The Life of Our Blessed Lord & Saviour Jesus Christ An Heroic Poem: Dedicated to Her Most Sacred Majesty. In Ten Books. Attempted by Samuel Wesley ... Each Book illustrated by necessary Notes, explaining all the more difficult Matters in the whole History: Also a Prefatory Discourse concerning Heroic Poetry. With Sixty Copper-Plates |
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To his Ingenious Friend Mr. Samuel Wesley, on his Excellent Poem call'd the Life of Christ.
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 | The Life of Our Blessed Lord & Saviour Jesus Christ |  |
To his Ingenious Friend Mr. Samuel Wesley, on his Excellent Poem call'd the Life of Christ.
Sure there's some dearth of Wit starves every Age,
And few yet felt the true Poetic Rage.
Each Pagan Clown engross'd the Muses care,
And like his fellow Beasts, was dub'd a Star;
Huge brawny Limbs claim'd all the Poets song,
And 'twas exceeding Virtue to be strong;
But now—The God, the God!—Be gone Prophane!
Nor with unhallow'd Gifts the Altars stain:
Saturnian Days again enrich the Year,
And promis'd Months in golden Orbs appear.
Again the Mantuan Genius charms the Plains
With more than mighty Maro's lofty strains.
Big with prophetick Fury, Virgil taught
Th' astonish'd World, what Wonders shou'd be wrought.
Under dark Types he veil'd the Heav'nly Birth,
And brought the Godlike Infant smiling to the Earth.
Each beauteous Line the future God confest,
At length amaz'd, to Wesley left the rest.
So the bright Guardian Star with pointed Ray,
Shone thro' the East and gilt the dusky way,
And told the Sages where their Saviour lay;
Then conscious of its Trust, withdrew from sight,
That they might pay their Offrings, where that pay'd 'its light.
Here, here, the God to Wesley's Charge repairs,
And with his Presence crowns the Poets Cares:
Wesley! A Name which in just numbers Shines!
A Name immortal as his sacred Lines!
To thee, great Bard, the darling Muses owe
That freedom which on others they bestow.
Touch'd with the Beauties of Seraphick Love,
Unbody'd and unchain'd from flesh they move.
Nor Phyllis now, nor Strephon's Plaints prevail,
The wretched burthen of some whining Tale;
But the chast Sisters now their Dross refine,
Poets are truely Priests, and Poetry's Divine.
And few yet felt the true Poetic Rage.
Each Pagan Clown engross'd the Muses care,
And like his fellow Beasts, was dub'd a Star;
Huge brawny Limbs claim'd all the Poets song,
And 'twas exceeding Virtue to be strong;
But now—The God, the God!—Be gone Prophane!
Nor with unhallow'd Gifts the Altars stain:
Saturnian Days again enrich the Year,
And promis'd Months in golden Orbs appear.
Again the Mantuan Genius charms the Plains
With more than mighty Maro's lofty strains.
Big with prophetick Fury, Virgil taught
Th' astonish'd World, what Wonders shou'd be wrought.
Under dark Types he veil'd the Heav'nly Birth,
And brought the Godlike Infant smiling to the Earth.
Each beauteous Line the future God confest,
At length amaz'd, to Wesley left the rest.
So the bright Guardian Star with pointed Ray,
Shone thro' the East and gilt the dusky way,
And told the Sages where their Saviour lay;
Then conscious of its Trust, withdrew from sight,
That they might pay their Offrings, where that pay'd 'its light.
Here, here, the God to Wesley's Charge repairs,
And with his Presence crowns the Poets Cares:
Wesley! A Name which in just numbers Shines!
A Name immortal as his sacred Lines!
To thee, great Bard, the darling Muses owe
That freedom which on others they bestow.
Touch'd with the Beauties of Seraphick Love,
Unbody'd and unchain'd from flesh they move.
Nor Phyllis now, nor Strephon's Plaints prevail,
The wretched burthen of some whining Tale;
But the chast Sisters now their Dross refine,
Poets are truely Priests, and Poetry's Divine.
See! How in tuneful Verse the Infant reigns,
And with soft Looks beguiles his Mothers pains!
Pleas'd with thy Song, he less Attentive hears
Th' harmonious Musick of the charming Spheres;
Bids Angels cease their Notes, that Wesley's Lays
May urge with more effect their young Redeemers praise.
O more than Man! Whence comes this sacred Fire,
That doth with sparkling Rage thy Breast inspire?
Sure thou'st a second Rape on Heav'n perform'd,
And with arm'd Hands Ætherial Forges storm'd:
Nought but the Gods own flames cou'd thus dispence
So healing and so kind an Influence.
And with soft Looks beguiles his Mothers pains!
Pleas'd with thy Song, he less Attentive hears
Th' harmonious Musick of the charming Spheres;
Bids Angels cease their Notes, that Wesley's Lays
May urge with more effect their young Redeemers praise.
O more than Man! Whence comes this sacred Fire,
That doth with sparkling Rage thy Breast inspire?
Sure thou'st a second Rape on Heav'n perform'd,
And with arm'd Hands Ætherial Forges storm'd:
Nought but the Gods own flames cou'd thus dispence
So healing and so kind an Influence.
Beauties shine thro' the Work, adorn the whole,
Chain up the Sense, and captivate the Soul.
Whether thou sing'st the dying Hero's fame,
And in loud sighs groan'st forth thy Maker's Name,
When tyr'd with Flesh, he quits the humane load,
And Heav'n, and Earth, and Jews confess the God;
Or thy bold Muse with heighten'd Pinnions flies,
And brings her Charge exalted to the Skies;
Thy Verse thro' starry Hosts the God convey,
And with new Glories paint the milky way.
Chain up the Sense, and captivate the Soul.
Whether thou sing'st the dying Hero's fame,
And in loud sighs groan'st forth thy Maker's Name,
When tyr'd with Flesh, he quits the humane load,
And Heav'n, and Earth, and Jews confess the God;
Or thy bold Muse with heighten'd Pinnions flies,
And brings her Charge exalted to the Skies;
Thy Verse thro' starry Hosts the God convey,
And with new Glories paint the milky way.
To thy great Name what Altars shall we raise?
None but the God thou sing'st can give sufficient praise.
As when of old some pious Saints essay'd
To please high Heav'n, and annual Off'rings paid,
Struck with the sacred Horror of the place,
And prostrate on the Ground, they veil'd their Face.
With awful distance, and with trembling bows,
Their Wonder fully paid their promis'd Vows:
So we amaz'd at thy vast Work retire,
And where we ought to Sacrifice, admire.
None but the God thou sing'st can give sufficient praise.
As when of old some pious Saints essay'd
To please high Heav'n, and annual Off'rings paid,
Struck with the sacred Horror of the place,
And prostrate on the Ground, they veil'd their Face.
With awful distance, and with trembling bows,
Their Wonder fully paid their promis'd Vows:
So we amaz'd at thy vast Work retire,
And where we ought to Sacrifice, admire.
June 23. 1693. William Pittis, Fellow of New-College in Oxon.
| The Life of Our Blessed Lord & Saviour Jesus Christ | |