The Life of Our Blessed Lord & Saviour Jesus Christ An Heroic Poem: Dedicated to Her Most Sacred Majesty. In Ten Books. Attempted by Samuel Wesley ... Each Book illustrated by necessary Notes, explaining all the more difficult Matters in the whole History: Also a Prefatory Discourse concerning Heroic Poetry. With Sixty Copper-Plates |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
BOOK IX. The PASSION.
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| X. |
 | The Life of Our Blessed Lord & Saviour Jesus Christ |  |
290
BOOK IX. The PASSION.
THE ARGUMENT OF THE Ninth BOOK.
This Book begins with a Complaint that Vertue is generally miserable in this World. Which is silenc'd by the Instance of our Saviour's Sufferings, tho perfect Purity and Innocence. Who is accused before Pilate by the High-Priest and Elders; but nothing being proved against him, the Governour would have acquitted him. The Rabble, excited by the Priests, are eager for his Death. Pilate, hoping to divert 'em, hearing he was a Galilean, sends him to Herod; who, on his Silence, despises, derides, and returns him to the Governour. Whose Wife, having had a terrible Vision relating to him, sends to her Husband, by no means to concern himself in his Death. On which he laboured to deliver him, offering the Jews to give them his Life, as was usual at the Passover; but they refused it, and ask Barabbas, a Robber and Murtherer; Till, by their repeated Tumults and Insinuations, that unless Pilate would grant their Desire, he must be disloyal to Cæsar. They at last prevail, and our Lord is scourged and condemned. He's mock'd by the Souldiers, crowned with Thorns, and, bearing his Cross, dragg'd to Execution. His Advice to the Matrons of Jerusalem, in his Passage through the dolorous Way: Where he faints under his Cross, and Simon coming by is compelled to assist him. Arrived at Calvary, he's crucified between two Malefactors. The Blessed Virgin, hearing the Rumour of her Son's being taken by the Rabble, follows him to Calvary; and finding him there, falls dead at the Sight. Is recovered by the Souldiers. Her Lamentation for the Death of her Son. Who being moved with her Sorrow, speaks to her from the Cross; and commends her to the Care of his Friend, St. John, who stood by him, and would never forsake him. The Discourse of the two Thieves with our Saviour. The Prodigies at Jerusalem. Our Saviour's Exclamation on the Cross, under the Sense of God's Anger for the Sins of the World. The Angels in Heaven enraged to see their Master thus used, one of them gives the Signal of War, Michael appears at their Head, and they are all ready to descend to his Rescue and destroy the World. The Father represses their Anger; letting 'em see the Book of the Eternal Decrees; and that 'twas necessary our Lord should die for the Sins of Man. At which being appeas'd, they return to their usual Posts and Employments. Our Saviour's last Agonies, his Thirst, receiving the Vinegar, and yielding up the Ghost.
291
O why was Virtue made to be distrest,
Like Noah's Dove no place of Ease and Rest
In this tumultuous World she ever found;
By Fortunes giddy Wheel still dragg'd around:
If not too, Crush'd on the relentless Ground.
Her best-lov'd Children mean and humble go,
Friendless and Poor, contemptible and low;
Expos'd to pinching Want, and sharper Shame;
“O what is Virtue but an empty Name?
Like Noah's Dove no place of Ease and Rest
In this tumultuous World she ever found;
By Fortunes giddy Wheel still dragg'd around:
If not too, Crush'd on the relentless Ground.
Her best-lov'd Children mean and humble go,
Friendless and Poor, contemptible and low;
Expos'd to pinching Want, and sharper Shame;
“O what is Virtue but an empty Name?
Presumptuous Thoughts no more! no more pretend!
Blaspheme not what you cannot comprehend!
What please high Heav'n till this dull Life be past:
Be this enough, 'twill not for ever last:
Short Joys, who wou'd not gladly lose to find
A long long Train of happy Years behind?
292
What please high Heav'n till this dull Life be past:
Be this enough, 'twill not for ever last:
Short Joys, who wou'd not gladly lose to find
A long long Train of happy Years behind?
Yet murmurs Flesh and Blood, still discontented,
And asks, if only made to be tormented?
If all this beauteous earthly Paradise,
Was only form'd as the reward of Vice:
If Honour on the virtuous wou'd not wear
As decently and well, and sit as fair;
As on the vitious Brow—Be this confest!
Nor is fair Virtue always here opprest:
Eclipses only make her shine more bright,
She lovelier looks in mingled Shades and Light.
Shou'd all this fail, there needs but one reply,
Ah! murm'ring Soul! and did not Jesus die?
Jesus, in whom were admirably joyn'd,
The purest Virtues, and the noblest Mind;
The greatest Merits, and the greatest Pain,
The tend'rest Love treated with worst Disdain:
Tho' all his Life one act of Mercy were,
Tho' all Mankind did so profusely share
The Makers's Bounty, and the Saviour's Care.
Unequall'd Merit, Virtue too sublime
And spotless Innocence, was all his Crime;
That Fame, which wheresoe'er he went pursu'd,
To every Desart Plain or lonely Wood;
Nor suffer'd him to be obscurely Good:
How oft the ravish'd Crowd with Wonders fed,
And feasted high on more than Angels bread;
Had him degraded to an earthly Crown,
Whom all the bright Etherial Kingdoms own;
Had he not us'd as oft one Wonder more,
To scape their Kindness, as their Rage before;
And veil'd in Clouds too thick for piercing Day,
Glided unseen in secret Shades away:
Not so when the sad fatal Hour was come,
And Heav'n resolv'd to call its Lieger home:
See where th' Almighty Judg of Angels stands
Like a vile Criminal! dishonest Bands,
At once restrain and load his guiltless Hands.
Born with the giddy Crowds tumultuous Tide,
The very same who late Hosanna's cry'd;
Hark how their thick hoarse Voices rend the Sky,
No Word, no Sound is heard, but Crucifie!
Sickness it self forgets 'tis weak and slow,
Ev'n Children which but newly learn'd to go;
Nay the soft Sex i'th' common Cause engage,
Wild Youth, and manly Strength, and hoary Age:
The same their Malice, and the same their Cries,
The same wild Fury in their Voice and Eyes:
Mild Pity's banish'd, Mischief fills its place,
And murd'rous Forms in each distorted Face:
Wide foaming Rage, black Malice, Hatred fell,
And grinning Envy, best-lov'd Child of Hell;
Like furious Beasts, themselves and Earth they tear,
And scatter Dust, loud bell'wing round the Air.
The real Fiends, in mortal Figures drest,
Which in amidst the crowding Rabble prest;
So like, you cou'd not know 'em from the rest;
Found no Employment there, the Work was done,
No need of Vipers now to urge 'em on;
The Priests their place supply'd, the foremost they
The great immaculate Paschal-Lamb to slay:
Scarce had the Sun glanc'd on our upper Skies,
E'er the wild Rout, so early Spite can rise,
Were ready to behold the Sacrifice:
To Pilate's Gate, the guiltless Victim led,
That wrested Law might strike him doubly dead:
There with new Shouts the vast Pretorium shake,
Which soon the frighted Governor awake,
He calls his Guards, and a Centurion sent,
Who scarce cou'd learn what the rude Tumult meant:
Amidst a num'rous Crowd with Staves, and Swords,
And Fury arm'd, he heard no other words
But Justice, Justice! Let th' Impostor die!
Justice! Rebellion! Treason! Blasphemy!
The Judge descends, the loud-mouth'd Serjeants call
Th' as loud Accusers to the Judgment Hall;
They dare not move a Step, religious Fear
Had chain'd 'em there—The Passover was near.
Wretches, who strain at Gnats, at Murders smile:
And will not guiltless Blood far more defile!
Proud Hypocrites! thus fix'd at Pilate's Gate,
You still preserve your ancient Pomp and State;
Not you on him, but he on you must Wait.
He did, he saw with Wonder and Surprize,
The guiltless Hero doom'd a Sacrifice;
Grief, that cou'd never look with better Grace,
Mild Majesty enthron'd in his sad Face.
—The Roman trembled, tho' unus'd to Fear,
His Heart presag'd something Divine was near.
Unmov'd, his awful Pris'ner cou'd not see,
But look'd far more a Criminal than He:
Nor did of his Accusers Pride complain,
Since him he now alone might entertain.
But while without the furious Rabble stays,
With their loud Curses; him to th' Hall conveys,
And asks, more like Petition than Command,
If he the King of Jury's fertile Land?
The promis'd Prince, by each Prophetic Sage
Doom'd to restore the blissful Golden Age?
For we, he adds, have heard, tho' far remov'd,
His future Fame, have heard, admir'd and lov'd;
Of whose high Deeds Cumæan Grotto's ring,
And our great Maro's Muse divinely Sing.
And asks, if only made to be tormented?
If all this beauteous earthly Paradise,
Was only form'd as the reward of Vice:
If Honour on the virtuous wou'd not wear
As decently and well, and sit as fair;
As on the vitious Brow—Be this confest!
Nor is fair Virtue always here opprest:
Eclipses only make her shine more bright,
She lovelier looks in mingled Shades and Light.
Shou'd all this fail, there needs but one reply,
Ah! murm'ring Soul! and did not Jesus die?
Jesus, in whom were admirably joyn'd,
The purest Virtues, and the noblest Mind;
The greatest Merits, and the greatest Pain,
The tend'rest Love treated with worst Disdain:
Tho' all his Life one act of Mercy were,
Tho' all Mankind did so profusely share
The Makers's Bounty, and the Saviour's Care.
Unequall'd Merit, Virtue too sublime
And spotless Innocence, was all his Crime;
That Fame, which wheresoe'er he went pursu'd,
To every Desart Plain or lonely Wood;
Nor suffer'd him to be obscurely Good:
How oft the ravish'd Crowd with Wonders fed,
And feasted high on more than Angels bread;
Had him degraded to an earthly Crown,
Whom all the bright Etherial Kingdoms own;
Had he not us'd as oft one Wonder more,
To scape their Kindness, as their Rage before;
And veil'd in Clouds too thick for piercing Day,
Glided unseen in secret Shades away:
Not so when the sad fatal Hour was come,
And Heav'n resolv'd to call its Lieger home:
293
Like a vile Criminal! dishonest Bands,
At once restrain and load his guiltless Hands.
Born with the giddy Crowds tumultuous Tide,
The very same who late Hosanna's cry'd;
Hark how their thick hoarse Voices rend the Sky,
No Word, no Sound is heard, but Crucifie!
Sickness it self forgets 'tis weak and slow,
Ev'n Children which but newly learn'd to go;
Nay the soft Sex i'th' common Cause engage,
Wild Youth, and manly Strength, and hoary Age:
The same their Malice, and the same their Cries,
The same wild Fury in their Voice and Eyes:
Mild Pity's banish'd, Mischief fills its place,
And murd'rous Forms in each distorted Face:
Wide foaming Rage, black Malice, Hatred fell,
And grinning Envy, best-lov'd Child of Hell;
Like furious Beasts, themselves and Earth they tear,
And scatter Dust, loud bell'wing round the Air.
The real Fiends, in mortal Figures drest,
Which in amidst the crowding Rabble prest;
So like, you cou'd not know 'em from the rest;
Found no Employment there, the Work was done,
No need of Vipers now to urge 'em on;
The Priests their place supply'd, the foremost they
The great immaculate Paschal-Lamb to slay:
Scarce had the Sun glanc'd on our upper Skies,
E'er the wild Rout, so early Spite can rise,
Were ready to behold the Sacrifice:
To Pilate's Gate, the guiltless Victim led,
That wrested Law might strike him doubly dead:
There with new Shouts the vast Pretorium shake,
Which soon the frighted Governor awake,
He calls his Guards, and a Centurion sent,
Who scarce cou'd learn what the rude Tumult meant:
Amidst a num'rous Crowd with Staves, and Swords,
And Fury arm'd, he heard no other words
But Justice, Justice! Let th' Impostor die!
Justice! Rebellion! Treason! Blasphemy!
The Judge descends, the loud-mouth'd Serjeants call
294
They dare not move a Step, religious Fear
Had chain'd 'em there—The Passover was near.
Wretches, who strain at Gnats, at Murders smile:
And will not guiltless Blood far more defile!
Proud Hypocrites! thus fix'd at Pilate's Gate,
You still preserve your ancient Pomp and State;
Not you on him, but he on you must Wait.
He did, he saw with Wonder and Surprize,
The guiltless Hero doom'd a Sacrifice;
Grief, that cou'd never look with better Grace,
Mild Majesty enthron'd in his sad Face.
—The Roman trembled, tho' unus'd to Fear,
His Heart presag'd something Divine was near.
Unmov'd, his awful Pris'ner cou'd not see,
But look'd far more a Criminal than He:
Nor did of his Accusers Pride complain,
Since him he now alone might entertain.
But while without the furious Rabble stays,
With their loud Curses; him to th' Hall conveys,
And asks, more like Petition than Command,
If he the King of Jury's fertile Land?
The promis'd Prince, by each Prophetic Sage
Doom'd to restore the blissful Golden Age?
For we, he adds, have heard, tho' far remov'd,
His future Fame, have heard, admir'd and lov'd;
Of whose high Deeds Cumæan Grotto's ring,
And our great Maro's Muse divinely Sing.
To whom he thus—Nor need the Romans fear,
Nor Jews suspect, my Kingdom is not here:
All earthly, worldly Glories I disdain,
And only over Hearts desire to Reign;
Truth there to plant, and Error to remove;
For this I leave my Father's Throne above
For an ungrateful VVorld—This only I
Propos'd when born, for this content to die.
Nor Jews suspect, my Kingdom is not here:
All earthly, worldly Glories I disdain,
And only over Hearts desire to Reign;
Truth there to plant, and Error to remove;
For this I leave my Father's Throne above
For an ungrateful VVorld—This only I
Propos'd when born, for this content to die.
Still more surpriz'd, the Roman to the Gate
Returns, where still the numerous Rabble wait;
Thirsty of Blood, for Blood they raving call,
And press both the great Vulgar, and the Small.
Unmov'd and firm, the Governor remain'd,
And asks for what so loudly they complain'd?
What Crime so high, the Pris'ner cou'd alone,
By such a Death his mighty Guilt atone;
Since all his Answers yet, discover'd none!
Nor must the guiltless be by Noise opprest,
Let one accuse, Be silent all the rest!
Returns, where still the numerous Rabble wait;
Thirsty of Blood, for Blood they raving call,
And press both the great Vulgar, and the Small.
295
And asks for what so loudly they complain'd?
What Crime so high, the Pris'ner cou'd alone,
By such a Death his mighty Guilt atone;
Since all his Answers yet, discover'd none!
Nor must the guiltless be by Noise opprest,
Let one accuse, Be silent all the rest!
He said, when strait appears from forth the Croud,
Vain Caiaphas still Cruel, Haughty, Proud;
Supplying want of Reason, Truth and Sence,
With a firm Brow and pompous Eloquence;
And thus began—We highly are content
To plead our Cause, illustrious President,
At your Tribunal; since we cannot fear,
To find that Justice which is always here!
Nor cou'd small Crimes so great a Concourse draw
Against this Wretch, who wou'd our sacred Law
Subvert, our glorious Temple overturn,
And in unhallow'd Fire, our Altars burn.
Since then the gen'rous Romans ne'er refuse
To let their Friends, or happy Conquests use
Their own Religious Rites; and since the Jews
Unanimous and loud for Justice cry,
And all demand that this Blasphemer die,
As by our Law he ought, we can't suspect,
Great Pontius shou'd our joint-desires neglect:
Let then th' Impostor die, whose curs'd Design
Is by the World to be esteem'd Divine:
Let the Impostor die, we ask it all,
Nor can our Altars stand, unless he fall.
Vain Caiaphas still Cruel, Haughty, Proud;
Supplying want of Reason, Truth and Sence,
With a firm Brow and pompous Eloquence;
And thus began—We highly are content
To plead our Cause, illustrious President,
At your Tribunal; since we cannot fear,
To find that Justice which is always here!
Nor cou'd small Crimes so great a Concourse draw
Against this Wretch, who wou'd our sacred Law
Subvert, our glorious Temple overturn,
And in unhallow'd Fire, our Altars burn.
Since then the gen'rous Romans ne'er refuse
To let their Friends, or happy Conquests use
Their own Religious Rites; and since the Jews
Unanimous and loud for Justice cry,
And all demand that this Blasphemer die,
As by our Law he ought, we can't suspect,
Great Pontius shou'd our joint-desires neglect:
Let then th' Impostor die, whose curs'd Design
Is by the World to be esteem'd Divine:
Let the Impostor die, we ask it all,
Nor can our Altars stand, unless he fall.
He said, th' applauding People gave consent,
And with loud Shouts the wide Pretorium rent:
Still Pilat's firm: he knew 'twas envious Rage
Did them, against the innocent engage;
For now not first had he remark'd his Law
And spotless Life, nor ought offensive saw;
Ought that the Roman Jealousie cou'd move,
His Life was Goodness, and his Law was Love.
Patient and Meek, th' expecting Victim lies,
As th' inn'cent Lamb prepar'd for Sacrifice;
His Voice not heard, no loud Complaints or Cries,
No murm'ring Words, or sounds of Discontent;
As guiltless Isaac to the Altar went:
Nor was the more by this their Fire allay'd,
His silent Meekness did their Rage upbraid;
With their hoarse Voices still they rend the Sky,
Let the curs'd Galilean Rebel die:
Thro' all the Land he wild Sedition sows,
Whose fatal Crop so plentifully grows
In his own native distant Fields. Is he,
Then, Pilate strait replies, of Galilee—
Gladly the Hint he takes—Your Paschal Feast,
He adds, has hither brought a Royal Guest.
Herod himself, we must not interfere,
To him my Guards the Criminal shall bear;
You Fathers, follow and accuse him there!
And with loud Shouts the wide Pretorium rent:
Still Pilat's firm: he knew 'twas envious Rage
Did them, against the innocent engage;
For now not first had he remark'd his Law
And spotless Life, nor ought offensive saw;
Ought that the Roman Jealousie cou'd move,
His Life was Goodness, and his Law was Love.
Patient and Meek, th' expecting Victim lies,
As th' inn'cent Lamb prepar'd for Sacrifice;
His Voice not heard, no loud Complaints or Cries,
296
As guiltless Isaac to the Altar went:
Nor was the more by this their Fire allay'd,
His silent Meekness did their Rage upbraid;
With their hoarse Voices still they rend the Sky,
Let the curs'd Galilean Rebel die:
Thro' all the Land he wild Sedition sows,
Whose fatal Crop so plentifully grows
In his own native distant Fields. Is he,
Then, Pilate strait replies, of Galilee—
Gladly the Hint he takes—Your Paschal Feast,
He adds, has hither brought a Royal Guest.
Herod himself, we must not interfere,
To him my Guards the Criminal shall bear;
You Fathers, follow and accuse him there!
Away they murm'ring melt, can hardly stay
For Forms of Law, but curse this dull delay:
For Forms of Law, but curse this dull delay:
Him bound, proud Herod glad receives, for he
Well hop'd to feast his Curiosity;
Some mighty Work, or glorious Sign to see,
By the great Prophet wrought; and asks in vain
His Birth, his Life, his Mission and his Reign;
How his Authority from Heav'n he prov'd?
What Crimes the Citizens against him mov'd?
He silent stood: Not so the follo'ing Crowd,
Who still pursue with Clamours fierce and loud;
Rebellion and Apostacy his Charge,
His Guilt confess'd, too open and too large
For Proof or Plea—Still calm his Looks and Mind,
To his Almighty Father's Will resign'd:
His Eyes still fix'd on a far brighter Throne,
And in Heav'ns Court he pleads his Cause alone:
Is this the Man, the Tyrant cries with Scorn,
This He, our Families proud Rival born?
How likely he to overturn a State?
Below our Vengeance, and below our Hate!
Send Heav'n no greater Foe! Guards! quickly bring
Our Royal Robes t'adorn this mighty King:
His wish'd Commands they readily obey'd,
And him with speed in Royal Robes array'd;
Salute with mock Devoir and bended Knee,
And back to Pilate guard his Majesty:
The Roman found his Stratagem in vain;
Th' unwieldy rolling Stone recurs again:
The People throng the Gates, and threatning ask,
That he'd once more resume th' ungrateful Task:
All Arts he tries, persuasion, flatt'ry, fear;
Now this, now that, now kind, and then severe:
One Method more remain'd—
'Twas usual with the Roman Clemency,
At this Great Day one Criminal to free,
And grace their Festal Joys—It chanc'd that then,
A Wretch, alike by God abhorr'd and Men;
A sturdy Rebel he, of noted Fame,
With Murther mark'd, Barabbas was his name;
By Justice seiz'd, did in close durance wait,
Trembling his well-deserv'd approaching Fate:
Him Pilate offers to the angry Jews,
Jesus and him, and asks 'em which they'd chuse?
Since one whose Crimes admitted no Defence,
Was the best Foil for spotless Innocence:
One peaceable and just, and mild and good,
T'other with Faction branded, dipp'd in Blood.
Well hop'd to feast his Curiosity;
Some mighty Work, or glorious Sign to see,
By the great Prophet wrought; and asks in vain
His Birth, his Life, his Mission and his Reign;
How his Authority from Heav'n he prov'd?
What Crimes the Citizens against him mov'd?
He silent stood: Not so the follo'ing Crowd,
Who still pursue with Clamours fierce and loud;
Rebellion and Apostacy his Charge,
His Guilt confess'd, too open and too large
For Proof or Plea—Still calm his Looks and Mind,
To his Almighty Father's Will resign'd:
His Eyes still fix'd on a far brighter Throne,
And in Heav'ns Court he pleads his Cause alone:
Is this the Man, the Tyrant cries with Scorn,
This He, our Families proud Rival born?
How likely he to overturn a State?
Below our Vengeance, and below our Hate!
Send Heav'n no greater Foe! Guards! quickly bring
Our Royal Robes t'adorn this mighty King:
His wish'd Commands they readily obey'd,
And him with speed in Royal Robes array'd;
297
And back to Pilate guard his Majesty:
The Roman found his Stratagem in vain;
Th' unwieldy rolling Stone recurs again:
The People throng the Gates, and threatning ask,
That he'd once more resume th' ungrateful Task:
All Arts he tries, persuasion, flatt'ry, fear;
Now this, now that, now kind, and then severe:
One Method more remain'd—
'Twas usual with the Roman Clemency,
At this Great Day one Criminal to free,
And grace their Festal Joys—It chanc'd that then,
A Wretch, alike by God abhorr'd and Men;
A sturdy Rebel he, of noted Fame,
With Murther mark'd, Barabbas was his name;
By Justice seiz'd, did in close durance wait,
Trembling his well-deserv'd approaching Fate:
Him Pilate offers to the angry Jews,
Jesus and him, and asks 'em which they'd chuse?
Since one whose Crimes admitted no Defence,
Was the best Foil for spotless Innocence:
One peaceable and just, and mild and good,
T'other with Faction branded, dipp'd in Blood.
Pity and Justice here almost prevail,
The Elders found their Arts began to fail;
New Crimes, new Fears among the Vulgar threw,
And ever subtly mingle False with True.
Ask 'em if those who wickedly contrive
Their Temple to destroy, they'd save alive?
If 'twere not height of madness to prefer,
A black Blasphemer to a Murtherer?
By these inspir'd and Hell, they louder cry,
No—Let Barabbas live, and Jesus die!
The Governor agen, his Anger mov'd
At their wild Rage—What Crimes had yet been prov'd,
What Cause of Death demands? While thus they strive,
They to destroy, he to preserve alive,
His Lady of an ancient House and Name,
Unblemish'd Vertue, and unspotted Fame,
To him, with hast on the Tribunal, sent
If not too late, the Murther to prevent:
Of one he knew so just and innocent:
For in a dreadful Visions mystick Scene,
(Avert th' Ill-omens, Heav'n! what e'er they mean)
She saw the Angry Skies begin to lowr;
She saw the Clouds break in a fatal Show'r
Of Fire and Blood, which in whole Rivers pour
Upon a proud devoted City nigh;
And heard a Voice, a dreadful Voice on high!
“Remove from this curst Place, which to the Sword is given,
“They Blood for Blood shall pay, their Fate's enroll'd in Heav'n:
This trembling Pontius heard, and labours more,
Tho' still in vain, t'acquit him, than before
The Tide rolls high, and beats th' opposing shore.
Proud Annas leads 'em on, who Moses's Chair
Late fill'd, and did the sacred Ephod wear;
Who furious thus began—
—Shall a weak Womans dreaming Fears prevail;
Her Sentence stand, and Law and Justice fail?
Is't thus the Romans rule, or can he be
Their Friend, who saves their greatest Enemy?
Who spares the Wretch whom we to Justice bring,
Whom factious Crowds so oft have Hail'd, their King?
For this was Cesars Prefect hither sent;
Did he for this obtain the Government?
His Rebels thus to rescue, yet pretend,
T'adorn his Province, and be Cesars Friend?
Well, let false Traytors whom they please enthrone,
All other Kings, but Cesar, we disown!
The Elders found their Arts began to fail;
New Crimes, new Fears among the Vulgar threw,
And ever subtly mingle False with True.
Ask 'em if those who wickedly contrive
Their Temple to destroy, they'd save alive?
If 'twere not height of madness to prefer,
A black Blasphemer to a Murtherer?
By these inspir'd and Hell, they louder cry,
No—Let Barabbas live, and Jesus die!
The Governor agen, his Anger mov'd
At their wild Rage—What Crimes had yet been prov'd,
What Cause of Death demands? While thus they strive,
They to destroy, he to preserve alive,
His Lady of an ancient House and Name,
Unblemish'd Vertue, and unspotted Fame,
298
If not too late, the Murther to prevent:
Of one he knew so just and innocent:
For in a dreadful Visions mystick Scene,
(Avert th' Ill-omens, Heav'n! what e'er they mean)
She saw the Angry Skies begin to lowr;
She saw the Clouds break in a fatal Show'r
Of Fire and Blood, which in whole Rivers pour
Upon a proud devoted City nigh;
And heard a Voice, a dreadful Voice on high!
“Remove from this curst Place, which to the Sword is given,
“They Blood for Blood shall pay, their Fate's enroll'd in Heav'n:
This trembling Pontius heard, and labours more,
Tho' still in vain, t'acquit him, than before
The Tide rolls high, and beats th' opposing shore.
Proud Annas leads 'em on, who Moses's Chair
Late fill'd, and did the sacred Ephod wear;
Who furious thus began—
—Shall a weak Womans dreaming Fears prevail;
Her Sentence stand, and Law and Justice fail?
Is't thus the Romans rule, or can he be
Their Friend, who saves their greatest Enemy?
Who spares the Wretch whom we to Justice bring,
Whom factious Crowds so oft have Hail'd, their King?
For this was Cesars Prefect hither sent;
Did he for this obtain the Government?
His Rebels thus to rescue, yet pretend,
T'adorn his Province, and be Cesars Friend?
Well, let false Traytors whom they please enthrone,
All other Kings, but Cesar, we disown!
Shock'd by this last Attack, tho' firm before,
The wav'ring Roman now cou'd bear no more:
He, prest, gave way to the impetuous Flood,
A Traytors name wash'd off with guiltless Blood.
The wav'ring Roman now cou'd bear no more:
He, prest, gave way to the impetuous Flood,
A Traytors name wash'd off with guiltless Blood.
Thus when fair Jordan do's his Bank's o'er flow,
Whether his double Spring o'ercharg'd with Snow,
From Neighb'ring Lebanon, or Lakes below,
In Subterranean Vaults; thus strives a while
The painful Husbandman with fruitless Toil:
Do's, to his Fury Banks and Dams oppose;
The angry Stream, thus check'd still wilder grows,
And over all at last resistless flows:
Whilst he, for Life, to some near Hillock flies,
And back to th' River sadly turns his Eyes;
Sees all his Stock destroy'd in one short Day,
Sees all his envy'd Riches wash'd away;
And Beasts and Men and floating stacks of Corn,
And House and Homested, down the Current headlong born.
Whether his double Spring o'ercharg'd with Snow,
From Neighb'ring Lebanon, or Lakes below,
In Subterranean Vaults; thus strives a while
The painful Husbandman with fruitless Toil:
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The angry Stream, thus check'd still wilder grows,
And over all at last resistless flows:
Whilst he, for Life, to some near Hillock flies,
And back to th' River sadly turns his Eyes;
Sees all his Stock destroy'd in one short Day,
Sees all his envy'd Riches wash'd away;
And Beasts and Men and floating stacks of Corn,
And House and Homested, down the Current headlong born.
Thus Pilate yields, nor longer cou'd engage
The stubborn Crowd, yet thus his fruitless Rage
He vents—You've Conquer'd—I no more deny
Your wicked Wish—The Innocent must die—
But know a speedy Vengeance will pursue,
And may it light, light heavy all on you!
For thus I wash my Hands of the foul Guilt;
Bear you his Blood, by you unjustly spilt:
Agreed, they answer all, we're all content
To bear the Blood, the Guilt, the Punishment;
We and our Children both.—Wretches, you shall,
When your proud Tow'rs and boasted Temple fall
Beneath its Weight, when Nemesis divine,
Still sure tho' slow, shall perfect Heav'ns design
On you, and all your curs'd devoted Line:
Blood thro' your Gates, Blood thro' your Streets shall flow,
Faster then Kidron in the Vale below;
Destruction cross the Stream, triumphant stride,
And Death sit crown'd upon the Crimson Tide.
The stubborn Crowd, yet thus his fruitless Rage
He vents—You've Conquer'd—I no more deny
Your wicked Wish—The Innocent must die—
But know a speedy Vengeance will pursue,
And may it light, light heavy all on you!
For thus I wash my Hands of the foul Guilt;
Bear you his Blood, by you unjustly spilt:
Agreed, they answer all, we're all content
To bear the Blood, the Guilt, the Punishment;
We and our Children both.—Wretches, you shall,
When your proud Tow'rs and boasted Temple fall
Beneath its Weight, when Nemesis divine,
Still sure tho' slow, shall perfect Heav'ns design
On you, and all your curs'd devoted Line:
Blood thro' your Gates, Blood thro' your Streets shall flow,
Faster then Kidron in the Vale below;
Destruction cross the Stream, triumphant stride,
And Death sit crown'd upon the Crimson Tide.
Nor Wretches! can your deepest Suff'rings pay,
For half the horrid Crimes of this black Day:
Whither, O whither, Traitors will you bring
Your own Liege Lord, your Saviour and your King?
How many Wounds, how many Deaths provide?
See where his innocent Hands are rudely ty'd
By the rough Soldiers! Where, at what they do,
The very Marble weeps far more than you?
What Furrows on his Shoulders deeply plough'd?
What drops, what rivulets, what streams of Blood?
How thro' the Hall repeated strokes resound,
Kind Stripes, for us they Cure, tho' him they Wound;
His Blood a strange Balsamic Pow'r has shown,
It heals our fest'ring Wounds, but not his own;
Whilst with profoundest Patience all he bears,
And melts, or tires his Executioners.
O injur'd Heir of Heav'n! O Master spare
Thy self, for 'tis too much for God to bear!
Had we not better suffer endless Pain,
Than thou all this? O break th' inglorious Chain!
Like Samson snap those Cords thy Arms disgrace,
And scatter Vengeance thro' the faithless Race;
Keen Rays of Light'ning-Glories round thy Head,
And arm'd with Thunder, strike, or frown 'em dead!
—Ah no! Too well he knew the Price he gave;
Not thee their Death, but thine the World must save!
And cou'd our Grief so far thy Pity move?
How great thy Pity, and how large thy Love!
Thy stronger Mercy, strugling Justice chains,
Pity thy Pow'r, and Love thy Vengeance reins:
All this thou'st done to gain thy Rebels Grace,
Yet much much more's behind of thy sad Race:
Scourg'd, mock'd, and crown'd with Thorns, which pierc'd and tore
His sacred Head, his Body all o'er Gore;
In Purple Robes, tho' drest in that before,
Adorn'd, a Reed they for a Scepter bring,
Then publickly expose and Hail him King.
Longer the furious Rabble wou'd not stay,
But their mock-Soveraign drag to Death away:
Soon they the fatal Instrument prepare,
Which on his Wounded Back compell'd to bear,
He sinks and faints beneath th' unequal Load;
Tho' he Gods only Son, himself a God.
Th' accursed Cross for us he not refus'd,
A Death, for Slaves and Villains only us'd:
He sinks and faints, as him they thus convey,
To greater Pains, thro' the long dol'rous way:
Wash'd with his Tears and Blood—
For half the horrid Crimes of this black Day:
Whither, O whither, Traitors will you bring
Your own Liege Lord, your Saviour and your King?
How many Wounds, how many Deaths provide?
See where his innocent Hands are rudely ty'd
By the rough Soldiers! Where, at what they do,
The very Marble weeps far more than you?
What Furrows on his Shoulders deeply plough'd?
What drops, what rivulets, what streams of Blood?
How thro' the Hall repeated strokes resound,
Kind Stripes, for us they Cure, tho' him they Wound;
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It heals our fest'ring Wounds, but not his own;
Whilst with profoundest Patience all he bears,
And melts, or tires his Executioners.
O injur'd Heir of Heav'n! O Master spare
Thy self, for 'tis too much for God to bear!
Had we not better suffer endless Pain,
Than thou all this? O break th' inglorious Chain!
Like Samson snap those Cords thy Arms disgrace,
And scatter Vengeance thro' the faithless Race;
Keen Rays of Light'ning-Glories round thy Head,
And arm'd with Thunder, strike, or frown 'em dead!
—Ah no! Too well he knew the Price he gave;
Not thee their Death, but thine the World must save!
And cou'd our Grief so far thy Pity move?
How great thy Pity, and how large thy Love!
Thy stronger Mercy, strugling Justice chains,
Pity thy Pow'r, and Love thy Vengeance reins:
All this thou'st done to gain thy Rebels Grace,
Yet much much more's behind of thy sad Race:
Scourg'd, mock'd, and crown'd with Thorns, which pierc'd and tore
His sacred Head, his Body all o'er Gore;
In Purple Robes, tho' drest in that before,
Adorn'd, a Reed they for a Scepter bring,
Then publickly expose and Hail him King.
Longer the furious Rabble wou'd not stay,
But their mock-Soveraign drag to Death away:
Soon they the fatal Instrument prepare,
Which on his Wounded Back compell'd to bear,
He sinks and faints beneath th' unequal Load;
Tho' he Gods only Son, himself a God.
Th' accursed Cross for us he not refus'd,
A Death, for Slaves and Villains only us'd:
He sinks and faints, as him they thus convey,
To greater Pains, thro' the long dol'rous way:
Wash'd with his Tears and Blood—
Thither by chance the Perjur'd Judas stray'd,
The Wretch who basely had his Lord betray'd;
By Chance, or rather by those Furies sent,
Which first Mankind delude, and then torment:
He saw the Peoples Madness, heard their Cry,
He saw his Master bound, and doom'd to Die:
How wild the Thoughts his guilty Soul pursue?
How gladly wou'd he, what was done, undoe?
Now all too late—What pain Reflection brings?
What Wounds, what Deaths, what Vultures, Racks and Stings?
Hurry'd by these he to the Elders goes,
And at their Feet the fatal Price he throws;
The Price of Blood—Here, take he wildly said,
Take that, for which my Saviour I betray'd;
(Ah! mine no more) The Innocent and Good!
For which my guilty Soul, his guiltless Blood,
His Blood, worth infinitely more than Gold,
The Merchants you; was basely bought and sold.
With Smiles this Answer only him th' afford,
—A worthy Servant, fit for such a Lord!
Whom, if he thinks he wrongfully betray'd,
Look he to that, his Price was justly paid.
—Away the Wretched blindly rushes, where,
He's goaded on by Conscience and Despair:
To Heav'n he cannot look, his Guilt and Sin
Had clouded that, and he's all Hell within:
His furious Eyes, he gastly rolls around,
And when by chance the chearful Sun he found,
Guilding the neighb'ring Hills, the cheerful Sun,
Which blushing on him rose, he thus begun:
The Wretch who basely had his Lord betray'd;
By Chance, or rather by those Furies sent,
Which first Mankind delude, and then torment:
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He saw his Master bound, and doom'd to Die:
How wild the Thoughts his guilty Soul pursue?
How gladly wou'd he, what was done, undoe?
Now all too late—What pain Reflection brings?
What Wounds, what Deaths, what Vultures, Racks and Stings?
Hurry'd by these he to the Elders goes,
And at their Feet the fatal Price he throws;
The Price of Blood—Here, take he wildly said,
Take that, for which my Saviour I betray'd;
(Ah! mine no more) The Innocent and Good!
For which my guilty Soul, his guiltless Blood,
His Blood, worth infinitely more than Gold,
The Merchants you; was basely bought and sold.
With Smiles this Answer only him th' afford,
—A worthy Servant, fit for such a Lord!
Whom, if he thinks he wrongfully betray'd,
Look he to that, his Price was justly paid.
—Away the Wretched blindly rushes, where,
He's goaded on by Conscience and Despair:
To Heav'n he cannot look, his Guilt and Sin
Had clouded that, and he's all Hell within:
His furious Eyes, he gastly rolls around,
And when by chance the chearful Sun he found,
Guilding the neighb'ring Hills, the cheerful Sun,
Which blushing on him rose, he thus begun:
“Perish for ever, O thou hated Light,
“And sink, like me, in long eternal Night!
“Why dost thou yet thy beauteous Beams afford
“To that curst Place? There, there my injur'd Lord
“I lately Sold, and now lament in vain;
“My God, my Conscience sold for sordid Gain:
“That Conscience, Fame, and God I did esteem;
“'Twas there my self I Damn'd, and Murther'd him:
“O whither shall a Miserable run?
“In Hell I'd gladly plunge, new Hells to shun;
“To shun my self, my Plague, my Hell, shall I,
“To my betray'd, my injur'd Master fly,
“Fall at his Feet, and for, and with him die?
“Perhaps I him to Pity may encline;
“He must be touch'd with Miseries like mine;
“O he's all Goodness; go without delay,
“He never yet a Suppliant turn'd away;
“Nor will he Thee—No faithless Traitor, no!
“'Tis now too late, thou canst not, must not go:
“No, I his cruel Mercy cannot bear,
“His hottest Vengeance wou'd be less severe:
“I feel, I feel I cannot, must not live,
“Nor cou'd forgiven be, tho' he'd forgive.
“And sink, like me, in long eternal Night!
“Why dost thou yet thy beauteous Beams afford
“To that curst Place? There, there my injur'd Lord
“I lately Sold, and now lament in vain;
“My God, my Conscience sold for sordid Gain:
“That Conscience, Fame, and God I did esteem;
“'Twas there my self I Damn'd, and Murther'd him:
“O whither shall a Miserable run?
“In Hell I'd gladly plunge, new Hells to shun;
“To shun my self, my Plague, my Hell, shall I,
“To my betray'd, my injur'd Master fly,
“Fall at his Feet, and for, and with him die?
“Perhaps I him to Pity may encline;
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“O he's all Goodness; go without delay,
“He never yet a Suppliant turn'd away;
“Nor will he Thee—No faithless Traitor, no!
“'Tis now too late, thou canst not, must not go:
“No, I his cruel Mercy cannot bear,
“His hottest Vengeance wou'd be less severe:
“I feel, I feel I cannot, must not live,
“Nor cou'd forgiven be, tho' he'd forgive.
“Shall I then to far distant Regions go,
“Endeav'ring to divert or cure my Woe,
“Thro' burning Seas of Sand, or Hills of Snow?
“Visit the Southern, or the frozen Pole,
“Where Winds can carry, or where Waves can roll;
“Where the Ten Tribes, vast Seas and Desarts crost,
“In Climes unknown, and Heathen Lands are lost?
“Bear me with speed, some courteous Whirl-wind bear,
“If far away, I know nor care not where;
“Ah! all in vain! my Guilt will haunt me there;
“The Image of my Crimes will still pursue;
“My Whips, my Racks, my Plague, my Hell renew;
“Like Cain, a mark for every Murd'rer made;
“And more than all my injur'd Master's Shade:
“That only, that beyond my self I fear;
“Guard me ye Fiends? For 'tis already here,
“Bloody, yet pale, his loud-tongu'd Wounds gape wide;
“O Earth! within thy hollow Caverns hide,
“Within thy deepest Cell, thy darkest Room,
“A Wretch, that envy's happier Dathan's doom.
“Endeav'ring to divert or cure my Woe,
“Thro' burning Seas of Sand, or Hills of Snow?
“Visit the Southern, or the frozen Pole,
“Where Winds can carry, or where Waves can roll;
“Where the Ten Tribes, vast Seas and Desarts crost,
“In Climes unknown, and Heathen Lands are lost?
“Bear me with speed, some courteous Whirl-wind bear,
“If far away, I know nor care not where;
“Ah! all in vain! my Guilt will haunt me there;
“The Image of my Crimes will still pursue;
“My Whips, my Racks, my Plague, my Hell renew;
“Like Cain, a mark for every Murd'rer made;
“And more than all my injur'd Master's Shade:
“That only, that beyond my self I fear;
“Guard me ye Fiends? For 'tis already here,
“Bloody, yet pale, his loud-tongu'd Wounds gape wide;
“O Earth! within thy hollow Caverns hide,
“Within thy deepest Cell, thy darkest Room,
“A Wretch, that envy's happier Dathan's doom.
“Wider, ye gentle Furies! wider tear
“This burning Breast! Let not your Vipers spare
“A tortur'd Heart; tho' Thousands gnawing there,
“I yet want more—(In vain the Wretched call
“On Heav'n or Hell!) they full and glutted crawl;
“Yet still I live—Here take! O take me all!
“Take me at once! But why this dull delay?
“What Hope or Fear yet makes me lingring stay?
“Die Traitor! Die! Be that resolv'd—But how?
—No sooner said, when an unlucky Bough,
Thrust from a blasted Elder's Trunk he spy'd,
On which with speed the fatal Knot he ty'd;
Then clambring to the Top, despairing cry'd
“Die Traytor, Die! the worst we then shall know;
“Thus, thus let's leap into the Shades below—
—Then springs away, In Death his Ey-balls roll,
And laughing Fiends wait round to snatch his Soul.
“This burning Breast! Let not your Vipers spare
“A tortur'd Heart; tho' Thousands gnawing there,
“I yet want more—(In vain the Wretched call
“On Heav'n or Hell!) they full and glutted crawl;
“Yet still I live—Here take! O take me all!
“Take me at once! But why this dull delay?
“What Hope or Fear yet makes me lingring stay?
“Die Traitor! Die! Be that resolv'd—But how?
—No sooner said, when an unlucky Bough,
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On which with speed the fatal Knot he ty'd;
Then clambring to the Top, despairing cry'd
“Die Traytor, Die! the worst we then shall know;
“Thus, thus let's leap into the Shades below—
—Then springs away, In Death his Ey-balls roll,
And laughing Fiends wait round to snatch his Soul.
The while, the wicked Rout his steps pursue,
And what his Treason left undon, they doe.
The Lord of Life to cruel Death convey,
Sunk with his weight, and fainting in the way.
As chanc'd a Traveller from Cyrene came,
Friendless, obscure and mean, Simon his name;
Him they with cruel Mercy, force to bear,
Of the inglorious Load an equal share;
“Each faithful Christians Lot, as well as his,
“Thro' Grief to Joy, thro' Pain to endless Bliss:
Bearing his Cross they their lov'd Lord attend;
Whom now arriv'd near his sad Journy's end;
Cover'd with Blood, fair Salem's Matrons see,
As climbing to the top of Calvary:
His Soul with Grief, with stripes his Body rent;
They see and sigh, and his hard Fate lament:
To him not unregarded, nor unknown,
Who carries all our Sorrows as his own:
Keep, Matrons, your mistaken Tears he cries,
For your own Sorrows keep those flowing Eyes:
Weep for your selves, and Children yet more dear!
For see the Day, the dreadful Day is near;
By Heav'ns just Wrath on your sad Nation brought,
When barren Wombs a Blessing shall be thought:
When tender Nature shall aside be thrown;
Your Infants Lives destroy'd to save your own:
When thro' your Gates fierce hostile Troops shall pour,
And what you leave, the hungry Sword devour.
And what his Treason left undon, they doe.
The Lord of Life to cruel Death convey,
Sunk with his weight, and fainting in the way.
As chanc'd a Traveller from Cyrene came,
Friendless, obscure and mean, Simon his name;
Him they with cruel Mercy, force to bear,
Of the inglorious Load an equal share;
“Each faithful Christians Lot, as well as his,
“Thro' Grief to Joy, thro' Pain to endless Bliss:
Bearing his Cross they their lov'd Lord attend;
Whom now arriv'd near his sad Journy's end;
Cover'd with Blood, fair Salem's Matrons see,
As climbing to the top of Calvary:
His Soul with Grief, with stripes his Body rent;
They see and sigh, and his hard Fate lament:
To him not unregarded, nor unknown,
Who carries all our Sorrows as his own:
Keep, Matrons, your mistaken Tears he cries,
For your own Sorrows keep those flowing Eyes:
Weep for your selves, and Children yet more dear!
For see the Day, the dreadful Day is near;
By Heav'ns just Wrath on your sad Nation brought,
When barren Wombs a Blessing shall be thought:
When tender Nature shall aside be thrown;
Your Infants Lives destroy'd to save your own:
When thro' your Gates fierce hostile Troops shall pour,
And what you leave, the hungry Sword devour.
He said, and now with Sweat, and Blood, and Pain,
The top of fatal Golgotha they gain:
A lothsom Scene of Murther and Despair,
Fit for the Tragedies were acting there:
With Sculls, and Bones, and putrid Limbs o'erspred,
And all the gastly Ruins of the Dead:
Here disembowel'd Bodies all around,
With nauseous Gore had drench'd the thirsty Ground;
There half-torn Carcasses unbury'd lay,
To each ill-omen'd Bird a Feast by Day,
By Night, to greedy howling Wolves, a Prey.
Of his sad Load our Lord disburthen'd there,
As late, he That, Him now the Cross must bear;
His humble Robes from his fresh Wounds they tear,
And broach 'em all anew—His greatest Pride,
His careful Mothers Gift they can't divide,
But did by Lot, whose it shou'd be, decide:
Which past, their Fury wou'd no longer stay,
But the pure Victim on the Altar lay:
His spotless Hands they on the Wood distend,
And with huge Spikes unmercifully rend;
His Hands and Feet, with many a sounding stroke,
Nail'd to th' accursed Tree, deform'd and broke:
So wide the Wounds their tend'rest Muscles tore,
All over one, there was no room for more.
By these alone aloft i'th' Air he's staid,
On these the weight of all his Body laid;
Thro' these he must be Dying half a Day,
And bleed, by slow degrees, his spotless Soul away.
The top of fatal Golgotha they gain:
A lothsom Scene of Murther and Despair,
Fit for the Tragedies were acting there:
With Sculls, and Bones, and putrid Limbs o'erspred,
And all the gastly Ruins of the Dead:
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With nauseous Gore had drench'd the thirsty Ground;
There half-torn Carcasses unbury'd lay,
To each ill-omen'd Bird a Feast by Day,
By Night, to greedy howling Wolves, a Prey.
Of his sad Load our Lord disburthen'd there,
As late, he That, Him now the Cross must bear;
His humble Robes from his fresh Wounds they tear,
And broach 'em all anew—His greatest Pride,
His careful Mothers Gift they can't divide,
But did by Lot, whose it shou'd be, decide:
Which past, their Fury wou'd no longer stay,
But the pure Victim on the Altar lay:
His spotless Hands they on the Wood distend,
And with huge Spikes unmercifully rend;
His Hands and Feet, with many a sounding stroke,
Nail'd to th' accursed Tree, deform'd and broke:
So wide the Wounds their tend'rest Muscles tore,
All over one, there was no room for more.
By these alone aloft i'th' Air he's staid,
On these the weight of all his Body laid;
Thro' these he must be Dying half a Day,
And bleed, by slow degrees, his spotless Soul away.
Him thus transfix'd at length they raise on high,
And with insulting Voices rend the Sky:
Him Priests and People with lewd Scoffs assail,
And loud Salute—Great King of Jury Hail!
(For on the Cross, this Title o'er his Head,
So Pilate pleas'd, in various Tongues was read:)
“Hail, wond'rous King! Will't thou not leave thy Throne?
“Descend from thence, thou shalt not reign alone;
“To all that's past, add but this Wonder more!
“Now save your self, who others sav'd before!
“So thee our King we gladly will receive
“So thee the promis'd Prophet yet believe.
All this, and more our Saviour mildly bears,
And prays for Mercy on his Murtherers.
More must thou feel, O boundless suff'ring Love!
From the rude Crowd below, and those above;
Those Thieves, each mounted on his cursed Tree,
And groaning there—O how unlike to Thee?
Yet one some Tracks of Modesty retains,
Some Sign of Goodness in his Face remains,
His Crimes repents, and grieves amidst his Pains.
By th' other drawn to Vice, and newly made,
A short-liv'd Partner in the cursed Trade;
A Thief of noted Fame, a Villain he
Of ancient House, of Standing and Degree:
For many a Year did Robb'ry profess,
Deep read in all the Arts of Wickedness:
Stood on his Honour, and his well-born Race,
Nor by Repentance wou'd his Name disgrace,
Stern gloomy Guilt hung lowring on his Face:
Amidst his Torments curs'd both God and Man;
And grinning, to our Saviour thus began!
And with insulting Voices rend the Sky:
Him Priests and People with lewd Scoffs assail,
And loud Salute—Great King of Jury Hail!
(For on the Cross, this Title o'er his Head,
So Pilate pleas'd, in various Tongues was read:)
“Hail, wond'rous King! Will't thou not leave thy Throne?
“Descend from thence, thou shalt not reign alone;
“To all that's past, add but this Wonder more!
“Now save your self, who others sav'd before!
“So thee our King we gladly will receive
“So thee the promis'd Prophet yet believe.
All this, and more our Saviour mildly bears,
And prays for Mercy on his Murtherers.
More must thou feel, O boundless suff'ring Love!
From the rude Crowd below, and those above;
Those Thieves, each mounted on his cursed Tree,
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Yet one some Tracks of Modesty retains,
Some Sign of Goodness in his Face remains,
His Crimes repents, and grieves amidst his Pains.
By th' other drawn to Vice, and newly made,
A short-liv'd Partner in the cursed Trade;
A Thief of noted Fame, a Villain he
Of ancient House, of Standing and Degree:
For many a Year did Robb'ry profess,
Deep read in all the Arts of Wickedness:
Stood on his Honour, and his well-born Race,
Nor by Repentance wou'd his Name disgrace,
Stern gloomy Guilt hung lowring on his Face:
Amidst his Torments curs'd both God and Man;
And grinning, to our Saviour thus began!
“Hear'st thou their Taunts, and canst thou all endure?
“We tortur'd here, and they beneath secure?
“Thy boasted Pow'r now, if thou canst display,
“And from these Pains thy self and us convey!
“Or that thou'rt Christ thy Flatt'rers vainly say;
“Some Slave like us, or vile Impostor rather,
“Nor the Messiah thou, nor God thy Father.
“We tortur'd here, and they beneath secure?
“Thy boasted Pow'r now, if thou canst display,
“And from these Pains thy self and us convey!
“Or that thou'rt Christ thy Flatt'rers vainly say;
“Some Slave like us, or vile Impostor rather,
“Nor the Messiah thou, nor God thy Father.
To whom the other, from the distant side,
With Shame and decent Blushes thus reply'd:
“Why nam'st thou God, whom yet thou dost not fear,
“Whose slow-pac'd Vengeance overtakes thee here!
Here for our Crimes we justly bleed, but He
Guiltless and pure, as foul and guilty We.
Then turning to our Lord his fainting Head,
With pen'tent Tears accosting, thus he said:
With Shame and decent Blushes thus reply'd:
“Why nam'st thou God, whom yet thou dost not fear,
“Whose slow-pac'd Vengeance overtakes thee here!
Here for our Crimes we justly bleed, but He
Guiltless and pure, as foul and guilty We.
Then turning to our Lord his fainting Head,
With pen'tent Tears accosting, thus he said:
“O thou who even on the Cross dost Reign!
“I ask not rescue from my Shame and Pain,
“Justly endur'd—All my Petition is,
“When thou enthron'd above in boundless Bliss,
“Remember me, and my unworthy Pray'r!
“My guilty Soul wide wand'ring in the Air,
“To Abraham's Bosom let the Angels bear.
“I ask not rescue from my Shame and Pain,
“Justly endur'd—All my Petition is,
“When thou enthron'd above in boundless Bliss,
“Remember me, and my unworthy Pray'r!
“My guilty Soul wide wand'ring in the Air,
“To Abraham's Bosom let the Angels bear.
To whom with Love and Pity in his Eyes,
Amidst his Pains, our Lord thus mild replies.—
Amidst his Pains, our Lord thus mild replies.—
“Yes, my true Confessor! thou needst not fear!
“I'll own thee there, since thou hast own'd me here;
“This happy Day thy Soul shall mount the Skies,
“And with me ever reign in Paradise.
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“This happy Day thy Soul shall mount the Skies,
“And with me ever reign in Paradise.
The while, as chanc'd, malicious Fame convey'd,
The cruel Tidings to the sacred Maid;
That by false Judas, to the Priests betray'd,
Her lov'd mirac'lous Son was doom'd to die,
And by the Soldiers dragg'd to Calvary:
You tender Mothers who her Story read,
Guess you, guess what she thought, and what she did!
Tho' she to the Almighty Will resign'd,
Scarce more than her, the most obedient Mind
That waits above, yet Nature wou'd complain;
How strong the Struggle, how intense the Pain?
By this, from Street to Street, she's hurry'd on,
Once more t'embrace her lost lamented Son:
Thus Philomel repeats her mournful Song,
When robb'd, at once, of all her tender Young;
Does near the Place, where first she lost 'em, wait,
And flutt'ring round the Tree lament their Fate,
Or tho' of their Recovery she despair,
With loud Complaints pursues the Ravisher.
Thus the bless'd Maid on Love's swift Wings did fly,
On Loves and Fears, to fatal Calvary;
Ah! but too soon arriv'd, the Guards in vain
Wou'd thrust her off, she presses in again:
Thro' Glaives and Swords, and glitt'ring Halberts prest,
And Groves of Deaths all pointed at her Breast;
So deep the Wounds imprinted there before,
Arm'd with Despair, she now cou'd fear no more:
Past the arm'd Crowd, and near the fatal Tree
Arriv'd, with a loud Shriek she cry'd,—'Tis He;
Then dropt to Earth, nor cou'd she longer bear,
Ah! happy had she still continu'd there:
With cruel Pity her the Guards revive,
She Wakes and Sighs to find her self alive:
Strait to th' accursed VVood does wildly run,
On whose tall Top she saw her bleeding Son;
Then groveling on the Ground its Root embrace,
And press it close to her disorder'd Face;
His precious Blood mix with her precious Tears;
His Blood, which rather you'd believe were hers,
So mortal pale her lovely Face appears:
Warm-trickling from her Heart as well as his,
Which more than he himself she seem'd to miss:
Ev'n on the Cross her Grief her Son did move,
Nor cou'd he there unlearn his filial Love;
His heavy Eyes, with Pain, and dying Head,
Once more he slowly rais'd, and thus he said.
—No more! let each tumult'ous Thought be still,
Resign me all to my great Father's Will;
As I my self! He'll still of you take care;
Behold your Son—His faithful Friend was there,
Lamenting near his Cross; of all the rest,
Who late so much of Zeal and Love profest
He only came—To whom he thus addrest.
The cruel Tidings to the sacred Maid;
That by false Judas, to the Priests betray'd,
Her lov'd mirac'lous Son was doom'd to die,
And by the Soldiers dragg'd to Calvary:
You tender Mothers who her Story read,
Guess you, guess what she thought, and what she did!
Tho' she to the Almighty Will resign'd,
Scarce more than her, the most obedient Mind
That waits above, yet Nature wou'd complain;
How strong the Struggle, how intense the Pain?
By this, from Street to Street, she's hurry'd on,
Once more t'embrace her lost lamented Son:
Thus Philomel repeats her mournful Song,
When robb'd, at once, of all her tender Young;
Does near the Place, where first she lost 'em, wait,
And flutt'ring round the Tree lament their Fate,
Or tho' of their Recovery she despair,
With loud Complaints pursues the Ravisher.
Thus the bless'd Maid on Love's swift Wings did fly,
On Loves and Fears, to fatal Calvary;
Ah! but too soon arriv'd, the Guards in vain
Wou'd thrust her off, she presses in again:
Thro' Glaives and Swords, and glitt'ring Halberts prest,
And Groves of Deaths all pointed at her Breast;
So deep the Wounds imprinted there before,
Arm'd with Despair, she now cou'd fear no more:
Past the arm'd Crowd, and near the fatal Tree
Arriv'd, with a loud Shriek she cry'd,—'Tis He;
Then dropt to Earth, nor cou'd she longer bear,
Ah! happy had she still continu'd there:
With cruel Pity her the Guards revive,
She Wakes and Sighs to find her self alive:
Strait to th' accursed VVood does wildly run,
On whose tall Top she saw her bleeding Son;
Then groveling on the Ground its Root embrace,
And press it close to her disorder'd Face;
307
His Blood, which rather you'd believe were hers,
So mortal pale her lovely Face appears:
Warm-trickling from her Heart as well as his,
Which more than he himself she seem'd to miss:
Ev'n on the Cross her Grief her Son did move,
Nor cou'd he there unlearn his filial Love;
His heavy Eyes, with Pain, and dying Head,
Once more he slowly rais'd, and thus he said.
—No more! let each tumult'ous Thought be still,
Resign me all to my great Father's Will;
As I my self! He'll still of you take care;
Behold your Son—His faithful Friend was there,
Lamenting near his Cross; of all the rest,
Who late so much of Zeal and Love profest
He only came—To whom he thus addrest.
“As e'er thou of my Bosom didst partake,
“Nor ev'n in this sad Hour thy Friend forsake;
“E'er I to Heav'n my parting Breath resign,
“Behold thy Mother! think her always thine!
“Of our true Friendship this dear Pledge receive;
“The last that thou canst take or I can give.
“Nor ev'n in this sad Hour thy Friend forsake;
“E'er I to Heav'n my parting Breath resign,
“Behold thy Mother! think her always thine!
“Of our true Friendship this dear Pledge receive;
“The last that thou canst take or I can give.
She heard, and still the more resents her Loss;
Agen she kneels, agen embrac'd the Cross:
Stunn'd with her Grief awhile she can't lament,
Till Heav'n at last in Pity gave it vent;
When thus she mourns—“Is this the Kingdom given?
Is this the Throne for the great Heir of Heav'n?
Thus, Prince! do thee thy Subjects entertain?
And thus is the Messiah doom'd to Reign?
For this did God's bright Messenger descend,
For this the hymning heav'nly Host attend,
And hail thy Birth with Miracles? O why
Was this vain Pomp for one who thus must die?
Die like the worst of Men, of Deaths the worst,
For Slaves alone design'd, abhorr'd, accurst?
With Joy, my Son! I cou'd thy Herse attend,
Hadst thou in Battle made a glorious End;
At least the Honour had the Grief allay'd,
And o'er thy Tomb glad Israel's Praises pay'd
Had made thee live agen; hadst thou but broke,
Like Sampson, with thy Death, the Heathen Yoke.
Too well, alas! too late the Truth I see
Of aged Simeon's mystic Prophesie;
Now thro' my wounded Soul the Sword does glide,
And pierce the Mother thro' the Sons dear Side.
Why is my Grief so weak, or why so strong?
Why must I still a hated Life prolong?
The Strokes of Sorrow are like Lightning found,
To blast the Soul, but not the Body wound.
O take a Life your cruel Pity gave,
Barbarians take, unless my Son's you'd save!
Or e'er his last swift Sand of Life is run,
O join m' at least in Death to my lov'd Son!
Might I once more embrace him, I'd not care,
Tho' on another Cross you rais'd me there.
Agen she kneels, agen embrac'd the Cross:
Stunn'd with her Grief awhile she can't lament,
Till Heav'n at last in Pity gave it vent;
When thus she mourns—“Is this the Kingdom given?
Is this the Throne for the great Heir of Heav'n?
Thus, Prince! do thee thy Subjects entertain?
And thus is the Messiah doom'd to Reign?
For this did God's bright Messenger descend,
For this the hymning heav'nly Host attend,
And hail thy Birth with Miracles? O why
Was this vain Pomp for one who thus must die?
Die like the worst of Men, of Deaths the worst,
For Slaves alone design'd, abhorr'd, accurst?
With Joy, my Son! I cou'd thy Herse attend,
Hadst thou in Battle made a glorious End;
At least the Honour had the Grief allay'd,
And o'er thy Tomb glad Israel's Praises pay'd
308
Like Sampson, with thy Death, the Heathen Yoke.
Too well, alas! too late the Truth I see
Of aged Simeon's mystic Prophesie;
Now thro' my wounded Soul the Sword does glide,
And pierce the Mother thro' the Sons dear Side.
Why is my Grief so weak, or why so strong?
Why must I still a hated Life prolong?
The Strokes of Sorrow are like Lightning found,
To blast the Soul, but not the Body wound.
O take a Life your cruel Pity gave,
Barbarians take, unless my Son's you'd save!
Or e'er his last swift Sand of Life is run,
O join m' at least in Death to my lov'd Son!
Might I once more embrace him, I'd not care,
Tho' on another Cross you rais'd me there.
Thus the Great Mother mourn'd, the Hills around,
And hollow Vales and distant Plains resound
Her loud Complaints, the neighb'ring Brooks combin'd,
And in the melancholy Chorus join'd;
Nay the mad Crowd themselves, tho' now too late,
Help her to mourn her lamentable Fate:
Eccho'd the Rocks, the senceless Marbles moan'd,
And more, the very Guards around her groan'd;
They groan'd and wept, but rav'd and blush'd withal,
And rather thought they Blood than Tears let fall.
And hollow Vales and distant Plains resound
Her loud Complaints, the neighb'ring Brooks combin'd,
And in the melancholy Chorus join'd;
Nay the mad Crowd themselves, tho' now too late,
Help her to mourn her lamentable Fate:
Eccho'd the Rocks, the senceless Marbles moan'd,
And more, the very Guards around her groan'd;
They groan'd and wept, but rav'd and blush'd withal,
And rather thought they Blood than Tears let fall.
Mean while prodigious Darkness clouds the Day,
And frighted Nature mourns as much as they:
The conscious Sun no longer now cou'd bear,
Shuts his bright Eye, and leaves the widow'd Air;
Unnat'ral Clouds obscure his radiant Face,
When near the midst of his diurnal Race:
Th' amaz'd Astrologer looks on in vain,
Nor can the Sight by all his Art explain:
He saw the sickly Moon, where wide away,
Sh' attempted to supply the Place of Day!
He saw th' Eternal Chain of Causes broke,
And thus to the amaz'd Spectators spoke.
And frighted Nature mourns as much as they:
The conscious Sun no longer now cou'd bear,
Shuts his bright Eye, and leaves the widow'd Air;
Unnat'ral Clouds obscure his radiant Face,
When near the midst of his diurnal Race:
Th' amaz'd Astrologer looks on in vain,
Nor can the Sight by all his Art explain:
He saw the sickly Moon, where wide away,
Sh' attempted to supply the Place of Day!
He saw th' Eternal Chain of Causes broke,
And thus to the amaz'd Spectators spoke.
—No more this Knot I'll struggle to untie;
“Nature it self, or Nature's God must die.
From baleful Caves remov'd from Joy to Light,
Out-sallies Primitive-Substantial Night;
As black as that which once on Egypt fell,
As full of all th' Inhabitants of Hell:
Thin glaring Ghosts glide by, loose Forms appear,
Shrill Shrieks, deep Groans, and mournful Sounds they hear.
Bellows the troubled Earth, in whose dark Womb
Pent Whirlwinds fight, and from each silent Tomb
Disturb'd in hast the dusty Tenants rise,
Still all is dark, in vain they seek the Skies,
Unless when they with twisted Lightnings glow,
Ecchoing in Thunder to the Groans below:
The World no more expects its wonted Light,
“And guilty Nations fear Eternal Night.
“Nature it self, or Nature's God must die.
309
Out-sallies Primitive-Substantial Night;
As black as that which once on Egypt fell,
As full of all th' Inhabitants of Hell:
Thin glaring Ghosts glide by, loose Forms appear,
Shrill Shrieks, deep Groans, and mournful Sounds they hear.
Bellows the troubled Earth, in whose dark Womb
Pent Whirlwinds fight, and from each silent Tomb
Disturb'd in hast the dusty Tenants rise,
Still all is dark, in vain they seek the Skies,
Unless when they with twisted Lightnings glow,
Ecchoing in Thunder to the Groans below:
The World no more expects its wonted Light,
“And guilty Nations fear Eternal Night.
But most, Judea's curs'd devoted Land,
Who now too late their Error understand:
They knew to them these Prodigies were sent,
They knew what all these dire Convulsions meant:
And now as loud to Heav'n for Mercy cry,
As late they did to Pilate, Crucifie.
Matrons and Maids in solemn Order go,
And trembling Youth, themselves they prostrate throw
Before the Temple-Gates, high Heav'n t'atone,
T'avert their Countries ruin and their own;
In vain, for Heav'n it self was angry grown:
The Altar shakes, the Ashes scatter'd lay,
The Victim from the Temple breaks away,
Or drops before the Stroke and bell'wing dies;
In lowring Curls the Incense from the Skies,
Rejected there, beats back to Earth again,
As Clouds of Smoak beneath descending Rain.
Deep hollow Groans from the Foundations came,
From the high Roof shot streaks of angry Flame:
The solid Pillars trembled, and inclin'd
Their lofty Heads as Cedars in the VVind:
Twice shook the rumbling Earth, and Thunders broke
From the vast Gulf, and the third dismal Shock,
With trebled Rage rent e'en the solid Rock,
Down to the trembling Center rent the Veil,
Discovering wide the sacred Oracle;
The Holy of Holie's, naked all it lies,
Expos'd profane and bare to vulgar Eyes;
The Golden Lamps around extinguish'd quite,
Or only yield a faint: unnat'ral Light;
More dreadful by successive Lightnings made;
The Priests run frighted thro' the ghastly Shade.
Who now too late their Error understand:
They knew to them these Prodigies were sent,
They knew what all these dire Convulsions meant:
And now as loud to Heav'n for Mercy cry,
As late they did to Pilate, Crucifie.
Matrons and Maids in solemn Order go,
And trembling Youth, themselves they prostrate throw
Before the Temple-Gates, high Heav'n t'atone,
T'avert their Countries ruin and their own;
In vain, for Heav'n it self was angry grown:
The Altar shakes, the Ashes scatter'd lay,
The Victim from the Temple breaks away,
Or drops before the Stroke and bell'wing dies;
In lowring Curls the Incense from the Skies,
Rejected there, beats back to Earth again,
As Clouds of Smoak beneath descending Rain.
Deep hollow Groans from the Foundations came,
From the high Roof shot streaks of angry Flame:
The solid Pillars trembled, and inclin'd
Their lofty Heads as Cedars in the VVind:
Twice shook the rumbling Earth, and Thunders broke
From the vast Gulf, and the third dismal Shock,
With trebled Rage rent e'en the solid Rock,
Down to the trembling Center rent the Veil,
Discovering wide the sacred Oracle;
310
Expos'd profane and bare to vulgar Eyes;
The Golden Lamps around extinguish'd quite,
Or only yield a faint: unnat'ral Light;
More dreadful by successive Lightnings made;
The Priests run frighted thro' the ghastly Shade.
The while, the Lamb of God expiring see,
Upon the Top of trembling Calvary:
A heavier weight than Death his Soul opprest,
And worse than mortal Pangs his tortur'd Breast;
No more the beauteous Rays of Love Divine,
No more his Fathers Glories on him shine:
All dark and horrid like the Earth below,
Where Day forsook its Task and back did go;
Then rais'd his Eyes, swimming in Death and Night,
As dying Tapers e'er they lose their Light;
He look'd for his accustom'd winged Train;
He look'd, alas! for them and Heav'n in vain;
No wonder Heav'n cou'd now no more be seen,
The Crimes of Earth were plac'd too thick between:
But finding there no Passage with his Eyes,
To reach it with his fainting Voice he tries,
And asks, as if himself he had mistaken,
My God, my God! why hast thou me forsaken?
Upon the Top of trembling Calvary:
A heavier weight than Death his Soul opprest,
And worse than mortal Pangs his tortur'd Breast;
No more the beauteous Rays of Love Divine,
No more his Fathers Glories on him shine:
All dark and horrid like the Earth below,
Where Day forsook its Task and back did go;
Then rais'd his Eyes, swimming in Death and Night,
As dying Tapers e'er they lose their Light;
He look'd for his accustom'd winged Train;
He look'd, alas! for them and Heav'n in vain;
No wonder Heav'n cou'd now no more be seen,
The Crimes of Earth were plac'd too thick between:
But finding there no Passage with his Eyes,
To reach it with his fainting Voice he tries,
And asks, as if himself he had mistaken,
My God, my God! why hast thou me forsaken?
High Heav'n, this heard, it heard the God complain,
Th' Eternal Father heard, and all his Train;
The Father heard, unmov'd, his suff'ring Son,
By whose Eternal Councils all was done.
Th' Eternal Father heard, and all his Train;
The Father heard, unmov'd, his suff'ring Son,
By whose Eternal Councils all was done.
So did not all the glitt'ring Host above,
Ay happy there! for there they sing and Love;
They stop their Songs, their heav'nly Harps thrown by,
Or tun'd to some new louder Harmony:
At length each from his radiant Throne arose,
Their heav'nly Warmth to ruddy Vengeance glows;
Like those fair Strangers Lot conducted in,
Who punish'd guilty Sodom's brutish Sin:
Amidst the rest a Fire-wing'd Seraph saw,
Of those at trembling Sinai gave the Law—
He blew the Trumpet there—
Each stubborn Rebel did his Guilt confess;
It shook the Mount, and shook the Wilderness;
Nor had he yet forgot the Sound, but flies
Thro' Worlds unknown and undiscover'd Skies;
Where er'st the Signal was to Battle given,
The highest Tow'r on all the Crystal VValls of Heav'n:
There with his utmost might he blew a Blast,
Which thro' interminable Spaces past;
Which Chaos mov'd, its frighted Surges fell,
Trembled the gastly Sanhedrim of Hell;
Whilst Heav'ns wing'd Watchers at the Signal run,
And almost leave their dread Commands undone:
(Uriel before had left the sickly Sun.)
Each wand'ring Orb stands still, or wildly rolls,
Forgetting both their axles and their Poles:
So vast the Wreck of Heav'n, the Storm so high,
As Chaos had broke in upon the Sky;
The Spheres untun'd forgot their Harmony.
Arm! Arm! thro' every bright Battalion went;
The Adamantine Gates o'th' Firmament
Wide open thrown, with a stupendous Crack
More loud than Thunder, more the Poles they shake,
The Pomp of War discov'ring deep and wide,
Each Angel close t'his Brother Angel's side;
Turms, Cohorts, Legions, glitt'ring dreadful bright,
Arm'd Cap-a-pe in more than Lambent-Light.
Great Michael then himself was on the Guard,
The Mount of God his own peculiar Ward;
Where no Disturbance, Noise, Complaint or Cry;
But Peace and Joy roll on Eternally:
None since the Angels fell; but when from far,
He heard the harsh, unwonted Noise of VVar,
His Sword h'unsheaths, by some wise Angel made,
Of a portentous Comet's flaming Blade;
Condens'd his noble Form to Bulk and Sight;
Is all himself, and gathers in his Might;
Indues his dreadful Arms and Helmet bright:
Th' Old Dragon's spoils the Crest, in Battle bold
Conquer'd and strip'd, how dreadful to behold!
The Claws all-horrid with Ethereal Gold.
Thus deck'd, among the foremost Ranks he flew,
Who easily their glorious Leader knew;
As on a Cloud, with Thunder charg'd, he rode
Above 'em all, and only not a God.
Ay happy there! for there they sing and Love;
They stop their Songs, their heav'nly Harps thrown by,
Or tun'd to some new louder Harmony:
At length each from his radiant Throne arose,
Their heav'nly Warmth to ruddy Vengeance glows;
Like those fair Strangers Lot conducted in,
Who punish'd guilty Sodom's brutish Sin:
Amidst the rest a Fire-wing'd Seraph saw,
Of those at trembling Sinai gave the Law—
He blew the Trumpet there—
Each stubborn Rebel did his Guilt confess;
311
Nor had he yet forgot the Sound, but flies
Thro' Worlds unknown and undiscover'd Skies;
Where er'st the Signal was to Battle given,
The highest Tow'r on all the Crystal VValls of Heav'n:
There with his utmost might he blew a Blast,
Which thro' interminable Spaces past;
Which Chaos mov'd, its frighted Surges fell,
Trembled the gastly Sanhedrim of Hell;
Whilst Heav'ns wing'd Watchers at the Signal run,
And almost leave their dread Commands undone:
(Uriel before had left the sickly Sun.)
Each wand'ring Orb stands still, or wildly rolls,
Forgetting both their axles and their Poles:
So vast the Wreck of Heav'n, the Storm so high,
As Chaos had broke in upon the Sky;
The Spheres untun'd forgot their Harmony.
Arm! Arm! thro' every bright Battalion went;
The Adamantine Gates o'th' Firmament
Wide open thrown, with a stupendous Crack
More loud than Thunder, more the Poles they shake,
The Pomp of War discov'ring deep and wide,
Each Angel close t'his Brother Angel's side;
Turms, Cohorts, Legions, glitt'ring dreadful bright,
Arm'd Cap-a-pe in more than Lambent-Light.
Great Michael then himself was on the Guard,
The Mount of God his own peculiar Ward;
Where no Disturbance, Noise, Complaint or Cry;
But Peace and Joy roll on Eternally:
None since the Angels fell; but when from far,
He heard the harsh, unwonted Noise of VVar,
His Sword h'unsheaths, by some wise Angel made,
Of a portentous Comet's flaming Blade;
Condens'd his noble Form to Bulk and Sight;
Is all himself, and gathers in his Might;
Indues his dreadful Arms and Helmet bright:
Th' Old Dragon's spoils the Crest, in Battle bold
Conquer'd and strip'd, how dreadful to behold!
The Claws all-horrid with Ethereal Gold.
Thus deck'd, among the foremost Ranks he flew,
312
As on a Cloud, with Thunder charg'd, he rode
Above 'em all, and only not a God.
Thus, might we Mortal match with things Divine;
Thus look'd our Godlike Heroe at the Boyne:
The same fair Ardor for the glorious Prize,
The same just Anger lightning in his Eyes:
Thus he appear'd, thus those who round him rode,
They all like Heroes fought, he like a God.
Thus look'd our Godlike Heroe at the Boyne:
The same fair Ardor for the glorious Prize,
The same just Anger lightning in his Eyes:
Thus he appear'd, thus those who round him rode,
They all like Heroes fought, he like a God.
When thus prepar'd, they only wait the Word
To sally forth, and aid their injur'd Lord:
Th' accursed City into Atoms tear,
Nay scatter Globe and all in boundless Fields of Air.
To sally forth, and aid their injur'd Lord:
Th' accursed City into Atoms tear,
Nay scatter Globe and all in boundless Fields of Air.
This saw th' All-seeing, did their Hast resent,
And with an awful Nod shook the wide Firmament;
One motion of his Will their Rage represt:
He look'd calm Peace into each warlike Breast:
Unveil'd the Rolls of Fate, and let 'em see,
The great, unknown, tremendous Mystery:
Unknown, (or Anger them so much did blind,
'Twas now forgot by every warlike Mind)
That 'twas before all Worlds resolv'd, on high,
The mighty Maker of the World must die:
I'th Council of the Great Three-One decreed,
A sinless God for sinful Man must bleed;
His injur'd Fathers Wrath Atone and bear,
To keep injurious Rebels from despair;
Compleat the Numbers of the heav'nly Host,
And fill those Seats th' Apostate Angels lost.
And with an awful Nod shook the wide Firmament;
One motion of his Will their Rage represt:
He look'd calm Peace into each warlike Breast:
Unveil'd the Rolls of Fate, and let 'em see,
The great, unknown, tremendous Mystery:
Unknown, (or Anger them so much did blind,
'Twas now forgot by every warlike Mind)
That 'twas before all Worlds resolv'd, on high,
The mighty Maker of the World must die:
I'th Council of the Great Three-One decreed,
A sinless God for sinful Man must bleed;
His injur'd Fathers Wrath Atone and bear,
To keep injurious Rebels from despair;
Compleat the Numbers of the heav'nly Host,
And fill those Seats th' Apostate Angels lost.
Silence profound awhile all Heav'n possest,
Their Wonder was too big to be exprest:
Their Arms all dropt, their Harps agen they try,
New Songs are heard, and wonted Harmony.
Their Wonder was too big to be exprest:
Their Arms all dropt, their Harps agen they try,
New Songs are heard, and wonted Harmony.
Sweet Muse return, and hover on the Wing
Around thy bleeding Love, thy wounded King!
Go weep, as Magdalen before he dy'd,
Never such Cause, thy Love is crucify'd;
Bath his wide Wounds, as that repenting Fair
His Sacred Feet, and dry them with thy Hair:
For all the Follies of thy youthful Days,
Mispent in mortal Beauties idle Praise,
Robbing thy Saviour of his just esteem;
For all thy broken Vows to Heav'n and Him;
For all thy Sloth, thy Vanity and Pride:
See what they cost, thy Love is crucify'd:
On the curs'd Tree he bends his Sacred Head,
From his pale Cheeks each lovely Rose is fled,
His Lips, his heav'nly Eyes already dead:
His swimming Eyes approaching Night did cloud,
And all his Face deform'd with Tears and Blood!
In num'rous little Streams which trickled down
From those curs'd Thorns which his blest Temples crown;
Thence to his mangled Hands profusely flow,
And join those mightier Streams that rise below;
Which swelling wide make drunk the thirsty ground,
Till all the guilty Earth is ting'd around.
Thus oft the wand'ring Swains by chance have spy'd,
By Natures Art in some tall Mountains side,
A ragged Rock, bedew'd with Water o'er,
And sweating Crystal Drops at every Pore!
Each steals into the next, and faster flow,
To meet large subterranean Streams below;
Whose Channel Pleasure both and Profit yields,
Scattering Eternal Verdure round the Fields.
Around thy bleeding Love, thy wounded King!
Go weep, as Magdalen before he dy'd,
Never such Cause, thy Love is crucify'd;
Bath his wide Wounds, as that repenting Fair
His Sacred Feet, and dry them with thy Hair:
For all the Follies of thy youthful Days,
313
Robbing thy Saviour of his just esteem;
For all thy broken Vows to Heav'n and Him;
For all thy Sloth, thy Vanity and Pride:
See what they cost, thy Love is crucify'd:
On the curs'd Tree he bends his Sacred Head,
From his pale Cheeks each lovely Rose is fled,
His Lips, his heav'nly Eyes already dead:
His swimming Eyes approaching Night did cloud,
And all his Face deform'd with Tears and Blood!
In num'rous little Streams which trickled down
From those curs'd Thorns which his blest Temples crown;
Thence to his mangled Hands profusely flow,
And join those mightier Streams that rise below;
Which swelling wide make drunk the thirsty ground,
Till all the guilty Earth is ting'd around.
Thus oft the wand'ring Swains by chance have spy'd,
By Natures Art in some tall Mountains side,
A ragged Rock, bedew'd with Water o'er,
And sweating Crystal Drops at every Pore!
Each steals into the next, and faster flow,
To meet large subterranean Streams below;
Whose Channel Pleasure both and Profit yields,
Scattering Eternal Verdure round the Fields.
Hail, all you mystic Drops of precious Gore,
Each of you singly worth a World and more!
Cou'd your immortal Fountain want supplies,
I'd quickly make a Deluge with my Eyes.
Each of you singly worth a World and more!
Cou'd your immortal Fountain want supplies,
I'd quickly make a Deluge with my Eyes.
And now with Sweat and Blood exhaust and dry'd,
And scorch'd with Pain, I thirst, he faintly cry'd:
For eager Wine the scoffing Soldiers run,
And offer that; he tasts, and crys—'Tis done.
'Tis done—His spotless Soul no longer strives;
The God is dead, and Sinful Man revives:
He bow'd his Head, receive my Soul, he cry'd,
Dear Father! in thy Arms; He bow'd his Head and Dy'd.
And scorch'd with Pain, I thirst, he faintly cry'd:
For eager Wine the scoffing Soldiers run,
And offer that; he tasts, and crys—'Tis done.
'Tis done—His spotless Soul no longer strives;
The God is dead, and Sinful Man revives:
He bow'd his Head, receive my Soul, he cry'd,
Dear Father! in thy Arms; He bow'd his Head and Dy'd.
The End of the Ninth Book.
| The Life of Our Blessed Lord & Saviour Jesus Christ | |