Such comforts by a calm could not be brought; For things, save by their opposites, appear not. Both health and wealth are tasteless unto some, And so is ease, and every other pleasure; Till poor, or sick, or grieved they become, And then they relish these in ampler measure. God, therefore, full as kind as He is wise,
So tempereth all the favours He will do us, That we His bounties may the better prize, And make His chastisements less bitter to us. Onewhile, a scorching indignation burns
The flowers and blossoms of our hope away, Which into scarcity our plenty turns,
And changeth new-mown grass to parched hay; Anon, His fruitful showers, and pleasing dews, Commixed with cheerful rays, He sendeth down, And then the barren earth her crop renews,
Which with rich harvests hills and valleys crown; For us to relish joys, He sorrow sends, So comfort on temptation still attends.
THE Voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key; which unto me did seem
More comfortable than the day; These now by me, as they have been, Shall never more be heard or seen; But what I once enjoyed in them, Shall seem hereafter as a dream.
All earthly comforts vanish thus ; So little hold of them have we,
That we from them, or they from us, May in a moment ravished be. Yet we are neither just nor wise, If present mercies we despise; Or mind not how there may be made A thankful use of what we had.
SITTING by the streams that glide Down by Babel's towering wall, With our tears we filled the tide, Whilst our mournful thoughts recall Thee, O Sion, and thy fall.
Our neglected harps unstrung, Not acquainted with the hand Of the skilful tuner, hung
On the willow trees that stand Planted in the neighbour land.
Yet the spiteful foe commands Songs of mirth, and bids us lay To dumb harps our captive hands, And to scoff our sorrows, say, Sing us some sweet Hebrew lay.
But, say we, our holy strain Is too pure for heathen land, Nor may we our hymns profane, Or tune either voice or hand To delight a savage band.
Holy Salem, if thy love
Fall from my forgetful heart, May the skill by which I move Strings of music, tuned by art, From my withered hand depart.
May my speechless tongue give sound To no accent, but remain
To my prison roof fast bound,
sad soul entertain
Mirth till thou rejoice again.
As withereth the primrose by the river, As fadeth summer's sun from gliding fountains, As vanisheth the light blown bubble ever, As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains : So melts, so vanishes, so fades, so withers The rose, the shine, the bubble, and the snow, Of praise, pomp, glory, joy (which short life gathers), Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy! The withered primrose by the mourning river, The faded summer's sun, from weeping fountains, The light blown bubble vanished for ever, The molten snow upon the naked mountains, Are emblems that the treasures we uplay, Soon wither, vanish, fade, and melt away.
It is a flower-which buds, and grows, And withers as the leaves disclose ; Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, Like fits of waking before sleep; Then shrinks into that fatal mould Where its first being was enrolled.
It is a dream-whose seeming truth Is moralised in age and youth; Where all the comforts he can share, As wandering as his fancies are; Till in a mist of dark decay, The dreamer vanish quite away.
It is a dial-which points out The sun-set, as it moves about; And shadows out in lines of night The subtile stages of Time's flight; Till all-obscuring earth has laid His body in perpetual shade.
It is a weary interlude—
Which doth short joys, long woes, include; The world the stage, the prologue tears, The acts vain hopes and varied fears; The scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves no epilogue but Death.
LIKE to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood: Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies; The spring entomb'd in autumn lies; The dew dries up, the star is shot; The flight is past-and man forgot.
And, having played together, we Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring, As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing.
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