King Arthur An Heroick Poem. In Twelve Books. By Richard Blackmore. To which is Annexed, An Index, Explaining the Names of Countrys, Citys, and Rivers, &c |
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 | King Arthur |  |
What Honour is it, did the Hero cry,
To dy for him that did for Sinners dy?
To rescue Mortals from the Gulph of Hell,
And raise them up to Heav'n from whence they fell
All our laborious Services are slight,
And all our heavy Sufferings wondrous light
When in a just and equal Ballance thrown
Against th'excessive Bliss, and massy Crown
Of pondrous Glory, which attends at last
The constant Martyr's Zeal and Labour past.
The Way to Canaan by those Martyrs trod
Lys thro' a red amazing Sea of Blood.
Martyrs, Elijah-like, to Heav'n aspire
On ruddy Steeds, and rapid Cars of Fire.
Here on a bleak tempestuous Shore I stand,
Cast on a wild, unhospitable Land,
Which for Disorder do's on Chaos joyn,
And for its Guilt do's close on Hell confine;
A wastful, howling, horrid Wilderness,
Which Beasts of Prey in humane Shape possess:
So monstrous dark that Heav'n's recoiling Light
Bounds from the Surface of the solid Night.
On the other side appears a glorious Shore
Enrich'd with glitt'ring Gemms and golden Oar.
The Land is all a native Theater,
Where flowry Plains, and spicy Groves appear.
A Paradise blest with reviving Beams
Immortal Fruit, and sweet, Celestial Streams.
Where Love and Peace and Friendship free from stain,
Pure Light, and Truth, and Joy unmixt with Pain,
Oh happy Regions! do for ever reign.
To gain this Blissful Land, this Golden Coast,
Death's interposing Channel must be crost.
'Tis true the gloomy Flood afflicts the Sight,
And self preserving Nature dos affright.
The Stygian Tide a dismal Horror spreads,
And dusky Billows rear their threat'ning Heads.
Nature upon the Brink dos shiv'ring stand,
And dreads the Paslage to the Blissful Land.
She willing still terrestrial Joys to keep,
Starts at the awful Prospect of the Deep.
She spins out time, and lingers in Debate,
And dos a thousand Ways Expostulate,
Displeas'd to try a new, and Unknown State.
By Various shifts she labours to Evade
The frightful Gulph, and Solitary Shade.
But Nature is Controul'd by Reason's sway,
Reason's her Guide, Reason must lead the Way.
I'll plunge amidst the Flood, and fearless stride
To gain the happy Shore across the tyde,
Or with bold Arms th'opposing Waves divide.
What if I sink, the shore I cannot miss,
We dive by Death, but to Emerge in Bliss.
The chiefest Terrors which in Death we dread,
Are in our own Imagination bred.
We are not pleas'd a glorious World to know,
Whereof our Senses no Impression show.
Reluctant Sense declines the untrodden Path,
Tho aided both by Reason and by Faith.
Empty phantastic Horrors hence arise
Which fright the vulgar, not the brave and wise.
Th'advancing Shades of Death weak Nature scare,
As hideous Forms and Monsters drawn in Air:
Which issuing forth from the dark Womb of Night
Impregnated with Fear, weak Minds affright.
If tender Infants who imprison'd stay
Within the Womb, prepar'd to break away,
Were conscious of themselves, and of their State,
And had but Reason to sustain Debate,
The painful Passage they would dread, and show
Reluctance to a World they do not know.
They in their Prisons still would chuse to ly
As backward to be born, as we to dy.
This is the Christian's Case detain'd on Earth,
Whose Death is nothing, but his Heav'nly Birth.
Yet still he fears the dark and unknown Way,
Still backwards shrinks, still meditates Delay,
And fresh Excuses finds for longer Stay.
To dy for him that did for Sinners dy?
To rescue Mortals from the Gulph of Hell,
And raise them up to Heav'n from whence they fell
All our laborious Services are slight,
And all our heavy Sufferings wondrous light
When in a just and equal Ballance thrown
Against th'excessive Bliss, and massy Crown
Of pondrous Glory, which attends at last
The constant Martyr's Zeal and Labour past.
The Way to Canaan by those Martyrs trod
Lys thro' a red amazing Sea of Blood.
Martyrs, Elijah-like, to Heav'n aspire
On ruddy Steeds, and rapid Cars of Fire.
Here on a bleak tempestuous Shore I stand,
Cast on a wild, unhospitable Land,
Which for Disorder do's on Chaos joyn,
And for its Guilt do's close on Hell confine;
A wastful, howling, horrid Wilderness,
Which Beasts of Prey in humane Shape possess:
So monstrous dark that Heav'n's recoiling Light
Bounds from the Surface of the solid Night.
On the other side appears a glorious Shore
Enrich'd with glitt'ring Gemms and golden Oar.
208
Where flowry Plains, and spicy Groves appear.
A Paradise blest with reviving Beams
Immortal Fruit, and sweet, Celestial Streams.
Where Love and Peace and Friendship free from stain,
Pure Light, and Truth, and Joy unmixt with Pain,
Oh happy Regions! do for ever reign.
To gain this Blissful Land, this Golden Coast,
Death's interposing Channel must be crost.
'Tis true the gloomy Flood afflicts the Sight,
And self preserving Nature dos affright.
The Stygian Tide a dismal Horror spreads,
And dusky Billows rear their threat'ning Heads.
Nature upon the Brink dos shiv'ring stand,
And dreads the Paslage to the Blissful Land.
She willing still terrestrial Joys to keep,
Starts at the awful Prospect of the Deep.
She spins out time, and lingers in Debate,
And dos a thousand Ways Expostulate,
Displeas'd to try a new, and Unknown State.
By Various shifts she labours to Evade
The frightful Gulph, and Solitary Shade.
But Nature is Controul'd by Reason's sway,
Reason's her Guide, Reason must lead the Way.
I'll plunge amidst the Flood, and fearless stride
To gain the happy Shore across the tyde,
Or with bold Arms th'opposing Waves divide.
What if I sink, the shore I cannot miss,
We dive by Death, but to Emerge in Bliss.
209
Are in our own Imagination bred.
We are not pleas'd a glorious World to know,
Whereof our Senses no Impression show.
Reluctant Sense declines the untrodden Path,
Tho aided both by Reason and by Faith.
Empty phantastic Horrors hence arise
Which fright the vulgar, not the brave and wise.
Th'advancing Shades of Death weak Nature scare,
As hideous Forms and Monsters drawn in Air:
Which issuing forth from the dark Womb of Night
Impregnated with Fear, weak Minds affright.
If tender Infants who imprison'd stay
Within the Womb, prepar'd to break away,
Were conscious of themselves, and of their State,
And had but Reason to sustain Debate,
The painful Passage they would dread, and show
Reluctance to a World they do not know.
They in their Prisons still would chuse to ly
As backward to be born, as we to dy.
This is the Christian's Case detain'd on Earth,
Whose Death is nothing, but his Heav'nly Birth.
Yet still he fears the dark and unknown Way,
Still backwards shrinks, still meditates Delay,
And fresh Excuses finds for longer Stay.
| King Arthur | |