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 |  |
153
ODE.
To the same Mr. Is. Wa. upon the Publication of the Reverend Mr. Richard Hooker's Life.
I.
Hail, Sacred Mother, British Church, all hail!From whose fruitful Loyns have sprung,
Of Pious Sons so great a throng,
That Heav'n to 'oppose their force of Strength does fail,
And lets the mighty Victors, o're Almighty Arms prevail.
How art Thou chang'd from what Thou wert of late,
When destitute, and quite forlorn,
And scarce a Child of thousands with Thee left to mourn,
Thy Vail all rent, and all Thy Garments torn,
With Tears Thou didst bewail Thine own, and Childrens Fate?
Too much (alas!) Thou didst resemble then,
Sion Thy Type, Sion in Ashes laid,
Despis'd, forsaken, and betray'd.
Sion Thou dost resemble once again,
And rais'd like her, the Glory of the World art made.
Threnes to Thee only could that time belong,
But now Thou art the happy subject of my Song.
II.
Begin, my Song, and where the doleful Mother sat,(As it in Vision was the Prophet shown)
Lamenting with the rest her dearest Son,
Blest CHARLES, who his Fore-fathers has out-run,
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Let a new City rise, with beauteous State,
And beauteous let its Temple be, and beautiful the Gate!
See! how the sacred Fabrique up does rise,
The Architects so Skilful all,
So Grave, so Humble, and so Wise,
The Axes, and the Hammers noise,
Is drownd in Silence, or in Numbers Musical.
'Tis up, and at the Altar stand
The Reverend Fathers, as of old,
With Harps, and Incense in their Hand,
Nor let the Pious Service grow, or Dumb, or Cold.
Th' Inferiour Priests, the while,
To Praise continually employ'd, or Pray,
Need not the weary Hours beguile,
Enough 's the single duty of each Day;
Thou thy Self, Woodford, on thy humbler Pipe mayst play:
And tho but lately 'admitted there,
So gracious those Thou Honour'st all appear,
So ready, and attent to hear,
An easie part, proportion'd to Thy Skill may'st bear.
III.
But where (alas!) where wilt Thou fix Thy choice?The Subjects are so noble all,
So great their Glories, and Thy Art so small,
They 'll judg, I fear, themselves disparag'd by Thy voice.
Yet try; and since Thou canst not take
A Name, so dispicably low,
But 'twill exceed what Thou canst do,
Tho Thou thy' whole Mite away at once shouldst throw,
Thy Poverty a Vertue make,
And that Thou may'st Immortal live,
(Since Immortality Thou canst not give)
From one, who has to spare be 'ambitious to receive!
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Hooker does to the Church belong,
The Church and Hooker claim Thy Song,
And inexhausted Riches to Thy Verse will bring;
So far beyond it self will make it grow,
That Life his Gift to Thee, thou shalt again on him bestow.
IV.
How great, blest Soul! must needs Thy Glory be,Thy Joys how perfect, and Thy Crown how fair,
Who mad'st the Church thy chiefest care,
This Church, who owes so much to Thee,
That all her Sons must Sacrifice unto Thy Memory.
'Twas a bold Work the Captive to redeem,
But bolder the Opprest to raise,
(Our Aged Mother) to that due esteem,
She had and merited in her younger Days;
When Primitive Zeal, and Piety,
Were her best Laws, and Policy,
And decent Worship kept the mean,
Its too wide-stretcht extreams between,
The rudely scrupulous, and too wanton vain.
This was the Work of Hookers Pen,
With Judgment, Candour, and such Learning writ,
Matter, and Words so' exactly fit,
That were it to be done agen,
Expected 'twould be, as its Answer hitherto has been.
Retornata.
To Chelsey, Song, and tell thy Masters Friend,The Church is Hooker's Debtor, Hooker his;
And strange 'twould be, if he should Glory miss,
For whom two such most powerfully contend.
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And he can never Die,
Who after Seventy 's past and gone,
Can all th' assaults of Age defie;
Is Master still of so much Youthful heat,
A Child so perfect, and so spirit'ous to beget.
| A paraphrase upon the canticles | |