Trivial poems and triolets. Written in obedience to Mrs Tomkin's commands, By Patrick Carey |
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Crux via Cœlorum.
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 | Trivial poems |  |
49
Crux via Cœlorum.
1
Lowdly the winds doe blow,High doe the sea-waues goe;
Where is the saylour now, I'de know?
Amidst the billowes (looke) how hee is tost,
Yett hopes the shore t'obtayne:
In a small barcke the ocean hee has cross't:
All for a little gayne.
Hee fitts his sayles to th'wind,
Then carelessely hee sings;
The hope hee has contents his mind,
And comfort to him brings.
Heauen for to gayne then, shall I bee lesse bold,
Then is a saylour for a little gold?
2
Whilst itt doth rayne, freeze, snow;Whilst coldest winds doe blow,
How clad does the poore captiue goe?
Noe furres has hee to wrappe his body in;
Nay more, hee cares for none,
But scornes all weathers in his naked skin;
Feare makes him make noe moane.
He has uppon his backe
The marckes of many a wand;
Yett (after stripes) hee is not slacke
To kiss his master's hand.
And shall I then for loue, repine to beare
Lesse then a naked slaue endures for feare?
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3
The scarres of many a blowCan the maym'd souldier show,
Yett still unto the warre does goe.
Fame makes him watch many a winter-night,
Hee sleeps oft on the ground;
With hunger, thirst, and foes hee oft must fight,
And all but for a sound.
Whole long dayes must hee march,
When all his force is spent;
The scorching sun his skinne doth parch,
Yett is his heart content.
Shall then for fame a souldier doe all this,
And I shrincke, suff'ring lesse for heauenly blisse?
4
In a darke caue belowThe conqueror does throw
His miserable vanquish'd foe.
Deepe is the dungeon where that wretch is cast,
Thither day comes not nigh;
Dampish and nasty uapours doe him blast,
Yett still his heart is high.
His prison is soe straight
He cannot mooue at will;
Huge chaynes oppresse him with their waight,
Yett has hee courage still.
And can I thinke I want my Libertee,
When in such thrall hee keepes his mind so free?
5
Itt shall not bee: Noe, noe;The saylour I'le out-goe,
The souldier, slaue, and uanquish'd foe,
When others rage, I'le thincke how I am tost,
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The naked slaue shall, i'th' most pearcing frost,
Make mee beare any payne.
The marche I'le call to mind,
When weary, and gett wings:
Least I should thincke my selfe confin'd
The pris'ner, freedome brings.
When e're restraint, or greife, or feare, or cold,
Tempt me, these thoughts will then my mind uphold.
“Man is born unto trouble.”
—Job, ch. v. uers. 7.
Crucifixus pro Nobis.
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