Am I the first that go this way? 
    How many saints are gone before! 
  How many enter every day
    Into thy kingdom by this door! 
  Christ was once dead, and in a grave;
    Yet conquered death, and rose again;
  And by this method he will save
    His servants that with him shall reign. 
  The strangeness will be quickly over,
    When once the heaven-born soul is there: 
  One sight of God will it recover
    From all this backwardness and fear. 
  To us, Christ’s lowest parts, his feet,
    Union and faith must yet suffice
  To guide and comfort us:  it’s meet
    We trust our head who hath our eyes.

We see here that faith in the Lord leads Richard Baxter to the same conclusions immediately to which his faithful philosophy led Henry More.

There is much in Baxter’s poems that I would gladly quote, but must leave with regret.  Here is a curious, skilful, and, in a homely way, poetic ballad, embodying a good parable.  I give only a few of the stanzas.

  THE RETURN.

  Who was it that I left behind
    When I went last from home,
  That now I all disordered find
    When to myself I come?

  I left it light, but now all’s dark,
    And I am fain to grope: 
  Were it not for one little spark
    I should be out of hope.

  My Gospel-book I open left,
    Where I the promise saw;
  But now I doubt it’s lost by theft: 
    I find none but the Law.

  The stormy rain an entrance hath
    Through the uncovered top: 
  How should I rest when showers of wrath
    Upon my conscience drop?

  I locked my jewel in my chest;
    I’ll search lest that be gone:—­
  If this one guest had quit my breast,
    I had been quite undone.

  My treacherous Flesh had played its part,
    And opened Sin the door;
  And they have spoiled and robbed my heart,
    And left it sad and poor.

  Yet have I one great trusty friend
    That will procure my peace,
  And all this loss and ruin mend,
    And purchase my release.

  The bellows I’ll yet take in hand,
    Till this small spark shall flame: 
  Love shall my heart and tongue command
    To praise God’s holy name.

  I’ll mend the roof; I’ll watch the door,
    And better keep the key;
  I’ll trust my treacherous flesh no more,
    But force it to obey.

  What have I said?  That I’ll do this
    That am so false and weak,
  And have so often done amiss,
    And did my covenants break?

  I mean, Lord—­all this shall be done
    If thou my heart wilt raise;
  And as the work must be thine own,
    So also shall the praise.

The allegory is so good that one is absolutely sorry when it breaks down, and the poem says in plain words that which is the subject of the figures, bringing truths unmasked into the midst of the maskers who represent truths—­thus interrupting the pleasure of the artistic sense in the transparent illusion.