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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
Ah then to His embrace repair;
DIVINE LOWE ENDURES NO RIWAL.
OWE is the Lord whom I obey,
For uncreated charms I burn,
For one in whom I may discern,
He little loves him who complains,
His heart is sordid, and he feigns,
Love causes grief, but 'tis to move
And he has never tasted love,
Sweet is the cross, above all sweets,
The keenest woe life ever meets,
'Tis iust that God should not be dear
The love of Thee flows just as much
Our hearts, their scantiness is such,
Both cannot govern in one soul:
The love of God deserves the whole,
REPOSE IN GOD.
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,
Blest who in Thy bosom seeks
Dead to self and worldly things,
Ye that know my secret fire,
GLORY TO GOD ALONE.
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,
Reason exclaims—“Let every creature fall,
Yet man, dim-sighted man, and rash as blind,
Oh lost in vanity, till once self-known
Glory, Almighty, First, and without end
Thy glory is the sweetest heaven I feel ;
My reason, all my faculties, unite,
My soul rest happy in thy low estate,
Confess Him righteous in his just decrees,
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;