Fons Lachrymarum or a fountain of tears: From whence doth flow Englands Complaint, Jeremiahs Lamentations paraphras'd with Divine Meditations and an elegy Upon that Son of Valor Sir Charles Lucas. Written by John Quarles |
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Chap. IV.
Fons Lachrymarum |  |
How is the gold grown dim! how is the fine,
The purest changed, that was wont to shine!
The stones that pav'd the Sanct'ary are thrown
Into the streets, for beasts to trample on.
The sons of Sion, which I could compare
To finest gold, behold, see now they are
Esteem'd as earthen pitchers, which the hands
Of the industrious Potter still commands.
The ill-shap'd monsters, which the Ocean owns
As proper guests, nourish their little ones:
But ah, my Daughters are grown pitiless,
Like Ostriches within the wilderness.
The wordless tongues of thirfty children cleave
To their unliquid mouths; they never leave
Their integrating cries: Poor hearts in vain
They cry for food, but can no food obtain.
And they that fed upon delicious sweets,
Are desolate in the unquiet streets:
They that were brought up in a scarlet dress,
Embrace a dunghil as their happiness.
For ah, my peoples Daughter suffers more
For her great sins, then Sodom did before.
Her beautified Nazarites could show
A purer white than milk, whiter then snow;
Their bodies than the rubies were more red,
With shining Saphire were they polished.
But now their changed visages excel
The coal in blackness; they that knew them well,
Now know them not: their flesh adheres & sticks
Unto their bones, they are like with'red sticks.
Those that are ravisht of their fading breath
By the encountring sword, enjoy a death
Transcending theirs, whose lingring souls are pinde
For want of food: Ah famine's never kinde!
The woful women boyl their young, they have
Turn'd their own fruitful bellies to a grave.
The Lord hath now accomplished his ire,
Pour'd out his streaming anger, caus'd a fire
To flame in Sion, which devour'd and layd
Those buildings waste, which their own hands had made.
The wisest Kings, nor the worlds copious nations
Did ever think to see these great invasions
Of th'unbridled foe, whose head-long courses
Divides her gates with their divided forces.
The Priests & Prophets crimeless blood have shed;
Their sins drew down this mischief on their head.
Like those they wander, whose benighted eyes
Attract no light from the all-lighting skies:
They have themselves polluted, so that none
Can touch their clothes; they are with blood o're flown.
The people cried, depart, what do ye mean?
Depart, depart, touch not, it is unclean:
The Heathen, as they fled together, cry'd,
With us they shall not sojourn, nor abide.
Gods anger hath divided them; he never
Will love them more, but cast them off for ever:
They disrespected Priests, and they forgot
The gravest Elders, whom they pitied not.
But as for us, our help-beguiled eyes
Fail'd us as yet, no comfort would arise
To us; we watch'd for Nations, but their pow'r
Could not protect us from so great a showre.
They hunt our steps, our oft-extended feet
Cannot divide their paces in the street:
Our end is neer, and our days total sum
Is now fulfill'd, for now our end is come.
Our persecuters, our tormentors are
Swifter then Eagles that enforce the ayr:
Upon the mountains they pursu'd us; They,
To trap our feet, in ambushcado lay.
Those pits, which they for ruine have appointed,
Inclos'd our souls delight, the Lords anointed;
Under whose shadow we shall live, we said,
Amongst the Heathens; thus are we dismay'd.
The purest changed, that was wont to shine!
The stones that pav'd the Sanct'ary are thrown
Into the streets, for beasts to trample on.
The sons of Sion, which I could compare
To finest gold, behold, see now they are
Esteem'd as earthen pitchers, which the hands
Of the industrious Potter still commands.
The ill-shap'd monsters, which the Ocean owns
As proper guests, nourish their little ones:
But ah, my Daughters are grown pitiless,
Like Ostriches within the wilderness.
The wordless tongues of thirfty children cleave
To their unliquid mouths; they never leave
Their integrating cries: Poor hearts in vain
They cry for food, but can no food obtain.
And they that fed upon delicious sweets,
Are desolate in the unquiet streets:
53
Embrace a dunghil as their happiness.
For ah, my peoples Daughter suffers more
For her great sins, then Sodom did before.
Her beautified Nazarites could show
A purer white than milk, whiter then snow;
Their bodies than the rubies were more red,
With shining Saphire were they polished.
But now their changed visages excel
The coal in blackness; they that knew them well,
Now know them not: their flesh adheres & sticks
Unto their bones, they are like with'red sticks.
Those that are ravisht of their fading breath
By the encountring sword, enjoy a death
Transcending theirs, whose lingring souls are pinde
For want of food: Ah famine's never kinde!
The woful women boyl their young, they have
Turn'd their own fruitful bellies to a grave.
The Lord hath now accomplished his ire,
Pour'd out his streaming anger, caus'd a fire
To flame in Sion, which devour'd and layd
Those buildings waste, which their own hands had made.
The wisest Kings, nor the worlds copious nations
Did ever think to see these great invasions
Of th'unbridled foe, whose head-long courses
Divides her gates with their divided forces.
The Priests & Prophets crimeless blood have shed;
Their sins drew down this mischief on their head.
Like those they wander, whose benighted eyes
Attract no light from the all-lighting skies:
54
Can touch their clothes; they are with blood o're flown.
The people cried, depart, what do ye mean?
Depart, depart, touch not, it is unclean:
The Heathen, as they fled together, cry'd,
With us they shall not sojourn, nor abide.
Gods anger hath divided them; he never
Will love them more, but cast them off for ever:
They disrespected Priests, and they forgot
The gravest Elders, whom they pitied not.
But as for us, our help-beguiled eyes
Fail'd us as yet, no comfort would arise
To us; we watch'd for Nations, but their pow'r
Could not protect us from so great a showre.
They hunt our steps, our oft-extended feet
Cannot divide their paces in the street:
Our end is neer, and our days total sum
Is now fulfill'd, for now our end is come.
Our persecuters, our tormentors are
Swifter then Eagles that enforce the ayr:
Upon the mountains they pursu'd us; They,
To trap our feet, in ambushcado lay.
Those pits, which they for ruine have appointed,
Inclos'd our souls delight, the Lords anointed;
Under whose shadow we shall live, we said,
Amongst the Heathens; thus are we dismay'd.
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Chap. IV.
Fons Lachrymarum | |