CLXXXIII. CHRIST'S Transfiguration.

WHen at this Distance, Lord, we trace
The various Glories of thy Face,
What Transport pours o'er all our Breast,
And charms our Cares, and Woes to Rest!

With Thee in the obscurest Cell
On some bleak Mountain would I dwell,
Rather than pompous Courts behold,
And share their Grandeur and their Gold.

Away, ye Dreams of mortal Joy!
Raptures divine my Thoughts employ:
I see the King of Glory shine;
I feel his Love, and call him Mine.

On Taber thus his Servants view'd
His Lustre, when transform'd he stood;
And, bidding earthly Scenes farewell,
Cried, "LORD, 'tis pleasant here to dwell".

Yet still our elevated Eyes
To nobler Visions long to rise;
That grand Assembly would we join,
Where all thy Saints around thee shine.

That Mount how bright! Those Forms how fair!
'Tis good to dwell for ever there.
Come, Death, dear Envoy of my GOD,
And bear me to that blest Abode.