Solomon's Song, i. 3. and ii. 5. and vi. 5.
me, fairest of thy kind,
Tell me, Shepherd, all divine,
Where this fainting head reclin'd
May relieve such cares as mine:
Shepherd, lead me to thy grove;
If burning noon infect the sky
The sickening sheep to covert fly,
The sheep not half so faint as I,
Thus overcome with love.
Say, thou dear Sovereign of my breast,
Where dost thou lead thy flock to rest?
Why should I appear like one
Wild and wandering all alone,
Unbeloved and unknown?
O my Great Redeemer, say,
Shall I turn my feet astray?
Will Jesus bear to see me rove,
To see me seek another love?
Ne'er had I known his dearest name,
Ne'er had I felt his inward flame,
Had not his heart-strings first began the tender
Nor can I bear the thought, that he
Should leave the sky,
Should bleed and die,
Should love a wretch so vile as me,
Without returns of passion for his dying wound.
His eyes are glory mix'd with grace;
In his delightful awful face
Sits majesty and gentleness.
So tender is my bleeding heart
That with a frown he kills;
His absence is perpetual smart;
Nor is my soul refin'd enough
To bear the beaming of his love,
And feel his warmer smiles.
Where shall I rest this drooping head?
I love, I love the Sun, and yet I want the shade.
My sinking spirits feebly strive
To' endure the ecstasy; Beneath these rays I cannot live,
And yet, without them, die.
None knows the pleasure and the pain
That all my inward powers sustain,
But such as feel a Saviour's love, and love the God
Oh, why should beauty heavenly bright
Stoop to charm a mortal's sight,
And torture with the sweet excess of light?
Our hearts, alas! how frail their make!
With their own weight of joy they break,
O! why is love so strong, and nature's self so weak.
Turn, turn away thine eyes,
Ascend the azure hills, and shine
Amongst the happy tenants of the skies;
They can sustain a vision so divine.
O turn thy lovely glories from me,
The joys are too intense, the glories overcome me.
Dear Lord, forgive my rash complaint,
And love me still
Against my froward will;
Unveil thy beauties, though I faint.
Send the great herald from the sky,
And at the trumpet's awful roar
This feeble state of things shall fly,
And pain and pleasure mix no more:
Then shall I gaze, with strengthen'd sight,
On glories infinitely bright,
My heart shall all be love, my Jesus all delight.
Of all the joys we mortals know,
Jesus, thy love exceeds the rest;
Love, the best blessing here below,
And nearest image of the bless'd.
Sweet are my thoughts, and soft my cares,
When the celestial flame I feel;
In all my hopes, and all my fears,
There's something kind and pleasing still.
While I am held in his embrace
There's not a thought attempts to rove;
Each smile he wears upon his face
Fixes, and charms, and fires my love.
He speaks, and straight immortal joys
Run through my ears, and reach my heart;
My soul all melts at that dear voice,
And pleasure shoots through every part.
If he withdraw a moment's space,
He leaves a sacred pledge behind;
Here in this breast his image stays,
The grief and comfort of my mind.
While of his absence I complain,
And long, and weep, as lovers do;
There's a strange pleasure in the pain,
And tears have their own sweetness too.
When round his courts by day I rove,
Or ask the watchmen of the night
For some kind tidings of my love,
His very name creates delight.
Jesus, my God! yet rather come;
Mine eyes would dwell upon thy face;
'Tis best to see my Lord at home,
And feel the presence of his grace.
COME, lead me to some lofty shade
Where turtles moan their loves;
Tall shadows were for lovers made
And grief becomes the groves.
'Tis no mean beauty of the ground
That has enslav'd mine eyes;
I faint beneath a nobler wound,
Nor love below the skies.
Jesus, the spring of all that's bright,
The Everlasting Fair,
Heaven's Ornament, and Heaven's Delight,
Is my Eternal Care.
But, ah! how far above this grove
Does the bright Charmer dwell?
Absence, thou keenest wound to love,
That sharpest pain, I feel.
Pensive I climb the sacred hills,
And near him vent my woes;
Yet his sweet face he still conceals,
Yet still my passion grows.
I murmur to the hollow vale,
I tell the rocks my flame,
And bless the echo in her cell
That best repeats his name.
My passion breathes perpetual sighs,
Till pitying winds shall hear,
And gently bear them up the skies,
And gently wound his ear.
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