THE VALEDICTION. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. VITAL spark of heavenly flame, Hark! they whisper: angels say, The world recedes-it disappears; Lend, lend your wings! I mount, I fly! O Death! where is thy sting? ALEXANDER POPE. THE VALEDICTION. VAIN world, what is in thee? What do poor mortals see Which should esteemed be Worthy their pleasure? Is it the mother's womb, Which is their treasure? How dost thou man deceive By thy vain glory? Why do they still believe Thy false history? Is it children's book and rod, The world desireth? Which man requireth? Or is it youthful rage, Or childish toying? Or is decrepit age Worth man's enjoying? Is it deceitful wealth, Which thus befool men? Still overrule them? Sleep out their season? Or borne down by lust's stream, Which conquers reason? The silly lambs to-day In a more brutish sort Till life, not well begun, Be sadly ended, What is the time that 's gone, The present stays not. Though God bring in the light, They sin forsake not. Man walks in a vain show; In Christ's sweet meadows. 759 Life's better slept away Than as they use it; In sin and drunken play Vain men abuse it. Malignant world, adieu! Where no foul vice is new- God still offended; Though taught and warned by God, Keeps still the way that's broad, Baptismal vows some make, But ne'er perform them; If angels from heaven spake, 'Twould not reform them. They dig for hell beneath, They'll not forsake it. He'll not abate it. Grace is refused that 's free Mad sinners hate it. Vile man is so perverse, And show his folly; He God and conscience hates, And calls it holy. Which will undo him. His head comes first at birth, His feet grow highest, Because it's nighest; He loves this world of strife, Hates that would mend it; Loves death that 's called life, Fears what would end it. All that is good he'd crush, Such Christ was crowned with; That these abound with; The heart, and know it. Of good they choose the least, Which Christ would give them; Satan doth drive them. Like weeds, they grow in mire Which vices nourishWhere, warmed by Satan's fire, All sins do flourish. Is this the world men choose, Of this in some degree, Lest wrath there find thee; Thy refuge-rest is nigh Look not behind thee! There's none of this ado, None of the hellish crew; God's promise is most true Boldly believe it. My friends are gone before, |