'Tis fit the forrows I for ever vent
For what I never can enough repent;
'Tis fit, and David fhews the moving way,
And with his prayer inftructs my foul to pray.
Then, fince thy guilt is more than match'd by me,
And fince my troubles should with thine
O Mufe, to glories in affliction born!
May thy humility my foul adorn.
For humbleft prayers are most affecting strains,
As mines lye rich in lowly planted veins;
Such aid I want, to render mercy kind,
And fuch an aid as here I want, I find:
Thy weeping accents in my numbers run,
Ah, thought! ah, voice of inward dole begun!
My God, whofe anger is appeas'd by tears,
Bow gently down thy mercy's gracious ears;
With many tongues my fins for juftice call,
But Mercy's ears are manifold for all.
Those sweet celestial windows open wide,
And in full ftreams let foft compaffion glide;
There wash my foul, and cleanse it yet again,
O throughly cleanfe it from the guilty ftain;
For I my life with inward anguish fee,
And all its wretchedness confefs to thee.
The large indictment stands before my view,
Drawn forth by confcience, moft amazing true;
And fill'd with fecrets hid from human eye,
When, foolish man, thy God ftood witnefs by.
Then, oh, thou majefty divinely great,
Accept the fad confeffions I repeat,
Which clear thy juftice to the world below,
Should difmal fentence doom my foul to woe.
When in the filent womb my fhape was made,
And from the womb to lightsome life convey'd,
Curs'd fin began to take unhappy root,
And through my veins its early fibres shoot;
And then, what goodness didst thou shew, to kill
The rifing weeds, and principles of ill;
When to my breast, in fair celestial flame,
Eternal Truth and lovely Wisdom came,
Bright gift, by fimple Nature never got,
But here reveal'd to change the ancient blot.
This wondrous help which Mercy pleas'd to grant,
Continue ftill, for ftill thine aid I want;
And, as the men whom leprofies invade,
Or they that touch the carcafe of the dead,
With hyffop sprinkled, and by water clean'd,
Their former purenefs in the law regain'd;
So purge my foul, difeas'd, alas! within,
And much polluted with dead works of fin.
For fuch blefs'd favours at thine hand I fue,
Be
thine hyffop, and thy water too.
Then fhall my whiteness for perfection vie
With blanching fnows that newly leave the sky.
Thus, through my mind, thy voice of gladness fend,
Thus speak the joyful word, I will be clean'd;
That all my ftrength, confum'd with mournful pain,
May, by thy faving health, rejoice again:
And new no more my foul offences fee,
from these, but turn thee not from me;
Or, left they make me too deform'd a fight,
Oh, blot them with Oblivion's endless night.
Then further pureness to thy fervant grant,
Another heart, or change in this, I want.
Create another, or the change create,
For now my vile corruption is fo great,
It seems a new creation to restore
Its fall'n eftate to what it was before.
Renew my fpirit, raging in my breast,
And all its paffions in their course arrest ;
Or turn their motions, widely gone aftray,
And fix their footsteps in thy righteous way,
When this is granted, when again I'm whole,
Oh ne'er withdraw thy prefence from my foul:
There let it fhine, fo let me be reftor'd
To prefent joy, which conscious hopes afford.
There let it sweetly fhine, and o'er my breast
Diffuse the dawning of eternal reft;
Then shall the wicked this compaffion fee,
And learn thy worship, and thy works, from me.
For I, to fuch occafions of thy praise,
Will tune my lyre, and confecrate my lays.
Unfeal my lips, where guilt and shame have hung,
To stop the paffage of my grateful tongue,
And let my prayer and fong afcend, my prayer
Here join'd with faints, my fong with angels there;
Yet neither prayer I'd give, nor fongs alone,
If either offerings were as much thy own:
But thine's the contrite fpirit, thine's an heart
Opprefs'd with forrow, broke with inward smart;
That at thy footftool in confeffion fhews,
How well its faults, how well the judge it knows;
That fin with sober resolution flies,
This gift thy mercy never will despise.
Then in my foul a mystic altar rear,
And fuch a facrifice I'll offer there.
There shall it stand, in vows of virtue bound,
There falling tears shall wash it all around;
And sharp remorse, yet sharper edg'd by woe,
Deferv'd and fear'd, inflict the bleeding blow;
There fhall my thoughts to holy breathings fly,
Inftead of incenfe, to perfume the sky,
And thence my willing heart afpires above,
A victim panting in the flames of love.
AS through the Pfalms, from theme to theme I Methinks like Eve in Paradife I rang'd; And every grace of fong I feem'd to fee, As the gay pride of every feafon fhe; She, gently treading all the walks around, Admir'd the springing beauties of the ground, The lily, gliftering with the morning dew, The rofe in red, the violet in blue, The pink in pale, the bells in purple rows, And tulips colour'd in a thousand shows: Then here and there perhaps the pull'd a flower, To ftrew with mofs, and paint her leafy bower; And here and there, like her, I went along, Chofe a bright ftrain, and bid it deck my fong.
But now the facred Singer leaves mine eye,
Crown'd as he was, I think he mounts on high;
Ere this devotion bore his heavenly Pfalms,
And now himself bears up his harp and palms.
Go, faint triumphant, leave the changing fight,
So fitted out, you fuit the realms of light;
But let thy glorious robe at parting go,
Those realms have robes of more effulgent fhow;
It flies, it falls, the fluttering filk I see;
Thy son has caught it, and he fings like thee,
With fuch election of a theme divine,
And fuch fweet grace, as conquers all but thine.
Hence every writer o'er the fabled ftreams,
Where frolic fancies sport with idle dreams;
Or round the fight enchanted clouds dispose,
Whence wanton Cupids fhoot with gilded bows,
A nobler writer, ftrains more brightly wrought,
Themes more exalted, fill my wondering thought:
The parted skies are track'd with flames above,
As love defcends to meet ascending love;
The feasons flourish where the spouses meet,
And earth in gardens spreads beneath their feet;
This fresh-bloom profpect in the bofom throngs,
When Solomon begins his song of songs,
Bids the wrapt foul to Lebanon repair,
And lays the scene of all his actions there;
Where as he wrote, and from the bower furvey'd
The scenting groves, or anfwering knots he made,
His facred art the fights of nature brings,
Beyond their use, to figure heavenly things.
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