 | Poems by Robert Gomersall |  |
Thus pray'd the Israelites, but if th'are heard
If he that made them scorn'd, will make them feard:
It is in chance, no, tis as sure as fate,
Having forgot their misery of late
They will rebell againe: like those good hearts
Who though they know the paines, the many smarts
Which fruitfulnesse is fruitfull with, still give
Death to themselves, to make their issue live:
And if they scape this death, they try againe,
And boldly venture for a second paine,
As if twere pleasure, or as if they meant
Rather to dye, then to be continent.
Thus have we seene a barren, sandy soyle
(Made onely for the husbandmans sad toyle
And not his profit) when the full heav'n powres
His moisture downe, easing himselfe by showres,
Drown'd with the drops, to make us understand
A figure of the Sea upon the Land;
When once those drops are spent, when that the sky
Smiles with his new restor'd serenitie,
Swifter then thought, before that we can say
This was the place, the water's gone away,
Theres a low Ebbe, againe we see the Land
Changing its moisture for its ancient sand.
If he that made them scorn'd, will make them feard:
It is in chance, no, tis as sure as fate,
Having forgot their misery of late
They will rebell againe: like those good hearts
Who though they know the paines, the many smarts
Which fruitfulnesse is fruitfull with, still give
Death to themselves, to make their issue live:
And if they scape this death, they try againe,
And boldly venture for a second paine,
As if twere pleasure, or as if they meant
Rather to dye, then to be continent.
Thus have we seene a barren, sandy soyle
(Made onely for the husbandmans sad toyle
And not his profit) when the full heav'n powres
His moisture downe, easing himselfe by showres,
Drown'd with the drops, to make us understand
A figure of the Sea upon the Land;
When once those drops are spent, when that the sky
Smiles with his new restor'd serenitie,
62
This was the place, the water's gone away,
Theres a low Ebbe, againe we see the Land
Changing its moisture for its ancient sand.
| Poems by Robert Gomersall | |