 | Poems by Robert Gomersall |  |
Now are they truly humbled, now although
No curious eye could guesse their overthrow
When he had seene their numbers, yet at length
They will rely upon another strength,
Or if to numbers they will trust agen,
'Tis to Gods numerous mercies, not their men.
He can deliver (they have seene) by few,
And they doe thinke it possible and true
That he can help by many too, they find
Without him all their actions full of wind,
Of emptinesse, and with him they not doubt
To be as well victorious as devout,
Now Pride hath left them, now they goodnesse yeeld,
Now have they lost their vices with the field.
Such holy lessons doe misfortunes teach,
Which make our once bad thoughts bravely to reach
At Heav'n and glory: if you marke it well
Whilst yet it was a populous Israel
It was a proud one too, but when that now
God lookes upon them with an angry brow,
When all their troopes halfe weary and halfe sicke,
Are growne to easier Arithmeticke,
Th'are truly penitent; hence we may see
The pow'r, the good pow'r of Adversitie,
W'are bad if we are happy, if it please
Heav'n to indow us with a little ease,
If riches doe increase, untill our store
Meet our desires, till we can wish no more,
If that our garners swell (untill they feare
Ruine from that with which they furnisht were)
We but abuse these benefits: our Peace
Brings forth but factions, if that strangers cease
To give us the affront; our selves will be
Both the defendant, and the Enemy.
Our riches are our snares, which being giv'n,
To man, to make a purchase of the heav'n,
We buy our ruine with them, the abuse
Is double, in the getting, and the use,
So that our summes unto such heaps are growne
When Avarice succeeds Oppression.
In briefe, our garners so well stuff'd, so cramm'd,
Detaine our Corne, as if that it were damn'd,
To everlasting prison, none appeares,
And thus we give dearth to the fruitfull yeares:
Being to such a proud rebellion growne,
Famine is not heav'ns judgement but our owne,
So wretched are we, so we skilfull grow
In crimes, the which the heathen doe not know.
We wrong God for his blessings, as if thus
We then were thankfull, if injurious.
No curious eye could guesse their overthrow
When he had seene their numbers, yet at length
They will rely upon another strength,
Or if to numbers they will trust agen,
'Tis to Gods numerous mercies, not their men.
He can deliver (they have seene) by few,
And they doe thinke it possible and true
That he can help by many too, they find
Without him all their actions full of wind,
Of emptinesse, and with him they not doubt
To be as well victorious as devout,
Now Pride hath left them, now they goodnesse yeeld,
Now have they lost their vices with the field.
Such holy lessons doe misfortunes teach,
Which make our once bad thoughts bravely to reach
At Heav'n and glory: if you marke it well
Whilst yet it was a populous Israel
60
God lookes upon them with an angry brow,
When all their troopes halfe weary and halfe sicke,
Are growne to easier Arithmeticke,
Th'are truly penitent; hence we may see
The pow'r, the good pow'r of Adversitie,
W'are bad if we are happy, if it please
Heav'n to indow us with a little ease,
If riches doe increase, untill our store
Meet our desires, till we can wish no more,
If that our garners swell (untill they feare
Ruine from that with which they furnisht were)
We but abuse these benefits: our Peace
Brings forth but factions, if that strangers cease
To give us the affront; our selves will be
Both the defendant, and the Enemy.
Our riches are our snares, which being giv'n,
To man, to make a purchase of the heav'n,
We buy our ruine with them, the abuse
Is double, in the getting, and the use,
So that our summes unto such heaps are growne
When Avarice succeeds Oppression.
In briefe, our garners so well stuff'd, so cramm'd,
Detaine our Corne, as if that it were damn'd,
To everlasting prison, none appeares,
And thus we give dearth to the fruitfull yeares:
Being to such a proud rebellion growne,
Famine is not heav'ns judgement but our owne,
So wretched are we, so we skilfull grow
In crimes, the which the heathen doe not know.
We wrong God for his blessings, as if thus
We then were thankfull, if injurious.
| Poems by Robert Gomersall | |