Poems by Robert Gomersall | ||
At length the Israelites give backe indeed,
And though in order, yet with such a speed,
Benjamin calls it Flight, all's ours they cry,
If we can runne we have the victory:
With that, what ever men the towne affords,
Skilfull to use their fingers or their swords,
For spoyle or for pursuite, issue out thence
With such a noyse, they give intelligence
That they have left it emptie: O the vaine
Attempts of foolish man! O deserv'd paine!
Th'are made the spoile, that they intend to make,
So wisely can just heav'ns their vengeance take
On bad attempts, so all our heate asswage,
And make our Ruine greater then our Rage.
It never entred into their proud thought,
They should receive the damage which they sought
To give unto their brethren: who having left
Their woody covert, and the friendly cleft,
Which entertain'd them, by a quicke surprize,
Take the unguarded towne: O who can prize
Those losses to the full? or who rehearse
Those misadventures in an equall verse?
They spare no age, but (cruell) take away
From the old men, the solitary day
They could expect to live: now Infants dye,
Ev'n those, who yet within their mothers lye,
Finding a Night before they see the Morne,
Being buri'd thus, before that they were borne,
For whom their murtherers no crime could choose,
But that they were, and had a life to loose,
Nor does the weaker sex escape the rage
Of these intruders, and as every Age,
So every Person suffers, onely here
May be the difference, (if that any were)
Either they're killd out-right, or which is worse,
They thinke their life to be the greater curse.
Here mothers see their daughters whom they bred
As Votaries unto their Maidenhead,
Vn-virgin'd in their sight, where having lost
That peerelesse jewell, which they valewd most,
They doe receive to vindicate their name
A death from them, from whom they had their shame.
And though in order, yet with such a speed,
Benjamin calls it Flight, all's ours they cry,
If we can runne we have the victory:
With that, what ever men the towne affords,
Skilfull to use their fingers or their swords,
For spoyle or for pursuite, issue out thence
With such a noyse, they give intelligence
That they have left it emptie: O the vaine
Attempts of foolish man! O deserv'd paine!
Th'are made the spoile, that they intend to make,
So wisely can just heav'ns their vengeance take
76
And make our Ruine greater then our Rage.
It never entred into their proud thought,
They should receive the damage which they sought
To give unto their brethren: who having left
Their woody covert, and the friendly cleft,
Which entertain'd them, by a quicke surprize,
Take the unguarded towne: O who can prize
Those losses to the full? or who rehearse
Those misadventures in an equall verse?
They spare no age, but (cruell) take away
From the old men, the solitary day
They could expect to live: now Infants dye,
Ev'n those, who yet within their mothers lye,
Finding a Night before they see the Morne,
Being buri'd thus, before that they were borne,
For whom their murtherers no crime could choose,
But that they were, and had a life to loose,
Nor does the weaker sex escape the rage
Of these intruders, and as every Age,
So every Person suffers, onely here
May be the difference, (if that any were)
Either they're killd out-right, or which is worse,
They thinke their life to be the greater curse.
Here mothers see their daughters whom they bred
As Votaries unto their Maidenhead,
Vn-virgin'd in their sight, where having lost
That peerelesse jewell, which they valewd most,
They doe receive to vindicate their name
A death from them, from whom they had their shame.
Poems by Robert Gomersall | ||