 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
Innocents Day.
Scarce was the Heaven bless'd Mary's travel done,
But she again must travel with her Son.
The Virgin Mother was, that Star-light day,
Instead of brought to bed, brought on her way.
Twice too, was she deliver'd, sayes the Text,
Of her pain first, and of her peril next.
But she again must travel with her Son.
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Instead of brought to bed, brought on her way.
Twice too, was she deliver'd, sayes the Text,
Of her pain first, and of her peril next.
Angel-warn'd Joseph does his journey take,
For Ægypt, and the Babes of Bethlehem make
Another Red Sea of their Reeking blood,
And sigh their Saviour o're the Crimson flood.
Scarce had they found out yet the milky springs,
When the unpittying sword Deaths errand brings.
The tender Lambs fall, the Old Fox his prey:
They could not stand to't, no, nor run away.
With naked breast, the naked steel they met,
They had not learned to cry Quarter yet.
The Butchers break in with Deaths loud alarms,
And make a Shambles of the Mothers arms:
One blow dispatches both, when the Child dyes,
The Mother pours her Soul out at her eyes.
They both lye drown'd, though not in the same floud,
Rachel in Tears, and her sweet Babe in bloud.
The wounds of Death, the most of them endur'd,
E're time had those of Circumcision cur'd.
Thus Joseph like, the Babes of Joseph's stem,
Crawle from the Dungeon to the Diadem.
And since for Christ's sake, to the Crosse they come,
Their Massacre is made a Martyrdom.
The holy cause, 'tis like, they did not know,
And yet, they suffer'd with a witnesse though.
Nor need the Army of the Martyrs be
Asham'd to own this noble Infantry.
Who have with them, Christs Cross, and colours born,
And more than that, have led up the forlorn.
For Ægypt, and the Babes of Bethlehem make
Another Red Sea of their Reeking blood,
And sigh their Saviour o're the Crimson flood.
Scarce had they found out yet the milky springs,
When the unpittying sword Deaths errand brings.
The tender Lambs fall, the Old Fox his prey:
They could not stand to't, no, nor run away.
With naked breast, the naked steel they met,
They had not learned to cry Quarter yet.
The Butchers break in with Deaths loud alarms,
And make a Shambles of the Mothers arms:
One blow dispatches both, when the Child dyes,
The Mother pours her Soul out at her eyes.
They both lye drown'd, though not in the same floud,
Rachel in Tears, and her sweet Babe in bloud.
The wounds of Death, the most of them endur'd,
E're time had those of Circumcision cur'd.
Thus Joseph like, the Babes of Joseph's stem,
Crawle from the Dungeon to the Diadem.
And since for Christ's sake, to the Crosse they come,
Their Massacre is made a Martyrdom.
The holy cause, 'tis like, they did not know,
And yet, they suffer'd with a witnesse though.
Nor need the Army of the Martyrs be
Asham'd to own this noble Infantry.
Who have with them, Christs Cross, and colours born,
And more than that, have led up the forlorn.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |