Poems By John Hall :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems By John Hall

Hall, John (1627-1656)

[epigraph]

[dedication]

[section]

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

THE SECOND BOOKE OF Divine Poems.

BY J. H.

Sæpe quidem in galea nidos fecere Columbæ.

A Dithyramb.

Still creeping, still degenerous soule
On Earth so wallowing still in mire?
Still to the Center dost thou roule,
When up to Heaven thou shouldst aspire?
Did not thy Jailour flesh deny
The freedome for to feed thine owne insatiate eye;
How might thou let it surfet here
On choicest glories, how it might
Thick flowing globes of splendor beare,
And triumph in its native light,
How t'would hereafter sleep disdaine!
The glorious Sun of righteousnesse uprise againe,
O who so stupid that would not
Resolve to Atoms, for to play
'Mong th'golden streamers he shall shut,
While he prolongs one endlesse day?
How small three evenings darkenesse be,
Compared once with measurelesse Eternity?
See how the joyous Clouds make way,

And put a ruddy brightnesse on,
How they their silken fleeces lay,
For him to mount to Heaven upon,
Where he may in full glory shine,
Whose presence made before a Heaven of Palestine.
That lovely brow that was before
Drown'd in a flood of Crimson sweat,
Is now with brightnesse guilded ore,
And all with burnisht flames beset;
Him, whom his drowsy Sonnes did leave
Sleeplesse, Aeriall Legions triumph to receive;
This innocent Columbine, he,
That was the marke of rage before,
O cannot now admired be,
But still admired, still needs more;
Who would not stand amaz'd to see,
Fraile flesh become the garment of Divinity?
Appeare no more proud Olivet
In tawney olives, from this time
Be all with purple vines beset;
The sprig of Jesse from thee did climbe
Up to the Skies, and spread those boughs,

Whereon lifes grapes, those Paradisean clusters growes.
Why stare you curious gazers so,
No Eye can reach his Journeys end,
Hee'l pierce the rouling Concave through,
And that expanded Fabrick rend,
Then hee's at home, he was before
A Pilgrime, while he footed this round nothing ore.
If then his nimble feet could make,
A pavement of the quivering streame,
And cause those powerfull Spirits quake,
That feare not any thing but him:
Now can and will he turne to joyes
Your feares, and or disarme or turne your enemies.
He is not lost though wafted hence,
He's with you (darlings of his love)
Hee's the supreame Intelligence
That all the little Orbs will move,
He is the head, it cannot be
Members can perish, where ther's such a head as he.
A head compos'd of Majesty,
Wer't not by mercy all possest,
From which such charming glances fly,

As striking vengeance can arrest,
From which such powerfull frowns arise,
As can strike palsies in the Earth, and headach in the Skies.
What did you thinke he could remaine
Disguis'd in such an inch of land?
That convex cannot him containe,
Though spun out by his owne right hand.
What did you thinke that though he lay,
Enterr'd a while, the Earth might swallow such a prey?
That very dying did restore
Banisht life to rotting men,
And fetcht back breath that fled before,
Into their nostrils once againe,
That very death gave life to all,
And t'all mankind recovery of their Fathers fall.
Suppose yee that the fatall tree,
That happiest worst of punshiments,
Did punish such a sinlesse he,
Or shame him that was excellence?
No no, the crime doth ever state
The punishment, and he sinne could not act, but hate.
Thought yee that streame did flow in vaine

That issued from his opend side?
Your soules were foule, yet every staine
By these pure drops were purified.
He was he freely prodigall
To spend all's blood for some, when some might have sav'd all.
Harke, harke, what melody, what choice
Of sweetest Aires, of charming sounds!
Heaven seemes all turn'd into a voice;
Heare what loud shreeking joy rebounds,
The very Windes now whistle joy
And make Hosannas of the former crucifie.

The Ermine.

The Ermine rather chose to die
A Martyr of its purity,
Then that one uncouth soile should staine
It's hitherto preserved skin,
And thus resolv'd she thinkes it good
To write her whitenesse in her blood.
But I had rather die, then e're
Continue from my foulenesse cleere;

Nay I suppose by that I live
That onely doth destruction give;
Mad-man I am, I turne mine Eye
On every side, but what doth lie
Within I can no better finde,
Then if I ever had been blind.
Is this the reason thou dost claime
Thy sole prerogative, to frame
Engines againe thy selfe? O fly
Thy selfe as greatest enemy,
And thinke thou sometimes life wilt get
By a secure contemning it.

The Lord commeth with ten thousand of his Saints to execute judgement upon all. Jude. 14. 15.

I heare and tremble! Lord, what shall I doe
T'avoid thy anger, whether shall I goe?
What, shall I scale the Mountaines? 'las they be
Farre lesse then Atoms if compar'd with thee.
What, shall I strive to get my selfe a Tombe,
Within the greedy Oceans swelling Wombe?

Shall I dive into Rockes? where shall I flie
The sure discovery of thy peircing Eye?
Alas I know not; though with many a teare
In Hell they mone thy absence, thou art there;
Thou art on Earth and well observest all
The actions acted on this massie Ball;
And when thou look'st on mine, what can I say?
I dare not stand, nor can I run away.
Thine eyes are pure and cannot looke upon
(And what else Lord am I?) Corruption.
Thou hatest sinnes, and if thou once begin
To cast me in the Scales, I all am sinne;
Thou still continu'st one, O Lord; I range
In various formes of crimes and love my change.
Lord thou that mad'st me, bid'st I should present
My Heart unto thee; O see how 'tis rent,
By various Monsters; see how fastly held,
How stubornely they doe deny to yeild.
How shall I stand, when that thou shalt be hurl'd
On Cloudes, in robes of fire to Judge the world,
Usher'd with golden Legions, in thine Eye
Carrying an all-enraged Majesty;

That shall the Earth into a Palsie stroke,
And make the Clouds sigh out themselves in smoake,
How can I stand? yes Lord I may although
Thou beest the Judge, thou art a party too;
Thou sufferest for these faults, for which thou shall
Arraigne me Lord, thou sufferest for them all,
They are not mine at all, these wounds of thine
That on thy glorious side so brightly shine,
Seal'd me a pardon, in those wounds th'are hid
And in that side of thine th'are buried.
Lord smile againe upon us; whith what grace
Doth mercy sit enthroniz'd on thy face!
How did that scarlet sweat become thee when
That sweat did wash away the filth of men?
How did those peevish thornes adorne thy brow?
Each thorne more richly then a Gem did glow?
Yet by those thornes (Lord how thy love abounds!)
Are we poore wormes made capable of Crownes.
Come so to Judgement Lord; th'Apostles shall
No more into their drowsy slumber fall,
But stand and hearken how the Judge shall say
Come come my Lambes to Ioy, come come away.

On an Houre-glasse.

My Life is measur'd by this glasse, this glasse
By all those little Sands that thorough passe.
See how they presse, see how they strive, which shall
With greatest speed and greatest quicknesse fall.
See how they raise a little Mount, and then
With their owne weight doe levell it agen.
But when th'have all got thorough, they give o're
Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more.
Just such is man whose houres still forward run,
Being almost finisht ere they are begun;
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we,
That ere w'are ought at all, we cease to be.
Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly,
And while we sleep, what do we else but die?
How transient are our Joyes, how short their day!
They creepe on towards us, but flie away.
How stinging are our sorrowes! where they gaine
But the least footing, there they will remaine.
How groundlesse are our hopes, how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!

How reall are our feares! they blast us still,
Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
How senselesse are our wishes, yet how great!
With what toile we pursue them, with what sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see,
Like Children crying for some Mercurie.
This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed.
This vowes Virginity, yet knowes not what
Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state.
Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold,
And yet how many have been choak't with Gold?
This onely hunts fot honour, yet who shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall.
This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought
With many a sleeplesse night and racking thought?
This needs will travell, yet how dangers lay
Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall
Like a pluck't Rose or fading Lillie fall.
Another boasts strong armes, 'las Giants have
By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave.

These ruffle in rich filke, though ne're so gay,
A well plum'd Peacock is more gay then they.
Poore man, what art! a Tennis ball of Errour,
A Ship of Glasse toss'd in a Sea of terrour,
Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe,
Crauling in teares and mourning to the tombe,
How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall,
How art thou Nothing when th'art most of all!

An Ode.

[Descend O Lord]

1

Descend O Lord
Into this gloomy heart of mine,
And once afford
A glimpse of that great Light of thine,
The Sunne doth never here
To shine on basest dunghills once forbeare.

2

What though I be
Nothing but high corruption?
Let me have thee
And at thy presence 'twill be gon,

Darkenesse dare never stand
In competition while the Suns at hand.

3

And though my sinnes
Be an unnumbred number, yet
When thou begins
To looke on Christ, do thenforget
I help'd to cause his griefe.
If so, Lord from it grant me some reliefe.

4

All thou demands
Is that small peice of me, my heart;
Lo here it stands
Thine wholly, I'le reserve no part;
Let the three corners be
(Since nought else can) fil'd with one triple thee.

5

Set up a Throne,
Admit no rivall of thy power,
Be thou alone
(I'le onely feare thee) Emperour,
And though thy limits may
Seeme small, Heaven onely is as large as they.

6

And if by chance
The Old-oft-conquer'd Enemy
New stirrs advance,
Looke but upon him and hee'l fly,
The smallest checke of thine
Will do't, so cannot all the power that's mine.

7

Thy Kingdome is
More then ten thousand worlds, each heart
A Province is;
Keepe residence in mine, 'tis part
Of those huge Realmes; I'le be
Thy slave, and by this meanes gaine libertie,

8

Such as all Earth
Ne're could so much as fancy yet,
Nor can give birth
To thoughts enough to fathom it,
No no, nor can blest I
When I injoy it, know what I enjoy.

9

Then give me this
I aske for, though I know not what
(O Lord) it is:
But what's of greatest price give that,
Or plainely bold to be
In begging, Lord, I pray thee give me thee.

Selfe.

1

Traitor selfe, why do I try
Thee, my bitterst Enemy?
What can I beare
Alas more deare
Then is this Center of my selfe my heart?
Yet all those traines that blow me up lie there
Hid in so small a part.

2

How many back-bones nourisht have
Crawling Serpents in the grave? I am alive,
Yet life doe give
To Myriads of Adders in my breast,
Which doe not there consume, but grow and thrive,
And undisturbed rest.

3

Still gnawing where they first were bred,
Consuming where they're nourished,
Endeavouring still
Even him to kill

That gives them life, and looses of his blisse
To entertaine them: that tyrannicke Ill
So radicated is.

4

Most fatall men what can we have
To trust? our bosomes will deceive;
The cleerest thought
To witnesse brought,
Will speake against us and condemne us too,
Yea and they all are knowne. O how we ought
To sift them through!

5

Yet what's our diligence even all
Those sands to number that do fall
Chac'd by the winde?
Nay we may finde
A mighty difference; who would suppose
This little thing so fruitfull were and blind
As it's owne ruine showes?

Anteros.

Frowne on me shades, and let not day
Swell in a needle-pointed ray
To make discoveries; wrap me here
In folds of night, and doe not feare
The Suns approach, so shall I finde
A greater light possesse my minde;
O do not (Children of the Spring)
Hither your charming Odours bring,
Nor with your painted smiles devise
To captivate my wandring eyes,
Th'have stray'd too much, but now begin
Wholly t'employ themselves within.
What doe I now on Earth? O why
Do not these Members upward flie,
And force a roome among the Starres,
And there my greatned selfe disperse
As wide as thought? what do I here
Spread on soft downe of Roses? there
That spangled curtaine which so wide
Dilates it's lustre, shall me hide.

Mount up low thoughts and see what sweet
Reposance Heaven can beget;
Could yee the least compliance frame
How should I all become one flame,
And melt in purest fires? O how
My warmed Heart would sweetly glow,
And waste those dreggs of Earth that stay
Glew'd to it, then it might away,
And still ascend, till that it stood
Within the Center of all good;
There prest, not overwhelm'd with joyes,
Under it's burthen fresh arise;
There might it lose it selfe and then
With losing finde it selfe againe;
There might it triumph and yet be
Still in a blest captivitie.
There might it—O why doe I speake
Whose humble thoughts are far too weake,
To apprehend small notions? nay
Angels are non-plus'd, though the day
Breakes clearer on them, and they run
In Apogees more neer the Sunne.

But oh! what pulls me? how I shall
In the least moment headlong fall;
Now I'm on Earth againe not dight,
As formerly in springing light,
The selfe same objects please, that I
Did even now, as base deny:
Now what a powerfull influence
Ha's Beauty on my slavish sense,
How rob I Nature that I may
Her wealth upon my cheeke display,
How doth the Giant Honour seeme
Well statur'd in my fond esteeme;
And Gold that bane of men, I call
Not poisonous now but cordiall:
Since that the Worlds great Eye the Sunne
Ha's not disdain'd to mak't his owne;
Now every passion swayes, and I
Tamely admit their Tyranny;
Only with numerous sighings say,
The basest thing is breathing clay.

But sure these vapours will not e're
Draw Curtaines o're my Hemisphere.

Let it cleere up, and welcome day
It's lustre once againe display.
Thou (O my Sunne) a while maist lie
As intercepted from mine eye,
But Love shall fright those clouds, and thou
Into my purged eyes shalt flow,
Which (melted by my inward fires,
Which shall be blowne by strong desires)
Consuming into teares, shall feele
Each teare into a Pearle congeale,
And every Pearle shall be a stemme
In my Celestiall Diadem.

A Hymne.

[Thou mighty Subject of my humble Song]

Thou mighty Subject of my humble Song,
Whom ev'ry thing speakes, though it cannot speake;
Whom all things Eccho, though without a tongue;
And int' expressions of thy glory breake.

Who out of nothing this vast fabricke brought;
And still preserv'st it least it fall againe,

And be reduc'd into it's ancient nought,
But may its vigour primitive retaine.

Who out of Atoms shap'd thine Image, Man,
And all to Crowne him with Supremacy
Over his Fellow-creatures, nay and than
Didst in him raise a flame that cannot die.

Whose purer fire should animate that drosse
That renders him but equall to the beast,
And make him, though materiate and grosse,
Not lesse then those that in no bodies rest,

Nay Lord above them, they did first of all
Turne Renegadoes to thy Majesty,
And in their ruine did involue his fall,
That caus'd him under thy displeasure lie.

There did he loose his snowy Innocence,
His undepraved will, then did he fall
Down from the Tower of knowledge, nay from thence
Dated the losse of his, Heaven, thee, and all.

So wert thou pleas'd to let thy anger lay
Cloudes of displeasure 'twixt poore man and thee,
That Mercy might send forth a milky ray,
To tell, that ne'rethelesse thou would'st agree.

Though man in sinning still new guilt should adde,
It never could expugne thy patience;
Thine, who not ever any passion had,
But can forgive, as well as see offence.

Yet though our hearts petrificated were,
And all our blood curdled to ruddy Ice,
Yet caused'st thou thy Law be graven there,
And set a Guardian or't, that never dies.

But we eras'd that Sculpture, then thou wrote
In Tables, what thou hadst in stone before;
Yet were we not unto obedience brought,
But rather slackned our performance more:

Dead to all goodnesse and engulf'd in sinne,
Benummed by our owne corruptions,

That we were onely drown'd, not render'd cleane,
By th'streames that cover'd all the Earth at once.

Wandring without the least ability
To tread, or Eyes to see our safest way,
While fiery vengeance at our heeles did fly,
Ready to strike when thou the word should'st say.

Yet didst thou disappoint her, thy Sons blood
Suppli'd our want of Oceans of teares.

The Authour thought fit this should not perish, though other occasions suffer him onely to present it in the habit of a Fragment.

What profiteth a Man of all his labour which he taketh under the Sun? Ecclesiastes. 1. 3.

1

Even as the wandring Traveller doth stray,
Led from his way
By a false fire, whose Flame to cheated sight
Doth lead aright,

All paths are footed over, but that one
Which should be gone;
Even so my foolish wishes are in chace
Of ev'ry thing, but what they should embrace.

2

We laugh at children, that can when they please
A bubble raise,
And, when their fond ambition sated is,
Againe dismisse
The fleeting toy into its former Aire.
What doe we here
But act such Tricks? yet thus we differ, they
Destroy, so do not we, wee sweat, they play.

3

Ambitions towrings do some gallants keepe
From calmer sleepe,
Yet when their thoughts the most possessed are,
They grope but Aire,
And when they're highest, in an instant fade
Into a shade,
Or like a stone, that more forc'd upwards, shall
With greater violence to'ts Center fall.

4

Another whose conceptions onely dreame
Monsters of fame,
The vaine applause of other Mad-men buyes
With his owne sighes,
Yet his enlarged name shall never craule
Over this Ball,
But soone consume; thus doth a Trumpets sound
Rush bravely on a little, then's not found;

5

But we as soone may tell how often shapes
Are chang'd by Apes,
As know how oft mans childish thoughts do vary
And still miscarry,
So a weake Eye in twilight thinkes it sees
New species,
While it sees nought, so men in dreames conceive,
Of Scepters, till that waking undeceive.

100

An Epitaph.

[When that my daies are spent, (nor do]

When that my daies are spent, (nor do
I know
Whether the Sun will er'e immise
Light to mine eyes)
Me thinkes a pious teare needs must
Offer some violence to my dust.

Dust, ravel'd in the Aire will fly
Up high,
Mingled with water 'twill retire
Into the mire.
Why should my ashes not be free
When nature gave them liberty?

But when I go, I must them leave
In grave.
No Flouds can make my marble so
As moist to grow.
Then spare your labour, since your dew
Cannot from ashes, Flowers renew.

101

A Pastoroll Hymne.

Happy Choristers of Aire,
Who by your nimble flight draw neare
His throne, whose wondrous story
And unconfined glory
Your notes still Caroll, whom your sound
And whom your plumy pipes rebound.

Yet do the lazy Snailes no lesse
The greatnesse of our Lord confesse,
And those whom weight hath chain'd
And to the Earth restrain'd,
Their ruder voices do as well,
Yea and the speechlesse Fishes tell.

Great Lord, from whom each Tree receaves,
Then paies againe as rent, his leaves;
Thou dost in purple set,
The Rose and Violet,
And giu'st the sickly Lilly white,
Yet in them all, thy name dost write.

102

An Ode.

[Lord send thine hand]

1

Lord send thine hand
Unto my rescue, or I shall
Into mine owne ambushments fall,
Which ready stand
To d' execution, all
Lay'd by selfe-love, O what
Love of our selves is that
That breeds such uproares in our better state!

2

I thinke I passe
A Meadow guilt with crimson showr's,
Of the most rich and beauteous Flowers,
Yet thou alas!
Espi'st what under lowres;
Taste them, they're poyson, lay
Thy selfe to rest, there stray
Whole knots of Snakes that solely waite for prey.

103

3

To dreame of flight
Is more then madnesse; there will be
Either some strong necessity,
Or else delight
To chaine us, would we flee.
Thus do I wandring goe,
And cannot Poisons know
From wholesome Simples that beside them grow.

4

Blind that I am,
That do not see before mine eyes
These gazing dangers that arise
Ever the same,
Or in Varieties
Farre worse, how shall I scape?
Or whether shall I leape?
Or with what comfort solace my hard hap?

104

5

Thou who alone
Canst give assistance, send me aid,
Else shall I in those depths be laid
And quickly throwne,
Whereof I am affraid;
Thou who canst stop the Sea
In her mid-rage, stop me;
Lest from my selfe my owne selfe-ruine bee.