114 BAXTER'S POEMS. It's Christ that doth thee send, To bring about his end ; And him thou must obey: He is my dearest friend, And doth no harm intend !n calling me away. And why should he fear ill, Whom love itself doth kill? And numb'reth with the blest ? Why should not Death fulfil His good all-ruling will,-:- My spring, my guide, my rest? Hoc migraturus scripsi sub imagine Carmen. FAREWELL, vain world! as thou hast been to me Dust and a shadow, such I leave to thee. 'fhe unseen life and substance I commit To him that 's substance, life, light, love, to it . Some leaves and fruit are dropp'd for soil and seed; Heaven's heirs to generate; to heal and feed: Them also thou wilt flatter and molest, Bnt shalt not keep from everlasting rest. vel, Munde d.olose, vale: mihi vera pahestra fuisti: Perficitur cm·sus ; certa corona manet. Vita fugax cessat: prrestant reterna caducis: Mens superos visit: pulvere pulvis erit.
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