Why mourns my beauteous Friend, bereft?
Her Saviour and her Heav'n are left:
Her lovely Babe is there at Rest,
In Jesus' Arms embrac'd and blest.
Would you, Urania, wish it down
From yon bright Throne, and shining Crown?
To your cold Arms, and empty Breast,
Could Heaven indulge you the Request;
Your Bosom's neither warm nor fair,
Compar'd with Abraham's: leave it there.
He, the fam'd Father of the Just,
Beheld himself but Earth and Dust,
Before the Will of God most High,
And bid his Darling Isaac die.
When Heav'n requir'd in Sacrifice
The dear Desire of his Eyes;
And more to prove his Love commands
The Offering from the Father's Hands;
See how th' illustrious Parent yields,
And seeks Moriah's mournful Fields.
He bound his lovely only Child
For Death; his Soul serene and mild:
He reach'd his Hand, and grasp'd the Knife,
To give up the devoted Life.
Less Heaven demands of thee, my Friend;
And less thy Faith shall recommend.
All it requires, is to resign,
To Heaven's own Act, and make it thine
By Silence under Discipline.
The least we to our Maker owe!
The least, Urania, you did vow!
The least that was your Saviour's Claim,
When o'er your Babe his glorious Name
Was call'd in awful Baptism! Then
You gave it back to Heaven again.
You freely own'd that happy Hour,
Heaven's Right, Propriety and Power,
The Loan at Pleasure to resume,
And call the pretty Stranger Home.
A Witness likewise at its Birth
I stood, that Hour of Joy and Mirth:
I saw your thankful Praises rise,
And flow from pleas'd, uplifted Eyes:
With rais'd Devotion, one Accord,
We gave the Infant to its Lord.
And think, Urania, 'ere that Day,
While the fair Fruit in secret lay,
Unseen, yet lov'd within the Womb,
(Which also might have been its Tom
How oft, before it blest your Sight,
In secret Prayers with great Delight,
You did recognize Heaven's Right.
Now stand to these blest Acts, my Friend:
Stand firmly by them to the End:
Now you are try'd, repeat the Act;
Too just, too glorious to retract.
Think, dear Urania, how for thee,
God gave his only Son to be,
An Offering on the cursed Tree.
Think, how the Son of God on Earth;
(The spotless Virgins blessed Birth)
Our lovely Babes took up, and blest;
And them high Heirs of Heaven confest!
Think, how the Bless'd of Women stood,
While impious Hands, to th' cursed Wood
Nail'd down her only Son and God!
Learn hence, Urania, to be dumb!
Learn thou the Praise that may become
Thy lighter Grief; which Heaven does please
To take such wondrous Ways to ease.
Adore the God, who from thee takes,
No more than what he gives and makes:
And means in tenderest Love, the Rod
To serve to thy eternal Good.