love poetry

HYMN XXII.

M Y blessed Saviour, is thy love
So great, so full, so free?
Behold I give my love, my heart,
My life, my all, to thee.

I love thee for the glorious worth
In thy great self I see:
I love thee for that shameful cross
Thou hast endur'd for me.

No man of greater love can boast
Than for his friend to die:
But for thy enemies thou wast slain:

HYMN XVIII.

O Lord , how shall we frame a song
To celebrate thy fame!
Our highest flights are all too low
To reach thy loftier name.

Yet should the objects of thy love
Thy praises cease to shout,
To censure such ingratitude,
The stones would soon cry out.

What was there, Lord , in sinful man
That could thy pity move,
To draw him from the gates of hell

Oh ! speech is poor to paint a difference
I feel so vast! Trust, honour, tenderness —
The all that friendship asks — compose not love!
Friendship still keeps distinction. Friends are twain,
But lovers one!
Friends are two kings in dear confederance join'd,
That still rule separate empires; but in love
Both realms united, take one name, one tongue,
One law, one faith, one consequence, one crown!
Friends are two banks a kindly stream divides;
Lovers — twin clouds into each other blent

FLORENCE DELMAR, UNDER A FICTITIOUS NARRATIVE, TAXES HER SUITOR WITH HIS ESTRANGED AFFECTION .

Tem. What moves you thus?
Flo. That which I read. And yet,
'Tis a stale sorrow; but a woman's wrong.
Tem. You give these moods of sentiment, these dreams
Of fancy too much sway. I pray you, Florence,
Follow example and conform your course
To custom, and the fashion of the times.
What air-spun grief o'erwrought you?
Flo. I have said,

July 9

What is itt, that thou dost require
whilst thou art smartly, knocking off
Our fingers, from what we admire
by it, thou calst for all, our love
What cause have we, if itt be soe
To wonder, thou shouldst stoop so low.

What is our love (deer Lord,) to thee
Thou'rt in thy self, to great, to high
To, gain by it, tis only wee
That ar advantaged, therby
Yet art thou pleas'd thus low to bend
As for soe meane, a thing to send.

All we can have, for to bestow

Gods fullnese common bounty, and specyall love, the souls chouse, July 5 73

When we our minds, and thoughts, doe set
Upon thy fullnese infinet.

We ar soon driven to a stand
At that, we cannot comprehand.

Though, from thee all our mercys flow
Thou'st ne're the lese, for to bestow.

When we thy providence doe eye
And see thy liberallity.

We run our selfs, into a maize
att all thy providencyall waies.

Thou spreadst a table, out for all
Both young, & old, both great, and small.

severity in love, better than prosperity in anger July 3 73

How often dost thou strik our fingers off
From thosse delights, on which we set much love
Somtimes thou takst them quite away from us
And dost att once our I'dols, kill, and crush
Somtimes, thou dost to us imbitter it
And that way makst us, losser from it sitt
By that time we ar wean'd from them a while
Soon after, somthing else, doth us, beguile
And slyly steall away, from thee our hart
And of our love, itt takes away thy part

Infinet love, & grace. July 2 73

If thou from hell, hadst only set
Us free. twere mercy. infinete
to those, who did rebell
But love, and grace, breaks through each let
and o're the banks did swell.

Thy love that rose exceeding high
In sending down, thy son to dye
our depts, for to discharg
And set, our soulls, att liberty
to walk in postures larg

If thou hadst only to the race
of sinfull Adam, shew'd this grace
To Let them still live here

The souls desire, June 6 73

A burning beacon, of pure love
Still strongly, flaming up to thee
I'de be, untill thou doe remove
Mee up, where love. shall perfect be

This grace of love, is mine eye
The thing, I greatly doe desire
For itt the richest pearls, should lye
Under my feett, as durt, and mire

I will desire no greater pleasure
Then in thesse flames, of love to ly
I will seek for, noe richer tresure
Then. wings of love, wheron to fly

If thou'lt not fill me to the brim

Wonders & misterys of devine love

Oh strang, oh wonderfull
Ther is no reason given why
Thou shouldst not let, thy creture lye
Among the sons, of Adams race
Who did fall, from thy love, and grace
From them, thou givst a pull

It makes me stand amaysd
When I somtimes, doe lett thoughts run
Upon the work, that thou hast done
Whilst with amaizment, I doe see
Thy love, and grace. which flows soe free
Therby my wonder's rays'd

Oh separating love
Oh rich, free, distinguishing grace