Pia Desideria or, Divine Addresses, In Three Books. Illustrated with XLVII. Copper-Plates. Written in Latin by Herm. Hugo. Englished by Edm. Arwaker ... The Fourth Edition, Corrected |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
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| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| 2. | DESIRES OF THE RELIGIOUS SOUL.
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| II. |
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| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
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| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| 3. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
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| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
 | Pia Desideria |  |
79
DESIRES OF THE RELIGIOUS SOUL.
BOOK the Second.
I.
My Soul breaketh out for the very fervent desire that it hath always unto thy Judgments,
Psal. cxix. 20.
While
Heav'n and Earth solicite me to love,
My doubtful Choice is puzzel'd wch t'approve:
Heav'n cries, Obey, while Earth proclaims, be Free,
Heav'n urges Duty, Earth pleads Liberty.
Call'd hence by Heav'n, by Earth I'm call'd again,
Tost, like a Vessel on the restless Main:
These diff'rent Loves a doubtful Combat wage,
And thus Obstruct the Choice they wou'd engage.
Ah! 'tis enough; let my long-harrast Mind
In the best Choice a quiet Haven find!
O my dear God! Let not my Soul incline
To any Love, or let that Love be thine!
'Tis true, 'tis pleasant to be free to chuse,
And when we will, accept; when not, refuse.
Freedom of Choice endures Restraint but ill;
'Tis Usurpation on th'unbounded Will.
The neighing Steed thus, loos'd from Bitt, and Rein
To his lov'd, well-known Pasture runs again.
Thus the glad Ox, from the Ploughs burthen freed,
Runs lowing on to wanton in the Mead:
And when the Hind their freedom wou'd revoke,
This scorns his Harness, That defies the Yoak.
For freedom in our Choice we count a Bliss;
Eager to chuse, tho' oft we chuse amiss.
So the young Prodigal, impatient grown
To manage his entire Estate alone,
Takes from his prudent Father's frugal Care
His Stock, by that improv'd and thriving there:
But his own Steward made, with eager haste
He does the slow-gained Patrimony waste,
Till starv'd by Riot, and with Want oppress't,
He feeds with Swine, himself the greater Beast.
Thus in Destruction often we rejoyce,
Pleas'd with our Ruin, since it was our Choice.
How do we weary Heav'n with diff'rent Prayers!
The medly, sure, ridiculous appears.
This begs a Wife, nor thinks a greater Bliss;
And that's as earnest to be rid of his:
This prays for Children; That o'er-stock'd, repines
At the too fruitful Issue of his Loins.
This asks his Father's Days may be prolong'd;
That, if his Father lives, complains he's Wrong'd:
Youth prays for good old Age, and aged Men
Wou'd cast their Skins, and fain grow young agen.
Scarce in Ten thousand any Two agree;
Nay, some dislike what they just wish'd to be.
None knows this Minute what he ought require,
Since ev'n the next begets a new Desire.
So Women pine with various Longing-fits,
When breeding has deprav'd their Appetites;
The humorsom impertinent Disease
Makes that which pleas'd them most, as much displease.
My doubtful Choice is puzzel'd wch t'approve:
Heav'n cries, Obey, while Earth proclaims, be Free,
Heav'n urges Duty, Earth pleads Liberty.
Call'd hence by Heav'n, by Earth I'm call'd again,
Tost, like a Vessel on the restless Main:
These diff'rent Loves a doubtful Combat wage,
And thus Obstruct the Choice they wou'd engage.
Ah! 'tis enough; let my long-harrast Mind
In the best Choice a quiet Haven find!
O my dear God! Let not my Soul incline
To any Love, or let that Love be thine!
80
And when we will, accept; when not, refuse.
Freedom of Choice endures Restraint but ill;
'Tis Usurpation on th'unbounded Will.
The neighing Steed thus, loos'd from Bitt, and Rein
To his lov'd, well-known Pasture runs again.
Thus the glad Ox, from the Ploughs burthen freed,
Runs lowing on to wanton in the Mead:
And when the Hind their freedom wou'd revoke,
This scorns his Harness, That defies the Yoak.
For freedom in our Choice we count a Bliss;
Eager to chuse, tho' oft we chuse amiss.
So the young Prodigal, impatient grown
To manage his entire Estate alone,
Takes from his prudent Father's frugal Care
His Stock, by that improv'd and thriving there:
But his own Steward made, with eager haste
He does the slow-gained Patrimony waste,
Till starv'd by Riot, and with Want oppress't,
He feeds with Swine, himself the greater Beast.
Thus in Destruction often we rejoyce,
Pleas'd with our Ruin, since it was our Choice.
How do we weary Heav'n with diff'rent Prayers!
The medly, sure, ridiculous appears.
This begs a Wife, nor thinks a greater Bliss;
And that's as earnest to be rid of his:
81
At the too fruitful Issue of his Loins.
This asks his Father's Days may be prolong'd;
That, if his Father lives, complains he's Wrong'd:
Youth prays for good old Age, and aged Men
Wou'd cast their Skins, and fain grow young agen.
Scarce in Ten thousand any Two agree;
Nay, some dislike what they just wish'd to be.
None knows this Minute what he ought require,
Since ev'n the next begets a new Desire.
So Women pine with various Longing-fits,
When breeding has deprav'd their Appetites;
The humorsom impertinent Disease
Makes that which pleas'd them most, as much displease.
Oh! why, like them, grown restless with Desire,
Do my vain Thoughts to boundless Hopes Aspire?
Be gone false Hopes, vain Wishes, anxious Fears!
Hence, you Disturbers of my peaceful Years!
O my dear God! let not my Soul incline
To any Love, or let that Love be thine!
Do my vain Thoughts to boundless Hopes Aspire?
Be gone false Hopes, vain Wishes, anxious Fears!
Hence, you Disturbers of my peaceful Years!
O my dear God! let not my Soul incline
To any Love, or let that Love be thine!
Allure, O Lord, my Desires with that sweetness which thou hast laid up for them that fear thee, that I may desire thee with eternal longings; lest the inward relish, being deceived, may mistake bitter for sweet, and sweet for better.
Aug. Soliloq. cap. 12.
83
II.
O that my ways were made so direct, that I might keep thy Statutes!
Psal. cxix. 5.
In what a maze of Error do I stray,
Where various Paths confound my doubtful Way!
This, to the Right; That to the Left-hand lies:
Here, Vales descend; there swelling Mountains rise:
This has an easie, That a rugged way;
The treach'ry This conceals, That does betray.
But Whither these so diff'rent Courses go,
Their wandring Paths forbid, till try'd, to know.
Mæander's Stream a streighter Motion steers,
Tho' with himself the Wand'rer interferes.
Not the fictitious Labyrinth of old
Did in more dubious Paths its Guests infold;
Here greater Difficulties stay my Feet,
And on each Road I thwarting Dangers meet.
Nor I the diff'rent windings only fear,
(In which the Artist's Skill did most appear:)
But, more to heighten and increase my Dread,
Darkness involves each doubtful Step I tread.
No friendly Tracts my wandring Foot-steps guide,
Nor other Feet th'untrodden Ground have try'd;
And, tho', lest on some fatal Rock I run,
With out-stretcht Arms I grope my Passage on;
Yet dare I not through Night and Danger stray,
They'arrest my cautious Steps, and stop my Way.
Like a strange Trav'ller by the Sun forsook,
And in a Road unknown by Night o're-took,
In whose lone Paths no Neighb'ring Swains reside,
No friendly Star appears to be his Guide,
No sign or tract by humane Foot-steps worn,
But solitary all, and all forlorn.
He knows not but each blind-fold Step he treads
To some wild Desart or fierce River leads:
Then calls aloud, and his hoarse Voice does strain,
In hope of Answer from some Neighb'ring Swain;
While nought but cheating Eccho calls again.
Where various Paths confound my doubtful Way!
This, to the Right; That to the Left-hand lies:
Here, Vales descend; there swelling Mountains rise:
This has an easie, That a rugged way;
The treach'ry This conceals, That does betray.
But Whither these so diff'rent Courses go,
Their wandring Paths forbid, till try'd, to know.
Mæander's Stream a streighter Motion steers,
Tho' with himself the Wand'rer interferes.
Not the fictitious Labyrinth of old
Did in more dubious Paths its Guests infold;
Here greater Difficulties stay my Feet,
And on each Road I thwarting Dangers meet.
Nor I the diff'rent windings only fear,
(In which the Artist's Skill did most appear:)
But, more to heighten and increase my Dread,
Darkness involves each doubtful Step I tread.
84
Nor other Feet th'untrodden Ground have try'd;
And, tho', lest on some fatal Rock I run,
With out-stretcht Arms I grope my Passage on;
Yet dare I not through Night and Danger stray,
They'arrest my cautious Steps, and stop my Way.
Like a strange Trav'ller by the Sun forsook,
And in a Road unknown by Night o're-took,
In whose lone Paths no Neighb'ring Swains reside,
No friendly Star appears to be his Guide,
No sign or tract by humane Foot-steps worn,
But solitary all, and all forlorn.
He knows not but each blind-fold Step he treads
To some wild Desart or fierce River leads:
Then calls aloud, and his hoarse Voice does strain,
In hope of Answer from some Neighb'ring Swain;
While nought but cheating Eccho calls again.
Oh! who will help a Wretch thus gone astray!
What friendly Star direct my dubious way?
A glorious Cloud conducted Israel's Flight,
By Day their Cov'ring, as their Guide by Night.
The Eastern Kings found Bethlem too from far,
Led by the shining Conduct of a Star;
Nor cou'd they in their tedious Journey Err,
Who had so bright a Fellow-Traveller.
What friendly Star direct my dubious way?
A glorious Cloud conducted Israel's Flight,
By Day their Cov'ring, as their Guide by Night.
The Eastern Kings found Bethlem too from far,
Led by the shining Conduct of a Star;
Nor cou'd they in their tedious Journey Err,
Who had so bright a Fellow-Traveller.
85
Be thou no less Propitious Lord, to me,
Since all my Bus'ness is to Worship Thee.
See how the wand'ring Croud mistake their way,
And, tost about by their own Error, stray!
This tumbles head-long from an unseen Hill;
That lights on a blind Path, and wanders still.
With Haste, but not Good Speed, this hurries on;
That moves no faster than a Snail might run.
While to and fro another hasts in vain,
No sooner in the right, than out again.
Hear One walks on alone, whose boasted Skill,
Invites Another to attend him still;
Till among Thorns or miry Pools they tread;
This by his Guide, that by Himself misled.
Here One in a perpetual Circle moves,
Another, there, in endless Mazes roves;
And when he thinks his weary Ramble done,
He finds (alas!) he has but just begun.
Thus still, in Droves, the blinded Rabble stray,
Scarce one Thousand keeps or finds the way.
Since all my Bus'ness is to Worship Thee.
See how the wand'ring Croud mistake their way,
And, tost about by their own Error, stray!
This tumbles head-long from an unseen Hill;
That lights on a blind Path, and wanders still.
With Haste, but not Good Speed, this hurries on;
That moves no faster than a Snail might run.
While to and fro another hasts in vain,
No sooner in the right, than out again.
Hear One walks on alone, whose boasted Skill,
Invites Another to attend him still;
Till among Thorns or miry Pools they tread;
This by his Guide, that by Himself misled.
Here One in a perpetual Circle moves,
Another, there, in endless Mazes roves;
And when he thinks his weary Ramble done,
He finds (alas!) he has but just begun.
Thus still, in Droves, the blinded Rabble stray,
Scarce one Thousand keeps or finds the way.
O that my Ways directed were by Thee,
From the deceits of baneful Error free!
Till all my Motion, like a Dart's, became
Swift as its Flight, unerring as its Aim,
That where thy Laws require me to Obey,
I may not loiter, nor mistake the Way.
Then be Thou, Lord, the Bow, thy Law the White,
And I the Arrow destin'd for the Flight:
And when thou'rt pleas'd to shew thy greatest Skill,
Make me the polish'd Shaft t'obey thy Will.
From the deceits of baneful Error free!
Till all my Motion, like a Dart's, became
Swift as its Flight, unerring as its Aim,
86
I may not loiter, nor mistake the Way.
Then be Thou, Lord, the Bow, thy Law the White,
And I the Arrow destin'd for the Flight:
And when thou'rt pleas'd to shew thy greatest Skill,
Make me the polish'd Shaft t'obey thy Will.
87
O Lord, who art the Light, the Way, the Truth, and the Life; in whom there is no Darkness, Error, Vanity, or Death. Say the word, O Lord, let there be Light, that I may see the Light, and shun the Darkness; that I may find the right way, and avoid the wrong; that I may follow Truth, and flee from Vanity; that I may obtain Life, and escape Death.
Aug. Soliloq. cap. 4.
89
III.
O hold thou up my going in thy Paths, that my Footsteps slip not,
Psal. xvii. 5.
So oft will me my faithless Feet betray,
So often stumble in so plain a way?
O thou, who all our Steps from Heav'n dost see,
O hold me up, dear Lord, who lean on Thee.
So often stumble in so plain a way?
O thou, who all our Steps from Heav'n dost see,
O hold me up, dear Lord, who lean on Thee.
The Stork instructs her timerous Young to stray,
In hidden Tracts through Heav'ns wide pathless way:
Till the apt Brood, by bold Example led,
Perform the daring Flight they us'd to dread.
In hidden Tracts through Heav'ns wide pathless way:
Till the apt Brood, by bold Example led,
Perform the daring Flight they us'd to dread.
The Eagles teach their unfledg'd Young to fly,
Around th'untrodden Regions of the Sky.
Till for their Aid they now no longer care;
But fearless row, with feather'd Fins, thro' Seas of Air.
Thus Boys, when first they venture Streams unknown,
On Spungy Cork's light weight, support their own:
Till more improv'd, they their first help throw by,
Ambitious now alone the Floods to try.
And tho' a while, e'er they have Practis'd been,
Too often they'll unwelcome Draughts suck in;
Yet they, at length by use, Perfection gain,
And sport and play, wide-wandring in the Main.
Around th'untrodden Regions of the Sky.
Till for their Aid they now no longer care;
But fearless row, with feather'd Fins, thro' Seas of Air.
Thus Boys, when first they venture Streams unknown,
On Spungy Cork's light weight, support their own:
Till more improv'd, they their first help throw by,
Ambitious now alone the Floods to try.
90
Too often they'll unwelcome Draughts suck in;
Yet they, at length by use, Perfection gain,
And sport and play, wide-wandring in the Main.
Thou, who from Heav'n observ'st our Steps below,
See by what Arts thy Servant learns to go!
While all my weight on this slight Engine's laid,
I move the Wheels that do my Motion aid.
Thus feeble Age, supported by a Cane,
Is tir'd with that on which 'tis forc'd to lean.
But tho', dear Lord! ambiguous Terms I use,
I of no failure can my Feet accuse:
I can perceive no Imperfection there,
No rocky Ways, or thorny Roads they fear:
The weakness of my Mind disturbs me most,
Whose languid Feet have all their Motion lost:
All its Affections Lame and Bed-rid are,
(Those Feet, alas! which shou'd its Motion steer;)
When it shou'd move in Virtues easie road,
Alas! 'tis tir'd as soon as got abroad.
My frail, my bending Knees assistance need,
Weaker than Rushes, or the bruised Reed.
Sometimes, but rarely, it renews the Race,
And eagerly moves on, a Jehu's Pace:
But, weary of its Journey, scarce begun,
Its boasted Flame is all extinct, as soon
As smoaking Flax by rugged Whirlwinds blown.
Yet, lest I shou'd too much my Sloth betray,
I force my Steps and make some little way;
But then am cautious how my Feet I guide
Lest they shou'd chance to trip, or rove aside:
And the uncharitable World incline
To place it not on Weakness, but on Wine.
My reeling Steps move an indented pace,
As 'twere a Cripple halting o're a Race.
I will, I won't; I burn, all in a Breath;
And that's scarce out, e'er I'm as cold as Death:
And then, impatient at my fruitless Pain,
Tir'd in the mid-way, I return again:
Yet cannot then recover my first Place,
The pleasant Seat whence I began my Race.
Tost, like a Ship on the tempestuous Wave,
Which neither help of Sails nor Oars can save,
While with new vain Attemps I try again,
And would repair the Loss I did sustain,
The small Success too manifestly proves
My fruitless Labor in a Circle moves.
Thus Slaves, condemn'd to ply a toilsom Mill,
Repeat the same returning Motion still:
Tho' still the restless Engine's hurry'd round,
They by its haste gain not one Foot of Ground.
See by what Arts thy Servant learns to go!
While all my weight on this slight Engine's laid,
I move the Wheels that do my Motion aid.
Thus feeble Age, supported by a Cane,
Is tir'd with that on which 'tis forc'd to lean.
But tho', dear Lord! ambiguous Terms I use,
I of no failure can my Feet accuse:
I can perceive no Imperfection there,
No rocky Ways, or thorny Roads they fear:
The weakness of my Mind disturbs me most,
Whose languid Feet have all their Motion lost:
All its Affections Lame and Bed-rid are,
(Those Feet, alas! which shou'd its Motion steer;)
When it shou'd move in Virtues easie road,
Alas! 'tis tir'd as soon as got abroad.
My frail, my bending Knees assistance need,
Weaker than Rushes, or the bruised Reed.
Sometimes, but rarely, it renews the Race,
And eagerly moves on, a Jehu's Pace:
91
Its boasted Flame is all extinct, as soon
As smoaking Flax by rugged Whirlwinds blown.
Yet, lest I shou'd too much my Sloth betray,
I force my Steps and make some little way;
But then am cautious how my Feet I guide
Lest they shou'd chance to trip, or rove aside:
And the uncharitable World incline
To place it not on Weakness, but on Wine.
My reeling Steps move an indented pace,
As 'twere a Cripple halting o're a Race.
I will, I won't; I burn, all in a Breath;
And that's scarce out, e'er I'm as cold as Death:
And then, impatient at my fruitless Pain,
Tir'd in the mid-way, I return again:
Yet cannot then recover my first Place,
The pleasant Seat whence I began my Race.
Tost, like a Ship on the tempestuous Wave,
Which neither help of Sails nor Oars can save,
While with new vain Attemps I try again,
And would repair the Loss I did sustain,
The small Success too manifestly proves
My fruitless Labor in a Circle moves.
Thus Slaves, condemn'd to ply a toilsom Mill,
Repeat the same returning Motion still:
92
They by its haste gain not one Foot of Ground.
What shall I do, a Stranger to the Race,
Whose lazy Feet scarce move a Snails slow Pace?
Heav'n lies remote from this mean Globe below,
None but the swift and strong can thither go;
What then shall this my heavy Chariot do?
Whose lazy Feet scarce move a Snails slow Pace?
Heav'n lies remote from this mean Globe below,
None but the swift and strong can thither go;
What then shall this my heavy Chariot do?
Thy Footsteps, Lord, o'recome the roughest way;
A Gyant's Feet move not so swift as they.
Thou with a Step dost East and West divide,
And o're the World, like a Colossus, stride.
A Gyant's Feet move not so swift as they.
Thou with a Step dost East and West divide,
And o're the World, like a Colossus, stride.
But like the Tortoise, my dull Foot's delay'd,
Or rather like the Crab, moves retrograde.
How can I then hope to that Goal to run,
I make the Bus'ness of my Life to shun?
But do thou, Lord, my trembling Feet sustain,
Then I the Race and the Reward shall gain.
Or rather like the Crab, moves retrograde.
How can I then hope to that Goal to run,
I make the Bus'ness of my Life to shun?
But do thou, Lord, my trembling Feet sustain,
Then I the Race and the Reward shall gain.
93
Who among so many Troubles of the Body, among so many Allurements of the World, can keep a safe and unerring Course?
Amb. de fuga fæculi, cap. 1.
95
IV.
My Flesh trembleth for fear of thee, and I am afraid of thy Judgments,
Psal. cxix 120.
A dread of Heav'n was by the Ancients taught,
As the first Impress on Man's infant Thought,
And he who understood it best, has said,
'Tis the prime Step that does to Wisdom lead.
Inform'd by this my early Childhood grew,
And to fear Heav'n was the first thing I knew:
But still such dark Oblivion dull'd my Mind,
I could not the repeated Alpha find.
No Stripes can punish my neglectful Crime,
Thus unimprov'd t'have trifled out my Time.
Dull Boys by Stripes with Learning are inspir'd,
By little Pains, with Industry acquir'd:
When twice or thrice they read their Letters o're,
They're as familiar as if known before:
And tho' in Colour all alike appear,
Each is distinguish'd by its Character.
May I not hope Age will compleat in me
The easie Task of tender Infancy?
96
Too apt, (alas!) to Practise them untaught.
Why is not Fear as soon imbib'd, a Rule
So oft explain'd in Arts Improving School?
What I should slight, still (to my shame) I fear,
And slight that most, which I shou'd most revere.
I fear Mans Eye when I wou'd act a Sin,
But dread not Heav'n, nor the great Judge within:
For my gross Body I am still in fear,
But my pure Soul partakes not of my Care.
Thus silly Birds a harmless Scare-crow shun;
Yet boldly to the fatal Lime twigs run.
The Royal Stag thus Feathers frighten more,
Than the full cry of Hounds, that's just before.
Thus the fierce Lion, of false Fires afraid,
Flies to the Toils, in which he is betray'd.
Such Vanity has Men's dark Minds o'respread.
That less the Thunder than the Clap they dread;
Think Hell a Fable, an invented Name,
And count its Fire a harmless lambent Flame.
With brutish Rage to blackest Ills they run,
And never fear the Wickedness, till done:
But tho' this Fear did not their Crimes prevent,
'Twill come, too sure, to be their Punishment.
Then with strange Frights, from their lost Senses driv'n,
Their restless Thoughts run on offended Heav'n:
97
And call them from their lonely Beds to arm,
While their own Shadows only do them harm.
Each little thing's so magnify'd by Fear,
They dread a Lion, when a Mouse they hear.
If in the Night they hear a gentle Breeze
Begin to wisper in the murmuring Trees,
With Hair erect, and cold unnatural Sweat,
They shrink beneath the conscious Coverlet.
What do they then, when glaring Lightnings fly,
And bellowing Thunders roll along the Sky?
They think each Flash a Messenger of Death,
And at each Crack despair of longer Breath;
At every Noise they in new Fears engage,
And Ruin from each Accident presage;
Nay, ev'n of Silence, and its self afraid:
The troubled Mind's eternally dismay'd.
Such Punishments attend afflicting Guilt,
Which never Pain like its own Torments felt.
Thus trembling Cain dreads from each Hand he sees
The Fate his injur'd Brother had from his.
His crimson Soul, with Abel's Murther stain'd,
Still with the bloody Scene is entertain'd.
No more severe Correction waits on Sin,
Than its unbrib'd Upbraider still within.
98
My Fury wants this kind Restriction still.
Fear timely comes before a Fault's begun,
He fears too late, that fears not till 'tis done.
99
The Holy Psalmist desires wisely to be smitten, and healthfully to be wounded, when he prays to be Transfix'd with the fear of God; for that fear is an excellent Dart, that wounds and destroys the Lusts of the Flesh, that the Spirit may be safe.
Bernard. Serm. 26.
101
V.
O turn away mine Eyes, lest they behold Vanity,
Psal. cxix. 37.
In my high Capitol two Centries still
Keep constant watch, to guard the Citadel:
If fix'd or wandring Stars, I do not know,
Tho' either Epithet becomes them too;
Each from its Duty is in straggling lost,
Yet each maintains immovably its Post;
Both swift of Motion, yet both fix'd remain:
What Sampson this dark Riddle can explain?
Keep constant watch, to guard the Citadel:
If fix'd or wandring Stars, I do not know,
Tho' either Epithet becomes them too;
Each from its Duty is in straggling lost,
Yet each maintains immovably its Post;
Both swift of Motion, yet both fix'd remain:
What Sampson this dark Riddle can explain?
Ev'n You, my Eyes, are these mysterious Stars,
Fix'd in my Head, yet daily Wanderers:
Who plac'd in that exalted Tow'r of mine,
Like Torches in some lofty Pharos shine;
Or like to Watch-men on some rising place,
View every near, and every distant pass.
Yet you to me less constant prove by far,
Than those kind Guides to their Observers are;
Their Favours only with themselves Expire,
Unless the Hand that gave, recalls their Fire.
You, like mad Steeds, too headstrong for the Rein,
Will let no Pow'r your wandring Course restrain:
You, by whose Guidance we shou'd Danger shun,
Betray us to the Rocks on which we run.
Thus wandring Dina, led by your false Light,
Expos'd her Honour, to oblige her Sight.
Thus, while Jessides view'd the bathing Dame,
What cool'd her Heat, kindled in him a Flame.
Thus gazing on the Hebrew Matrons Eyes,
Made the Assyrian's Head her easie Prize.
Thus the fond Elders, by their Sight misled,
Pursu'd the Joys of a forbidden Bed;
Nor cou'd their lustfull Flame be disposset,
Till with a show'r of weighty Stones supprest.
Fix'd in my Head, yet daily Wanderers:
Who plac'd in that exalted Tow'r of mine,
Like Torches in some lofty Pharos shine;
Or like to Watch-men on some rising place,
View every near, and every distant pass.
Yet you to me less constant prove by far,
Than those kind Guides to their Observers are;
102
Unless the Hand that gave, recalls their Fire.
You, like mad Steeds, too headstrong for the Rein,
Will let no Pow'r your wandring Course restrain:
You, by whose Guidance we shou'd Danger shun,
Betray us to the Rocks on which we run.
Thus wandring Dina, led by your false Light,
Expos'd her Honour, to oblige her Sight.
Thus, while Jessides view'd the bathing Dame,
What cool'd her Heat, kindled in him a Flame.
Thus gazing on the Hebrew Matrons Eyes,
Made the Assyrian's Head her easie Prize.
Thus the fond Elders, by their Sight misled,
Pursu'd the Joys of a forbidden Bed;
Nor cou'd their lustfull Flame be disposset,
Till with a show'r of weighty Stones supprest.
More ruin'd Souls by these false Guides are lost,
Than Shipwreck'd Vessels on the Rockiest Coast.
Than Shipwreck'd Vessels on the Rockiest Coast.
Then Happy he, Happy alike and Wise,
Who made a timely Cov'nant with his Eyes!
And Happier he who did his Guards Disband,
Torn from their Posts by his wise fearless Hand!
Who made a timely Cov'nant with his Eyes!
And Happier he who did his Guards Disband,
Torn from their Posts by his wise fearless Hand!
103
So ill, false Centries, you your Charge perform,
You favour the Surprize, that shou'd the Camp allarm.
Did you for this the Capitol obtain?
For this the Charge of the Chief Castle gain?
That you have thus t'inferior Earth betray'd,
Man's lofty Soul, for nobler Objects made?
And do not rather raise his Thoughts on high,
Above the starry Arches of the Sky?
That Theatre will entertain his Sight
With various Scenes of suitable Delight:
But you are more on Earth than Heav'n intent,
And your industrious Search is downward bent.
You favour the Surprize, that shou'd the Camp allarm.
Did you for this the Capitol obtain?
For this the Charge of the Chief Castle gain?
That you have thus t'inferior Earth betray'd,
Man's lofty Soul, for nobler Objects made?
And do not rather raise his Thoughts on high,
Above the starry Arches of the Sky?
That Theatre will entertain his Sight
With various Scenes of suitable Delight:
But you are more on Earth than Heav'n intent,
And your industrious Search is downward bent.
What shall I do, since you unruly grow,
And will no Limits, no Confinement know?
Oh! shut the Wandrer's up in endless Night,
Or with thy Hand, dear God, contract their Sight.
And will no Limits, no Confinement know?
Oh! shut the Wandrer's up in endless Night,
Or with thy Hand, dear God, contract their Sight.
Woe to the blind Eyes that see not Thee, the Sun that enlightens both Heaven and Earth! woe to the dim Eyes that cannot see Thee! wo to them that turn away their Eyes from beholding Truth! woe to them that turn not away their Eyes from beholding Vanity!
Aug. Soliloq. cap. 4.
105
VI.
O let my Heart be sound in thy Statutes, that I be not ashamed,
Psal. cxix. 89.
Cou'd I but hope my Face wou'd please my Dear,
That shou'd be all my Bus'ness, all my Care:
My first Concern shou'd for Complexion be,
The next, to keep my Skin from Freckles free:
No help of Art, or Industry I'd want,
No Beauty-water, or improving Paint,
My Dressing-boxes shou'd with Charms abound,
To make decay'd Old Flesh seem Young and Sound:
With Spanish-wool, red as the Blooming Rose,
And Cerusse, whiter than the Mountain Snows:
With all the Arts that studious Virgins know,
Who on their Beauty too much Pains bestow.
Then I'd correct each Error by my Glass,
Till not one Fault were found in all my Face.
If on my Brow one Hair amiss I spy'd,
That very Hair shou'd soon be rectify'd.
If dull my Eyes, how loudly I'd complain
Till they their wonted Lustre wore again.
Shou'd but one Wrinkle in my Face appear,
I'd cry, What means this swacy Wrinkle here?
Ev'n with each Mole t'offend thee I shou'd fear,
Cou'd I but think this Face to thee were dear.
For if the smallest Wart thereon shou'd rise,
I doubt t'wou'd seem a Mountain in your Eyes.
Nay, the least Fault my self wou'd Censure too,
For fear that Fault shou'd be dislik'd by you.
Thus every Grace which Nature has deny'd,
By Art's kind help shou'd amply be supply'd:
With Curls and Locks I wou'd adorn my Head,
And thick with Jewels my gay Tresses spread:
With double Pearls I'd hang my loaded Ears,
Whilst my white Neck vast Chains of Rubies wears.
Thus I among the Fairest wou'd be seen,
And dare vie Beauty, ev'n with Sheba's Queen.
That shou'd be all my Bus'ness, all my Care:
My first Concern shou'd for Complexion be,
The next, to keep my Skin from Freckles free:
No help of Art, or Industry I'd want,
No Beauty-water, or improving Paint,
My Dressing-boxes shou'd with Charms abound,
To make decay'd Old Flesh seem Young and Sound:
With Spanish-wool, red as the Blooming Rose,
And Cerusse, whiter than the Mountain Snows:
With all the Arts that studious Virgins know,
Who on their Beauty too much Pains bestow.
Then I'd correct each Error by my Glass,
Till not one Fault were found in all my Face.
If on my Brow one Hair amiss I spy'd,
That very Hair shou'd soon be rectify'd.
If dull my Eyes, how loudly I'd complain
Till they their wonted Lustre wore again.
106
I'd cry, What means this swacy Wrinkle here?
Ev'n with each Mole t'offend thee I shou'd fear,
Cou'd I but think this Face to thee were dear.
For if the smallest Wart thereon shou'd rise,
I doubt t'wou'd seem a Mountain in your Eyes.
Nay, the least Fault my self wou'd Censure too,
For fear that Fault shou'd be dislik'd by you.
Thus every Grace which Nature has deny'd,
By Art's kind help shou'd amply be supply'd:
With Curls and Locks I wou'd adorn my Head,
And thick with Jewels my gay Tresses spread:
With double Pearls I'd hang my loaded Ears,
Whilst my white Neck vast Chains of Rubies wears.
Thus I among the Fairest wou'd be seen,
And dare vie Beauty, ev'n with Sheba's Queen.
But oh! no such vain Toys affect your Mind,
These meet with no Admirers, but the Blind,
Who in a Dress seek Objects of their Love,
Which once put off, the Beauties too remove.
Thus the fond Crowd's caught by a gay Attire,
The only Thing indeed they find t'admrie.
These meet with no Admirers, but the Blind,
Who in a Dress seek Objects of their Love,
Which once put off, the Beauties too remove.
Thus the fond Crowd's caught by a gay Attire,
The only Thing indeed they find t'admrie.
But You, my Love, no borrow'd Beauties prize,
No artificial Charms, attract your Eyes.
Dear as your own, you rate a spotless Heart,
And for its sake accept each other Part.
No artificial Charms, attract your Eyes.
107
And for its sake accept each other Part.
Oh that my Heart unspotted were, and free
From every Tincture of impurity!
Then in your favour I shou'd make my Boast.
And hate each Stain by which it might be lost.
From every Tincture of impurity!
Then in your favour I shou'd make my Boast.
And hate each Stain by which it might be lost.
O base and filthy Spots, why do you stick so long? Be gone, depart, and presume no more to offend my Beloved's Sight.
Hugo de S. Vict. in Arrha animæ.
109
VII.
Come my Beloved, let us go forth into the Fields, let us lodge in the Villages,
Cant. vii. 11,
Come, come, my Love, let's leave the busie Throng,
We trifle here our precious Time too long.
Come, let us hasten to some Field or Grove,
The fittest Theatres for Scenes of Love.
Strong Walls and Gates the City guard, 'tis true,
But what secures it thus, confines it too.
We'll reap the Pleasures of the open Field,
Which does Security with Freedom yield.
For there's I know not what, so safe, so dear
I'th' Country, as we ne'er shou'd light on here.
What tho' the City-Tow'rs the Clouds invade,
And o'er the Fields project their lofty shade?
Yet thence Content has made a far Retreat,
And chose the humble Cottages its Seat;
(Where something more divinely Sweet they breath,
Altho' all Thatch above, all Earth beneath.)
There the remotest Solitude enjoys
The Blessing of more Quiet, and less Noise.
Come then, my Love, and let's retire from hence,
And leave this busie fond Impertinence.
See! ev'n the Cities eldest Son and Heir,
Who gets his Gold, his dear-lov'd Idol, there;
Yet in the Country spends his City-gains,
And makes its Pleasure recompence his Pains:
And tho' the City has his publick Voice,
The Country ever is his private Choice.
Here still the Rich, the Noble, and the Great,
Unbend their Minds in a secure Retreat;
And Heavn's free Canopy yields more Delight
Than guilded Roofs and Fret-work to the Sight.
Nor can fenc'd Cities keep the Mind in Peace,
So well as open guardless Villages.
Come then, my Love, let's from the City hast,
Each Minute we spend there, is so much waste.
We trifle here our precious Time too long.
Come, let us hasten to some Field or Grove,
The fittest Theatres for Scenes of Love.
Strong Walls and Gates the City guard, 'tis true,
But what secures it thus, confines it too.
We'll reap the Pleasures of the open Field,
Which does Security with Freedom yield.
For there's I know not what, so safe, so dear
I'th' Country, as we ne'er shou'd light on here.
What tho' the City-Tow'rs the Clouds invade,
And o'er the Fields project their lofty shade?
Yet thence Content has made a far Retreat,
And chose the humble Cottages its Seat;
(Where something more divinely Sweet they breath,
Altho' all Thatch above, all Earth beneath.)
110
The Blessing of more Quiet, and less Noise.
Come then, my Love, and let's retire from hence,
And leave this busie fond Impertinence.
See! ev'n the Cities eldest Son and Heir,
Who gets his Gold, his dear-lov'd Idol, there;
Yet in the Country spends his City-gains,
And makes its Pleasure recompence his Pains:
And tho' the City has his publick Voice,
The Country ever is his private Choice.
Here still the Rich, the Noble, and the Great,
Unbend their Minds in a secure Retreat;
And Heavn's free Canopy yields more Delight
Than guilded Roofs and Fret-work to the Sight.
Nor can fenc'd Cities keep the Mind in Peace,
So well as open guardless Villages.
Come then, my Love, let's from the City hast,
Each Minute we spend there, is so much waste.
I have a Country-Farm, whose fertile Ground
Soft murmuring Brooks and chrystal Streams surround;
A better Air or Soil were never known,
Nor more convenient Distance from the Town:
Hither, my Love, if thou wilt take thy Flight,
The City will no more thy Sense Delight,
Driv'n from thy Thoughts as quickly as thy Sight.
Here in the Shades I will my Dear Caress,
At leisure to receive my kind Address.
Here, from the City and its Tumults free,
I shall enjoy more than my Self, in Thee.
As o'er our Heads, dress'd in their leavy State,
The amorous Turtle wooes his faithful Mate.
No Bus'ness shall invade our Pleasure here,
No rude Disturber of our Joys appear.
Here thou thy secret Passions shalt reveal,
And whisper in my Ear the pleasing Tale;
While in Requital I disclose my Flame,
And in the fav'ring Shades conceal my Shame.
Oh! cou'd I see that Happy Happy Day!
I know no Bliss beyond, for which to Pray.
Then to the Country let us, Dear, repair,
For Love thrives best in the clear open Air.
Soft murmuring Brooks and chrystal Streams surround;
A better Air or Soil were never known,
Nor more convenient Distance from the Town:
Hither, my Love, if thou wilt take thy Flight,
The City will no more thy Sense Delight,
Driv'n from thy Thoughts as quickly as thy Sight.
111
At leisure to receive my kind Address.
Here, from the City and its Tumults free,
I shall enjoy more than my Self, in Thee.
As o'er our Heads, dress'd in their leavy State,
The amorous Turtle wooes his faithful Mate.
No Bus'ness shall invade our Pleasure here,
No rude Disturber of our Joys appear.
Here thou thy secret Passions shalt reveal,
And whisper in my Ear the pleasing Tale;
While in Requital I disclose my Flame,
And in the fav'ring Shades conceal my Shame.
Oh! cou'd I see that Happy Happy Day!
I know no Bliss beyond, for which to Pray.
Then to the Country let us, Dear, repair,
For Love thrives best in the clear open Air.
What dost thou? How long do the Shadows of the Houses confine thee? How long does the Prison of the smoaky City shut thee up? Believe me, I see some greater Light, and am resolv'd to throw off the burthen of the Flesh, and fly to the splendor of the purer Air.
Hieron. Ep. ad Hesiod. 1.
113
VIII.
Draw me, we will run after thee, (in the savour of thy Oyntments,)
Cant. I. 4.
See how my feeble Limbs, now giv'n in vain,
Increase the Burthen which they shou'd sustain!
While, weary of my hated Life, I lie,
A faint Resemblance of what once was I.
My Head, deprest with its one weight, hangs low,
And to themselves my Limbs a Burthen grow.
In various Postures still I seek for Ease,
But find at last not any one to please.
Now I wou'd rise, now wish my self in Bed,
Now with my Hands support my drooping Head:
Now on my Back, now on my Face I lie,
And now for Rest on either side I try:
And when my Bed I've tumbled Restless o're,
I'm still th'uneasie Wretch I was before.
Thus hinder'd by my own Infirmity,
Tho' fain I would, I cannot follow thee.
Then wilt thou go, and leave me Dying here?
Is this thy Kindness, this thy Love, my Dear;
And do I then so great a Burthen grow,
Thou wilt not stay till I can with thee go?
Thus Soldiers from their wounded Comrades fly
At an Allarm of any Danger nigh.
Unnat'ral Mothers thus their Babes disclaim,
Urg'd to the Sin by Poverty or Shame.
Stretch, Lord, thy Hand, and thy weak Follower meet,
Or if not reach thy Hand, yet stay thy Feet.
Increase the Burthen which they shou'd sustain!
While, weary of my hated Life, I lie,
A faint Resemblance of what once was I.
My Head, deprest with its one weight, hangs low,
And to themselves my Limbs a Burthen grow.
In various Postures still I seek for Ease,
But find at last not any one to please.
Now I wou'd rise, now wish my self in Bed,
Now with my Hands support my drooping Head:
Now on my Back, now on my Face I lie,
And now for Rest on either side I try:
And when my Bed I've tumbled Restless o're,
I'm still th'uneasie Wretch I was before.
Thus hinder'd by my own Infirmity,
Tho' fain I would, I cannot follow thee.
Then wilt thou go, and leave me Dying here?
Is this thy Kindness, this thy Love, my Dear;
And do I then so great a Burthen grow,
Thou wilt not stay till I can with thee go?
114
At an Allarm of any Danger nigh.
Unnat'ral Mothers thus their Babes disclaim,
Urg'd to the Sin by Poverty or Shame.
Stretch, Lord, thy Hand, and thy weak Follower meet,
Or if not reach thy Hand, yet stay thy Feet.
The grateful Stork bears o're the spacious Flood,
Its aged Dam, and Triumphs in the Load:
The Doe supports her tender Swimmers weight,
And minds her self less than her dearer Fraight.
Its aged Dam, and Triumphs in the Load:
The Doe supports her tender Swimmers weight,
And minds her self less than her dearer Fraight.
But you, unkind! forsake your Love, alone,
In desert Fields forgotten, and unknown,
So burthensom her Company is grown:
Yet I'd not hinder or retard your Haste,
But gently draw, and I shall follow fast:
Tho' fall'n and fainting now, a little space
Shall make me out-strip the Winds impetuous Race,
Nor shall you Violence need to force me on,
Free and unurg'd, I'll close behind you run.
As, when at your Command the Net was cast,
The willing Fish leapt in with eager haste;
And unconcern'd, their own Destruction sought,
So much 'twas their Ambition to be caught.
In desert Fields forgotten, and unknown,
So burthensom her Company is grown:
Yet I'd not hinder or retard your Haste,
But gently draw, and I shall follow fast:
Tho' fall'n and fainting now, a little space
Shall make me out-strip the Winds impetuous Race,
Nor shall you Violence need to force me on,
Free and unurg'd, I'll close behind you run.
As, when at your Command the Net was cast,
The willing Fish leapt in with eager haste;
And unconcern'd, their own Destruction sought,
So much 'twas their Ambition to be caught.
Pleasure and Sense do all Mankind misguide,
Some by their Eyes, some by their Ears are ty'd.
I seek not, Lord, my Eyes or Ears to please,
Th'Arabian Sweets sute best with my Disease.
Thy Tresses of the balmy Spiknard smell,
And from thy Head the richest Oyls distill.
Choice fragrant Scents from thy lov'd Temples flow,
And on thy Lips eternal Roses grow,
Thou breath'st the Odors of the Spicy East,
In Myrrhy Dew thy fragrant Words are drest.
Thy Iv'ry Neck sweats richest Frankincense,
And ev'ry part does some rare Scent dispence.
Whate'er Perfumes in the vast World are found,
In a rich Compound mix'd, in Thee abound.
Just such a noble Smell, and rich Perfume
Was that of old fill'd the blest Virgins Room,
When Thou, the Flow'r of Jesse , began'st to Bloom.
Some by their Eyes, some by their Ears are ty'd.
115
Th'Arabian Sweets sute best with my Disease.
Thy Tresses of the balmy Spiknard smell,
And from thy Head the richest Oyls distill.
Choice fragrant Scents from thy lov'd Temples flow,
And on thy Lips eternal Roses grow,
Thou breath'st the Odors of the Spicy East,
In Myrrhy Dew thy fragrant Words are drest.
Thy Iv'ry Neck sweats richest Frankincense,
And ev'ry part does some rare Scent dispence.
Whate'er Perfumes in the vast World are found,
In a rich Compound mix'd, in Thee abound.
Just such a noble Smell, and rich Perfume
Was that of old fill'd the blest Virgins Room,
When Thou, the Flow'r of Jesse , began'st to Bloom.
O! might this Odor bless my longing Sense,
How wou'd it cure my feeble Impotence!
I soon shou'd conquer all my Languishment,
And swiftly follow the attractive Scent,
And my Companions the same Course wou'd move,
As the whole Flock waits on th'anointed Dove.
How wou'd it cure my feeble Impotence!
I soon shou'd conquer all my Languishment,
And swiftly follow the attractive Scent,
And my Companions the same Course wou'd move,
As the whole Flock waits on th'anointed Dove.
Love is a Cord that holds fast, and draws Affectionately, whose Words are so many Allurements. Nothing holds faster than the Band of Love, nothing Attracts more powerfully.
Gilbert. in Cant. Hom. 18.
117
IX.
O that thou wert as my Brother, that sucked the Breasts of my Mother; when I should find thee
without, I would kiss thee, yet I should not be Despised,
Cant. viii. 1.
Who will enoble my unworthy Race,
And Thy great Name among their Numbers place?
Nor wish I this to raise my Pedigree,
Contented with my mean Obscurity.
Yet, tho' my Blood wou'd be a stain to Thine,
Still I must wish we had one Parent-line.
Nor wou'd I have thee grown to those brisk Years
When first the gentle budding Down appears.
But still an Infant, hanging on the Breast,
The same which I before have often prest:
A Brother such wou'd my Ambition chuse,
If Elder, I thy Converse must refuse.
My Life! be born again, and let me see,
Dear Child, those happy Cradles, blest by Thee.
Children have pretty, pleasant, charming Arts,
Above the Elder Sort, to win our Hearts;
118
Childhood is still most prevalent in Love:
Ev'n he who tames the World, tho' calm and mild
His Face appear—ev'n Love himself's a Child.
Wer't thou a Boy, drest in thy Infant Charms
Unblam'd, I'd clasp thee closely in my Arms.
My Life! be born again, and and let me see,
Dear Child, Those happy Cradles, blest by Thee:
Then I shou'd have Thee to my self alone,
Nor blam'd, nor censur'd if my Love were known.
My Arms all Day shou'd bear thy grateful Weight,
And be thy safe Enclosure all the Night.
When thy soft Cheeks or ruddy Lips I'd kiss,
No Fear or Shame shou'd interrupt the Bliss;
For none a Sister's Kindness can Upbraid,
At least when to an Infant-Brother Paid:
And tho' on thy soft Lips long time I'd dwell,
Sure a Chaste Kiss can never be but well.
O that you'd hear, ye gentle Pow'rs above,
And to my Brother thus transform my Love!
That thou, my Dear, my Brother wou'dst become,
Dear as the Off-spring of my Parents Womb.
Then all my Vows, then all my Thanks I'd pay,
Bless the glad Change, and hail the welcome Day.
What wou'd I do to make my Transport known?
What wou'd I do? What wou'd I leave undone?
119
Stand all Night Centry by the Cradle-side?
How num'rous shou'd my Services become?
Ev'n till, perhaps you thought 'em troublesom:
For when my Mother took thee from the Breast,
My Arms shou'd with the next remove be Blest:
Or if she'd have thee born to take the Air,
I'd still my self the grateful Burthen bear.
Or wou'd she have thee in the Cradle lie,
Sing thee to Sleep, and then sit watching by:
If she to take the lov'd Employment went
My eager haste shou'd her Design prevent:
But when she shou'd intrust thee to my Care,
And going forth, leave me to tend my Dear;
How great wou'd be the Pleasure of my Charge?
How wou'd I then indulge my Self at large?
Thy Mantle soon I softly wou'd remove,
Eager t'enjoy the Object of my Love;
And, favour'd by the most Commodious Light,
Feast on thy lovely Face my longing Sight.
Thy Head shou'd on my Left-hand gently rest,
While with my Right I claspt thee to my Breast;
And then so lightly I wou'd steal a Kiss,
It shou'd not interrupt thy sleeping Bliss.
Then, Dear, be pleas'd a second Birth t'allow,
That on thy Cheeks my Lips may pay their Vow.
120
And thou beginn'st to use thy loosned Tongue;
Then thou, my Love, shalt my small Pupil be,
And as I Speak, shalt Stammer after me:
And when thou dost the help of Arms refuse,
And dar'st attempt th'assisting Wand to use,
I'll teach thee safely how to Praunce along,
And keep thy nimble Footsteps firm and strong:
And if some naughty Stone offend thy Feet,
My ready Arms their stumbling Charge shall meet:
Pleas'd with a frequent Opportunity
Of thus receiving and embracing Thee:
Nor shall I any Recompence regard,
The pleasing Service is its own Reward.
121
I was ignorant, O sweet Jesu, that thy Embraces were so pleasant, thy Touch so delightful, thy Conversation so diverting; for when I touch Thee, I am clean; when I receive Thee, I am a Virgin.
Bonavent. Soliloq. cap. 1.
123
X.
By Night on my Bed, I sought him whom my Soul loveth, I sought him, but I found him not,
Cant. iii. 1.
I treat not of inferior mortal Fires,
But chastest Sighs, and more sublime Desires;
As Bodies, so the Minds their Flames receive,
But still the grosser for the Bodies leave.
The generous Fire that warms the Soul, does prove
And that alone, the pleasing Charms of Love.
What nobler Flames the lofty Minds inspire!
How are they rais'd to more refin'd Desire!
In what Divine Embraces do they join!
What holy Hands their mutual Contracts sign!
How dear the Joys of that chast Genial Bed!
With what unspeakable Delights 'tis spread!
Where the pleas'd Soul in her Beloved's Arms,
And he in hers, gaze on each others Charms.
The Bed on which such happy Lovers rest,
Is downy Peace in its own quiet Blest.
But chastest Sighs, and more sublime Desires;
As Bodies, so the Minds their Flames receive,
But still the grosser for the Bodies leave.
The generous Fire that warms the Soul, does prove
And that alone, the pleasing Charms of Love.
What nobler Flames the lofty Minds inspire!
How are they rais'd to more refin'd Desire!
In what Divine Embraces do they join!
What holy Hands their mutual Contracts sign!
How dear the Joys of that chast Genial Bed!
With what unspeakable Delights 'tis spread!
Where the pleas'd Soul in her Beloved's Arms,
And he in hers, gaze on each others Charms.
The Bed on which such happy Lovers rest,
Is downy Peace in its own quiet Blest.
124
Here I was wont, when Care drove Sleep away,
Pregnant with Thought, to watch the Dawning Day;
Here the dear He that stole my Virgin-heart
Did oft to me his Bosom-cares impart.
Then, then a Sacred Flame my Soul possest,
And no less Heat reign'd in his amorous Breast:
Then silent Love did all our Thoughts imploy
Tho' Dumb, our Eyes discours'd in Tears of Joy.
But now, nor know I why, my Love's estrang'd,
I fear some Fault of mine his Mind has chang'd:
For, a whole Day he has not Blest my Sight,
Nor (which he ever us'd) return'd at Night.
Or has the Faithless fickle Charmer fled,
Or for another left my Widow'd Bed?
How sadly I in Tears and Discontent
The tedious Night of his griev'd Absence spent?
'Twas now the dead low Ebb of deepest Night,
And gentle Sleep had lock'd my Drowsy Sight.
When a loud Voice surpriz'd my trembling Ear,
And call'd, Rise, Sluggard, see your Love's not here.
Straight I awake, and rub my sleepy Eyes,
Then the forsaken House I fill with Cries:
Sleep'st thou, my Love? But Answer I had none,
For He, (alas!) to whom I spoke, was gone.
Soon with a lighted Torch his Steps I Trace,
And wish I ne'er had seen them nor his Face.
Then on the guiltless Bed begin t'exclaim,
Ask where my Love is, and it's Silence blame.
Distracted then I search the Chamber round,
But what I sought was no where to be found.
What Tumults then were rais'd within my Breast,
Who once on Peace's downy Bed did rest?
What raging Storms then tost my troubled Mind,
Unus'd to Tempests of so fierce a Kind!
With Pain my heavy Eyes to Heav'n I raise,
And scarce my Lips can open in its Praise;
My former Strength in sacred Conflicts fails,
And what was once my Sport, my Soul bewails:
For while Success Crown'd my troubled Head,
On Golden Peace I made my easie Bed:
Then, like a Boasting Soldier, Raw and Young,
Who always is Victorious with his Tongue,
I wish'd to Exercise some Tyrant's Rage,
Or in some glorious Hazard I'd engage.
So warm a Heat within my Blood did play,
While on the easie Bed of Peace I lay:
But when this Heat forsook me with my Love,
Colder than Scythian Frosts my Blood did prove,
So Flow'rs, which gentle Zephyrs kindly rear,
Nipt by Cold Frosts, decay and disappear:
So Lamps burn bright, while Oyl maintains their Fire,
But as that ceases, Languish and Expire,
Pregnant with Thought, to watch the Dawning Day;
Here the dear He that stole my Virgin-heart
Did oft to me his Bosom-cares impart.
Then, then a Sacred Flame my Soul possest,
And no less Heat reign'd in his amorous Breast:
Then silent Love did all our Thoughts imploy
Tho' Dumb, our Eyes discours'd in Tears of Joy.
But now, nor know I why, my Love's estrang'd,
I fear some Fault of mine his Mind has chang'd:
For, a whole Day he has not Blest my Sight,
Nor (which he ever us'd) return'd at Night.
Or has the Faithless fickle Charmer fled,
Or for another left my Widow'd Bed?
How sadly I in Tears and Discontent
The tedious Night of his griev'd Absence spent?
'Twas now the dead low Ebb of deepest Night,
And gentle Sleep had lock'd my Drowsy Sight.
When a loud Voice surpriz'd my trembling Ear,
And call'd, Rise, Sluggard, see your Love's not here.
Straight I awake, and rub my sleepy Eyes,
Then the forsaken House I fill with Cries:
Sleep'st thou, my Love? But Answer I had none,
For He, (alas!) to whom I spoke, was gone.
Soon with a lighted Torch his Steps I Trace,
And wish I ne'er had seen them nor his Face.
125
Ask where my Love is, and it's Silence blame.
Distracted then I search the Chamber round,
But what I sought was no where to be found.
What Tumults then were rais'd within my Breast,
Who once on Peace's downy Bed did rest?
What raging Storms then tost my troubled Mind,
Unus'd to Tempests of so fierce a Kind!
With Pain my heavy Eyes to Heav'n I raise,
And scarce my Lips can open in its Praise;
My former Strength in sacred Conflicts fails,
And what was once my Sport, my Soul bewails:
For while Success Crown'd my troubled Head,
On Golden Peace I made my easie Bed:
Then, like a Boasting Soldier, Raw and Young,
Who always is Victorious with his Tongue,
I wish'd to Exercise some Tyrant's Rage,
Or in some glorious Hazard I'd engage.
So warm a Heat within my Blood did play,
While on the easie Bed of Peace I lay:
But when this Heat forsook me with my Love,
Colder than Scythian Frosts my Blood did prove,
So Flow'rs, which gentle Zephyrs kindly rear,
Nipt by Cold Frosts, decay and disappear:
So Lamps burn bright, while Oyl maintains their Fire,
But as that ceases, Languish and Expire,
126
Alas! my Love, I sought thee in my Bed,
Who on the Cross had'st laid thy weary Head:
Peace was my Bed, while the curst Cross was Thine,
I shou'd have sought Thee by that fatal Sign,
Much Time I lost in seeking thee around,
But sought thee where thou wert not to be found.
Who on the Cross had'st laid thy weary Head:
Peace was my Bed, while the curst Cross was Thine,
I shou'd have sought Thee by that fatal Sign,
Much Time I lost in seeking thee around,
But sought thee where thou wert not to be found.
127
Then we may be said to seek our Beloved in Bed, when being amused with any little sort of a Rest in this present Life, we yet sigh after our Redeemer, We seek him in the Night, because tho' then the Soul is waking, yet the Eye is still in Darkness.
Greg. in Ezek. Hom. 19.
129
XI.
I will rise, and go about the City in the Streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom
my Soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not,
Cant. iii. 2.
At last, tho' late, my Error does appear,
Had I search'd well I sure had found my Dear.
I thought him wrapt in soft Repose, in Bed
Easing his troubled Breast, and weary Head;
But there (alas!) my Love I cou'd not find,
A harder Lodging was for him design'd.
Had I search'd well I sure had found my Dear.
I thought him wrapt in soft Repose, in Bed
Easing his troubled Breast, and weary Head;
But there (alas!) my Love I cou'd not find,
A harder Lodging was for him design'd.
Alas! my Life, alas! what shall I do?
How can I Rest or Sleep depriv'd of You?
No, tho' a thousand Rivers murm'ring Noise
Shou'd court me to it with one lulling Voice;
Nor tho' as many whisp'ring Groves conspire,
And join the Musick of their feather'd Quire.
Scarce close my weary Eyes, with Cares opprest,
When Sorrow rushes in, and breaks my Rest.
My Eyes, my Thoughts no Night admit, but when
I tossing lie, each tedious Hour seems Ten.
If ever Sleep indulge my Misery,
My Sleeping Thoughts are all imploy'd on Thee:
Why then shou'd wretched I seek Rest in vain,
Since Sleep so oft denies to ease my Pain?
How can I Rest or Sleep depriv'd of You?
No, tho' a thousand Rivers murm'ring Noise
Shou'd court me to it with one lulling Voice;
Nor tho' as many whisp'ring Groves conspire,
And join the Musick of their feather'd Quire.
Scarce close my weary Eyes, with Cares opprest,
When Sorrow rushes in, and breaks my Rest.
My Eyes, my Thoughts no Night admit, but when
I tossing lie, each tedious Hour seems Ten.
130
My Sleeping Thoughts are all imploy'd on Thee:
Why then shou'd wretched I seek Rest in vain,
Since Sleep so oft denies to ease my Pain?
My Bed I quit, and ranging all the Town,
Remove as Chance or Reason leads me on:
Each Corner search, and hope in each to find
The dearest Object of my Eyes and Mind:
No Place escapes me, none so private lies,
To cheat th'Enquiry of my curious Eyes.
The eager Hound thus close his Game pursues,
While the warm Scent directs his reddy Nose:
Thro' Woods and Thickets, Bri'rs, and Thorns he runs,
No Danger dreads, or Inconvenience shuns.
Thus once the weeping Magdalen did Roam
To find her Lord, when missing in his Tomb.
What that denies, she hopes the City yields;
But there not found, she seeks him in the Fields;
No Man unask'd, no Place unsearch'd, remain'd,
Till the dear Treasure which she sought was gain'd:
Thus the griev'd Dam for her robb'd Nest complains,
And fills the Forrest with her mournful Strains;
About the Tree enrag'd she flies, and now
Lights on the top, then on some under-Bough.
And to her Fellows sadly does relate
Th'injurious stealth, and her lost Off-Springs Fate.
Thus have I search'd thro' ev'ry Walk and Street,
But what I sought (alas!) I cou'd not meet.
Base Walks! and hateful Streets! whose ev'ry Road
My weary Feet so oft in vain have trod!
I mist my Love in Bed, and sought him here;
But sought amiss, and still must want my Dear.
Remove as Chance or Reason leads me on:
Each Corner search, and hope in each to find
The dearest Object of my Eyes and Mind:
No Place escapes me, none so private lies,
To cheat th'Enquiry of my curious Eyes.
The eager Hound thus close his Game pursues,
While the warm Scent directs his reddy Nose:
Thro' Woods and Thickets, Bri'rs, and Thorns he runs,
No Danger dreads, or Inconvenience shuns.
Thus once the weeping Magdalen did Roam
To find her Lord, when missing in his Tomb.
What that denies, she hopes the City yields;
But there not found, she seeks him in the Fields;
No Man unask'd, no Place unsearch'd, remain'd,
Till the dear Treasure which she sought was gain'd:
Thus the griev'd Dam for her robb'd Nest complains,
And fills the Forrest with her mournful Strains;
About the Tree enrag'd she flies, and now
Lights on the top, then on some under-Bough.
131
Th'injurious stealth, and her lost Off-Springs Fate.
Thus have I search'd thro' ev'ry Walk and Street,
But what I sought (alas!) I cou'd not meet.
Base Walks! and hateful Streets! whose ev'ry Road
My weary Feet so oft in vain have trod!
I mist my Love in Bed, and sought him here;
But sought amiss, and still must want my Dear.
Christ is not found in the Courts nor in the Streets; Christ is no frequenter of the Courts. Christ is Peace, in the Courts are Contentions: Christ is Justice, in the Courts is Iniquity, &c. Let us shun the Courts, let us avoid the Streets.
Amb. de Virg. lib. 3.
133
XII.
Saw you him whom my Soul loveth? It was but a little that I past from them, but I found him
whom my Soul loveth: I held him, and wou'd not let him go,
Cant. iii. 3, 4.
Is there a Corner left in all the Town,
Which in my weary Search I have not known?
With flaming Torches every Street was Light,
Nor did I ev'n the meanest Allies slight.
Alas! what Ground did I not Travel o're,
Till even the City had not any more?
But why shou'd I this fruitless Toil approve,
Since all my seeking does not find my Love?
Then, hopeless, back my pensive Course I steer'd,
But still no Tidings of my Lover heard;
When I at last approach'd the City-gate,
Where a strong Guard in constant Watch did wait:
Said I Perhaps my Love is hidden here:
And then I ask'd them if they saw my Dear?
They Laugh'd, and my Enquiry did deride,
And who's your Love? One of the Centries cry'd:
Has he no Name by which he may he known?
How can we tell, since you have giv'n us none?
Excuse, said I, my rude Simplicity,
I thought him known to all the World, as Me:
And that our Love, so much the talk of Fame,
Had made it needless to declare his Name;
And tho' you wou'd pretend this Ign'rance now,
I'm Confident you cannot chuse but know:
Then pray be pleas'd in Earnest to declare
If you have seen him lately passing here:
Him, whom above my Life I dearly Prize,
And him who loves me more than his own Eyes?
Say, when he went, what Stay he made with you,
And whither he pretended he wou'd go?
Unto the Right or Left-hand is he gone?
Or had he Company, or was h' alone?
The sportful Watch, regardless of my Cares,
Answer with Laughter, and deride my Tears.
From them I go, hopeless my Love to find,
Whiles Tides of Grief o'rewhelm'd my sinking Mind.
But while my Soul such painful Thoughts imploy,
(Nor dar'd I let it hope so vast a Joy:)
My Love, the same I sought the City round,
Now, unexpected and unsought, was found.
Which in my weary Search I have not known?
With flaming Torches every Street was Light,
Nor did I ev'n the meanest Allies slight.
Alas! what Ground did I not Travel o're,
Till even the City had not any more?
But why shou'd I this fruitless Toil approve,
Since all my seeking does not find my Love?
Then, hopeless, back my pensive Course I steer'd,
But still no Tidings of my Lover heard;
When I at last approach'd the City-gate,
Where a strong Guard in constant Watch did wait:
Said I Perhaps my Love is hidden here:
And then I ask'd them if they saw my Dear?
They Laugh'd, and my Enquiry did deride,
And who's your Love? One of the Centries cry'd:
134
How can we tell, since you have giv'n us none?
Excuse, said I, my rude Simplicity,
I thought him known to all the World, as Me:
And that our Love, so much the talk of Fame,
Had made it needless to declare his Name;
And tho' you wou'd pretend this Ign'rance now,
I'm Confident you cannot chuse but know:
Then pray be pleas'd in Earnest to declare
If you have seen him lately passing here:
Him, whom above my Life I dearly Prize,
And him who loves me more than his own Eyes?
Say, when he went, what Stay he made with you,
And whither he pretended he wou'd go?
Unto the Right or Left-hand is he gone?
Or had he Company, or was h' alone?
The sportful Watch, regardless of my Cares,
Answer with Laughter, and deride my Tears.
From them I go, hopeless my Love to find,
Whiles Tides of Grief o'rewhelm'd my sinking Mind.
But while my Soul such painful Thoughts imploy,
(Nor dar'd I let it hope so vast a Joy:)
My Love, the same I sought the City round,
Now, unexpected and unsought, was found.
135
Lost between Joy and Fear in the Surprize,
I durst not well give credit to my Eyes.
And have I thee again? I wou'd have cry'd,
But as I strove, my faultring Tongue deny'd.
As when some mournful Wife sees by her Bed
Her Husband long by Fame reported Dead;
Amaz'd to meet what she had giv'n for lost,
She flies his Arms, and takes him for a Ghost:
Nor dares, till his known Voice the Truth assure,
The Sight of what she most desires, endure:
And still she fears lest she too easie prove,
Betray'd to this Credulity by Love.
Thus while I trembling stand, again I try;
Again my Life salutes my joyful Eye.
Toss'd between Doubt, and Hope, and Love, and Fear,
Are you my Love, I cry, or in his Shape appear?
My Dear! — ah no! alas! you are not He;
Yet sure you are — Yes, yes, you are, I see.
My Love, My Life, I see and know you now,
My secret Ecstacy discovers you.
Pleas'd with your Voice, and ravish'd with your Face,
I fly uncall'd to your belov'd Embrace.
Thus, thus I'll bind you to me, and prevent
A second Search, the Soldiers Merriment.
O that my Arms were Chains, and each part else,
Feet, Hands and all, were Gyves and Manacles!
Then with a triple Band my Love I'd bind,
Close as the Elm is by the Vine entwin'd;
The snaky Ivy shou'd not closer crawl
About the Ruines of its dear lov'd Wall.
And while my busie Hands your Neck enclose,
Think that no Burthen which their Kindness shows!
Remember, Love, you have been absent long,
And Time that did it must repair the wrong:
But of the Recompence you soon complain,
And e'er my Joys begin, are gone again.
But stay! ah too unkind, ungrateful! stay!
Nor shall you fly, unless you force your way.
I durst not well give credit to my Eyes.
And have I thee again? I wou'd have cry'd,
But as I strove, my faultring Tongue deny'd.
As when some mournful Wife sees by her Bed
Her Husband long by Fame reported Dead;
Amaz'd to meet what she had giv'n for lost,
She flies his Arms, and takes him for a Ghost:
Nor dares, till his known Voice the Truth assure,
The Sight of what she most desires, endure:
And still she fears lest she too easie prove,
Betray'd to this Credulity by Love.
Thus while I trembling stand, again I try;
Again my Life salutes my joyful Eye.
Toss'd between Doubt, and Hope, and Love, and Fear,
Are you my Love, I cry, or in his Shape appear?
My Dear! — ah no! alas! you are not He;
Yet sure you are — Yes, yes, you are, I see.
My Love, My Life, I see and know you now,
My secret Ecstacy discovers you.
Pleas'd with your Voice, and ravish'd with your Face,
I fly uncall'd to your belov'd Embrace.
Thus, thus I'll bind you to me, and prevent
A second Search, the Soldiers Merriment.
O that my Arms were Chains, and each part else,
Feet, Hands and all, were Gyves and Manacles!
136
Close as the Elm is by the Vine entwin'd;
The snaky Ivy shou'd not closer crawl
About the Ruines of its dear lov'd Wall.
And while my busie Hands your Neck enclose,
Think that no Burthen which their Kindness shows!
Remember, Love, you have been absent long,
And Time that did it must repair the wrong:
But of the Recompence you soon complain,
And e'er my Joys begin, are gone again.
But stay! ah too unkind, ungrateful! stay!
Nor shall you fly, unless you force your way.
137
When I had found him, I held him so much the faster, by how much the longer I was in finding him.
Beda in Cant. cap. 3.
139
XIII.
But it is good for me to hold me fast by God, to put my Trust in the Lord God,
Psal. lxxiii. 27.
Thro' what strange turns of Fortune have I gone,
Just as a Ball from Hand to Hand is thrown?
Wars loud Allarms were first my sole Delight,
And hope of Glory led me out to Fight:
Arms rais'd my Courage, Arms were all my care,
As if I had no other Bus'ness here.
Oft with a Song I past my tedious Hour,
While I stood Centry on some lofty Tow'r:
Oft I the Enemies Intent betray'd,
And shew'd their Motions by the Signs I made.
I learnt t'intrench a Camp, and Bulwarks rear,
With all the Cunning of an Engineer.
I ever forward was, and bold in Fight,
And did to Action the faint Troops Excite.
None better understood the Art of War,
None more the Soldiers or Commanders Care:
Oft in the Lybian Desart did I Sweat,
Tir'd with the Sand, and melted with the Heat;
Choak'd with the Dust, yet no kind Fountain nigh,
The Place as little Moisture had as I.
Just as a Ball from Hand to Hand is thrown?
Wars loud Allarms were first my sole Delight,
And hope of Glory led me out to Fight:
Arms rais'd my Courage, Arms were all my care,
As if I had no other Bus'ness here.
Oft with a Song I past my tedious Hour,
While I stood Centry on some lofty Tow'r:
Oft I the Enemies Intent betray'd,
And shew'd their Motions by the Signs I made.
I learnt t'intrench a Camp, and Bulwarks rear,
With all the Cunning of an Engineer.
I ever forward was, and bold in Fight,
And did to Action the faint Troops Excite.
None better understood the Art of War,
None more the Soldiers or Commanders Care:
Oft in the Lybian Desart did I Sweat,
Tir'd with the Sand, and melted with the Heat;
140
The Place as little Moisture had as I.
How oft have I swam mighty Rivers o'er,
With heavy Armour loaden, tir'd, and sore?
And still my Sword across my Mouth have laid,
Whene'er I did the adverse Stream invade.
Thus long the Camp has had my Company,
A Foot-man first, then of the Cavalry.
My Breast-plate has ten Shots of Arrows born,
Nor fewer Stroaks my batter'd Helmet torn.
Thrice was my Horse shot under me, my Crest
Four times struck off, and I as oft Distrest.
Yet boldly I expos'd my Self to harm,
And in my En'mies Blood my Hand was warm.
But on my Back I did no Wounds receive,
My ready Breast met all my Foes durst give:
For boldly against Fire and Sword I stood,
And flights of Arrows which the Sky did cloud:
On Heads of Men, slain by my Sword I trod,
And as I mov'd, my ways with Corps I strow'd.
But yet the Man that did these Conquests gain,
Cou'd not, with all his Pow'r, his Wish obtain;
With all his Lawrels won, and Foes o'er-come,
His Crowns deserv'd, and Trophies too brought home:
One Fault did all his former Triumphs blast,
And blotted out their Memory at last.
The General cashier'd me with a Word,
And o'er my Head broke my once useful Sword.
And thus in publick Scorn my Fame expir'd,
With the dear Purchase of my Blood acquir'd;
O my dear God! had I born Arms for Thee,
Thy Favour had not thus deserted me.
What Hopes are plac'd on Thee can never fail,
Firm as an Anchor fix'd within the Vail.
Behind thy Altar then I'll lay my Arms,
And bid a long Adieu to War's Allarm's.
But soon my Mind on Gain was all intent,
Gain to my Thoughts such Sweets did represent.
A Ship I bought, which when I Fraighted well,
Abroad I steer'd, to Purchase and to Sell.
In both the Indies I expos'd my Ware,
No Port was known but I had Trafick there:
For from small Ventures, large Acquests to gain,
Was all the busie Study of my Brain.
Wealth now came flowing in with such a Tide,
It wou'd not in my strained Chests abide.
My Ships came loaden from the Indian-shoar;
But next return they Perish'd at my Door.
My Books with Debtors Names still larger grew;
But they Forswore, and so I lost my Due.
Thus Salt, made in the Sea, does there decay,
Thus where 'twas gain'd, my Wealth all melts away
With heavy Armour loaden, tir'd, and sore?
And still my Sword across my Mouth have laid,
Whene'er I did the adverse Stream invade.
Thus long the Camp has had my Company,
A Foot-man first, then of the Cavalry.
My Breast-plate has ten Shots of Arrows born,
Nor fewer Stroaks my batter'd Helmet torn.
Thrice was my Horse shot under me, my Crest
Four times struck off, and I as oft Distrest.
Yet boldly I expos'd my Self to harm,
And in my En'mies Blood my Hand was warm.
But on my Back I did no Wounds receive,
My ready Breast met all my Foes durst give:
For boldly against Fire and Sword I stood,
And flights of Arrows which the Sky did cloud:
On Heads of Men, slain by my Sword I trod,
And as I mov'd, my ways with Corps I strow'd.
But yet the Man that did these Conquests gain,
Cou'd not, with all his Pow'r, his Wish obtain;
With all his Lawrels won, and Foes o'er-come,
His Crowns deserv'd, and Trophies too brought home:
141
And blotted out their Memory at last.
The General cashier'd me with a Word,
And o'er my Head broke my once useful Sword.
And thus in publick Scorn my Fame expir'd,
With the dear Purchase of my Blood acquir'd;
O my dear God! had I born Arms for Thee,
Thy Favour had not thus deserted me.
What Hopes are plac'd on Thee can never fail,
Firm as an Anchor fix'd within the Vail.
Behind thy Altar then I'll lay my Arms,
And bid a long Adieu to War's Allarm's.
But soon my Mind on Gain was all intent,
Gain to my Thoughts such Sweets did represent.
A Ship I bought, which when I Fraighted well,
Abroad I steer'd, to Purchase and to Sell.
In both the Indies I expos'd my Ware,
No Port was known but I had Trafick there:
For from small Ventures, large Acquests to gain,
Was all the busie Study of my Brain.
Wealth now came flowing in with such a Tide,
It wou'd not in my strained Chests abide.
My Ships came loaden from the Indian-shoar;
But next return they Perish'd at my Door.
My Books with Debtors Names still larger grew;
But they Forswore, and so I lost my Due.
142
Thus where 'twas gain'd, my Wealth all melts away
How peaceful is the Man, and how secure,
Whom War did ne'er delight, nor Gain Allure?
No more shall Gain my cheated Fancy please,
That cannot purchase one short Minutes Ease.
What shall I do, since my Attempts are vain?
In War, no Fame; in Trade, no Wealth I gain?
Then to the Court I hastily repair,
My Fame as soon finds kind Reception there.
I'm brought before the King, and kiss his Hand,
He likes my Person, gives me a Command.
Now grown his Fav'rite, I have all his Ear;
Whate'er I Speak, he eagerly does Hear:
And to new Honours does me still Advance,
Not the effect of Merit, but of Chance.
But, whether his Mistake, or my Desert,
I'm now indear'd, and wound into his Heart.
Oft in Discourse we spent the busie Day,
And ne'er regarded how it past away.
Nay, without me, he wou'd not Play nor Eat,
My Presence gave a Relish to his Meat:
No Fav'rite e'er was dearer to his Prince;
No Prince such Favours ever did Dispense.
Sejanus rul'd not thus his Master's Heart;
His wary Lord allow'd him but a Part:
Nor Clytu's self cou'd greater Honours have,
Tho' the World's Conqu'ror was almost his Slave.
This new Advancement pleas'd my Thoughts, 'tis true,
(For there are secret Charms in all things new.)
The Courtiers envy, and the Crowds admire
To see the King my Company desire.
But, oh! on Kings 'tis Folly to depend,
Whose Pow'r, much more their Favours, quickly end.
The King to Frowns does all his Smiles convert,
And as he lov'd, so hates, without desert.
His Favour sow'rs to Rage, and I am sent
Far from my Native Soil to Banishment.
My fall to Hist'ry adds one Story more,
A Story I for ever must deplore.
Sejanus had not a severer Fate,
Nor Clytu's Happiness a shorter Date.
O God! how great is their Security,
Whose Hopes and Wishes all are fix'd on Thee?
Whom War did ne'er delight, nor Gain Allure?
No more shall Gain my cheated Fancy please,
That cannot purchase one short Minutes Ease.
What shall I do, since my Attempts are vain?
In War, no Fame; in Trade, no Wealth I gain?
Then to the Court I hastily repair,
My Fame as soon finds kind Reception there.
I'm brought before the King, and kiss his Hand,
He likes my Person, gives me a Command.
Now grown his Fav'rite, I have all his Ear;
Whate'er I Speak, he eagerly does Hear:
And to new Honours does me still Advance,
Not the effect of Merit, but of Chance.
But, whether his Mistake, or my Desert,
I'm now indear'd, and wound into his Heart.
Oft in Discourse we spent the busie Day,
And ne'er regarded how it past away.
Nay, without me, he wou'd not Play nor Eat,
My Presence gave a Relish to his Meat:
No Fav'rite e'er was dearer to his Prince;
No Prince such Favours ever did Dispense.
143
His wary Lord allow'd him but a Part:
Nor Clytu's self cou'd greater Honours have,
Tho' the World's Conqu'ror was almost his Slave.
This new Advancement pleas'd my Thoughts, 'tis true,
(For there are secret Charms in all things new.)
The Courtiers envy, and the Crowds admire
To see the King my Company desire.
But, oh! on Kings 'tis Folly to depend,
Whose Pow'r, much more their Favours, quickly end.
The King to Frowns does all his Smiles convert,
And as he lov'd, so hates, without desert.
His Favour sow'rs to Rage, and I am sent
Far from my Native Soil to Banishment.
My fall to Hist'ry adds one Story more,
A Story I for ever must deplore.
Sejanus had not a severer Fate,
Nor Clytu's Happiness a shorter Date.
O God! how great is their Security,
Whose Hopes and Wishes all are fix'd on Thee?
Forsake all other Loves; he is fairer who Created Heaven and Earth.
Aug. in Psal. 36.
145
XIV.
I sate down under his Shadow (whom I loved) with great Delight,
Cant. iii. 3.
In a long Journey to an unknown Clime,
Much Ground I Travell'd, and consum'd much Time;
Till weary grown, computing in my Mind,
I thought the shortest of my Way behind.
But when I better had survey'd the Race,
I found there still remain'd the greater Space.
Then my faint Limbs grew feeble with Despair,
Discourag'd at a Journey so severe:
With Hands and Eyes erect, I vent my Grief
To Heav'n, in hope from thence to find Relief.
Much Ground I Travell'd, and consum'd much Time;
Till weary grown, computing in my Mind,
I thought the shortest of my Way behind.
But when I better had survey'd the Race,
I found there still remain'd the greater Space.
Then my faint Limbs grew feeble with Despair,
Discourag'd at a Journey so severe:
With Hands and Eyes erect, I vent my Grief
To Heav'n, in hope from thence to find Relief.
Oh! who will shade me from this scorching Heat?
See on my Head how the fierce Sun-beams beat!
While by their Fervor parch'd, the burning Sand
Torments my Feet, and scarce will let me stand.
Then you I praise, dear Groves, and shady Bowers,
Blest with cool Springs, and sweet refreshing Flow'rs.
Then wish th'expanded Poplar wou'd o'erspread,
Or leavy Apple shade my weary Head.
See on my Head how the fierce Sun-beams beat!
While by their Fervor parch'd, the burning Sand
Torments my Feet, and scarce will let me stand.
Then you I praise, dear Groves, and shady Bowers,
Blest with cool Springs, and sweet refreshing Flow'rs.
146
Or leavy Apple shade my weary Head.
The God whose Aid I oft had sought before,
As often found, now adds this Favour more.
Whither your hast Designs, says he, I know;
Know what you want, and how you want it too.
I know you seek Jerusalem above,
Thither your Life and your Endeavours move:
But with the tedious Pilgrimage dismay'd,
Implore Refreshment from the Apple's shade.
See, see, I come to bring your Pains Relief!
Beneath my Shadow ease your weary Grief.
Behold my Arms stretch'd on the fatal Tree!
With these extended Boughs I'll cover Thee:
Behold my bleeding Feet, my gaping Side!
In these free Coverts thou thy Self mayst hide.
This Shade will grant thee thy desir'd Repose,
This Tree alone for that kind Purpose grows.
As often found, now adds this Favour more.
Whither your hast Designs, says he, I know;
Know what you want, and how you want it too.
I know you seek Jerusalem above,
Thither your Life and your Endeavours move:
But with the tedious Pilgrimage dismay'd,
Implore Refreshment from the Apple's shade.
See, see, I come to bring your Pains Relief!
Beneath my Shadow ease your weary Grief.
Behold my Arms stretch'd on the fatal Tree!
With these extended Boughs I'll cover Thee:
Behold my bleeding Feet, my gaping Side!
In these free Coverts thou thy Self mayst hide.
This Shade will grant thee thy desir'd Repose,
This Tree alone for that kind Purpose grows.
Thus spoke the God, whose Favour thus Exprest,
With Strength inspir'd my Limbs, with Hope my Breast.
I rais'd my Eyes, and there my Love I spy'd;
But, oh! my Love, my Love was Crucify'd!
O what a dismal Scene (I all dismaid
Cry'd out) presents me this unnat'ral Shade.
What Comfort can it yield to wretched Me,
While Thou art hung on this accursed Tree?
Curs'd Tree! and more curs'd Hand by which 'twas set!
The bloody Stains are reeking on it yet!
Yet this fair Tree projects its spreading Boughs,
And with kind cooling Shades invites Repose:
But what it offers still it self denies,
And more to Tears than Sleep inclines my Eyes.
With Strength inspir'd my Limbs, with Hope my Breast.
I rais'd my Eyes, and there my Love I spy'd;
But, oh! my Love, my Love was Crucify'd!
O what a dismal Scene (I all dismaid
Cry'd out) presents me this unnat'ral Shade.
147
While Thou art hung on this accursed Tree?
Curs'd Tree! and more curs'd Hand by which 'twas set!
The bloody Stains are reeking on it yet!
Yet this fair Tree projects its spreading Boughs,
And with kind cooling Shades invites Repose:
But what it offers still it self denies,
And more to Tears than Sleep inclines my Eyes.
Blest Tree! and happy Hand that fix'd thee here!
That Hand deserves the Honour of a Star!
Now, now, my Love, I thy Resemblance know,
My cool, kind, shady Residence below.
As the large Apple spreads its loaden Boughs,
From whose rare Fruit a pleasing Liquor flows:
And, more than all its fellows of the Wood,
Allows the weary Rest, the hungry Food:
Thus thou art, Lord, my Covert in the Heat;
My Drink when Thirsty, and when Hungry, Meat.
How oft, my Love, how oft with earnest Pray'r,
Have I invok'd thy Shade, to Rest me there?
There pensive I'll bewail my wretched State,
Like a sad Turtle widow'd of her Mate;
I'll bathe thy pale dead Lips in a warm Flood,
And from thy Locks I'll wash the clotted Blood:
Thy hanging Head my Hands shall gently raise,
And to my Cheek I'll lay thy gory Face;
Thy wounded Side with watry Eyes I'll view,
And as thy Blood, my Tears shall ever flow:
Flow till my Sight, by their kind Flood reliev'd,
With the sad Object be no longer griev'd.
That Hand deserves the Honour of a Star!
Now, now, my Love, I thy Resemblance know,
My cool, kind, shady Residence below.
As the large Apple spreads its loaden Boughs,
From whose rare Fruit a pleasing Liquor flows:
And, more than all its fellows of the Wood,
Allows the weary Rest, the hungry Food:
Thus thou art, Lord, my Covert in the Heat;
My Drink when Thirsty, and when Hungry, Meat.
How oft, my Love, how oft with earnest Pray'r,
Have I invok'd thy Shade, to Rest me there?
There pensive I'll bewail my wretched State,
Like a sad Turtle widow'd of her Mate;
I'll bathe thy pale dead Lips in a warm Flood,
And from thy Locks I'll wash the clotted Blood:
148
And to my Cheek I'll lay thy gory Face;
Thy wounded Side with watry Eyes I'll view,
And as thy Blood, my Tears shall ever flow:
Flow till my Sight, by their kind Flood reliev'd,
With the sad Object be no longer griev'd.
Yet this one Wound in me will many make,
Till Prostrate at thy Feet my Place I take:
Then I'll embrace again the fatal Tree,
And write this sad Inscription under Thee:
Two Lovers see, who their own Deaths conspire!
She drowns in Tears, while He consumes in Fire.
Till Prostrate at thy Feet my Place I take:
Then I'll embrace again the fatal Tree,
And write this sad Inscription under Thee:
Two Lovers see, who their own Deaths conspire!
She drowns in Tears, while He consumes in Fire.
149
A shadow is made of a Body and Light, and is the Traveller's Covert from the Heat, his Protection from the Storm. The Tree of Life, to wit, the Apple-Tree, is the Holy-Cross; its Fruit is Christ, its Shadow the Refreshment and Defence of Mankind,
Honorius in cap. 2. Cant. apud Delr.
151
XV.
How shall we sing the Lords Song in a strange Land?
Psal. cxxxvii. 4.
Oh! why, my Friends, am I desir'd to Sing?
How can I raise a Note, or touch a String?
Musick requires a Soul to Mirth inclin'd,
And sympathizes with the troubled Mind.
How can I raise a Note, or touch a String?
Musick requires a Soul to Mirth inclin'd,
And sympathizes with the troubled Mind.
But you reply, Such Seasons most require
The kind Diversion of the warbling Lyre;
When Grief wou'd strike you Dumb, 'tis time to Sing,
Then strain the Voice, and strike the trembling String;
Lest then the Mind o'erwhelm'd in Sorrow lie,
Too much intent on its own Misery.
The kind Diversion of the warbling Lyre;
When Grief wou'd strike you Dumb, 'tis time to Sing,
Then strain the Voice, and strike the trembling String;
Lest then the Mind o'erwhelm'd in Sorrow lie,
Too much intent on its own Misery.
You urge, this Remedy will Grief asswage,
And with Examples prove what you alledge.
You say, This tunes the weary Sailors Note,
While o're Long Seas their nimble Vessels Float:
You say, This makes the artful Shepherd play,
Whose tuneful Pipes the tedious Hours betray,
And that the Trav'llers Journey easi'st proves,
When to the Musick of his Voice he moves.
And Soldiers when with Night or Labour tir'd
By Singing, with new Vigour are inspir'd.
I'll not Perversly blame this Art in them,
Nor th'inoffensive Policy condemn;
But know my Tongue, long practis'd in Complaint,
Is skill'd in Grief, in Lamentations quaint.
Scarce my lost Skill cou'd I to Practice bring,
And Musick seem'd a strange unusual Thing;
And as one blinded long scarce brooks the Light,
So pleasing Ayres my uncouth Tongue affright.
When I my slighted Numbers wou'd retrieve,
And make the speaking Chords appear to live;
When I wou'd raise the murmuring Viol Voice,
Or make the Lute in brisker Sounds rejoyce;
When on my Pipe attempt a shriller Note,
Or join my Harp in Consort with my Throat:
My Voice (alas!) in floods of Tears is drown'd,
And boistrous Sighs disperse the fainting sound.
Again to Sing, again to Play I try'd;
Again my Voice, again my Hand deny'd:
Slow and Unactive by Disuse so long,
Their Art's forgot both by my Hand and Tongue:
And now with these Allays I try too late
To mollifie my hard, my rigid Fate.
Grant I excell'd in Musick, and in Song,
And warbled swift Division with my Tongue;
Cou'd I with Israel's sweetest Singer vie,
Or touch the Harp with more Success than He:
Will Musick or Complaint best suit my Woe,
Who never had more cause to Weep, than Now?
But Sorrow has my tuneful Harp unstrung,
And Grief's become habitual to my Tongue:
Nor do the Place or Time such Mirth allow;
But grant they did, my Sorrows answer no.
For wou'd you have an exil'd Stranger Sing
His Country Songs under a Foreign King?
Forbear; my Fate and this loath'd Place conspire
To Silence me, and hinder your Desire.
Tears drown my Eyes, exhausted by my Wrongs,
Then, ah! how am I fit for jocund Songs?
Harsh Fortune's wounded Captive kindly spare!
My Voice has lost its pleasing Accents here.
Sorrow disorders and distorts my Face,
I cannot give my Songs their former Grace.
Shou'd I begin to Sing or Play, 'twou'd be
Some doleful Emblem of my Misery.
My Thoughts are all on my lost State intent,
And close Companions of my Banishment.
Then why am I desir'd to Play or Sing,
Now Grief has broke my Voice, and slackned ev'ry String?
Oh! my lov'd Country, when I think on Thee,
My Lute, my Voice, my Mind, all lose their Harmony:
But if to Thee I happily return,
Then they shall all Rejoyce, as much as now they Mourn.
And with Examples prove what you alledge.
You say, This tunes the weary Sailors Note,
While o're Long Seas their nimble Vessels Float:
You say, This makes the artful Shepherd play,
Whose tuneful Pipes the tedious Hours betray,
152
When to the Musick of his Voice he moves.
And Soldiers when with Night or Labour tir'd
By Singing, with new Vigour are inspir'd.
I'll not Perversly blame this Art in them,
Nor th'inoffensive Policy condemn;
But know my Tongue, long practis'd in Complaint,
Is skill'd in Grief, in Lamentations quaint.
Scarce my lost Skill cou'd I to Practice bring,
And Musick seem'd a strange unusual Thing;
And as one blinded long scarce brooks the Light,
So pleasing Ayres my uncouth Tongue affright.
When I my slighted Numbers wou'd retrieve,
And make the speaking Chords appear to live;
When I wou'd raise the murmuring Viol Voice,
Or make the Lute in brisker Sounds rejoyce;
When on my Pipe attempt a shriller Note,
Or join my Harp in Consort with my Throat:
My Voice (alas!) in floods of Tears is drown'd,
And boistrous Sighs disperse the fainting sound.
Again to Sing, again to Play I try'd;
Again my Voice, again my Hand deny'd:
Slow and Unactive by Disuse so long,
Their Art's forgot both by my Hand and Tongue:
And now with these Allays I try too late
To mollifie my hard, my rigid Fate.
153
And warbled swift Division with my Tongue;
Cou'd I with Israel's sweetest Singer vie,
Or touch the Harp with more Success than He:
Will Musick or Complaint best suit my Woe,
Who never had more cause to Weep, than Now?
But Sorrow has my tuneful Harp unstrung,
And Grief's become habitual to my Tongue:
Nor do the Place or Time such Mirth allow;
But grant they did, my Sorrows answer no.
For wou'd you have an exil'd Stranger Sing
His Country Songs under a Foreign King?
Forbear; my Fate and this loath'd Place conspire
To Silence me, and hinder your Desire.
Tears drown my Eyes, exhausted by my Wrongs,
Then, ah! how am I fit for jocund Songs?
Harsh Fortune's wounded Captive kindly spare!
My Voice has lost its pleasing Accents here.
Sorrow disorders and distorts my Face,
I cannot give my Songs their former Grace.
Shou'd I begin to Sing or Play, 'twou'd be
Some doleful Emblem of my Misery.
My Thoughts are all on my lost State intent,
And close Companions of my Banishment.
Then why am I desir'd to Play or Sing,
Now Grief has broke my Voice, and slackned ev'ry String?
154
My Lute, my Voice, my Mind, all lose their Harmony:
But if to Thee I happily return,
Then they shall all Rejoyce, as much as now they Mourn.
155
O that I could say such Things as the Hymn-singing Choire of Angels! How willingly would I pour forth my Self in thy Praises!
Aug. Medit. cap. 35.
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