Bosworth-field With a Taste of the Variety of Other Poems, Left by Sir John Beaumont ... Set Forth by his Sonne, Sir Iohn Beaumont |
 |
|
In Desolation.
|
 | Bosworth-field |  |
75
In Desolation.
O thou, who sweetly bend'st my stubborne will,VVho send'st thy stripes to teach, and not to kill:
Thy chearefull face from me no longer hide,
Withdraw these clouds, the scourges of my pride;
I sinke to hell, if I be lower throwne:
I see what man is being left alone.
My substance which from nothing did begin,
Is worse then nothing by the waight of sin:
I see my selfe in such a wretched state,
As neither thoughts conceiue, or words relate.
How great a distance parts vs? for in thee
Is endlesse good, and boundlesse ill in mee.
All creatures proue me abiect, but how low,
Thou onely know'st, and teachest me to know:
To paint this basenesse, Nature is too base;
This darknesse yeelds not but to beames of grace.
Where shall I then this piercing splendor find?
Or found, how shall it guide me being blind?
Grace is a taste of blisse, a glorious gift,
Which can the soule to heau'nly comforts lift.
It will not shine to me whose mind is drown'd
In sorrowes, and with worldly troubles bound.
76
Where drinesse raignes, and proud distractions swell.
Perhaps it sought me in those lightsome dayes
Of my first feruour, when few winds did raise
The waues, and ere they could full strength obtaine,
Some whisp'ring gale straight charm'd them downe againe
When all seem'd calme, & yet the Virgins child,
On my deuotions in his manger smild;
While then I simply walkt, nor heed could take,
Of complacence, that slye deceitfull Snake;
When yet I had not dang'rously refus'd
So many calls to vertue, nor abus'd
The spring of life, which I so oft enioy'd,
Nor made so many good intentions voyd,
Deseruing thus that grace should quite depart,
And dreadfull hardnesse should possesse my heart:
Yet in that state this onely good I found,
That fewer spots did then my conscience wound,
Though who can censure, whether in those times,
The want of feeling seem'd the want of crimes?
If solid vertues dwell not but in paine,
I will not wish that golden age againe,
Because it slow'd with sensible delights
Of heauenly things: God hath created nights
As well as dayes, to decke the varied Globe;
Grace comes as oft clad in the dusky robe
Of desolation, as in white attire,
Which better fits the bright celestiall Quire.
77
But more through boldnesse when the daies are faire.
This then must be the med'cine for my woes,
To yeeld to what my Sauiour shall dispose:
To glory in my basenesse, to reioyce
In mine afflictions, to obey his voyce,
As well when threatnings my defects reproue,
As when I cherisht am with words of loue,
To say to him in eu'ry time and place,
Withdraw thy comforts, so thou leaue thy grace.
| Bosworth-field | |