My soul would rise and sing To her Creator too, Fain would my tongue adore my King, And pay the worship due. But pride, that busy sin, Spoils all that I perform; Curs'd pride, that creeps securely in, And swells a haughty worm. Thy glories I abate, Or praise thee with design; Some of the favours I forget, Or think the merit mine. The very songs I frame, Create my soul anew, Else all my worship's vain; This wretched heart will ne'er be true, Until 'tis form'd again. Descend, celestial fire, And seize me from above; Melt me in flames of pure desire, A sacrifice to love. Let joy and worship spend, TRUE LEARNING. PARTLY IMITATED FROM A FRENCH SONNET OF M. POIRET. HAPPY the feet that shining Truth has led Without a veil, without a shade, All beauty, and all light, as in herself she is. Our senses cheat us with the pressing crowds On unenlighten'd souls, and leave them doubly blind. I hate the dust that fierce disputers raise, Our God will never charge us, that we knew them not. Touch, heavenly Word, O touch these curious souls; Since I have heard but one soft hint from thee, From all the vain opinions of the schools (That pageantry of knowing fools) I feel my powers releas'd, and stand divinely free. "Twas this almighty Word that all things made, He grasps whole nature in his single hand; All the eternal truths in him are laid, The ground of all things, and their head, The circle where they move, and centre where they stand. Without his aid, I have no sure defence, Fast here, and never wanders hence, Infinite Truth, the life of my desires, 'Tis thy fair face alone my spirit burns to see. Speak to my soul, alone, no other hand Shall mark my path out with delusive art: Creatures be dumb at his command, And leave his single voice to whisper to my heart, Retire, my soul, within thyself retire, May mount and spread above, surveying all below. The Lord grows lavish of his heavenly light, And pours whole floods on such a mind as this: Fled from the eyes, she gains a piercing sight, She dives into the infinite, And sees unutterable things in that unknown abyss. TRUE WISDOM. PRONOUNCE him blest, my muse, whom wisdom guides In her own path to her own heavenly seat; Through all the storms his soul securely glides, Nor can the tempests, nor the tides, That rise and roar around, supplant his steady feet. Earth, you may let your golden arrows fly, And seek, in vain, a passage to his breast. Spread all your painted toys to court his eye, He smiles, and sees them vainly try To lure his soul aside from her eternal rest. Our headstrong lusts, like a young fiery horse, Checks their career, and turns and guides And bids his reason bridle their licentious force. Lord of himself, he rules his wildest thoughts, And boldly acts what calmly he design'd, While he looks down and pities human faults; Nor can he think, nor can he find, A plague like reigning passions, and a subject mind. But oh! 'tis mighty toil to reach this height, To vanquish self is a laborious art; What manly courage to sustain the fight, To bear the noble pain, and part With those dear charming tempters rooted in the heart! "Tis hard to stand when all the passions move, Hard to awake the eye that passion blinds To rend and tear out this unhappy love, That clings so close about our minds, And where the enchanted soul so sweet a poison finds. Hard; but it may be done. Come, heavenly fire, |