Part III.

1

I waken'd in the twilight with
A fever at my brain;
All my veins were running fire
With blind desire and pain
Of something that three seasons long
Within my heart had lain.

2

So cruel that first I heeded not
A faint, alluring tune,
Trilling round me everywhere
In the jewell'd air of June,
As far and wide o'er the darkling sky

Thro' Thee, full oft the fond Alexis moans,
Seeking the melancholly Cypress Grove,
To swell the Zephyrs with his louder Groans,
And talk to Solitude of hapless Love;
Inviting Eccho 's pity-pleading Strains
To catch his Sorrows, and reward his Pains.

Emulation, and desire June 18 72

Oh blessed souls now sweetly lodg'd above
How at you always drench'd & drown'd in love
What plesure, doth unto you still arive
Whilst you in boundlese, seas of love doe dive
Love is the book, in which you always spell
Such wonders, as none else can paralell
Whilst you into love misterys, doe pry
What heights, and depths, of love doe you espy
You allways sing, the songs of love, and praise
From whence, your halalujahs you doe raise
The work is love, in which you ar employ'd

Love.

If thou, thy goods givst to the poor
and wantst this grace of love
Thou'lt never get within the door
where dwells, the god above.

True love is boundlese in desires
untill it terminate
Upon the object, itt admires
breaking through ev'ry lett.

True love is conjugall, and chast
Its lasting, firm, & sure
Unto its object, it doth hast
none from itt, can alure.

It takes no rest, but seekes about
and will not be content
Untill itt find the object out

An experience Concerning afliction october 26 71

This day I met, with triels sharp
Which made my soull to bleed
(but god did come, and chear my hart)
Of it their was great need.

That sin might be mortified
And grace be made alive
That I doe cretures might be dead
And in thy love; might dive.

Aflictions give, what thou seest good
So love may mix my cup
Thou wilt theirby my sins up root
And shortly take me up.

Thou hast made me, this day to see
My foolish Childishnese
In that I would a carver bee

Of faith, and Love.

faith, and love, are a comly pair
These two goe both togather
Nothing will part, thesse graces rare
Till death thesse two, doe sever

Then love, like Ruth, shall to us cleave
And, to heaven with us soare
When faith shall of us, take her leave
'Cause, we need her no more

Is he not said, in god to dwell
That hath made love his nest
Oh hapy, blessed, citadell
Oh sweet, & pleasing, rest

Longings after a sence of Christs love.

Dear Lord, away fain would I fly
One smile from thee I crave
That in thy bosome I might lye
This is the thing I'de have

The sun doth shine, as well on dung
As on the chousest flower
Then shine upon my soull bright sun
By thine almighty power

Ten worlds to me, cant comfort give
When thou dost hide thy face
A smile from thee, would make me live
And sweetly run my race

In this worlds sweets, I tast no savour
My soull, drives slowly on
It is thy blessed love, & favour

Desires to Love Christ

Though I can nothing for thee doe
Yet grant me my desire
Let Love be strong, & still break through
To'th object I admire,

Dread Soveraign, of all the earth
What thing is this I crave
My Love is but poluted breath
Which thou mayst scorn to have

A circumsised hart to love thee
It is thy promise, Lord.
Oh let it be, made good to mee
Acording to thy word

Oh might I burn in love, to thee
Though in the hart of hell
T'would be a glorious heaven to me
Whilst others, doe rebell

The Love of Christ

Oh what unparaleld love was this
Christ left his fathers throne
And all the glory, that was his
What streames of love here ran

Now mortalls stand, & maze
Whilst angells pry, and Gaze
When sin for Justise cry'd aloud
Christ came on wings of love

He came with garments dipt in bloud
Love made him swiftly move,
Behold what Love is this I see
For Christ to come and dye for me

On fiery, flames of love he rode
This love made no delay

I

For she loved and lost, — sweet Uma
Did herself no longer prize, —
What is woman's winning beauty
If it please not lover's eyes?
She would move by lofty penance
If her graces failed to move, —
Win by worth and not by beauty
Life's fruition, — heart's true love!
Vainly strove the doting mother
To restrain the wayward child,
Held her in her loving bosom,
Spake to her in accents mild: