A DESIRE TO PRAISE.
PROPITIOUS Son of God, to thee,
With all my foul, I bend my knee;
My wish I fend, my want impart,
And dedicate my mind and heart:
For, as an abfent parent's fon,
Whofe fecond year is only run,
When no protecting friend is near,
Void of wit, and void of fear,
With things that hurt him fondly plays,
Or here he falls, or there he strays;
So fhould my foul's eternal guide,
The facred spirit be deny'd,
Thy servant foon the lofs would know,
And fink in fin, or run to woe.
O, fpirit bountifully kind, Warm, poffefs, and fill my mind; Disperse my fins with light divine, And raise the flames of love with thine; Before thy pleasures rightly priz'd, Let wealth and honour be despis'd; And let the Father's glory be More dear than life itself to me.
Sing of Jefus! Virgins, fing Him, your everlasting King! Sing of Jefus! chearful youth, Him, the God of love and truth!
Write, and raise a song divine,
Or come and hear, and borrow mine.
Son eternal, word fupreme,
Who made the universal frame,
Heaven, and all its fhining show,
Earth, and all it holds below:
Bow with mercy, bow thine ear,
While we fing thy praises here;
Son Eternal, ever-blefs'd,
Refting on the Father's breast,
Whose tender love for all provides,
Whose power over all prefides;
Bow with pity, bow thine ear;
While we fing thy praises, hear!
Thou, by pity's foft extreme,
Mov'd, and won, and set on flame,
Affum'd the form of man, and fell
In pains, to rescue man from hell;
How bright thine humble glories rife,
And match the luftre of the skies,
From death and hell's dejected state
Arifing, thou refum'd thy feat,
And golden thrones of blifs prepar'd
Above, to be thy faints' reward.
How bright thy glorious honours rife,
And with new luftre grace the skies!
For thee, the sweet feraphic choir
Raise the voice, and tune the lyre,
And praises with harmonious found
Through all the highest heaven rebound.
O make our notes with theirs agree,
And bless the fouls that fing of thee!
To thee the churches here rejoice,
The folemn organs aid the voice :
To facred roofs the found we raise,
The facred roofs refound thy praise :
And while our notes in one agree,
O! bless the church that fings to thee!
ON HAPPINESS IN THIS LIFE.
THE morning opens, very freshly gay,
And life itself is in the month of May.
green my fancy paints an arbour o’er, And flowerets with a thoufand colours more; Then falls to weaving that, and fpreading thefe, And foftly shakes them with an eafy breeze. With golden fruit adorns the bending shade, Or trails a filver water o'er its bed. Glide, gentle water, ftill more gently by, While in this fummer-bower of bliss I lye, And fweetly fing of fenfe-delighting flames, And nymphs and fhepherds, foft invented names; Or view the branches which around me twine, And praise their fruit, diffufing fprightly wine; Or find new pleasures in the world to praise, And ftill with this return adorn my lays;
Range round your gardens of eternal spring, "Go, range my fenfes, while I fweetly fing:"
In vain, in vain, alas! feduc'd by ill,
And acted wildly by the force of will!
I tell my foul, it will be constant May,
And charm a season never made to stay;
My beauteous arbour will not stand a storm,
The world but promises, and can't perform:
Then fade, ye leaves; and wither, all ye
I'll doat no longer in enchanted bowers;
But fadly mourn, in melancholy fong,
The vain conceits that held my foul fo long.
The lufts that tempt us with delusive show,
And fin brought forth for everlafting woe.
Thus fhall the notes to Sorrow's object rise,
While frequent refts procure a place for fighs;
And, as I moan upon the naked plain,
Be this the burthen clofing every strain :
Return, my senses; range no more abroad;
He'll only find his blifs who seeks for God.
THE fleeting joys, which all affords below,
Work the fond heart with unperforming show;
The wish that makes our happier life compleat,
Nor grafps the wealth nor honours of the great;
Nor loosely fails on Pleasure's easy stream,
Nor gathers wreaths from all the groves of fame;
Weak man,
whofe charms to these alone confine,
Attend my prayer, and learn to make it thine.
From thy rich throne, where circling trains of light
Make day that's endless, infinitely bright;
Thence, heavenly Father! thence with mercy dart
One beam of brightness to my longing heart.
Dawn through the mind, drive Error's clouds away,
And still the rage in Paffion's troubled fea;
That the poor banish'd foul, ferene and free,
May rife from earth, to vifit heaven and thee:
Come, Peace divine! fhed gently from above,
Inspire my willing bofom, wondrous Love;
Thy purpled pinions to my shoulders tye,
And point the paffage where I want to fly.
But whither, whither now! what powerful fire
With this blefs'd influence equals my defire?
I rife (or Love, the kind deluder, reigns,
And acts in fancy fuch enchanted scenes);
Earth leffening flies, the parting skies retreat,
The fleecy clouds my waving feathers beat;
And now the fun and now the stars are gone,
Yet ftill methinks the spirit bears me on,
Where tracts of æther purer blue display,
And edge the golden realm of native day.
Oh, ftrange enjoyment of a blifs unseen!
Oh, ravishment! Oh, facred rage within!
Tumultuous pleasure, rais'd on peace of mind,
Sincere, exceffive, from the world refin'd!
I fee the light that veils the throne on high,
A light unpierc'd by man's impurer eye;
I hear the words, that iffuing thence proclaim,
"Let God's attendants praise his awful name!"
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