The history of The Old Testament In verse With One Hundred and Eighty sculptures: In Two Volumes. Vol. I. From the Creation to the Revolt of the Ten Tribes from the House of David. Vol. II. From that Revolt to the End of the Prophets. Written by Samuel Wesley ... The Cuts done by J. Sturt |
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| CLXXIX. |
CLXXIX. 1 Kings, Chap. XXII. from Ver. 26. to Ver. 38.
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 | The history of The Old Testament In verse |  |
CLXXIX. 1 Kings, Chap. XXII. from Ver. 26. to Ver. 38.
Micaiah imprison'd. The War with Syria. Jehoshaphat in danger. Ahab slain.
How deep the Murmur now, how loud the Cry,
Hence with th'Impostor! let the Traitor die!
Nor Scoffs, nor cruel Taunts were wanting there,
Nor cou'd the Zealots ev'n their Hands forbear:
On his own Ruine obstinately bent,
The King awards, and he's to durance sent:
With slender Fare the Prophet's doom'd to mourn,
Till crown'd with Laurels he in Peace return:
He stems 'em all, and stands th'impetuous Shock,
So break the clam'rous Waves against a Rock.
O Israel hear, (as him they force away,
And to the Dungeon bound in Chains convey;)
Yet hear, he cries—If e're agen he come
From Ramoth's Walls with Peace and Triumph home;
I'll own 'tis all Imposture, nor pretend
That God did me on this dread Message send:
Then to Confinement goes with chearful Heart,
Not so to War did Israel's King depart:
Ill-boding Fears his conscious Soul surprize,
And Naboth's Ghost still shoots before his Eyes:
Nor dares he at his Armies Head appear,
By his ill Genius told his Fate was near:
In vulgar Armour dress'd, the King denies,
Obscurely sculking in a mean Disguise.
How vainly Man from Destiny wou'd run!
Fate were not Fate, if in our Pow'r to shun:
His Friend expos'd, whose Kingly Mind was clear
From treach'rous Guilt and from unmanly Fear,
And undisguis'd he plung'd into the War.
But, ah! almost he had too dearly paid,
For his kind League and unavailing Aid;
Hemm'd in by more than Thirty Syrian Lords,
To Heav'n, he cries, which turns their Hearts and Swords.
Hence with th'Impostor! let the Traitor die!
Nor Scoffs, nor cruel Taunts were wanting there,
Nor cou'd the Zealots ev'n their Hands forbear:
On his own Ruine obstinately bent,
The King awards, and he's to durance sent:
With slender Fare the Prophet's doom'd to mourn,
Till crown'd with Laurels he in Peace return:
He stems 'em all, and stands th'impetuous Shock,
So break the clam'rous Waves against a Rock.
O Israel hear, (as him they force away,
And to the Dungeon bound in Chains convey;)
Yet hear, he cries—If e're agen he come
From Ramoth's Walls with Peace and Triumph home;
398
That God did me on this dread Message send:
Then to Confinement goes with chearful Heart,
Not so to War did Israel's King depart:
Ill-boding Fears his conscious Soul surprize,
And Naboth's Ghost still shoots before his Eyes:
Nor dares he at his Armies Head appear,
By his ill Genius told his Fate was near:
In vulgar Armour dress'd, the King denies,
Obscurely sculking in a mean Disguise.
How vainly Man from Destiny wou'd run!
Fate were not Fate, if in our Pow'r to shun:
His Friend expos'd, whose Kingly Mind was clear
From treach'rous Guilt and from unmanly Fear,
And undisguis'd he plung'd into the War.
But, ah! almost he had too dearly paid,
For his kind League and unavailing Aid;
Hemm'd in by more than Thirty Syrian Lords,
To Heav'n, he cries, which turns their Hearts and Swords.
Yet Ahab lives, but live he must not long,
As thro' the Battel hurry'd by the Throng:
From place to place he on his Chariot flies,
And on Ignoble Foes his Javelin tries;
A random Shaft his faithless Armor cleft,
Deep-buri'd in his Breast the deadly Point is left:
His Hand he held upon the Wound in vain,
And bids th'affrighted Driver turn the Rein:
Soon his despairing Soul reluctant fled,
Where Kings are number'd with the vulgar Dead:
Around their Master his Domestics mourn,
And with the bleeding Body home return;
Then to the Crystal Stream, his Armour bore,
And Chariot, both deform'd with clotter'd Gore,
A Feast for rav'nous Hounds, as Naboth! thine before.
As thro' the Battel hurry'd by the Throng:
From place to place he on his Chariot flies,
And on Ignoble Foes his Javelin tries;
A random Shaft his faithless Armor cleft,
Deep-buri'd in his Breast the deadly Point is left:
399
And bids th'affrighted Driver turn the Rein:
Soon his despairing Soul reluctant fled,
Where Kings are number'd with the vulgar Dead:
Around their Master his Domestics mourn,
And with the bleeding Body home return;
Then to the Crystal Stream, his Armour bore,
And Chariot, both deform'd with clotter'd Gore,
A Feast for rav'nous Hounds, as Naboth! thine before.
| The history of The Old Testament In verse | |