Lord, as I am, I have no pow'r at all
To hear thy voice, or echo to thy call;

The gloomy clouds of mine own guilt benight me; Thy glorious beams, not dainty sweets invite me; They neither can direct, nor these at all delight me.

See how my sin-bemangled body lies,
Not having pow'r to will, nor will to rise!
Shine home upon thy creature, and inspire
My lifeless will with thy regen'rate fire;
The first degree to do, is only to desire.

Give me the pow'r to will, the will to do;
O raise me up, and I will strive to go:

Draw me, O draw me with thy treble twist,
That have no pow'r but merely to resist ;

O lend me strength to do, and then command thy list!

My soul's a clock, whose wheels (for want of use
And winding up, being subject to th' abuse

Of eating rust) wants vigour to fulfil

Her twelve-hours task, and shew her Maker's skill, But idly sleeps unmov'd, and standeth vainly still.

Great God, it is thy work, and therefore good;
If thou be pleas'd to cleanse it with thy blood,
And wind it up with thy soul-moving keys,
Her busy wheels shall serve thee all her days;
Her hand shall point thy pow'r, her hammer strike thy
[praise.

S. BERN

S. BERN. Ser. xxi. in Cant.

Let us run, let us run, but in the savour of thy ointment, not in the confidence of our merits, not in the greatness of our strength we trust to run, but in the multitude of thy mercies; for though we run and are willing, it is not in him that willeth, nor in him that runneth, but in God that sheweth mercy. O let thy mercy return, and we will run : thou, like a giant, runnest by thy own power; we, unless thy ointment breathe upon us, cannot run.

EPIG. 8.

Look not, my watch, being once repair'd, to stand
Expecting motion from thy Maker's hand.

He 'as wound thee up, and cleans'd thy cogs with blood:
If now thy wheels stand still, thou art not good.

CANTI

IX.

CANTICLES viii. 1.

O that thou wert as my brother, that sucked the breasts of my mother! when I should find thee without, I would kiss thee.

1.

YOME, come, my blessed infant, and immure thee Within the temple of my sacred arms;

Secure mine arms, mine arms shall then secure thee
From Herod's fury, or the high-priest's harms:
Or if thy danger'd life sustain a loss,

My folded arms shall turn thy dying cross.

2.

But ah! what savage tyrant can behold
The beauty of so sweet a face as this is,
And not himself be by himself controul'd,
And change his fury to a thousand kisses?
One smile of thine is worth more mines of treasure
Than there were myriads in the days of Cæsar.

3.

O had the tetrarch, as he knew thy birth,
So known thy stock, he had not thought to paddle
In thy dear blood; but, prostrate on the earth,
Had veil'd his crown before thy royal cradle,

And laid the sceptre of his glory down,
And begg'd a heav'nly for an earthly crown.

Illustrious

4.

Illustrious babe how is thy handmaid grac'd
With a rich armful! how dost thou decline
Thy majesty, that wert so late embrac'd
In thy great Father's arms, and now in mine!
How humbly gracious art thou, to refresh
Me with thy spirit, and assume my flesh!

5.

But must the treason of a traitor's hail
Abuse the sweetness of these ruby lips?
Shall marble-hearted cruelty assail

These alabaster sides with knotted whips?
And must these smiling roses entertain

The blows of scorn, and flurts of base disdain ?

6.

Ah! must these dainty little springs*, that twine
So fast about thy† neck, be pierc'd and torn
With ragged nails; and must these brows resign
Their crown of glory for a crown of thorn?

Ah! must the blessed infant taste the pain
Of death's injurious pangs; nay, worse, be slain ?

7.

Sweet babe! at what dear rates do wretched I
Commit a sin! Lord ev'ry sin's a dart ;
And ev'ry trespass let's a jav'lin fly;

And ev'ry jav'lin wounds thy bleeding heart :
Pardon, sweet babe, what I have done amiss;
And seal that granted pardon with a kiss.

*Springs; i. e. arms.

†Thy neck; read my neck.

S. BONA

S. BONAVENT. Soliloq. Cap. 1.

O sweet Jesu, I knew not that thy kisses were so sweet, nor thy society so delectable, nor thy attraction so virtuous: for when I love thee, I am clean; when I touch thee, I am chaste; when I receive thee, I am a virgin. O most sweet Jesu, thy embraces defile not, but cleanse; thy attraction polluteth not, but sanctifieth. O Jesu the fountain of universal sweetness, pardon me that I believed so late, that so much sweetness is in thy embraces.

EPIG. 9.

My burden's greatest; let not Atlas boast :
Impartial reader, judge which bears the most:
He bears but heav'n; my folded arms sustain
Heav'n's maker, whom heav'n's heav'n cannot contain.

CANTICLES