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Mountains of Gilboa, let no dew
Nor fruitful showers descend on you ;:
Curse on your fields thro' all the year, -
No flow'ry blessings there appear,

Nor golden ranks of harvest stand
To grace the altar, or to feed the land.

'Twas in those inauspicious fields

Judean heroes lost their shields : 'Twas there (ah base reproach and scandal of the day !

Thy shield, O Saul, was caft away, As tho' the prophet's horn had never shed

Its sacred odours on thy head.

IV.

The sword of Saul had ne'er till now

Awoke to war in vain,
Nor Jonathan withdrawn his bow, .

Without an army slain.
Where truth and honour mark'd their way,
Not eagles swifter to their prey,
Nor lions strong or bold as they.

V.
Graceful in arms and great in war

Were Jonatban and Saul,
Pleasant in life, and manly fair ;
Nor death divides the royal pair,

And thousands share their fall.
Daughters of Israel, melt your eyes
To lofter tears, and swell your lighs;
Difrob’d, disgrac'd, your monarch lyes-
On the bleak mountains, pale and cold ::
He made rich scarlet your array ;

Bright were your looks, your bosoms gay
With gems of regal gift, and interwoven-gold.

VI.

How are the princes funk in death !

Fall’n on the shameful ground !
There my own Jonathan refign'd his breath :

On the high places where he stood,

He lost his honours and his blood :
Oh execrable arm that gave the mortal wound!

My

VII.
My Jonathan, my better part,
My brother, and (that dearer name) my friend,
I feel the mortal wound that reach'd thy heart,

And here my comforts end.
How pleasant was thy love to me!

Amazing passion, strong and free!
No dangers cou'd thy steady soul remove :
Not the soft virgin loves to that degree,
Nor man to that degree does the soft virgin love.

To name my joys, awakes my pain ;
The dying friend runs cold thro' every vein.

My Jonathan, my dying friend,
How thick my woes arise ? where will my forrows end ?

VIII.
Unhappy day! distressing fight!

Ifrael, the land of heaven's delight,
How are thy princes fall’n, thy fons of victory flain!

The broken bow, the fhiver'd spear,
With all the fully'd pomp of war,

In rude confufion spread,
Promiscuous lye among the dead,
A lamentable rout o'er all th' inglorious plain.

THOUGHTS and MEDITATIONS in a long

Sickness, 1712 and 1713. By the same.

The Hurry of the Spirits in a Fever and nervous

Disorder.

Y frame of nature is a ruffled fea, I And my disease the tempest. Nature feels A strange commotion to her inmost centre; The throne of reason shakes, “ Be still, my thoughts; « Peace and be still." In vain iny reason gives The peaceful word, my spirit strives in vain To calm the tumult and command my thoughts. This flesh, this circling blood, these brutal powers Made to obey, turn rebels to the mind, Nor hear its laws. The engine rules the man.

Un

Unhappy change! when nature's meaner springs
Fir'd to impetuous ferments, break all order;
When little restless atoms rise and reign
Tyrants in sovereign uproar, and impose
Ideas on the mind; confus'd ideas
Of non-existents and imposibles,
Who can describe them? Fragments of old dreams,
Borrow'd from midnight, torn from fairy fields
And fairy skies, and regions of the dead,
Abrupt, ill-forted. O'tis all confusion !
If I but close my eyes, strange images
In thousand forms and thousand colours rise,
Stars, rainbows, moons, green dragons, bears, and ghosts,
An endless medley rush upon the stage,
And dance and riot wild in reason's court
Above controul. I'm in a raging storm,
Where seas and skies are blended, while my soul
Like fome light worthless chip of floating cork
Is tost from wave to wave : Now overwhelm'd
With breaking food, I drown, and seem to lose
All being: Now high-mounted on the ridge
Of a tall foaming fürge, I'm all at once
Caught up into the storm, and ride the wind,
The whistling wind, unnianageable steed,
And feeble rider! hurried many a league
Over the rising hills of roring brine,
Thro' airy wilds unknown, with dreadful speed
And infinite surprize ; till some few minutes
Have spent the blast, and then perhaps I drop
Near to the peaceful coast; some friendly billow
Lodges me on the beach, and I find rest :
Short rest I find ; for the next rolling wave
Snatches me back again ; then ebbing far
Sets me a drift, and I'm born off to sea,
Helpless amidst the bluster of the winds,
Beyond the ken of shore.

Ah, when will these tumultous scenes be gone?
When shall this weary spirit, tost with tempests,
Harrafs'd and broken, reach the port of rest,
And hold it firm? When shall this wayward flesh
With all th' irregular fprings of vital movement

Un

Ungovernable, return to sacred order,
And pay their duties to the ruling mind?

Peace of Conscience, and Prayer for HEALTII. V ET, gracious God, amidst these storms of nature,

I Thine eyes behold a sweet and sacred calm
Reign thro' the realms of conscience : All within
Lyes peaceful, all compos’d. 'Tis wond'rous grace
Keeps off thy terrors from this humble bosom,
Tho stain'd with sins and follies, yet serene
In penitential peace and chearful hope,
Sprinkled and guarded with atoning blood.
Thy vital smiles amidst this desolation
Like heavenly fun-beains hid behind the clouds,
Break out in happy moments, with bright radiance
Cleaving the gloom; the fair celestial light
Softens and gilds the horrors of the storm,
And richest cordials to the heart conveys,

O glorious solace of immense distress,
A conscience and a God ! a friend at home,
And better friend on high! this is my rock
Of firm support, my shield of sure defence
Against infernal arrows. Kise, my soul,
Put on thy courage : here's the living spring
Of joys divinely sweet and ever new,
A peaceful conscience and a smiling heaven.

My God, permit a creeping worm to say,
Thy Spirit knows I love thee. Worthless wretch,
To dare to love a God! but grace requires,
And grace accepts. Thou seeft my labouring foul :
Weak as my zeal is, yet my zeal is true ;
It bears the trying furnace. Love divine
Constrains me; I ain thine. Incarnate love
Has seiz'd and holds me in almighty arms :
Here's my salvation, my eternal hope,
Amidst the wreck of worlds and dying nature,
I am the Lord's and he for ever mine.

O thou all powerful word, at whose first call
Nature arose ; this earth, these shining heavens,
These stars in all their ranks came forih, and faid,
We are thy servants : did'It thou not create

X

MY

My frame, my breath, my being, and beftow
A mind immortal on thy feeble creature
Who faints before thy face? Did not thy pity
Dress thee in flesh to die, that I might live,
And with thy blood redeem this captive soul
From guilt and death? O thrice adored name,
My king, my faviour, my Emmanuel, say,
Have not thy eyelids mark'd my painful toil,
The wild confusions of my fhatter'd powers,
And broken fluttering thoughts ? Haft thou not seen
Each restless atom that with vexing influence
Works thro’ the mass of man? each noxious juice,
Each ferment that infects the vital humours,
That heaves the veins with huge disquietude,
And spreads the tumult wide? do they not lye
Beneath thy view, and all within thy reach?
Yes, all at thy command, and must obey
Thy sovereign touch : thy touch is health and life,
And harmony to nature's jarring strings.

When shall my midnight lighs and morning groans
Rise thro' the heights of heaven, and reach thy ear
Propitious? See, iny fpirits feeble powers
Exhald and breathing upward to thy throne,
Like early incenfe climbing thro’ the sky
From the warm altar. When shall grace and peace
Descend with blessings, like an evening shower
On the parch'd defart, and renew my bloom?
Or must thy creature breath his soul away
In fruitleis groans, and die?
Come, blelt physician, come attend the moan
Of a poor suffering wretch, a plaintive worm,
Crush'd in the dust and helpleis. O descend,
Array'd in power and love, and bid me rise.
Incarnate goodness, send thy influence down
To those low regions of mortality,
Where thou halt dwelt, and clad in fleshly weeds
Learnt sympathetic sorrows; send and heal
My long and fore distress. Ten thousand praises
Attend thee : David's harp is ready strung
For the Mefiah's t name : a winged flight OF

+ At this time an imitation of David's pfalms in Christian lan. guage was not half done : as fast as I recover'd strength after this Jong illness, I apply'd myself by degrees to finish it,

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