Sure am I in the night his fongs to hear,
Sweet fongs of joy, as well as he my prayers.
I'll fay, my God, why flight'ft thou my diftrefs,
While all my foes my weary foul oppress.

My cruel foes both thee and me upbraid;
'They cut my heart, they vaunt that bitter word,
Where is thy trust? where is thy hope? they faid;
Where is thy God? where is thy boasted Lord?
Why droop'ft, my foul; why faint'it thou in my

breaft?

Wait ftill with praife; his prefence is thy reft.

PSALM LXIII.

Which may be fung as the Widow, or Mack Widow.

O LORD, before the morning
Gives heaven warning
To let out the day,
My wakeful eyes

Look for thy rife,

And wait to let in thy joyful ray.

Lank hunger here peoples the defert cells,
Here thirst fills up the empty wells:

How longs my flesh for that bread without leaven!
How thirfts my foul for that wine of heaven!
Such (oh!) to taste thy ravishing grace!
Such in thy houfe to view thy glorious face!

Thy love, thy light, thy faces
Bright-fhining graces,
(Whole unchanged ray
Knows, nor morn's dawn
Nor evening's wane)

How far furmount they life's winter day!
My heart to thy glory tunes all his ftrings;
My tongue thy praifes cheerly fings:
And till I flumber, and death fhall undress me,
Thus will I fing, thus will I bless thee.
Fill me with love, oh, fill me with praife!
So fhall I vent due thanks in joyful lays.

But with his spouse thine anointed in pleasure Shall reign, and joy past time or measure: There new delights, new pleafures ftil spring: Hafte there, oh, hafte, my foul, to dance and fing.

PSALM CXXVII.-To the tune of that Pfal.

The ground-work fure; whoever build,
Ir God build not the house, and lay
It cannot fland one ftormy day:
If God be not the city's fhield;

If he be not their bars and wall,
In vain is watch-tower, men, and all.

Though then thou wak'st when others reft;
Though rifing thou prevent'ft the fun;
Though with lean care thou daily feaft,
Thy labour's loft, and thou undone :

But God his child will feed and keep,
And draw the curtains to his fleep.

Though th' haft a wife fit, young, and fair,
An heritage heirs to advance;

Yet canft thou not command an heir;
For heirs are God's inheritance :

He gives the feed, the bud, the bloom;
He gives the harvest to the womb.

And look as arrows, by ftrong arm
In a ftrong bow drawn to the head.
Where they are meant, will furely harm,
And if they hit, wound deep and dead ;
Children of youth are even so;
As harmful, deadly, to a foe.

That man fhall live in blifs and peace,
Who fills his quiver with fuch shot:
Whofe garners fwell with fuch increase,
Terror and fhame, and affail him not;

And though his foes deep hatred bear,
Thus arm'd, he fhall not need to fear.

BLESSED, who walk'ft not in the wordling's way;
Bluffed, who with foul finners wilt not ftand:
Bleffed, who with proud mockers dar'st not stay;
Nor fit thee down amongst that scornful band.
Thrice bleffed man, who in that heavenly light
Walk'ft, ftand'ft, and fitt'ft, rejoicing day and
night.

Look as a thirsty palm full Jordan drinks,
(Whofe leaf and fruit ftill live, when winter dies)
With conqu❜ring branches crowns the rivers brinks;
And fummer's fires, and winter's frofts defies:

All to the foul, whom that clear light revives,
Still fprings, buds, grows, and dying time fur-

vives.

But as the duft of chaff, caft in the air,
Sinks in the dirt, and turns to dung and mire;

AN HYMN.

WAKE, O my foul! awake, and raise
Up every part to fing his praise,
Who from his fphere of glory fell,
To raife thee up from death and hell:
See how his foul, vext for thy fin,
Weeps blood without, feels hell within;
See where he hangs :
Hark how he cries:
Oh, bitter pangs!
Now, now, he dies.

Wake, O mine eyes! awake, and view
Those two twin lights, whence heavens drew
Their glorious beams, whofe gracious fight
Fills you with joy, with life, and light;
Gg iiij

See how with clouds of forrow drown'd,
They wash with tears thy finful wound:
See how with streams

Of fpit th' are drench'd;
See how their beams

With death are quench'd.

Upon my Brother's Book, called, The Grounds, Labour, and Reward of Faith.

THIS lamp fill'd up, and fir'd by that bleft fpirit,
Spent his last oil in this pure heav'nly flame;
Laying the grounds, walls, roof of faith: this frame
With life he ends; and now doth there inherit
What here he built, crown'd with his laurel merit:
Whofe palms and triumphs once he loudly rang,
There now enjoys what here he sweetly fang.

This is his monument, on which he drew
His fpirit's image, that can never die;
But breathes in thefe live words, and speaks to th

On my Friend's Picture, who died in Travel.

THOUGH now to heav'n thy travels are confin'd, Thy wealth, friends, life, and country, all are loft; Yet in this picture we thee living find;

Upon Mr. Perkins, bis printed Sermons. PERKINS (our wonder) living, though long dead, In this white paper, as a winding-fheet; And in this vellum lies enveloped : Yet ftill he lives, guiding the erring feet, Speaking now to our eyes, though buried.

If once fo well, much better now he teacheth, Who will not hear, when a live-dead man preacheth.