Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bvt stay a while; this thing would first be known:
Can Ionah give himselfe, and not his owne?
That part to God, and to his Countrey this
Pertaines, so that a slender third is his;
Why then should Ionah doe a double wrong,
To deale himselfe away, that did belong
The least unto himselfe? or how could hee
Teach this, (Thou shalt not kill) if Ionah be
His lifes owne Butcher? What, was this a deed
That with the Calling he profest, agreed?
The purblinde age (whose workes (almost divine)
Did meerely with the oyle of Nature shine,
That knew no written Law, nor Grace, nor God,
To whip their conscience with a steely rod,)
How much did they abhorre so foule a fact?
When (led by Natures glimpse) they made an act,
Selfe-murderers should be deny'd to have
The charitable honour of a Grave:
Can such doe so, when Ionah does amisse?
What, Ionas, Isr'els Teacher! and doe this?

The Law of Charity doth all forbid,
In this thing to doe that which Ionah did;
Moreo're, in charity, 'tis thy behest,
Of dying men to thinke, and speake the best;
The mighty Samson did as much as this;
And who dare say, that Samson did amisse,
If heavens high Spirit whisper'd in his eare
Expresse command to doe't? No wavering feare
Drew backe the righteous Abram's armed hand
From Isaacks death, secur'd by heavens command.

Sure is the knot that true Religion tyes,
And Love that's rightly grounded, never dyes;

It seemes a paradoxe beyond beliefe,
That men in trouble should prolong reliefe;
That Pagans (to withstand a Strangers Fate)
Should be neglective of his owne estate.

Where is this love become in later age?
Alas! 'tis gone in endlesse pilgrimage
From hence, and never to returne (I doubt)
'Till revolution wheele those times about:
Chill brests have starv'd her here, and she is driven
Away; and with Astræa fled to heaven.
Poore Charity, that naked Babe is gone,
Her honey's spent, and all her store is done;
Her winglesse Bees can finde out ne're a bloome,
And crooked Ate doth usurpe her roome:
Nepenthe's dry, and Love can get no drinke,
And curs'd Ardenne flowes above the brinke.
Brave Mariners, the world your names shal hallow,
Admiring that in you, that none dare follow;
Your friendship's rare, and your conversion strāge,
From Paganisme to zeale? A sudden change!
Those men doe now the God of heaven implore,
That bow'd to Puppets, but an houre before;
Their zeale is fervent, (though but new begun)
Before their egge-shels were done off, they runne:
And when bright Phœbus in a Summer tide,
(New risen from the bosome of his Bride)
Enveloped with misty fogges, at length
Breakes forth, displaies the mist, with Southerne strength;
Even so these Mariners (of peerlesse mirrour)
Their faith b'ing veil'd within the mist of errour,
At length their zeale chac'd ignorance away,
They left their Puppets, and began to pray.

Lord how unlimited are thy confines,
That still pursu'st man in his good designes!

Thy mercy's like the dew of Hermon hill,
Or like the Oyntment, dropping downward still
From Aarons head, to beard; from beard to foote:
So doe thy mercies drench us round about:
Thy love is boundlesse; Thou art apt and free,
To turne to Man, when Man returnes to thee.