BAXTER'S POEMS. 21 ·who warm'd me with his zeal when I was cold; And my rewissness lovingly controul'd; Who stirr'd me up, and taught me how to pray; And friendly watch'd and warn'd me every day. And yet his piety did not exceed His ~harity to those that were in need. For such a friend I had, though after all, Hims~lf became my warning by his fall ; As more than one or two have done since then ; Shewing when grace withdraws, we are but men. 0 my dear God ! how precious is thy love ! T'hese are the seeds ; what are the fruits above ? Yet did I scarce discern that ·it was thee, Whom in the glass my pleased mind did see. But though thine image more incur my sense, I love it for the pourtray'd excellence : It's not because the workmanship is :fine, Bu~ good and holy; and because it's thine. I better know the map that's in my hand : But yet, by it, I better love the land. Sure when I loved thy books and every letter ; I loved the sense, and end, and author better. He loveth wisdom sure, who loves the wise ; It's like he loves the light, who loves his eyes. If one in prison had his life begun, , Where he had never seen the shining sui). ; Yet if he dearly love the candle-light, He'd surely love the sun, which is more bright. Or if the sun had always clouded been, And men its scattered light alone had seen ; It's true, our thoughts and love of that we see, Would more exact and satisfying be :
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