12 BAXTER'S POEMS. I thought thy son would never heal my sore, Unless my tears and sorrow had been more. I wonder'd at my great stupidity! That could not weep when I deserved to die. I wonder'd things so great as Heav'n and Hell, - Did on my heart with no more feeling dwell ' That words which such amazing things import, Did not sink deeper, and my soul transport! That things of everlasting consequence Did not affect me with a deeper sense ! And that a soul so near its final doom, Could give these worldly trifles any room ! That on these shadows I could cast an eye, . While death and judgment, Heav'n and Hell stood by. I wonder'd, when my odious sin was named, I was no more confounded and ashamed. Many a time I begg'd a tender heart, And never pray'd so much for joy, as smart. I could· have kiss'd the place where I did kneel, If what my tongue had spoke, my heart could feel. These were my cries, when I to thee did speak, 0 that this heart of stone might melt or break ! These were my groans, this was my daily breath, 0 save me from hard-heartedness and death. This was the title which I used to take, Senseless, hard-hearted wretch, that cannot wake. But as thy wisdom gives in fittest measure; Not all at once; it's meet we wait thy leisure. I thought that things unseen should pierce and melt, With ·as great passion ftS things seen and felt. - But now I find it is their proper part, To be most valued~ to be next the heart!