BAXTER's POEMS. Because no .ignorance, No sin, no devil. What joy must there needs be, Where all God's glory see ; Feeling God's vital love, Which still is burning : And flaming God-ward move, Full 'love returning. Self makes contention here, Love makes all common there, There's no propriety, Mine is my brothers. Perfect community Makes one's another's. Go out then, ling'ring soul, From this vile serpent's hole; Where bred as in a sink, They hiss and sting us. Will not Christ, dost thou think, To better bring us ? Think not that Heav'n wants store, Think not that Hell hath 'more, If all on Earth were lost: Earth's scarce one tittle To the vast Heavens : at most, Exceeding little. All those blest myriads be, 1. Lovers of Christ and thee; Angels thy presence wish, Christ will receive thee: 167
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