Zion.
When Sol once touches our Meridian Line,
It straight descends, does by degrees decline;
Its heat grows less, its dis-appearing Light
Yields to the Sable of approaching night:
Just so the Gospel in its Altitude,
Once shot such beams, that in this Isle ensued
So great conversion, that those former days
Did feel its blest and universal Rays.
A general heat did warm this happy Nation,
From its benign and powerful operation
But now it falls and from our Horizon
Its vigorous influence is almost gone.
Thousands of Sermons lately have been preached,
But very few (if any) sinners reached.
How ineffectual is the quickening word!
It shines, but warms not, 'tis but like a Sword
⟨p. 80⟩That's fair to sight, but has not Edge at all,
Few pricked at heart, and scarce do any fall
At Jesus feet; Or have a sense of sin,
Confessing how Rebellious they have been!
It is a dismal and apparent sign
That night comes on, when Phoebus does decline,
When heat and fervour fail, our hemisphere
Will quickly see its glory disappear.
The evening of the natural day is come
When harvest-work-men are repairing home:
So when quick Summons of Omnipotence,
Removes the Dressers of his Vineyard hence,
We may conclude the Gospel-morning past,
Because Gods Servants disappear so fast.
Can I when Gap-defenders fall asleep,
But (like old Israel) for my Prophets weep?
How can the naked and unguarded Flock,
Against devouring Wolves sustain the shock,
When of the Shepherds it is thus bereft,
When scarce a Moses or a Joshua's left
How many active Guides, most dearly loved
By me, have been, in little time removed,
Scarce can I dry mine Eyes for loss of one,
But news arrives of many others gone:
Ah if my head were waters, and each Eye
A well of tears, I could distil 'em dry;
Bright Lamps extinguished! and no other Lights
Appear to chase the horror of our nights!
Shook by concussions of my Foes, I stand
Whilst few are raised to hold my trembling hand,
⟨p. 81⟩If thus my Horsemen and Commanders dye
What will become of the poor Infantry?
Who can support the burden of the day,
When such brave Hero's daily drop away?
Is summer past, or is the harvest done?
That such Presages of a Storm come on!
Sure God (as Monarchs do) intendeth Wars,
When he recalls his choice Ambassadors.
Ah too Licentious world!
Sion.
When Sol once touches our Meridian Line,
It straight descends, does by degrees decline;
Its heat grows less, its dis-appearing Light
Yields to the Sable of approaching night:
Just so the Gospel in its Altitude,
Once shot such beams, that in this Isle ensu'd
So great conversion, that those former days
Did feel its blest and universal Rays.
A general heat did warm this happy Nation,
From its benign and powerful operation
But now it falls and from our Horizon
Its vigorous influence is almost gone.
Thousands of Sermons lately have been preacht,
But very few (if any) sinners reacht.
How ineffectual is the quickening word!
It shines, but warms not, 'tis but like a Sword
⟨p. 80⟩That's fair to sight, but has not Edge at all,
Few prick'd at heart, and scarce do any fall
At Jesus feet; Or have a sense of sin,
Confessing how Rebellious they have been!
It is a dismal and apparent sign
That night comes on, when Phoebus does decline,
When heat and fervour fail, our hemisphere
Will quickly see its glory disappear.
The ev'ning of the nat'ral day is come
When harvest-work-men are repairing home:
So when quick Summons of Omnipotence,
Removes the Dressers of his Vineyard hence,
We may conclude the Gospel-morning past,
Because Gods Servants disappear so fast.
Can I when Gap-defenders fall asleep,
But (like old Israel) for my Prophets weep?
How can the naked and unguarded Flock,
Against devouring Wolves sustain the shock,
When of the Shepherds it is thus bereft,
When scarce a Moses or a Joshua's left
How many active Guides, most dearly lov'd
By me, have been, in little time remov'd,
Scarce can I dry mine Eyes for loss of one,
But news arrives of many others gone:
Ah if my head were waters, and each Eye
A well of tears, I could distil 'em dry;
Bright Lamps extinguish't! and no other Lights
Appear to chase the horrour of our nights!
Shook by concussions of my Foes, I stand
Whilst few are rais'd to hold my trembling hand,
⟨p. 81⟩If thus my Horsemen and Commanders dye
What will become of the poor Infantry?
Who can support the burden of the day,
When such brave Hero's daily drop away?
Is summer past, or is the harvest done?
That such Presages of a Storm come on!
Sure God (as Monarchs do) intendeth Wars,
When he recals his choice Embassadors.
Ah too Licentious world!
