With grief I think on days, those sweet now-past When to thy house my troops with joy I led: Why droop'st, my soul? why faint'st thou in my breast? Wait still with praise: his presence is thy rest. My famish'd soul, driv'n from thy sweetest word, tears. His early light with morn these clouds shall clear, These dreary clouds, and storms of sad despairs, Sure am I in the night his songs to hear, Sweet songs of joy, as well as he my prayers: I'll say "My God, why slight'st thou my distress, While all my foes my weary soul oppress? "My cruel foes both thou and me upbraid; They cut my heart, they vaunt that bitter word— Where is thy trust? Where is thy hope?' they said; 'Where is thy God? Where is thy boasted Lord ?'” Why droop'st, my soul? Why faint'st thou in my breast? Wait still with praise: his presence is thy rest. G HYMN. DROP, drop slow tears, And bathe those beauteous feet, Which brought from heaven The news and prince of peace. Cease not, wet eyes, His mercies to entreat, To cry for vengeance Sin doth never cease. In your deep floods Drown all my faults and fears; Nor let his eye See sin, but through my tears. GILES FLETCHER. BORN about 1588; DIED 1623. THE only production we have of this author is "Christ's Victory and Triumph." Anxious to impart to others a portion of the delight with which he has himself read this exquisite poem, the Editor has placed it before his readers in its entire state, with the exception of a very few unimportant stanzas. He feels confident, that this attempt to rescue from comparative obscurity a work of extraordinary merit and interest, will be well received, not only by the pious reader, who will here find the birth, temptation, crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension of the Redeemer related in a style of extraordinary warmth and affection; but by every genuine lover of "sublimity of sentiment, opulence of description, and harmony of numbers." |