THE TRIUMPHS OF THE Holy JESUS: OR, A DIVINE POEM OF The Birth, Life, Death, and Resurrection, of our Saviour.
By J. Salter formerly of St. Mary Magdalen's College in Oxon, now Vicar of St. Mary's Church in Devon.
LICENSED,
Nov. 11, 1691.
LONDON, Printed for Samuel Smith, at the Prince's Arms in St. Pauls Church-Yard, 1692.
TO THE Honourable and Reverend Dr. RICHARD ANSLEY, Dean of Exon.
SIR,
THE Noble Favours and Encouragements you have vouchsaf'd me, Merit more than the tender of this Poem; which craves Protection under the shadow of your Name; and though (as to its style) it may seem much beneath your Judgment and Acceptance, and I consequently judged Guilty of Presumption and Arrogance: yet as I owe you a just Service, and wou'd publish it: I less fear the Censure of Vain-glory and Conceitedness, than of Ingratitude. He that doth but tacitly resent the Candour of a true Friend, in a manner buries it: When he [Page]that Proclaims it may in some measure seem to make some shadow of Requital, tho' not Restitution. Were it not for this Consideration, I might have exposed these Labours to the Criticism and Comment of an Age, in which are too many, who undervalue most things, because they are common; and many things because they are Sacred, and savour of Divine Vertue and Goodness: However, if I have your kind Interpretation; I fear not the rigid one of the Times. They beg your Courteous Aspect, which if afforded, you no less Crown and Honour them, than him who in all Humility is,
Your obliged Servant, James Salter.
THE PREFACE TO THE READER.
THERE are some who zealously conclude it to be a kind of Sacriledge and Profanation, to represent Mystical and Divine Matters in the Language of the Muses; and to actuate Numbers in setting forth what is Infinite: Such may as well condemn David for uttering his Holy and Transcendent Ecstasies upon the Harp; Or Elisha, when he said, Bring me now a Minstrel; and it came to pass whilst the Minstrel [Page]plaid the Hand of the Lord came upon him, and he said, Thus saith the Lord, 2 Kings, ch. 3. v. 15. Such Opinionists therefore should be perswaded to permit the Spirit of God to Breath through what Pipe it please, whether in a shrill or low Voice; and they ought to Confess, That all the Songs Inspired by him, must needs bear the Tincture and Complexion of their Fountain.
But the most clamorous Objection, is, Who may compare with God, or what Metre (be it never so August and Lofty) may correspond with the most High? True; And yet as none may compare without Arrogance and Presumption, so all may strive to Imitate, not without Encouragement and Approbation, so it be done with Modesty and Submission.
If we may Credit Pindar and Hesiod, They affirm 'tis the Duty of the Muses to sit under the Throne of Jupiter, and there to observe and celebrate His Majesty and Goodness. So 'tis Reasonable, that Poetick Infusions should break forth into loud Anthems of Praise and Honour, to the Glory of God, in regard they could not [Page]have had their Conception, but by the Contemplation and Sense of His Sweet Bounty and Munificence; Which made Nazianzen (a Star of more than ordinary Magnitude and Lustre in the Greek Church) write Poems of the Genealogy, and Miracles of Christ, called by him, His [...], which when St. Basil, his Chamber-Fellow, had seen and perused, he gave this Character, [...] As if he had said, by Imitating the Singing Angels in Heaven, himself became an Earthly One. St. Paul by the Example of his Master, (who went Singing to the Mount Olivet with his Disciples) Exhorts Christians to awaken and cherish their Souls and Spirits, with Hymns and Psalms and Spiritual Songs.
Thinking it therefore not worth while to Confute those that ignorantly Impeach, I Commend these Effects of Retirement and Solitude, to those who Candidly affect such Poets, viz. To good Scholars, but especially to good Christians, who have overcome the Rudeness of Nature, by a well Disciplin'd and Cultivated Reason, and Improv'd their Reasons by the Access and Advancements [Page]of a Sound and well-Principled Religion; Of whom I may say, and conclude in the Words of Horace.
—Quibus haec sint qualiacun (que)
Arridere velim: Dolitura si placeant Spe
Deterius Nostrâ—
THE TRIUMPHS OF THE Holy Jesus, &c.
I Sing His Birth, Who no Beginning had,
Yet the Beginning of all things were Made.
How God and Man, together did Embrace,
And Heaven and Earth salute each others Face.
I Sing the Death of Him that could not dye,
That Mortals might gain Immortallity.
Became a Curse to make the Cursed blest,
I Sing how He grew high, for being deprest,
How this Illustrious Planet of the Moon.
That Shot from Heaven, did back to Heaven Return.
O Holy Spirit, vouchsafe pure Fires to infuse
Into my Breast, and teach my thoughtful Muse.
Ye sacred Scriptures (never fading Scrowl)
Which do Heavens treasur'd Memory enroll,
Say, what's the Cause, that mercy should come down,
To have the Plea of Justice overthrown?
That the resenting Bowels of the Most High,
Shou'd stoop to quicken sinful Dust and Clay?
Cou'd so much ill be cause of so much good
That the Lamb God for Man shou'd shed his Blood?
O say! how Mercy cou'd arise for those
Who traiterously against their Master rose?
Must the Son dye to spare the Fathers foes?
There is a place above you Azure Plain,
Where Sun and Moon alternately do Reign,
A boundless Place, where saintly Heroes reap.
The Triumphs of their Fights, 'tis where They keep
Their everlasting Sabbath, whilst each wears
His Badge of Blood, all more than Conquerours,
They only Wish, for that They still enjoy,
'Tis what cannot but feed, but cannot cloy:
Here, when that beauteous Frame that bore th' Impress
Of Gods own Image fell from Happiness,
When that fair Frame which shin'd with every Star,
And did a Galaxy of Light appear,
Was Clouded, darkned, and deform'd by Sin,
(Whose Womb with numerous Plagues and Deaths did teem)
Here 'twas, that Mercy meditated Peace,
How the sad War 'twixt God and Man did cease:
Least the created Universe shou'd fall
Again to nothing (it's Original.)
Justice no sooner saw how Mercy strove
To quell her Father's rage with Charms of Love,
But up she starts; and interrupts her Prayer;
Like a dire Vapour gender'd in the Air,
Rising t'Encounter, the new rising sun
And stop his Course, when first it is begun,
She was a Virgin of severe demean,
Justice
(Not blind and deaf, as foolishly We wean)
But like an Eagle which is not afraid
To have her piercing Eye, with Heavens try'd,
She the Deep whispers of the Conscience hears,
(Such is the nimble sharpness of her Ears)
One hand the Sanctuary Scales doth poise,
And not an Action, but she strictly weighs;
The other Brandishes a flaming Sword,
(The two-edg'd One of God's Almighty word)
That which the Cherub wav'd for Eden's fence
When the Transgressing Pair were driven thence:
Her Summons, and dread Messages are born
By winged Lightning, or the rapid Storm,
About her fierce tremendous Thunders sound,
Such as the Mountains shake, and rend the ground.
When she but frowns, Rocks into water rowl,
Woods tremble, and wild Beasts affrighted howl.
Two stony Tables spread before her lay
On which her Bosome lean'd more hard than they;
There written was the Score of Mans Account,
To what his Duties, and his Debts amount;
But when the Summ was read, what heart so great
That did not faint, and horribly retreat?
Witness the oft repeated Claps which roar'd
A top of Sinai, when came down the Lord,
And from his Mouth, the Law in tumults pour'd:
When Israel betook themselves to flight,
Blinded with seeing so Divine a sight;
Nor cou'd They hear; O 'twas a killing noise
'Twas more than Thunder, 'twas the Almighty's Voice.
Justice then bowed, and with Majestick sway
Silen'd the Heavenly Senate to hear her Cry;
Dread Lord of Spirits, and all ye splendid Quire,
Cherubs, and Seraphs Ministers of Fire,
Wise was your Counsel, which did so devise
That Man shou'd live, so distant from the Skies,
(Man of the lower World, the Curse and Cross,
A lump of Vice, a worthless naughty Dross)
How swells this Clod? how oft with desperate Pride
Hath he confronted, and your Thrones defi'd?
So oft I cannot hold, did I not speak,
The Pavement of your Court complaints would make;
These precious Stones would into Clamours break,
His Soul's your Image; trait'rous 'twas (ye Powers)
To stain that Face, which was the Impress of yours.
How basely did they look, how fill'd with shame
When God into the blushing Garden came?
How suddenly did their new knowledge fade
When from his Voice they fled into the shade?
Though then bereft of sight, His fight they fear'd,
Their guilt more to their Eyes, than he appear'd.
Alass, how cou'd such monstrous Crimes behold
So pure a Being? How cou'd they unfold
Their Eye-lids in the Presence; they who gave
Themselves to Hell, scorn'd Life, and chose the Grave?
Slaves made to Satan, he the worst of Slaves,
Who in an endless Chain of Burnings raves.
Vain subterfuge to think, that Grots and Trees
Can hide from him, who hearts and all things sees!
They fell (and where then cou'd they find defence?
At once from Wisdom, and from Innocence.
These Parents thus, by admiring the fair Fruit,
(Which did with Lust not with their Duty suit)
And trusting to the Covert of dark Groves,
(VVhere they repeated their polluted Loves)
Seem'd to be fatal Prophets, and foreshew,
That their Posterity the same wou'd do;
As since they have done, erected Gods of wood,
VVhich Crown'd with Lawrels, have in Temples stood,
And fed by Fathers with their Childrens Blood;
Those sparkling Shrines, that shine with Golden store
(VVhich Aegypt now (as Mirrours doth behold)
Are but as Dens, where Idol Serpents creep,
Under whose Forms, Satan his Seat doth keep:
The Ibis, Rat, the Crocodile, the Fly,
Such are their Gods; such Gods they still obey.
Neither do other Nations more dissent,
Than this from Adam's Folly; but are bent
As much as he, 'gainst Heaven to Rebel,
And for less than an Apple conspire with Hell.
The Sun, the Moon, the Stars, the Winds, the Seas,
The Air, the Clouds are fancied Deities:
And worse than these Man, and of all mankind,
The worst are worship'd, and for Gods enshrin'd.
Jove, Bacchus, Mercury, and (least Delights
Shou'd not attend their Ceremonial Rights)
Juno and Venus, who alive were said,
Spots of their Sex; now Goddesses are made.
Satan himself, because he's understood
Worse than the worst of Men; is thought a God;
All that he speaks (though all he speaks are Lyes)
Thought Oracles; to him they Sacrifice:
'Tis he (who wounded All) they think abounds
With Skill and Balsome, to heal all their Wounds;
From him (although 'twas he first struck 'em blind)
They dream, they all Illuminations find.
Banisht from Earth, I here to Heaven appeal,
How can I not yours, and my Wrongs bewail?
Innumerable wrongs! whose vast Account,
Stars of all Climes, Sands of all Seas surmount,
Ye God and Angels, see how Justice falls,
Vengeance (too long defer'd) for Vengeance calls.
Were not the Heavens (in whose Courts I sue)
Pure as they were created first by you;
The Judge (to whom I speak, and urge these Crimes)
Not to be bribed, or sway'd by partial Aims,
The Cause Transgression, a Rebellious breach,
Justice the Plantiff, who doth Man impeach,
Angels the Jury, (before whom he's try'd)
The Saints my Witnesses, and on my side,
Then might my Supplication be denied,
And he continue wicked and secure,
And might escape, or Tryal might endure,
The Judge might pity, and be over-sway'd,
His sin excused; or Punishment delay'd.
What Advocate will now, his Cause assume?
When I accuse, there's for Defence no Room.
Unhappy Mortal! if he knew his Lot;
But more unhappy 'cause he knows it not.
How miserably wou'd Earth be over-grown
With Thorns and Thistles; vainly till'd and sown:
Did not your Clouds, their Fatness down distil,
Upon her Furrows, and her Valleys fill.
Did you not too much condescend, and bow.
Your easie Ears, to th' Plowmans selfish Vow;
Long might he wait, till Anguish fill his Heart;
Whilst he goes sighing with an empty Cart,
And his Fields, nought but thievish Cares impart.
The Sea enraged with boiling Billows roars,
Scurges and Buffets the infested shoars,
Yet dare Mans floating Woods with swelling Pride,
Defie the Storms, and Liquid Mountains ride.
How often have I seen th'audacious Pine,
Tost on a boisterous Surge with foamy Brine,
Quench the Moons Lamp; and dash the starry Plain?
Her towring Masts, near Heavens Mansions soar,
Then in a trice down to the infernal Door:
And yet her Passengers from Vengeance fly,
Though whence it Springs, and where inflicted nigh.
Did not your sandy Girdle the Ocean bind,
Oft wou'd it drown th' Earth, and Curst mankind;
The Air wou'd flow with noisome steems of Death,
Did not your Spirit medicinal Fannings breath.
Fountains and Rivers with an eager Course,
Wou'd to the Ocean all their Floods imburse:
Did you not lead them wandring from their way,
And make them on the flow'ry Meadows play.
Was not base Man than Beasts more wild, more fierce
More hard than Rocks; (if Reason did not pierce
His savage Mind) yet Sense might him reprove,
And unto Shame, if not Repentance move:
To see all things, except himself obey;
And Senseless things, to have more Sense than he.
The ended, and Heavens Hierarchies swell,
With pious Rage, and sin-abhorring Zeal:
Like a great Army when the Enemies near,
Waken'd at once by Valour and brave Fear;
To Arms, to Arms, they Cry; the Word, the Word.
And each or shakes his Spear, or draws his Sword.
God himself hastens to his Magazine,
Girds him with Thunder, and grasps fighting keen,
The Stars to fight were in their Courses set,
Snow, Hail, and Vapours in Battalia met.
So mighty was the Alarm Justice rais'd;
Justice that must be paid, or be appeas'd.
But as the Sun, the darker in the Night,
Returns with a more wish'd and grateful Light;
So Mercy vigorously her self displays,
Mercy.
(Maugre what all her Sister did advise)
Broke through the Cloud, and as she pass'd, it fled,
Scatter'd with Rays, which to and fro she shed,
Rays which cou'd Dim the Suns, although he shone
With Light of many days Contract in One.
How can a Worm crawl up so high to trace
Her Foosteeps, or not dazled view her Face?
Why blush the Roses, why the Lillies pale?
Her beauteous Cheeks, are their Original.
Her gracious Aspect, 'tis alone doth yield,
All the Embroider'd Gaieties of the Field,
Whatever Odours, Plants, and Flowers produce
It is her Breath, that doth them first diffuse.
All what Arabia, and the wealthy East,
(The rare perfumes, that make the Phenix Nest)
All that in Paradice it self first grew,
Fell From her Mouth, as falls the gentle Dew;
On either hand (O venerable Sight?)
Ten thousand Graces, her Attendants wait,
Who at her Nod, to Earth from Heaven move,
And every minute convey her Acts of Love,
Of various colour'd Plumes their wings are made,
The Rain-bows to 'em are but Typick shade,
As Honey from the Comb, so from her Lips
(Her Lips which drops of mellowed Manna sips)
Drops such a stream of sweetest Eloquence,
As more affects the Heart, as well as Sense,
Than dying Swans, or Tunes of Sirens Voice,
Or Sphaeres, when in a Consort they rejoyce.
As a dry Land parch'd with hot Calentures,
Opens her thirsty Jaws to catch the showers,
Which through her empty Veins, and Entrails sink,
Though much befresht, yet more she still wou'd drink,
So Angels, when she speaks ope wide their Ears,
And stop their Mouths, to hear the Charms of hers,
But the more they are Ravish'd with her Song:
The more they do, to have't repeated long.
Upon her Breasts, Delight takes calm Repose,
Those milky Fountains whence all Nurture flows;
On weary Travellers (when their way they miss,
And Boar in Desarts where no water is)
Rivers of Pleasure trickle down t' allay,
Fevers at once of thirst, and of the Day.
She is the blind Mans eyes, the lame Mans feet,
The hungry's Food, the naked's Rayment meet,
The Bond-mans Liberty, the poor Mans Wealth,
The afflicted's Joy, the sickly Patients Health:
'Tis she alone the last Supports doth give,
And when Man dies, assures him he shall live.
So bright she is, so excellently Gay,
As not to be beheld by mortal Eye;
What can the Painter, or the Poet do?
What Pencil, or what Quill, such Art can shew?
How can frail Colours Portrait out, or Verse
Infinite Beauty, endless Grace rehearse?
(Poor empty Liveless shadows to compare,)
And strive to Match with things that Matchless are!
Her upper Garment was of silken Lawn,
Richly beset with Works her self had drawn,
The various Scene of all the World was there,
So fresh, so Lively, so August and Fair:
As if a new created Mass it were,
So that the ravisht Eye might be deceiv'd,
And think indeed, the Embroider'd Landskip liv'd;
The prostrated Earth her self cast low,
And at the Goddess feet her Head did bow,
Rejoyc'd to kiss them, and was justly proud,
To be by them (O Blessed burthen) trod:
(The Earth (upon whose Face (stupendous shew)
Crowds of mankind seem'd to move to and fro,
Like numerous Ants they throng'd; and like them toil'd,
(All alike busie, sundry ways Embroil'd.)
The Ocean (figur'd like a Rainbow's band)
Girded her sides; small Pearls were wrought for Sand,
The Silver-woven Waves so seem'd to play,
As if on them did real Sun-beams lay.
Air was her Mantle, and about her head,
Heaven like a gorgeous Cawl was vastly spread,
In which was intermix'd a luminous Sphere,
Of sparkling Constellations here and there;
From whece such clear and strong Reflections came,
As if the Azure Web were in a flame.
Over her hung a Canopy of State,
(Twas the third Heaven, under which she Sate)
Not made of Tissue, or of spangled Gold,
But of a substance Mortals can't behold,
Only by Angels Tongues 'tis to be told;
The Gems of Monarchs Crowns, (such Gems as shore,
In the All-glorious Court of Solomon)
The Sparks which shoot from Rocks of Adamant,
The Rays which an unclouded Sun doth vaunt,
The Souls of Virgins, when they take their flight
Along the milky way; shine not so bright.
Mercy attended thus, and thus array'd,
To Justice rigid Censures thus reply'd;
Good God, whose Property 'tis to forgive,
And rather than destroy, to save alive;
Man was thy Off-spring, though of nothing made,
Yet when created with thy Image clad:
He had not been so foolishly beguil'd,
Had not the Serpents shape base Satan vail'd;
In State of Innocence, he fear'd no ill,
His Sin was rather a Constraint, than Will.
Before his Eyes were open'd, and he knew,
How to distinguish between false and true;
How cou'd this Heaven-born Child suspect a Shaft,
Prepar'd and sharpen'd, with dire Guile and Craft,
Brought from as far as Hell, and at him shot?
Hell was a place he surely yet knew not.
Cannot the Hand, which made him first of nought,
Cure the repented Wounds, that Sin hath wrought?
Oh! Let not Justice Iron Sceptre break
His bruised heart, let her not Terrours speak.
He's terrified enough by his own Guilt,
Judgments enough have faln, and Blood been spilt.
Suffer in the Gap that I may stand;
And hinder the destroying Angel's hand.
Let me, O let me my Request obtain,
To stand between the Living and the Slain.
If all must Pay that which all cannot Pay;
O first begin with me, and mercy slay:
Or if my Sacrifice will not attone,
Send from thy Bosome thy beloved Son:
Vouchsafe him a Capacity to dye,
The work is done; O view his willing Eye;
Do but Command, he's joyful to obey;
What hath Man done, that Man shall not undo?
Did his Foe slay him? He shall slay his Foe,
Hath he lost all? He all again shall win.
Is Sin his Master? he shall Master Sin.
But how can my Ʋrania undertake
To celebrate that Day the Lord did make?
The Time when Angels hover'd through the Air,
And did glad Tidings down from Heaven bear?
When in loud Carolds Anthems they proclaim'd,
Peace and Good-will from God, towards mankind?
None but their Tongues, and their's cou'd scarce express
So great a Joy, so great an Happiness;
To you a Saviour born, to you a Child,
But why, and how to say, their Voices fail'd,
That God immortal shou'd not thus disdain
A Virgins Womb, be made a mortal Man,
The infinite, an infant of a Span;
That the eternal word (whose Voice cou'd break,
Cedars and Rocks) shou'd not be able speak.
That in her Arms, his Mother cou'd him take,
Him who at once cou'd Earth and Heaven shake;
What a small Room vouchsaft he to Lodge in,
Whom all the World before cou'd not contain?
Mysterious thing! not an hour old he was;
And yet his years did the World's date surpass,
At once a Child, and Ancient of days.
O this unsearchable, this deep Abyss!
Who can Chaunt God's rich Mercy, and Mans Bliss?
Thus Mercy over Justice got the sway,
And forc'd her Sword of Vengeance drop away:
The Ministers of God's fierce Anger bow'd,
And at her Feet their broken Weapons strow'd.
The End of the First Book.
The Second Book.
NOR yet did Satan's subtil Malice cease,
He saw how Mercy had confirm'd the Peace
'Twixt God and Man; and the Messiah come,
His Shrines despised, and Oracles struck dumb;
His tempting Adam ineffectual grown,
His Kingdom upon Earth quite overthrown;
The Powers of Darkness in confusion slain,
And Hell it self in danger to be ta'en:
Grinning with Envy, made a hideous Cry,
Which witness'd his Affliction and dismay:
Around he fiercely throws his baleful Eyes,
Which glow'd with a new Rage; then bellowing Crys,
With ghastly Shrieks, which fill the Vaults of Night,
Knawing his Snaky-twisted Tail for spite:
Struck with obdurate Pride, and stedfast Hate,
He calls his black Divan, and holds debate.
At last he thus his desperate thoughts exprest,
And belch'd a Hell of Curses from his Breast.
Am I not Lucifer the Heavens First-born,
Captain of all the Stars that gild the Morn?
When I set up my Standard in the Air,
And led Embattel'd Seraphims to War;
When against Thunder bravely we march'd on,
Challeng'd Heavens King, and dared him from his Throne.
My Deeds are not forgotten, but beget
New Horrours still, and make him tremble yet.
And must his Son, who the frail Armour wears
Of Flesh, in whom no Comliness appears,
Must David's Son be sent t'oppose my Might,
As did his Father with Goliah fight?
And with less Weapons than a Sling or Stone,
Attempt to wound my Head, and strike me down?
He trusts an Arm of flesh, as if I came,
Trusting to that; not my immortal Name.
Since with Success the first I did assail,
Why, not him they the Second Adam call?
He whom I vanquish'd was more perfect framed
Than this, yet cou'd not my Assaults withstand.
It is resolv'd! I'll try again my Skill,
And make the Man my Strength and Wisdom feel.
More than a trifling Apple I'll present,
(And yet with this th' old Parents were content)
I'll bribe him with rich Gems, and pompous Sights,
With numerous Glories, and compleat Delights;
Rather than fail, I'll make him entertain
Hopes that all Kingdoms of the Earth he'll Gain:
And I his Subject, if he wou'd be mine.
What though it cost a second Fall, I'll try
(He cannot sure resist my strong Decree)
Again my strength; and what that cannot do,
Fraud shall devise; I'll strike, and flatter too:
He cannot sure hold out, the work is done;
Methinks I see the wretch already won.
So spake the grisly Fiend, with haughty Scorn,
And speaking so, grew ten-fold more deform;
Thrice with his Tail he lash'd his sides, thrice howl'd,
And into frowns his ugly Forehead bowl'd;
Thrice grin'd, and bit his Adamantine Chains,
Whilst his Eyes darted Torrents of Red flames.
Th' infernal States started and made a pause,
At length a deadly murmur of Applause
Ran through the Court, with full Assent they vote,
They will with him the bold Design promote.
'Twas now the time, when thirty times the Sun,
Through the twelve Signs triumphantly had run:
Since the Birth of the incarnate Deity:
(A far more universal Light than he.)
The Blessed Jesus drawn by Heavenly Fate,
And his own Will, as a poor Desolate,
Having a long and weary Progress made,
In a waste Desert through a pathless shade:
He kneel'd, and as he there to pray began,
The Beasts with open Throats towards him ran:
But when they saw their Lords bright Cognizance,
Some to him bow, and some about him dance,
The Lyon charm'd forgets his angry Mood,
And welcomes Judah's Lyon to the Wood;
Bears, Tygres, Panthers, Wolves, themselves compose,
And kiss the flowry Grass whereon he goes.
If he stands still, amazedly they gaze,
Fixt like tame Pourtraitures before his Face:
If walk, they walk, and where he goes, they go,
And ever with obliging Looks pursue.
If Cares permit him gentle Slumbers snatch,
They stand around, and take their Turns to watch;
And lest himself shou'd a rich Prey become,
They suffer hunger, and neglect their own.
Upon a Primrose Hillock he was laid,
Over his Head bright Olive Branches laid,
Whose leaves were here and there so finely spread,
As if they Ambitious were to Crown his Head;
(His sacred Head, who was the Prince of Peace,
The more he lay, the more she did encrease)
His Hair was black, black as the Ravens wings,
Flowing down to his Shoulders in curl'd Rings:
Which as a shadow did his Beauty shrowd;
For shelter there did all the Graces crowd.
O may my Soul be wounded evermore,
By his Sweet Eyes; I'll think the Wounds not fore,
Though I were Sick with Love, though with it slain,
I would embrace the Stroak and not repine:
To Languish thus in Health, 'tis Life to dye;
(Endless the Health, the Life Eternity.)
Beauty with State was on his Forehead fixt,
And on his Cheeks, Lillies with Roses mix'd:
Never vain Laughter on his Face did rise;
Though all the Smiles of Joy, danc'd in his Eyes.
No Silk or Gold (the Fopperies of Pride)
Compos'd a Garment for his Royal side:
A Lamb he was, and what a Lamb doth bear,
Wove with one Thread, he not disdain'd to wear.
The Silver Moon now twice had bent her bow,
And shot her Shafts upon the Earth below;
Since in the Wilderness the disguis'd God,
Retir'd from Man's view, had kept abode,
The Heavens his Roof, Arbours his Coverts were,
No Fruit to eat, to drink no Waters there,
The Ground his Bed, his Pillow was the Grass:
Whilst Angels soar'd aloft to guard the Place.
At length an Aged Sire far off he saw
Towards him slowly on two Crutches draw;
His Head with Snow of Age, was waxen hoar,
About his Shoulders a torn Mantle wore,
And all the way he went, he cast his Eyes,
With a devout Erection to the Skies:
Whilst from his mouth, Blessings and Prayers flowed,
Which with spread Hands, he on the Woods bestowed:
A good old Anchorite he seem'd to be,
Travelling a Pilgrimage some Saint to see,
But when he nearer came, he bended low,
And at his Feet his Head did humbly throw;
Then rose, and thrice again obeysance paid;
And thus, with smooth and sawning Phrase he said,
Ah me! how many doleful years have been,
Since these dear Eyes you glistering Sun hath seen?
But now a more illustrious one they ken.
Ah! may my homely Cell so Blessed be,
To be the Temple of thy Deity:
Loe how it seems to worship thee indeed,
Whilst under Ground 'tis at thy Presence hid;
There Honey, Milk and Chesnuts, shall thee feed.
Here in this Desert (Oh he deeply sigh'd)
Are all supports for Natures Cry denied,
The Heavens (alas) are here not to be won:
or Stones and Bryars grow, where Corn was sown.
But thou canst even these Stones convert to Bread,
And by thy own without God's power be fed:
What need we then his unjust Anger fear?
Let him still Envy, so we have thee here.
Ere long they came near to a baleful Cave,
Despair.
Dark as the Bottom of the deepest Grave,
The Ground no Plants, but venomous did bear,
A Grove of ragged Truncks, and stumps were near,
From whence a Leaf, not sprouted all the Year:
About dry Bones, and stinking Skulls were spread,
Spew'd from the squallid Mansions of the Dead;
Upon the top sate still the ghastly Owl,
And drove with baleful Notes all other Fowl,
Except the leather, sail'd, and flut'ring Batt
Which sometimes blindly floated, sometimes sat.
A little distance on a Craggy stone,
Celeno hung, and made a dismal Moan;
Whilst murder'd Ghosts about did shriek and groan.
Like Cloudy Moon-shine in a shady Grove,
Such was the Light, in which Despair did move;
But she her self dark, as the Nights Abyss,
In which no Joy, no hope of Comfort is:
Her foul uncombed Locks, like parched Hay,
In clots along her Face dishevell'd lay;
Her Eyes sunk in her Skull, did staring glow,
Whose glimpse did like the Cocatrices show;
Which deadly look'd, and Sparks of horrour throw,
Her Cloaths were ragged Clowts, with Thorns pin'd fast;
A Shash of Shipwreck'd Canvas round her waste,
Now she wou'd dream from Heaven she headlong fell,
Deeper and deeper sinking down to Hell,
And then wou'd snatch the Air, afraid to fall,
And then wou'd grasp the Earth, then trembling crawl,
And ever as she crept, wou'd squint aside,
Lest by the Furies, she shou'd be espy'd,
And so in everlasting Chains abide;
Then wou'd she fansie how she shrunk away,
Not daring breath for Terrour all the way,
Till back she had retired to her Den;
Now she wou'd wake, then sleep, and dream agen.
Within the gloomy Hole of this pale-Wight,
Satan with Charms, our Saviour did invite:
But under specious Baits a Fine-wrought Grin,
Was set to take him in the Jaws of Sin:
But he replyed, That Gods immortal Word
Not Bread alone did Sustenance afford.
From thence the Tempter, by new Motives led,
Catch'd him aloft, and to the Temple fled:
And now upon the Pinacles they met,
(Fair Salems Walls, and Streets before 'em set)
Here fond Presumption (midst a flatt'ring Throng
Presumption.
Of Sirens, which conceited Anthems sung.)
Spread her Pavilion, Canopy'd with Stars:
Presumption which affronts, and Justice dares,
Depends on Merit, Mercy, Love and Grace;
Narcissus like, is Charm'd with her own Face:
(A Face with Vermile Paint still over-laid
By hope, her busie foolish waiting Maid.)
She in one hand a gilded Anchor bore,
Plac'd not on Rocks, but on a sandy Shoar,
And there not fix'd, but waver'd on the brim,
She let it to and fro securely swim.
I'th other hand Saints Merits, and her own,
Pardons, and gross Indulgences were shewn;
Like Ships, which whilst the Waters slumber; ride
Without a Ballance, or the Pilots guide:
Their swelling Streams loosly they let Play,
And 'long the Ocean cut their pompous Way:
But soon as Heaven with stormy Threats doth frown,
Their giddy Flags are furl'd, and taken down;
Right so Presumption doth her self behave,
Proud whilst the Stars a prosp'rous influence have
But sinks at every Storm, and adverse Wave;
She in white Lawn arrayed, and winged too,
(Winged like an Angel) to our Saviour flew,
Boldly she came, but gently beg'd to know,
Whether he were the Son of God or no?
I find thou art, she to her self Replyed,
Then to cast down thy self be not afraid:
Behold a Troop of trusty Angels wait
Along the Air to intercept thy Flight;
Lest to the Ground thou shou'dst be rudely thrown,
And dash thy tender Foot against a stone.
But when she found her Speech cou'd nought prevail,
Thrust on with Rage, she her self Head-long fell;
But him the Angels on their Feathers caught,
And to an Airy Mountain nimbly brought;
Not the fam'd Ida might with this compare,
Not Hybla, Rhodope, so pleasant were,
Atlas, Olympus not so high and fair:
Adonis Garden was to this but vain,
Though Plato on it Floods of Praise did rain.
Here Nature had the ground bedamask'd o'er,
With all her Ornaments and Flowry store;
Here she had Lillies, Roses, Violets shed,
Whose Sight the yeilding Senses Captive led;
Here the rich Bower of vain Delight was built,
With Marigolds, and streaky Tulips gilt.
Upon this pompous Hill, Ambition sate,
Ambition.
In a Majestick Chair of splendid State,
An hundred Kings about her were Enstal'd,
Whose Temples were with Diadems impal'd;
Their Scepters with bright Pearls and Diamonds shone,
Each in his Robes sate on a Chrystal Throne.
Hither when Satan came he tuned his Tongue,
And thus he softly woed, and thus he sung;
See hence both Indies, see hence all the Ore
That flows in Tagus or Pactolus Shoar;
See how thick Corn Millions of Valleys fills,
Numberless Cattle on ten thousand Hills;
Every Grape of every choicest Vine,
Rejoyces to be prest to drop me Wine,
Princes and Potentates are proud to gain
The Leave and Honour to hold up my Train;
All this and more, I will devote to thee,
Only (my Jesus) bow and worship me.
The Grand Enchanter thought so vast a Scene
of Kingdoms Glories, Pleasures which were seen
Cou'd not but fascinate the purest Eye:
And God (to quit his own for these) betray.
But thrice Repulst, away the cursed Spright,
Asham'd, and griev'd, with fury took his Flight,
But to their Lord (musing with pious Thought)
The Angels Comfort, and a Banquet brought;
And as he fed the Ministring Quires combine,
To sing an Hymn of the Almighty Trine:
The joyful Birds attuned their warmbling Layes,
Attemper'd to the Angels sounding Praise,
And to the Birds, the Winds lift up their Voice,
To them the Waters call, and Floods rejoyce:
The Mountains skipt like Rams, the Rocks did dance,
All joyn'd their Masters Triumph to advance.
The End of the Second Book.
The Third Book.
AS in Eridanus clear Silver stream
(Eridanus the Muses grateful Theme)
The Swan when he his Death approaching sees,
Sings his own Dirge and funeral Obsequies:
So with an Hymn, Jesus his Entrance made
Into the Garden, where he was betray'd,
The Spheres stopt their's, to listen to his Song;
The Heavens came down, the Clouds and Tempest throng,
The Waves stood still, and the Dumb waters lay,
Stretcht on their Banks to hear his Harmony,
The Stones were taught to melt at his soft Sheins,
Each Tree an awful Rapture entertains:
A real Orpheus (not such as the Mind,
Of dreaming superstitious Poets feign'd.)
The dewy Night had with her gloomy Shade
Mantel'd the World, Mortals in slumbers laid;
Jesus the while a broad his Eye-lids kept;
(The Master watcht whilst the Disciples slept.)
Who can describe the Horrours of that Cup,
which was with Dregs of deadly Wine fill'd up?
The strong repeated Prayers, the fervent Cries,
The sad Affrightments, and fierce Agonies,
The torments which his wounded Soul opprest,
Whilst Clods of purple Gore drop'd from his Breast?
The Burthen of God's Anger lay,
The Manhood wish'd the Cup might pass away,
But the Divinity, God's only Son,
Cried thine (O Father) not my Will be done.
See, see, my Soul, thy Eye of Faith cast back,
And a view of thy Saviour's Sufferings take,
Behold the Traitor kisses and betrays,
(False Love's more hurtful than true Injuries)
(A kiss more deadly than the Breath which flows
From Basilisks, or Vipers hissing Jaws.)
Perfidious Peter, (he who boasting said
Should all deny, yet i'll not be afraid
To own my Lord;) forsook him now, and fled;
The rest (like Sheep when Wolves pursue 'em,) ran,
No wonder since they saw their Keeper ta'n:
Instead of Oyl (the Sanctuary Oyl Divine)
To make his Head and Face with gladness shine:
The nasty Spittle of the Rascals throng,
Was on his Head and Face profanely flung.
For a Gold Scepter (Emblem of Command)
A Reed contemptuously put in his hand;
No other Crown than made of Spiny thorns,
His bleeding Temples, and gor'd Locks adorns,
For Angels Hymns, the Priests blasphemous scorns.
The headlong Rabble partial Pilate sway,
Man's Murtherer save, Man's Saviour slay;
It was but now their sounding Clamours sung
Hosannah's (neighbouring Rocks Hosannah's rung)
The Anthem alter'd too, away, away,
And nothing can be heard but Crucifie,
Before the Name of King they to him gave,
But now no King but Caesar they will have:
Before they gather'd heaps of blooming May,
And strowed with Boughs and Blossoms all his way:
Now of a branchless Trunck a Cross they Frame,
(A Cross denoting torment Curse and Shame)
Lately they at his Feet had cast their Cloaths,
But now they strip him, (his torments to expose;)
His tender Back the Lictors Whips had rent,
His Hands and Feet with piercing Nails were pent;
A barbarous Spear unlockt his precious Side,
Whence the rich Sacramental streams did glide:
The Anguish of his Thirst did so prevail,
He took down draughts of Vinegar and Gall,
And (as if they design'd to dis-entrail,
His very Soul) his Enemies revile,
They shake their Heads, and with a Scoffing-nod
Cry'd come down Saviour, come down Son of God:
He bowed his Head (as if he had obey'd
Their Challenge,) all was finish'd, and he dyed.
Whereat the Heavens were soon bereft of Light;
Lest it shou'd see so Tragical a Sight,
As all the Stars cou'd not well celebrate
His Birth, but God a new one did Create:
So now struck with Affrightments, old and new,
Under the shelter of thick Clouds withdrew,
The thicken'd Air hung all in horrid Black;
And Jerdan into Inundations brake,
The conscious Earth with sick Convulsions shook,
Rocks cleft in twain (such Griefs unus'd to brook)
Bodies of Saints rouz'd up, their Graves forsook.
The sad Centurion and the rest allowed
(Smiting their Breasts) the Man was surely good:
O Blessed Virgin, what high Angels Art
Can count thy Tears, or sing thy secret smart?
When every Wound through him, went through thy Heart?
The Graceless Judas long had been pursued
By a fell Blood-hound, yelling after Blood:
His Conscience, which still ran and never staid,
Till the Betrayer justly it betray'd.
Oft chang'd he place, but cou'd not change his Mind,
He flys at once to lose himself, and find;
The Whips of Scorpions, and dire howls he hears,
Whilst Hell with all it's fiery Surge appears,
His wretched Soul seems wrapt in burning Bands,
Reckoning a thousand years, yet not there stands,
But tells to them the Stars, and heaps of Sands:
And now the Stars are told, and Sands are run,
And all those thousand thousand Myriads done,
His Punishmet is still but now begun.
With that a fury with her nimble hand
Toss'd round his thoughtful Heart, a sulphur'd Brand,
Which from his Breast all Joy and Comfort drove,
And all the hopes of Pardon quite remov'd;
Such hideous Gorgons prest him, such dire Forms,
Not able to endure their Threats and Storms,
Fly, fly, he Crys, thy self, what e'er thou art,
A monstrous Fiend become in every part,
Having the Price of innocent Blood restor'd,
He flys for ease unto the fatal Cord.
Thus without hopes of funeral Obsequies,
(His own Revenger) the grand Traytor dies:
Eternal wrath still following close his Feet,
Burnt after him to the infernal Pit.
Now the third Morn had glister'd from her Bower,
And the bright East with Roses seem'd to Flower,
The early Sun came briskly dancing out,
Grown insolent with Joy, the Heavens shout;
The wanton Spring forgetful now to weep,
Starts forth as one awakned out of sleep;
The Bushes were with Violets purpled o'er,
The Woods and Fields cast off their Winter hoar,
And the gay Trees put on their green Attire,
Whilst 'mongst their infant Leaves, the Birds compere;
Such was the Triumph, such the mighty Cheer,
As if the World anew created were.
Say Earth, why art thou so with verdure spread;
(As if some new found Bridegroom thou woud'st wed?)
Ye Trees, why on a sudden deck't and Gay
Like gaudy Nymyhs on Flora's Holyday?
Answer me Jordan, why thy crooked Tide,
Over the Banks doth from his Channel slide?
Why art thou driven back, and cut in two;
As when the Hebrews through thy depths did go?
The Aegyptians saw, and trembled at the Sight,
(For wondrous was the way, and wondrous was the Flight)
And you sweet Birds that shaded from the Ray,
Sit Carolling and Chirping grief away!
Tell me sweet Birds, what is't you fain would say?
But ah! I need not Ask, 'tis surely so,
You to our Saviours Triumphs homage owe,
You all await, you all your Duties shew,
To celebrate his Worth, and Praises due.
Hark, how the Floods clap their exalted hands,
The Valleys sing, each Field on Tiptoe stands,
The skipping Mountains in Choranto dance,
And their Heads higher than before advance;
Lift up your Heads ye everlasting Gates,
Display your Glories ye Syderial States,
May all your Chrystal Doors be open seen;
And let the King of Glory enter in.
'Tis done! the Patriarchs leap out with speed,
To see the Powers of Hell in Triumph led,
Soft Olive-leaves they bore to Crown his Head,
Which prickt with Thorns had purpled Rivers shed,
After them flew the Prophets brightly stol'd,
Playing on Harps, (on Harps whose strings were Gold;)
To which ten thousand Saints together sung,
And all the Heavens with Hallelujah's rung,
The Cherubims, and the Seraphick crowd,
Holy, holy, holy Cry'd aloud,
Down from their Thrones the Dominations flew,
And at his Feet their Crowns and Scepters threw,
Nor can the Martyrs wounds them stay behind;
Leaving their Heaven, their new-come Heaven to find,
Met and attended by this Company,
The Lamb was led into the Courts of Day.
FINIS.