The Minor Poems of Joseph Beaumont ... Edited from the autograph manuscript with introduction and notes by Eloise Robinson |
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The Complaint
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 | The Minor Poems of Joseph Beaumont |  |
310
The Complaint
Mighty
Love, oh how dost Thou
By not fighting, overthrow;
Come, whilst Thou away art flying;
Grant Petitions, by Denying;
Burn Us, whilst Thou letst Us freize
In our dull Aridities;
Wound, yet never shoot a dart
At the wounded bleeding Hart!
By not fighting, overthrow;
Come, whilst Thou away art flying;
Grant Petitions, by Denying;
Burn Us, whilst Thou letst Us freize
In our dull Aridities;
Wound, yet never shoot a dart
At the wounded bleeding Hart!
For thy Wound I reigning finde
In my sauciated Minde,
Which is pierced deep by Thee
'Cause Thou hast not pierced Me.
'Cause my stony Hart I feel
By thy Powers unwounded still.
Woe is me whoe thus must by
Want of Wounds, allwounded dy!
In my sauciated Minde,
Which is pierced deep by Thee
'Cause Thou hast not pierced Me.
'Cause my stony Hart I feel
By thy Powers unwounded still.
Woe is me whoe thus must by
Want of Wounds, allwounded dy!
Dy I must, yf thus I live;
Life to Me no Life can give;
Wounds & Death bought Life for Me,
Wounds & Death my life must be:
Wounds of present Love; not such
As pierce deep, but never touch
Death which liveth in Loves Darts,
Into Life to murder Harts;
Wounds, & Death, which never from
Absence's cold spring did come.
Life to Me no Life can give;
Wounds & Death bought Life for Me,
Wounds & Death my life must be:
Wounds of present Love; not such
As pierce deep, but never touch
Death which liveth in Loves Darts,
Into Life to murder Harts;
Wounds, & Death, which never from
Absence's cold spring did come.
Gentle Love, oh neerer still,
Neerer yet, that I may feel
What thou art, by feeling Thee;
Not by Contrarietie.
Sure ten thousand Worlds could not
Hire me from thy love: yet what
Is this Glowing, but Desire?
Which falls short of generous Fire:
Thy dear Fire, which might to Thee
Make an Holocaust of Me!
Neerer yet, that I may feel
311
Not by Contrarietie.
Sure ten thousand Worlds could not
Hire me from thy love: yet what
Is this Glowing, but Desire?
Which falls short of generous Fire:
Thy dear Fire, which might to Thee
Make an Holocaust of Me!
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