Francis Quarles: Hosanna or divine poems on the passion of Christ and Threnodes Edited by John Horden |
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THRENODES Consecrated To the pretious Memory OF The Lady Marsham. |
 | Francis Quarles: Hosanna or divine poems on the passion of Christ and Threnodes |  |
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THRENODES Consecrated To the pretious Memory OF The Lady Marsham.
TO The Honourable Lady; Joanna,
Lady Barington, the Relict of noble
Sir Francis Barington, Kt. and Bnt.
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1
So have I seene the gray-eyed morning breakeInto the beauty of a glorious Day,
In whose faire Sunshine, Turtles bill and beake,
And Shepherds sing, while their brisk Lambs do play
When, at the length, a swarthy Cloud does fright
The smiling Sunbeames hence, and cloathes our day with night.
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So have I seene the dewy-brested SpringSuckling her blossomes, till the rising Fires
Ripen her non-ag'd fruits, and Autumne bring
Her downe-ripe dainties to the vast desires;
When, at the length, a winter storme does chide
And strike the wanton yeare: and cancels all her pride:
3
That Lampe, whose lustre glorifyed our Spheare,Whose radiant Beames did lately shine so bright,
And made our Day the glory of the yeare,
Is now obscured, and hath lost her light;
Our Sunne is set, and all our pleasure lyes
Ship-wreckt in shades of night, and drownd in flowing eyes:
4
That blessed Spring, whose sweetnesse, late, did suiteAnd fringe the earth, embroydring all her Bowers
With fruitfull pleasures, and with pleasing fruit,
Is blasted now, nor bearing fruite, nor flowers;
And black-mouth'd Boreas blasts have reveld here,
And darkned all our Joyes, and deaded all our yeare!
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5
Shee, whom the lavish Trump of fullmouth'd fameCould not belye, nor pens hyperbolize,
Or make her more, than her own worth may clame,
Or raise her merits up to higher skyes;
Shee, shee is dead; whilst her surviving glory
Finds mortall Quills too flat for her immortall story.
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Had shee beene nothing but a Branch, that sprungFrom famous Broadoke, it had serv'd to fill
Th' insatiate vastnesse of an Heraults tongue,
And given full matter to an Essex Quill;
Griefe neede no other Subject; This, alone,
This, this had beene enough; She was a Barington.
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A Branch of him, to whom his Country owesA life, at least; whose freedome, wealth and Blood,
His zeale conceiv'd too little, to depose
For Albions honour, and great Britaines good;
Whose noble dust, and meritorious name
Are treasur'd; That, in dust; This, in the Rolles of Fame.
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To whose rich favours, in more speciall Bands,I stood oblig'd, a stranger to the earth,
Who snatch'd me from the curse of Natures Hands,
And was my Father, in my second birth;
Witnesse that sacred Ewer, whereto he came
With Blessings in his mouth, and stampt me with his Name.
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9
But stay! Th' exuberance of my Pen commitsA zealous Sacriledge against his glory;
Which, cantling out his honour thus by bits,
Gives him a Stanza, that deserves a Story;
Excuse my red-hot zeale, which too too bold,
Glaunces where it should strike; I cannot, cannot hold.
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And thou sweet Saint, thou now sitst crownd & drestWith Him, in Robes of white Eternity,
Pardon my sausy Quill, that hath digrest,
And, for a Minit, lay'd thy Legend by:
Excuse my zeale; who ever yet did see
A Branch of dainty fruite, and not applaud the Tree?
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She was no Branch of Sycamore, to pleaseThe Sun-burnt soule but with an empty shade;
No fruitlesse Ash, whose unprolifique Keyes
Obscurely flourish for a while, and fade:
She was a clustred Branch of a rich Vine;
Vnprest, delicious fruite; and prest, delicious Wine.
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Her body was an Arke, where all supplyesWere fully made; where no perfection wanted:
Her soule was a celestiall Paradise,
Where all the seeds of sacred worth were planted:
The Tree of Knowledge did so flourish here,
That Serpents sued in vaine; No Serpent found an eare.
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13
Heav'n was the object where she fixt her eye,And lov'd the Earth, but as of earth bereiven;
The practise of her life was how to dye;
Her Stage was earth, but yet her Sceane was Heaven:
She had no Earth about her, but the shrine
Wherein her Soule was Sainted: She was all divine.
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But hold, my Pen! what mean'st thou thus to paintPerfection out? What needes thy idle Glosse
Thus raise the Spirits of our dull complaynt,
And magnifye the vastnesse of a losse?
Is Flesh and Blood not prone enough t'encurre,
The danger of Extreames, unquickned with a Spurre?
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The Ocean-ploughing Merchant, having lostIn stormy Seas, that wealth he could not hold,
Findes but poore comfort, to recount and boast,
How rich that Diamond was; how fine that Gold;
But, in his secret thoughts, he does bewaile
His Merchandize in grosse; He grieves not by Retayle.
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Nor shall the Accent of our story touchUpon the severall Items of her worth;
The Spring-tides of our flesh would flow too much
If we should blazon every vertue forth;
May this suffice; Our Universall Mother
Will hardly ope her wombe, to let in such another:
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Where let her honor'd Ashes rest, and makeShort shaddowes, now deliver'd from the noyse
Of sighes and groanes; Let her faire Soule partake
With blessed Angels in Angelike Joyes;
That when that great, uncertaine Trump shall sound,
They may, in glory meet; with perfect glory, Crown'd.
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Where, now, that widdow'd Soule, divorc'd from earth,Rapt up and mounted on Seraphicke wings,
Fill'd with new pleasures of celestiall mirth,
Defyes death-conquer'd Death; tryumphs & sings;
Sings and tryumphs in Joyes; which to unfold,
Some Angell lend a tongue; or else remaine untold.
FINIS.
| Francis Quarles: Hosanna or divine poems on the passion of Christ and Threnodes | |