 | Poems By John Hall |  |
102
An Ode.
[Lord send thine hand]
1
Lord send thine handUnto 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 passeA 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 flightIs 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 aloneCanst 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.
| Poems By John Hall | |