« السابقةمتابعة »
Then conftant FAITH, and holy HOPE fhall die, One loft in Certainty, and one in Joy: Whilft thou, more happy Pow'r, fair CHARITY, Triumphant Sifter, greatest of the three; Thy Office, and thy Nature ftill the fame, Lafting thy Lamp, and unconfum'd thy Flame, Shalt ftill furvive
Shall ftand before the Hoft of Heav'n confeft,
For ever bleffing, and for ever bleft.
By Mr. CowLEY.
Nough, my Mufe, of earthly Things,
And Infpirations but of Wind,
Take up thy Lute, and to it bind
Loud and everlasting Strings;
And on 'em play, and to 'em fing,
The happy mournful Stories,
The lamentable Glories,
Of the great crucified King.
Mountainous Heap of Wonders! which doft rife
Till Earth thou joineft with the Skies!
Too large at Bottom, and at Top too high,
To be half feen by mortal Eye.
How fhall I grafp this boundless Thing!
What fhall I play? What fhall I fing?
I'll fing the mighty Riddle of myfterious Love,
Which neither wretched Men below, nor bleffed Spirits above,
With all their Comments can explain;
How all the whole World's Life to die did not difdain.
I'll.fing the fearchlefs Depths of the Compaffion divine,
The Depths unfathom'd yet
By Reafon's Plummet, and the Line of Wit:
Too light the Plummet, and too fhort the Line:
How the Eternal Father did beftow
His own Eternal Son as Ranfome for his Foe.
I'll fing aloud, that all the World may hear
The Triumph of the buried Conqueror :
How Hell was by its Pris'ner captive led,
And the great Slayer, Death, flain by the Dead.
Methinks I hear of murdered Men the Voice,
Mixt with the Murderers confused Noise,
Sound from the Top of CALVARY;
My greedy Eyes fly up the Hill, and fee
Who 'tis hangs there the Midmost of the three;
O how unlike the others He!
Look how he bends his gentle Head with Bleffings from the His gracious Hands ne'er ftretch'd but to do good, (Tree! Are nailed to the infamous Wood :
And finful Man does fondly bind
The Arms which he extends t'embrace all human Kind.
Unhappy Man, canft thou ftand by, and fee
All this as patient as he?
Since he thy Sins does bear,
Make Thou his Sufferings thine own,
And weep, and figh, and groan,
And beat thy Breaft, and tear
Thy Garments and thy Hair;
And let thy Grief, and let thy Love
Through all thy bleeding Bowels move.
Do'st thou not fee thy Prince in Purple clad all otr,
Not Purple brought from the Sidonian Shore,
But made at Home with richer Gore?
Do'st Thou not fee the Rofes which adorn
The thorny Garland by him worn?
Do'st thou not fee the livid Trace
Of the fharp Scourge's rude Embraces?
If yet thou feeleft not the Smart
Of Thorns and Scourges in thy Heart;
If that be yet not crucify'd,
Look on his Hands, look on his Feet, look on his Side.
Open, oh! open wide the Fountains of thine Eyes,
And let 'em call
Their Stock of Moisture forth where'er it lies,
For this will ask it all.
"Twould all, alas! too little be,
Though thy falt Tears come from a Sea.
Canft Thou deny him this, when He
Has op'ned all his vital Springs for Thee?
Take Heed; for by his Side's mysterious Flood
May well be understood,
That he will still require fome Waters to his Blood.
A TRANSLATION of a HYMN
Compofed in Latin
By JOHN PICUS, Earl of Mirandula and Concordia,
Who flourished about the Year 1480.
Lmighty God, whofe Majefty alone
We do adore, Three Perfons, Three in* One,
Whom only Angels in that heav'nly Choir
With humble Rev'rence worship and admire :
Th' Almighty Breath, did all Things caufe to be,
And by thy Pow'r preferv'ft them as we fee.
Th' Earth thy Word, the Heavens obey thy Hand,
Thunder and Lightning wait on thy Command.
*In one Go D.
Spare us, O Lord! and wafh us clean, we pray,
Let not thy juft Difpleasure us destroy.
For if our Sins with Juftice thou should't weigh,
Or our Mifdeeds in Judgment just repay;
What living Frame were able to fuftain
Thy juft Difpleasure, in eternal Pain?
No, not that † Fabrick formed by thy Hand,
And made perpetual by thy own Command.
To ev'ry Man the firft Man Guilt convey'd,
And ev'ry one the fame in Acts bewray'd.
But Thou art he that lovest Men to fpare,
And not thy Juftice with our Sins compare.
Thou didst Rewards without Defert difpenfe,
And Punishment much less than our Offence:
For why? Thy Mercies all our Faults furmount,
To fave th' unworthy Thou thy praife doft 'count;
Thine own Elect thy Love doth worthy make,
And pardon't all their Sins for thy Son's fake.
Look down, we beg, with a propitious Eye
On us, once Servants, now thine Enemy;
For fo we are, if thou mark'ft what's amifs,
Such of our Life the ungrateful Product is.
Look on thy Gift, and not upon our Guilt,
Behold the Blood for us our SAVIOUR fpilt:
Thy first Creation did our Service claim,
But thy free Grace it doth us Children name:
Wretches, alas! this Title we difgrace,
And by our Sins thy Mercy do deface:
We would deface, but Love doth us reftrain,
Thy Love, that once beftow'd is ne'er in vain :
For, Lord, thy Wifdom other Ways did know,
To magnify thy Pow'r to us below.
But Thou thy Glory from our Fall do'ft raife,
And for Redemption, we thy Love must praife:
For that inclin'd the God of Love to leave
His Father's Bofom, us from Sin to fave;
To die, to rife, and from his Side to fend
Water and Blood, what ADAM loft t' amend,
(Thy Wisdom and thy Love do fo contrive
Through the worst Acts, the best for to derive.)
Thy Love and Favour we fo little prize,
The Goodnefs which by Sins we do defpife;
+ Soul and Body of Man.
That Love and Favour did our Sins forgive:
That Goodnefs, we being dead, did make us live.
Vouchfafe, O Lord, our Hearts for to inflame
With Love to Him, that for us bore the Blame.
Vouchsafe that we may Satan's Yoke lay by,
And, hating Sin, become his Enemy;
O Lord, vouchsafe that we the Flesh refift,
And always in thy Love and Grace perfift;
That when this mortal Courfe we fhall have done,
And when our Souls before thy Judgment come;
Be, Lord, to us, beyond a Father kind,
But let not our Deferts a Judge Thee find.
WHEN all thy Mercies, O my God,
My rifing Soul farveys;
Tranfported with the View, I'm loft
In Wonder, Love, and Praife:
O how fhall Words with equal Warmth
The Gratitude declare,
That glows within my ravifh'd Heart!
But Thou canft read it there.
Thy Providence my Life fuftain'd,
And all my Wants redreft,
When in the filent Womb I lav,
And hung upon the Breaft.
To all my weak Complaints and Cries
Thy Mercy lent an Ear,
1re yet my feeble Thoughts had learnt
To form themfelves in Pray'r.