FAIR eastern star, that art ordained to run
Before the sages, to the rising sun;
Here cease thy course, and wonder that the cloud
Of this poor stable can thy Maker shroud :
Ye, heavenly bodies, glory to be bright,
And are esteemed, as ye are rich in light:
But here on earth is taught a different way,
Since under this low roof the Highest lay;
Jerusalem erects her stately towers,
Displays her windows, and adorns her bowers.
Yet there thou must not cast a trembling spark :
Let Herod's palace still continue dark;
Each school and synagogue thy force repels;
There pride enthroned in misty errors dwells.
The temple where the priests maintain their quire,
Shall taste no beam of thy celestial fire;
While this weak cottage all thy splendour takes,
A joyful gate of every chink it makes.
Here shines no golden roof, no ivory stair;
No king exalted in a stately chair,
Girt with attendants, or by heralds styled,
But straw and hay enwrap a speechless child :
Yet Saba's lords before this babe unfold
Their treasures, offering incense, myrrh and gold.
The crib becomes an altar; therefore dies
No ox nor sheep; for in their fodder lies
The Prince of Peace, who, thankful for his bed,
Destroys those rites, in which their blood was shed:
The quintessence of earth he takes, and fees,
And precious gums distilled from weeping trees;
Rich metals, and sweet odours now declare
The glorious blessings, which his laws prepare
To clear us from the base and loathsome flood
Of sense, and make us fit for angels' food;
Who lift to God for us the holy smoke
Of fervent prayers, with which we him invoke,
And try our actions in that searching fire
By which the seraphims our lips inspire:
No muddy dross pure minerals shall infect,
We shall exhale our vapours up direct;
No storms shall cross, nor glittering lights deface
Perpetual sighs, which seek a happy place.
ODE ON THE BLESSED TRINITY.
MUSE, that art dull and weak,
Opprest with worldly pain,
If strength in thee remain
Of things divine to speak,
Thy thoughts awhile from urgent cares restrain, And with a cheerful voice thy wonted silence break.
No cold shall thee benumb,
Nor darkness taint thy sight;
To thee new heat, new light,
Shall from this object come;
Whose praises if thou now wilt sound aright, My pen shall give thee leave hereafter to be dumb.
Whence shall we then begin
To sing, or write of this,
Where no beginning is ?
Or if we enter in,
Where shall we end? The end is endless
Thrice happy we, if well so rich a thread we spin.
For thee our strings we touch;
Thou that art Three, and One,
Whose essence though unknown,
Believ'd is to be such;
To whom whate'er we give, we give thine own, And yet no mortal tongue can give to thee so much.
See how in vain we try
To find some type, to agree
With this great One in Three;
Yet can none such descry:
If any like, or second were to thee,
Thy hidden nature then were not so deep and high.
Now to this topless hill,
Let us ascend more near;
Yet still within the sphere
Of our connatural skill,
may behold how in our souls we bear An understanding power, joined with effectual will.
e can no higher go
To search this point divine;
Here it doth chiefly shine,
This image must it show:
These steps as helps our humble minds in
To embrace those certain grounds, which from true faith must flow.
To him these notes direct,
Who not with outward hands,
Nor by his strong commands,
Whence creatures take effect,
While perfectly himself he understands,
Begets another self, with equal glory decked.
From these, the spring of love,
The Holy Ghost proceeds,
Who our affection feeds
With those clear flames which move
From that eternal essence which them breeds, And strike into our souls, as lightning from above.
Stay, stay, Parnassian girl,
Here thy descriptions faint:
Thou human shapes canst paint,
And canst compare to pearl
White teeth, and speak of lips which rubies
Resembling beauteous eyes to orbs that swiftly whirl;
But now thou mayst perceive
The weakness of thy wings,
And that thy noblest strings
To muddy objects cleave:
Then praise with humble silence heavenly things; And what is more than this, to still devotion leave.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE WORLD,
A PILGRIM, AND VIRTUE.
WHAT darkness clouds my senses? Hath the day
Forgot his season, and the sun his way ?
Doth God withdraw his all-sustaining might,
And works no more with his fair creature-light,
While heaven and earth for such a loss complain,
And turn to rude unformed heaps again?
My paces with entangling briers are bound,
And all this forest in deep silence drown'd;
Here must my labour and my journey cease,
By which in vain I sought for rest and peace;
But now perceive that man's unquiet mind
In all his ways can only darkness find.
Here must I starve and die, unless some light
Point out the passage from this dismal night.
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