432 RIDLEYS OF WILLIMOTESWICK, NORTHUMBERLAND.
From sweet Sincerity's pure crystal spring;
Deep from his heart the struggling groans arise,
And ardently he breathes the insence of his sighs.
The whole man labors in this heavenly war,
And every look and gesture is a prayer;
God's grace he still continues to implore,
Still he receives, yet still he sues for more;
Still meekly fervent is his prayer address't,
He asks for pardon for the cold request;
With tears he mourns the dryness of his eyes,
And, sighing deep, laments the want of sighs.
His grief is with an eye of pitty seen,
And sweet-tongued Mercy speaks the leeper clean.
The native pureness of his soul returns,
The Angels triumph, the Apostate mourns.
And now for praise he does his soul prepare,
Seraphic praise, that heaven of heavens is prayer!
Great God! what holy raptures does he prove!
How melt before the sacred fire of love!
'T was thus, the wondering gratitude oppres't,
He would have spoke the fulness of his breast.
"Oh righteous Lord! who sit'st enthroned on high,
Look down and view me with a gracious eye;
Accept the mighty tribute that I bring,
A mite of praise to Heaven's eternal King.
Greatly I long and ardently I burn,
To make a nobler and more large return;
But hence each thought of retribution's rain,
That thou art God, and I ignoble man:
But oh! what bright ideas shall I find
To represent thy image to my mind!
Can thought concieve the King of heaven and earth
That has in matter its plebeian birth?
And shall a word, a trancient sound, proclaim
The everlasting greatness of thy name?
Thou art, Oh Lord-O teach me what to say -
A flood, an ocean of excessive day
A glorious sun unutterably bright,
That sheds on vast immensity its light.
Creation is contained and filled by thee,
Thou fill'st thyself, thou art immensity.
Thou wast before - Eternity 's thy name,
How great thy power! thou will'st; and strait became
A beauteous world from nothing's barren womb.
Thou frown'st, and hell and misery appear;
Thou smil'st, and heaven and happiness are there.
How boundless is thy knowledge! - thou can't see
The perfect state of them before they be,
And the world was before it was, in thee.
To thee Time stops his never-wearied haste,
To thee is perfect still the future and the past.
But one step further does my knowledge go;
I know that thou art more than I can know;
Whene'er I tread this dark, uncertain coast,
In thy perfections mighty, vast, I'm lost.
In vain I strive the feable hymn to raise -
Hyperbole is meanness in thy praise.
―
But Goodness, that fair virgin, ever blest,
Nearest and dearest to thy sacred breast,
Who with her soft enchanting voice can charm
Justice herself, and stop her lifted arm,
Demands thy praise
An age ago, my soul, what wast thou? where?
