Church Rents and Schisms.

RAVE Rose, (alas!) where art thou? in the chair,

B Where thou didft lately fo triumph and fine,

A worm doth fit, whose many feet and hair
Are the more foul the more thou art divine.'
This, this hath done it, this did bite the root
And bottom of the leaves, which when the wind
Did once perceive, it blew them under foot,
Where rude unhallow'd fieps du crush and grind
Their beauteous glories. Only fhreds of thee,
And thofe all bitten, in thy chair I fee:

Why doth my mother blush ? Is the the Rase,,
And fhows it fo? Indeed Chrift's precious blood
Gave you a colour once; which when your foes
Thought to let out, the bleeding did you good,
And made you look much fresher than before.
But whendebates and fretting jealoufies

Did worm and work within you more and more,
Your colour faded, and calamities

Turned your ruddy into pale and bleak;
Your health and beauty both began to break.

Then did you fev'ral parts unloofe and ftart::
Which when your neighbours faw, like a North wind
They rushed in, and caft them in the dirt
Where pagans tread. O mother dear and kind,
Where fhall I get me eyes enough to weep,

As many eyes as ftars, fince it

night,

And much of Afia and Europe faft afleep,
And even all Afric; would at least I might

With thefe two poor ones lick up all the dew,
Which falls by night, and pour it out for you.

Fustice.

Dreadful Juftice, what a fright and terror

OD

Waft thou of old,
When fin and error

Did fhow, and fhape thy looks to me, And thro' their glass discolour thee! He that did but look up, was proud and bold.

The dishes of thy balance feem'd to gape,

Like two great pits;

The beam and scape

Did like fome tott'ring engine fhow:
Thy hand above did burn and glow,

Danting the ftouteft hearts, the proudest wits.
But now that Chrift's pure vail prefents the fight,

I fee no fears:

Thy hand is white,

Thy fcales like buckets, which attend
And interchangeably descend,

Lifting to heaven from this well of tears,

For where before thou didst call on me,

Now I ftill touch
And harp on thee,

God's promises have made thee mine; Why fhould I Juftice now decline? Against me there is none, but for me much.

I

The Pilgrimage.

Travel on, feeing the hill, where lay

My expectation,

A long it was and weary way.
The gloomy cave of defperation

I left on th' one, and on the other fide

The rock of pride.

And so I came to Fancy's Meadows ftrow'd

With many a flower:

Fain would I here have made abode,
But I was quicken'd by my hour.

So to care's cops I came, and there got through
With much ado.

That led me to the wild of passion; which
Some call the world;

A wafted place, but fometimes rich.
Here I was robb'd of all my gold,

Save one good angel, which a friend had ty’d
Close to my fide.

At length I got unto the gladfome hill,

Where lay my heart; and climbing still,
When I had gain'd the brow and top,

A lake of brackish waters on the ground
Was all I found.

With that abash'd, and ftruck with many a fting,

Offwarming fears,

I fell, and cry'd, Alas my King!

Can both the way and end be tears?

Yet taking heart, I rofe, and then perceiv'd
I was deceiv'd.

My hill was further: fo I flung away,

Yet heard a cry

Just as I went, None goes that way
And lives; If that be all, faid 1,

After fo foul a journey death is fair,

And but a chair.

I

The Holdfast.

Threat'ned to obferve the sweet decree

Of my dear God with all my power and might:
But I was told b. one it could not be ;

Yet I might truft in God to be my light.
Then will I trust, faid I, in him alone.

Nay, ev'n to truft in him, was also his :
We must confefs, that nothing is our own.
Then I confess that he my fuccour is.
But to have nought is ours, not to confefs

That we have nought. I ftood amaz'd at this,
Much troubled, till I heard a friend exprefs,.
That all things were more ours by being his.
What Adam had, and forfeited for all,
Chrift keepeth now, who cannot fail or fall,

My power and wisdom. Put me not to shame,

Because I am

Thy clay that weeps, thy duft that calls.

Thou art the Lord of glory; M.
The deed and story

Are both thy due: but I a filly fly,

That live or die,

According as thy weather falls.

Art thou all justice, Lord?
Shows not thy word

More attributes ? Am I all throat or eye,

To weep or cry?

Have I no parts but those of grief 2

Let not thy wrathful power
Afflict my hour,

My inch of life; or let thy gracious power

Contract my hour,

That I may climb and find relief.

BUSY

The Discharge..

USY inquiring heart, what would't thou know?
Why doft thou prey,

And turn and leer, and with a licorous eye

Look high and low,

And in thy lookings stretch and grow?

Haft thou not made thy counts, and fumm'd up all?
Did not thy heart

Give up the whole, and with the whole depart?
Let what will fall:

That which is paft who can recal ?

Thy life is God's, thy time to come is gone,
And is his right. ́

He is thy night at noon. He is at night

Thy noon alone.

The crop is his, for he hath fown.

And well it was for thee, when this befel,

That God did make

Thy business his, and in thy life partake
For thou can't tell,

If it be his once, all is well

Only the prefent is thy part and fee-
And happy thou

If, tho' thou didst not beat thy future brow;

Thou could't well fee

What prefent things requir'd of thee.