104 BAXTER'S POEMS. This mantle from thy chariot fell ; We know it by the pleasant smell: ·who knows but from this little seed ·some more such fruitful Vines may breed ? The tree of death bears precious fruit, 'I'hough in the earth it have no root . Dear brother ! thou art gone before, And I a wretch wait at the door ! Sin doth not only keep me thence, But makes me loath to go from hence* When Christ hath heal'd me of this sin ,. And made me fit, he 'lllet me 'in : Till then, may I but in a glass, See what you see with open face ; Sure it will raise my heavy soul, And these distrustful fears controul ! And make me willing to be gone, As knowing whither, and to whom. If time be nothing, as some say, You that were with us yesterday Are with us still; or we with you; Which is the better of the two. The soul imbodied in those lines Doth make us say, that this is ·Vines :- And if our hearts with you could be; Our Lord would say, that there are we. But as, according to desert, The Heavens have got thy better part ;. And left us but some of the wine, Whilst they have taken up the Vine ;
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