 | Collected poems of Samuel Davies : 1723-1761 |  |
XII. The universal Lamentation.
I.
When Heav'n with a vindictive FrownThrows an aspiring Monarch down,
The trembling Nation takes th' Alarm.
And when we view the wide Champaign
Soak'd with the Blood of Heroes slain,
The softest Passions wake, and every Bosom warm.
II.
The softest Passions wake and mourn,When Sons of Honour, nobly born,
Are sold for Slaves in barb'rous Climes.
The Wretch that on the Gibbet hangs
Moves in us sympathethic Pangs,
Tho' self-destroy'd he dies for his own scarlet Crimes.
III.
Th' importunate and helpless Poor,Naked and famish'd at our Door;
The Widow and the Fatherless;
The melancholy House where Pain,
Sickness and Death and Sorrows reign,
Dissolve the gen'rous Heart to softest Tenderness.
IV.
But from our Hearts if Death should rendSome darling Relative or Friend,
How we bewail the mould'ring Dust!
Our Life is Grief, our Breath is Sighs,
Our Days are Glooms, and from our Eyes
Torrents of ever-flowing Sorrows burst.
V.
But what are Thrones or Monarchs sunk,Or Fields with Blood of Heroes drunk,
Or Lords in barb'rous Climes confin'd!
Ah! what are Lumps of breathing Clay,
That into Ruin pine away,
What, when compar'd with one immortal Mind
VI.
Th' immortal Mind! a heav'nly Spark,Lost and extinguish'd in the Dark!
By Sin seduc'd, by Sin undone!—
Let all superfluous Sorrows cease;
And Deluges of Tears, for this,
For this alone! gush forth and unremitted run!
VII.
Souls form'd for Immortality,Th' Eternal Father's Progeny,
Despise the Great Paternal Mind,
So bright, so fair, so good, so kind,
And loose their heav'nly Essence in ignoble Earth!
VIII.
Souls ransom'd by the vital BloodAnd Death of an incarnate God,
Insult his dying Groans and Cries;
And still, remorseless, dare commit
The Sins that pierc'd His Hands and Feet,
And rack'd his tortur'd Soul with twinging Agonies!
IX.
The mild, propitious, heav'nly DoveDesends from his own Realms of Love,
To strive with unrelenting Souls:
In vain;—the Rebels love their Chains,
And Sin, the Tyrant, Sov'reign reigns,
And ev'ry heav'nly Tendency controuls.
X.
The Voice of Mercy sounds aloud,And offers a Redeemer's Blood,
Eternal Joys, and heav'nly Crowns:
But still, with stiff unyielding Neck,
The gracious Offer they reject,
And rather perish of their mortal Wounds.
XI.
Eager with full Career they runIn Chase of Pleasures, 'til undone,
Nor pause at Mercy's loudest Call:
Dancing with inadvertent Feet
Round the dire Borders of the Pit,
'Til helpless, unexpected, down they fall.
XII.
There are (delightful Thought!) a FewWho the unbeaten Path pursue,
That leads to purer Joys on high:
Transporting Sight! but Oh! how rare!
While mournful Prospects every where
Glare on our Eyes, and Thousands round us die!
XIII.
And shall they unlamented die!—Come every tender Heart and Eye,
Join in the Lamentation, join!
From both my Eyes let Rivers flow,
And Floods of sympathetic Woe
Gush from this adamantine Heart of mine.
XIV.
Ye Sons of Levi! Sacred Train!That spend your Breath and Strength in vain,
That toil and sow, but seldom reap;
See thoughtless Mortals, in your Eye,
Deaf to your loudest Warnings, die!
Behold the mournful Scene, ye sacred Tribe! and weep!
XV.
See your dear Fellow-Men undone,While shock'd, astonish'd, you look on,
But can, alas, yield no Relief!
Yet sure you may indulge your Tears,
And ev'n o'er those that stop their Ears,
Vent your full Hearts in Streams of useless Grief.
XVI.
Come ev'ry tender-hearted Saint,Give all the mournful Passions vent,
See how ungrateful Worms despise
Jesus the Darling of your Eyes!
See the dear Souls you love by their own Hands undone!
XVII
Ye gen'rous Souls! whose Bosoms bleedO'er some dear Creature cold and dead,
Some dearer Self torn from your Heart;
Forbear your useless Tears, and turn
The Stream from them, and only mourn
The cruel Hands that kill their own immortal Part.
XVIII.
Come all ye Sons of Adam, join;Mingle your flowing Griefs with mine;
Let Groans tumultuous heave your Lungs.
But you alas! refuse your Tears;
And waste them on inferior Cares;
Or lull yourselves to Ease with Luxury and Song.
XIX.
Angels! that charm the list'ning SkiesWith everlasting Harmonies,
Say, Have Ye ne'er a mourning String?
O! while your Songs transport the Poles,
Raise one sad Note for Kindred-Souls,
Your Kindred lost to you, revolted from your King!
XX.
Fountain of Day and cheerful LightWhy should the Gloomy Sons of Night,
The Radiance of thy Beams abuse?
The Mourner's sable Dress assume,
And wrap the Globe in Midnight Gloom,
Why should they see the Light who Works of Darkness chuse?
XXI.
Ye Lamps of Heav'n that nightly burn,O'er brighter Flames extinguish'd mourn,
As wakeful you survey the World.
Regent of Night! Resplendent Moon!
Bewail the Scenes of Lewdness done,
While thro' the silver Shades thy ample Orb is whirl'd.
XXII.
Ye Winds that gently fan the Air,Or ravage in fierce Tempests there,
Expend your Breath in Groans and Sighs:
Disgusting Joys of heav'nly Kind,
Immortal Spirits feed on Wind,
And eager pant for airy Vanities.
XXIII.
Ye Thunders groan from Cloud to Cloud,Roar your majestic Sorrows loud,
O'er Worms that scorn Jehovah's Voice.
Tempests, and Hurricanes and Storms,
Bewail in all your dreadful Forms,
The more pernicious Storm that Human Kind destroys.
XXIV.
Ye Clouds that lightly float in Air,Or roll in heavy Oceans there,
Weep on a wretched World below.
Soft Dews and fruitful Show'rs, bewail
Th' ungrateful Plants, that constant feel
The Show'rs of Grace distil, but never fruitful grow.
XXV.
Ye Rivers rapid, rough and strong,And Streams that gently glide along,
Exhaust in Tears your liquid Store,
And murmur Grief; or swell and pour
Your useless Chanels dry in Deluges of Woe.
XXVI.
And thou immense, majestic Main,Let not thy Billows roll in vain;
But swell each Billow to a Tear:
Mortals the Pleasures disesteem
That roll their plenteous Chrystal Stream
In Paradise; and thirst for sordid Pleasures here.
XXVII.
Sweet Mourner! melancholy Dove,And all ye Songsters of the Grove,
Let tuneful Sorrows swell your Throats;
You warble grateful Songs of Praise,
And join with heav'nly Choirs to raise
Your Maker's Name; but Mortals will not join the Notes.
XXVIII.
Ye fierce, rapacious Beasts of Prey,That in the horrid Desert stray,
Thro' the rough Wild your Sorrows roar:
Men put your Savage Natures on,
Renounce the Mildness of their own,
And Tyger-like, their Fellow-Men devour.
XXIX.
Ye Cattle that on Mountains feed,Or graze in the luxuriant Mead,
Low forth your Sorrows as you roam:
Fashion'd by Nature rational,
Degraded by himself, and one of you become.
XXX.
Let all Things mourn: Let Rocks and StonesLearn Sympathy, and burst to Groans,
And senseless Marble learn to melt:
Marble will weep, and Rocks relent
Sooner than stubborn Hearts repent,
And contrite wail their own oppressive Guilt.
XXXI.
O Thou All-Good, Paternal Mind!Pity the Crowds of Human Kind,
Whose Hearts are hearden'd from Thy Fear.
The Madness of the Wretch controul,
Who ruins his immortal Soul,
Without acute Remorse, without a pitying Tear.
XXXII.
Jesus! Thy tender Griefs did streamO'er Obstinate Jerusalem,
Thy dying Breath implor'd “Forgive.”
O! may Thy soft Compassions move,
And Thy unconquerable Love
Constrain a dying World to turn and live!
XXXIII.
Then shall the glad Creation smile,New Pleasures every Bosom fill,
And Sin and Death and Sorrow die:
Angels with sevenfold Ardours flame,
And sound new Praises to Thy Name,
While Mortals join below, and to their Song reply.
Though I freely own, it requires a more exalted Muse than mine to manage this tender Subject with suitable Pathos and Energy; yet I hope None will censure the Matter and Scope of the Poem, as favouring of fanatical Affectation.—That the human Soul, tho' the immediate Progeny of the uncreated Paternal Mind, (as even a Heathen could stile Him) is now surprizingly alienated from its Divine Parent, indisposed for the exalted Purposes of its Existence; and under the Tyranny of ignoble Appetites, and criminal Passions; is a lamentable Truth we must assent to, unless we deny our own quickest and most deep-felt mental Sensations.—And that Many indulge themselves in this Depravity, without any eager Aspiration for the Reparation of their noble Nature, now in Ruins; and make it the main Business of this mortal Life, to obey the groveling Dictates, and gratify the impetuous Lusts, of a degenerate Soul; we are ungratefully constrained to believe, by the odious Scenes of Impiety and Prophaneness, that open round us, and importunately intrude upon our Observation, however willingly we would shun them.—And can there be any Thing so moving, any Thing so just an Object for manly Sorrow, as this? It cannot be justly looked upon as an Instance of effeminate Softness, for the most exalted and dispassionate Mind, to dissolve into the tenderest Sorrows, when it is our common Humanity that demands the sympathising Fear, and prompts the lamenting Groan. The Dignity of the human Soul,—the expensive and endearing Measures a gracious God has been pleased to take for its Recovery,—the ineffable Glories forfeited, and the intolerable Miseries incurr'd, by an obstinate Continuance in Sin,—and a thousand other Considerations, render this Degeneracy peculiarly lamentable.—And may it not therefore be pertinently improven, as the Occasion for an Universal Lamentation? 'Tis natural for a Mind full of tender and vigorous Passions to fall into Prosopopæia's, and to call the inanimate Creation to share its Sensations. Nothing is more common in Passions of Joy and Gratitude; both in sacred and prophane Writers. Of this the 148 Psalm, the Mattin-Song of our first Parents, according to Milton, Thomson's Hymn annext to the Seasons, and that surprizing Apostrophe in Isai. lxix. 13 are very noble Instances. Thus also the mournful Passions frequently vent themselves, upon various Occasions; and why may they not on this, the most Mournful of all?—St. Paul (Rom viii. 19, 22.) forms a moving Prosopopæia on the Subject of this Poem, with Energy of Language which no Translation can reach.—The whole Creation bursts into an united Groan, and labours with travailing Pangs, ever since Sin reduced it into Slavery, and subjected it to Vanity; and will continue to do so, 'til it partake of the glorious Liberty of the Sons of God.—And this Instance, not to mention a Variety of others, is a sufficient Precedent to vindicate the Scope of this Poem.—'Tis certain, if Sin were more lamented, it would be less indulged and practised in the World. And if Cicero, considering the physical Evils of Life could say, (Hæc quidem Vita Mors est, quam lamentari possem. (Tusc. Disput. L. I.) “This Life is truly Death, which I could lament”; sure, when we survey the moral Evils that ruin the immortal Mind, we may breathe out Jeremiah's passionate Wish, Oh that mine Head were Waters! and mine Eyes Fountains of Tears! (Jer. ix. 1.)
| Collected poems of Samuel Davies : 1723-1761 | |