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Now Muse assume a softer strain,
Now footh the finner's raging smart,
Borrow of Gouge the wondrous art
To calm the surging conscience and affuage the pain.
He from a bleeding God derives
Life for the souls that guilt had slain,
And straight the dying rebel lives,
The dead arise again.
160 The op’ning skies almost obey His pow'rful song ; a heav'nly ray Awakes despair to light and sheds a cheerful day. His wondrous voice rolls back the spheres, Recalls the scenes of ancient years,
165 To make the Saviour known; Sweetly the flying charmer roves Thro' all his labours and his loves, The anguish of his cross and triumphs of his throne.
XII. Come, he invites our feet to try
170 The steep ascent of Calvary, And sets the fatal tree before our eye: See here celestial forrow reigns, Rude nails and ragged thorns lay by, Ting'd with the crimson of redeeming veins. 175 Jo wondrous words he sung the vital flood Where all our sins were drown'd, Words fit to heal and fit to wound, Sharp as the fpear and balmy as the blood.
In his discourse divine
Afresh the purple fountain flow'd,
Our falling tears kept sympathetick time
And trickled to the ground,
While ev'ry accent gave a doleful found, 184
Sad as the breaking heart-strings of th’expiring God.
Down to the mansions of the dead
With trembling joy our souls are led,
The captives of his tongue;'
There the dear Prince of Light reclines his head
Darkness and shades among;
With pleasing horrour we survey
The caverns of the tomb
Where the belov'd Redeemer lay, i
And shed a sweet perfume.
Hark, the old earthquake roars again
195 In Gouge's voice, and breaks the chain Of heavy death, and rends the tombs; The rising God! he comes, he comes, (train! With throngs of waking faints, a long triumphing
XIV. See the bright squadrons of the sky Downward on wings of joy and haste they fly, Meet their returning Sov'reign and attend him high, A shining car the Conq'ror fills Form'd of a golden cloud Slowly the pomp moves up the azure hils,
205 Old Satan foams and yells aloud,
And gnaws th' eternal brass that binds him to the
The op’ning gates of bliss receive their King, (wheels:
The Father-God smiles on his Son,
Pays him the honours he has won,
The lofty thrones adore and little cherubs sing.
Behold him on his native throne,
Glory sits fast upon his head;
Dress'd in new light and beamy robes
His hand rolls on the seasons and the shining globes,
And sways the living worlds and regions of the dead.
Gouge was his envoy to the realm below;
Vaft was his trust and great his skill,
Bright the credentials he could show,
And thousands own'd the seal,
His hallow'd lips could well impart
The grace, the promise, and command;
He knew the pity of Imanuel's heart
And terrours of Jehovah's hand.
How did our souls start out to hear
The embassies of love he bare,
While ev'ry ear in rapture hung
Upon the charming wonders of his tongue!
Life's busy cares a sacred silence bound;
Attention stood with all her pow'rs,
With fixed eyes and awe profound,
Chain'd to the pleasure of the sound,
Nor knew the flying hours.
But O my everlasting grief!
Heav'n has recall'd his envoy from our eyes, 235
Hence deluges of forrows rise,
Nor hope th' impoflible relief.
Ye remnants of the sacred tribe
Who feel the loss come share the smart,
And mix your groans with mine.
Where is the tongue that can describe
Infinite things with equal art
Or language so divine ?
Our pasiions want the heav'nly flame,
Almighty love breathes faintly in our songs,
And awful threat'nings languish on our tongues.
Howe is a great but single name,
Amidst the crowd he stands alone,
Stands yet, but with his starry pinions on,
Dress’d for the flight and ready to be gone.
Eternal God! command his stay,
Stretch the dear months of his delay;
O we could wish his age were one immortal day!
But when the flaming chariot 's come
And shining guards t'attend thy Prophet home, 255
Amidst a thousand weeping eyes
Send an Elisha down, a foul of equal fize,
Or burn this worthless globe and take us to the skies.
To her Majesty,
To John Locke, Esq. retired from business,
To John Shute, Esq. on Mr. Locke's sickness, 6
To Mr. William Nokes. Friendship,
To Nathaniel Gould, Esq.
To Dr. Thomas Gibson. I'he life of souls, 9
To Milo. False greatness,
To Sariffa. An epiftle,
To Mr. Thomas Bradbury. Paradise,
Strict religion very rare,
To Mr. C. and S. Fleetwood,
To Wm. Blackbourn, Esq. Casimire, b. ii. ode 2. 23
To Mr. T. Rowe. Free philosophy,