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 |
 | I, II. |
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| IV. |
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| XXX. |
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| XXXIV. |
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| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
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| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
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| LXXXVI. |
| LXXXVII. |
| LXXXVIII. |
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| CXXVI. |
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| CXXXIX. |
| CXXX. |
| CXXXI. |
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| CXXXIII. |
| CXXXIV. |
| CXXXV. |
| CXXXVI. |
| CXXXVII. |
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| CL. |
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| CLII. |
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| CLIV. |
| CLV. |
| CLVI. |
| CLVII. |
| CLVIII. |
| CLIX. |
| CLX. |
| CLXI. |
| CLXII. |
| CLXIII. |
| CLXIV. |
| CLXV. |
| CLXVI. |
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| CLXVIII. |
| CLXIX. |
| CLXX. |
| CLXXI. |
| CLXXII. |
| CLXXIII. |
| CLXXIV. |
| CLXXV. |
| CLXXVI. |
| CLXXVII. |
| CLXXVIII. |
| CLXXIX. |
| CLXXX. |
| CLXXXI. |
| CLXXXII. |
| CLXXXIII. |
| CLXXXIV. |
| CLXXXV. |
| CLXXXVI. | CLXXXVI. 2 Kings, Chap. IV. from Ver. 8. to Ver. 37. |
| CLXXXVII. |
| CLXXXVIII. |
| CXC. |
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| CCXV. |
| CCXVI. |
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| CCXIX. |
| CCXX. |
| CCXXI. |
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| CCXXIV. |
| CCXXV. |
| CCXXVI. |
| CCXXVII. |
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| CCXXIX. |
| CCXXX. |
| CCXXXI. |
| CCXXXII. |
| CCXXXIII. |
| CCXXXIV. |
| CCXXXV. |
| CCXXXVI. |
| CCXXXVII. |
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| CCXLI. |
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| CCL. |
| CCLI. |
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| CCLIII. |
| CCLIV. |
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| CCLXVII. |
 | The history of The Old Testament In verse |  |
418
CLXXXVI. 2 Kings, Chap. IV. from Ver. 8. to Ver. 37.
A Child giv'n to the Shunamite. Elisha restores it to Life.
How
comely is it, and how fair a Sight,
When Merit shines in Fortune's golden Light!
When Wealth employ'd to just and noble Ends,
The Succour and Reward of virtuous Friends!
All is not lost that to their Needs is giv'n,
For who obliges them, obliges Heaven.
When Merit shines in Fortune's golden Light!
When Wealth employ'd to just and noble Ends,
The Succour and Reward of virtuous Friends!
All is not lost that to their Needs is giv'n,
For who obliges them, obliges Heaven.
This Truth a virtuous Pair at Shunem prov'd,
Above the worthless Crowd as far remov'd
In Merit as Estate—
Whose kindness Eliseus oft did share,
And found an hospitable Welcom there:
Nor this enough, a new Apartment they
Erect and furnish to oblige his Stay:
So oft he call'd, yet ne're too oft did come,
No Coldness there, 'twas now almost his Home;
And to the Lady thus at length express'd,
The Thoughts that labour'd in his grateful Breast.
Above the worthless Crowd as far remov'd
In Merit as Estate—
Whose kindness Eliseus oft did share,
And found an hospitable Welcom there:
Nor this enough, a new Apartment they
Erect and furnish to oblige his Stay:
So oft he call'd, yet ne're too oft did come,
No Coldness there, 'twas now almost his Home;
And to the Lady thus at length express'd,
The Thoughts that labour'd in his grateful Breast.
And must we still receive, and nought be paid?
For all your Care, must no Return be made?
If my small Int'rest can your Suit obtain,
In Camp or Court, you must not ask in vain:
With courteous Thanks the noble Dame replies,
Beyond these Fields we never cast our Eyes;
Pleas'd with a private Station, and content
With what indulgent Heav'n has freely lent.
—And is there nothing can augment your Bliss?
Gehazi hears, and thus—My Lord! there is.
Tho' their paternal Fortunes large and fair,
Their Name must with 'em sink, they want an Heir.
Silent she waits, nor dare her Words request,
What in her modest Blushes stood confess'd:
To whom the Prophet thus—Thy Suit is heard,
Nor to the King of Kings in vain preferr'd:
E're once the Year compleat her circling Race,
A smiling Son shall those glad Arms embrace.
For all your Care, must no Return be made?
If my small Int'rest can your Suit obtain,
In Camp or Court, you must not ask in vain:
419
Beyond these Fields we never cast our Eyes;
Pleas'd with a private Station, and content
With what indulgent Heav'n has freely lent.
—And is there nothing can augment your Bliss?
Gehazi hears, and thus—My Lord! there is.
Tho' their paternal Fortunes large and fair,
Their Name must with 'em sink, they want an Heir.
Silent she waits, nor dare her Words request,
What in her modest Blushes stood confess'd:
To whom the Prophet thus—Thy Suit is heard,
Nor to the King of Kings in vain preferr'd:
E're once the Year compleat her circling Race,
A smiling Son shall those glad Arms embrace.
O do not my Credulity deceive!
How fain I'd hope, she said, but hardly dare believe:
But in the Court of Heav'n are no Delays,
And what it Promises, it always Pays:
Nine wexing Moons their borrow'd Light had spent,
When to their House the wond'rous Heir is sent:
What festal Joys his welcom Birth proclaim,
How fast he grew, and lisp'd his Mother's Name,
No Time to tell, nor much deserves our Care.
But all our mortal Joys are unsincere:
'Twas now the Time when burning Syrius reign'd,
And of his Tyranny the Fields complain'd:
The sweating Reapers fill their Arms with Corn,
Which thence to crowded Granaries is born:
The Child did to the neighb'ring Fields repair,
And finds with Smiles his joyful Father there,
Softens his Labours, and allays his Care:
But on his Head with fierce immod'rate Heats,
The Sun high-mounted in the Zenith beats:
His tender Limbs a burning Feaver fries,
His Tongue is parch'd, half-clos'd his heavy Eyes,
Born to his Mother, in her Arms he dies:
No wild Complaints, no fruitless female Tears,
Beneath a Grief and Mind so Great as Hers:
Till she the Prophet found, his Death conceal'd,
And then with doubtful Words but half reveal'd:
With speed return'd, he to his Chamber goes,
And found Death's Iron-Sleep his Eye-lids close:
His Mouth to that of the lov'd Child applies,
And to his own he joyns his slumb'ring Eyes;
Which wak'd from rigid Death's intruding Night,
Look wond'ring round, and feel the chearful Light;
To his glad Mother's Arms he him restor'd,
Low at his Feet she bow'd, and only not ador'd.
How fain I'd hope, she said, but hardly dare believe:
But in the Court of Heav'n are no Delays,
And what it Promises, it always Pays:
Nine wexing Moons their borrow'd Light had spent,
When to their House the wond'rous Heir is sent:
What festal Joys his welcom Birth proclaim,
How fast he grew, and lisp'd his Mother's Name,
No Time to tell, nor much deserves our Care.
But all our mortal Joys are unsincere:
'Twas now the Time when burning Syrius reign'd,
And of his Tyranny the Fields complain'd:
420
Which thence to crowded Granaries is born:
The Child did to the neighb'ring Fields repair,
And finds with Smiles his joyful Father there,
Softens his Labours, and allays his Care:
But on his Head with fierce immod'rate Heats,
The Sun high-mounted in the Zenith beats:
His tender Limbs a burning Feaver fries,
His Tongue is parch'd, half-clos'd his heavy Eyes,
Born to his Mother, in her Arms he dies:
No wild Complaints, no fruitless female Tears,
Beneath a Grief and Mind so Great as Hers:
Till she the Prophet found, his Death conceal'd,
And then with doubtful Words but half reveal'd:
With speed return'd, he to his Chamber goes,
And found Death's Iron-Sleep his Eye-lids close:
His Mouth to that of the lov'd Child applies,
And to his own he joyns his slumb'ring Eyes;
Which wak'd from rigid Death's intruding Night,
Look wond'ring round, and feel the chearful Light;
To his glad Mother's Arms he him restor'd,
Low at his Feet she bow'd, and only not ador'd.
| The history of The Old Testament In verse | |