Converse wil Clrif.

1. I'm tir'd with vifits, modes, and forms, And flatt'ries paid to fellow-worms; Their conversation cloys, Their vain amours and empty stuff, But I can ne'er enjoy enough Ofthy best company, my Lord, thoulife of all myjoys.

II. When he begins to cell his love

7 Thro' ev'ry vein my passions move, The captives of his tongue : In midnight shades on frosty ground I could attend the pleasing sound, Nor should I feel December cold nor think the darkness long

III. There, while I hear


Saviour-God Count o'er the sins (a heavy load!) He bore upon the tree, Jaward I blush with facred shame, And weep, and love, and bless the name That knew not guilt nor grief his own, but bare it all


92 IV. Next he describes the thorns he wore, And talks his bloody pallion o'er,

for me

Till I am drown'd in tears,
Yet with the sympathetick fmart
There's a strange joy beats round my
The cursed trec has blessings in’t, my sweetest balnı
it bears.





I hear the glorious Suff'rer tell How on his cross he vanquish'd hell And all the pow'rs beneath: Transported and inspir'd, my tongue Attempts his triumphs in a song, “How has the ferpent lost his sting, and where's "thy vi&t'ry death?

VI. But when he shows his hands apd heart With those dear prints of dying smart He sets my fuul on fire; Not the beloved John could rest With more delight upon that breast, Nor Thomas pry into those wounds with more intense desire.

VII. Kindly he opes to me his ear, And bids me pour my sorrow chere, And tell him all my pains: Thus while I ease my burden'd heart, In ev'ry wo he bears a part, His arms embrace nie, and his hand my drooping head




VIII. Fly from my thoughts all human things, And sporting swains and fighting kings, And tales of wanton love; My soul disdains that little snare, The ringlets of Amira's hair : Thine arnis my God are sweeter bands, nor can my

heart remove.



Grace shining, and nature fainting.
Sol. Song, i. 3. and ii. s. and vi. 5.


Ell me fairest of thy kind,
Tell me shepherd all divine,
Where this fainting head reclin'd
May be reliev'd from cares like mine.
Shepherd, lead me to thy grove;
If burning noon infed the sky
The fick’ning sheep to covert fly,
The sheep not half so faint as I,
Thus overcome with love,

Say, thou dear Sov’reign of my breast,
Where dost thou lead thy flock to rest?
Why should I appear like one
Wild and wand'ring all alone
Unbeloved and unknown?



O my great Redeemer say,

IS Shall I turn my feet astray? Will Jesus bear to see me rove, To see me seek another love!

JII. Ne'er had I known his dearest name, Ne'er had I felt this inward flame, Had not his heart-strings first began the tender found: Nor can I bear the thought that he Should leave the sky, Should bleed and die, Should love a wretch so vile as me,

25 Without returns of pallion for his dying wound.

His eyes are glory mix'd with grace;
In his delightful awful face
Sits majesty and gentleness.
So tender is my bleeding heart
That with a frown he kills;
His absence is perpetual smart;
Nor is my soul refin'd enough
'To bear the beaming of his love
And feel his warnxer smiles.
Where shall I rest this drooping head?
I love, I love the fun, and yet I want the shade,

My finking spirits feebly strive
T'endure the ecstasy;



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Beneath these rays I cannot live,
And yet without them die.
None knows the pleasure and the pain
That all my inward pow’rs sustain [again.
But such as feel a Saviour's love and love the God

Oh! why should Beauty heav'nly bright 45
Stoop to charm a mortal's fight,
And torture with the sweet excess of light?
Our hearts alas! how frail their make!
With their own weight of joy they break;
Oh! why is Love so strong and Nature's self fo weak?

Turn, turn away thine eyes,

Ascend the azure hills, and shine
Amongst the happy tenants of the skies,
They can sustain a vision fo divine.
O turn thy lovely glories from me,

55 The joys are too intense tbe glories overcome me.

Dear Lord! forgive my rash complaint,
And love me still
Against my froward will;
Unvail thy beauties tho' I faint :

Send the great herald from the sky,
And at the trumpet's awful roar
This feeble state of things shall fly,
And pain and pleasure mix no more;

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