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Though pierc'd by scorn, oppress'd by pride, I feel Thee good—feel nought beside.

No frowns of men can hurtful prove
To souls on fire with heavenly love;
Though men and devils both condemn,
No gloomy days arise from them.

Ah then to His embrace repair;
My soul, thou art no stranger there;
There love divine shall be thy guard,
And peace and safety thy reward.


OWE is the Lord whom I obey,
Whose will transported I perform ;
The centre of my rest, my stay,
Love's all in all to me, myself a worm,

For uncreated charms I burn,
Oppress'd by slavish fear no more ;

For one in whom I may discern,
E’en when He frowns, a sweetness I adore.

He little loves him who complains,
And finds Him rigorous and severe;

His heart is sordid, and he feigns,
Though loud in boasting of a soul sincere.

Love causes grief, but 'tis to move
And stimulate the slumbering mind;

And he has never tasted love,
Who shuns a pang so graciously design'd.

Sweet is the cross, above all sweets,
To souls enamoured with thy smiles;

The keenest woe life ever meets,
Love strips of all its terrors, and beguiles.

'Tis iust that God should not be dear
ere self engrosses all the thought,
And groans and murmurs make it clear,
Whatever else is loved, the Lord is not.

The love of Thee flows just as much
As that of ebbing self subsides;

Our hearts, their scantiness is such,
Bear not the conflict of two rival tides.

Both cannot govern in one soul:
Then let self-love be dispossess'd ;

The love of God deserves the whole,
And will not dwell with so despised a guest.


LEST who, far from all mankind,

This world's shadows left behind, Hears from heaven a gentle strain Whispering love, and loves again.

Blest who free from self-esteem,
Dives into the Great Supreme,
All desire besides discards,
Joys inferior none regards.

Blest who in Thy bosom seeks
Rest that nothing earthly breaks,

Dead to self and worldly things,
Lost in Thee, Thou King of kings

Ye that know my secret fire,
Softly speak and soon retire :
Favour my divine repose,
Spare the sleep a God bestows.


H loved but not enough—though dearer far Than self and its most loved enjoyments are ; None duly love Thee, but who, nobly free From sensual objects, finds his all in Thee.

Glory to God! thou stranger here below,
Whom man nor knows, nor feels a wish to know;
Our faith and reason are both shock'd to find
Man in the post of honour—Thee behind.

Reason exclaims—“Let every creature fall,
Ashamed, abased, before the Lord of all ;"
And Faith, o'erwhelm'd with such a dazzling blaze,
Feebly describes the beauty she surveys.

Yet man, dim-sighted man, and rash as blind,
Deaf to the dictates of his better mind,
In frantic competition dares the skies,
And claims precedence of the Only Wise.

Oh lost in vanity, till once self-known
Nothing is great, or good, but God alone;
When thou shalt stand before His awful face,
Then, at the last, thy pride shall know His place.

Glory, Almighty, First, and without end
When wilt Thou melt the mountains and descend
When wilt Thou shoot abroad Thy conquering rays,
And teach these atoms Thou hast made, Thy praise ?

Thy glory is the sweetest heaven I feel ;
And if I seek it with too fierce a zeal,
Thy love, triumphant o'er a selfish will,
Taught me the passion, and inspires it still.

My reason, all my faculties, unite,
To make Thy glory their supreme delight;
Forbid it, fountain of my brightest days,
That I should rob Thee, and usurp Thy praise!

My soul rest happy in thy low estate,
Nor hope, nor wish, to be esteem'd or great;
To take the impression of a will divine,
Be that thy glory, and those riches thine.

Confess Him righteous in his just decrees,
Love what He loves, and let His pleasures please;
Die daily; from the touch of sin recede;
Then thou hast crowned Him, and He reigns indeed.

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OU bid me write t'amuse the tedious hours,

And save from with'ring my poetic pow'rs. Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flow From the free mind, not fettered down by woe ; Restless amidst unceasing tempests tost, Whoe'er has cause for sorrow, I have most. Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain, Or childless Niobe from tears refrain, Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train Does grief or study most befit the mind, To this remote, this barb’rous nook confin'd? Could you impart to my unshaken breast The fortitude by Socrates possess'd Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine, For what is human strength to wrath divine ! Wise as he was, and heaven pronounced him so, My suffrings would have laid that wisdom low. Could I forget my country, thee and all, And even th' offence to which I owe my fall, Yet fear alone would freeze the poet's vein, While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain. Add that the fatal rust of long disuse Unfits me for the service of the Muse. Thistles and weeds are all we can expect From the best soil impov'rish'd by neglect; Unexercis'd and to his stall confined, The fleetest racer would be left behind;

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