Conception, Birth, and Suff'ring, all belong,
Tho' various Parts, to one Celestial Song:
And fhe, well using so divine an Art,
Has, in this Confort, fung the Tragick Part.
As Hannah's Seed was vow'd to facred Ufe,
So here this Lady confecrates her Muse.
With like Reward may Heav'n her Bed adorn,
With Fruit as fair as by her Muse is Born.
On the Paraphrafe on the LORD's Prayer, Written by Mrs. WHARTON. Sillence, you Winds! liften, Etherial Lights!
While our Urania fings what Heav'n indites;
The Numbers are the Nymph's, but from above
Defcends the Pledge of that Eternal Love.
Here, wretched Mortals have not Leave alone,
But are iuftructed to approach his Throne;
And how can he to miferable Men
Deny Requests, which his own Hand did Pen?
In the Evangelifts we find the Profe,
Which, paraphras'd by her, a Poem grows:
A devout Rapture! fo divine a Hymn!
It may become the highest Seraphim;
For they, like her, in that Celestial Choir,
Sing only what the Spirit does infpire.
Taught by our Lord and theirs, with us they may
For all, but Pardon for Offences, pray.
Some Reflections of his upon the feveral Petitions in the fame Prayer.
1.HIS Sacred Name, with Reverence profound,
Shou'd mention'd be, and trembling at the Sound:
It was Jehovah, 'tis Our Father now,
So low to us does Heav'n vouchsafe to bow.
He brought it down, that taught us how to Pray,
And did fo dearly for our Ransom pay.
11. His Kingdom come: For this we pray in vain,
Unless he does in our Affections reign:
Abfurd it were to wish for fuch a King,
And not Obedience to his Scepter bring;
Whose Yoke is eafie, and his Burthen light,
His Service Freedom, and his Judgments right.
III. His Will be done: In Fact 'tis always done,
But, as in Heav'n, it must be made our own:
His Will fhou'd all our Inclinations fway,
Whom Nature and the Universe obey.
Happy the Man, whofe Wifhes are confin'd
To what has been Eternally defign'd;
Referring all to his Paternal Care,
To whom more dear, than to our felves, we are!
IV. It is not what our Avarice hoards up;
'Tis he that feeds us, and that fills our Cup:
Like new-born Babes, depending on the Breast,
From Day to Day we on his Bounty feast.
Nor fhou'd the Soul expect above a Day
To dwell in her frail Tenement of Clay:
The setting Sun fhou'd seem to bound our Race,
And the new Day a Gift of special Grace.
V. That he fhou'd all our Trefpaffes forgive,
While we in Hatred with our Neighbours live;
Tho' fo to Pray may seem an eafie Task,
We curfe our felves when thus inclin'd we ask:
This Prayer to use, we ought with equal Care
Our Souls as to the Sacrament prepare.
The noblest Worship of the Pow'r above,
Is to extol, and imitate, his Love:
Not to forgive our Enemies alone,
But use our Bounty that they may be won.
VI. Guard us from all Temptations of the Foe,
And those we may in feveral Stations know:
The Rich and Poor in flippery Places ftand:
Give us enough, but with a sparing Hand:
Not ill-perfwading Want, nor wanton Wealth;
But what proportion'd is to Life and Health.
For not the Dead, but Living, fing thy Praise,
Exalt thy Kingdom, and thy Glory raise.
Favete Linguis
Virginibus Puerifque canto.
Of the last VERSES in the BOOK.
WHEN we for Age cou'd neither read nor write,
The Subject made us able to indite,
The Soul with nobler Refolutions deckt,
The Body stooping, does her felf erect:
No mortal Parts are requifite to raise
Her, that unbody'd can her Maker praise.
The Seas are quiet, when the Winds give o'er;
So calm are we, when Paffions are no more:
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting Things, fo certain to be loft.
Clouds of Affection from our younger Eyes
Conceal that Emptiness, which Age descries.
The Soul's dark Cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
Lets in new Light thro' Chinks that Time has made:
Stronger by Weakness, wiser Men become,
As they draw near to their eternal Home :
Leaving the Old, both Worlds at once they view,
That stand upon the Threshold of the New.
TWO CANTO'S,
Written in the Year 1687.
HE Fear of God is Freedom, Joy and Peace;
And makes all Ills, that vext us here, to ceases Tho' the Word, Fear, fome Men may ill endure •Tis such a Fear, as only makes fecure.
Ask of no Angel to reveal thy Fate;
Look in thy Heart, the Mirrour of thy State:
He that Invites will not th' Invited mock;
Op'ning to all, that do in earnest knock.
Our Hopes are all well grounded on this Fear;
All our Affurance rolls upon that Sphere.
This Fear, that drives all other Fears away,
Shall be my Song, the Morning of our Day.
Where this Fear is, there's nothing to be fear'd:
It brings from Heay'n an Angel for a Guard.
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