ON THE LAST JUDGMENT,

AND

THE HAPPINESS OF THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN.

DONE FROM THE LATIN OF J. GERHARD.

'N that blefs'd day, from every part, the just,

IN

Rais'd from the liquid deep or mouldering duft, The various products of Time's fruitful womb, All of paft ages, prefent and to come,

In full affembly shall at once refort,

And meet within high heaven's capacious court:
There famous names rever'd in days of old,
Our great forefathers there we shall behold,
From whom old stocks and ancestry began,
And worthily in long fucceffion ran;

The reverend fires with pleasure shall we greet,
Attentive hear, while faithful they repeat

Full many a virtuous deed, and many a noble feat.
There all thofe tender ties, which here below,
Or kindred, or more facred friendship know,
Firm, conftant, and unchangeable shall grow.
Refin'd from paffion, and the dregs of sense,
A better, truer, dearer love from thence,
Its everlasting Being fhall commence :

There, like their days, their joys shall ne'er be done,
No night fhall rife, to fhade heaven's glorious fun,
But one eternal holy-day go on.

COLIN'S

COLIN'S COMPLAINT.

A SON G,

TO THE TUNE OF GRIM KING OF THE GHOSTS.

ESPAIRING befide a clear ftream,

DES

A fhepherd forfaken was laid;

And while a falfe nymph was his theme,

A willow fupported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,

To his fighs with a figh did reply:
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.

Alas, filly fwain that I was!

Thus fadly complaining, he cry'd,
When first I beheld that fair face,

'Twere better by far I had dy'd.
She talk'd, and I blefs'd the dear tongue;
When the fmil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great.
I listen'd, and cry'd, when the fung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet?

How foolish was I to believe

She could doat on fo lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve,
To forfake the fine folk of the town?

a

To think that a beauty so gay,

So kind and fo conftant would prove;
Or go clad like our maidens in gray,
Or live in a cottage on love?

What though I have skill to complain,

Though the Mufes my temples havé crown'd;
What though, when they hear my foft ftrain,
The virgins fit weeping around.
Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel refign;
Thy falfe-one inclines to a fwain,
Whofe mufic is fweeter than thine.

And you, my companions fo dear,
Who forrow to fee me betray'd,
Whatever I fuffer, forbear,

Forbear to accufe the falfe maid.

Though through the wide world I fhould range, 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly, 'Twas hers to be false and to change, 'Tis mine to be constant and die.

If while my hard fate I fuftain,

In her breaft any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And fee me laid low in the ground.
The laft humble boon that I crave,

Is to fhade me with cyprefs and yew;
And when the looks down on my grave,
Let her own that her shepherd was true.

Then

Then to her new love let her go,

And deck her in golden array,
Be finest at every fine show,

And frolic it all the long day;
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more fhall be talk'd of, or feen,
Unless when beneath the pale moon,
His ghoft fhall glide over the green.

ANOTHER HAND.

REPLY, BY

I.

YE

E winds to whon Colin complains,
In ditties fo fad and fo fweet,
Believe me, the fhepherd but feigns
He's wretched, to fhew he has wit.
No charmer like Colin can move,
And this is fome pretty new art;

Ah! Colin's a jugler in love,

And likes to play tricks with my heart.

II.

When he will, he can figh and look pale,
Seem doleful and alter his face,

Can tremble, and alter his tale,
Ah! Colin has every pace:

The willow my rover prefers

To the breast, where he once beg'd to lie
And the ftream, that he fwells with his tears,
Are rivals belov'd more than I.

III.

His head my fond bosom would bear,
And my heart would foon beat him to reft;
Let the fwain that is flighted despair,
But Colin is only in jeft :

No death the deceiver defigns,

Let the maid that is ruin'd defpair; For Colin but dies in his lines,

And gives himself that modish air.

IV.

Can fhepherds, bred far from the court,
So wittily talk of their flame ?
But Colin makes paffion his sport,
Beware of fo fatal a game:

My voice of no music can boast,

Nor my perfon of ought that is fine,

But Colin may find, to his cost,

A face that is fairer than mine.

V.

Ah then I will break my lov'd crook,
To thee I'll bequeath all my fheep,
And die in the much-favour'd brook,
Where Colin does now fit and weep:
Then mourn the fad fate that you gave,
In fonnets fo fmooth and divine;
Perhaps, I may rife from my grave,

To hear fuch foft mufic as thine.