The groffer world ftands to thy word and art;
But thy diviner world of grace

Thou fuddenly doft raise and raze,

And ev'ry day a new Creator art.

O fix thy chair of grace, that all my powers.
May also fix their reverence:

For when thou doft depart from hence
They grow unruly, and fit in thy bowers.

Scatter, or bind them all to bend to thee:

Though elements change, and heaven move,
Let not thy higher court remove,

But keep a standing majesty in me.

WHO

Jordan.

'HO fays that fictions only and false hair Become a verfe? Is there in truth no beauty?

Is all good structure in a winding stair ?

May no lines pafs, except they do their duty
Not to a true, but painted chair.

Is it not verfe, except enchanted groves
And fudden arbors fhadow course-spun lines?
Muft purling streams refresh a lover's love?
Muft all be vail'd, while he that read divines,
Catching the fenfe at two removes.

Shepherds are honeft People; let them fing:
Riddle who lift, for me, and pull for prime:
Envy no man's nightingale or spring;
Nor let them punith me with lofs of rhyme,
Who plainly fay, My God, my King.

Employment.

as a flower doth spread and die,

If that would extend to me dome good,

Before I were by froft's extremity

Nipt in the bud.

The sweetness and the praise were thine : But the extenfion and the room,

Which in thy garland I should fill, were mine At thy great doom.

For as thou doft impart thy grace,
The greater fhall our glory be.

The measure of our joys is in this place,

The ftuff with thee.

Let me not languish then, and spend
A life as barren to thy praife,

As is the duft, to which that life doth tend,
But with delays.

All things are bufy; only I

Neither bring honey with the bees,

Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandry

To water thefe.

I am no link of thy great chain,

But all my company is as a weed.

Lord place me in thy concert, give one strain

To my poor reed.

D

The Holy Scriptures.

PART I,

H Book! infinite fweetnefs! let my heart
Suck ev'ry letter, and a honey gain,
Precious for any grief in any part,
To clear the breaft, to mollify all pain.

Thou art all health, health thriving till it make
A full eternity: Thou art a mass

Of ftrange delights, where we may wish and take: Ladies, look here: this is the thankful glass,

That mends the looker's eyes: This is the well

That washes what it fhews: Who can endear

Thy praise too much? thou art heav'n's lieger here, Working against the ftates of death and hell.

Thou art joy's hand fel: heav'n lies flat in thee,
Subject to every mounter's bended knee.

Η

PART II.

OH that I knew how all thy lights combine,

And the configurations of their glory!

Seeing not only how each verfe doth shine, But all the conftellations of the story.

This verfe marks that, and both do make a motion
Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie.
Then, as difperfed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up fome christian's destiny.

Such are thy fecrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: For in ev'ry thing
Thy words do find me out, and parallels bring,
And in another make me understood,

Stars are poor books, and often-times do mifs :
This book of stars lights to eternal bliss.

Whit-Sunday.

LISTEN, fweet Dove, unto my fong.
And spread thy golden wings on me ;
Hatching my tender heart so long,
Till it get wing, and fly away with thee.

Where is that fire which once defcended
On thy apostles? thou didst then
Keep open house, richly attended,
Feafting all comers by twelve chofen men:

Such glorious gifts thou didst bestow,
That th' earth did like a heav'n appear:
The ftars were coming down to know,
If they might mend their wages, and serve here.

The fun, which once did fhine alone,
Hung down his head, and wish'd for night,
When he beheld twelve funs for one

Going about the world, and giving light.

But fince those pipes of gold, which brought
That cordial water to our ground,

Were cut and martyr'd by the fault

Of those who did themselves thro' their fide wound;

Thou shutt'ft the door, and keep'ft within;
Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink :
And if the braves of conquering fin

Did not excite thee, we should wholly fink.

Lord, though we change, thou art the same; The fame fweet God of love and light; Restore this day, for thy great name, Unto his ancient and miraculous right.

Grace.

ftock lies dead, and no increase

M doth my dull husbandry improve :

O let thy graces without cease

Drop from above.

If ftill the fun fhould hide his face,
Thy houfe would but a dungeon prove,
Thy works night's captives: O let grace
Drop from above.

The dew doth ev'ry morning fall;
And shall the dew outftrip thy Dove?
The dew, for which grafs cannot call,
Drop from above!

Death is ftill working like a mole,
And digs my grave at each remove:
Let grace work too, and on my foul
Drop from above.

Sin is ftill hammering my heart,
Unto a hardnefs void of love :

Let fupp'ling grace to cross his art

Drop from above.