 | Poems By John Hall |  |
71
A Dithyramb.
Still creeping, still degenerous souleOn Earth so wallowing still in mire?
Still to the Center dost thou roule,
When up to Heaven thou shouldst aspire?
Did not thy Jailour flesh deny
The freedome for to feed thine owne insatiate eye;
How might thou let it surfet here
On choicest glories, how it might
Thick flowing globes of splendor beare,
And triumph in its native light,
How t'would hereafter sleep disdaine!
The glorious Sun of righteousnesse uprise againe,
O who so stupid that would not
Resolve to Atoms, for to play
'Mong th'golden streamers he shall shut,
While he prolongs one endlesse day?
How small three evenings darkenesse be,
Compared once with measurelesse Eternity?
See how the joyous Clouds make way,
72
How they their silken fleeces lay,
For him to mount to Heaven upon,
Where he may in full glory shine,
Whose presence made before a Heaven of Palestine.
That lovely brow that was before
Drown'd in a flood of Crimson sweat,
Is now with brightnesse guilded ore,
And all with burnisht flames beset;
Him, whom his drowsy Sonnes did leave
Sleeplesse, Aeriall Legions triumph to receive;
This innocent Columbine, he,
That was the marke of rage before,
O cannot now admired be,
But still admired, still needs more;
Who would not stand amaz'd to see,
Fraile flesh become the garment of Divinity?
Appeare no more proud Olivet
In tawney olives, from this time
Be all with purple vines beset;
The sprig of Jesse from thee did climbe
Up to the Skies, and spread those boughs,
73
Why stare you curious gazers so,
No Eye can reach his Journeys end,
Hee'l pierce the rouling Concave through,
And that expanded Fabrick rend,
Then hee's at home, he was before
A Pilgrime, while he footed this round nothing ore.
If then his nimble feet could make,
A pavement of the quivering streame,
And cause those powerfull Spirits quake,
That feare not any thing but him:
Now can and will he turne to joyes
Your feares, and or disarme or turne your enemies.
He is not lost though wafted hence,
He's with you (darlings of his love)
Hee's the supreame Intelligence
That all the little Orbs will move,
He is the head, it cannot be
Members can perish, where ther's such a head as he.
A head compos'd of Majesty,
Wer't not by mercy all possest,
From which such charming glances fly,
74
From which such powerfull frowns arise,
As can strike palsies in the Earth, and headach in the Skies.
What did you thinke he could remaine
Disguis'd in such an inch of land?
That convex cannot him containe,
Though spun out by his owne right hand.
What did you thinke that though he lay,
Enterr'd a while, the Earth might swallow such a prey?
That very dying did restore
Banisht life to rotting men,
And fetcht back breath that fled before,
Into their nostrils once againe,
That very death gave life to all,
And t'all mankind recovery of their Fathers fall.
Suppose yee that the fatall tree,
That happiest worst of punshiments,
Did punish such a sinlesse he,
Or shame him that was excellence?
No no, the crime doth ever state
The punishment, and he sinne could not act, but hate.
Thought yee that streame did flow in vaine
75
Your soules were foule, yet every staine
By these pure drops were purified.
He was he freely prodigall
To spend all's blood for some, when some might have sav'd all.
Harke, harke, what melody, what choice
Of sweetest Aires, of charming sounds!
Heaven seemes all turn'd into a voice;
Heare what loud shreeking joy rebounds,
The very Windes now whistle joy
And make Hosannas of the former crucifie.
| Poems By John Hall | |