White teeth, and speak of lips which rubies
Resembling beauteous eyes to orbs that swiftly whirl;
But now thou mayst perceive
The weakness of thy wings,
And that thy noblest strings
To muddy objects cleave:
Then praise with humble silence heavenly things; And what is more than this, to still devotion leave.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE WORLD,
A PILGRIM, AND VIRTUE.
WHAT darkness clouds my senses? Hath the day
Forgot his season, and the sun his way ?
Doth God withdraw his all-sustaining might,
And works no more with his fair creature-light,
While heaven and earth for such a loss complain,
And turn to rude unformed heaps again?
My paces with entangling briers are bound,
And all this forest in deep silence drown'd;
Here must my labour and my journey cease,
By which in vain I sought for rest and peace;
But now perceive that man's unquiet mind
In all his ways can only darkness find.
Here must I starve and die, unless some light
Point out the passage from this dismal night.
Distressed pilgrim, let not causeless fear
Depress thy hopes, for thou hast comfort near,
Which thy dull heart with splendour shall in-
spire,
And guide thee to thy period of desire.
Clear up thy brows, and raise thy fainting eyes;
See how my glittering palace open lies
For weary passengers, whose desperate case
I pity, and provide a resting place.
O thou whose speeches sound, whose beauties shine
Not like a creature, but some power divine, Teach me thy style, thy worth and state declare, Whose glories in this desert hidden are.
I am thine end; Felicity my name; The best of wishes, pleasures, riches, fame, Are humble vassals which my throne attend, And make you mortals happy when I send : In my left hand delicious fruits I hold, To feed them who with mirth and ease grow old, Afraid to lose the fleeting days and nights; They seize on times, and spend it in delights. My right hand with triumphant crowns is stor❜d, Which all the kings of former times ador'd: These gifts are thine: then enter where no strife, No grief, no pain shall interrupt thy life.
Stay, hasty wretch, here deadly serpents dwell, And thy next step is on the brink of hell :
Wouldst thou, poor weary man, thy limbs repose?
Behold my house, where true contentment grows;
Not like the baits, which this seducer gives,
Whose bliss a day, whose torment ever lives.
Regard not these vain speeches, let them go; This is a poor worm, my contemned foe,
Bold threadbare Virtue; who dare promise more From empty bags, than I from all my store; Whose counsels make men draw unquiet breath, Expecting to be happy after death.
Canst thou now make, or hast thou ever made
Thy servants happy in those things that fade?
Hear this my challenge, one example bring
Of such perfection; let him be the king
Of all the world, fearing no outward check,
And guiding others by his voice or beck:
Yet shall this man at every moment find
More gall than honey in his restless mind.
Now, monster, since my words have struck thee
dumb,
Behold this garland, whence such virtues come;
Such glories shine, such piercing beams are thrown,
As make thee blind, and turn thee to a stone.
And thou, whose wandering feet were running
down
The infernal steepness, look upon this crown:
Within these folds lie hidden no deceits,
No golden lures, on which perdition waits;
But when thine eyes the prickly thorns have past,
See in the circle boundless joys at last.
These things are now most clear, thee I embrace : Immortal wreath, let worldings count thee base ; Choice is thy matter, glorious is thy shape, Fit crown for them who tempting dangers scape.
O THOU, Who Sweetly bend'st my stubborn will, Who send'st thy stripes to teach, and not to kill; Thy cheerful face from me no longer hide, Withdraw these clouds, the scourges of my pride: I sink to hell, if I be lower thrown;
I see what man is, being left alone.
My substance, which from nothing did begin,
Is worse than nothing by the weight of sin:
I see myself in such a wretched state,
As neither thoughts conceive, or words relate.
How great a distance parts us! for in thee
Is endless good, and boundless ill in me.
All creatures prove me abject, but how low,
Thou only know'st, and teachest me to know:
To paint this baseness, nature is too base;
This darkness yields not but to beams of grace.
Where shall I then this piercing splendour find?
Or, found, how shall it guide me being blind?
Grace is a taste of bliss, a glorious gift,
Which can the soul to heavenly comforts lift:
It will not shine to me whose mind is drown'd
In sorrows, and with worldly troubles bound.
It will not deign within that house to dwell,
Where dryness reigns, and proud distractions
swell.
Perhaps it sought me in those lightsome days.
Of my first fervour, when few winds did raise
The waves, and ere they could full strength obtain,
Some whispering gale strait charm'd them down
again;
When all seemed calm, and yet the Virgin's Child
On my devotions in his manger smil'd;
While then I simply walk'd, nor heed could take
Of complacence, that sly deceitful snake;
When yet I had not dangerously refus'd
So many calls to virtue, nor abus'd
The spring of life, which I so oft enjoy'd,
Nor made so many good intentions void,
Deserving thus that grace should quite depart,
And dreadful hardness should possess my heart:
Yet in that state this only good I found,
That fewer spots did then my conscience wound ;
Though who can censure, whether in those times,
The want of feeling seem'd the want of crimes?
If solid virtues dwell not but in pain,
I will not wish that golden age again,
Because it flow'd with sensible delights
Of heavenly things: God hath created nights
As well as days, to deck the varied globe;
Grace comes as oft clad in the dusky robe
Of desolation, as in white attire,
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