The Glorious Lover A Divine Poem, Upon the Adorable Mystery of Sinners Redemption. By B. K. [i.e. Benjamin Keach] |
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The Proem.
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 | I. |
| II. |
 | The Glorious Lover |  |
The Proem.
You
Gentle Youths, whose chaster Breasts do beat
With pleasing Raptures, & Love's generous heat;
And Virgins kind! from whose unguarded Eyes
Passion oft steals your hearts by fond surprize;
All you who Amorous Stories gladly hear,
And feed your wand'ring Fancies by the Ear;
Those treacherous Delights a while lay by,
And lend attention to our History:
A History with Love and Wonders fill'd,
Such as nor Greece nor Rome could ever yield.
So great the Subject, lofty the Design,
Each part is Sacred, and the whole Divine.
If you its worth and nature well shall weigh,
'Twill charm your Ear, your best Affections sway,
And in dark Minds spring an Eternal Day.
My Muse is rais'd beyond a vulgar flight:
For Cherubs boast to sing of what I write.
I write—But 'tis, alas, with trembling hand:
For who those boundless Depths can understand?
Those Mysteries unvail, which Angels do
With dread Amaze desire to look into?
With pleasing Raptures, & Love's generous heat;
And Virgins kind! from whose unguarded Eyes
Passion oft steals your hearts by fond surprize;
All you who Amorous Stories gladly hear,
And feed your wand'ring Fancies by the Ear;
Those treacherous Delights a while lay by,
And lend attention to our History:
A History with Love and Wonders fill'd,
Such as nor Greece nor Rome could ever yield.
So great the Subject, lofty the Design,
Each part is Sacred, and the whole Divine.
If you its worth and nature well shall weigh,
'Twill charm your Ear, your best Affections sway,
And in dark Minds spring an Eternal Day.
My Muse is rais'd beyond a vulgar flight:
For Cherubs boast to sing of what I write.
I write—But 'tis, alas, with trembling hand:
For who those boundless Depths can understand?
Those Mysteries unvail, which Angels do
With dread Amaze desire to look into?
Thou glorious Being! from whose Bounty flows
All good that Man, or does, or speaks, or knows;
Whose Altars once mean Turtles entertain'd,
And from the mouths of Babes hast strength ordain'd;
Purge with thy Beams my over-clouded mind;
Direct my Pen, my Intellect refine,
That I thy matchless Triumphs may indite,
And live in a due sense of what I write.
All good that Man, or does, or speaks, or knows;
Whose Altars once mean Turtles entertain'd,
And from the mouths of Babes hast strength ordain'd;
Purge with thy Beams my over-clouded mind;
Direct my Pen, my Intellect refine,
And live in a due sense of what I write.
And you, dear Sirs,, that shall vouchsafe to read,
Charity's Mantle o're my failings spread.
High is my Theme, but weak and short my Sight;
My Eyes oft dazled with Excess of Light.
Yet something here perhaps may please each Guest;
'Tis Heavenly Manna, though but homely drest.
Paul became all to All: and I would try
By this Essay of mystick Poesy,
To win their Fancies, whose harmonious Brains
Are bettrr pleas'd with soft and measur'd strains.
A Verse may catch a wandring Soul, that flies
Profounder Tracts, and by a blest surprize—
Convert Delight into a Sacrifice.—
How many do their precious time abuse
On cursed products of a wanton Muse;
On trifling Fables, and Romances vain,
The poisoned froth of some infected Brain?
Which only tend to nourish Rampant Vice,
And to Prophaneness easie Youth entice;
Gilt o're with Wit, black Venom in they take,
And 'midst gay Flowers hug the lurking Snake.
Here's no such danger, but all pure and chast;
A Love most fit by Saints to be imbrac'd:
A Love 'bove that of Women: Beauty, such,
As none can be enamour'd on too much.
Read then, and learn to love truly by this,
Until thy Soul can sing (Raptur'd in Bliss)
My Well-beloved's mine, and I am his.
Charity's Mantle o're my failings spread.
High is my Theme, but weak and short my Sight;
My Eyes oft dazled with Excess of Light.
Yet something here perhaps may please each Guest;
'Tis Heavenly Manna, though but homely drest.
Paul became all to All: and I would try
By this Essay of mystick Poesy,
To win their Fancies, whose harmonious Brains
Are bettrr pleas'd with soft and measur'd strains.
A Verse may catch a wandring Soul, that flies
Profounder Tracts, and by a blest surprize—
Convert Delight into a Sacrifice.—
How many do their precious time abuse
On cursed products of a wanton Muse;
On trifling Fables, and Romances vain,
The poisoned froth of some infected Brain?
Which only tend to nourish Rampant Vice,
And to Prophaneness easie Youth entice;
Gilt o're with Wit, black Venom in they take,
And 'midst gay Flowers hug the lurking Snake.
Here's no such danger, but all pure and chast;
A Love most fit by Saints to be imbrac'd:
A Love 'bove that of Women: Beauty, such,
As none can be enamour'd on too much.
Read then, and learn to love truly by this,
Until thy Soul can sing (Raptur'd in Bliss)
My Well-beloved's mine, and I am his.
| The Glorious Lover | |