Spouse of Christ was then my name;
And devoted all to thee,
Strangely jealous I became-
Jealous of this self in me.

Thee to love, and none beside,
Was my darling, sole employ ;
While alternately I died,

Now of grief, and now of joy.

Through the dark and silent night, On thy radiant smiles I dwelt: And to see the dawning light,

Was the keenest pain I felt.

Thou my greatest teacher wert! And thine eye, so close applied, While it watch'd thy pupil's heart, Seem'd to look at none beside.

Conscious of no evil drift,

This, I cried, is Love indeed"Tis the Giver, not the gift,

Whence the joys I feel proceed.

But soon humbled, and laid low, Stript of all thou hast conferr'd, Nothing left but sin and woe,

I perceived how I had err'd.

Oh, the vain conceit of man,
Dreaming of a good his own,
Arrogating all he can,

Though the Lord is good alone!

He, the graces Thou hast wrought, Makes subservient to his pride; Ignorant that one such thought Passes all his sin beside.

Such his folly-proved, at last,
By the loss of that repose
Self-complacence cannot taste,
Only Love divine bestows.

"Tis by this reproof severe,

And by this reproof alone,

His defects at last appear,

Man is to himself made known.

Learn, all Earth! that feeble Man,
Sprung from this terrestial clod,
Nothing is, and nothing can ;

Life, and pow'r, are all in God.

LOVE INCREASED BY SUFFERING.

"I love the Lord," is still the strain
This heart delights to sing;
But I reply--your thoughts are vain,
Perhaps 'tis no such thing.

Before the pow'r of Love divine,
Creation fades away!

Till only God is seen to shine
In all that we survey.

In gulfs of awful night we find
The God of our desires;

'Tis there he stamps the yielding mind, ·
And doubles all its fires.

Flames of encircling love invest,

And pierce it sweetly through;
'Tis fill'd with sacred joy, yet press'd
With sacred sorrow too.

Ah Love! my heart is in the right--
Amidst a thousand woes.

To thee, 'tis ever new delight,
And all its peace, it owes.

Fresh causes of distress occur,
Where'er I look or move;
The comforts, I to all prefer,
Are solitude and love.

Nor exile I, nor prison fear;
Love makes my courage great ;
I find a Saviour ev'ry where,
His grace in ev'ry state.

Nor castle walls, nor dungeons deep,
Exclude his quick'ning beams;
There I can sit, and sing, and weep,
And dwell on heav'nly themes.

:

There, sorrow, for his sake, is found
A joy beyond compare ;
There, no presumptuous thoughts abound
No pride can enter there.

A saviour doubles all my joys,
And sweetens all my pains,
His strength in my defence employs,
Consoles me and sustains.

I fear no ill, resent no wrong:

Nor feel a passion move,

When malice whets her sland'rous tongue ;

Such patience is in Love.

SCENES FAVORABLE TO MEDITATION.

Wilds horrid and dark with o'ershadowing trees, Rocks that ivy and briers enfold,

Scenes nature with dread and astonishment sees, But I with a pleasure untold.

Though awfully silent, and shaggy, and rude,
I am charm'd with the peace ye afford,
Your shades are a temple where none will intrude,
The abode of my Lover and Lord.

I am sick of thy splendor, O fountain of day,
And here I am hid from its beams,
Here safely contemplate a brighter display
Of the noblest and holiest of themes.

Ye forests, that yield me my sweetest repose,
Where stillness and solitude reign,

To you I securely and boldly disclose
The dear anguish of which I complain.

Here, sweetly forgetting and wholly forgot
By the world and its turbulent throng,
The birds and the streams lend me many a nutë
That aids meditation and song.

Here, wand'ring in scenes that are sacred to night,
Love wears me and wastes me away,

And often the sun has spent much of his light,
Ere yet I perceive it is day.

While a mantle of darkness envelopes the sphere,
My sorrows are sadly rehearsed,

To me the dark hours are all equally dear,
And the last is as sweet as the first.

Here I and the beasts of the deserts agree,
Mankind are the wolves that I fear,
They grudge me my natural right to be free,
But nobody questions it here.

Though little is found in this dreary abode.
That appetite wishes to find,

My spirit is sooth'd by the presence of God,
And appetite wholly resign'd.

Ye desolate scenes, to your solitude led,
My life I in praises employ,

And scarce know the source of the tears that I shed,
Proceed they from sorrow or joy.

There's nothing I seem to have skill to discern
I feel out my way in the dark,

Love reigns in my bosom, I constantly burn,
Yet hardly distinguish the spark.

I live, yet I seem to myself to be dead,
Such a riddle is not to be found,

I am nourish'd without knowing how I am fed,

I have nothing, and yet I abound.

Oh Love! who in darkness art pleased to abide,
Though dimly, yet surely I see,

That these contrarieties only reside

In the soul that is chosen of thee.

Ah send me not back to the race of mankind,
Perversely by folly beguiled,

For where in the crowds I have left, shall I find
The spirit and heart of a child.

Here let me, though fix'd in a desert, be free;
A little one whom they despise,

Though lost to the world, if in union with thec,
Shall be holy, and happy, and wise.

MINOR POEMS.

VERSES WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE.

Fortune! I thank thee: gentle goddess! thanks!
Not that my muse, though bashful, shall deny
She would have thank'd thee rather hadst thou cast
A treasure in her way; for neither meed

Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes,

And bowel-racking pains of emptiness,

Nor noontide feast, nor evening's cool repast,

Hopes she from this-presumptuous, though, perhaps
The cobbler, leather-carving artist! might.
Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon,
Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock,
Vain-glorious fool! unknowing what he found,

Spurn'd the rich gem thou gavest him. Wherefore, h
Why not on me that favor, (worthier sure!)
Conferr'dst thou, goddess! Thou art blind, thou sayst:
Enough!-thy blindness shall excuse the deed.
Nor does my muse no benefit exhale

From this thy scant indulgence!-even here
Hints worthy sage philosophy are found;
Illustrious hints, to moralize my song!
This ponderous heel of perforated hide
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row,
Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks)
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown
Upbore; on this supported oft, he stretch'd,
With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe
Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time
(What will not cruel time) on a wry step
Severed the strict cohesion; when, alas!
He, who could erst, with even, equal pace,
Pursue his destined way with symmetry,
And some proportion form'd, now on one side,
Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys,
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop,
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on: