 | Poems by Robert Gomersall |  |
A Thanksgiving for a recovery from a burning Feaver.
I burne againe, methinkes an holy fire
Kindles my dull devotion, and farre higher
Raiseth my spirit, then my hot disease
Inflam'd my blood: how with a sacred ease
Feele I these flames through my glad soule to rush!
Like those, which made a Chappell of the bush
Whence God did tutor Moses; would 'twere found
That this place too were such an holy ground:
Then should I boldly vent my Gratitude,
And being Godly, not be counted Rude,
Kindles my dull devotion, and farre higher
Raiseth my spirit, then my hot disease
Inflam'd my blood: how with a sacred ease
Feele I these flames through my glad soule to rush!
Like those, which made a Chappell of the bush
Whence God did tutor Moses; would 'twere found
That this place too were such an holy ground:
Then should I boldly vent my Gratitude,
And being Godly, not be counted Rude,
The Night approacht, when by my paines I might
Suspect it would have beene my lasting Night:
I had a griefe beyond a Cowards feares,
And such a griefe, it robb'd me of my teares.
I was all Fire, the greedy Element
Left no one part unsing'd, as if it meant
To crosse the vulgar notions of our birth,
And prove that man was not compos'd of Earth;
That he was made of Flames, that past all doubt
To dye was nothing, but to be put out.
And yet the truth of this, this truth denyes,
Man is not made of that by which he dyes.
Suspect it would have beene my lasting Night:
I had a griefe beyond a Cowards feares,
And such a griefe, it robb'd me of my teares.
I was all Fire, the greedy Element
Left no one part unsing'd, as if it meant
To crosse the vulgar notions of our birth,
And prove that man was not compos'd of Earth;
That he was made of Flames, that past all doubt
To dye was nothing, but to be put out.
And yet the truth of this, this truth denyes,
Man is not made of that by which he dyes.
And had I dy'd thus, they had beene unjust
Who had pronounc'd, we give dust unto dust.
Ashes they well might tearme me, and so turne
My Christian buriall to a Pagan urne.
Without a tedious pilgrimage to Rome,
(If that the torment make the Martyrdome)
I might be Canoniz'd, and sooner farre
Then some whose names in the gulld Calender
Burne in red letters, of whom none can tell
Whether they onely felt a Fire in Hell.
O heat! O drought! O am I quencht as yet,
Or is not this Remembrance a new fit!
Yet in my fiercest fit how oft I thought
(Whilst yet there was some moisture left, which fought
With my hot Enemy) how durst liberall men
Give us a freedome of our wills, that when
Ever we list we may be good, and so
Owe to our selves as well the Cure as Blow?
Who gave us this strange power, can any tell,
Not to be Bad, and yet not to be Well?
Can we command our sinnes so easily,
And faint at a poore Feaver? tell me why
You will consent to dye? and wherefore still
You plead not then a liberty of will?
Who had pronounc'd, we give dust unto dust.
Ashes they well might tearme me, and so turne
My Christian buriall to a Pagan urne.
Without a tedious pilgrimage to Rome,
(If that the torment make the Martyrdome)
I might be Canoniz'd, and sooner farre
Then some whose names in the gulld Calender
Burne in red letters, of whom none can tell
Whether they onely felt a Fire in Hell.
Or is not this Remembrance a new fit!
Yet in my fiercest fit how oft I thought
(Whilst yet there was some moisture left, which fought
With my hot Enemy) how durst liberall men
Give us a freedome of our wills, that when
Ever we list we may be good, and so
Owe to our selves as well the Cure as Blow?
Who gave us this strange power, can any tell,
Not to be Bad, and yet not to be Well?
Can we command our sinnes so easily,
And faint at a poore Feaver? tell me why
You will consent to dye? and wherefore still
You plead not then a liberty of will?
My God cry'd I, though I must needs confesse
Vnto my shame, that all my paines are lesse
Then my demerits, yet I grant us free
That they exceed all possibility
Of mine owne cure, and yet I sooner can
(Spite of disease) turne my Physitian
Then my Redeemer, thou alone canst doe
A powerfull cure on soule and body too.
Vnto my shame, that all my paines are lesse
Then my demerits, yet I grant us free
That they exceed all possibility
Of mine owne cure, and yet I sooner can
(Spite of disease) turne my Physitian
Then my Redeemer, thou alone canst doe
A powerfull cure on soule and body too.
With that I felt recovery: my flame
Was kindly lessen'd to a lower name,
To moderate heat: Sleepe did my senses charme,
And I that burnt before, was now but warme,
Health and Devotion ceize on me, my fire
Had left my bones to live in my Desire,
And I was sicke of thankfulnesse: then now
Teach me O Lord not why to praise, but how:
Bow my stiffe knees, that they may beg a pow'r,
Of full thanksgiving to my Saviour.
Some praise for lesse: I've read of Jonah's arke
(Which was of furer cariage then his Barke)
Th'inhabitable Fish, and yet we see
That he gives thankes for his Delivery
From his Preserver, and shall retchlesse I
Deliver'd from a neerer death, now dye
In the Remembrance? first, O Lord returne
My tutor-torment, let me againe burne.
Was kindly lessen'd to a lower name,
To moderate heat: Sleepe did my senses charme,
And I that burnt before, was now but warme,
Health and Devotion ceize on me, my fire
Had left my bones to live in my Desire,
And I was sicke of thankfulnesse: then now
Teach me O Lord not why to praise, but how:
Bow my stiffe knees, that they may beg a pow'r,
Of full thanksgiving to my Saviour.
Some praise for lesse: I've read of Jonah's arke
(Which was of furer cariage then his Barke)
That he gives thankes for his Delivery
From his Preserver, and shall retchlesse I
Deliver'd from a neerer death, now dye
In the Remembrance? first, O Lord returne
My tutor-torment, let me againe burne.
And now great God, I doe intreat, and change
My praise into a pray'r, (for tis not strange
That benefits should make a suppliant,
Since courtesies cause pray'r as well as want)
Twas thy great mercy made my body whole,
O let me find that mercy to my soule,
Then shall I boldly hasten to the grave,
And wanting Life, not want what I would have.
My praise into a pray'r, (for tis not strange
That benefits should make a suppliant,
Since courtesies cause pray'r as well as want)
Twas thy great mercy made my body whole,
O let me find that mercy to my soule,
Then shall I boldly hasten to the grave,
And wanting Life, not want what I would have.
| Poems by Robert Gomersall | |