attendance at the university of Leyden, had acquired an ardent zeal for civil and religious liberty, and who, commanding a good library and ample leisure, prosecuted those historical studies and poetical recreations which kept time from hanging heavy on his hand, and made him and his partner helps meet for one another. But their union lasted only five years. Mr Rowe died of consumption in 1715; and from that time till her own death, February 20, 1737, Mrs Rowe resided chiefly at Frome, leading a life distinguished for good works and devotion, and publishing, from time to time, her "Friendship in Death," and the successive parts of her "Letters Moral and Entertaining," which, owing to the vivacity of their style, and their great intrinsic merits, were received with an unusual amount of public favour.
A few months after her death appeared her "Devout Exercises of the Heart," with a preface by Dr Watts, to whose care she had confided the manuscript. And she could not have entrusted it to a more appropriate editor. They had long been friends; and their tastes were identical. They both loved to combine the pleasures of imagination with the pleasures of piety; and even the prose of Philomela often soars up to the elevation of the Christian Psalmist's lyrics.
Mrs Rowe's most extensive poetical undertaking was "The History of Joseph." She also executed twice over a metrical paraphrase of the Song of Solomon; and, like her elder contemporary, Madame Guyon, her own spiritual experience ran very much in the channels carved by "great David's greater son." Such a style may not command the sympathy of every reader; but, whatever may be thought of the language, in the case of Mrs Rowe there could be no doubt as to the genuineness of the under-lying affections and emotions. And surely, to our colder hearts and feebler piety, it should be some comfort to know that all worshippers have not been equally formal. Let us be thankful that, amongst those of like pas
sions with ourselves, there have been some spirits more fervid; and that, amongst the intensest and most ardent of natures, have been some who loved the Lord their God "with all their heart, and with all their soul, and with all their strength, and with all their mind."
Be hush'd my griefs, 'tis His almighty will
That rules the storms, and bids you all be still;
Be calm ye tempests, vanish every care,
While with triumphant faith my soul draws near
To God in all the confidence of pray'r.
He has not bid me seek His face in vain,
Talk to the winds, or to the waves complain;
He hears the callow ravens from their nest,
By Him their eager cravings are redress'd;
Young lions through the desert roar their wants,
He marks them, and the wild petition grants;
The gaping furrows thirst, nor thirst in vain
(Parch'd by the noon-day sun) for timely rain;
With silent suit the fair declining flowers
Request and gain the kind refreshing showers.
And will the Almighty Father turn away,
Nor hear His darling offspring when they pray?
No breach of faithfulness His honour stains,
With day and night His word unchang'd remains;
The various ordinances of the sky
Stand forth His glorious witnesses on high;
Summer and winter, autumn and the spring,
For Him, by turns, their attestations bring;
Unblemish'd His great league with Nature stands,
And full reliance on His truth demands:
Nothing that breathes a second deluge fears,
When in the cloud the radiant bow appears.
Can the Most High, like man, at random speak,
Forfeit his honour, and his promise break?
Does he that falsely swears His vengeance claim?
And shall He stain His own tremendous Name?
The earth, the heav'ns, were witness when He swore
By His great self; what would thy fears have more
And had a greater than Himself been found,
That greater had the high engagement bound.
Shall fleeting winds th' Almighty's words disperse,
Or breathing dust His solemn oath reverse?
Can He, like man, unconstant man, repent?
Shall any chance, or unforeseen event
Start up His settled purpose to prevent?
Or can He fail in the expected hour,
A stranger to His own extent of power?
What profit can a worm his Maker bring,
That He should flatter such a worthless thing?
Why should He condescend to mind my tears,
Or calm, with soft deluding words, my fears?
Can He (of perfect happiness possess'd)
Deride the woes that human life molest,
Or mock the hopes that on His goodness rest?
Nature may change her course, confusion reign,
And men expect the rising sun in vain;
But should the eternal truth and promise fail,
Infernal night and horror must prevail ;
The thrones of light would shake, th' angelic pow'rs
Would stop their harps amidst the blissful bow'rs.
No more the soft, the sweet melodious strain,
Would gently glide along the happy plain;
No more would tuneful hallelujahs rise,
And shouts triumphant fill the sounding skies;
Each heavenly countenance a sullen air
Of grief and anxious diffidence would wear:
The golden palaces, the splendid seats,
The flowery mansions, and the soft retreats,
The rosy shades, and sweet delicious streams,
Would disappear like transitory dreams.
Angels themselves their brightest hopes recline
On nothing more unchangeable than mine.
Am I deceived? What can their charter be?
Fair seraphim may be deceiv'd like me;
If goodness and veracity divine
Can fail, their heaven 's an airy dream like mine.
But, oh! I dare the glorious venture make,
And lay my soul and future life at stake;
Be earth, be heaven, at desperate hazard lost,
If here my faith should prove an empty boast!
Whate'er your arts, ye powers of hell, suggest,
The truth of God undaunted I attest:
Produce your annals with insulting rage,
Bring out your records, shew the dreadful page,
One instance where the Almighty broke His word,
Since first the race of men His name adored;
In gloomy characters point out the hour,
Exert your malice, summon all your power:
With rites infernal all your pomp display,
And mark with horror the tremendous day.
Confus'd you search your dreadful rolls in vain,
The eternal honour shines without a stain--
Unblemish'd shines-in men and angels' view;
Just are Thy ways, thou King of saints, and true!
The Fifth Chapter of Solomon's Song.
The night had now her gloomy curtains spread,
And every cheerful beam of light was fled;
This dismal night, my Lord, who ne'er before
Had met a cold refusal at my door,
Approach'd, and with a voice divinely sweet,
My ears with these persuading words did greet:
"My fairest spouse, my sister, and my love!"
(But ah! no more these charming names could move)
"Arise, for through the midnight shades and dew
I thee, the object of my cares, pursue."
His heavenly voice and moving words I heard,
And knew the blest design my Lord prepared;
But long, with poor excuses, I delay'd,
And careless stretch'd on my enticing bed.
Tir'd with my cold delay, "Farewell," He cries:
These killing words my fainting soul surprise;
With fear distracted to the door I run,
But oh! the treasure of my life was gone!
Yet of His recent presence signs I found,
For heavenly fragrance fill'd the air around;
I rove wherever love directs my feet,
And call aloud but no return could meet;
Echoes alone to my complaint reply
In mournful sounds as through the shades I fly.
I, from the watchmen, hoped in vain relief;
With cruel scorn they mock'd my pious grief.
But you, Jerusalem's fair daughters, you
That know what pity to my cares is due,
O! if you meet the object of my love,
Tell Him what torments for His sake I prove;
Tell Him how tenderly His loss I moan;
Tell Him that all my joys with Him are gone;
Tell Him His presence makes my heav'n; and tell,
Oh! tell Him that His absence is my hell!
What bright perfections does He then possess
For whom thou dost this tender grief express?
O! He's distinguish'd from all human race
By such peculiar, such immortal grace,
That you among ten thousand may descry
His heavenly form, and find for whom I die.
There's nothing which on earth we lovely call,
But He surpasses, far surpasses all.
He's fairer than the spotless orbs of light,
Nor falling snow, compared to Him, is white.
The roses that His lovely face adorn
Outblush the purple glories of the morn.
The waving ringlets of His graceful hair,
Black as the shining plumes the ravens wear.
His eyes would win the most obdurate heart,
Victorious love in every look they dart.
His balmy lips diffuse divine perfumes,
And on His cheek a bed of spices blooms.
His breast like polished ivory, smooth and fair,
With veins which with the sapphires may compare.
Stately His height, as those fair trees which crown
With graceful pride the brow of Lebanon.
His voice so sweet, no harmony is found
On earth to equal the delightful sound.
He's altogether lovely-This is He
So much beloved, so much adored by me.
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