l8 BAXTER'S POEMS. Is there no spark of love in this desire, When a poor soul doth unto thee aspire ? To know and love thee is my thirst and strife . Nothing more makes me weary of my life, Than that I feel no more the heav'nly fire ; But look and reach, and yet can reach rro higher. Here lies my pain ! this is my daily sore: I hate my heart for loving God no more. Do I not love thee, when I love to love thee? And when I set up nothing else above thee? , Next GoD himself, who is my END and REST, Lo,,e which stands next thee, I esteem my best; And loving God shall be my endless feast. 0 my dear God! how precJous is thy love! The~e are thy earnests of the life above. Fear is to love, as was the law to grace: And as John Baptist goes before Christ's face, Preaching repentance; it prepares his way; It is the first appearing of the day ; The dawning light which comes before the sun ; As he that to Christ's sepulchre first run, Excites the loved disciple to do better ; The certain news of life comes by the later. Fear is love's harbinger ; it is the womb Where love doth breed Gl time of ripeness come ! No wonder if it be not seen till then; The seed and embryo are hid from men. Though thou com'st in by love, fear draws the latch; Fear makes the motion, tho' love makes the match ; Fear is the soil that cherisheth the seed, The nursery in which Heav'n's plants do breed.
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