Ier: 9. 1.
Psal: 119. 5.
Psal 55. 6
LONDON Printed for Henry Bonwick at ye Red Lyon in St. Pauls Churchyard.
PIA DESIDERIA: OR, Divine Addresses, In Three BOOKS. Illustrated with XLVII. Copper-Plates. Written in Latine by Herm. Hugo. Englished by EDM. ARWAKER, M. A.
LONDON: Printed for Henry Bonwicke, at the Red-Lion in St. Paul's Church-Yard. MDCLXXXVI.
IMPRIMATUR,
October 20. 1685.
Rob. Midgley.
TO Her Royal Highness THE PRINCESS ANNE Of DENMARK.
THE Great, Madam, seldom want Addresses from the Multitude, to applaud and celebrate them; for Greatness draws the Crowd, as the burning Bush did Moses, to admire it. But what encourages others in their approaches to their Superiors, had prohibited mine to Your Royal Highness, and, like the Voice sent from amidst that Bush, had prescrib'd my admiration limits, and confind'd it to so due a distance, that it might not commit a Rudeness, where it design'd to pay a [Page] Reverence. But, Madam, the obliging condescention of Your Excellent and truly Royal Temper, which awes all Your approachers only with a gentle Influence, as it encourag'd me to beg, so it readily procur'd me Your gracious permission to lay this humble Offering at Your feet. I have therefore presum'd to introduce into Your Royal Highness's Presence a Foreigner ambitious of the Honor, and one who must certainly be divertive, if his sense be not impair'd by the unskilfulness of his Interpreter.
For you will find him, Madam, so much your own resemblance, so religiously Devout, so sincerely Christian so verst in all the heights and transports of an exalted Piety, as well as all the excellencies of Wit and Sense, that his Conversation cannot be unpleasing.
And now, to whom but Your Royal [Page] Highness can he become a Suppliant? for where can a Work of the highest Devotion be so favourably receiv'd, as where the Person whose Patronage it implores is the most Unimitable, as well as most Illustrious Pattern of it?
It is not, Madam, because You are Daughter to the best, no less than the Greatest of Christian Monarchs, but because You are a faithful Servant to the King of Kings, that this poor piece begs your Royal Acceptance. It admires You not so much for Your external Pomp and Grandeur, as for the nobler Ornaments of Your Soul; nor takes so much notice that Your Garments are of Needle-work and Embroidery, as that You are all glorious within. For Your Piety, Madam, is eminent as Your Quality; and the Constancy of Your Presence, as well as the Religion of Your Performance, at the Devotions of our [Page] Church, might powerfully put to silence not only the Ignorance of foolish men, but the Malice too of the wicked and perverse: Or if they shou'd still continue their false suggestions, yet the genuine Sons of the Church of England can have no apprehensions of unkindness from their Sovereign, who has given His Princely Word, that He will defend and support it in its present Establishment, and whose Royal Issue are such inseparable Members of it, that all Its sufferings must affect Them. But God be prais'd the Church, thro His Majesty's goodness and favour, is as far from danger as from the dread or suspicion of it, and the notion it has of His benign and gracious disposition, renders it as fearless, as the addition of a Promise, as sacred and inviolable as the Laws of the Medes and Persians, makes it safe. And as 'tis the Churches first happiness to be under the Go [...]ernment [Page] of so excellent a Prince, so 'tis its [...]econd blessing to be own'd by Your Royal Highness, the public daily demonstrations of whose affection towards it, are so many convin [...]ing arguments of its Purity and Perfection; and all must believe worthily of it, since it stands fair in the good opinion of one of the Wisest and most Religious Princesses in the world. Which favor it cannot fear to lose, till 'tis estrang'd from it self, till it forfeits that Character which His Majesty was pleas'd to give of it, and falls from its ancient Loyalty, that signal Loyalty for which it has been always eminent, and which is a main part of [...]ts Religion; that Religion which Your Royal Highness honors by Your Profession, and adorns by your Practice of it, and which the world must admire, out of an ambitian to imi [...]ate such a great Exemplar. But as Your Royal Highness is absolute in all points of a real [Page] Piety, so You excel in that of not seeking th [...] worlds applause by Your performances, an [...] therefore I leave all Panegyricks, and onl [...] make it my humble petition, that You wi [...] with Your usual sweetness and candor accep [...] this mean present, and pardon the unworth [...] Offerer,
Your Royal Highness's most Humble and most Obedient Servant, EDM. ARWAKER
THE PREFACE.
FRom my first acquaintance with this Author, which was as early as I was able to understand him, I found him so pleasing and agreeable, [...]hat I wish'd he were taught to speak English, that [...]hose who cou'd not understand him in his own language might by that means partake of the satisfaction and advantage I, at least, receiv'd in my conversation with him. And finding that not any Pen had been employ'd about the Work, (for Mr. Quarles only borrow'd his Emblems, to praefix them to much inferiour sense) ra [...]her than it shou'd remain undon, and such an excellent piece of Devotion be lost to those who wou'd prize it most, the Religious Ladies of our Age: I resolv'd to engage in the attempt; and the rather, because the Subject was as sutable to my Calling, as a Clergyman, as the Sense was to my Fancy, as an humble Admirer of Poetry, especially such as is Divine.
But on a more considerate perusal of the Book, in order to a Translation, I found some things in it which put a stop to my proceeding, that even my zeal to have [...]t done, cou'd scarce prevail with me to undertake the Work. For my Author, I found, was a little too much a Poet, and had inserted several fictitious stories in his Poems, which did much lessen their gravity, and very [...]ll become their Devotion; and which, indeed, wou'd take from them that prevalency which they ought to have, as serious Addresses from the Soul to God, over the affections of all that read them. But at last [Page] my inclination to the Work, made me resolve rath [...] wholly to omit those Fictions where I met them, tha [...] recede from my design. And accordingly I have made [...] my business to leave them always out, only where [...] cou'd think of an apposite example out of the Scripture [...] I have used it instead of the fictitious one omitted. A [...] in the first Poem of the second Book, where the Autho [...] brings in Phaeton as an example of mens desiring L [...] berty in choosing, tho their choice proves oftentimes thei [...] rui [...], I have used the Prodigal Son, as more sutab [...] to t [...]e design, and I am sure to the gravity of the Poem▪ A [...] such another alteration I have made in the secon [...] Poem of the third Book, where, instead of Cydippe [...] being deceiv'd by Acontius with an Apple, I hav [...] mention'd Eve's being so deluded by the Serpent. An [...] in several other places I have done the like, wher [...] th [...]se fabulous stories came in my way, as whoever ha [...] the curiosity to enquire, may find, by comparing th [...] English with the Latine. And in all this, I think, [...] have rather done my Author a kindness than an injury▪ But there is another thing for which some of the A [...] thor's friends may perhaps call me to an account; th [...] is, for omitting several historical passages taken fro [...] the Legend of Saints and Martyrologies: And fo [...] this I must return in my own behalf, that it was no [...] out of any disregard to, or prejudice against the Sain [...] and holy persons of whom the account is given, nor th [...] I superstitiously disbelieve their stories, however som [...] perhaps may with too much superstition credit them; bu [...] the true reasons of my leaving out the mention of them were these: [...]irst, because I knew that great part o [...] [Page] [...]e Readers would be strangers to their Histories, and [...]ust consequently be at a loss in understanding the Poems. [...]econdly, because the truth of the relations is not so evi [...]ent as to render them unquestionable, I thought them [...]tter left out, especially since they are only bare recitals [...] such passages, without any improvement of Fancy, or [...]ckiness of Thought upon them, which could not injure [...]e Book by being omitted, whereas the inserting that [...]art might prejudice some nice judgments against the [...]hole: And, which was my third reason, might be a [...]inderance to the Impression.
But however they may censure me for this, I hope [...]ey will not take it ill that I have left out the Satyri [...]l part of the second Poem of the first Book, wherein [...]e Author reflects on the Monks and Fryars in their [...]ariety of Habits, and contests about them; for indeed [...] thought it something too uncharitable to have any room [...] so Divine a Poem. And now I am apologizing for [...]missions, let me not forget to acquaint the Reader that [...] have left out some of the Author's sense, particularly [...] the eighth Poem of the second Book, and in the second [...]oem of the third Book: In the first of which he recounts [...]ll the several sorts of Perfumes he can think of, and in [...]he latter makes a long recital of the various kinds of Flowers, both which rather tire than delight the Rea [...]er, and he must be unkind if he does not thank me for [...]mitting them. But still it may be objected against me, [...]hat I have made bold with my Author, in varying [...]rom him, and sometimes adding to him: 'Tis true, I [...]ave done both; as in the third Poem of the first Book [...]or instance, where, instead of mentioning Podalirius [Page] and Melampus, and the other Physicians, I have u [...] ten lines of my own; and in the fifth Poem of the sa [...] Book, I have given an account of Mans Creation so [...] thing different from that in my Author, (both which, all the other variations and additions, may be known the English Reader by their being printed in the Itali [...] Character.) But whether I have impair'd the sen [...] whether done for the better or the worse, I must sub [...] my self to the judgment of the Learned, whose pardo [...] must beg for whatever is amiss, and particularly if [...] any thing I have injur'd the worthy Author, to whom I a [...] willing to make all the reparation I am able. And if [...] have injur'd him in other additions, I have done him [...] kindness in that in the tenth Poem of the third Boo [...] where he seems to apologize for Self-murther; for wh [...] I have there added takes away all possibility of mistaki [...] him, who I am confident was too good a Christian [...] design any thing of that kind, and we find he sufficient [...] condemn'd all such attempts by this Verse:
O quoties quaesita fugae fuit ansa pudendae! which I have render'd,
How oft' wou'd I attempt a shameful flight! where the epithet he gives to slight, proves that he ha [...] no good opinion of it. And this gives me the hint to s [...] something of his wishing for death in the eighth Poe [...] of the same Book, which is not any way meant in favo [...] of Self-murther, but a pious desire of the Soul to be fre [...] from the captivity of the body, that it might enjoy i [...] Saviour; which is no more than what St. Paul tells [...] of himself, that he had a desire to be dissolved, an [...] to be with Christ. More might be urg'd in behalf of [...] [Page] Author▪ on this account, but that he needs no apology, & [...] shall have enough to do to excuse my self, for 'tis not [...]mprobable I shall be accus'd of an indecorum as to Chro [...]ology, in bringing in the glorious Saint & Martyr King Charles I. with our late and present Monarchs, for ex [...]mples of the misfortune that oftentimes attends the [...]reatest and best of men, instead of Menelaus and Dio [...]ysius: but I desire the Reader to give me leave to [...]form him, that I design my Translation to represent [...]e Book as if but now first written, and where then [...]uld I produce more apt examples of the instability of [...]ortune, and the sufferings of good men, than those [...]rinces were, whose Unhappiness, like their Excellen [...]es, had no parallel? I am sure They must be more su [...]ble than Dionysius, whose tyranny made him unpitied [...] his misery. And having told my Reader my design, [...] hope he will not blame me for changing the 7th. of May which I suppose was my Author's Birth-day) to the 7th. of July, (which was my own) and applying to my [...]lf all that part of the eighth Poem in the third Book; [...]nd then I am confident I shall not be condemn'd on any and for that digression in the fourteenth Poem of the [...]me Book, wherein I conceive the joyful reception of his [...]te Majesty's Soul in Heaven, and the great satisfacti [...] which his present Majesty's succession to the Crown [...]ought to those Coelestial Spirits, who being lovers of [...]ight and Equity, must be exceedingly pleas'd to have [...]s undoubted Title take place: for that they are affect [...] with some transactions here below, is evident from [...]r Saviour's words, that there is joy in Heaven [...]ong the Angels over sinners that repent; and [...]hy not then over the Just that are rewarded?
I would not willingly tire my Reader with a long P [...] face, and therefore shall only add a word or two in beh [...] both of my Author and my self. 'Tis true the Title-p [...] in the Latine declares him of the Society of Jesus, [...] his Book shews nothing either of his Order, or particu [...] Opinion in Religion, but that he is an excellent Christ [...] in the main: And indeed he seems to me to have desig [...] edly avoided all occasion of offence to his Readers of [...] different judgment; for tho in the fourteenth Poem of [...] first Book he had a fair opportunity of mentioning P [...] gatory, he wholly declines it, and takes no notice at [...] of such a place. And in the twelfth Poem of the th [...] Book he says nothing of Transubstantiation, tho he [...] occasion to mention the Sacrament of the Eucharist. A [...] this particularly I thought necessary to offer, lest so [...] may think I have mis-render'd him in those pla [...] which, if they consult himself, they'll find I have had [...] occasion for. Thus, having made my excuse for some thi [...] which I fear'd might be carpt at, if I have any ot [...] faults, I shall detain the Reader no longer, but let h [...] go on to find them.
Some Errors have escap'd the Press: Those which relate to [...] se [...]se, are inserted underneath; those in the Pointing, [...] left to the courteous Reader to correct, who is desired like [...] to pardon and amend any literal faults.
Page 1. line 3. for Those, read Whose. p. 46. l. 8. r. Frie [...] p. 146. l. 10. r. I move. p. 150.-l. 4. for whose, r. who's. p. 2 [...] l. 20. r: And then. p. 232. l. 16. r. my deliverer.
TO THE DESIRE OF THE Eternal Habitations, [...]ESUS CHRIST, Whom the Angels desire to pry into.
‘ [...]rd, thou knowest all my desire, and my groaning is not hid from thee. Psal. 38. v. 9.’
BY no discov'ry did I e're impart
The secret pantings of my love-sick Heart▪
Those close recesses to no other eye
[...]t the great Pow'r's that fram'd them, open lie:
[...] only views my thoughts in their undress,
[...]d His bright beams expose their nakedness.
Who can his sense t'anothers ears convey,
Unless himself his own designs betray?
Yet, cou'd Discov'ry gratifie my wish,
Concealment shou'd not long defer the Bliss:
But no relation can my wants relieve,
Or limits to my boundless wishes give.
Rachel (alas!) wou'd her lost Sons deplore,
But th'ineffectual grief was quickly o're:
Since publish'd sorrows still were unredrest,
She call'd them back home to her mournful breast.
Thus Fire emits, and then devours its Seeds,
And on its Off-spring the wild Parent feeds.
Thus, when the Clouds have empty'd all their R [...]
They drink up the exhausted stock again.
And thus I best receive the tears I shed,
And turn the Streams back to their Fountains hea [...]
Then what my thoughts are while I seem to mo [...]
Only to me, and him I love, is known;
What I design in every silent Vow,
Only my self, and my Beloved know;
[...] longing SIGHS a mystick Language prove,
[...]known to all but me and Him I love.
How oft' have I with hypocritick art
[...]a dissembled look bely'd my heart?
[...]ile Sadness all without deludes the sight,
[...]en all within is Pleasure in the height:
[...] faithless tears are practis'd in deceit,
[...]d my false smiles are all a varnish'd cheat.
[...]en I lament, the world believes me sad;
[...]en I rejoyce, then it concludes me glad:
[...]us by my count'nance guessing at my state,
[...]s oft' abus'd to a wrong estimate;
[...]r false appearances deceive its sense,
[...]d all it sees is Vizard and Pretence.
[...]hat mean my throbbing breasts▪ and melting eyes,
[...]e only know, and only We suffice.
‘Heb. 4. 13. Neither is there any Creature that is not manifest in his sight, but all things are naked and opened to the eyes of him with whom we have to do.’
[Page 4]
[Page 5] SIGHS OF THE Penitent Soul, BOOK the First.
I.
‘With my soul have I desired thee in the night. Isa. 26. 9.’
HOw do my wandring thoughts mistake their way,
And in a Maze of darksom Error stray?
Lost in which dismal Lab'rinth, I conclude
Th' Aegyptian Plague is in my Soul renew'd.
A Night of so much Horror's fit alone
For the neglect of dull Oblivion.
No Scythian or Cimmerian Sky's so black,
Tho Heav'ns bright Lamps those gloomy Shades forsake;
Ev'n Hell, where Night in sable Triumph dwells,
Yields to the terror of my darker Cells:
For tho no fav'ring Star imparts its light,
To banish thence the Horror and Affright;
Yet there so much their punishment they feel,
As will not let them be insensible:
There the sad Shades bewail their want of Light,
And the Cimmerians grieve away their Night;
And, when the Scythians six dark Moons have spent,
Th'expected Day returns from Banishment.
But I am to eternal Night confin'd,
And what shou'd guide me, is it self struck blind:
Nor can I hope but that I still must stray,
Since I perceive not how I lose my way;
But court the baneful Shades in which I err,
And to Heav'ns safe and faithful Cynosure
The Ignis Fatuus of my sense prefer:
For Prides false light misguides my wandring mind,
[...]nd vain Ambition does my Judgment blind;
[...]hile Love with soft Enchantments does entice
[...]y heart, and with false fire deceives my eyes.
[...]hen this black Image does my thoughts possess,
[...]he darkness and the horror still increase.
[...]y eyes have their successive Night and Day,
[...]nd Heav'n allows them an alternate sway:
[...]h! that my Soul as happy were as They!
[...]hat Reason jointly might with Will preside,
[...]hose office 'tis the stragling Mind to guide!
They more are griev'd who lose the use of sight,
[...]an they who ne're enjoy'd the benefit;
[...]d he that in Nights shades has lost his way,
[...]utes with greater joy th'approaching Day:
[...]t that (alas!) is a too tedious Night,
[...]at never will admit the grateful Light.
When the bright Sun returns to cheer our eyes,
[...] haste, like Persians, to adore his Rise;
Thither our early homage we address,
And strive who first shall his kind Influence bless.
Thus oft', on high, I Heav'ns bright Orb survey'd
From Pole to Pole, and thus as oft' have pray'd;
Shine, shine, my Sun, bright subject of my Song,
Thou that hast left my watchful eyes too long,
Rise, rise, and raise thy wondrous head on high;
Can one faint Ray indulge my longing eye?
Yet, if that Bliss is too sublime for me,
Give me, oh! give me one kind glimpse of Thee
‘Bernard in Cant. Serm. 75. The World has its Nights, and those not a few. Alas! why do I say its Nights, since it self is almost one continual Night, and always overspread with Darkness?’
II.
‘O God, thou knowest my simplicity, and my faults are not hid from thee. Psal. 69. 5.’
IF thou our childish Folly canst not bear,
Thou, who dost all things by wise Counsels steer;
Who can accepted, who can pardon'd be,
Since none from Folly, none from Faults are free?
This strange infectious Poyson of the mind
Has spread its Venom o're all human-kind:
'Tis vain to counterfeit, we've all been frail,
Folly's our Birth-Right by a long Entail,
Since our first Parents went themselves astray,
And taught us too to fool our Bliss away:
They for an Apple all Mankind betray'd;
Was e're a more imprudent bargain made?
Nor Esau's Folly has its parallel,
Who, Wretch! devour'd his Birth-Right at a Meal.
Ev'n He,—
Whom Sheba's Queen for Wisdom did prefer,
(Strange weakness!) acted Folly ev'n with Her;
Which proves that King's Orac'lous Sentence true,
Who says, that Fools are num'rous, Wise-men few.
Nor was the prudent Moses wish in vain,
When he of Mans destruction did complain;
O that unthinking Mortals wou'd be wise,
And place their End before their heedful eyes!
Then Sins short pleasures they wou'd soon despise,
Not yield, like Wax, to ev'ry Stamp of Vice.
Wou'd any but a strange besotted Rout,
Th' Existence of a God deny, or doubt?
These, that in sin they may uncheck'd go on,
Perswade themselves to a belief of None.
Our very Crimes t'improve our Folly tend,
And we're infatuate, e're we dare offend;
Nor does the growing frenzy here give o're,
But from this Ill runs headlong on to more:
We Castles build in this inferior Air,
As if to have Eternal Beings here:
[...]t when unthought-of Death shall snatch us hence,
[...]e then shall own the fond Improvidence.
[...]ith endless and unprofitable toil
[...]e strive t'enrich and beautifie the Soil;
[...]is Soil, which we must leave at last behind
[...] those for whom our pains were ne're design'd.
How does our toil resemble Childrens play,
[...]hen they erect an Edifice of Clay?
[...]ow idly busie and imploy'd they are?
[...]ere, some bring Straw; there, others Sticks prepare;
[...]is loads his Cart with Dirt; that in a Shell
[...]ings Water, that it may be temper'd well;
[...]nd in their work themselves they fondly pride,
[...]hile Age the childish Fabrick does deride:
[...] on our Work Heav'n with contempt looks down;
[...]nd with a breath our Babel-Tow'r's o'rethrown.
What strange desire of Gems, what thirst of Gold,
[...]hose, drops of Rain congeal'd; that, ripned Mold!
[...]et these so much mens nobler Souls debase,
[...]hat they their bliss in such mean trifles place.
Ah! foolish Ign'rants! can your choice appro [...]
No more exalted Objects of your love,
That all your time in their pursuit you spend,
As if Salvation did on them depend?
Heav'n may be purchas'd at an easie rate;
But, oh! how few bid any thing for That!
Unthinking Sots! that Earth to Heav'n prefer,
And fading Joys to endless Glory there!
The Crime of such an inconsid'rate choice
Ought not pretend to Pardon, ev'n in Boys;
For They from Counters currant Money know,
Almost as soon as they have learnt to go:
But Men (oh shame!) prize counterfeit delight [...]
Before the Joys to which kind Heav'n invites.
Oh! for some Artist to retrieve their sense,
E're more degrees of Folly they commence.
But by Heav'ns piercing Eye we are descry'd,
Which does our sins with Follies Mantle hide.
He's pleas'd to wink at Errors too in me,
And seeing, seems as tho he did not see.
He knows I've but a slender stock of Wit,
[...]nd want a Guardian too to manage it:
[...] then, some kind Protection, Lord, assign
[...]his Ideot Soul! But 'twill be best in Thine.
‘Chrysost. in Joann. Hom. 4. They are no better than Fools, who are ever, as it were, dreaming of earthly things, and of short continuance.’
Haue mercy upon me O Lord, for I am Weak: O Lord heal me, for my bones are vexed Psal: 6. 2
III.
‘ [...]ave mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am weak: O Lord, heal me, for my bones are vexed. Psal. 6. 2.’
SHall my just grief be querulous, or mute,
Full of Disease, of Physick destitute!
[...]ought thy Love so constant heretofore,
[...]at Vows were needless to confirm me more:
[...]d dost thou now absent, and slight my pain!
[...]at fault of mine has caus'd this cold Disdain?
O blest Physitian of my love-sick Soul,
[...]ose sight alone will make thy Patient whole;
[...]ou who hast caus'd, canst thou forget my grief,
[...]ich only from its Author seeks relief?
Shou'd they whose Art gave dying Fame new breath;
[...]d rescu'd their surviving names from Death:
[...]y in whose sight no bold Disease durst stand
[...] trembling vanish'd at their least command;
They who each Simples sov'rein Virtue knew,
And to their ends cou'd well apply them too:
Shou'd they their skill in tedious Consult try,
All, all wou'd fail to ease my misery;
All their Prescriptions without Thine are vain,
Thine only sute the nature of my pain.
Thou who hast caus'd, canst thou forget my gri [...]
Which only from its Author seeks relief!
See! my parch'd tongue my bodies flame decla [...]
And my quick Pulse proclaims intestine Wars;
While so much blood's profusely spent within,
That not one drop can in my cheeks be seen;
And the same Pulse that gave the brisk Allarms,
Beats a dead March in my dejected Arms:
My Doctors sigh, and shrugging take their leave,
And me to Heav'n and a cold Grave bequeath,
While more than they the fatal sense I feel
Of my lost health, and their succesless skill.
What can the Patient hope, when sad despair
Discourages the lost Physician's care!
[...]e subtle Poyson creeps through all my Veins,
[...]nd in my Bones the fierce Infection reigns:
[...]y drooping head flies to my hands for aid,
[...]t by the feeble Props is soon betray'd:
[...]ow my last breath is ready to expire,
[...]nd I must next to Deaths dark Cell retire.
[...]ainly I strive my other pains to tell,
[...]or they (alas!) are unaccountable.
[...] this forlorn unpity'd state I lie,
[...]hile he who can relieve me, lets me die.
[...]y Face is strange, and out of knowledg grown,
[...]v'n I am scarce perswaded 'tis my own.
[...]y Eyes have shrunk for shelter in my head,
[...]nd on my Cheek the Rose hangs pale and dead.
[...]o pow'r cou'd drive the fierce Disease away,
[...]or force the plundring Conqu'rour from his prey.
My Wounds—But oh! that word has pierc'd my heart,
[...]he very mention does renew their smart;
[...]y Wounds gape wide, as they wou'd let in Death,
[...]nd make quick passage for my flitting breath:
Nor can they ev'n the lightest touch endure,
But dread the hand that wou'd attempt their C [...]
For, Lord, my Wounds are from the Darts of [...]
That rage and torture my griev'd Soul within.
Here a hydropick thirst of Riches reigns,
And there Prides flatuous humor puffs my veins
Next frantick Passion plays the Tyrants part,
And Loves o're-spreading Cancer gnaws my hea [...]
Oft' to the learn'd I made my suff'rings known,
Oft' try'd their skill, but found redress from none
Not all the virtue of Bethesda's Pool,
Without thy help, could ever make me whole:
Then to what healing Altar shou'd I fly,
But that whose prostrate Victims never die?
To Thee, Health-giver to the world, I kneel,
Who most canst pity what thy self didst feel:
There's no sound part in all my tortur'd Soul;
But, if thou wilt, Lord, thou canst make me whole.
See how by Thieves I spoil'd and wounded am!
Forget not then thy good Samaritan:
My fainting Spirits with rich Wine revive,
And for my Wounds some Balm of Gilead give:
Then take me home, lest if I here remain,
My Foes return, and make thy succour vain.
‘Aug. de Verb. Dom. Serm. 55. cap. 55: The whole World, from East to West, lies very sick; but to cure this very sick World, there descends an Omnipotent Physician, who humbled himself even to the Assumption of a mortal body, as if he had gone into the bed of the diseased.’
IV.
‘look upon my adversity and misery, and forgive me all my sin. Psal. 25. 17.’
CAn all my Suff'rings no compassion move,
And wou'dst thou yet perswade me thou dost love?
[...]ove does, by sympathetick pow'r, impart
[...]he Lovers Passions to each others heart.
[...]anst thou behold my grief, and seek no way
[...]or my redress? True Love brooks no delay.
[...]ee what a servile Yoak my neck sustains,
[...]hose shame is more afflicting than its pains!
[...]ith any task my Soul wou'd be content,
[...]ut one whose Scandal is a Punishment.
[...]ad my afflictions any parallel,
[...]aught by Example, I shou'd bear them well:
And 'twou'd, amidst my woes, bring some relief,
To have more shoulders to support the grief:
Eor bravest Heroes oft' have felt the weight
Of their injurious Step-dame Fortune's hate.
Thus our fam'd Martyr, in his Murd'rers stead,
Bow'd to a Rebel Ax His Sacred Head;
While His great Sons, Princes of high Renown,
The Best, next Him, that e're adorn'd the Crown,
In an obscure, ignoble Banishment,
Did Their own Fate, and Rebels Guilt prevent.
Sad instances of Man's uncertain state!
Yet 'tis no Crime to be unfortunate:
But my base Slav'ry is alone my blame,
And less to be bewail'd with tears, than shame;
And to a heavier sum my woes amount,
Since I must place them to my own account.
Like captiv'd Sampson I am driv'n about,
The drudge and scorn of an insulting Rout.
Around I draw the heavy restless Wheel,
And find my endless task beginning still:
Within this Circle by strange Magick bound,
I'm still in motion, yet I gain no ground.
O! that some usual Labor were injoyn'd,
And not the Tyrant Vice enslave my mind!
No weight of Chains cou'd grieve my captive hands
Like the loath'd Drudg'ry of its base Commands;
And this a double mis'ry does contract,
Ev'n I condemn the hated Ills I act.
Yet of my Chains I'm not so weary grown,
But that I still am putting others on.
For Sin has always this attending curse,
To back the first Transgression with a worse:
And tho I saw the threatning Plague from far,
Not all the danger cou'd my will deter:
Thus Vice and Virtue do my Soul divide,
Like a Ship harast between Wind and Tide.
Pleasure, the Bawd to Vice, here draws me in,
There, Grief, its Follow'r, pulls me back agen;
Yet Pleasure comes Victorious from the Field,
And makes my Soul to Vice its homage yield:
Tho Grief does still with Vice in triumph ride,
Plac'd, like the Slave by the great Conqu'ror's side.
Thus Vice and Virtue have alternate sway,
While I, with endless labor, Both obey:
And to increase my pains, as if too small,
Thy heavy hand comes in the rear of all,
And, with deep-piercing stroaks, corrects that sin,
Which in it self had more than punish'd been.
Oh! cast an eye of pity on my grief,
And use some gentler methods of relief!
‘Aug. in Psal. 36. I suppose the World is called a Mill, because it is turn'd about on the Wheels of Time, and grinds and crushes those who most admire it.’
V.
‘Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the clay, and wilt thou bring me into dust again? Job. 10. 9.’
HAs Providence regard to things below?
Or does it slight what 'tis not pleas'd to know?
[...]at the great Author of this brittle Frame
[...]rgets from what Original it came?
Ages, to Thee are but as yesterday,
[...]nd canst thou, Lord, forget thy humble Clay?
[...]rm'd with a touch, and quickned with a breath,
[...] one short moment made, and doom'd to death.
[...] thou hast this forgot, receive from me
[...]he sad relation of the History.
[...]hen this great Fabrick of the World was rear'd,
[...]nd its Orig'nal Nothing disappear'd,
[...]hen, tow'rds the close of the Sixth busie day,
[...]hou with a glance didst the whole Work survey,
And pleas'd with that fair product of thy Pow'r,
Wou'dst copy't o're again in Miniature,
And from a Lump of despicable Earth,
Gav'st Man (the less, but Nobler World) his Bi [...]
The Nobler, since in his small Frame we view
At once the World and its Creator too.
But things of finest texture first decay,
And Heav'ns great Master-piece is brittle Clay;
Ruin'd by that which does its worth advance,
And dash'd to pieces by the least mischance.
This frail, this transitory thing am I,
Who only live, to learn the way to die:
So soon shall Fate to its first Matten turn
The curious Structure of this living Urn.
Thus China-Vessels, wrought with Art and Pain,
Are, without either, soon reduc'd again.
Such is th'uncertainty of human state,
Such the destructive haste of necessary Fate!
Why then, my God, does swift-pac'd time bet [...]
What of it self's so subject to decay?
All to the Grave, their Centre, freely bend,
And thither, prest with their own weight desce [...]
[...]ate needs not any hasty vi'lence use,
[...] force a motion, which unurg'd they choose.
Did I the Stars more temper'd matter share,
[...]ll they first fell, I no decay shou'd fear:
[...] cou'd I like th'unbody'd Angels be,
[...]ke them, I'd triumph o're Mortality.
[...]t I, like Insects, sure derive my Birth
[...]m some plebeian, putrifying Earth.
[...]y did not Heav'n a brazen temper grant,
[...]hew me from a Rock of Adamant?
But how dare I with Heav'n expostulate;
[...] blame the frailty of my mortal state?
[...]vain my wise Creator I upbraid,
[...]ce he applauds the work,—
[...]d I was only for his pleasure made.
‘Rupert. in Jerem. lib. 1. cap. 4. [...]es the unhappy Clay blaspheme the fingers of its Potter? How so! because the Potter contracting his [...]ingers, and striking the Vessel with his whole hand, [...] is violently dash'd to pieces:’
VI:
‘ [...] have sinned, what shall I do unto thee, O thou Preserver ef Men? Why hast thou set me as a Mark against thee? Job 7. 20.’
TIs just, nor will I longer hide my shame,
But own my self egregiously to blame:
[...]y sins to such a mighty sum amount,
[...]hat hope of Pardon wou'd increase th'account;
[...]nd the black Cat'logue of their unwip'd score
[...]alls for more Plagues than Vengeance has in store.
I own it, Lord, nor just reproaches fear,
[...]he easi'st punishment I ought to bear;
[...]ere, at thy feet, I humbly prostrate bow,
[...]nd beg my Sentence from thy mouth to know.
[...]all my own hands dissect my hated Womb?
[...]all I retire alive into my Tomb?
[...] [...]Shall I with Gifts thy loaden Altar crown,
Or sacrifice the Beast, my self, thereon?
(Tho sure my blood wou'd that blest place prophane,
And give what it shou'd cleanse a fouler stain.)
All this, and more, if possible to do,
Wou'd fall far short to pay the Debt Iowe.
But thou art not severe, nor hard to please,
A God whom Slaughter only can appease:
Thy Sword has often spar'd thy conquer'd Foe,
Less pleas'd to Conquer, than to Pardon so;
No tyrant Passion rages in thy Breast,
But the meek Dove builds there her peaceful Nest▪
And when thou wou'dst thy height of anger shew
A sudden Calm unbends thy threatning brow;
And thou dost kindly raise the prostrate Foe,
With the same hand that shou'd have struck th [...] blow.
Wou'dst thou permit.—But oh! what Eloquenc [...]
Can with success appear in my defence!
Yet let me, Lord, plead for my self, and Thee,
Lest ev'n thy Cause, as mine, may faulty be.
[...]ord, I confess I've sinn'd, but not alone;
Wilt thou impute a common Guilt to One?
Thy bare-fac'd Rebels prosper in their sin,
As if th'Extreme of Vice were meritting;
Thy brandisht Thunder thou hast oft' laid down,
And stretch'd a peaceful Olive in its room.
But ev'ry slip, each inadvertency,
[...]s magnify'd t'insuff'rable in me:
[...] am the Mark of ev'ry wounding stroke,
As if I only did thy wrath provoke.
This I confess. That most of all I do:
[...] hear my Pray'r, with my Confession too!
Accept the good Effects of an ill Cause,
And pardon sin that gains thee most applause.
Forgive me Conqu'ror, since thou must confess
Had I not err'd, thy Glory had been less.
‘Greg. in 7 cap. Job, lib. 8. cap. 23. [...]hen God sets Man as a mark against him, when Man by sinning has forsaken God: But our just Creator set him as a mark against him, because he thought him his enemy by his haughtiness.’
VII.
‘Wherefore hidest thou thy face, and holdest me for thine enemy? Job 13. 24.’
IS't my great Error, or thy small Respect,
That I am treated with this cold neglect?
I thought thy frowns were but dissembled heat,
And all thy threatning looks an amorous cheat.
As tender Mothers draw the breast away,
To urge their pretty Innocents to play;
Or as the Nurse seems to deny a Kiss,
To make the fonder suppliant steal the Bliss:
So I believ'd thou didst avoid my sight,
Only to heighten my keen appetite.
But now, (alas!) 'tis earnest all, I find,
And not pretended Anger, but design'd:
My kind Embrace you coyly entertain,
As if we never shou'd be Friends again:
And with such eager haste my presence shun,
As men from Monsters or Infection run;
As if my looks wou'd turn you into stone:
But fear not that, the work's already done;
So cold you are, so senseless of my smart,
Some Magick sure has petrify'd your heart.
O let me know what Crime I must deplore,
That lets me see your dear-lov'd Face no more!
Why must I, Love, that Face no longer see,
That ne're, till now, once look'd awry on me?
Sure you believe there's poyson in my breath,
Or that my eyes dart unavoided Death.
Prevent the danger with thy conqu'ring eye,
Unsheath its Rays, and let let'Offender die;
Or else discharge a frown, and strike me dead,
For more than Death I your Displeasure dread.
Your eyes are all I wish, let them be mine,
The Sun, unmist by me, may cease to shine:
But if depriv'd of them, not his faint light,
Nor all its Objects, can reprize my sight.
Then think, my Love, with pity and remorse,
How I am tortur'd by this sad Divorce:
Think on the pains of unregarded Love,
And blame their cause, if them you disapprove.
‘Amb. Apolog. pro David. If any of our Servants offend us, we are wont not to look upon them: If this be thought a punishment among Men, how much more with God? for you see that God turned away his face from the Offering of Cain.’
VIII.
‘O that my Head were Waters, and mine Eyes a fountain of Tears, that I might weep day and night! Jer. 9. 1.’
OH! that my head were one vast source of tears,
With bubling streams as num'rous as my hairs!
That grief with inexhaustible supplies
Wou'd fill the Cisterns of my flowing eyes!
Till the fierce torrents which those springs impart
Flow down my breast, and stagnate round my heart.
Not all the tears the Royal Psalmist shed,
With which his Couch was wash'd, himself was fed▪
Nor those which once the weeping Mary powr'd,
To wash the feet of her forgiving Lord;
Nor those which drown'd the great Apostle's breast,
Whose boasted Zeal shrunk at th' affrighting Test;
Nor these, nor more than these, can e're suffice
To cleanse the stains of my Impieties.
Give me the undiscover'd source of Nile,
That with sev'n Streams o'reflows th' Aegyptian So▪
Or let Noe's wondrous Deluge be renew'd,
Till I am drown'd in the impetuous Flood.
O that these Fountains wou'd their course begin,
And flow as fast as I made haste to sin!
The weeping Limbecks never shou'd give o're,
Till the last drop had empty'd all their store.
How do I grudge the Clouds their envy'd Rain!
How wish the boundless Treasures of the Main!
Then shou'd my Tears, like that, just motion keep,
And I shou'd take a strange delight to weép:
Nor the swift current of my grief forbid,
Till in the waves this little World were hid:
Hid, as the neighb'ring Valleys are o'respread,
When the warm Sun melts Pindus snowy head
The blest Assyrian found in Jordans Seas
A happy Med'cine for his foul Disease;
[...]t what kind Torrent will my Cure begin,
And cleanse my filthier Leprosie of Sin?
See! from my Saviour's side a stream of Blood!
[...]ll bath my self in that Redeeming Flood.
[...]hat healing Torrent was on purpose spilt,
[...]o wash my stains, and expiate all my guilt.
[...]hat ever-flowing Ocean will suffice
[...]or the defect of my exhausted Eyes.
‘Hieron. in Jerem. cap. 9. If I were all dissolv'd to Tears, and those not only some few drops, but an Ocean or a Deluge, I should never weep enough.’
IX.
‘The pains of Hell came about me, the snares of Death overtook me. Psal. 18. 4.’
WHile in this sad distress my self I view,
Methinks I make Actaeon's story true:
Long I the pleasures of the Wood pursu'd,
Till, like its Beasts, my self grew wild and rude;
I hop'd with Hunting to divert my care,
But ran at last into the secret Snare.
Yet to those Woods (alas!) I did not go,
Whose inn'cent Sports give health and pleasure too.
I spread no Toils to take the tim'rous Deer,
Nor aim'd my Javlin at the rugged Bear.
Happy, had I my time so well imploy'd,
Nor had I been by my own Game destroy'd:
I had not then mis-spent my youthful days,
Nor torn my flesh among sharp thorny ways.
But I (alas!) still ply'd the sparkling Wine,
That poys'nous Juice of the pernicious Vine;
And this expos'd me to Loves fatal Dart,
The false betray'r of my unguarded heart:
Love, not contented with his Bowe alone,
Has more destructive Instruments than One:
Nor Wine alone on its own strength depends,
But uses Arts t'intoxicate its Friend.
Thus Sampson, by his Dalila betray'd,
Was Hers, and then his En'mies Captive made:
Thus, when too freely Noe had us'd the Vine,
He who escap'd the Flood, lay drown'd in Wine.
Thus Love, by me pursu'd (alas!) too fast,
Seiz'd my lost Soul, and prey'd on me at last;
Within whose close incircling Toils beset,
I seem'd a Beast just fall'n into the Net:
Destroy'd by what my inclination sought,
As Birds by their frequented Lime-twigs caught;
For Death around its subtle Nets does spread,
Fine as the texture of the Spiders Web;
And as purdieu that watchful Lurcher lies,
His buzzing prey the better to surprize;
But, taught by motion when the booty's nigh,
Leaps out, and seizes the entangled Fly:
Or as a Fowler, with his hidden Snare,
Contrives t'entrap the Racers of the Air,
While to conceal and further the deceit,
He strows the ground with his destructive meat;
And fastens Birds of the same kind, to sing
About the Net, and call their fellows in:
So Death the Wretch into his Snare decoys,
And with pretended happiness destroys;
While, in pursuit of a dissembled Bliss,
We headlong fall into Hells low Abyss.
‘Amb. lib. 4. in cap. 4. Lucae. The reward of Honours, the height of Power, the delicacy of Diet, and the beauty of an Harlot, are the snares of the Devil.’‘Idem, de bono mortis. Whilst thou seekest Pleasures, thou runnest into Snares; for the eye of the Harlot is the snare of the Adulterer.’
X.
‘ [...]ter not into Judgment with thy servant, O Lord. Psal. 143. 2.’
[...]He Master's gains to a small sum amount,
That calls his Servant to a strict account;
[...] tho the Servant has not wrong'd his trust,
[...]ere's the applause of being only Just?
[...]ly the Master does a Suit begin,
[...]gain a Vict'ry he must blush to win;
[...] tho the Servant's Innocence is great,
[...] blemish'd with suspicion of a Cheat.
[...]eve me, Lord, to be severe with me,
[...] wrong thee more than my offending thee.
[...] so much too mean for thy regard,
[...]ill lessen thee to mind how I have err'd.
[...]t! must thy Registries the pleadings shew,
[...]ln with the hist'ry of my overthrow?
[...]an I hope my Cause shou'd Thine out-do,
[...]re thou sitt'st Judge, that art the Plaintiff too?
What Eloquence can plead with such success,
To free the wretch that does his debt confess?
Alas! what Advocate best read in Laws,
Can weaken Thine, or re-inforce my Cause?
Thou dost too strictly my Accounts survey,
While for abatement still in vain I pray.
The distant Poles thy boundless Mercy know,
To Pardon, easie; and to Punish, slow:
Ev'n when our Crimes pull thy just Vengeance dow
'Tis rather grief, than anger, makes thee frown;
And when thou dost our Punishment decree,
Thou seest our stripes with more concern tha [...]
And dost chastise us at so mild a rate,
That what we bear, we wou'd not deprecate.
But tho this Character is All thy due,
Let me thy lightest Censure undergo;
For tho thy Mercy does no limits know;
Thy Justice must have satisfaction too.
These Attributes in equall ballance lie,
And neither must the others Right deny▪
No melting Passion can affect thy breast,
Nor soft intreaties charm thy hand to rest:
[...]or baffled Eloquence dares here engage,
[...]ut wants it self some happy Patronage.
[...]o Fee, no Bribe, no trick in all the Laws,
[...]an e're prevail to carry such a Cause.
[...]is vain with Thee, Lord, to commence a Suit,
[...]hose awful presence strikes all Pleaders mute.
[...]o other Judg so terribble can be,
[...]o make me fear his shrictest scrutiny;
[...]ut Thy Tribunal, Lord, with dread I view,
[...]here thou art Plaintiff, Judg, and Witness too:
[...]here, when my Sentence from thy mouth is come,
[...]o Plea can urge thee to reverse the Doom.
[...]ow this dread place augments the guilty's fear,
[...]here so much awe and gravity appear!
[...]'n He whose reas'ning did this truth assert,
[...]nd shot a trembling into Felix heart;
[...]o his own Judgment did his Soul acquit,
[...]e're thought of Thine without an Ague-fit.
[...]nd Wisdom's famous Oracle denies
[...]e purest Soul unblemish'd in thy eyes;
[...]hose pious Father (after thine own heart)
[...]eclares Thy Wrath the best of man's desert.
And Job assures us, that the Stars, whose Light
Chears with kind infl'ence our admiring sight,
Tho glorious all in our dim eyes they shine,
Are only vast Opacous Orbs in thine.
How then can weaker Posts support that weight,
Which shook these Pillars with such strange affrig [...]
Or how can th'humble Hyssop keep its wall,
When Libanus's tallest Cedars fall?
When I behold my large unblotted score,
And think what Plagues thy Vengeance has in fl [...]
An icy horror chills my freezing blood,
And stops the active motion of its flood.
As some pale Captive, when condemn'd to death,
Loath to resign, ev'n his last puff of [...]reath,
Beholds, with an intent and steddy eye,
The dreadful Instrument of Fate rais'd high:
Yet still unwilling from this World to go,
Shuns with a start the disappointed blow:
So, when I see thy Book, in which are writ
All the black Crimes I rashly did commit,
Amaz'd, I fly thy Bar;—
For how can sinners that strict place abide,
Where ev'n the Just shall be arraign'd and try'd?
‘Bernard. Serm. 6. super, Beati qui, &c. [...]hat can be thought so fearful, what so full of trouble and anxiety, as to stand to be judged at such a Tribunal, and to expect an uncertain Sentence from such a Judge?’
XI.
‘Let not the water-flood drown me, neither let the deep swallow me up. Psal. 69. 16.’
UNconstant motion of the restless Sea,
Whose treach'rous waves the Sailors hopes betray!
[...] calm sometimes, so shining they appear,
[...]o polish'd Chrystal is more smooth or clear:
[...]metimes they seem still as a standing Lake,
[...]hose bounded waters can no motion take.
[...]metimes the waves, rais'd by a gentle breeze,
[...]rl their green heads, the wondring sight to please;
[...]en, in soft measures, round the Barges dance,
[...]d to the Musick of their Shrouds advance.
[...]ile thou, kind Sea, their burthen dost sustain,
[...] while their beaks plough furrows on the Main:
[...] on thy yielding back each Vessel rides,
[...] its rude Oars lash to a foam thy sides.
The groaning Earth scarce weightier burthens feels
From heavy loaden Carts with ir'n-bound wheels
And that none may suspect thou wilt betray,
Thy chrystal waves their rocky breasts display,
As if no treach'ry cou'd be harbour'd there,
Where such great shews of honesty appear.
But when the Anchor's weigh'd, the Sails atrip,
And a kind gale bears on the floating Ship,
Soon as the Land can be perceiv'd no more,
And all relief is distant as the shoar,
Then the rough Winds their boist'rous gusts discharg [...]
And all at once assault the helpless Barge.
Just as the furious Lybian Lions rave,
When eager to devour a sentenc'd Slave;
Or as a crew of sturdy Thieves prepare
To seize and plunder some lone Traveller;
Then the insulting Billows proudly rise,
And menace, with their lofty heads, the Skies:
Then the pale Flood, frightn'd at this Allarm,
Trembles with dread of the approaching Storm▪
And when the jarring Winds have tost the Sea,
Whose sev'ral Contests bear a diff'rent sway,
The parted Ocean suffers a Divorce,
Driv'n as the Storms the routed Billows force.
Then a vast Gulph of ruin's opn'd wide,
And the Ship's swallow'd in the rapid Tide:
Or if born on a Tenth imposthum'd Wave,
The breaking bubble proves its watry Grave.
Thus the false Ocean treach'rously beguiles,
And thus in frowns end its deceitful smiles.
But I suspected not the wheedling Main;
Nor did of its inconstancy complain;
I ne're the fury of the Winds did blame,
Nor on the Tempests boisterous rage exclaim;
Nor curst the hardy wretch that led the way,
And taught the world to perish in the Sea.
My Vessel ne're lanch'd from my native shoar,
Nor did the Navigator's Art explore.
I study'd not the Chard, nor gave my mind
To learn to tack and catch the veering Wind.
Too soon these Artists of their skill repent,
And perish by the Arts they did invent.
My Life's the Sea, whose treach'ry I declare;
My self the Vessel toss'd and shipwreck'd there:
All the loud Storms of the insulting Wind,
Are restless Passions of my troubled Mind.
Thus harast in this fluctuating state,
I pass thro strange Vicissitudes of Fate.
Deceitful Life! whose false serenity
Chang'd in a moment, ends in misery!
Thou want'st no sweet allectives to betray,
But shew'st a charming Beauty ev'ry day:
While Love and Lust wreck our lost mind within,
No dang'rous Sands, no Rocks without are seen:
But when a Tide of Vice breaks fiercely in,
And beats the Soul on fatal Shelves of Sin;
Then it perceives in what a vast Abyss
(Sunk by the weight of its own Crimes) it lies.
Oh! that, at least like wretched drowning men,
These sinking Souls wou'd rise and float agen!
That, while their grosser parts do downward move,
Their pure Devotion wou'd remain above!
But, just as men to whom th'Earths gaping Womb▪
Becomes at once their Murth'rer and their Tomb;
Or as the wretch beneath some falling Rock,
At once is kill'd and bury'd with the shock:
So fare the men by sins swift current born,
Thoughtless of Heav'n, by Heav'n th'are left forlorn▪
See, Lord, how I with Wind and Tide engage,
While on each hand a threatning War they wage!
See how my head is bow'd unto the Grave,
While I am forc'd to court the drowning Wave!
Seest thou my Soul lost in a double Death,
And wilt thou not reprieve my flitting breath?
Behold, O Lord▪ behold, and pity me,
And leave me not to perish in the Sea:
Be thou my Pylot, and my motion guide,
Then I shall swim, in spight of Wind and Tide.
‘Ambr. Apolog. post pro David. cap. 3. The multitude of our Lusts raise a mighty Tempest, which so tosses them that sail in the Ocean of the body, that the mind cannot be its own Pylot.’
XII.
‘ [...]h! that thou would'st hide me in the Grave! that thou would'st keep me secret, until thy wrath be past! Job 14. 13.’
WHo, who will grant me a secure retreat,
Where I may shun thy furies scorching [...] heat?
[...]hose piercing flames whene're I call to mind,
[...]ear I can no safe concealment find:
[...]en I desire the covert of the Wood,
[...]here only Beasts range for their savage Food;
[...]en in Earth's Womb wou'd hide my fearful [...] head,
[...] in some Rock make my unminded bed;
Then, ev'n by Death, I wish my self to save,
And court the dark recesses of the Grave;
Or far remote from the fair Orbs of Light,
Wou'd in thick Darkness dwell, and endless Nigh [...]
When the loud Thunder rouls along the Sky,
Men to the Lawrels shelter trembling fly:
In vain (alas!) they hope Protection thence,
The helpless Tree proves not its own Defence;
Much less can that a place of Refuge be
From an all-seeing angry Deity.
Thy eyes the closest Solitudes invade,
And pierce and pry into the darkest shade.
The wretch who took his Ruin from a Tree,
In vain with Leaves wou'd hide his shame fr [...] Thee:
For while to shun thy presence he assay'd,
Ev'n his absconding his offence betray'd.
In vain (alas!) to Caves and Dens we run,
We carry with us what we strive to shun.
The Den that did the Hebrew Captive save,
When He was freed, prov'd his Accusers Grave;
Nor was Lot's Incest hidden in his Cave.
As much in vain we court the Earths dark Womb,
And fly for shelter to the silent Tomb:
Vengeance, ev'n thither, will our flight pursue,
And rise to punish the black ills we do.
Thus vainly Cain stopt righteous Abel's breath,
The mouth of Blood was opned by his Death.
Thus vainly Jonas in the Sea conceal'd
His faithless flight, ev'n by the Sea reveal'd:
His living Tomb obey'd Heav'ns great command,
And cast him back to the forsaken Land.
A brittle Faith is all the glassy Sea can boast,
Whose pervious Waves betray what they shou'd cover most.
Nor can we hope concealment in a Tomb,
That casts our bones from its o're-burthen'd Womb.
In Rocks and Caves we must no trust repose,
For their own sound the secret will disclose.
And Leaves, and Trees themselves, alike will fade
And then expose what they were meant to shade.
Nor Sea, nor Land, nor Cave, nor Den, nor Wood,
Nor Stars, nor Heav'n it self, can do me good:
Thou, Lord, alone canst hide my fearful head,
Where I no Veng'ance, not ev'n Thine, can dread.
‘Amb. in Jerem. cap. 9. Whither, O Adam! have thy transgressions led thee, that thou shunn'st thy God, whom before thou sought'st? That Fear betrays thy Crime, that Flight thy Prevarication.’
XIII.
‘Are not my days few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may bewail my self a little. Job 10. 20.’
MUst a few minutes added to my days
Be thought a favour beyond thanks or praise?
Ages, indeed, might well deserve that name,
And render my Ingratitude to blame.
But, the increase of a few days to come,
How little adds it to the slender sum?
As well the Infant, that but treads the Stage,
Is said to leave it in a good old Age.
As well poor Insects may be said to live,
To whom their Birth-day does their Fun'ral give.
So fading Flow'rs their hasty minutes count,
Whose longest hours scarce to one day amount.
Flow'rs, in the morning Boys, at noon-tide Men,
At night, with age, feeble as Boys agen.
Thus in one short-liv'd day they bloom and die,
And all the diff'rence of Mans ages try.
Wou'd Times o're-hasty Wheels their motion stay,
And the swift hours not post so fast away,
The Insects then might lengthen too their Song,
And the Flow'rs boast their day had been so long.
But Time is ever hastning to be gone,
And, like a Stream, the Year glides swiftly on.
Successive Months closely each other trace,
And meet the Sun along his annual race.
While the swift hours are pressing forward still,
And, once gone by, are irretrievable.
Thus envious Time loves on it self to prey,
And still thro its own Entrails eats its way.
So wasting Lamps by their own flames expire,
And kindle at themselves their Fun'ral Fire.
Thus its own course the circling Year pursues,
Till like the Wheels on which 'tis mov'd it grows.
This Truth the Poets weightily exprest,
When they made Saturn on his Off-spring feast:
For Time on Months and Years, its Children feeds,
And kills with motion, what its motion breeds.
Hours waste their Days, the Days their Months consume,
And the rapacious Months their Years entomb.
Thus Years, Months, Days, and Hours, still keep their round,
Till all in vast Eternity are drown'd.
Then, Lord, allow my grief some little space,
To mourn the shortness of my hasty race:
I wish not time for laughter; if I did,
My circumstances and the place forbid.
All I desire, is time for grief and tears,
Let that be all th'addition to my years:
Which, tho but short, have yet been full of sin,
More than my time was to repent it in.
Yet if thou grant'st me some few minutes more,
They'll make amends for my short days before:
Drop then, my eyes, you cannot flow too fast;
While you delay, what precious time is lost?
'Tis done! my tears have a prevailing force,
And Heav'n's appeas'd, now stop their eager course.
‘Hieron. ad Paulam, Epist. 21. [...]hen man first sinn'd, he chang'd Eternity for Mortality, Ninety years, or thereabouts: But sin increasing by degrees, Mans life was contracted to a very short space.’
XIV.
‘Oh! that they were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latterend. Deut. 32. 29.’
SHame on besotted man, whose baffled mind
Is to all dangers, but the present, blind!
Whose thoughts are all imploy'd on mischiefs near,
But ills remote, never fore-see, or fear.
The Soldier is prepar'd before th'allarm,
The Signal giv'n, 'twou'd be too late to arm:
The Pylot's fore-sight waits each distant blast,
And loses no advantage in his haste.
Th'industrious Hind manures and sows the Field,
Which he expects a plenteous Crop should yield:
The lab'ring Ant in Summer stores at home
Provision against Age and Winter come.
But, oh! what means Mans stupid negligence,
That of the future has no care or sense!
Does he expect Eternity below,
A life that shall no alteration know?
He's much abus'd; inevitable Death,
Tho it delays, will one day stop his breath:
Vain are the hopes the firmest Leagues produce,
The Tyrant keeps no Faith, regards no Truce:
He does not to the Peace he makes incline,
To take advantage is his whole design:
To him Alliance is an empty name,
He does all Int'rests, but his own, disclaim.
Fiercely the greedy spoiler strikes at all,
A prey for his insatiate Jaws too small:
He tears ev'n tender Infants from the breast,
And wraps them in a Shrowd, ere for the Cradle dr [...]
Nor Sex nor Age the grim Destroyer spares,
Unmov'd alike by Innocence as Years.
Like common Soldiers, chief Commanders die,
And like Commanders, common Soldiers lie.
No shining Dust appears in Craesus Urn,
Tho all he touch'd he seem'd to Gold to turn:
[...]or boasts fair Rachel's face that Beauty here,
[...]or which the Patriarch serv'd his twice-sev'n year,
[...]nd never thought the pleasing Purchase dear:
Ev'n Dives here from Laz'rus is not known,
For now One's Purple, th'Other's Rags are gone▪
Each has no Mansion but his narrow Cell,
Equal in colour, and alike in smell.
Why then shou'd man of such vain Treasure boast,
So difficultly gain'd, so eas'ly lost?
For, late or early, all resign their breath,
And bend pale Victims to their Conqu'ror Death:
Each Sex, each Age, Profession, and Degree,
Moves tow'rds this Centre of Humanity.
But did they not a farther Journey go,
And that to die were all they had to do;
Cou'd but their Souls dissolve as fast away,
As their corrupting Carcasses decay;
They'd covet Death to end their present cares,
And for prevention of their future fears:
They'd to the Grave, as an Asylum run,
And court the stroke which now they wish to shu [...]
But Death (alas!) ends not their miseries,
The Soul's immortal, tho the Body dies.
Which, soon as from its Pris'n of Clay enlarg'd,
At Heav'ns Tribunal's sentenc'd or discharg'd.
Before an awful Pow'r, just and severe,
Round whose bright head consuming flames appear;
The shackl'd Captive, dazl'd at his sight,
Dejected stands, and trembles with the fright;
While, with strict scrutiny, the God surveys
Its heart, and close impieties displays.
The wretch convicted, does its guilt confess,
Nor hopes for mercy, for concealment less;
While He, th' Accuser, Judge, and Witness too,
Damns it to an Eternity of woe;
Where, since no hope of an Appeal appears,
'Twou'd fain dissolve and drown it self in tears.
What terrors then seize the forsaken Soul,
That finds no Patron for a Cause so foul!
[...]hen it implores some Mountain to prevent,
[...]y a kind crush, its shame and punishment.
O wretched Soul, just Judge, hard Sentence too!
[...]hat hardn'd wretch dares sin, that thinks on You?
[...]et here, (alas!) ends not the fatal grief,
[...]here is another Death, another Life.
Life as boundless as Eternity;
Death whence shall no Resurrection be.
[...]hat Hell of Torments shall in This be found?
[...]ith what a Heav'n of Joys shall That abound?
[...]hat, fill'd with Musick of th' Angelick Choir,
[...]hall the blest Souls with Extasie inspire;
[...]hile This disturb'd, at ev'ry hideous yell,
[...]hall in the Damn'd raise a new dread of Hell:
[...]hat knows no sharp excess of cold or heat,
[...] This the wretches always freeze or sweat.
[...]here reign Eternal Rest, and soft Repose;
[...]ere, painful toil no end or measure knows.
[...]hat, void of grief, does nought afflictive see;
[...]his, still disturb'd from trouble's never free.
O happy Life! O vast unequall'd Bliss!
O Death accurs'd! O endless Miseries!
Either to That or This we daily bend;
All our endeavours have no other end.
Be wise then, Man, nor let thy care be vain,
To shun the Mis'ry, and the Bliss obtain;
Give Heav'n thy Heart, if thou its Crown wou'd [...] gain.
‘Aug. Soliloq. cap. 3. What more lamentable and more dreadful can be thought of, than that terrible Sentence, Go? what more delightful, than that pleasing Invitation, Come? They are two words, of which nothing can be heard more affrighting than the One, nothing more rejoycing than the Other.’
XV.
‘My life is waxen old with heaviness, and my years with mourning. Psal. 31. 11.’
WHat lowring Star rul'd my unhappy Birth,
And banish'd thence all days of ease and mirth?
[...]hile expectation does delude my mind,
[...]eas'd with vain hope some smiling hour to find:
[...]t still that smiling hour forbears to come,
[...]d sends a row of Mourners in its room.
[...]op'd alternate courses in each day,
[...]d that the foul to fairer wou'd give way:
[...]d as the Sun dispels the Clouds of Night,
[...]hen he to Heav'n restores his welcom Light;
[...] as the Moons kind infl'ence brings again
[...]e refluous motion of the low-ebb'd Main:
[...], with insuccesful Augury,
[...]esag'd things so as I wou'd have them be:
But, oh! my grief exceeds in length and sum
The Widows Tribute at her Husbands Tomb:
She, when the Author of her Joy is gone.
Is twice-six months confin'd to mourn alone;
Yet the last half she does not, as before,
Hide her smooth Fore-head in a close Bendore.
But all my years are in deep mourning spent,
There's not a month, not one short day exempt.
No rules give bounds or measure to my woes,
But their increase, like the feign'd Hydra's grow▪
My life so much in sighs and tears is spent,
It minds that least, for which 'twas chiefly meant.
'Tis true, Storms often make the Ocean swell,
But the most violent are shortest still;
For when with eager fury they engage,
They lose themselves in their excess of rage.
And when their Winter-blasts dis-robe the Wood,
Their Summer-airs make all the trespass good:
So that, while thus the inj'ry they repair,
The loss proves gainful to the sufferer.
But grief does all my hapless years imploy,
Nor grants me one Parenthesis of Joy
My Musick is in sighs and groans exprest,
With my own hands extorted from my breast.
This sad diversion is my sole delight,
This my companion of the day and night:
How oft' have sighs, while I my words confin'd,
Broke Prison, and betray'd my troubl'd mind!
How oft' have I in tears consum'd the day,
And in complaints pass'd the long night away!
Oft' you, my Friends, condemn'd my sorrows so,
That oft' I labor'd to suppress them too:
Let loose the reins to mirth, you always cry'd;
To lose the reins, (alas!) in vain I try'd:
For when with laughter I a sigh supprest,
[...]t rais'd a fatal conflict in my breast;
And if I wish for sleep to close my eyes,
Still a fresh show'r that envy'd bliss denies;
Then if I stop its course, impetuous grown,
▪Twill force its way, and bear the Sluces down.
Each Brook, whose stream my tears have made to rise;
Each shady Grove, fill'd with my mournful cries;
Each lonely Vale, and ev'ry conscious Hill,
The kind repeaters of my sorrows still;
These know, the troubles which I wish'd conce [...]
Were by loud throbbings of my heart reveal'd;
Till, mov'd with pity of my sad complaint,
The Ecchoes too grew sorrowfully quaint:
My secret moans they vented o're again;
By turns we wept, and did by turns complain.
So, mov'd by Progne's lamentable Note,
Sad Philomel unlocks her mournful throat,
As if the em'lous Rivals were at strife
Whose tongue shou'd best express the height of gr [...]
The widow'd Turtle so bewails her Mate,
With grief unalterable, as his Fate.
And so the Stars have my sad life design'd,
That not one minute shou'd be fair or kind.
And that my sorrows may not find relief,
By wanting new occasions for my grief,
'Tis their decree, That, as my Infant-breath
Began with sighs, so I shou'd sigh to death.
‘Chrysost. in Psal. 115. Ought we not worthily to lament, who are in a strange Countrey, and banish'd to a Climate remote from our Native Soil?’
[Page 87] DESIRES OF THE Religious Soul, BOOK the Second.
I.
‘My soul breaketh out for the very fervent desire that it hath always unto thy Judgments. Psal. 119. 20.’
WHile Heav'n and Earth solicite me to love,
My doubtful choice is puzl'd which t'approve:
[...]eav'n cries, obey, while Earth proclaims, be free:
[...]eav'n urges duty, Earth pleads liberty▪
Call'd hence by Heav'n, by Earth I'm call'd agai [...]
Tost, like a Vessel on the restless Main:
These diff'rent Wo'ers a doubtful Combat wage,
And thus obstruct the choice they wou'd engage.
Ah! tis enough; let my long-harast mind
In the best choice a quiet Haven find!
Oh! my dear God, or let me never love,
Or let me only Thy commands approve!
'Tis true, 'tis pleasant to be free to choose,
And when we will, accept; when not, refuse.
Freedom of choice endures restraint but ill,
'Tis usurpation on th'unbounded will.
So, from his Harness loos'd, the neighing Steed
Hasts to the Pastures where he loves to feed;
So the glad Ox, from the Ploughs burthen freed,
Runs lowing on to wanton in the Mead:
And when the Hinde their freedom wou'd revok [...]
This scorns his Harness, That defies the Yoak.
For freedom in our choice we count a bliss;
Eager to choose, tho oft' we choose amiss.
So the young Prodigal, impatient grown
To manage his entire Estate alone,
Takes from his prudent Father's frugal care
His Stock, by that improv'd and thriv'n there:
But his own Steward made, with eager haste
He does the slow-gain'd Patrimony waste,
Till starv'd by riot, and with want opprest,
He feeds with Swine, himself the greater Beast.
Thus in Destruction often we rejoyce,
Pleas'd with our ruin, since it was our choice.
How do we weary Heav'n with diff'rent Pray'rs!
The medly sure ridiculous appears.
One begs a Wife, nor thinks a greater bliss;
Another's earnest to be rid of his:
This prays for Children; That o're-stock'd, repines
At the too fruitful Issue of his Loins.
This asks his Father's days may be prolong'd;
That, if his Father lives, complains he's wrong'd:
This covets to be old; while That, opprest
With Age, wou'd of his burthen be releast.
Scarce in Ten thousand any Two agree;
Nay, some dislike what they just wish'd to be.
None knows this minute what he shou'd require,
Since ev'n the next begets a new desire.
So Women pine with various Longing-fits,
When Breeding has deprav'd their appetites;
The humorsom impertinent Disease
Makes that which pleas'd them most, as much di [...] pleas [...]
Oh! why, like them, grown restless with desire▪
Do my vain thoughts to boundless hopes aspire!
Be gone false hopes, vain wishes, anxious fears!
Hence, you disturbers of my peaceful years!
Oh! my dear God, or let me never love,
Or let me only Thy commands approve!
For to obey the Precepts giv'n by Thee,
Exceeds the Worlds pretended liberty.
‘Aug. Solil. cap. 12. Allure, O Lord, my desires with thy sweetness which thou hast hid from them that fear thee, that they may desire thee with eternal longings; lest the inward relish, being deceived, may mistake bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter.’
II.
‘O that my ways were made so direct, that I might keep thy Statutes! Psal. 119. 5.’
IN what a maze of Error do I stray,
Where various paths confound my doubtful way!
This, to the right; That, to the left-hand lies:
Here, Vales descend; there, swelling Mountains rise.
This has an easie, That a rugged way;
The treach'ry This conceals, That does betray.
But whither these so diff'rent courses go,
Their wandring paths forbid, till try'd, to know.
Maeander's stream a streighter motion steers,
Tho with himself the wand'rer interferes.
Not the sictitious Labyrinth of old
Did in more dubious paths its guests infold;
Here greater difficulties stay my fee [...],
And on each road I thwarting dangers meet.
Nor I the diff'rent windings only fear,
(In which the Artist's skill did most appear)
But, more to heighten and increase my dread,
Darkness involves each gloomy step I tread.
No friendly tracks my wandring footsteps guid [...]
Nor previous feet th'untrodden ground have try' [...]
And tho (lest on some fatal Rock I stray)
With out-stretch'd arms I grope my dusky way;
Yet dare I not, ev'n with their help, proceed,
But night and horror stop my trembling feet.
Like a strange Trav'ller by the Sun forsook,
And in a road unknown by night o'retook,
In whose lone paths no neighb'ring Swains reside,
No friendly Star appears to be his guide,
No sign or track by human footsteps worn,
But solitary all, and all forlorn.
He knows not but each blindfold step he tread▪
To some wild Desart or fierce River leads:
Then his exalted voice does loudly strain,
In hope of answer from some neighb'ring Swain;
Still, still he calls, but still (alas!) in vain,
Only faint Ecchoes answer him again.
Oh! who will help a wretch thus gone astray!
What friendly Cynosure direct my way!
A signal Cloud conducted Israels flight,
By day their cov'ring, and their guide by night.
The Eastern-Kings found Bethlem too from far,
Led by the shining conduct of a Star;
Nor cou'd they in their tedious journey err,
Who had so bright a fellow-traveller.
Be thou no less propitious, Lord, to me,
Since all my bus'ness is to worship Thee.
See how the wandring Croud mistake their way,
And, tost about by their own error, stray!
This tumbles headlong from an unseen Hill;
That lights on a blind path, and wanders still.
This with more haste than speed goes stumbling on;
That moves no faster than a Snail might run.
While to and fro another hasts in vain,
No sooner in the right, than out again.
Here one walks on alone, whose boasted skill
[...]nvites another to attend him still,
Till among Thorns or miry Pools they tread;
This by his guide, That by himself misled.
Here one in a perpetual Circle moves,
While there another in a Lab'rinth roves;
And when he thinks his weary ramble done,
He finds (alas!) he has but just begun.
Thus still the wandring Multitude does stray,
Scarce one of thousands keeps or finds the way.
Oh! that my paths were all chalk'd out by Th [...]
From the deceits of baneful error free!
Till all my motion, like a Dart's, became
Swift as its flight, unerring as its aim,
That where thy Laws require me to obey,
I may not loiter, nor mistake the way.
Then be Thou, Lord, the Bowe, thy Law the White
And I the Arrow destin'd for the flight:
And when thou'rt pleas'd to shew thy greatest skill▪
Let Me, dear God, be thy choice Arrow still.
‘Aug: Soliloq. cap. 4. O Lord, who art the Light, the Way, the Truth, and the Life; in whom there is no Darkness, Error, Vanity, nor Death. Say the word, O Lord, let there be Light, that I may see the Light, and shun the Darkness; that I may find the right way, and avoid the wrong; that I may follow Truth, and fly from Vanity; that I may obtain Life, and escape Death.’
III.
‘O hold thou up my goings in thy paths, that my footsteps slip not. Psal. 17. 5.’
WHat! will my faithless feet deceive me more,
And make false steps upon the even floor?
Thou, who from Heav'n my motion dost approve,
Grant me such strength, that I may firmly move.
The Eagles teach their unfledg'd young to fly,
Practis'd in towring tow'rd the lofty Sky;
[...]ill the apt brood, by bold example led,
[...]erform the daring flight they us'd to dread.
[...]hus Boys, when first th'unusual stream they try,
With spungy Cork their weighty bodies buoy;
[...]ill more improv'd, they their first help disown,
[...]mbitious now t'attempt the flood alone:
And thus, by practice, such perfection gain,
To sport and wanton safely in the Main.
Thou, who from Heav'n observ'st our steps belo [...],
See by what arts thy Servant learns to go;
While all my weight on this slight Engine's laid,
I move the Wheels that do my motion aid.
Thus feeble age, supported by a Cane,
Is tir'd with that on which 'tis forc'd to lean.
Mistake not, Lord, th'ambiguous terms I use,
For of no failure I my feet accuse:
I can perceive no imperfection there,
No rocky ways, or thorny roads they fear:
The weakness of my mind disturbs me most,
Whose languid feet have all their motion lost:
All its affections lame and bedrid are,
(Those feet, alas! which shou'd its motion steer;)
When it shou'd move in Virtues easie road,
Alas! 'tis tir'd as soon as got abroad.
Sometimes, but rarely, it renews the race,
And eagerly moves on, a Jehu's pace:
But, weary of its journey, scarce begun,
Its boasted flame is all extinct, as soon
As a faint Lamp by the rude North-wind blown.
Yet, lest I shou'd too much my sloth betray,
I force my steps, and make some little way;
But then am cautious not to be expos'd,
Lest I be thought too plentifully dos'd.
My reeling steps move an indented pace,
As 'twere a Cripple hopping o're a race.
I will, I won't, I burn, all in a breath;
And that's scarce out, e're I'm as cold as death:
And then, impatient at my fruitless pain,
Tir'd in the mid-way, I go back again:
Yet cannot then recover my first place,
The pleasant seat whence I began my race.
Tost, like a Ship on the tempestuous waves,
Which neither help of Sails nor rowing saves.
While with new vain attempts I try again,
And would repair the loss I did sustain,
The small success too manifestly proves
My fruitless labor in a circle moves.
Thus Slaves, condemn'd to ply a toilsom Mill,
Repeat the same returning motion still:
Tho still the restless Engine's hurry'd round,
They by its haste gain not one foot of ground.
What shall I do, a stranger to the race,
Whose lazy feet scarce move an Asses pace?
Heav'n lies remote from this mean Globe below,
None but the swift and strong can thither go;
What then shall this my slow-wheel'd Chariot do?
Thou, Lord, mov'st nimbly o're the rugged way,
Thy Gyant-feet are balk'd by no delay:
Thou with a step dost East and West divide,
And o're the world, like a Colossus, stride.
But with a Tortoice-motion I proceed,
Or rather, like the Crab, am retrograde.
How can I then hope to that Goal to run,
Which 'tis the bus'ness of my life to shun?
But do thou, Lord, my trembling feet sustain,
Then I the Race and the Reward shall gain.
‘Amb. de fuga saeculi cap. 1. [...]ho among so many troubles of the body, among so many allurements of the world, can keep a safe and unerring course?’
IV.
‘My flesh trembleth for fear of thee, and I am afraid of thy Judgments. Psal. 119. 120.’
A Dread of Heav'n was by the Ancients taught,
As the first impress on Man's infant thought.
[...]nd he who understood it best, has said,
[...]is the prime step that does to Wisdom lead.
[...]nform'd by this my early childhood grew,
[...]nd to fear Heav'n was the first thing I knew:
[...]ut still such dark Oblivion dull'd my mind,
[...] could not the repeated Alpha find.
No stripes can punish my neglectful crime,
[...]ho, unimprov'd, have trifled out my time.
[...]ull Boys by stripes with Learning are inspir'd,
[...]y little pains, with industry acquir'd:
When twice or thrice they read their Letters o're,
[...]hey're as familiar as if known before:
And tho in colour all alike appear,
Each is distinguish'd by its Character.
May I not hope Age will compleat in me
The easie task of tender Infancy?
In many things I no Instructer sought,
Too apt (alas!) to practise them untaught.
Why is not Fear as soon imbib'd, a Rule
So oft' explain'd in Arts Improving School?
What I shou'd slight, still (to my shame) I fear,
And slight that most, which I shou'd most revere.
I fear Mans eye when I wou'd act a sin,
But dread not Heav'n, nor the great Judg within:
For my gross body I am still in fear,
But my pure Soul partakes not of my care.
Thus Birds false men of Clouts (affrighted) shun,
Yet boldly to the fatal Lime-twigs run.
Thus the fierce Lion, of false fires affraid,
Flies to the Toils, in which he is betray'd.
Such vanity has mens dark minds o'respread,
That less the Thunder than the Clap they dread;
Think Hell a Fable, an invented name,
And count its Fire a harmless lambent flame.
With brutish rage to blackest ills they run,
And never fear the wickedness, till done:
But tho this fear did not their Crimes prevent,
'Twill come, too sure, to be their punishment
Then with strange frights, from their lost senses driv'n,
Their restless thoughts run on offended Heav'n:
Then sudden fears their watchful limbs allarm,
And call them from their lonely beds to arm,
While their own shadows only do them harm.
Each little thing's so magnify'd by fear,
They dread a Lion, when a Mouse they hear.
If in the night they hear a gentle breeze
Begin to whisper in the murmuring Trees,
With hair erect, and parboil'd in a sweat,
They shrink beneath the steaming Coverlet.
Whene're they see the nimble Lightning flie,
Or hear the Thunder in the distant Sky,
They think each flash a messenger of death,
And at each crack despair of longer breath;
At every noise they in new fears engage,
And ruin from each accident presage.
Thus, always of its guilty self afraid,
The troubled mind's eternally dismay'd;
Such punishments attend afflicting guilt,
Which never pain like its own torments felt.
Thus trembling Cain dreads from each hand he sees
The fate his injur'd Brother had from his.
His crimson Soul, with Abel's Murther stain'd,
Still with the bloody Scene is entertain'd.
No more severe correction waits on sin,
Than its unbrib'd upbraider still within.
Then with thy Darts, Lord, frighten me from▪
My fury wants this kind restriction still.
Fear timely comes before a fault's begun,
He fears too late, that fears not till 'tis done.
‘Bernard. Serm. 29. The holy Psalmist desires wisely to be smitten, and healthfully to be wounded, when he prays to be transfix'd with the fear of God; for that fear is an excellent Dart, that wounds and destroys the lusts of the Flesh, that the Spirit may be safe.’
V.
‘O turn away mine eyes, lest they behold vanity. Psal. 119. 37.’
IN my high Capitol two Centries still
Keep constant watch, to guard my Cittadel:
[...] fix'd or wandring Stars, I do not know,
[...]ho either epithet becomes them too;
[...]ach from its duty is in rambling lost,
[...]et each maintains immovably its post;
[...]th swift of motion, yet both fix'd remain:
[...]hat Sampson this dark Riddle can explain?
Ev'n You, my Eyes, are these mysterious Stars,
[...]'d in my head, yet daily wanderers:
Who plac'd in that exalted Tow'r of mine,
Like Torches in some lofty Pharos shine;
Or like two Watch-men on some rising place,
View every near, and every distant pass.
Yet you to me less constant prove by far,
Than those kind Guides to their Observers are;
Their favours only with themselves expire,
Unless the hand that gave, recalls their fire:
Like Horses, you, too headstrong for the rein,
Will let no pow'r your rambling course restrain:
You, by whose guidance we shou'd danger shun,
Betray us to the Rocks on which we run.
Thus wandring Dina, led by your false light,
Expos'd her Honor, to oblige her Sight.
Thus, while Jessides view'd the bathing Dame,
What cool'd her heat, kindl'd in him a flame;
Her naked Beauty did a conquest-gain,
Which arm'd Goliah undertook in vain.
Thus gazing on the Hebrew Matrons eyes,
Made the Assyrian's head her easie prize.
Thus the fond Elders, by their sight misled,
Pursu'd the joys of a forbidden bed;
Nor cou'd their lustful flame be dispossest,
[...]ill with a show'r of weighty stones supprest.
More ruin'd Souls by these false guides are lost,
[...]han shipwreck'd Vessels on the Indian-Coast.
Then happy he, happy alike and wise,
[...]ho made a timely cov'nant with his eyes!
[...]nd happier he who did his guards disband,
[...]orn from their sockets by his fearless hand!
So ill, false Centries, you your charge perform,
[...]u favour the surprize, that shou'd the Camp allarm:
[...]d you for this the Capitol obtain?
[...] this the charge of the chief Castle gain?
[...]at you have thus t'inferior Earth betray'd
[...]an's lofty Soul, for nobler Objects made?
[...]d do not rather raise his thoughts on high,
[...]ove the starry arches of the Sky?
[...]t Theatre will entertain his sight
[...]h various Scenes of suitable delight:
But you are more on Earth than Heav'n intent,
And your industrious search is downward bent.
What shall I do, since you unruly grow,
And will no limits, no confinement know?
Oh! shut the wandrer's up in endless night,
Or with thy hand, dear God, contract their sight.
‘Aug. Solil. cap. 4: Woe to the blind eyes that see not Thee, the Sun that enlightens both Heaven and Earth! woe to the dim eyes that cannot see Thee! woe to them that turn away their eyes from beholding Truth! woe to them that turn not away their eyes from beholding Vanity!’
VI.
‘O let my heart be sound in thy Statutes, that I be not ashamed. Psal. 119. 80.’
COu'd I but hope my Face wou'd please my Dear,
That shou'd be all my bus'ness, all my care:
My first concern shou'd for Complexion be,
The next, to keep my skin from freckles free:
No help of Art, or Industry I'd want,
No Beauty-water, or improving Paint.
My Dressing-boxes shou'd with Charms abound,
To make decay'd old flesh seem young and sound:
With Spanish-wool, red as the blooming Rose,
And Cerusse, whiter than the Mountain Snows:
With all the Arts that studious Virgins know,
Who on their Beauty too much pains bestow.
Then I'd correct each error by my Glass,
Till not one fault were found in all my face.
If on my brow one hair amiss I spy'd,
How wou'd I fret till it were rectify'd!
If my complexion were not always right,
'Twou'd be a Nuisance to my troubled sight.
If any motion did contract my brow,
I shou'd believe Time did my forehead plough.
Ev'n with each Mole t'offend thee I shou'd fear,
If of my Beauty thou hadst any care.
If in my face the smallest Wart shou'd rise,
I fear 'twou'd seem a Mountain in your eyes:
And the least fault to me wou'd great appear,
Lest it shou'd prove offensive to my Dear:
And every Grace which Nature has deny'd,
By Art's kind help shou'd amply be supply'd:
With Tow'rs and Locks I wou'd adorn my head,
And thick with Jewels my curl'd tresses spread:
With double Pearls I'll hang my loaded ears,
While my white neck vast Chains of Rubies wea [...];
Thus I among the fairest will be seen,
And dare vie Beauty, ev'n with Sheba's Queen.
But oh! no such vain toys affect your mind,
[...]hese meet with no admirers, but the blind,
[...]ho in a Dress seek Objects of their love,
[...]hich once put off, the Beauty does remove.
[...]hus the fond Crowd's caught by a gay attire,
[...]he only thing indeed they find t'admire.
But You, my Love, no borrow'd Beauties prize,
[...]o artificial Charms attract your eyes.
[...]ear as your own, you rate a spotless heart,
[...]nd for its sake accept each other part.
Oh that my heart unspotted were, and free
[...]rom every tincture of impurity!
[...]hen in your favour I shou'd make my boast,
And hate each stain by which it might be lost.
‘Hugo de S. Vict. in Arrha animae. [...] base and filthy spots, why do you stick so long? Be gone, depart, and presume no more to offend my Beloved's sight.’
VII.
‘Come my Beloved, let us go forth into the Fields, let us lodge in the Villages. Cant. 7. 11.’
COme, come, my Love, let's leave the busie throng,
We trifle there our precious time too long.
Come, let us hasten to some lonely Grove,
The fittest Theatre for Scenes of Love.
Strong Walls and Gates the City guard, 'tis true;
But what secures it thus, confines it too.
We'll reap the pleasures of the open Field,
Which does security with freedom yield.
What tho the City-Tow'rs the Clouds invade,
And o're the Fields project their lofty shade?
Yet thence Content has made a far retreat,
And chose the humble Cottages its seat;
And the remotest Solitude enjoys
The blessing of more quiet, and less noise.
Come then, my Love, and let's retire from hence,
And leave this busie fond impertinence.
See! ev'n the Cities eldest Son and Heir,
Who gets his Gold, his dear-lov'd Idol, there;
Yet in the Countrey spends his City-gains,
And makes its pleasures recompence his pains:
And tho the City has his publick voice,
The Countrey ever is his private choice.
Here still the Rich, the Noble, and the Great,
Unbend their minds in a secure retreat;
And Heav'ns free Canopy yields more delight
Than guilded Roofs and Fret-work, to the sight;
Nor can fenc'd Cities keep the mind in peace,
So well as open guardless Villages.
Come then, my Love, let's from the City haste,
Each minute we spend there, is so much waste.
I have a Countrey-Farm, whose fertile ground
Soft murmuring Brooks and chrystal Streams surround;
A better Air or Soil were never known,
Nor more convenient distance from the Town:
Hither, my Love, if thou wilt take thy flight,
The City will no more thy sense delight,
Driv'n from thy thoughts as quickly as thy sight.
Here in the shades I will my Dear caress,
At leisure to receive my kind Address.
Here, from the City and its Tumults free,
I shall enjoy more than my self, in Thee.
No bus'ness shall invade our pleasure here,
No rude disturber of our sports appear.
Here thou thy secret passion shalt reveal,
And whisper in my ear the pleasing tale;
While in requital I disclose my flame,
And in the fav'ring Shades conceal my shame.
Here, like kind Turtles, we will bill and cooe,
For here, to love is all we have to do.
Oh! cou'd I see that happy happy day!
I know no bliss beyond, for which to pray
Then to the Countrey let us, Dear, repair,
For Love thrives best in the clear open air.
‘Hieron. Ep. ad Hesiod. 1. What dost thou? how long do the shadows of the houses confine thee? how long does the Prison of the smoaky City shut thee up? Believe me, I see some greater Light, and am resolv'd to throw off the burthen of the Flesh, and fly to the splendor of the purer air.’
VIII.
‘Draw me, we will run after thee, (in the savour of thy Oyntments.) Cant. 1. 3.’
SEe how my feeble Limbs, now giv'n in vain,
Increase the burthen which they shou'd sustain!
[...]hile, weary of my hated life, I lie;
[...] faint resemblance of what once was I.
[...]y head, deprest with its own weight, hangs low,
[...]nd to themselves my Limbs a burthen grow.
[...] various postures still I seek for ease,
[...]ut find at last not any one to please.
[...]ow I wou'd rise, now wish my self in bed,
[...]ow with my hands support my drooping head:
[...]ow on my back, now on my face I lie;
[...]nd now for rest on either side I try:
[...]nd when my bed I've tumbled restless o're,
[...] still th'uneasie wretch I was before.
Thus hinder'd by my own Infirmity,
Tho fain I wou'd, I cannot follow thee.
Then wilt thou go, and leave me destitute?
Canst thou not stay, at least to hear my suit?
Thus Soldiers from their wounded Comrades fly
At an allarm of any danger nigh.
Unnat'ral Mothers thus their Babes disclaim,
Urg'd to the sin by poverty or shame.
Stretch, Lord, thy hand, and thy weak follower me:
Or if not reach thy hand, yet stay thy feet.
The grateful Stork bears o're the spacious Flo [...]
Its aged Dam, and triumphs in the load:
The Doe supports her tender swimmers weight,
And minds her self less than her dearer fraight.
But You, fair fugitive, forsake your Love,
And shun the burthen you shou'd most approve
Yet I'll not hinder or retard your haste,
If you but draw me, I shall follow fast:
And tho now bedrid, in a little space
I'll rise, and move along a Lover's pace:
Nor shall you need a Whip to drive me on,
Free and unurg'd, close at your back I'll run:
As, when at your command the Net was thrown,
The eager Fish did gladly to it run,
And, unconcern'd, their own destruction sought,
So much 'twas their ambition to be caught.
Pleasure and Sense do all mankind misguide,
Some by their eyes, some by their ears are ty'd:
I seek not, Lord, my eyes or ears to please,
Th' Arabian sweets sute best with my Disease.
Thy Tresses of the balmy Spiknard smell,
And from thy Head the richest Oyls distill.
Choice fragrant scents from thy moist Temples flow,
And on thy Lips still dwells a Myrrhy Dew.
Thou breath'st the Odors of the spicy East,
And in fresh Roses all thy words are drest.
Thy iv'ry Neck sweats richest Frankincense,
And ev'ry part does some rare scent dispence.
Whate're Perfumes in the vast World are found,
[...]n a rich Compound mix'd, in Thee abound.
Such, such a scent fill'd the blest Virgins Room,
When Thou, the Flow'r of Jesse, beganst to bloom.
Oh! might this Odor bless my longing sense,
How wou'd it cure my feeble Impotence!
I soon shou'd conquer all my languishment,
And briskly follow the attracting scent.
And my Companions the same course wou'd move,
As the whole Flock waits on th'anointed Dove.
‘Gilbert. in Cant. Hom. 18. Love is a Cord that holds fast, and draws affectionately, whose words are so many allurements. Nothing holds faster than the band of Love, nothing attracts more powerfully.’
IX.
‘O that thou wert as my brother, that sucked the breasts of my mother; when I should find thee without, I would kiss thee, yet I should not be despised. Cant. 8. 1.’
WHo will enoble my unworthy Race,
And Thy great Name among the number [...] place?
Nor wish I this to raise my Pedigree,
Contented with my mean obscurity.
Yet, tho my Blood wou'd be a stain to Thine,
Still I must wish we had one Parent-line.
Nor wou'd I have thee grown to those brisk years
When first the budding downy beard appears;
But still an Infant, hanging on the breast,
The same which I before have often prest:
A Brother such wou'd my ambition choose,
If elder, I thy converse must refuse.
Then, Dear, vouchsafe a second Birth, that I
May rock thy Cradle with a lullaby.
Children have pretty, pleasant, gaining arts,
Above the elder sort, to win our hearts;
And tho each age wou'd its own merit prove,
Childhood is still most prevalent in Love:
Besides, my wish is for Enjoyment-sake,
For thus I can thy presence best partake,
Then, Dear, vouchsafe a sec [...]nd Birth, that I
May rock thy Cradle with a lullaby.
Then my Enjoyment wou'd be full and free,
And all my bus'ness shou'd be tending Thee.
My arms all day shou'd bear thy grateful weight,
And be thy safe enclosure all the night.
When thy soft Cheeks or ruddy Lips I'd kiss,
No fear or shame shou'd interrupt the bliss;
For none a Sister's kindness can upbraid,
At least when to an Infant-Brother paid:
And tho on thy soft Lips long time I'd dwell,
Sure a chaste kiss can never be but well.
Then condescend my Brother to become,
Dear as the off-spring of my Parents Womb.
What wou'd I do to make my transport known?
What wou'd I do? what wou'd I leave undone?
How oft' wou'd I, by stealth, ev'n when forbid,
Stand all night Centry by the Cradle-side!
How num'rous shou'd my services become,
Ev'n till, perhaps, they were thought troublesom!
For when my Mother took thee from the breast,
My arms shou'd with the next remove be blest:
Or if she will'd to carry thee abroad,
Still I wou'd bear the acceptable load:
Or wou'd she have thee in the Cradle lie,
[...]'d gently rock thee with a lullaby.
[...]f she to take the lov'd employment went
My eager haste shou'd her design prevent:
But when she wou'd intrust thee to my care,
And going forth, leave me to tend my Dear;
How great wou'd be the pleasure of my charge!
How wou'd I then indulge my self at large!
Thy Face-cloth soon I softly wou'd remove,
Eager t'enjoy th'object of my Love;
And, favour'd by the most commodious light,
Feast on thy lovely face my longing sight.
Thy head shou'd on my left-hand gently rest,
While with my right I bound thee to my breast;
And then so lightly I wou'd steal a kiss,
It shou'd not interrupt thy sleeping bliss.
Then, Dear, be pleas'd a second Birth t'allow,
That on thy Cheeks my lips may pay their vow.
And as thy growth renders thy Organs strong,
And thou beginn'st to use thy loosned tongue;
Then thou, my Love, shalt my small Pupil be,
And as I speak, shalt stammer after me:
And when thou dost the help of arms refuse,
And dar'st attempt the Hobby-horse to use;
I'll teach thee safely how to praunce along,
And keep thy nimble footsteps firm and stro [...] ▪
And if some naughty stone offend thy feet,
My ready arms their stumbling charge shall
Pleas'd with a frequent opportunity
Of thus receiving and embracing Thee:
Nor shall I any recompence regard,
The pleasing Service is its own Reward.
‘Bonavent. Solil. cap. 1. I was ignorant, O sweet Jesu, that thy Embraces were so pleasant, thy Touch so delightful, thy Conversation so diverting; for when I touch Thee, I am clean; when I receive Thee, I am a Virgin:’
X.
‘By night on my Bed, I sought him whom my Soul loveth, I sought him, but I found him not. Cant. 3. 1.’
I Treat not of inferior mortal fires,
But chastest sighs, and most sublime desires;
As Bodies, so the Minds their flames receive,
But still the grosser for the Bodies leave.
The gen'rous fire that's kindled in the Mind,
That does alone Loves secret Pleasures find.
What nobler flames the lofty Souls inspire!
How are they rais'd to more refin'd desire!
In what Divine Embraces do they joyn!
What pious hands their mutual Contracts sign!
How ravishing's the pleasure of the Bed;
With what unspeakable delights 'tis spread,
Where the chast Soul in her Beloved's arms,
And He in Hers, improve their mutual Charms!
The Bed on which such happy Lovers rest,
Is downy peace in its own quiet blest.
Here I was wont, when care drove sleep awa [...]
Pregnant with thought, to watch the dawning da [...]
Here the dear He that stole my Virgin-heart
Did oft' to me his Bosom-cares impart:
Then, then a sacred flame my Soul possest,
And no less heat reign'd in his amorous breast:
In silence then we made our mute complaint,
And our dumb grief was prevalently quaint.
But now, nor know I why, my Love's estrang'd
I fear some fault of mine his mind has chang'd:
For, a whole day he has not blest my sight,
Nor (which he never us'd) return'd at night.
Does this imply a fickle change of mind,
Or that he does some better Mistress find?
How sadly I in tears and discontent
The tedious night of his griev'd absence spent!
'Twas now become the dead low ebb of night,
And sleep had barr'd up close my weary sight;
[...]hen a loud voice supriz'd my trembling ear,
And call'd, Rise, sluggard, see your Love's not he [...]
Straight I awake, and rub my sleepy eyes,
Then the forsaken house I fill with cries:
Sleep'st thou, my Love? but answer I had no
For He, (alas!) to whom I spoke, was gone.
Soon with a lighted torch his steps I trace,
And wish I ne're had seen them nor his face.
Then on the guiltless Bed begin t'exclaim,
Ask where my Love is, and its silence blame.
Distracted then I search the Chamber round,
But what I sought was no where to be found.
What tumults then were rais'd within my breast,
Who once on Peace's downy Bed did rest!
What rageing storms then tost my troubled min [...]
Unus'd to Tempests of that boistrous kind!
With pain my heavy eyes to Heav'n I raise,
And scarce my lips can open in its praise;
My former strength in sacred Conflicts fails,
And what was once my sport, my Soul bewails:
For while success crown'd my untroubled head,
On Golden Peace I made my easie Bed:
Then, like a boasting Soldier, raw and young,
Who always is victorious with his tongue,
I wish'd to exercise some Tyrant's rage,
Or in some glorious hazard to engage.
So warm a heat within my blood did play,
While on the easie bed of Peace I lay:
But when this heat forsook me with my Love,
Colder than Scythian Frosts my Blood did prove.
So Flow'rs, which gentle Z [...]phyrs kindly rear,
Nipt by cold Frosts, decay and disappear:
So Lamps burn bright, while th'Oyl maintains thei [...] fire▪
But as that ceases, languish and expire.
Alas! my Love, I sought thee in our Bed,
Who on the Cross hadst laid thy weary head:
Peace was my Bed, while the curst Cross was Thi [...]
I shou'd have sought Thee by that fatal sign.
Much time I lost in seeking thee around,
But sought thee where thou wert not to be found.
‘Greg. in Ezek. hom. 19. [...]e seek our Beloved in Bed, when in any little rest of this present life, we sigh with a desire of our Redeemer. We seek him by night, because tho now the Mind is watchful in him, yet the Eye still is dark.’
XI.
‘I will rise, and go about the City in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my Soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not. Cant. 3. 2.’
AT last, tho late, my error does appear,
Had I search'd well I sure had found my Dear;
[...] thought him wrapt in soft repose, in Bed,
[...]asing his troubled breast, and thoughtful head;
[...]t there (alas!) my Love I cou'd not find,
[...]o such indulgence was for him design'd.
Alas! my Life, alas! what shall I do?
[...]ow can I rest or sleep depriv'd of You?
[...]o; tho a thousand Rivers murmuring noise
[...]ou'd court me to it with one lulling voice;
[...]or tho as many whisp'ring Groves conspire,
[...]d joyn the Musick of their feather'd Cheir.
Scarce do I close my weary eyes to sleep,
When grief injoyns me a strict watch to keep:
My eyes no night, no night my thoughts do know▪
Or if they do, each tedious hour seems two:
If ever sleep indulge my misery,
My sleeping thoughts are all imploy'd on Thee:
Why then shou'd wretched I desire repose,
Since sleep no other benefit bestows?
My Bed I quit, and ranging all the Town,
move as chance or reason leads me on:
Each corner search, and hope in each to find
The dearest Object of my eyes and mind:
No place escapes me, none so private lies,
To cheat th'enquiry of my curious eyes.
The eager Hound thus close his Game pursues,
While the warm scent directs his ready nose:
Thro Woods and Thickets, Bri [...]rs and Thorns, he ru [...]
No danger dreads, or inconvenience shuns.
Thus once the weeping Magdalen did roam
To find her Lord, when missing in his Tomb.
What that denies, she hopes the City yields;
But there not found, she seeks him in the Fields:
No man unask'd, no place unsearch'd, remain'd,
[...]ill the dear Treasure which she sought was gaind.
[...]hus the griev'd Dam for her robb'd Nest complains,
And fills the Forest with her mournful strains;
[...]bout the Tree enrag'd she flies, and now
[...]ights on the top, now takes her seat below;
[...]hen to her fellows sadly does relate
[...]h'injurious stealth, and her lost Off-springs Fate.
[...]hus have I search'd thro ev'ry lane and street,
[...]ut what I sought (alas!) I cou'd not meet.
[...]ase lanes! and hateful streets! whose ev'ry road
[...]y weary feet so oft in vain have trod.
[...] mist my Love in bed, and sought him there;
[...]ut sought amiss, and still must want my Dear.
‘Amb. de Virg. lib. 3. [...]hrist is not found in the Courts nor in the Streets; Christ is no frequenter of the Courts. Christ is Peace, in the Courts are Contentions: Christ is Justice, in the Courts is Iniquity, &c. Let us shun the Courts, let us avoid the streets.’
XII.
‘ [...]aw you him whom my Soul loveth? It was but a little that I past from them, but I found him whom my Soul loveth: I held him, and wou'd not let him go. Cant. 3. 3, 4.’
IS there a corner left in all the Town,
Which in my weary search I have not known?
With lighted torches every street was bright,
Nor did I ev'n the meanest alleys slight.
Alas! what ground did I not travel o're,
Till ev'n the City had not any more?
But why shou'd I this fruitless toil approve,
[...]ince all my seeking does not find my Love?
Then, hopeless, back my pensive course I steer'd,
But still no tidings of my Lover heard,
When I at last approach'd the City-gate,
There a strong Guard in constant Watch did wait:
Said I, Perhaps my Love is hidden here:
And then I ask'd them if they saw my Dear.
They laugh'd, and my enquiry did deride,
And whose your Love? one of the Centries cry'd:
Has he no name by which he may be known?
How can we tell, since you have giv'n us none?
Excuse, said I, my rude simplicity,
I thought him known to all the World, as me:
And that our Love, so much the talk of Fame,
Had made it needless to declare his name;
And tho you wou'd pretend this ign'rance now,
I'm consident you cannot choose but know:
Then pray be pleas'd in earnest to declare
If you have seen him lately passing here:
Him, whom above my Life I dearly prize,
And Him, who values me above his eyes?
Say, when he went, what stay he made with you,
And whither he pretended he wou'd go?
Took he the right-hand, or the left-hand way?
Was he alone, or had he company?
The sportful Watch, regardless of my cares,
Answer with laughter, and deride my tears.
From them I go, hopeless my Love to find,
While Tides of woe o'rewhelm'd my sinking mind.
But while my thoughts were thus opprest with grief,
And nothing hop'd less than such blest relief;
My Love, the same I sought the City round,
Now, unexpected and unsought, was found.
Lost between joy and fear in the surprize,
I durst not well give credit to my eyes.
And have I thee again? I wou'd have cry'd,
But as I strove, my faultring tongue deny'd.
As when some frightned Wife sees by her bed
Her Husband, long by fame reported dead;
Amaz'd to see what she had giv'n for lost,
She flies his touch, and takes him for a Ghost:
Nor dares she, till by his known voice assur'd,
The sight of what she most desires endure:
And still she fears lest she too easie prove,
Betray'd to this credulity by Love.
Thus while I trembling stand, again I try,
Again my Life salutes my joyful eye.
Tost between doubt, and hope, and love, and fear,
Are you my Love, I cry, or in his shape appear?
My Dear!—ah no! alas! you are not He;
Yet sure you are:—Yes, yes, you are, I see.
My Love, my Life, I see and know you now,
My secret Ecstasie discovers you.
Pleas'd with your voice, and ravish'd with your face,
I fly unask'd to your belov'd embrace.
Thus, thus I'll bind you to me, and prevent
A second search, the Soldiers merriment.
O that my arms were Chains, and each part else,
Feet, hands and all, were Gives and Manacles!
Then with a triple band my Love I'd bind,
Close as the Elm is by the Vine entwin'd;
The snaky Ivy does not closer crawl
About the ruins of its dear-lov'd Wall.
And while my busie hands your neck inclose,
Think that no burthen which their kindness shews.
Remember, Love, you have been absent long,
And time that did it, must repair the wrong:
But of the recompence you soon complain,
And e're my Joys commence, are gone again.
But hold;—you must not think to fly me so;
First force your way, and if you conquer, go.
‘Beda in Cant. cap. 3. When I had found him, I held him so much the faster, by how much the longer I was in finding him.’
XIII.
‘But it is good for me to hold me fast by God, to put my trust in the Lord God. Psal. 73. 27.’
THro what strange turns of fortune have I past?
Just as a Ball from hand to hand is tost.
Wars loud allarms were first my sole delight,
And hope of Glory led me out to fight:
Arms rais'd my courage, Arms were all my care,
As if I had no other bus'ness here.
Oft' with a Song I past my tedious hour,
While I stood Centry on some lofty Tow'r:
Oft' I the Enemies designs betray'd,
And shew'd their motions by the signs I made.
I learnt t'intrench a Camp, and Bulwarks rear,
With all the skill of a good Engineer.
I ever forward was, and bold in fight,
And did to action the faint Troops excite.
None better understood the Arts of War,
None more the Soldiers or Commanders care:
Oft' in the Lybian Desarts did I sweat,
Tir'd with the Sand, and melted with the heat;
Choak'd with the dust, yet not a River nigh,
The place as little moisture had as I.
How oft' have I swam mighty Rivers o're,
With heavy Armour loaden, tir'd, and sore?
And still my Sword across my mouth I laid,
Whene're I did the adverse stream invade.
Thus long the Camp has had my company,
A Footman first, now of the Cavalry.
My Breast-plate has ten shots of Arrows born,
And with no less my Head-piece has been torn.
Thrice was My Horse shot under me, my Crest
Four times struck off, and I as oft' distrest.
Yet boldly I expos'd my self to harm,
And in my En'mies blood my hand was warm.
But on my back I did no wounds receive,
My ready breast met all my Foes durst give:
For boldly against Fire and Sword I stood,
And flights of Arrows which the Sky did cloud:
On heaps of men, slain by my Sword, I trod,
And as I mov'd, my way with Corps I strow'd.
But yet the man that did these Conquests gain,
Cou'd not, with all his pow'r, his wish obtain;
With all his Lawrels won, and Foes o'recome,
His Crowns deserv'd, and Trophies too brought home:
One fault did all his former Triumphs blast,
And blotted out their memory at last.
The General cashier'd me with a word,
And o're my head broke my once useful Sword.
And thus in publick scorn my Fame expir'd,
With the dear purchace of my Blood acquir'd.
O my dear God! had I born arms for Thee,
Thy favour had not thus deserted me.
All my desires are firmly plac'd on Thee,
And there secure as Ships at Anchor lie.
Behind thy Altar then I'll lay my Arms,
And bid a long adieu to War's allarms.
But soon my mind on Gain was all intent,
Gain to my thoughts such sweets did represent.
A Ship I bought, which when I fraighted well,
Abroad I steer'd, to purchase, and to sell.
In both the Indies I expos'd my Ware,
No Port was known but I had trafique there:
For from small Ventures, large Acquests to gain,
Was all the busie study of my brain.
Wealth now came flowing in with such a Tide,
It wou'd not in my straitned Chests abide.
My Ships came loaden from the Indian-shoar;
But next return they perish'd at my door.
My Books with Debtors names still larger grew;
But they forswore, and so I lost my due.
And thus, like Salt, my Wealth, got by the Sea,
Did, in the place of its acquest, decay.
How peaceful is the man, and how secure,
Whom War did ne're delight, nor Gain allure!
No more shall Gain my cheated fancy please,
That cannot purchace one short minutes ease.
What shall I do, since my attempts are vain?
In War, no Fame; in Trade, no Wealth I gain.
Then to the Court I hastily repair,
My Fame as soon finds kind reception there.
I'm brought before the King, and kiss his hand,
He likes my Person, gives me a Command.
Now grown his Fav'rite, I have all his ear;
Whate're I speak, he eagerly does hear:
And to new Honors does me still advance,
Not the effect of merit, but of chance.
But, whether his mistake, or my desert,
I am indear'd, and wound into his heart.
Oft' in discourse we spent the busie day,
And ne're regarded how it past away.
Nay, without me, he wou'd not play, nor eat,
My presence gave a relish to his meat:
No Fav'rite e're was dearer to his Prince;
No Prince such Favours ever did dispense.
[...]janus rul'd not thus his Master's heart;
[...]is wary Lord allow'd him but a part:
[...]or Clytus self cou'd greater Honors have,
[...]ho the Worlds Conqu'ror was almost his Slave.
[...]is new advancement pleas'd my thoughts, 'tis true,
For there are secret charms in all things new.)
The Courtiers envy, and the Crowds admire,
To see the King my company desire.
But, oh! on Kings 'tis folly to depend,
Whose Pow'r, much more their Favours, quickly end.
The King to frowns does all his smiles convert,
And as he lov'd, so hates, without desert.
His favour sowr's to rage, and I am sent
Far from my Native Soil to Banishment.
My fall to Hist'ry adds one story more,
A story I for ever must deplore.
Sejanus had not a severer fate,
Nor Clytus happiness a shorter date.
O God! how great is their security,
Whose hopes and wishes all rely on thee!
‘Aug. in Psal. 36. Forsake all other Loves; he is fairer who created Heaven and Earth.’
XIV.
‘I sate down under his shadow (whom I loved) with great delight. Cant. 2. 3.’
IN a long journey to an unknown Clime,
Much ground I travel [...]'d, & consum'd much time;
Till weary grown, computing in my mind,
[...] thought the shortest of my way behind.
But when I better had survey'd the race,
[...] found there still remain'd the longer space.
Then my faint limbs grew feeble with despair,
Discourag'd at a journey so severe:
With hands and eyes erect, I vent my grief
To Heav'n, in hope from Heav'n to find relief.
Oh! who will shade me from this scorching heat!
[...]ee on my head how the fierce Sun-beams beat!
[...]hile by their servor parch'd, the burning Sand
[...]calds my gall'd feet, and forces me to stand.
Then, then I praise the Groves, and shady Bow'rs,
Blest with cool Springs, and sweet refreshing Flow'rs.
Then wish th'expanded Poplar wou'd o'respread,
Or leafy Apple shade my weary head.
The God whose aid I oft' had sought before,
As often found, now adds this favour more.
Whither your hast designs, says he, I know;
Know what you want, and how you want it too.
I know you seek Jerusalem above,
Thither your life and your endeavours move:
But with the tedious Pilgrimage dismay'd,
Implore refreshment from the Apple's shade.
See, see, I come to bring your pains relief!
Beneath my shadow ease your weary grief.
Behold my arms stretch'd on the fatal Tree,
With these extended boughs I'll cover thee.
Behold my bleeding feet, my gaping side,
In these free Coverts thou thy self maist hide.
This shade will grant thee thy desir'd repose,
This Tree alone for that kind purpose grows.
Thus spoke the God, whose favour thus exprest,
With strength inspir'd my limbs, with hope my breast.
I rais'd my eyes, and there my Love I spy'd;
But, oh! my Love, my Love was crucify'd!
What dreadful Scene is this (alas!) I cry'd!
Must I beneath this dismal shade abide!
What comfort can it yield to wretched me,
While Thou art hung on this accursed Tree!
Curs'd Tree! and more curs'd hand by which 'twas set!
The bloody stains are reeking on it yet!
Yet this high Tree projects its spreading boughs,
And with its cooling shade invites repose:
Yet what it offers still it self denies,
And more to tears than slecp inclines my eyes.
Blest Tree! and happy hand that fix'd thee here!
That hand deserves the honor of a Star!
Now, now, my Love, I thy resemblance know,
My cool, kind, shady residence below.
As the large Apple spreads its loaden boughs,
From whose rare Fruit a pleasing Liquor flows:
And, more than all its fellows of the Wood,
Allows the weary rest, the hungry food:
Thus thou art, Lord, my Covert in the heat;
My Drink when thirsty, and when hungry, Meat.
How oft', my Love, how oft' with earnest pray'r,
Have I invok'd thy shade, to rest me there?
There pensive I'll bewail my wretched state,
Like a sad Turtle widow'd of her Mate;
I'll bath thy pale dead lips in a warm flood,
And from thy locks I'll wash the clotted blood;
Thy hanging head my hands shall gently raise,
And to my cheek I'll lay thy gory face;
Thy wounded side with watry eyes I'll view,
And as thy blood, my tears shall ever flow:
Flow till my sight, by their kind flood reliev'd,
With the sad object be no longer griev'd.
Yet this one wound in me will many make,
Till prostrate at thy feet my place I take:
Then I'll embrace again the fatal Tree,
And write this sad Inscription under thee:
Two Lovers see, who their own death conspire;
[...]e drowns in Tears, while He consumes in Fire.
‘Honorius in cap. 2. Cant. apud Delr. [...] shadow is made of a body and light, and is the traveller's covert from the heat, his protection from the storm. The Tree of Life, to wit, the Apple, is the holy Cross; its Fruit is Christ, its shadow the refreshment and defence of mankind.’
XV.
‘How shall we sing the Lord's Song in a strange Land? Psal. 137. 4.’
OH! why, my Friends, am I desir'd to sing?
How can I raise a note, or touch a string?
[...]lusick requires a Soul to mirth inclin'd,
[...]nd sympathizes with the troubled mind.
But you reply, Such seasons most require
[...]he kind diversion of the warbling Lyre;
When grief wou'd strike you dumb, 'tis time to s [...]ng,
[...]hen strain the voice, & strike the trembling string;
[...]or then the mind o'rewhelm'd in sorrow lies,
[...]oo much intent on its own miseries.
You urge, this remedy will grief asswage,
[...]nd with examples prove what you. alledge.
You say, This tunes the weary Sailors note,
While o're long Seas their nimble Vessels float:
You say, This makes the artful Shepherd play,
Whose tuneful Pipes the tedious hours betray.
And that the Trav'ller's journey easi'st proves,
When to the Musick of his voice he moves.
I'll not perversly blame this art in them,
Nor the offensive policy condemn;
But know my tongue, long practis'd in complaint,
Is skill'd in grief, in lamentations quaint.
Scarce my lost skill cou'd I to practice bring,
And Musick seem'd a strange unusual thing;
And, as one blinded long scarce brooks the light,
So pleasing Ayres my uncouth tongue affright.
When I my slighted Numbers wou'd retrieve,
And make the speaking Chords appear to live;
When I wou'd raise the murmuring Viols voice,
Or make the Lute in brisker sounds rejoyce;
When on my Pipes attempt a shriller note,
Or joyn my Harp in consort with my Throat:
My Voice (alas!) in floods of tears is drown'd,
And boistrous sighs disperse the fainting sound.
Again to sing, again to play I try'd:
Again my voice, again my hand deny'd:
Now by disuse slow and unactive made,
My hand and tongue t'Oblivion are betray'd:
And now with these allays I try too late
To molifie my hard, my rigid fate.
Grant I excell'd in Musick, and in Song,
And warbled swift Division with my tongue;
Cou'd I with Israel's sweetest Singer vie,
Or strike the Harp with more success than He:
Will Musick or Complaint best suit my woe,
Who never had more cause to weep, than now?
[...]ut sorrow has my tuneful Harp unstrung,
[...]nd grief's become habitual to my tongue:
[...]or do the place or time such mirth allow;
[...]ut grant they did, my sorrows answer no.
[...]hat! wou'd you have an exil'd Stanger sing
[...]is Countrey Anthems to a Foreign King?
[...]orbear; my fate and this loath'd place conspire
[...]o silence me, and hinder your desire.
[...]hall I, driv'n far from the Seraphick Choir,
[...]ouch the sweet Nerves of my Caelestial Lire?
Ah! Fortunes wounded Captive kindly spare,
My voice has lost its pleasing accents here.
Sorrow disorders and distorts my face,
I cannot give my Songs their former grace.
Shou'd I begin to sing or play, 'twou'd be
Some doleful Emblem of my misery.
My thoughts are all on my lost srate intent,
And close Companions of my Banishment.
Then why am I desir'd to play or sing,
Now grief has broke my voice, and slackned ev'r [...] string▪
Oh! my lov'd Countrey, when I think on thee,
My Lute, my Voice, my Mind, all lose their harmon [...]
But if to Thee I happily return,
Then they shall all rejoyce, as much as now th [...] mo [...]
‘Aug. Medit. cap. 35. [...] that I could say such things as the Hymn-singing Choir of Angels! How willingly would I powr forth my self in thy praises!’
[Page 175] EXTASIES OF THE Enamour'd Soul. BOOK the Third.
I.
‘I charge you, O Daughters of Jerusalem, if you find my Beloved, that you tell him that I am sick of Love. Cant. 5. 8.’
BLest Residents on the bright Thrones above,
Who are transform'd to the sublimest Love:
To my Belov'd my restless Passion bear,
And gently whisper't in his sacred ear.
To him my sighs, my languishments relate,
Tell him my flame dissolves me with its heat.
Tell him, I pine beneath Loves torrid Zone,
As withering Flow'rs before the scorching Sun;
For scattering round his Darts, among the rest
He shot himself into my love-sick breast;
Thro all my flesh the Shaft, like Lightning stole,
And with strange infl'ence seiz'd my melting So [...]
Now in a flame unquenchable I burn,
Which does my breast t'another Aetna turn.
If a more full account he wou'd receive,
(For Lovers always are inquisitive)
Tell him how pale, how languishing I look,
And how I fainted when I wou'd have spoke.
If he enquires what pace my Feaver moves,
Oh! tell him, I no Feaver feel, but Love's:
Or if he asks what danger's of my death,
Tell him—I cou'd not tell, for want of breath.
Tell him you bring no message sent by me,
But a relation of my misery.
Yet, if he questions how in death I look,
Say how my Beauty has my face forsook.
Thus then delineate me amidst my woe,
That he my suff'rings and their cause may know.
Tell him I lie seiz'd with a deadly swoon,
A bloodless Corps stretch'd on the naked ground.
Tell him my eyes swim round my dizzy head,
And on my breast my feeble hand is laid;
The Corral of my Lips grows sickly pale,
And on my Cheeks the withering Roses fail;
My Veins, tho chaf'd, have lost their azure hue,
And this decay shews Nature failing too:
Nor any signs express remaining life,
But the worst symptoms, sighs that vent my grief.
And yet I cannot any reason feign,
Why, tho unhurt, so often I complain:
I know not why, unless the Tyrant Love
Compels me thus his mighty Pow'r to prove.
This, this was sure my sorrows only cause;
I lov'd, yet knew not what a Lover was.
This from my breast extorted frequent fighs,
Ad prest the tears from my o'reflowing eyes.
This was the cause, that when I strove to frame
Remote discourse, it ended with his Name.
Oh! then—
Tell the lov'd Object of my thought and eye,
How I his Martyr and his Victim die.
Distill'd in Loves Alimbeck, I expire,
Parch'd up, like Roses, by too warm a fire;
Or dry'd, like Lillies which have long in vain
Begg'd the refreshment of a gentle Rain.
Tell Him, the cause of all, my grief will prove,
Without his help, my Death; for, oh! 'tis LOV [...]
‘Rupert. in Cant. Tell him, That I am sick of Love, thro the great desire I have of seeing his face: I endure the weariness of life, and I can hardly bear the delay of my present Exile.’
II.
‘Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. Cant. 2. 5.’
HOw strangely, Love, dost thou my will controul,
Thou pleasing Tyrant of my captiv'd Soul!
Oh! wou'dst thou have thy fiery torment last,
Slacken its heat, for I consume too fast.
On other hearts imply thy Arrows pow'r,
For mine (alas!) has now no room for more.
O spare thy own Artill'ry, and my breath!
For the next shaft comes wing'd with certain Death.
Oh! I am lost, and from my self estrang'd,
To Love, my voice; to Love, my blood is chang'd:
From part to part insensibly he stole,
Till the sly Conqu'ror had subdu'd the whole.
Alas! will no one pity my distress?
Will neither Earth nor Heav'n afford redress?
Canst Thou, the author of my miseries;
Canst Thou behold me with relentless eyes?
Oh! haste, you bright Inhabitants above,
My fellow-patients in this charming Love;
Rifle the Orchards; and disrobe the Fields,
Bring all the Treasure Natures Store-house yields;
Bind fragrant Rose-buds to my temples first,
Then with cool apples quench my fiery thirst.
These may allay the Feaver of my blood.
Oh no! there's nothing, nothing does me good.
Against Loves force what Salve can Roses make,
Since ev'n themselves may hide the pois'nous Snake?
And Apples sure can small assistance give,
In one of them th'Old Serpent did deceive.
O then! to slacken this tormenting fire,
The Rose of Sharon only I desire:
And for an Apple to asswage my grief,
Give it, oh! give it from the Tree of Life!
Then strow them gently on my Virgin-bed;
And as the withering Rose declines its head,
Compos'd to Death's long sleep my rest I'll take,
Dream of my Love, and in his arms awake.
‘Gislen in Cant. cap. 2. [...]t is certainly a good languishment, when the Disease is not to Death, but Life, that God may be glorified by it: when that Heat and Feaver does not proceed from a consuming, but rather from an improving fire:’
III.
‘ [...]y Beloved is mine, and I am his; he feedeth among the Lillies. Cant. 2. 16.’
BLest souls, whose hearts burn with such equal fire,
As never, but together, will expire!
[...]o your content I wou'd not Crowns prefer,
[...]or all Heav'ns blessings are dilated there:
[...]nd when with equal flames two Souls engage,
[...]hat happy minute is Love's Golden age.
[...]uch bliss I wish'd, when Love at first possest,
[...]nd rais'd his Standard in my trembling breast.
[...]ow oft' I pray'd, Whene're in Love I burn,
Grant me, great Pow'r, to find a just return!
The God return'd this answer to my pray'r,
[...]ove first, that Love its breaches may repair.
[...] it thy will, Almighty Love (I cry'd)
[...]'inlist a Soldier, in thy Wars untry'd?
'Tis true, my fellow-Maids have told me long
The promis'd Joys of thy adoring throng:
But oft' my Nurse, acquainted with the cheat,
Told me, 'twas all delusion and deceit;
And that the Oracle too true wou'd prove,
Which thus declar'd the ill effects of Love:
Num'rous as Athos Hares, or Hybla's Swarms,
Or Olive-berries on the loaden Tree,
Or as the Shells, or Sands, are Love's allarms,
Abounding still with fear and misery.
For still this fear the wretches entertain,
Lest all their Love shou'd meet unjust Disdain.
Of happy Lovers no Records can boast;
Their bliss was counterfeit, or short at most:
The airy God's unsettled motion shews
That Love's a Tide that always ebbs and flows.
Go then and trust those dying flames that will,
Since Love's a wand'rer and uncertain still.
Than his own feathers he is lighter far,
And all his promis'd Faith's an empty air.
By Oaths and Vows let no one be betray'd,
Which vanish in the breath with which th'are made.
His cheeks now with unusual blushes drest,
And his quick flight, this mighty truth confest:
And now his fraud, his treachery I knew,
To all his pow'r I bid a last adieu.
To Thee, thou heav'n-born Love, my Soul I'll joyn,
Be Thou my Darling, and let me be Thine.
While day and night successively return,
Our mutual fires shall never cease to burn.
O the sweet balm distilling from each kiss!
How vast's the pleasure, how divine the bliss!
What new delights thy Love does still disclose,
She only who enjoys the blessing knows.
But, oh! to love, or be belov'd of Thee,
Is the great myst'ry of Felicity:
And, more t'inhance and recommend the joy,
'Tis such as time does heighten, not destroy.
My Love, my Life in Thee all Hybla's Sweets,
In Thee all Ophir's richest Treasures meet:
With what repeated Extasies possest,
We vent our Passions in each others breast!
O how unspeakable's the bliss to me,
To lose my self in thoughts of its Eternity!
This Love is subject to no anxious cares,
Too blest for troubles, too secure for fears.
In vast Elisiums of delight it feeds,
Where whitest Lillies deck th'enamell'd Meads:
Among which Emblems of our pure desires,
We in chast dalliance quench our mutual fires.
‘Bernard. in Cant. Serm. 71. Thou who hearest, or readest this, take care to have the Lillies in thee, if thou wouldst have this dweller among the Lillies visit thee.’
IV.
‘ [...] am my Beloved's, and his desire is towards me. Cant. 7. 10.’
THro the thick shades of a cool Cypress Grove,
Weeping I wander'd to bewail my Love;
[...] briny torrent rowl'd along my breast,
[...]nd weighty grief my sinking Sp'irits opprest.
[...]y'd to my back an Ivory Lute I bore,
[...]y sorrows sure Physician heretofore.
[...]ir'd with my grief, on a soft Turf I rest,
[...]nd thus unload my over-burthen'd breast:
Must I my days consume in lonesom grief,
[...]nd no kind Lover timely bring relief?
[...] let that curse attend my enemies,
[...]e they still Strangers to Love's envy'd Bliss!
For not to love, is surely not to live,
Since Lifes chief blessings we in Love receive:
The whole design of living is to love,
And who loves most, does best his life improve.
Bodies of Earth down to their centre move,
And Seeds of Fire ascend to theirs above.
So our soft hearts to Love are still inclin'd,
Urg'd by a violent impulse of mind.
Ev'n mine too, kindled by an innate flame,
Is eager to deserve a Lovers name.
But where shall I my blooming love impart;
Where yield the Virgin-fortress of my heart?
Shall I descend to a low mortal love,
I, the Companion of [...]lest Spirits above?
Or shall I with inferiour Creatures sport,
Whom their Creator not disdains to court?
No, no, my Soul, fix thou thy thoughts on high;
Thou hast no equal match beneath the Sky.
My Hymen shall no other Torches bear,
Than what have each been lighted at a Star.
Angels shall my Epithalamium sing,
Conducting me in triumph to their King.
Him, Him alone of all I can approve
The noblest object of the purest Love.
His dear-lov'd Image still salutes my eye,
Nor can his absence this delight deny.
No envious distance can prevail to part
His dear resembling Impress from my heart.
With him, methinks, in sweet discourse I walk,
Pleas'd with the sound of his imagin'd talk.
So, by strange sympathy, the faithful Steel
Does the lov'd Pole's magnetick infl'ence feel,
By whose kind conduct the safe Pylot steers
A steddy course, till the wish'd Port appears.
So the fond Hyacinth pursues the Sun,
Pleas'd at his rise, griev'd when his race is done:
So is He waited on by the pale Moon,
Who from his beams reflection guilds her own.
Like these, Almighty Love, to Thee I flie;
[...]f thou withdraw'st thy face, I pine, I die.
O then, since all my joys on that depend,
Let the blest Vision never have an end!
The Same, by another hand.
A Cypress Grove (whose melancholly shade
To sute the temper of the sad was made)
I chose for my retreat, there laid me down,
Hoping my sorrows in my tears to drown.
They vainly flow'd; and now o'rewhelm'd with grief,
From Musicks charming sounds I sought relief.
This Song compos'd, I strike my Lyre, and sing,
Soft Notes rebounding from each silver string.
Ah! shall my wasted days no passion crown;
And must my empty years roul useless on!
So hard a fate I'd wish my greatest foes;
He lives not, who the flames of Love ne're knows▪
Stupid his Soul lies hid in darkest night,
Who is not chear'd with Loves transpiercing light:
He bears no Image of the God above,
Whose icy breast's insensible of Love.
The pond'rous Earth, by'ts proper weight deprest,
Beneath all other Elements doth rest;
While pointed Flames do thro the solid mass
Force their bright way, and unresisted pass.
So thro the solid lump of Man the Soul
Sends forth those fires that do the frame controul;
And his desires do hurry him away,
Where-e're those flames do guide th'obedient Clay.
And now I feel an unknown warmth all o're;
I burn, I melt, but know not from what Pow'r:
These sharp quick fires are urg'd thro ev'ry vein,
Mingling at once such Pleasure and such Pain.
Ah! whither will this furious passion drive?
(In vain against Love's raging force we strive.)
Shall my aspiring Soul, like vulgar hearts,
Complain of shameful wounds from Cupid's Darts?
If I shou'd be embrac'd by mortal arms,
They'd fade my Beauties, sully all my Charms:
My rising mind soars vast degrees above
Terrestrial Charms, they're much beneath my Love:
These gross desires my purer Soul disdains;
She'll be His Spouse who ev'ry beeing frames.
Agnes, of Rome the wonder and the pride,
Her Charms to an Ausonian Youth deny'd,
And in these terms refus'd to be his Bride:
If I have kindled fires within your breast,
I cannot grant, but pity your request:
Nor can you justly my refusal blame,
Since I burn with a much diviner flame;
For my Creator hath engag'd my heart,
My Soul from such a Spouse can ne're depart:
His lovely Image still is in my sight,
And at this distance He's my sole delight:
In absence we converse; I speak in Pray'rs,
And he in absence charms my listning ears.
So by the Loadstones unseen wondrous force
The faithful Needle steers the Seamans course:
Tow'rds its lov'd North it constantly doth rise,
Helping their way, to their extreme surprize.
So does the Flow'r of Phoebus twice a day
Turn tow'rds her Sun, and her glad leaves display.
Fair Cynthia thus regards her Brother's beams,
Renews her Beauty from his borrow'd flames.
I am thy Clytie (Spouse) thou art my Sun,
I Cynthia, always tow'rds thy light must run.
My, Spouse, my Helice, with longing I
(Where-e're thou draw'st) tow'rds thee in raptures flie.
What wonder if in mutual Love We burn,
Since Steel can tow'rds the senseless Loadstone turn?
‘Bernard. Medit. cap. 9. My heart passes thro many things, seeking about where it may take its rest; but finds nothing that pleases it, till it returns to God.’
V.
‘My Soul melted as my Beloved spoke, Cant. 5. 6.’
WHat Hills, what Rocks, what Desarts have I trod,
Only for one short view of Thee, my God!
How for one word from those dear lips of Thine,
My feet a tiresom Pilgrimage injoyn'd!
O're craggy Rocks of such stupendious height,
[...]h'ascent does ev'n the climbing Deer afright:
[...]t cannot my unwearied haste delay,
[...] mighty Love conducts me all the way.
[...]ho from these heights I all things else descry,
[...]he dear-lov'd Object shuns my longing eye.
Distracted then, thro ev'ry Den I rave,
Search each Recess, and visit ev'ry Cave.
In vain (alas!) those devious paths I wear,
I only find thou art a stranger there.
Sometimes into the open Plain I rove,
But there am lost in Error as in Love.
Tow'rds Heav'n I look, and thro the Fields co [...] plain,
But both unkindly answer not again.
Wandring from thence, I find a shady Vale,
There on my Love (but, oh! in vain) I call.
Not far from hence a close thick Covert grows,
Where panting Beasts fly for a cool repose:
Here, here, said I, my Love is laid to rest;
But, oh! no sign of Thee was here imprest.
Then, stung with passion, and o're-whelm'd [...] grief,
I court the shoar, and thence expect relief.
Here a high Tow'r exalts its lofty head,
By whose kind light the wandring Seaman's led▪
Here I ascend, and view the Ocean round,
While my complaints o're all the shoar resound▪
[...]ell me, you Shoars, you Seas, and tell me true,
[...] not my Love conceal'd in some of You?
[...] to each other you wou'd constant be,
[...]iscover, and be just to Love and me.
[...]carce had the shoar receiv'd the mournful noise,
[...]hen it return'd a loud redoubled voice:
[...]ut that some sporting Eccho I believe,
[...]at fools the wretch'd, and dallies with their grief.
[...]gain the shoar I rend; the shoar does hear,
[...]nd the kind voice again salutes my ear:
[...] voice, a well-known voice! 'twas Thine, my Life,
[...]hose pleasing accents soon dispell'd my grief.
[...]ow I reviv'd; One such immortal breath
[...]d pow'r enough to rescue me from death.
[...]y voice, like Lightning, unperceiv'd, unfelt,
[...] a strange inffence does th'affections melt.
[...] thy Disciples hearts were fir'd within,
[...]en on the way thou didst discourse begin;
[...]e secret charms of Thy prevailing voice
[...]us'd unaccountable, yet mighty Joys.
[...]as the same heav'nly sound that answer'd me,
[...]d all dissolv'd me into Extasie.
That kindled such a fire within my Soul,
Whose ardent heat an Ocean cannot cool.
See how my melting passions drop and run,
Like Virgin-wax before the scorching Sun!
O might I be so blest to mix with Thee,
Our Life the same, the same our Love shou'd [...]e▪
‘Aug. Solil. cap. 34. What is this that I feel? what fire is it that warms my heart? what light is it that enlightens it? O thou fire which always burnest, and art never extinguished! do thou inflame me.’
VI.
‘ [...]hom have I in Heaven but Thee? and there is none upon Earth that I desire in comparison of Thee. Psal. 73. 24.’
WHat shall I seek, great God, in Heav'n above,
The Earth, or Sea, whereon to fix my love?
[...]o I shou'd ransack Heav'n, the Earth, and Sea,
[...]l they can boast, is nothing without Thee.
I know what mighty Joys in Heav'n abound,
[...]hat Treasures in the Earth and Sea are found;
[...]et without Thee, my Love, t'enrich their store,
[...]l, all their glories are but mean and poor.
[...] Heav'n! O Earth! O vast capacious Main!
[...]ree famous Realms where Wealth and Plenty reign!
[...]o in one heap your triple pleasures lay,
[...]ey were no pleasures, were my Love away.
My thoughts, I own, have often rang'd the Deep,
Search'd Earth and Heav'n, and in no bounds wou' [...] keep;
But when they rambled the Creation round,
No equal Object in the Whole they found
Sometimes I thought to rip the pregnant Earth,
And give its rich and long-born burthen birth;
Gold, Silver, Brass, seeds of the shining vein,
And each bright product of the fertile Mine:
For these we dig and tear our Mothers Womb,
Till for our boundless Treasures we want room:
To what advantage? Tho, o're-charg'd with Gold▪
Your bursting Coffers can't their burthen hold;
Yet this can ne're your troubled mind appease,
Nor buy your sorrows ev'n a minutes ease.
Here disappointed, to the Deep I go,
Whose low recesses the scorch'd Indians know;
Pleas'd with its Gemmy store my self to load,
I dive, and visit its conceal'd abode:
Then the scarce Burret seek, whose bloods rich dy [...]
Is the great Ornament of Majesty.
Then scatter'd Pearls I gather on the shoar
Where rich Hydaspes casts his shining store.
Alas! these Jewels brought from several Coasts,
All that each River, or the Ocean boasts;
The Saphyr, Jasper, and the Chrysolite,
Can't quench my thirst, or stay my appetite.
Then, since the Earth and Sea content deny,
Heav'ns lofty Fabrick I resolve to try.
With wonder I the vast Machine survey,
With glorious Stars all studded, bright and gay:
Amaz'd their still unalter'd course I view,
And how their daily motion they renew.
But among all the Pensile-fires above,
None warm'd my breast, none rais'd my Soul to love:
But I beheld at distance from below;
Then farewell Earth, up to their Orbs I go.
Now less'ning Cities leave my distant sight,
And now the Earths whole Globe is vanish'd quite;
Above the Sun and Planets I am born,
And their inferior Influences scorn.
Now the bright pavement of the Stars I tread,
Once the high cov'ring of my humble head.
Now o're the lofty flaming Wall I flie,
And Heav'ns bright Court lies open to my eye.
Now curious Crowds of the wing'd Choir above
Tow'rds the new guest with dazling splendor mov [...]
Hymns well compos'd to Airs Divine they sing,
New tune their Harps, and scrue up ev'ry string▪
Then in brisk Notes triumphant Anthems play,
While Heav'n resounds, as if 'twere Holy-day.
O glorious Mansions fill'd with shining fires!
O Courts fit only for your Starry Choirs!
My ravish'd Soul's in strange amazement lost;
Sure no delight is wanting on this Coast.
Ha!—Said I no delight was wanting here?
Yes, you want All; alas! you want my Dear.
Farewell you Stars, and you bright Forms adieu;
My bus'ness here was with my Love, not you.
There's nothing good below without my Love,
Nor any thing worth a faint Wish above.
One World subdu'd, the Conqu'ror did deplore
That niggard Fate had not allow'd him more.
My vaster thoughts a thousand Worlds despise,
Nor lose one wish on such a worthless prize.
Not all the Universe from Pole to Pole,
Heav'n, Earth, and Sea, can fill my boundless Soul.
What neither Earths wide limits can contain,
Nor the large Empire of the spreading Main;
Nor Heav'n, whose vaster Globe does both inclose;
[...]hat's the sole Object my ambition knows.
[...]ill now, alas! my Soul at shadows caught,
[...]nd always was deceiv'd in what it sought.
[...]hou, Lord, alone art Heav'n, Earth, Sea, to me:
[...]hou, Lord, art All, all nothing without Thee.
‘Aug. Solil. cap. 20. [...]hatever is contained within the compass of Heaven, is beneath the Soul of Man, which was made to enjoy the chiefest Good above, in whose possession alone it can be happy.’
VII.
‘ [...]o is me, that I am constrained to dwell with Mesech, and to have my habitation among the tents of Kedar. Psal. 120. 4.’
Till does the Sun with usual motion steer
The revolutions of the circling Year?
Gibeons wondrous Solstice is renew'd,
[...]en at the mighty Joshua's beck he stood?
[...] sure his motion's become retrograde,
[...] [...]nce he turn'd the Hebrew Dial's shade.
[...]hy else shou'd I, who now am past the age
[...]ow'd to tread this Worlds unhappy Stage;
[...]y shou'd I be deny'd an Exit, now
[...]e play'd my part, and have no more to do?
[...]here on Earth a Blessing to repair
[...] injurious force of my detain [...]r there?
[...] wou'd I welcom any fav'ring death,
[...]ease me of the burthen of my breath!
By one sure stroke, kind Fate, my soul reprieve;
For 'tis continual dying here to live.
Here our chief bliss is an uncertain Joy,
Which swift vicissitudes of ill destroy.
Just as the Sun, who rising bright and gay,
In Clouds and Show'rs concludes the weeping day.
So boisterous gusts oft' tender Flow'rs invade,
By tempting winds too soon abroad betray'd.
Here, envious of each others settlement,
All things contend each other to supplant.
The second minute drives the first away,
And Night's impatient to succeed the Day:
The eager Summer thinks the Spring too long,
And Autumn frets that Summer is not gone:
But Autumn's self to Winter must give way,
Lest its cold Frosts o'retake and punish his delay.
Behold you Sea, how smooth, without a frown!
See, while I speak, how curl'd, how rough 'tis grown!
Look, how serene's the sky, how calm the air!
Now, hark, it thunders round the Hemisphere!
This great Inconstancy of human state
Corrupts each minute of our happy fate.
But, oh! the worst of ills is still behind,
The rav'nous converse with our beastly kind.
[...]re Nature first in anger did intend
A plague of Monsters o're the world to send;
Then brought forth her most brutish Off-spring Men,
And turn'd each house into a savage den.
[...] this rapacious species we may find
All that's destructive in the preying kind;
Lion, Wolf, Tyger, Bear and Crocodile,
Strong to devour, and cunning to beguile:
These Beasts are led to prey by appetite,
And that once pleas'd, in no more blood delight;
But Man, like Hell, has an insatiate thirst,
And still is keenest, when so full to burst.
This raises Fraud, makes Treach'ry fine and gay,
While banish'd Justice flies disrob'd away:
This fills the world with loud allarms of War,
And turns the peaceful Plough-share to a hostile Spear.
Who wou'd be slave to such a Tyrant-life,
That still engages him in noise and strife?
Long since, alas! I did my years compleat,
And serv'd for freedom, still deny'd by Fate.
When I compute to what a price amount
My mis-spent days, I'm bankrupt in th'account.
Oh! what strange frenzy does those men possess,
Who rashly deem long life a happiness?
They sure are strangers to the Joys above,
Who more than Home a wretched Exile love.
But Heav'n's remote, and its far-distant bliss
Appears minute to our mistaken eyes.
Ah! why, my Countrey, art thou plac'd so far,
That I am still a tedious wanderer?
Happier the Exiles of old Heathen Rome,
Whom only Tyber did divide from home;
While to remoter banishment design'd,
A vast Abyss 'twixt Heav'n and me I find.
The Hebrew slaves in Harvest were set free;
My Harvest's come, why not my Liberty?
The swift fore-runner of the welcom Spring
Finds after Winters cold a time to sing:
She who did long in dark recesses lie,
Now flys abroad and re-salutes the Sky.
But I still live excluded from above,
Deny'd the Object of my Bliss and Love.
Haste, haste, my God, and take me up to Thee;
There let me live, where I was made to be.
‘Aug. Serm. 43. There are two tormentors of the Soul, which do not torture it together, but by turns. Their names are Fear and Grief: When it is well with you, you fear; when ill, you grieve.’
VIII.
‘O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death? Rom. 7. 24.’
WHere are the lost delights for which I grieve,
But which my sorrows never shall retrieve?
Such vast delights—but mention not the loss,
Whose sad remembrance is thy greatest cross:
And fate is kindest when it robs us so,
To take away our sense of suffering too.
On our first Parents folly we exclaim,
As if They only were, as first, to blame:
On Eve and Adam we discharge our rage,
And thus expose our naked Parentage.
But I (alas!) condemn not them alone,
Nor while I mind their fall, forget my own.
With Eve I was consenting to the cheat
Impos'd on Adam, and helpt him to eat.
Hence I my nakedness and shame deriv'd,
And skins of Beasts to cover both receiv'd:
And from my forfeit Eden justly driv'n,
The curse of Earth, and the contempt of Heav'n.
Nor do I now the general loss bemoan;
My grief's deficient to bewail my own.
The tragick story from my Birth I'll take,
For early grief did my first silence break.
'Twas Julyes month, the gratefull'st of the year,
(Tho all my life December did appear)
The Twenty-seventh: Oh! had it been my last,
I had not mourn'd, nor that made too much haste.
That was the fatal day that gave me breath,
Which prov'd almost my teeming Parent's death;
And still, as then, to her (alas!) I've been
A true Benoni, not a Benjamin.
No sooner was I for the Cradle drest,
But a strange horror all around possest;
Who with one dire prophetick voice presage
Th'attending mis'ries of my growing age.
Why didst thou give me life, more fatal day
Than that which took th'Aegyptian Males away?
No more be numbred in the Calender,
But in thy place let a large blot appear:
Or if thou must thy annual station keep,
Let each hour thunder, and each minute weep:
Let, as on Cain, some mark be fix'd on Thee,
That giving life, didst worse than murder me.
Now, Friends, I find your fatal Aug'ry true;
My woes each other, like my hours pursue.
Hence the large sources of my tears arise,
And no dry minute wipes my flowing eyes.
No sooner had I left my childish plays,
The harmless pastimes of my happy days:
Now past a child, yet still in Judgment so,
I study'd first what I was not to know.
And my first grief was to lament my fate,
And yet 'twas seldom I had time for that.
My stubborn Soul a long resistance made,
Impatient thus by Nature to be sway'd:
Oft' strove to Heav'n to raise its lofty flight,
As oft' supprest by its gross body's weight:
But what it cou'd not reach, its eyes pursue;
Then it cry'd, Ah God! then shed a briny dew:
Twice more it wou'd repeat the pleasing noise,
But struggling sighs restrain'd th'impris'n'd voice.
Such sure were felt in Babels Monarch's breast,
When of his Throne and Nature dispossest.
But conquer'd patience yields at last to grief,
And thus I vent my wo, and beg relief.
Blest Author of my life, hear my complaint,
And free this captive from its loath'd restraint:
Speak but the word, thy Servant shall be free;
Thou mad'st me thus, o thus unbody me!
Or if thou wilt not this relief afford,
Grant some kind Poyson, or some friendly Sword.
Dying I'll hug the Author of my Death,
And beg his pardon with my-latest breath.
But to save man the guilt, send some Disease,
Death in the most afrighting shape will please:
Were I to act Perillus scorching Scene,
I shou'd rejoyce to hear my self complain.
Oh Heav'n! my patience is o'recome by grief!
Is there above no succour, no relief?
The mercy Death is all I thee implore:
Lord, grant it soon, lest I blaspheme thy pow'r.
When for dispatch tormented wretches pray,
No cruelty's so barbarous as delay.
Why am I to this noisom carcase ty'd,
Whose stench is death in all its ghastly pride?
Then speak the word, and I shall soon be free;
Thou form'dst me thus, o thus unbody me!
‘Amb. in Psal. 118. How does that Soul live, that is inclosed in a covering of death?’
IX.
‘ [...] am in a straight between two, having a desire to be dissolved and to be with Christ. Philip. 1. 23.’
HOw shall I do to fix my doubtful love?
Shall I remain below, or soar above?
[...]ere Earth detains me, and retards my flight,
[...]here Heav'n invites me to sublime delight:
[...]av'n calls aloud, and bids me haste away,
[...]hile Earth allures, and gently whispers, stay.
[...]ut hence thou sly Inchantress of my heart,
[...]l break thy fetters, and despise thy art.
[...]aste, haste, kind Fate, unlock my Prison door;
[...]ere I releas'd, how I aloft wou'd soar!
[...]ee, Lord, my struggling arms tow'rds Thee are sent,
[...]nd strive to grasp thee in their wide extent.
[...]! had I pow'r to mount above the Pole,
[...] kiss the Centre of my longing Soul!
But thou above derid'st my weak designs,
And still opposest what thy word injoyns.
Vainly I beg what thou dost still deny,
And stretch my hands toreach what's plac'd too high▪
Oft' to my self false Joys of Thee I feign,
And think thou kindly com'st to break my Chain▪
Now, now, I cry, my Soul shall soar above!
But this (alas!) was all dissembled love.
Sure this belief some pity might obtain;
Thou shou'dst at least for this have broke my Chain▪
But if I'm still confin'd, my wings I'll try;
And if I fail, in high attempts I die.
But see! He comes, and as he glides along,
He beckons me, and seems to say come on.
I'll rise, and flie into his lov'd embrace,
And snatch a kiss, a thousand, from his face.
Now, now he's near, his sacred Robe I touch,
And I shall grasp him at the next approach:
But he (alas!) has mock'd my vain design,
And fled these arms, these slighted arms of mine:
For tho the distance ne're so little be,
It seems th'Extremes of the vast Globe to me.
Thus does my Love my longing tantalize,
And bids me follow, while too fast he flies.
Thus sportive Love delights in little cheats,
Which oft' are punish'd with severe deceits.
The World has an Original in me
To paint deluded Lovers misery:
And he who has his easie Fair betray'd,
Finds all his falshood with large Int'rest paid.
I ne're suspected thou cou'dst faithless be,
But sad experience has instructed me.
As a chain'd Mastiff, begging to be loose,
With restless howlings fills the deafned house;
But if deny'd, his teeth the Chain engage,
And vent on that their inoffensive rage:
So I complain, petition to be freed,
And humbly prostrate beg the help I need.
But when you frown, and my request deny,
Deaf as the Rocks to my repeated cry;
Then I against my hated Clog exclaim,
And on my Chain lay all the guilty blame:
Thus grief pretends, by giving passion vent,
To ease the pain of my Imprisonment.
But I unjustly blame my Chain alone,
And spare the cruel hand that ty'd it on.
Well might the barb'rous load of Chains I bear
Become a Renegado slave to wear;
But why this harsh ill usage, Love, to me,
Whose whole endeavour is to come to Thee?
But when my Soul attempts a lofty flight,
Tis still supprest by a gross bodies weight.
So fare young Birds, by Nature wing'd in vain,
Whom sportful Boys with scanty twines restrain;
When eager to retrieve their native air,
They rise a little height, and flutter there:
But having to their utmost limits flown,
The more they strive to mount, they fall the faste dow [...]
Each, tho it sleeps in its young Tyrants breast,
And is with Banquets from his lips carest;
Yet prizes more the freedom of the Wood,
Than all the Dainties of its dear-bought food:
Could tears dissolve my Chains, O with what ease▪
[...]'d weep a Deluge for a quick release?
But tears are vain, reach, Lord, thy hands to me,
And in return I'll streach my Chains to thee.
Thou canst unty these stubborn bands alone,
Oh! do thou take them off, because thou putst them on!
‘Chrysost. hom. 55. ad pop. Antioch. How long shall we be fastned here? we stick to the Earth, as if we should always live there, we wallow in the mire. God gave us bodies of earth, that we should carry them to Heaven, not that we should by them debase our Souls to the Earth.’
X.
‘Bring my Soul out of prison, that I may praise thy name. Psal. 142. 9.’
I Who did once thro th'airs wide Regions rove,
Free Denizon of the vast Realm above;
Now to a narrow Dungeon am confin'd,
A hole that darkens and restrains my mind.
When first my Soul put on its fleshly load,
It was imprison'd in the dark abode;
My feet were fetters, my hands manacles,
My sinews chains, and all confinement else;
My bones the bars of my loath'd Prison-grate;
My tongue the turnkey, and my mouth the gate.
Why from my native station am I sent
A Captive to this narrow tenement?
How oft' wou'd I attempt a shameful flight,
And in a Halter bid the world good night?
How oft' have I their happy Fate admir'd,
Who by the Sword or Poyson have expir'd?
But to gain Heav'n, we must Heav'ns leisure stay,
Such rash attempters have mistook the way.
As only Heav'n our Beings did bestow,
'Tis Heav'ns sole right to countermand them too:
And when to end the lives That gave we strive,
We impiously encroach on God's Prerogative;
And on our Souls by this unlawful act,
In breaking Pris'n we a new guilt contract.
So that the course we take to set us free,
Betrays us to a greater slavery.
Had I some winding Lab'rinth for my Jayl,
I then might hope for freedom to prevail:
But while imbody'd in this Flesh I lie,
Heav'n must be Deliverer, not I.
Let the mistaken wretch his Pris'n accuse,
Which for his flight did no kind means refuse.
Wou'd some kind chink one heav'nly Ray admit
To bless my eyes, how wou'd I honour it!
But while confin'd to this dark Cell I lie,
My captive Soul can't reach its native Sky.
Here, ev'n my will's a slave to passions made,
Passions which have its liberty betray'd.
When piously it is inclin'd to good,
'Tis by repugnant passions still withstood.
Thus Israel in th'Aegyptian bondage far'd,
While fron the service of their God debarr'd;
When to his worship they desir'd to go,
The Tyrant Phar'oh always answer'd, No.
Oh my dear God! visit this humble Cell,
And see in what a narrow Pris'n I dwell.
But if the Locks and Bars and Grates afright,
Command them all to open at thy sight.
Command them, Lord, to set thy Servant free;
Nor will this deed without example be:
Angels have left their Thrones and Bliss above,
To ransom those whom thou wert pleas'd to love:
Thus Peter did his op'ning Prison view,
Yet scarce believ'd the Miracle was true.
But no such favour is indulg'd to me,
I want (alas!) such happy liberty:
Come, come, my God, unlock my Prison-gate,
And let my Soul tow'rd Heav'n expatiate:
Or lead thy Slave in triumph thro the Sky,
I'll bless the Chains that bind me close to Thee.
Tow'rds Thee my hands thro the kind Grate I throw;
O that my other parts could follow too!
The captive Bird about its Cage will fly,
And the least way for its escape espy,
And with its bill gnaws thro the twiggy grate
A secret passage to its first free state.
Canst thou, my God, be deaf to all my cries,
And more obdurate than my Prison is?
Not for my self, but Thee do I complain,
Thy sacred prasse, which I wou'd sing, in vain;
For here (alas!) I cannot once rejoyce,
Nor touch my strings, nor raise my tuneful voice.
For Birds confin'd, to rage convert their Notes,
Or sullen grown, lock up their silent throats.
Come then, my God, unlock my Prison-gate,
And let my Soul tow'rds Heav'n expatiate!
There my loud voice in joyful Notes I'll raise,
And sing Eternal Anthems in thy praise.
But if thou wilt not this request allow,
At thy own Glory thou must envious grow.
‘Greg. in cap. 7. Job. Man is imprisoned, because by proficiency in virtue he often strives to rise on high, but is kept down by the corruption of his flesh.’
XI.
‘Like as the Hart desireth the water-brooks, so longeth my Soul after thee, O God. Psal. 42. 1.’
LOrd, wou'dst thou know my breasts consuming fire,
And how I pine and languish with desire?
The withering Vi'lets no resemblance yield,
Nor can I take one from the Sun-burnt Field;
Nor by that heat can I express my pain,
That melts us in the fiery Dog-stars reign.
The Lybian Sands, where the Suns warm salute
With barren drouth destroys all hope of fruit;
Ev'n they, compar'd with me, are moist and cool,
Such raging flames have seiz'd my hectick Soul.
But wou'dst thou have an Emblem of my pains,
Regard then how the wounded Hart complains,
While in his side th'envenom'd Arrow lies,
His Blood boils over, and his Marrow fries:
Thus thro the Woods he takes a nimble flight,
Till some cool stream salutes his distant sight:
Then with redoubled speed he pants and brays,
Till there his thirst and feaver he allays.
Thus, thus transfix'd with an Infernal Dart,
I feel the poyson raging in my heart.
Th'envenom'd blood with vi'olent fury burns,
And to a thousand diff'rent tortures turns.
The Tyrant Lust now thro my body reigns,
And now Intemp'rance bursts my glutted veins.
Now Prides rank poyson swells my heaving breast▪
And curs'd Ambition robs me of my rest.
Oh! from what stream shall I a Med'cine find
To ease these restless torments of my mind!
Thou, thou, my God, alone canst ease my grief,
From the pure Conduits of the Well of Life.
My panting Soul laments and pines for them,
As the chas'd Hart for the refreshing stream.
Shunning the quick-nos'd Hounds afrighting cries
With timorous haste oft' to the Toils he flies:
And when he finds himself too close beset,
With active speed o're-leaps th'extended Net:
But hotly by his num'rous Foes pursu'd,
He seeks rhe succour of some sheltring Wood;
And on his neck, lest it retard his speed,
Casts back the useless Armour of his head:
Which, since he has not courage to employ,
Assists his Foes its owner to destroy.
Sometimes he thinks the deep-mouth'd foe is near,
From strong impressions of remaining fear.
Again he stands and listens for their cries,
Then, almost spent, thro the close Thickets flies
To the clear Springs: And as he pants for them,
So pines my Soul for the Caelestial stream;
There he renews his strength, and lays his heat,
And rowls and wantons in the cool retreat.
Lord, Hell's great Nimrod holds my Soul in chase,
To shun whose Hounds I fly from place to place;
But closely they my weary steps pursue,
No means of succour or escape I view.
Tir'd with my flight, and faint with constant sweat,
I wish to rest, I wish to lay my heat.
But where, O where can this refreshment be?
'Tis no where, Lord, 'tis no where but with Thee.
With Thee an ever-bubbling Fountain flows,
The remedy of all thy Servants woes:
Pleasing its taste, its virtue sanative;
Nor health alone, but endless life they give.
Then tell not me of Tagus Golden flood,
Whose rowling Sands raise a perpetual mud:
There shou'd I drink insatiate till I burst,
Each greedy draught wou'd re-inflame my thirst.
No, to the pleasing Springs above I'll go,
The Springs that in the heavenly Canaan flow.
My panting Soul laments and pines for them,
As the chas'd Hart for the refreshing stream.
‘Cyril. in Joan. lib. 3. cap. 10. It is an excellent water that allays the pernicious thirst of this world, and the heat of Vice; that washes off all the stains of sin; that waters and improves the Earth in which our Souls inhabit, and restores the mind of man; that thirsts with an earnest desire to its God.’
XII.
‘When shall I come and appear before the presence of God? Psal. 42. 2.’
WIth promis'd Joys my ears thou oft' didst fill,
But they are only Joys of promise still.
Didst thou not say thou soon wou'dst call me home?
Be just, my Love, and kindly bid me come!
Expecting Lovers count each hour a day,
And death to them's less dreadful than delay.
A tedious train of months and years is gone,
Since first you bid me hope, yet gave me none.
Why with delays dost thou abuse my love,
And fail my vain expectancies above?
While thus th'insulting Crowd derides my woe,
Where's now your Love? how well he keeps his Vow?
Haste then, and home thy longing Lover take;
If not for mine, yet for thy promise sake.
When shall I come before thy Throne, and see
Thy glorious Scepter kindly stretch'd to me?
For Thee I pine, for Thee I am undone,
As drooping Flow'rs that want their Parent Sun.
O cruel tort'rer of my wounded Soul,
Grant me thy presence, and I shall be whole!
O when, thou Joy of all admiring eyes,
When shall I see thee on thy Throne of bliss!
As when unwelcom night begins its sway,
And throws its sable mantle o're the day;
The withering glories of the Garden fade,
And weeping Groves bewail their lonely shade;
To melancholly silence men retire,
And no sweet Note sounds from the feather'd Choir:
But hardly can the dawning morn display
The welcom Ensigns of th'approaching day,
But the glad Gardens deck themselves anew,
And the cheer'd Groves shake off their heavy Dew:
To early homage Man himself devotes,
And Birds in Anthems strain their tuneful throats.
So without Thee, I grieve, I pine, I mourn;
So triumph, so revive at Thy return.
But Thou, unkind, bidst me delight my eyes
With other Beauties, other Rarities.
Sometimes thou bidst me mark the flow'ry Field,
What various scents and shews its Pastures yield;
Then to the Stars thou dost direct my sight,
For they from Thine derive their borrow'd light.
Then saist, Contemplate Man, in Him thou'lt see
The great resemblance of thy Love and Me.
Why wou'dst thou thus deceive me with a shade,
A trifling Image, that will quickly fade?
My fancy stoops not to a mortal aim;
Thou, thou hast kindled, and must quench my flame.
O glorious Face, worthy a Pow'r Divine,
Where Love and Awe with equal mixture shine!
Triumphant Majesty of that bright Ray
Where blushing Angels prostrate homage pay!
We in thy Works thy fix'd impressions trace,
Yet still but faint reflections of thy Face.
When this inchanted World's compar'd with Thee,
Its boasted Beauty's all deformity:
Thy Stars no such transcending glories own
As Thine, whose light exceeds all theirs in one.
This truth some one of them can best declare,
Who on the Mount thy blest spectators were.
Who on Thy Glories were allow'd to gaze,
And saw Heav'n opned in Thy wondrous Face.
Nor can we blame thy great Apostle's Zeal,
To whom thou didst that happy sight reveal,
That slighting all things heretofore most dear,
Was all for building Tabernacles there:
Yet he beheld Thee then within a Veil,
The killing Rays thou kindly didst conceal:
He saw a lambent flame thy Face surround,
Thy Temples with a dazling Glory crown'd:
How had he wondred at the nobler Light,
Whose bare Reflection was so heav'nly bright!
But, oh! That's inaccessible to humane sight!
Then me, oh! me to that blest state receive,
Where I may see thee all, and seeing live!
When will that happy day of Vision be,
When I shall make a near approach to Thee,
Be wrapt in Clouds, and lost in Mystery!
'Tis true, the Sacred Elements impart
Thy virt'ual presence to my faithful heart,
But to my sense still unreveal'd thou art.
This, tho a great, is an imperfect bliss,
T'embrace a Cloud for the bright God I wish;
My Soul a more exalted pitch wou'd sly,
And view Thee in the heights of Majesty.
Oh! when shall I behold Thee all serene,
Without an envious cloudy Veil between!
When distant Faith shall in near Vision cease,
And still my Love shall with my Joy increase!
That happy day dear as these Eyes shall be,
And more than all the dearest things, but Thee:
‘Aug. in Psal. 42. [...]f thou sindest any thing better than to behold the face of God, haste thee thither. Wo be to that love of thine, if thou dost but imagine any thing more beautiful than He, from whom all Beauty that delights thee is derived.’
XIII.
‘ [...] that I had the wings of a Dove! for then I would fly away, and be at rest. Psal. 55. 6.’
THo, great Creator, I receive from Thee
All that I am, and all I hope to be;
[...]et, might this humble Clay expostulate,
[...] wou'd complain of my defective state.
To Man th'ast given the boundless Regency
Of three vast Realms, the Ocean, Earth, and Sky:
But, oh! how shall this ample Pow'r be try'd,
When still the means to use it are deny'd?
Pardon my hasty censure of thy skill,
Who think thy mighty Work defective still;
Nor am I forward to correct thy Art,
By wishing man a Casement in his heart,
Whose dark recesses all the world might see;
That prospect justly is reserv'd for Thee:
But the defect I mourn is greater far;
His want of Wings to bear him thro the Air.
Inferiour Creatures no perfection want,
To hinder their enjoyment of Thy grant.
The scaly Race have nimble Fins allow'd,
With which they range about their native Flood:
And all the feather'd Tenants of the Air,
Born up on tow'ring Wings, expatiate there.
Thus ev'ry Creature finds a blest content
Adapted to its proper Element:
But Man, for the command of all design'd,
Is still to One injuriously confin'd;
While Nature often is extravagant,
And gives his Subjects more than what they want.
Some of the watry kind, we know, can fly,
And visit, when they please, the lofty Sky;
And, in exchange, some of the aëry brood
Descend, and turn bold Pirates in the Flood:
While still to Man Heav'n does all means deny
To exercise his vain Authority.
Ev'n buzzing Insects with light wings are blest,
[...]n whose small frame Heav'n has much art exprest:
But Man, the great, the noble Master-piece,
Wants a perfection that abounds in these.
Nay some, the meanest of the feather'd kind,
For neither profit nor delight design'd,
Stretch their Dominions to a vast extent,
Nor pleas'd with Two, range a third Element;
Sometimes on Earth they walk with stately pace,
And sport and revel on the tender grass;
Then for the liquid Stream exchange the Shoar,
And dally there as wanton as before:
But wearied, thence their moistned wings they rear,
To take their wild diversion in the Air.
Sure these to rule the triple World were sent,
And denizon'd of every Element:
But Man, excluded both the Sea and Air,
Can make small use of his Dominion there.
Nor yet repine I that the Earth's alone
Man's Element, since I desire but One;
My whole ambition's to exchange my place,
Tho with the meanest of the feather'd Race.
Grant me but wings that I may upwards soar,
I'll forfeit them if e're I covet more.
Nor canst thou, Lord, my just petition blame,
When thou regard'st the end of all my aim:
The Miseries below, and Joys above,
Recall from hence, and thither point my love.
The Earth (alas!) [...]o settled station knows,
So fast the deluge of its ruine flows:
Numberless troubles and calamities
Increase the Flood, too apt it self to rise.
Tir'd with long flight, my weary Soul can meet
No friendly bough to entertain her feet.
Here no blest sign of Peace or Plenty is,
All lie o'rewhelm'd in the profound Abyss.
O whither then shall I for safety go?
I must not hope so great a good below.
Vainly to Honor or to Wealth I fly,
These cannot be their own security;
My sole dependance is the Sacred Ark,
There, there my Soul in safety may embarque:
Thou sent'st her thence, Lord, call her home again,
And stretch thy favouring hand to take her in.
But she's (alas!) too weak for such a flight,
Her flagging wings are baffled by its height.
Wou'dst thou vouchsafe to imp them, she wou'd fly,
And brave the tow'ring Monarch of the Sky;
Then she wou'd haste to her eternal Rest,
And build above the Clouds her lofty Nest;
There basking in the splendor of thy beams,
Be all imploy'd on bright Angelick Themes;
In which th'adultrate World shall have no part,
That sly Debaucher of my wandring heart:
But in Seraphick Flames for Thee I'll burn,
And never, never think of a return.
‘Amb. Hom. 7. Nothing can fly but what is pure, light, and subtile, and whose purity is not corrupted by intemperance, nor its cheerfulness nor swiftness retarded by any weight.’
XIV.
‘O how amiable are thy Tabernacles, thou Lord of Hosts! Psal. 84. 1.’
GReat Leader of the Starry Hosts that stand
In shining order on thy either hand,
Such bright magnificence adorns Thy Throne,
That hence my ravish'd Soul wou'd fain be gone,
To offer there her low Devotion.
Hail glorious Palace, which a lofty Mound
Of shining Jasper closely does surround!
Where the blew Saphyre and clear Chrysolite.
At once astonish and affect the sight!
Where sparkling Topas-thresholds kiss the feet
Of all who come tow'rds the Almighty's seat!
[...]y doors of dazling Adamant let in,
Where Golden Roofs on Emerald Pillars shine!
This lofty Structure, this divine Abode,
Becomes the Presence of its Founder-God.
Here purest Airs, fann'd in by Angels wings,
Breathe all the Odors of ten thousand Springs.
Here no benumming Frosts dare once be rude,
Nor piercing Snows within these Courts intrude.
The torrid Zone is far remote from hence,
This Climate feels a gentler influence.
This true Elizium's pleasures ne're decay,
Whose time is all but one eternal day.
Bright Resident of the Coelestial Spheres,
How despicable's Earth, when Heav'n appears!
The very name of grief's a stranger here,
And nothing can beget a thought of fear.
Here undisturb'd Tranquility presides,
And entrance to all jarring Foes forbids.
Hence every Passion, Frailty, and Disease,
All that may injure, trouble, or displease,
All that may discompose th'exalted mind,
Are to eternal banishment confin'd.
Bright Resident of the Coelestial Spheres,
How despicable's Earth, when Heav'n appears!
Hear feasting Souls perpetual Revels keep,
And never are concern'd for food or sleep;
With indefatigable Zeal they move,
Born on the wings of Duty and of Love.
Dissolv'd in Hymns, here Choirs of Angels lie,
And with loud Halelujah's fill the Sky.
Here new-come Saints with wreaths of light are crown'd,
While Ivory Flutes and Silver Trumpets sound.
Here blushing Cherubs sacred Hymns begin,
And smiling Seraphs loud Responses sing,
While echoing Angels the blest Airs retort,
Follow'd by a loud Chorus of the Universal Court.
While, to compleat the Musick of the Choir,
The Royal Psalmist tunes his Sacred Lyre.
Such was the mighty Joy, when they caress'd
The Royal CHARLES, their late-ascended Guest.
Such Songs of Triumph fill'd Heav'ns space around,
When they beheld our God-like Sovereign crown'd:
Him, for whose safety they were oft imploy'd,
And blest the grateful Orders they obey'd:
Him, for whose sake they did loud Storms asswage,
And still'd the more tumultuous Peoples rage;
Knowing His Reign such Blessings wou'd dispence,
To make their pains a glorious recompence:
And having crown'd at last the Royal Heir,
Applaud the blest effect of Providences care.
O that my ravish'd Soul cou'd mount the Skies,
To hear the Musick of their Psalmodies!
The meanest seat in this bright Court I'd chuse,
Before the best Preferment Earth bestows;
For one short days sublime injoyment here
Exceeds an Age of the chief Pleasure there.
Blest Resident of the Coelestial Spheres,
How despicable's Earth, when Heav'n appears!
Haste then, my Soul, to those those blest Mansions fly,
With those bright Objects please thy wondring eye:
With their sweet Airs fill thy attentive ear,
Till thou hast learnt to chant forth Anthems there:
Then thou, instructed in the heav'nly Art,
Maist in their Consort bear an humble part.
‘Bonavent. Solil. cap. 4. my Soul, what can I say when I behold the Joy to come! I am lost in admiration, because the Joy will be within and without, above and below, about and beside us.’
XV.
‘Make haste, my Beloved, and be like the Roe or the young Hart upon the Mountains of Spices. Cant. 8. 14.’
HAste, my bright Sun, haste from my dazled sight,
Too tender to endure thy streaming light:
How does my tongue my love-sick soul betray!
This bids him fly, whom that wou'd beg to stay.
For why shou'd I his absence thus engage,
Which grant will make each tedious hour an Age?
Yet his too scorching beams forbid his stay;
Fly then, my Love, or lay those beams away.
Hadst thou on me this harsh Injunction laid,
The killing sound at once had struck me dead.
But thy own flame, not I, will have it so,
I shou'd be Ages in pronouncing Go.
I wou'd not wish what now I do intreat;
Then stay, and let me not persuade thee yet.
Stay, stay, my Life, and turn the deafned ear;
Sure what I wou'd not speak, you shou'd not hear.
Hence let the wind my feign'd Petition bear;
'Twas fear, not I, that form'd the hasty Pray'r.
Yet (oh!) this melting heat forbids your stay;
Fly, fly, my Love, I burn if you delay.
O let your haste outstrip the hunted Hind;
But that's too slow; fly like the nimble Wind:
Fly till thou leav'st ev'n flagging thought behind.
Yet in thy flight a longing look bestow,
A speaking glance, to shew thee loath to go.
But that once cast, renew your speed away:
Fly, fly, my Love, there's death in your delay.
Behold those lofty Sky-saluting Hills,
Where rich Perfume from weeping Trees distills;
Where Lawrels, Cedars, and soft Myrtles grow,
And all the Spice Arabia does bestow:
To their high tops direct thy nimble flight,
Till thou, like them, art vanish'd from my sight.
Fly to the heights where the young Seraphs sing,
And the gay Cherubs exercise their wings.
Fly till the Stars appear as much below
Thy station, as they are above it now.
Those places are inur'd to heat and fire,
And what I dread, is what they most desire.
One Spark's sufficient to inflame my Soul;
Oh! do not then consume me with the whole!
Then let thy haste the hunted Hind out-go.
And yet, methinks, thou shou'dst not leave me so!
Yet fly so, that thou maist look often back,
Nor from my sight too far a Journey take:
But keep such distance as the glorious Sun,
When with most light he guilds the pale-fac'd Moon.
Ah! this discov'ry of my Soul forgive,
I cannot with thee, nor without thee, live.
If thou art near, I burn; remote, I freeze;
And either distance does alike displease.
Then so approach me, Lord, I thee desire,
That I may feel thy warmth, but not thy fire.
Fly then, my Life, fast as the hunted Deer;
But go no more too far, than stay too near.
And when th'art gone, on reedy Pipes I'll play,
And sing thy Praises in an amorous Lay;
And when I've wearied out the tedious night,
With a new task I will my self delight.
I'll carve at large on every spreading Tree
Our Loves Original and History.
My o're-plus time I'll dedicate to sleep,
Yet still my waking thoughts lov'd Object keep.
But see how while I speak I melt away!
Haste your ungrateful flight without delay.
Yet go as tho you this departure mourn,
And all your haste were for a quick return.
‘Amb. de bono Mortis, cap. 5. The Soul desires that her Beloved would be gone, because now she is able to follow him in his flight.’
FINIS.