THE MARTYRS. OH! that it were as it was wont to be, When thy old friends of fire, all full of Thee, Fought against frowns with smiles! gave glorious chase Of death and fiercest dangers durst, with brave And sober pace, march on to meet a grave. On their bold breasts about the world they bore Thee, And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach Thee; In centre of their inmost souls they wore Thee, Where racks and torments strived in vain to reach Thee. Each wound of theirs was thy new morning, And re-inthroned Thee in thy rosy nest. With blush of thine own blood thy day adorning : It was the wit of love o'erflowed the bounds Of wrath, and made the way through all these wounds. For sure there is no knee That knows not Thee; Or, if there be such sons of shame, Alas! what will they do, When stubborn rocks shall bow, And hills hang down their heaven-saluting heads. To seek for humble beds Of dust, where, in the bashful shades of night, Next to their own low nothing they may lie, And couch before the dazzling light of thy dread Majesty? They that by love's mild dictate now Will not adore Thee, Shall then with just confusion bow, ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. R. Lo! here a little volume, but great book, (Fear it not, sweet, It is no hypocrite,) Much larger in itself than in its look. It is love's great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couched in your white bosom, and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against the ghostly foe to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. It is the armoury of light: Let constant use but keep it bright, To holy hands and humble hearts Than sin hath snares or hell hath darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Wakeful and wise, Here is a friend shall fight for you. Hold but this book before your heart Set prayer alone to play his part. But oh! the heart That studies this high art Must be a sure housekeeper, And yet no sleeper. Dear soul, be strong, Mercy will come ere long, And bring her bosom full of blessings- To make immortal dressings, For worthy souls whose wise embraces Store up themselves for Him who is alone The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's Son. But if the noble Bridegroom, when He come, To gad abroad Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies 2; And keep the devil's holiday; To dance in the sunshine of some smiling Sphere of sweet and sugared lies; Some slippery pair Of false, perhaps as fair, Flattering, but forswearing eyes; Doubtless some other heart Will get the start, And, slipping in before, Will take possession of the sacred store Of hidden sweets and holy joys Words which are not heard with ears, (These tumultuous shops of noise,) Effectual whispers, whose still voice The soul itself more feels than hears; Amorous languishments, luminous trances, Sights which are not seen with eyes, Spiritual and soul-piercing glances, Whose pure and subtle lightning flies Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire, And melts it down in sweet desire. 2 Beelzebub. Yet doth not stay To ask the window's leave to pass that way; Of soul, dear and divine annihilations; A thousand unknown rites Of joys and rarified delights; And many a mystic thing, Which the divine embraces Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring; For which it is no shame That dull morality must not know a name. Of all this hidden store Of blessings, and ten thousand more, If when He come, He find the heart from home, Doubtless he will unload Himself some other where; And pour abroad His precious sweets On the fair soul whom first he meets. O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear! O! happy and thrice happy she, Dear silver-breasted dove, Whoe'er she be, Whose early love With winged vows Makes haste to meet her morning spouse, And close with his immortal kisses! Happy soul! who never misses To improve that precious hour; And every day Seize her sweet prey, All fresh and fragrant as he rises, Dropping with a balmy shower, A delicious dew of spices. Her heavenly armful: she shall taste She shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosom there she meets, Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures. Happy soul! she shall discover What joy, what bliss, How many heavens at once it is To have a God become her lover. HYMN TO THE NAME OF JESUS. ISING the Name which none can say The heirs-elect of love; whose names belong Unto the everlasting life of song; All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast A wake, my glory! soul, (if such thou be, And be all wing! Bring hither thy whole self, and let me see What of thy parent heaven yet speaks in thee. Oh! thou art poor Of noble powers, I see, And full of nothing else but empty me |