Her way is dark, her path untrod, unev'n;

So hard's the way from earth; so hard's the way to heav'n.

4 This gyring1 lab'rinth is betrench'd about

On either hand with streams of sulph'rous fire,
Streams closely sliding, erring in and out,
But seeming pleasant to the fond descrier;

Where, if his footsteps trust their own invention, He falls without redress, and sinks without dimension.

5 Where shall I seek a guide? where shall I meet Some lucky hand to lead my trembling paces? What trusty lanthorn will direct my feet

To 'scape the danger of these dang'rous places? What hopes have I to pass without a guide? Where one gets safely through, a thousand fall beside.

6 An unrequested star did gently slide

Before the wise men to a greater light;
Backsliding Isr'el found a double guide,
A pillar and a cloud,-by day, by night:

Yet in my desp'rate dangers, which be far
More great than theirs, I have no pillar, cloud, nor

star.

7 Oh that the pinions of a clipping dove

Would cut my passage through the empty air; Mine eyes being seal'd, how would I mount above The reach of danger and forgotten care!

My backward eyes should ne'er commit that

fault,

Whose lasting guilt should build a monument of salt.

8 Great GOD, that art the flowing spring of light,
Enrich mine eyes with thy refulgent ray:
Thou art my path; direct my steps aright;
I have no other light, no other way:

I'll trust my GOD, and him alone pursue; His law shall be my path; his heavenly light, my

clue.

O LORD! who art the light, the way, the truth, the life; in whom there is no darkness, error, vanity, nor death: the light, without which there is darkness; the way, without which there is wandering; the truth, without which there is error; the life, without which there is death: say, LORD, Let there be light, and I shall see light, and eschew darkness; I shall see the way, and avoid wandering; I shall see the truth, and shun error; I shall see life, and escape death: illuminate, oh illuminate my blind soul, which sitteth in darkness, and the shadow of death; and direct my feet in the way of peace.-S. AUGUST. Soliloq. Cap. iv.

EPIG. 2.

Pilgrim, trudge on: what makes thy soul complain,
Crowns thy complaint; the way to rest is pain:

The road to resolution lies by doubt:

The next way home's the farthest way about.

No. III.

Illustration-One, in a sort of sedan-chair on wheels, without top or bottom, stretching out his hand to an Angel.

Hold up my goings in thy paths, that my footsteps slip not.-PSALM xvii. 5. 1 WHENE'ER the old exchange of Profit rings

Her silver saints'-bell of uncertain gains,

My merchant-soul can stretch both legs and wings;
How I can run, and take unwearied pains!
The charms of Profit are so strong, that I,
Who wanted legs to go, find wings to fly.

U

2 If time-beguiling Pleasure but advance

Her lustful trump, and blow her bold alarms,
O how my sportful soul can frisk and dance,
And hug that siren in her twined arms!

The sprightly voice of sinew-strength'ning Pleasure
Can lend my bed-rid soul both legs and leisure.

3 If blazing Honour chance to fill my veins.

With flatt'ring warmth, and flash of courtly fire,
My soul can take a pleasure in her pains:
My lofty strutting steps disdain to tire;
My antic knees can turn upon the hinges
Of compliment, and screw a thousand cringes.

4 But when I come to thee, my GOD, that art The royal mine of everlasting treasure, The real honour of my better part,

And living fountain of eternal pleasure,

How nerveless are my limbs! how faint and slow!
I have no wings to fly, nor legs to go.

5 So when the streams of swift-foot Rhine convey
Her upland riches to the Belgic shore,
The idle vessel slides the wat'ry way,
Without the blast or tug of wind or oar:
Her slipp'ry keel divides the silver foam
With ease; so facile is the way from home!

6 But when the home-bound vessel turns her sails
Against the breast of the resisting stream,
O then she slugs; nor sail, nor oar prevails;
The stream is sturdy, and her tide's extreme:
Each stroke is loss, and ev'ry tug is vain;
A boat-length's purchase is a league of pain.

7 Great ALL IN ALL, that art my rest, my home;

My way is tedious, and my steps are slow:
Reach forth thy helpful hand, or bid me come;
I am thy child, oh teach thy child to go:
Conjoin thy sweet commands to my desire,
And I will venture, though I fall or tire.

Be always displeased at what thou art, if thou desirest to attain to what thou art not for where thou hast pleased thyself, there thou abidest. But if thou sayest, I have enough, thou perishest: always add, always walk, always proceed; neither stand still, nor go back, nor deviate; he that standeth still proceedeth not; he goeth back that continueth not; he deviateth that revolteth; he goeth better that creepeth in his way than he that runneth out of his way.-S. AUGUST. Ser. xv. de Verb. Apost.

EPIG. 3.

Fear not, my soul, to lose for want of cunning;
Weep not; Heaven is not always got by running:
Thy thoughts are swift, although thy legs be slow;
True love will creep, not having strength to go.

No. IV.

For Illustration see 'Life.'

My flesh trembleth for fear of thee; and I am afraid of thy judgments.—
PSALM CXix. 120.

LET others boast of luck, and go their ways
With their fair game; know, vengeance seldom plays
To be too forward, but doth wisely frame.
Her backward tables for an after-game:
She gives thee leave to venture many a blot;
And, for her own advantage, hits thee not:
But when her pointed tables are made fair,
That she be ready for thee, then beware;

Then, if a necessary blot be set,

She hits thee; wins the game; perchance the set:
If prosp'rous chances make thy casting high,
Be wisely temp'rate; cast a serious eye
On after dangers, and keep back thy game;
Too forward seed-times make thy harvest lame.
If left-hand fortune give thee left-hand chances,
Be wisely patient; let not envious glances
Repine, to view thy gamester's heap so fair;
The hindmost hound oft takes the doubling hare.
The world's great dice are false; sometimes they go
Extremely high, sometimes extremely low:

Of all her gamesters, he that plays the least,
Lives most at ease, plays most secure and best:
The way to win, is to play fair, and swear
Thyself a servant to the crown of fear:
Fear is the primer of a gamester's skill:
Who fears not bad, stands most unarm'd to ill.
The ill that's wisely fear'd, is half withstood;
And fear of bad is the best foil to good.
True fear's th' elixir, which in days of old
Turn'd leaden crosses into crowns of gold:
The world's the tables; stakes, eternal life;
The gamesters, Heav'n and I: unequal strife!
My fortunes are the dice, whereby I frame
My indisposed life: this life 's the game;
My sins are sev'ral blots; the lookers-on
Are angels; and in death the game is done.
LORD, I'm a bungler, and my game doth grow
Still more and more unshaped; my dice run low:
The stakes are great; my careless blots are many:
And yet thou passest by and hitt'st not any:
Thou art too strong; and I have none to guide me
With the least jog; the lookers-on deride me:

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