King Arthur An Heroick Poem. In Twelve Books. By Richard Blackmore. To which is Annexed, An Index, Explaining the Names of Countrys, Citys, and Rivers, &c |
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 | King Arthur |  |
But now Revolted Merula reflect
On that vast Woe which Rebels must expect.
Who to appease a Man their God Incense
To scape Man's wrath provoke Omnipotence:
Who on Almighty Goodness can't rely,
But from their Saviour's bloody Banner fly,
And to preserve their Lives their Faith deny.
Their timorous flight no Safety can afford,
They fly to meet a more destructive Sword.
What if by Guilt they shun a Mortal Foe,
They run but on his Arms, whose surer blow
Can wound and sink them to the Shades below:
Where they Alternate Death must still repeat
In Piercing Cold, or unextinguish'd Heat;
Where mighty Vengeance they must ever bear
O'erwhelm'd with Wrath, and torn with wild Despair.
Besides when Men from fiery Tryals run,
They meet worse Torments here, than those they shun.
Dos not their Guilt their tremb'ling Souls affright,
And place th'Almighty's Terrors in their Sight?
Outrageous Conscience dos th'Apostate tear
With inward Whips, and Stings him with Despair.
Oh, Merula, say, did you never find
Such Horror, such Remorse within your Mind?
Did ne'er your Fears of Heav'n your Peace molest,
No gripes or inward Pangs torment your Breast.
And was not that a far more painful Rack,
Than those which Tyrants skill'd in Torment, make?
Say, are you not with Consternation struck,
When on your Self deform'd with Guilt you look?
Do's not your secret, self-revenging thought
Afflict your Soul, and lash you for your fault?
An angry Judge your tender Saviour's made,
Of whom you were asham'd, now are you not afraid
Your thoughts of God must have Amazement bred,
You must his lifted Arm and Vengeance dread.
More had the Hero said, but that he saw
A suddain Storm of Grief in Merula.
Her troubled Looks strange discomposure show'd,
And floods of Tears down her fair Bosom flow'd.
On that vast Woe which Rebels must expect.
Who to appease a Man their God Incense
To scape Man's wrath provoke Omnipotence:
Who on Almighty Goodness can't rely,
But from their Saviour's bloody Banner fly,
And to preserve their Lives their Faith deny.
Their timorous flight no Safety can afford,
They fly to meet a more destructive Sword.
What if by Guilt they shun a Mortal Foe,
They run but on his Arms, whose surer blow
Can wound and sink them to the Shades below:
Where they Alternate Death must still repeat
In Piercing Cold, or unextinguish'd Heat;
Where mighty Vengeance they must ever bear
O'erwhelm'd with Wrath, and torn with wild Despair.
Besides when Men from fiery Tryals run,
They meet worse Torments here, than those they shun.
Dos not their Guilt their tremb'ling Souls affright,
And place th'Almighty's Terrors in their Sight?
Outrageous Conscience dos th'Apostate tear
With inward Whips, and Stings him with Despair.
Oh, Merula, say, did you never find
Such Horror, such Remorse within your Mind?
Did ne'er your Fears of Heav'n your Peace molest,
No gripes or inward Pangs torment your Breast.
229
Than those which Tyrants skill'd in Torment, make?
Say, are you not with Consternation struck,
When on your Self deform'd with Guilt you look?
Do's not your secret, self-revenging thought
Afflict your Soul, and lash you for your fault?
An angry Judge your tender Saviour's made,
Of whom you were asham'd, now are you not afraid
Your thoughts of God must have Amazement bred,
You must his lifted Arm and Vengeance dread.
More had the Hero said, but that he saw
A suddain Storm of Grief in Merula.
Her troubled Looks strange discomposure show'd,
And floods of Tears down her fair Bosom flow'd.
A while she staid to give her Passion Vent,
And when her Anguish had its fury spent:
She cry'd, my heart do's with this Language melt
'Tis true, those Stings, those Torments I have felt,
Which you describe, too well alas, I know
What Horrors from a Guilty Conscience slow.
I dare no more assert my Innocence,
My Mind inlighten'd owns the black offence.
To Save my Life and Suff'rings to evade,
I have my God deny'd, my Faith betray'd.
'Tis true, when Idols I did first adore,
I ne'er design'd by that compliance more,
Then gaining time till I could my retreat
From Gallia make, to seek some peaceful Seat,
Where I might find you, and your Love enjoy,
And undisturb'd my future hours employ.
But now I see by your assisting Light
I'm both Idolater, and Hypocrite.
How black and dismal do's my Crime appear?
How sharp the Stings of raging Conscience are?
Who can the Pangs and deadly Anguish bear?
O let my head a weeping Fountain grow,
And from my Eyes let mournful Rivers flow.
Let me dissolve to Tears, let every Vein
A stream of Water, not of Blood contain.
Thro' all the winding Channels to my Eyes
Let unexhausted Stores of Moisture rise.
Let no sufficient Treasures be deny'd
To feed the sad, but Everlasting Tide.
Let Love's strong Flame by its Celestial Art
To fill my Eyes, dissolve and melt my Heart;
As Central Fire advances watry Steams
Which from the Mountains spring in Crystal Streams.
Rivers and Seas I want for my Relief,
To Ease, and Vent unutterable Grief.
I, that my Tears may to a Deluge grow,
Will break my Stores up, my Abyss of Woe.
Descend my Tears, in Cataracts slow down,
Me, and my load of Guilt together drown.
Let mighty Torrents from my Eye-balls roll,
Fit to dilute th'Almighty's wrathful Bowl.
Lord, strike this Marble Heart, thy powerful Stroke
Will make a Flood gush from the cleaving Rock.
O draw all Nature's Sluces up, and drain
Her Magazines, which liquid Stores contain.
My Guilt with hideous Crys do's me pursue,
O, let me make the Poets Fable true;
To shun the grisly, formidable Shape,
And from the Monster's Fury to escape,
Melting in Tears let me a River grow,
And in a swift, complaining Water flow.
What method is there, Clovis, to decline
The black, impending Storm of Wrath Divine?
What Balm can my tormenting Pain appease?
What can procure my wounded Spirit ease?
How to my troubled Breast shall I restore
That Heav'nly Peace which I enjoy'd before?
Oh, what can smooth th'Almighty's frowning Brow,
Arrest his lifted Hand, and make him drop the blow?
And when her Anguish had its fury spent:
She cry'd, my heart do's with this Language melt
'Tis true, those Stings, those Torments I have felt,
Which you describe, too well alas, I know
What Horrors from a Guilty Conscience slow.
I dare no more assert my Innocence,
My Mind inlighten'd owns the black offence.
To Save my Life and Suff'rings to evade,
I have my God deny'd, my Faith betray'd.
'Tis true, when Idols I did first adore,
I ne'er design'd by that compliance more,
Then gaining time till I could my retreat
From Gallia make, to seek some peaceful Seat,
Where I might find you, and your Love enjoy,
And undisturb'd my future hours employ.
230
I'm both Idolater, and Hypocrite.
How black and dismal do's my Crime appear?
How sharp the Stings of raging Conscience are?
Who can the Pangs and deadly Anguish bear?
O let my head a weeping Fountain grow,
And from my Eyes let mournful Rivers flow.
Let me dissolve to Tears, let every Vein
A stream of Water, not of Blood contain.
Thro' all the winding Channels to my Eyes
Let unexhausted Stores of Moisture rise.
Let no sufficient Treasures be deny'd
To feed the sad, but Everlasting Tide.
Let Love's strong Flame by its Celestial Art
To fill my Eyes, dissolve and melt my Heart;
As Central Fire advances watry Steams
Which from the Mountains spring in Crystal Streams.
Rivers and Seas I want for my Relief,
To Ease, and Vent unutterable Grief.
I, that my Tears may to a Deluge grow,
Will break my Stores up, my Abyss of Woe.
Descend my Tears, in Cataracts slow down,
Me, and my load of Guilt together drown.
Let mighty Torrents from my Eye-balls roll,
Fit to dilute th'Almighty's wrathful Bowl.
Lord, strike this Marble Heart, thy powerful Stroke
Will make a Flood gush from the cleaving Rock.
O draw all Nature's Sluces up, and drain
Her Magazines, which liquid Stores contain.
231
O, let me make the Poets Fable true;
To shun the grisly, formidable Shape,
And from the Monster's Fury to escape,
Melting in Tears let me a River grow,
And in a swift, complaining Water flow.
What method is there, Clovis, to decline
The black, impending Storm of Wrath Divine?
What Balm can my tormenting Pain appease?
What can procure my wounded Spirit ease?
How to my troubled Breast shall I restore
That Heav'nly Peace which I enjoy'd before?
Oh, what can smooth th'Almighty's frowning Brow,
Arrest his lifted Hand, and make him drop the blow?
| King Arthur | |