Th' Almighty Voice bid ancient Night Her endless Realms resign,

And lo, ten thousand Globes of Light
In Fields of Azure shine.

Now Wisdom with superior Sway
Guides the vast moving Frame,
Whilst all the Ranks of Being pay
Deep Rev'rence to his Name.

He spake; The Sun obedient stood,
And held the falling Day:
Old Jordan backward drives his Flood,
And disappoints the Sea.

Lord of the Armies of the Sky,
He marshals all the Stars;
Red Comets lift their Banners high,
And wide proclaim his Wars.

Chain'd to his Throne a Volume lies
With all the Fates of Men,
With every Angel's Form and Size
Drawn by th' eternal Pen.

His Providence unfolds the Book,
And makes his Counsels shine:
Each opening Leaf and every Stroke
Fulfils some deep Design.

Here he exalts neglected Worms
To Scepters and a Crown;
Anon the following Page he turns,

And treads the Monarchs down.

Not Gabriel asks the Reason why,
Nor God the Reason gives,
Nor dares the Favourite-Angel pry
Between the folded Leaves.

My God, I never long'd to see
My Fate with curious Eyes,
What gloomy Lines are writ for me,
Or what bright Scenes shall rise.

In thy fair Book of Life and Grace
May I but find my Name
Recorded in some humble Place

Beneath my Lord the Lamb.

"Tis enough that I can say

I've possest my self to day:
Then if haply Midnight-Death

Seize my Flesh and stop my Breath,
Yet to morrow I shall be

Heir to the best Part of Me.

Glittering Stones and Golden things,
Wealth and Honours that have Wings,
Ever fluttering to be gone

I could never call my own:
Riches that the World bestows
She can take and I can lose ;

But the Treasures that are mine
Lie afar beyond her Line.
When I view my spacious Soul,
And survey my self awhole,
And injoy my self alone,
I'm a Kingdom of my own.

I've a mighty Part within
That the World hath never seen,
Rich as Eden's happy Ground,
And with choicer Plenty crown'd.
Here on all the shining Boughs
Knowledge fair and useful grows;
On the same young flow'ry Tree
All the Seasons you may see;
Notions in the Bloom of Light,
Just disclosing to the Sight;

Here are Thoughts of larger Growth,

Rip'ning into solid Truth;

Fruits refin'd, of noble Taste;

Seraphs feed on such Repast.

Here in a green and shady Grove
Streams of Pleasure mix with Love:
There beneath the smiling Skies
Hills of Contemplation rise;
Now upon some shining Top
Angels light, and call me up;
I rejoyce to raise my Feet,
Both rejoyce when there we meet.
There are endless Beauties more
Earth hath no Resemblance for;
Nothing like them round the Pole,
Nothing can describe the Soul:

'Tis a Region half unknown,
That has Treasures of its own,
More remote from publick View
Than the Bowels of Peru;
Broader 'tis and brighter far
Than the Golden Indies are;
Ships that trace the watry Stage
Cannot coast it in an Age;

Harts or Horses, strong and fleet,
Had they Wings to help their Feet,
Could not run it half way o'er
In ten thousand Days and more.

Yet the silly wandring Mind
Loath to be too much confin'd
Roves and takes her dayly Tours,
Coasting round the narrow Shores,
Narrow Shores of Flesh and Sense,
Picking Shells and Pebbles thence:
Or she sits at Fancy's Door,
Calling Shapes and Shadows to her,
Foreign Visits still receiving,
And t' her self a Stranger living.
Never, never would she buy
Indian Dust or Tyrian Dye,
Never trade abroad for more
If she saw her native Store,

If her inward Worth were known
She might ever live alone.

Hora Lyrica, 1709

WH

On which the Prince of Glory dy'd,
My richest Gain I count but Loss,
And pour Contempt on all my Pride.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast
Save in the Death of Christ my God;
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to his Blood.

See from his Head, his Hands, his Feet,
Sorrow and Love flow mingled down;
Did e'er such Love and Sorrow meet?
Or Thorns compose so rich a Crown?
His dying Crimson like a Robe
Spreads o'er his Body on the Tree,
Then am I dead to all the Globe,
And all the Globe is dead to me.

Were the whole Realm of Nature mine,
That were a Present far too small;

Love so amazing, so divine

Demands my Soul, my Life, my All.

Hymns and Spiritual Songs, 1707

35 A Prospect of Heaven makes Death easy

HERE is a Land of pure Delight
where Saints Immortal reign;

Infinite Day excludes the Night,
And Pleasures banish Pain.