In whose mysterious form combine
Created glories and divine :

The joy and wonder of the realms above ;
At his command all their wing'd squadrons move,
Burn with his fire, and triumph in his love.

IV.

There fouls releas'd from earth's dark bondage live,
My Reynolds there, with Howe and Boyle are found
Not time nor nature could their genius bound,

And now they foar, and now they dive

In that unlimitable deep where thought itself is drown'd.
They aid the feraphs while they fing,

God is their unexhausted theme;
Light, life and joy for that immortal spring
O'erflow the blessed millions with an endless stream.
Amazing state! divine abode!

Where spirits find their heaven while they are lost in God.

V.

Hail, holy fouls, no more confin'd

To limbs and bones that clog the mind,
Ye have escap'd the fnares, and left the chains behind.
We wretched prisoners here below,

What do we fee, or learn, or know,

But fcenes of various folly, guilt and woe?
Life's buzzing founds and flatt'ring colours play
Round our fond fenfe, and waste the day,

Enchant the fancy, vex the labouring foul;
Each rifing fun, each lightsome hour,

Beholds the bufy flavery we endure;

Nor is our freedom full, or contemplation pure,
When night and facred filence overspread the pole.

VI.

Reynolds, thou late afcended mind,

Employ'd in various thought and tuneful fong,
What happy moment shall my foul unbind,
And bid me join th' harmonious throng?

Oh for a wing to rife to thee!

When shall my eyes those heavenly wonders fee?
When fhall I tafte those conforts with an ear refin'd?

VII.

Roll on apace, ye spheres fublime,

Swift drive thy chariot round, illustrious moon,

Hafte,

Hafte, all ye twinkling measurers of time,
Ye can't fulfil your course too soon.
Kindle, my languid powers, celeftial love,
Point all my passions to the courts above,

Then fend the convoy down to guard my last remove.
VIII.

Thrice happy world, where gilded toys

No more difturb our thoughts, no more pollute our joys!
There light and fhade fucceed no more by turns,
There reigns th' eternal fun with an unclouded ray,
There all is calm as night, yet all immortal day,
And truth for ever fhines, and love for ever burns.

A PARAPHRASE on the CXXXVII. PSALM.

W

By the fame.

I.

7HEN by the flowing brooks we fat,
The brooks of Babylon the proud;
We thought on Zion's mournful state,
And wept her woes, and wail'd aloud.
II.

Thoughtless of every chearful air
(For grief had all our harps unftrung).
Our harps, neglected in despair,
And filent, on the willows hung.

III.

Our foes, who made our land their spoil,

Our barbarous lords, with haughty tongues,

Bid us forget our groans a while,

And give a tafte of Zion's fongs.

IV.

How fhall we fing in heathen lands
Our holy fongs to ears profane?
Lord, fhall our lips at their commands
Pronounce thy dreadful Name in vain ?

V.

Forbid it heaven! O vile abuse!

Zion in dust forbids it too:

Shall

Shall hymns infpir'd for facred use
Be fung to please a fcoffing crew?
VI.

O let my tongue grow dry, and cleave
Fast to my mouth in filence ftill;
Let fome avenging power bereave
My fingers of their tuneful skill;
VII.

If I thy facred rites profane,
O Salem, or thy duft defpife;
If I indulge one chearful strain,
Till I fhall fee thy towers arise.
VIII.

'Twas Edom bid the conqu'ring foe,
Down with thy tow'rs, and raze thy walls
Requite her, Lord; but, Babel, know,
Thy guilt for fiercer vengeance calls.
IX.

As thou haft fpar'd nor fex nor age,
Deaf to our infant's dying groans,

May fome bless'd hand, infpir'd with rage,

Dash thy young babes, and tinge the stones.

DAVID'S LAMENTATION over Saul and Jonathan, 2 Sam. i. 19, &c. By the fame.

I.

NHAPPY day! diftreffing fight!

UNHAPP

Ifrael, the land of heaven's delight,

How is thy ftrength, thy beauty fled!

On the high places of the fight

Behold thy princes fall'n, thy fons of victory dead.

II.

Ne'er be it told in Gath, nor known

Among the streets of Askelon :

How will Philiftia's youth rejoice

And triumph in our shame,

And girls with weak unhallow'd voice

Chant the dishonours of the Hebrew name!

III. Moun

To

III.

Mountains of Gilboa, let no dew
Nor fruitful showers defcend on you;
Curfe on your fields thro' all the year,
No flow'ry bleffings there appear,
Nor golden ranks of harvest stand
grace the altar, or to feed the land.
'Twas in thofe inaufpicious fields
Judean heroes loft their shields:

Twas there (ah base reproach and scandal of the day !).
Thy fhield, O Saul, was caft away,

As tho' the prophet's horn had never shed
Its facred odours on thy head.

IV.

The fword of Saul had ne'er till now

Awoke to war in vain,

Nor Jonathan withdrawn his bow,
Without an army slain.

Where truth and honour mark'd their way,
Not eagles fwifter to their prey,
Nor lions strong or bold as they.

V.

Graceful in arms and great in war
Were Jonathan and Saul,
Pleasant in life, and manly fair;
Nor death divides the royal pair,
And thousands fhare their fall.
Daughters of Ifrael, melt your eyes
To fofter tears, and fwell your fighs,
Difrob'd, difgrac'd, your monarch lyes
On the bleak mountains, pale and cold ::
He made rich fcarlet your array;
Bright were your looks, your
of regal gift, and interwoven gold.
VI.

With gems

bofoms

How are the princes funk in death !!
Fall'n on the fhameful ground!

gay

There my own Jonathan refign'd his breath :
On the high places where he flood,

He loft his honours and his blood :,

Oh execrable arm that gave the mortal wound!

My

VII.

My Jonathan, my better part,

My brother, and (that dearer name) my friend,
I feel the mortal wound that reach'd thy heart,
And here my comforts end.

How pleasant was thy love to me!
Amazing paffion, strong and free!

No dangers cou'd thy fteady foul remove :
Not the foft virgin loves to that degree,
Nor man to that degree does the soft virgin love.
To name my joys, awakes my pain;

The dying friend runs cold thro' every vein.
My Jonathan, my dying friend,

How thick my woes arife? where will my forrows end?

VIII.

Unhappy day! diftreffing fight!

Ifrael, the land of heaven's delight,
How are thy princes fall'n, thy fons of victory flain!
The broken bow, the fhiver'd fpear,
With all the fully'd pomp of

war,

In rude confufion spread,
Promiscuous lye among the dead,

A lamentable rout o'er all th' inglorious plain.

THOUGHTS and MEDITATIONS in a long
Sickness, 1712 and 1713. By the fame.

The Hurry of the Spirits in a Fever and nervous
Disorder.

Y frame of nature is a ruffled fea,

MY

And my disease the tempeft. Nature feels

A ftrange commotion to her inmost centre;

The throne of reafon fhakes. "Be ftill, my thoughts;
"Peace and be ftill." In vain my
reafon gives

The peaceful word, my spirit strives in vain
To calm the tumult and command my thoughts.
This flesh, this circling blood, these brutal powers
Made to obey, turn rebels to the mind,
Nor hear its laws. The engine rules the man.

Un