The Complaint And The Consolation. - Poem by Mather Byles
Where shall I find my Lord, my Love,
The Sov'reign of my Soul?
Pensive from East to West I rove,
And range from Pole to Pole.
I search the shady Bow'rs, and trace
The Mazes of the Grove,
Dear Lord, to see thy beauteous Face,
And tell thee how I love.
For Him, about the flow'ry Fields
My wand'ring Footsteps stray,
When dewy Morn each Mountain guilds,
And purples o'er the Sea;
Till Ev'ning bids the Western Clouds
With glittering Edges flame,
To the soft Winds, and murm'ring Floods,
I still repeat his Name.
Ev'n in the silent Shades of Night
My Song the Forest fills;
When the fair Moon with solemn Light
Has silver'd o'er the Hills.
Jesus my Fair! aloud I cry,
For thee, for thee I burn;
Jesus, the echoing Vales reply,
Jesus, the Rocks return.
Ah thou my Life, when shall I taste
That Heav'n of endless Charms?
When shall I pant upon thy Breast;
And languish in thy Arms?
Oh! how I long to clasp thee close,
Close in a strong Caress!
Joyful my latest Breath I'd loose
For so divine a Bliss.
Ye ling'ring Minutes, swiftly roll,
And rise, the happy Day,
When on his Bosom, thou my Soul,
Shalt all dissolve away.
Then shall my flutt'ring Heart be fixt,
The Muse no more complain,
But with the Choirs immortal mixt,
Resound a heav'nly Strain.
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