A paraphrase upon the canticles and some select hymns of the New and Old Testament, with other occasional compositions in English verse. By Samuel Woodford |
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 | A paraphrase upon the canticles |  |
61
Job cursing his Birth.
After this opened Job his Mouth and cursed his
Day: And Job spake and said.
Pereat dies in qua natus sum.
May the Day perish, and its hasty flight
Be still, or retarded by a sluggish Night!
The Day, unhappy Day, whereon 'twas known,
My Mother could that name, and sorrows own.
Let it look black as Hell, no Ray appear,
Nor on it God in common Light draw near!
But unregarded may it from above,
To 'all other Days a different Circle move!
Augment the last Nights gloom, and ne're be found,
But in a Sea of Rapes, and Murder drownd!
Let Deaths grim Terrors on it ever dwell,
Of if't has Light, let it be such as fell
On Sodom, when avenging Heav'n did showr
Tempests of Fire, and flouds of Lightning pour!
Be still, or retarded by a sluggish Night!
The Day, unhappy Day, whereon 'twas known,
My Mother could that name, and sorrows own.
Let it look black as Hell, no Ray appear,
Nor on it God in common Light draw near!
But unregarded may it from above,
To 'all other Days a different Circle move!
Augment the last Nights gloom, and ne're be found,
But in a Sea of Rapes, and Murder drownd!
Let Deaths grim Terrors on it ever dwell,
Of if't has Light, let it be such as fell
On Sodom, when avenging Heav'n did showr
Tempests of Fire, and flouds of Lightning pour!
And for the Night (if yet it were the Night,
For any Day too bad, which first disclos'd the sight)
Dark of it self, let Horrour on it seize!
And when all others welcome are for th' ease,
And respit, which they bring the toilsome care
Of pains, which in their Curtains hidden are,
Let it be Curst too, and by' a fatal Breath,
Doom'd not the shadow of it, but very Death!
Sad, dismal, solitary, know no Joys,
No chearful shouts, but a dull confus'd noise
Of Groans and Shrieks, as when the parting Soul
Labours in vain its dest'iny to controul!
And as the Criminal, who, to die next Morn,
The pity of the many, and their Scorn,
Curses its shortness, and does think it done,
Sooner than other Nights are well begun;
Let it abide Curst, and grown Ominous,
Its Tale in some prodigious ruine lose!
Black be its Twilight, in it rise no Star,
But such, as when 'tis seen, tho from a far,
Famine portends, and Blood, and the Worlds flame,
And all the Plagues that have, or have not Name!
Let it expect the Light, and pine away
To Darkness palpable, but see no Day!
With thousand Curses more—
And Day or Night be' it, Ev'ning, or the Morn,
From th' Years account let it be ever torn!
To me, it self, and Heav'n and all be lost,
And from the number of the Days be crost!
O had it never been, or had that Hour
But barr'd the Gate, and damn'd the fertil Door
(Unhappy Gate, but Hour unhappy more!)
Sorrow I ne're had known, nor had these Eyes
Beheld the Light, which none but Fools can prize.
Rather why di'd I not, making the Womb,
At once my busie tyring House and Tomb;
But by the Knees I must prevented be,
And live more Deaths than one to act, more Plagues to see
Draw th' hated Brests only to fetch supply,
After ten thousand Deaths, new deaths to try,
And at the last with greater sense and torment die!
For any Day too bad, which first disclos'd the sight)
Dark of it self, let Horrour on it seize!
And when all others welcome are for th' ease,
And respit, which they bring the toilsome care
Of pains, which in their Curtains hidden are,
Let it be Curst too, and by' a fatal Breath,
Doom'd not the shadow of it, but very Death!
Sad, dismal, solitary, know no Joys,
No chearful shouts, but a dull confus'd noise
Of Groans and Shrieks, as when the parting Soul
Labours in vain its dest'iny to controul!
62
The pity of the many, and their Scorn,
Curses its shortness, and does think it done,
Sooner than other Nights are well begun;
Let it abide Curst, and grown Ominous,
Its Tale in some prodigious ruine lose!
Black be its Twilight, in it rise no Star,
But such, as when 'tis seen, tho from a far,
Famine portends, and Blood, and the Worlds flame,
And all the Plagues that have, or have not Name!
Let it expect the Light, and pine away
To Darkness palpable, but see no Day!
With thousand Curses more—
And Day or Night be' it, Ev'ning, or the Morn,
From th' Years account let it be ever torn!
To me, it self, and Heav'n and all be lost,
And from the number of the Days be crost!
O had it never been, or had that Hour
But barr'd the Gate, and damn'd the fertil Door
(Unhappy Gate, but Hour unhappy more!)
Sorrow I ne're had known, nor had these Eyes
Beheld the Light, which none but Fools can prize.
Rather why di'd I not, making the Womb,
At once my busie tyring House and Tomb;
But by the Knees I must prevented be,
And live more Deaths than one to act, more Plagues to see
Draw th' hated Brests only to fetch supply,
After ten thousand Deaths, new deaths to try,
And at the last with greater sense and torment die!
Had I then dy'd, still as the Night, or Grave,
My Voice had been, without a Death to crave.
Still had I lain, and in Oblivion's brest
Enjoy'd a sweeter sleep and sounder rest.
The Earth, which does in its cold Lap enfold
All Arts and Arms, Princes and all their Gold,
Which Sepulchers does for their Tombs prepare,
Great in their Dust and in their Ruines fair,
For me, to Die then had I been allow'd,
Had markt a place, amidst the awful Crowd,
There where untimely Births ith' Pit are thrown,
And through the Earths soft pores the Plains with verdure crown.
My Voice had been, without a Death to crave.
Still had I lain, and in Oblivion's brest
Enjoy'd a sweeter sleep and sounder rest.
The Earth, which does in its cold Lap enfold
All Arts and Arms, Princes and all their Gold,
63
Great in their Dust and in their Ruines fair,
For me, to Die then had I been allow'd,
Had markt a place, amidst the awful Crowd,
There where untimely Births ith' Pit are thrown,
And through the Earths soft pores the Plains with verdure crown.
An awful place it is, with Company
The best and great'st, where in appartments lie
Kings, and their Counsellors, each in his Bed,
With each his Sword clapt underneath his Head.
For there the proud Usurpors terrors cease,
And there the weary are at perfect ease,
And the whole Region riots in the spoils of Peace.
Pris'ners enjoy their Liberty, at least know
No other Chains, than what their Jaylors do.
Both small and great there undistinguisht be,
Undisturb'd by outworn Authority.
Masters and Servants throw those Names aside,
And for a nobler freedom both provide.
No fear of the Oppressor 's there, no wrong,
No Clamours, no Reproach amidst that throng;
But a deep silence fills the profound wast,
Deaf to all calls, but the last Trumpets blast.
Ah, might I rest there! Why is Death deni'd
To him, who seeks it, in those shades to hide?
Who for it digs, and would more gladly find
That Treasure, than the mines he leaves ith' way behind!
Light and this Life, which but encrease his pain,
Light and this Life, of which he does complain,
And would for 'one Death exchange, but all in vain.
Why is Life thrust on such a Man, who's dead,
Dead to himself, and God, all comfort fled?
Me why is't thrust on, who the Gift despise,
As th' worst of this Worlds great impert'nencies;
Nay more, its greatest Curse; unwelcome Guest,
That never, lets me never be at rest,
Nor Bed, nor Board their just refreshment give;
Ah! (who would thus?) thus I'd not always live;
Too long already, to feel what I fear'd,
Sadder than can be told, too doleful to be heard;
At rest I ne're was, but compar'd with this,
All former Grief as gone, and vanisht is,
And all, but very Hell, would be a kind of Bliss.
The best and great'st, where in appartments lie
Kings, and their Counsellors, each in his Bed,
With each his Sword clapt underneath his Head.
For there the proud Usurpors terrors cease,
And there the weary are at perfect ease,
And the whole Region riots in the spoils of Peace.
Pris'ners enjoy their Liberty, at least know
No other Chains, than what their Jaylors do.
Both small and great there undistinguisht be,
Undisturb'd by outworn Authority.
Masters and Servants throw those Names aside,
And for a nobler freedom both provide.
No fear of the Oppressor 's there, no wrong,
No Clamours, no Reproach amidst that throng;
But a deep silence fills the profound wast,
Deaf to all calls, but the last Trumpets blast.
Ah, might I rest there! Why is Death deni'd
To him, who seeks it, in those shades to hide?
Who for it digs, and would more gladly find
That Treasure, than the mines he leaves ith' way behind!
Light and this Life, which but encrease his pain,
Light and this Life, of which he does complain,
And would for 'one Death exchange, but all in vain.
Why is Life thrust on such a Man, who's dead,
Dead to himself, and God, all comfort fled?
Me why is't thrust on, who the Gift despise,
As th' worst of this Worlds great impert'nencies;
Nay more, its greatest Curse; unwelcome Guest,
That never, lets me never be at rest,
64
Ah! (who would thus?) thus I'd not always live;
Too long already, to feel what I fear'd,
Sadder than can be told, too doleful to be heard;
At rest I ne're was, but compar'd with this,
All former Grief as gone, and vanisht is,
And all, but very Hell, would be a kind of Bliss.
1660.
| A paraphrase upon the canticles | |