapphire walls; whose snowy feet Measure the pearly paths of sacred ground,

And trace the new Jerusalem's jasper street;
Ah! you whose care-forsaken hearts are crown'd
With your best wishes; that enjoy the sweet
Of all your hopes; if e'er you chance to spy
My absent love, oh, tell him that I lie
Deep wounded with the flames that furnaced from his
eye.

2 I charge you, virgins, as you hope to hear
The heav'nly music of your Lover's voice;
I charge you, by the solemn faith you bear
To plighted vows, and to that loyal choice
Of your affections, or, if aught more dear

You hold, by Hymen, by your marriage joys;
I charge you tell him, that a flaming dart,
Shot from his eye, hath pierced my bleeding
heart,

And I am sick of love, and languish in my smart.

3 Tell him, oh tell him, how my panting breast

Is scorch'd with flames, and how my soul is pined; Tell him, oh tell him, how I lie opprest

With the full torments of a troubled mind;
Oh tell him, tell him, that he loves in jest,
But I in earnest; tell him he's unkind:
But if a discontented frown appears

Upon his angry brow, accost his ears
With soft and fewer words, and act the rest in tears.

4 Oh tell him, that his cruelties deprive

My soul of peace, while peace in vain she seeks Tell him, those damask roses that did strive

With white, both fade upon my sallow cheeks; Tell him, no token doth proclaim I live,

But tears, and sighs, and sobs, and sudden shrieks; Thus if your piercing words should chance to bore. His heark'ning ear, and move a sigh, give o'er To speak; and tell him, tell him that I could no more.

5 If your elegious breath should hap to rouse

A happy tear, close harb'ring in his eye, Then urge his plighted faith, the sacred vows, Which neither I can break, nor he deny ;

Bewail the torment of his loyal spouse,

That for his sake would make a sport to die:
O blessed virgins, how my passion tires

Beneath the burden of her fond desires!

Heav'n never shot such flames, earth never felt such fires!

What shall I say? what shall I do? whither shall I go? where shall I seek him? or when shall I find him? whom shall I ask? who will tell my beloved that I am sick of love?-S. AUGUST. Med. Cap. xl.

I live, but not I: it is my beloved that liveth in me: I love myself, not with my own love, but with the love of my beloved that loveth me: I love not myself in myself, but myself in him, and him in me.-GULIEL. in Cap. v. Cant.

EPIG. 1.

Grieve not, my soul, nor let thy love wax faint •
Weep'st thou to lose the cause of thy complaint?
He'll come; love ne'er was bound to times nor laws;
Till then thy tears complain without a cause.

No. II.

Illustration-One on ground-two Virgins holding him up-flowers and apples around.

Stay me with flowers, and comfort me with apples; for I am sick of love.-
CANTICLES ii. 5.

1 O TYRANT love! how doth thy sov'reign pow'r
Subject poor souls to thy imperious thrall!
They say thy cup's composed of sweet and sour;
They say thy diet's honey mix'd with gall;
How comes it then to pass, these lips of ours
Still trade in bitter, taste no sweet at all?

O tyrant love! shall our perpetual toil
Ne'er find a sabbath to refresh awhile
Our drooping souls? art thou all frowns, and ne'er a
smile?

2 Ye blessed maids of honour, that frequent
The royal courts of our renown'd Jehove,
With flowers restore my spirits faint and spent;
Oh fetch me apples from love's fruitful grove,
To cool my palate, and renew my scent,
For I am sick, for I am sick of love:

These will revive my dry, my wasted powers, And they will sweeten my unsav'ry hours; Refresh me then with fruit, and comfort me with flowers.

3 Oh bring me apples to assuage that fire,

Which, Ætna-like, inflames my flaming breast; Nor is it ev'ry apple I desire,

Nor that which pleases ev'ry palate best: "Tis not the lasting deuzan I require:

Nor yet the red-cheek'd queening I request:

Nor that which first beshrew'd the name of wife, Nor that whose beauty caused the golden strife; No, no, bring me an apple from the tree of life.

4 Virgins, tuck up your silken laps, and fill ye
With the fair wealth of Flora's magazine:
The purple violet, and the pale-faced lily;
The pansy and the organ columbine;

The flow'ring thyme, the gilt bowl daffodilly;
The lowly pink, the lofty eglantine;

The blushing rose, the queen of flowers, and best
Of Flora's beauty; but above the rest,

Let Jesse's sov'reign flow'r perfume my qualming breast.

5 Haste, virgins, haste, for I lie weak and faint
Beneath the pangs of love; why stand ye mute,
As if your silence neither cared to grant,
Nor yet your language to deny my suit?
No key can lock the door of my complaint,
Until I smell this flower, or taste that fruit.

Go, virgins, seek this tree, and search that bower;
O how my soul shall bless that happy hour,
That brings to me such fruit, that brings me such a

flower!

Y