Or if I climb th' eternal hills,
Where the dear Conqueror sits enthron'd, Still in his heart compassion dwells,
Near the memorials of his wound.
How shall a pardon'd rebel show
How much I love my dying God?
Lord, here I banish ev'ry foe,
I hate the sins that cost thy blood.
I hold no more commerce with hell,
My dearest lusts shall all depart;
But let thine image ever dwell
Stampt as a seal upon my heart.
MYLO, forbear to call him blest
That only boasts a large estate,
Should all the treasures of the west
Meet, and conspire to make him great.
I know thy better thoughts, I know
Thy reason can't descend so low.
Let a broad stream with golden sands
Through all his meadows roll,
He's but a wretch, with all his lands,
That wears a narrow soul.
He swells amidst his wealthy store,
And proudly poizing where he weighs,
In his own scale he fondly lays
Huge heaps of shining ore.
He spreads the balance wide to hold
His manors and his farms,
And cheats the beam with loads of gold
He hugs between his arms.
So might the plough-boy climb a tree,
When Croesus mounts his throne,
And both stand up, and smile to see
How long their shadow's grown.
Alas! how vain their fancies be
To think that shape their own!
Thus mingled still with wealth and state,
Croesus himself can never know,
His true dimensions and his weight
Are far inferior to their show.
Were I so tall to reach the pole,
the ocean with my span,
I must be measur'd by my soul:
The mind's the standard of the man.
SAY, mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom thy sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs,
Whose yielding hearts and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands,
To soften all their cares.
Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into thy chains,
As custom leads the
If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.
Nor sordid souls of earthly mould,
Who drawn by kindred charms of gold,
To dull embraces move;
So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.
Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging fires
The purer bliss destroy:
On Ætna's top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed,
T'improve the burning joy.
Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passion warms,
Can mingle hearts and hands:
Logs of green wood that quench the coals,
Are marry'd just like stoic souls,
With osiers for their bands.
Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage bless:
As well may heavenly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,
Or none besides the bass.
Nor can the soft enchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,
The rugged and the keen:
Samson's young foxes might as well
In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell,
With firebrands tied between.
Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;
For love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear
Rise and forbid delight.
Two kindred souls alone must meet,
"Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves:
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And Cupids yoke the doves.
HAST thou not seen, impatient boy,
Hast thou not read the solemn truth,
That gray experience writes for giddy youth
On every mortal joy?
Pleasure must be dash'd with pain:
And yet, with heedless haste,
The thirsty boy repeats the taste,
Nor hearkens to despair, but tries the bowl again.
The rills of pleasure never run sincere:
Earth has no unpolluted spring,
From the curs'd soil some dangerous taint they bear; So roses grow on thorns, and honey wears a sting.
In vain we seek a heaven below the sky;
The world has false but flattering charms:
Its distant joys show big in our esteem,
But lessen still as they draw near the eye;
In our embrace the visions die :
And when we grasp the airy forms,
We lose the pleasing dream.
Earth, with her scenes of gay delight,
Is but a landscape rudely drawn,
With glaring colours, and false light;
Distance commends it to the sight,
For fools to gaze upon;
But bring the nauseous daubing nigh,
Coarse and confus'd the hideous figures lie,
Dissolve the pleasure, and offend the eye.
Look up, my soul, pant tow'rd th' eternal hills;
Those heavens are fairer than they seem;
There pleasures all sincere glide on in crystal rills,
There not a dreg of guilt defiles,
Nor grief disturbs the stream.
That Canaan knows no noxious thing,
No cursed soil, no tainted spring,
Nor roses grow on thorns, nor honey wears a sting.
I AM not concern'd to know
What to-morrow fate will do;
'Tis enough that I can say,
I've possess'd myself 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 myself a whole,
And enjoy myself 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 flowery tree
All the seasons you may see;
Notions in the bloom of light,
Just disclosing to the sight;
Here are thoughts of larger growth,
Ripening 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 rejoice to raise my feet,
Both rejoice 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 public view
Than the bowels of Peru;
Broader 'tis, and brighter far,
Than the golden Indies are;
Ships that trace the watery 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.
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