A man was first the author of our fall, A Man is now the author of our rise: A garden is the place He pays our price: Is now by one Man caught, beguiled with his own guile. The dewy night had with her frosty shade All for Himself, Himself dissolved found, THE SAVIOUR'S FUNERAL. BUT long he stood, in his faint arms upholding That, had the sheet but on himself been spread, He for the corse might have been buried; At length (kissing his lips before he spake, As if from thence he fetched again his ghost,) "Ah, woeful soul! what joy in all our coast, Once didst thou lose thy son, but foundst again; Now findst thy son, but findst Him lost and slain. Ah me! though He could death, how canst thou life sustain? Where'er, dear Lord, thy shadow hovereth, Blessing the place wherein it deigns abide, See how the sun in day-time clouds his face, And lagging Vesper, loosing his late team, . But, sleeping on bright Eta's top, doth dream Looks from his starry bower, the heavens do moan, And trees drop tears, lest we should grieve alone; The winds have learned to sigh, and waters hoarsely groan. And you, sweet flowers, that in this garden grow, Whose happy states a thousand souls envy, Did you your own felicities but know, Yourselves up-plucked, would to his funeral hie You never could in better season die: Oh! that I might into your places slide! The gate of heaven stands gaping in his side; Therein my soul should steal, and all her faults should hide. Are these the eyes that made all others blind? Is this the face in which all beauty shined? Of the unfaithful ocean passage found? Washed with our worthless tears, and their own precious wound? One hem but of the garments that He wore Could medicine whole countries of their pain; One touch of this pale hand could life restore, One word of these cold lips revive the slain, Well the blind man thy Godhead might maintain. Or for Thou healedst their sick men's maladies? Or madest their dumb to speak, and dead to rise? Oh! could all these but any grace have won, The dumb man would have spoke, the lame man would have run. Let me, oh! let me near some fountain lie, That through the rock heaves up his sandy head, Or let me dwell upon some mountain high, Whose hollow root and baser parts are spread That I their streams, and they my tears may feed; The life, the which I once did love, I leave; The love in which I once did love, I loathe; I hate the light that did my light bereave: Both love and life, I do despise you both. Oh! that one grave might both our ashes clothe! A love, a life, a light I now obtain, Able to make my age grow young again Able to save the sick, and to revive the slain. Thus spend we tears, that never can be spent- To Him that died to live, and would not be, This heavenly earth; here let it softly sleep, So home their bodies went to seek repose, Ah! blessed Virgin! what high angel's art When every nail that pierced his hand did pierce thy heart! Weeps all the night her lost virginity, Nor ever lets sweet rest invade her eye; Her yet unfeathered children (whom to save Which from the meadow her green locks doth shave, The woful mother up to heaven springs, And all about her plaintive notes she flings, And their untimely fate most pitifully sings. THE JOYS OF THE REDEEMED. HERE may the band that now in triumph shines, In earthly bodies carried heavenly minds, Their sunny tents and houses luminous; All their eternal day in songs employing, While their Almighty Prince destruction is destroying. Full, yet without satiety of that Which whets and quiets greedy appetite, But one eternal day and endless night Gives time to those whose time is infinite- How can such joy as this want words to speak? And yet what words can speak such joy as this? And, drunk with nectar torrents, ever hold The more they do behold, the more they would behold. Their sight drinks lovely fires in at their eyes, Their brain sweet incense with fine breath accloys, That on God's sweating altar burning lies; Their hungry ears feed on their heavenly noise That angels sing to tell their untold joys; Their understanding, naked truth, their wills, The all and self-sufficient goodness fills, That nothing here is wanting but the want of ills. No sorrow now hangs clouding on their brow; No poverty themselves and theirs disgrace; No fear of death the joy of life devours; No unchaste sleep their precious time deflowers; No loss, no grief, no change wait on their winged hours. |