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 |
 |
|
| 1. | SIGHS OF THE Penitent Soul.
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| 2. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| 3. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
 | Pia Desideria |  |
SIGHS OF THE Penitent Soul.
BOOK the First.
I.
With my Soul have I desired thee in the Night,
Isa. xxvi. 9.
How do my wandring Thoughts mistake their way,
And in a Maze of darksom Errors stray?
Lost in whose dismal Lab'rinth, I conclude
Th'Ægyptian Plague is in my Soul renew'd.
All cloudy, fearful, horrid; not one spark
Of Day; a Night for Night it self too dark.
No Scythian or Cimmerian Sky so black,
Tho' Heav'n's bright Lamps those gloomy Shades forsake;
Ev'n Hell, where Night in sable Triumph dwells,
Yields to the Terror of my darker Cells:
For tho' no fav'ouring Star imparts its Light,
To banish thence the thick substantial Night,
Yet there so much their Punishment they feel,
As will not let them be insensible:
There the sad Shades bewail their want of Light;
And ev'n the dim Cimmerians see 'tis Night,
And, when the Scythians six dark Moons have spent,
Th'expected Day returns from Banishment.
And in a Maze of darksom Errors stray?
Lost in whose dismal Lab'rinth, I conclude
Th'Ægyptian Plague is in my Soul renew'd.
All cloudy, fearful, horrid; not one spark
Of Day; a Night for Night it self too dark.
No Scythian or Cimmerian Sky so black,
Tho' Heav'n's bright Lamps those gloomy Shades forsake;
Ev'n Hell, where Night in sable Triumph dwells,
Yields to the Terror of my darker Cells:
8
To banish thence the thick substantial Night,
Yet there so much their Punishment they feel,
As will not let them be insensible:
There the sad Shades bewail their want of Light;
And ev'n the dim Cimmerians see 'tis Night,
And, when the Scythians six dark Moons have spent,
Th'expected Day returns from Banishment.
But I am to eternal Night confin'd,
And what shou'd guide me, is it self struck blind.
There's not one glim'ering Beam that dares invade
The setled Horror of the gloomy Shade.
Nor can I hope but that I still must stray,
Since I perceive not how I lose my way;
But love th'unhappy Darkness where I err,
And Nights foul Shades, to Days bright Lamp prefer.
For Prides false light misguides my wandring mind,
And vain Ambition strikes my Judgment blind:
Loves soft Enchantments my weak Heart entice;
His foolish Fires delude my dazled Eyes.
When these black Images my thoughts possess,
The darkness and the horror still increase.
My Eyes have their successive Night and Day,
And Heav'n allows Them an alternate Sway:
Oh! that my Soul as happy were as They!
That Reason jointly might with Will preside,
Whose Office 'tis the stragling Mind to guide!
And what shou'd guide me, is it self struck blind.
There's not one glim'ering Beam that dares invade
The setled Horror of the gloomy Shade.
Nor can I hope but that I still must stray,
Since I perceive not how I lose my way;
But love th'unhappy Darkness where I err,
And Nights foul Shades, to Days bright Lamp prefer.
For Prides false light misguides my wandring mind,
And vain Ambition strikes my Judgment blind:
Loves soft Enchantments my weak Heart entice;
His foolish Fires delude my dazled Eyes.
When these black Images my thoughts possess,
The darkness and the horror still increase.
My Eyes have their successive Night and Day,
And Heav'n allows Them an alternate Sway:
Oh! that my Soul as happy were as They!
9
Whose Office 'tis the stragling Mind to guide!
They more are griev'd who cannot use their Sight,
Than they, who never yet enjoy'd the Light;
And he that in Night's Shades has lost his Way,
Salutes with greater Joy th'approaching Day:
But that's a Night too tedious to be born,
Which never will admit the grateful Morn.
Than they, who never yet enjoy'd the Light;
And he that in Night's Shades has lost his Way,
Salutes with greater Joy th'approaching Day:
But that's a Night too tedious to be born,
Which never will admit the grateful Morn.
When the bright Sun returns to cheer our Eyes,
We haste, like Persians, to adore his Rise;
Thither our early Homage we address,
And strive who first shall his kind Influence bless.
Thus oft, on high, I Heav'ns bright Orb survey'd
From Pole to Pole, and thus as oft have pray'd;
Shine, shine, my Sun, bright Object of my Song,
Thou that hast left my watchful Eyes too long:
Rise, rise, or half thy beauteous Face display!
If that's too much, indulge me one short Ray.
Yet, if that Bliss is too sublime for me,
O let it be enough to've wish'd for Thee!
We haste, like Persians, to adore his Rise;
Thither our early Homage we address,
And strive who first shall his kind Influence bless.
Thus oft, on high, I Heav'ns bright Orb survey'd
From Pole to Pole, and thus as oft have pray'd;
Shine, shine, my Sun, bright Object of my Song,
Thou that hast left my watchful Eyes too long:
Rise, rise, or half thy beauteous Face display!
If that's too much, indulge me one short Ray.
Yet, if that Bliss is too sublime for me,
O let it be enough to've wish'd for Thee!
The World has its Nights, and those not a few. Alas! why do I say its Nights; since it self is almost one continual Night, and always overspread with Darkness?
Bernard in Cant. Serm. 75.
11
II.
O God, thou knowest my simplicity, and my faults are not hid from thee,
Psal. lxix. 5.
If thou our childish Follies can'st not bear,
Thou, who do'st all things by wise Counsels steer;
Who can accepted, who can pardon'd be,
Since none from Folly, none from Faults are free?
Nor scapes, alas, the most exalted Mind
This Poyson, of so subtil, strange a kind:
All whirl'd about by the same giddy Wind.
'Tis vain to hide our Faults, we've all been frail;
Folly's our Birth-right by a long Entail.
Since our first Parents went themselves astray,
And taught us too to fool our Bliss away:
They for an Apple all Mankind betray'd;
Was e'er a more imprudent Bargain made?
Nor Esau's Folly has its Parallel,
Who, Wretch! devour'd his Birth-right at a Meal.
Ev'n He, —
Whom Sheba's Queen for Wisdom did prefer,
(Strange Weakness! acted Folly ev'n with Her;
Which proves that King's Oracl'ous Sentence true,
Who says, that Fools are num'rous, Wise-men few.
Nor was the prudent Moses's Wish in vain,
When he of Man's destruction did complain:
“O that unthinking Mortals wou'd be wise,
“And place their End before their heedful Eyes!
“Then Sins short Pleasures they wou'd soon despise,
“Nor yield, like Wax, to ev'ry Stamp of Vice.
Thou, who do'st all things by wise Counsels steer;
Who can accepted, who can pardon'd be,
Since none from Folly, none from Faults are free?
Nor scapes, alas, the most exalted Mind
This Poyson, of so subtil, strange a kind:
All whirl'd about by the same giddy Wind.
'Tis vain to hide our Faults, we've all been frail;
Folly's our Birth-right by a long Entail.
Since our first Parents went themselves astray,
And taught us too to fool our Bliss away:
They for an Apple all Mankind betray'd;
Was e'er a more imprudent Bargain made?
Nor Esau's Folly has its Parallel,
Who, Wretch! devour'd his Birth-right at a Meal.
Ev'n He, —
Whom Sheba's Queen for Wisdom did prefer,
(Strange Weakness! acted Folly ev'n with Her;
12
Who says, that Fools are num'rous, Wise-men few.
Nor was the prudent Moses's Wish in vain,
When he of Man's destruction did complain:
“O that unthinking Mortals wou'd be wise,
“And place their End before their heedful Eyes!
“Then Sins short Pleasures they wou'd soon despise,
“Nor yield, like Wax, to ev'ry Stamp of Vice.
Wou'd any but a strange besotted Rout,
Th'Existence of a God deny, or doubt?
These, that in Sin they may uncheck'd go on,
Perswade themselves to a Belief of None.
Our very Crimes t'improve our Folly tend,
And we're infatuate, e'er we dare offend;
Nor does the growing frenzy here give o'er,
But from this Ill runs headlong on to more:
We Castles build in this inferiour Air,
As if to have Eternal Beings here:
But when unthought-of Death shall snatch us hence,
We then shall own the fond Improvidence.
With endless and unprofitable toil
We strive t'enrich and beautify the Soil;
This Soil, which we must leave at last behind
To those for whom our Pains were ne'er design'd.
Th'Existence of a God deny, or doubt?
These, that in Sin they may uncheck'd go on,
Perswade themselves to a Belief of None.
Our very Crimes t'improve our Folly tend,
And we're infatuate, e'er we dare offend;
Nor does the growing frenzy here give o'er,
But from this Ill runs headlong on to more:
We Castles build in this inferiour Air,
As if to have Eternal Beings here:
But when unthought-of Death shall snatch us hence,
We then shall own the fond Improvidence.
With endless and unprofitable toil
We strive t'enrich and beautify the Soil;
This Soil, which we must leave at last behind
To those for whom our Pains were ne'er design'd.
13
How does our toil resemble Childrens play,
When they erect an Edifice of Clay?
How idly busy and imploy'd they are?
Here, some bring Straw; there, others Sticks prepare;
This loads his Cart with Dirt; that in a Shell
Brings Water, that it may be temper'd well;
And in their Work themselves they fondly pride,
While Age the childish Fabrick does deride:
So on our Work Heav'n with contempt looks down,
And with a breath our Babel-Tow'r's o'rethrown.
When they erect an Edifice of Clay?
How idly busy and imploy'd they are?
Here, some bring Straw; there, others Sticks prepare;
This loads his Cart with Dirt; that in a Shell
Brings Water, that it may be temper'd well;
And in their Work themselves they fondly pride,
While Age the childish Fabrick does deride:
So on our Work Heav'n with contempt looks down,
And with a breath our Babel-Tow'r's o'rethrown.
What strange desire of Gems, what thirst of Gold,
Those, drops of Rain congeal'd; that, ripned Mold!
Yet these so much Mens nobler Souls debase,
That they their Bliss in such mean trifles place.
Ah! foolish Ign'rants! can your Choice approve,
No more exalted Objects of your love,
That all your time in their pursuit you spend,
As if Salvation did on them depend?
Heav'n may be purchas'd at an easy rate;
But, oh! how few bid any thing for That!
Unthinking Men! who Earth to Heav'n prefer,
And fading Joys to endless Glory there!
The Crime of such an inconsid'rate Choice
Ought not pretend to Pardon, ev'n in Boys;
For They from Counters current Money know,
Almost as soon as they have learnt to go:
But Men (oh shame) prize counterfeit Delights
Before the Joys to which kind Heav'n invites.
Those, drops of Rain congeal'd; that, ripned Mold!
Yet these so much Mens nobler Souls debase,
That they their Bliss in such mean trifles place.
Ah! foolish Ign'rants! can your Choice approve,
No more exalted Objects of your love,
That all your time in their pursuit you spend,
As if Salvation did on them depend?
Heav'n may be purchas'd at an easy rate;
But, oh! how few bid any thing for That!
Unthinking Men! who Earth to Heav'n prefer,
And fading Joys to endless Glory there!
The Crime of such an inconsid'rate Choice
Ought not pretend to Pardon, ev'n in Boys;
14
Almost as soon as they have learnt to go:
But Men (oh shame) prize counterfeit Delights
Before the Joys to which kind Heav'n invites.
Oh! for some Artist to retrieve their sense,
E're more degrees of Folly they commence!
E're more degrees of Folly they commence!
But by Heav'ns piercing Eye we are descry'd,
Which does our Sins with Follies Mantle hide.
He's pleas'd to wink at Errors too in me,
And seeing seems as tho' he did not see.
He knows I've but a slender stock of Wit,
And want a Guardian too to manage it,
O then, some kind Protection, Lord, assign
This Ideot Soul! But 'twill be best in Thine.
Which does our Sins with Follies Mantle hide.
He's pleas'd to wink at Errors too in me,
And seeing seems as tho' he did not see.
He knows I've but a slender stock of Wit,
And want a Guardian too to manage it,
O then, some kind Protection, Lord, assign
This Ideot Soul! But 'twill be best in Thine.
15
They are no better than Fools, who are ever, as it were, dreaming of earthly things, and of short continuance.
Chrysost. in Joann. Hom. 4.
17
III.
Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am weak: O Lord, heal me, for my Bones are vexed,
Psal. vi. 2.
Shall my just Grief be querulous, or mute,
Full of Disease, of Physick destitute?
I thought thy Love so constant heretofore,
That Vows were needless to confirm me more:
And can'st thou now absent, and slight my Pain?
What fault of mine has caus'd this cold Disdain?
Full of Disease, of Physick destitute?
I thought thy Love so constant heretofore,
That Vows were needless to confirm me more:
And can'st thou now absent, and slight my Pain?
What fault of mine has caus'd this cold Disdain?
O best Physician of my love-sick Soul,
Whose sight alone will make thy Patient whole;
Thou who hast caus'd, can'st thou forget my Grief,
Which only from its Author seeks Relief?
Whose sight alone will make thy Patient whole;
Thou who hast caus'd, can'st thou forget my Grief,
Which only from its Author seeks Relief?
Shou'd they whose Art gave dying Fame new breath,
And rescu'd their surviving Names from Death:
They in whose sight no bold Disease durst stand,
But trembling vanish'd at their least command;
They who each Simple's sov'reign Virtue knew,
And to their ends cou'd well apply them too:
Shou'd they their Skill in tedious Consult try,
All, all wou'd fail to ease my misery;
All their Prescriptions without Thine are vain,
Thine only suit the Nature of my Pain.
Thou who hast caus'd, can'st thou forget my Grief,
Which only from its Author seeks Relief?
And rescu'd their surviving Names from Death:
They in whose sight no bold Disease durst stand,
But trembling vanish'd at their least command;
They who each Simple's sov'reign Virtue knew,
And to their ends cou'd well apply them too:
18
All, all wou'd fail to ease my misery;
All their Prescriptions without Thine are vain,
Thine only suit the Nature of my Pain.
Thou who hast caus'd, can'st thou forget my Grief,
Which only from its Author seeks Relief?
See! my parch'd Tongue my inward heat declares,
And my quick Pulse proclaims intestine Wars;
While so much Blood's profusely spent within,
That not one drop can in my Cheeks be seen:
And the same Pulse that once gave brisk Alarms,
Beats a dead March in my dejected Arms:
My Doctors sigh, and shrugging take their leave,
And me to Heav'n and a cold Grave bequeath,
While more than they the fatal sense I feel
Of my lost Health, and their successful Skill.
And my quick Pulse proclaims intestine Wars;
While so much Blood's profusely spent within,
That not one drop can in my Cheeks be seen:
And the same Pulse that once gave brisk Alarms,
Beats a dead March in my dejected Arms:
My Doctors sigh, and shrugging take their leave,
And me to Heav'n and a cold Grave bequeath,
While more than they the fatal sense I feel
Of my lost Health, and their successful Skill.
What can the Patient hope, when ev'n despair
Discourages the lost Physician's care!
The subtle Poyson creeps through all my Veins,
And in my Bones the fierce Contagion reigns:
My drooping Head flies to my Hands for aid,
But by the feeble Props is soon betray'd:
Now my last breath is ready to expire,
And I must next to Death's dark Cell retire.
Vainly I strive my other Pains to tell,
Because their numbers unaccountable.
In this forlorn unpity'd state I lie,
While he who can relieve me, lets me die.
My Face all chang'd, and out of knowledge grown,
Ev'n I am scarce perswaded 'tis my own.
My Eyes have shrunk for shelter to my Head,
And on my Cheek the Rose hangs pale and dead.
No pow'r cou'd drive the fierce Disease away,
Nor force th'insulting Victor from his prey.
My Bed I loath; nor can it sleep procure;
My festring Wounds no Surgion's hands endure.
Discourages the lost Physician's care!
The subtle Poyson creeps through all my Veins,
And in my Bones the fierce Contagion reigns:
My drooping Head flies to my Hands for aid,
But by the feeble Props is soon betray'd:
Now my last breath is ready to expire,
And I must next to Death's dark Cell retire.
19
Because their numbers unaccountable.
In this forlorn unpity'd state I lie,
While he who can relieve me, lets me die.
My Face all chang'd, and out of knowledge grown,
Ev'n I am scarce perswaded 'tis my own.
My Eyes have shrunk for shelter to my Head,
And on my Cheek the Rose hangs pale and dead.
No pow'r cou'd drive the fierce Disease away,
Nor force th'insulting Victor from his prey.
My Bed I loath; nor can it sleep procure;
My festring Wounds no Surgion's hands endure.
My Wounds—But oh! that Word has pierc'd my heart,
The very mention does renew their smart;
My Wounds gape wide, as they wou'd let in Death,
And make quick Passage for my flitting Breath:
Nor can they ev'n the lightest touch endure,
But dread the Hand that wou'd attempt their Cure.
For, Lord, my Wounds are from the Darts of Sin,
That rage and torture my griev'd Soul within:
Here an hydropick thirst of Riches reigns,
And their Pride's flatuous humour swells my Veins:
Next frantick Passion plays the Tyrant's part;
And Loves ov'r-spreading Cancer gnaws my Heart.
Oft to the learn'd I made my suff'rings known,
Oft try'd their Skill, but found Redress from none:
Not all the virtue of Bethesda's Pool,
Without thy help, could ever make me whole.
Then to what healing Altar shou'd I flie,
But that whose prostrate Victims never die?
To Thee, Health-giver to the World, I kneel,
Who most can'st pity what thy self didst feel:
There's no sound part in all my tortur'd Soul:
But, if thou wilt, Lord, thou cast make me whole.
See where, to cruel Thieves, a helpless prey,
Wounded and rob'd I'm left upon the way.
O Good Samaritan! my Heart revive
With Wine; my Wounds some Balm of Gilead give.
Then take me home, lest if I here remain,
My Foes return, and make thy Succour vain.
The very mention does renew their smart;
My Wounds gape wide, as they wou'd let in Death,
And make quick Passage for my flitting Breath:
Nor can they ev'n the lightest touch endure,
But dread the Hand that wou'd attempt their Cure.
For, Lord, my Wounds are from the Darts of Sin,
That rage and torture my griev'd Soul within:
Here an hydropick thirst of Riches reigns,
And their Pride's flatuous humour swells my Veins:
Next frantick Passion plays the Tyrant's part;
And Loves ov'r-spreading Cancer gnaws my Heart.
20
Oft try'd their Skill, but found Redress from none:
Not all the virtue of Bethesda's Pool,
Without thy help, could ever make me whole.
Then to what healing Altar shou'd I flie,
But that whose prostrate Victims never die?
To Thee, Health-giver to the World, I kneel,
Who most can'st pity what thy self didst feel:
There's no sound part in all my tortur'd Soul:
But, if thou wilt, Lord, thou cast make me whole.
See where, to cruel Thieves, a helpless prey,
Wounded and rob'd I'm left upon the way.
O Good Samaritan! my Heart revive
With Wine; my Wounds some Balm of Gilead give.
Then take me home, lest if I here remain,
My Foes return, and make thy Succour vain.
21
The whole World, from East to West, lies very sick; but to cure this very sick World, there descends an Omnipotent Physician, who humbled himself even to the Assumption of a mortal Body, as if he had gone into the Bed of the Diseased.
Aug. de Verb. Dom. Serm. 55. cap. 55.
23
IV.
Look upon my adversity and misery, and forgive me all my sin,
Psal. xxv. 17.
Can all my Suff'rings no Compassion move,
And wou'dst thou yet perswade me thou dost love?
'T has oft been said, believe it he that will!
That those who Love, each others torment feel.
Canst thou behold my Grief, and seek no way
For my redress? True Love brooks no delay.
See what a servile Yoak my Neck sustains,
Whose shame is more afflicting than its pains!
With any Task my Soul wou'd be content,
But one whose Scandal is a Punishment.
Had my Afflictions any parallel,
Taught by Example, I shou'd bear them well:
And 'twou'd, amidst my Woes, bring some Relief,
To have more shoulders to support the Grief:
For bravest Heroes oft have felt the weight
Of their injurious Step-dame Fortune's Hate.
Thus our fam'd Martyr, in his Murd'rers stead,
Bow'd to a Rebel Ax His Sacred Head;
While His great Son, a Prince of high Renown,
The Heir of His bright Father's Name and Crown,
In an obscure, ignoble Banishment,
Did His own Fate, and Rebels Guilt prevent.
Sad Instances of Man's uncertain State!
Yet 'tis no Crime to be unfortunate:
But my base Slav'ry is alone my blame,
And less to be bewail'd with Tears, than Shame;
And to a heavier sum my Woes amount,
Since I must place them to my own account.
Like captiv'd Sampson I am driv'n about,
The drudge and scorn of an insulting Rout.
Around I draw the heavy restless Wheel,
And find my endless Task beginning still:
Within this Circle by strange Magick bound,
I'm still in Motion, yet I gain no Ground.
And wou'dst thou yet perswade me thou dost love?
'T has oft been said, believe it he that will!
That those who Love, each others torment feel.
Canst thou behold my Grief, and seek no way
For my redress? True Love brooks no delay.
See what a servile Yoak my Neck sustains,
Whose shame is more afflicting than its pains!
With any Task my Soul wou'd be content,
But one whose Scandal is a Punishment.
Had my Afflictions any parallel,
Taught by Example, I shou'd bear them well:
And 'twou'd, amidst my Woes, bring some Relief,
To have more shoulders to support the Grief:
For bravest Heroes oft have felt the weight
Of their injurious Step-dame Fortune's Hate.
Thus our fam'd Martyr, in his Murd'rers stead,
Bow'd to a Rebel Ax His Sacred Head;
24
The Heir of His bright Father's Name and Crown,
In an obscure, ignoble Banishment,
Did His own Fate, and Rebels Guilt prevent.
Sad Instances of Man's uncertain State!
Yet 'tis no Crime to be unfortunate:
But my base Slav'ry is alone my blame,
And less to be bewail'd with Tears, than Shame;
And to a heavier sum my Woes amount,
Since I must place them to my own account.
Like captiv'd Sampson I am driv'n about,
The drudge and scorn of an insulting Rout.
Around I draw the heavy restless Wheel,
And find my endless Task beginning still:
Within this Circle by strange Magick bound,
I'm still in Motion, yet I gain no Ground.
O! that some usual Labour were injoyn'd,
And not the Tyrant Vice enslav'd my mind!
No weight of Chains cou'd grieve my captive Hands,
Like the loath'd Drudg'ry of its base Commands;
By this a double mis'ry I contract,
Ev'n I condemn the hated Ills I act.
Yet of my Chains I'm not so weary grown,
But that I still am putting others on.
For Sin has always this attending Curse,
To back the first Transgression with a worse:
This to my sorrow, I too often find!
Yet no Experience warns my heedless mind.
Thus Vice and Virtue do my Soul divide,
Like a Ship tost between the Wind and Tide.
Pleasure, the Bawd to Vice, here draws me in,
There, Grief, its Follow'r, pulls me back from Sin:
Yet Pleasure oft comes Conqueror from the Field,
Whilst I to Vice, inglorious Homage yield.
Tho' Grief does still with Vice in triumph ride,
Plac'd like a Slave by that great Conqu'ror's side.
Thus Vice and Virtue have alternate sway,
While I, with endless labour, Both obey:
And to increase my pains, as if too small,
Thy heavy hand comes in the rear of all,
And with deep piercing strokes corrects me more,
For what was punish'd in it self before.
Thus guilty Souls in Hell are scourg'd for Sin;
Their never-ending Pains thus still begin.
And not the Tyrant Vice enslav'd my mind!
No weight of Chains cou'd grieve my captive Hands,
Like the loath'd Drudg'ry of its base Commands;
By this a double mis'ry I contract,
Ev'n I condemn the hated Ills I act.
Yet of my Chains I'm not so weary grown,
But that I still am putting others on.
For Sin has always this attending Curse,
To back the first Transgression with a worse:
25
Yet no Experience warns my heedless mind.
Thus Vice and Virtue do my Soul divide,
Like a Ship tost between the Wind and Tide.
Pleasure, the Bawd to Vice, here draws me in,
There, Grief, its Follow'r, pulls me back from Sin:
Yet Pleasure oft comes Conqueror from the Field,
Whilst I to Vice, inglorious Homage yield.
Tho' Grief does still with Vice in triumph ride,
Plac'd like a Slave by that great Conqu'ror's side.
Thus Vice and Virtue have alternate sway,
While I, with endless labour, Both obey:
And to increase my pains, as if too small,
Thy heavy hand comes in the rear of all,
And with deep piercing strokes corrects me more,
For what was punish'd in it self before.
Thus guilty Souls in Hell are scourg'd for Sin;
Their never-ending Pains thus still begin.
Canst thou, unkind! behold my wretched Fate?
Canst thou behold, and not commiserate?
Look on, O see if causless I complain!
O hold thy Hand, and mitigate my Pain!
Canst thou behold, and not commiserate?
Look on, O see if causless I complain!
O hold thy Hand, and mitigate my Pain!
I suppose the World is called a Mill, because it is turn'd about on the Wheels of Time, and grinds and crushes those that most admire it.
Aug. in Psal. xxxvi.
27
V.
Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the Clay, and wilt thou bring me into Dust again?
Job x. 9.
Has
Providence regard to things below?
Or does it slight what it's not pleas'd to know?
That the great Author of this brittle Frame
Forgets from what Original it came?
Or does it slight what it's not pleas'd to know?
That the great Author of this brittle Frame
Forgets from what Original it came?
Ages, to Thee are but as yesterday:
And canst thou, Lord, forget thy humble Clay?
Form'd with a touch, and quick'ned with a breath;
In one short moment made, and doom'd to death.
If thou hast this forgot, receive from me
The strange relation of the History.
When this great Fabrick of the World was rear'd,
And its Orig'nal Nothing disappear'd,
Then, in the close of the Sixth busie day,
Thou with a glance didst the whole Work survey;
And pleas'd with that fair product of thy Pow'r,
Wou'dst copy't o'er again in Miniature;
Then was with all the Art of Heav'n design'd,
The mortal Image of th'immortal Mind.
Blest Eden was the place which gave him Birth,
And as he lightly leapt from Mother Earth,
Pleas'd Heav'n and Nature smiling greet his rise,
And bid him welcome into Paradise.
Hard by a silver Stream did gently pass,
Stealing its secret Path along the Grass;
But soon its head-strong Waves more fiercely hurl'd,
To view the New-born Master of the World:
Thence in four streams to distant Regions stray,
And bear the wondrous Tidings wide away.
Here from a Lump of despicable Earth,
Had Man (the less, but Nobler World) his Birth;
The Nobler, since in his small Frame we view
At once the World and its Creator too.
And canst thou, Lord, forget thy humble Clay?
Form'd with a touch, and quick'ned with a breath;
In one short moment made, and doom'd to death.
If thou hast this forgot, receive from me
The strange relation of the History.
When this great Fabrick of the World was rear'd,
And its Orig'nal Nothing disappear'd,
Then, in the close of the Sixth busie day,
Thou with a glance didst the whole Work survey;
And pleas'd with that fair product of thy Pow'r,
Wou'dst copy't o'er again in Miniature;
28
The mortal Image of th'immortal Mind.
Blest Eden was the place which gave him Birth,
And as he lightly leapt from Mother Earth,
Pleas'd Heav'n and Nature smiling greet his rise,
And bid him welcome into Paradise.
Hard by a silver Stream did gently pass,
Stealing its secret Path along the Grass;
But soon its head-strong Waves more fiercely hurl'd,
To view the New-born Master of the World:
Thence in four streams to distant Regions stray,
And bear the wondrous Tidings wide away.
Here from a Lump of despicable Earth,
Had Man (the less, but Nobler World) his Birth;
The Nobler, since in his small Frame we view
At once the World and its Creator too.
But things of finest texture first decay,
And Heav'n's great Master-piece is brittle Clay;
Ruin'd by that which does its worth advance,
And dash'd to pieces by the least mischance.
And Heav'n's great Master-piece is brittle Clay;
Ruin'd by that which does its worth advance,
And dash'd to pieces by the least mischance.
This frail, this transitory Thing am I,
Who only live, to learn the way to die:
So soon shall Fate to its first Matter turn,
The curious Structure of this living Urn.
Thus China-Vessels, wrought with Art and Pain,
Are, without either, turn'd to Dust again.
Such is th'uncertainty of humane state,
Such the destructive haste of necessary Fate!
Who only live, to learn the way to die:
So soon shall Fate to its first Matter turn,
The curious Structure of this living Urn.
Thus China-Vessels, wrought with Art and Pain,
Are, without either, turn'd to Dust again.
29
Such the destructive haste of necessary Fate!
Why then, my God, does swift-pac'd Time betray,
What of it self's so subject to decay?
All to the Grave, their Centre, freely bend,
And thither, prest with their own weight, descend;
Fate needs not any hasty vi'lence use,
To force a motion, which unurg'd they chuse.
What of it self's so subject to decay?
All to the Grave, their Centre, freely bend,
And thither, prest with their own weight, descend;
Fate needs not any hasty vi'lence use,
To force a motion, which unurg'd they chuse.
Did I the Stars more temper'd matter share,
Till they first fell, I no decay shou'd fear:
Or cou'd I like th'unbody'd Angels be,
Like them, I'd triumph o'er Mortality.
But I, like Insects, sure, derive my Birth
From some Plebeian, putrifying Earth.
Why did not Heav'n an Iron temper grant,
Or hew me from a Rock of Adamant?
Till they first fell, I no decay shou'd fear:
Or cou'd I like th'unbody'd Angels be,
Like them, I'd triumph o'er Mortality.
But I, like Insects, sure, derive my Birth
From some Plebeian, putrifying Earth.
Why did not Heav'n an Iron temper grant,
Or hew me from a Rock of Adamant?
But how dare I with Heav'n expostulate,
Or blame the frailty of my mortal state?
Nor ought prou'd Clay its Potter e'er upbraid,
Nor scorns he that weak Vessel he has made.
Or blame the frailty of my mortal state?
Nor ought prou'd Clay its Potter e'er upbraid,
Nor scorns he that weak Vessel he has made.
Dares the unhappy Clay blaspheme the fingers of its Potter? How so! because the Potter contracting his fingers, and striking the Vessel with his whole hand, it is violently dash'd to pieces.
Rupert. in Jerem. lib. 1. cap. 4.
31
VI.
I have sinned, what shall I do unto thee, O thou Preserver of Men? Why hast thou set me as a Mark against thee?
Job vii. 20.
'Tis just, nor will I longer hide my shame,
But own my self egregiously to blame:
My Sins to such a mighty sum amount,
That hope of Pardon wou'd increase th'account;
And the black Cat'logue of their unwip'd score,
Calls for more Plagues than Vengeance has in store.
But own my self egregiously to blame:
My Sins to such a mighty sum amount,
That hope of Pardon wou'd increase th'account;
And the black Cat'logue of their unwip'd score,
Calls for more Plagues than Vengeance has in store.
I own it, Lord, nor just Dishonour fear;
Since publick Punishment I ought to bear.
Here, at thy Feet, I humbly prostrate bow,
And beg my Sentence from thy Mouth to know.
Shall my own Hand thy dread Revenge prevent,
And make my self my own sad Monument?
Shall I with Gifts thy loaden Altar crown,
Or sacrifice the Beast, my self, thereon?
(Tho' sure my Blood wou'd that blest place prophane,
And give what it shou'd cleanse a fouler stain.)
All this, and more, if possible to do,
Wou'd fall far short to pay the Debt I owe.
But thou art not severe, nor hard to please,
Whom Blood and Slaughter only can appease:
Thy Sword thy conquer'd Foe has often spar'd,
And thence the best, the noblest Trophies rear'd.
No tyrant Passion rages in thy Breast,
But the meek Dove builds there her peaceful Nest;
Kind Guardian of the World! our Help, our Aid,
To whom the Vows of all Mankind are made:
Who when thou woud'st thy height of Anger show,
A sudden Calm unbends thy threatning brow:
How kindly dost thou raise the prostrate Foe,
With the same hand that shou'd have struck the blow?
Since publick Punishment I ought to bear.
Here, at thy Feet, I humbly prostrate bow,
And beg my Sentence from thy Mouth to know.
Shall my own Hand thy dread Revenge prevent,
And make my self my own sad Monument?
Shall I with Gifts thy loaden Altar crown,
Or sacrifice the Beast, my self, thereon?
(Tho' sure my Blood wou'd that blest place prophane,
And give what it shou'd cleanse a fouler stain.)
32
Wou'd fall far short to pay the Debt I owe.
But thou art not severe, nor hard to please,
Whom Blood and Slaughter only can appease:
Thy Sword thy conquer'd Foe has often spar'd,
And thence the best, the noblest Trophies rear'd.
No tyrant Passion rages in thy Breast,
But the meek Dove builds there her peaceful Nest;
Kind Guardian of the World! our Help, our Aid,
To whom the Vows of all Mankind are made:
Who when thou woud'st thy height of Anger show,
A sudden Calm unbends thy threatning brow:
How kindly dost thou raise the prostrate Foe,
With the same hand that shou'd have struck the blow?
Wou'dst thou permit—But oh! what Eloquence
Can with success appear in my defence?
Yet let me, Lord, plead for my self, and Thee,
Lest ev'n thy Cause, as mine, may injur'd be.
Lord, I confess I've sinned, but not alone;
Wilt thou impute a Common Guilt to One?
Thy bare-fac'd Rebels still unpunish'd go,
As if thou mindedst nothing here below.
Unplagu'd, like other Men, the brutish Swine,
Wallow i'th' foul excess of Lust and Wine:
Yet dost thou stop thy Arrows on the String,
Arrest thy brandish'd Thunder on the Wing;
Sheath thy red Sword, just lifted for the blow,
And in its room mild Olive-branches show.
But ev'ry slip each inadvertencie,
Is magnify'd to'insuff'rable in me.
I am the Mark of ev'ry wounding stroke,
As if I only did thy wrath provoke.
This I confess, All I, alas! can do:
O hear my Pray'r, with my Confession too!
Accept the good Effects of an ill Cause,
And pardon Sin, that gains thee most applause.
“Forgive me, Conqu'ror! since thou must confess
“Had I not Err'd, thy Glory had been less.
Can with success appear in my defence?
Yet let me, Lord, plead for my self, and Thee,
Lest ev'n thy Cause, as mine, may injur'd be.
Lord, I confess I've sinned, but not alone;
Wilt thou impute a Common Guilt to One?
Thy bare-fac'd Rebels still unpunish'd go,
As if thou mindedst nothing here below.
Unplagu'd, like other Men, the brutish Swine,
Wallow i'th' foul excess of Lust and Wine:
33
Arrest thy brandish'd Thunder on the Wing;
Sheath thy red Sword, just lifted for the blow,
And in its room mild Olive-branches show.
But ev'ry slip each inadvertencie,
Is magnify'd to'insuff'rable in me.
I am the Mark of ev'ry wounding stroke,
As if I only did thy wrath provoke.
This I confess, All I, alas! can do:
O hear my Pray'r, with my Confession too!
Accept the good Effects of an ill Cause,
And pardon Sin, that gains thee most applause.
“Forgive me, Conqu'ror! since thou must confess
“Had I not Err'd, thy Glory had been less.
Then God sets Man as a mark against him, when Man by sinning has forsaken God: But our just Creator set him as a mark against him; because he thought him his Enemy by his naughtiness.
Greg. in 7 cap. Job, lib. 8. cap. 23.
35
VII.
Wherefore hidest thou thy Face, and holdest me for thine Enemy?
Job xiii. 24.
Is't my great Error, or thy small Respect,
That I am treated with this cold neglect?
I thought thy frowns were but dissembled heat,
And all thy threatning looks an amorous cheat.
As tender Mothers draw the Breast away,
To urge their pretty Innocents to play;
Or as the Nurse seems to deny a Kiss,
To make the fonder suppliant steal the Bliss:
So I believ'd thou didst abscond, and flee
Only to make me faster follow thee.
But now, (alas!) 'tis earnest all, I find,
And not pretended Anger, but design'd:
My kind Embrace you coldly entertain,
As if we never shou'd be Friends again:
And with such eager haste my presence shun,
As Men from Monsters or Infection run;
As if my Looks wou'd turn you into Stone:
But fear not that, the work's already done;
36
Some Magick sure has petrify'd my Heart.
O let me know what Crime I must deplore,
That lets me see your dear-lov'd Face no more!
Ah! why that Face must I no longer see,
Which ne'er, till now, once look'd unkind on me?
Sure you believe there's Poyson in my Breath,
Or that my Eyes dart unavoided Death.
Prevent the danger with thy conqu'ring Eye,
Unsheath its Rays, and let th'Offender die:
Or else discharge a frown, and strike me dead,
For more than Death I your Displeasure dread.
Your Eyes are all I wish, let them be mine,
The Sun, unmist by me, may cease to shine:
Fair Cynthia's beauteous Eyes, I can contemn,
Tho' all the Lamps of Night fetcht Beams from them:
But if, my Life, my Soul, thou Thine deny,
Heart-broke, in darkness and despair I die.
And if thy very Absence cause such pain,
Guess what my Torment is to love, but love in vain!
37
If any of our Servants offend us, we are wont not to look upon them: If this be thought a Punishment among Men, how much more with God? For you see that God turned away his Face from the Offering of Cain
Amb. Apolog. pro David.
39
VIII.
O that my Head were Waters, and mine Eyes a Fountain of Tears, that I might weep day and night!
Jer. ix. 1.
Oh! that my Head were one vast source of tears,
With bubling Streams as num'rous as my Hairs!
My Face a Plain, which briny Floods should drown,
And scorning Banks, come proudly rolling down.
That Grief with inexhaustible supplies,
Wou'd fill the Cisterns of my flowing Eyes!
Till the fierce Torrents which those Springs impart
Flow down my Breast, and stagnate round my Heart.
With bubling Streams as num'rous as my Hairs!
My Face a Plain, which briny Floods should drown,
And scorning Banks, come proudly rolling down.
That Grief with inexhaustible supplies,
Wou'd fill the Cisterns of my flowing Eyes!
Till the fierce Torrents which those Springs impart
Flow down my Breast, and stagnate round my Heart.
Not all the Tears the Royal Psalmist shed,
With which his Couch was wash'd, himself was fed;
Nor those which once the weeping Mary pour'd,
On the dear Feet of her forgiving Lord;
Nor those which drown'd the great Apostle's Breast,
Whose boasted Zeal shrunk at th'affrighting Test;
Nor these, nor more than these, can e'er suffice,
To cleanse the stains of my Impieties.
Give me the undiscover'd Source of Nile,
That with sev'n Streams o'erflows the Egyptian Soil;
Or, Noah! Let thy Deluge be renew'd.
Till I am drown'd in the impetuous Flood;
Till Tow'rs, and Trees, and Hills appear no more;
All one vast Desart Sea, without a Shore.
With which his Couch was wash'd, himself was fed;
Nor those which once the weeping Mary pour'd,
On the dear Feet of her forgiving Lord;
Nor those which drown'd the great Apostle's Breast,
Whose boasted Zeal shrunk at th'affrighting Test;
Nor these, nor more than these, can e'er suffice,
To cleanse the stains of my Impieties.
40
That with sev'n Streams o'erflows the Egyptian Soil;
Or, Noah! Let thy Deluge be renew'd.
Till I am drown'd in the impetuous Flood;
Till Tow'rs, and Trees, and Hills appear no more;
All one vast Desart Sea, without a Shore.
O that these Fountains wou'd their Course begin
And flow as fast as I made haste to sin!
The weeping Limbecks never shou'd give o're,
Till their last drop had emptied all their Store.
Happy ye Fountains which for ever flow,
Whose endless Streams no Drowth or Summer know,
O that my Eyes had all the Drops which fell
From this fair Spring, or that eternal Well!
How do I grudge the Clouds their envy'd Rain!
How wish the boundless Treasures of the Main!
Then shou'd my Tears, like that, just motion keep,
And I shou'd take a strange delight to weep.
Nor the swift current of my Grief forbid,
Till in the Waves this little World were hid;
Hid, as the neighb'ring Valleys are o'respread,
When the warm Sun melts Pindus snowy head.
The great Assyrian, found in Jordan's Seas,
A happy Med'cine for his foul Disease;
But what kind Torrent will my Cure begin,
And cleanse my filthier Leprosie of Sin?
And flow as fast as I made haste to sin!
The weeping Limbecks never shou'd give o're,
Till their last drop had emptied all their Store.
Happy ye Fountains which for ever flow,
Whose endless Streams no Drowth or Summer know,
O that my Eyes had all the Drops which fell
From this fair Spring, or that eternal Well!
How do I grudge the Clouds their envy'd Rain!
How wish the boundless Treasures of the Main!
Then shou'd my Tears, like that, just motion keep,
And I shou'd take a strange delight to weep.
Nor the swift current of my Grief forbid,
Till in the Waves this little World were hid;
Hid, as the neighb'ring Valleys are o'respread,
When the warm Sun melts Pindus snowy head.
The great Assyrian, found in Jordan's Seas,
A happy Med'cine for his foul Disease;
41
And cleanse my filthier Leprosie of Sin?
See! from my Saviour's side a stream of Blood!
I'll bath my self in that Redeeming Flood:
That healing Torrent was on purpose spilt,
To wash my Stains, and expiate all my Guilt.
That ever-flowing Ocean will suffice
For the defect of my exhausted Eyes.
I'll bath my self in that Redeeming Flood:
That healing Torrent was on purpose spilt,
To wash my Stains, and expiate all my Guilt.
That ever-flowing Ocean will suffice
For the defect of my exhausted Eyes.
If I were all dissolv'd to Tears, and those not only some few drops, but an Ocean or a Deluge, I should never weep enough.
Hieron. in Jerem. cap. 9.
43
IX.
The pains of Hell came about me: The snares of Death overtook me,
Psal. xviii. 4.
While in this sad Distress my self I view,
Methinks I make that Heathen Fable true;
Of him whose bleeding mangled Carcass lay,
To his own Hounds expos'd a helpless Prey.
Long I the Pleasures of the Wood pursu'd,
Till, like its Beasts, my self grew wild and rude;
I hop'd with Hunting to divert my Care,
But almost fell my self into the Snare.
Methinks I make that Heathen Fable true;
Of him whose bleeding mangled Carcass lay,
To his own Hounds expos'd a helpless Prey.
Long I the Pleasures of the Wood pursu'd,
Till, like its Beasts, my self grew wild and rude;
I hop'd with Hunting to divert my Care,
But almost fell my self into the Snare.
Yet to those Woods (alas) I did not go,
Whose inn'cent Sports give Health and Pleasure too.
I spread no Toils to take the tim'rous Deer,
Nor aim'd my Javlin at the rugged Bear.
Happy, had I my Time so well imploy'd,
Nor had I been by my own Game destroy'd:
I had not then mis-spent my Youthful Days,
Nor torn my Flesh among sharp Thorny ways.
Whose inn'cent Sports give Health and Pleasure too.
I spread no Toils to take the tim'rous Deer,
Nor aim'd my Javlin at the rugged Bear.
Happy, had I my Time so well imploy'd,
Nor had I been by my own Game destroy'd:
I had not then mis-spent my Youthful Days,
Nor torn my Flesh among sharp Thorny ways.
44
But I (alas!) still ply'd the sparkling Wine,
That poys'nous Juice of the pernicious Vine;
And this expos'd me to Love's fatal Dart,
The false betray'r of my unguarded Heart:
Thou Love, hast thy sly Nets, and subtle Charms;
Nor are thy Bow and Dart thy only Arms.
And treacherous Wine does fatal Weapons bear;
The Glass is more destructive than the Spear.
Thus Sampson, by his Delilah betray'd,
Was Hers, and then his En'mies Captive made:
Thus, when too freely Noah had us'd the Vine,
He who escap'd the Flood, lay drown'd in Wine.
That poys'nous Juice of the pernicious Vine;
And this expos'd me to Love's fatal Dart,
The false betray'r of my unguarded Heart:
Thou Love, hast thy sly Nets, and subtle Charms;
Nor are thy Bow and Dart thy only Arms.
And treacherous Wine does fatal Weapons bear;
The Glass is more destructive than the Spear.
Thus Sampson, by his Delilah betray'd,
Was Hers, and then his En'mies Captive made:
Thus, when too freely Noah had us'd the Vine,
He who escap'd the Flood, lay drown'd in Wine.
Thus Love, by me pursu'd (alas!) too fast,
Seiz'd my lost Soul, and prey'd on me at last;
Within whose close incircling Toils beset,
I seem'd a Beast just fall'n into the Net:
Destroy'd by what my Inclination sought,
As Birds by their frequented Lime-twigs caught;
For Death around, its subtle Nets does spread,
Fine as the texture of the Spiders Web:
And as perdue that watchful Robber lies,
His buzzing Prey the better to surprize;
But, taught by Motion when the Booty's nigh,
Leaps out, and seizes the entangled Fly:
Or as a Fowler, with his hidden Snare,
Contrives t'entrap the Racers of the Air;
While to conceal and further the Deceit,
He strows the Ground with his destructive Meat;
And fastens Birds of the same kind, to sing,
And weakly flutter on their captive Wing:
So Death the Wretch into his Snare decoys,
And with pretended Happiness destroys:
Above the Nets we think a leap to take,
But head-long drop into th'infernal Lake.
Seiz'd my lost Soul, and prey'd on me at last;
Within whose close incircling Toils beset,
I seem'd a Beast just fall'n into the Net:
Destroy'd by what my Inclination sought,
As Birds by their frequented Lime-twigs caught;
For Death around, its subtle Nets does spread,
Fine as the texture of the Spiders Web:
And as perdue that watchful Robber lies,
His buzzing Prey the better to surprize;
But, taught by Motion when the Booty's nigh,
Leaps out, and seizes the entangled Fly:
45
Contrives t'entrap the Racers of the Air;
While to conceal and further the Deceit,
He strows the Ground with his destructive Meat;
And fastens Birds of the same kind, to sing,
And weakly flutter on their captive Wing:
So Death the Wretch into his Snare decoys,
And with pretended Happiness destroys:
Above the Nets we think a leap to take,
But head-long drop into th'infernal Lake.
The reward of Honours, the height of Power, the delicacy of Diet, and the beauty of an Harlot, are the snares of the Devil.
Amb. lib. 4. in cap. 4. Lucæ.
Whilst thou seekest Pleasures, thou runnest into Snares; for the Eye of the Harlot is the Snare of the Adulterer.
Idem, de bono mortis.
47
X.
Enter not into Judgment with thy Servant, O Lord,
Psal. cxliii. 2.
The
Master's Gains to a small Sum amount,
That calls his Servant to a strict Account;
And tho' the Servant has not wrong'd his Trust,
Where's the Applause of being only Just?
Vainly the Master does a Suit begin,
To gain a Vict'ry he must blush to win:
And if I'm over guilty made, no doubt
I must go seek some other Master out.
Believe me, Lord, to be Severe with me,
Will wrong thee more than my Offending thee.
I am so much too mean for thy Regard,
'Twill lessen thee to mind how I have Err'd.
What! must thy Registries the Pleadings show,
Swoln with the Hist'ry of my Overthrow?
Or can I hope my Cause shou'd Thine out-do,
Where Thou sit'st Judge, that art the Plaintiff too?
What Eloquence can plead with such success,
To free the Wretch that does his Debt confess?
Alas! what Advocate best read in Laws,
Can weaken Thine, or re-inforce my Cause?
Ah! not too strictly my Accounts survey,
Nor for Abatements let me vainly pray.
Both Heav'n and Earth thy boundless Mercy know,
To Pardon, easie; and to Punish, slow:
Ev'n when our Crimes pull thy just Vengeance down,
'Tis rather Grief, than Anger, makes thee frown:
And when thou dost our Punishment decree,
Thou seest our Stripes with more Concern than we;
And dost Chastise us at so mild a rate,
That what we bear, we scarce wou'd deprecate:
And tho' our selves we had the Judges been,
We hardly shou'd have lightlier touch'd our Sin.
But tho' this Character is All thy due,
Let me thy lightest Censures undergo;
For tho' thy Mercy does no Limits know,
Thy Justice must have Satisfaction too.
These Attributes in equal Ballance lye,
And neither must the Others Right deny.
No melting Passion can affect thy Breast,
Nor soft Intreaties charm thy Hand to rest:
Nor baffled Eloquence dares here engage:
But wants itself some happier Patronage.
No Fee, no Bribe, no Trick in all the Laws,
Can e'er prevail to carry such a Cause.
'Tis vain with Thee, Lord, to commence a Suit,
Whose awful presence strikes all Pleaders mute.
No other Judge so terrible can be,
To make me fear his strictest Scrutiny;
But Thy Tribunal, Lord, with dread I view,
Where thou art Plaintiff, Judge, and Witness too;
Where when my Sentence from Thy Mouth is come,
No Plea can urge Thee to reverse the Doom.
How this dread place augments the Guilty's fear,
Where so much awe and gravity appear!
Ev'n He whose Reas'ning did this Truth assert,
And shot a trembling into Felix Heart;
Who did not his own Judgment-Seat decline,
Cou'd without trembling never think of Thine.
And Wisdom's famous Oracle denies
The purest Soul unblemish'd in Thy Eyes;
Whose pious Father (after thine own heart)
Declares Thy Wrath the best of Man's desert.
And Job assures us, that the Stars, whose Light
Chears with kind infl'ence our admiring sight;
Tho' glorious all in our dim Eyes they shine,
Are only small Opacous Orbs in thine.
How then can weaker Beams support that weight,
Which shook these Pillars with such strange affright?
Or how can humble Hyssop keep its Wall,
When Libanus's stateliest Cedars fall?
That calls his Servant to a strict Account;
And tho' the Servant has not wrong'd his Trust,
Where's the Applause of being only Just?
Vainly the Master does a Suit begin,
To gain a Vict'ry he must blush to win:
And if I'm over guilty made, no doubt
I must go seek some other Master out.
Believe me, Lord, to be Severe with me,
Will wrong thee more than my Offending thee.
I am so much too mean for thy Regard,
'Twill lessen thee to mind how I have Err'd.
What! must thy Registries the Pleadings show,
Swoln with the Hist'ry of my Overthrow?
Or can I hope my Cause shou'd Thine out-do,
Where Thou sit'st Judge, that art the Plaintiff too?
What Eloquence can plead with such success,
To free the Wretch that does his Debt confess?
48
Can weaken Thine, or re-inforce my Cause?
Ah! not too strictly my Accounts survey,
Nor for Abatements let me vainly pray.
Both Heav'n and Earth thy boundless Mercy know,
To Pardon, easie; and to Punish, slow:
Ev'n when our Crimes pull thy just Vengeance down,
'Tis rather Grief, than Anger, makes thee frown:
And when thou dost our Punishment decree,
Thou seest our Stripes with more Concern than we;
And dost Chastise us at so mild a rate,
That what we bear, we scarce wou'd deprecate:
And tho' our selves we had the Judges been,
We hardly shou'd have lightlier touch'd our Sin.
But tho' this Character is All thy due,
Let me thy lightest Censures undergo;
For tho' thy Mercy does no Limits know,
Thy Justice must have Satisfaction too.
These Attributes in equal Ballance lye,
And neither must the Others Right deny.
No melting Passion can affect thy Breast,
Nor soft Intreaties charm thy Hand to rest:
Nor baffled Eloquence dares here engage:
But wants itself some happier Patronage.
No Fee, no Bribe, no Trick in all the Laws,
Can e'er prevail to carry such a Cause.
49
Whose awful presence strikes all Pleaders mute.
No other Judge so terrible can be,
To make me fear his strictest Scrutiny;
But Thy Tribunal, Lord, with dread I view,
Where thou art Plaintiff, Judge, and Witness too;
Where when my Sentence from Thy Mouth is come,
No Plea can urge Thee to reverse the Doom.
How this dread place augments the Guilty's fear,
Where so much awe and gravity appear!
Ev'n He whose Reas'ning did this Truth assert,
And shot a trembling into Felix Heart;
Who did not his own Judgment-Seat decline,
Cou'd without trembling never think of Thine.
And Wisdom's famous Oracle denies
The purest Soul unblemish'd in Thy Eyes;
Whose pious Father (after thine own heart)
Declares Thy Wrath the best of Man's desert.
And Job assures us, that the Stars, whose Light
Chears with kind infl'ence our admiring sight;
Tho' glorious all in our dim Eyes they shine,
Are only small Opacous Orbs in thine.
How then can weaker Beams support that weight,
Which shook these Pillars with such strange affright?
Or how can humble Hyssop keep its Wall,
When Libanus's stateliest Cedars fall?
50
When I behold my large unblotted Score,
And think what Plagues thy Vengeance has in store;
An icy Horror chills my freezing Blood,
And stops the active Motion of its Flood.
And think what Plagues thy Vengeance has in store;
An icy Horror chills my freezing Blood,
And stops the active Motion of its Flood.
As some pale Captive, when condemn'd to Death,
Loath to resign, ev'n his last gasp of Breath,
Beholds with an intent and steddy Eye,
The dreadful Instrument of Fate rais'd high:
Yet still unwilling from this World to go,
Shuns with a Start the disappointed Blow:
So, when I see thy Book, in which are writ
All the black Crimes I rashly did commit,
Amaz'd, I fly thy Bar; —
For how can Sinners that strict Place abide,
Where ev'n the Righteous scarce are justify'd?
Loath to resign, ev'n his last gasp of Breath,
Beholds with an intent and steddy Eye,
The dreadful Instrument of Fate rais'd high:
Yet still unwilling from this World to go,
Shuns with a Start the disappointed Blow:
So, when I see thy Book, in which are writ
All the black Crimes I rashly did commit,
Amaz'd, I fly thy Bar; —
For how can Sinners that strict Place abide,
Where ev'n the Righteous scarce are justify'd?
51
What can be thought so fearful, what so full of Trouble and Anxiety, as to stand to be judged at such a Tribunal, and to expect an uncertain Sentence from such a Judge?
Bernard. Serm. 6. super, Beati qui, &c.
53
XI.
Let not the Water-flood drown me: Neither let the Deep swallow me up,
Psal. lxix. 16.
Unconstant Motion of the restless Sea,
Whose treach'rous Waves the Sailors hopes betray!
So Calm sometimes, so Shining they appear,
No polish'd Crystal is more smooth or clear.
Sometimes they seem still as a standing Lake,
Whose modest Pools no stir, or motion make.
Sometimes the Waves, rais'd by a gentle breeze,
Curl their green Heads, the wand'ring Sight to please;
Then, in soft measures, round the Vessels dance,
And to the Musick of their Shrouds advance.
While thou, kind Sea, their Burthen dost sustain,
Ev'n while their Beaks plough Furrows on the Main:
Safe on thy yielding back each Vessel rides,
Tho' its rude Oars lash to a foam thy sides.
The groaning Earth scarce weightier Burthens feels
From heavy loaden Carts with I'rn-bound Wheels:
And that none may suspect thou wilt betray,
Thy Crystal Waves their Rocky Breasts display,
As if no Treach'ry cou'd be harbour'd there,
Where such fair Shows of Honesty appear.
Whose treach'rous Waves the Sailors hopes betray!
So Calm sometimes, so Shining they appear,
No polish'd Crystal is more smooth or clear.
Sometimes they seem still as a standing Lake,
Whose modest Pools no stir, or motion make.
Sometimes the Waves, rais'd by a gentle breeze,
Curl their green Heads, the wand'ring Sight to please;
Then, in soft measures, round the Vessels dance,
And to the Musick of their Shrouds advance.
While thou, kind Sea, their Burthen dost sustain,
Ev'n while their Beaks plough Furrows on the Main:
Safe on thy yielding back each Vessel rides,
Tho' its rude Oars lash to a foam thy sides.
The groaning Earth scarce weightier Burthens feels
From heavy loaden Carts with I'rn-bound Wheels:
And that none may suspect thou wilt betray,
Thy Crystal Waves their Rocky Breasts display,
54
Where such fair Shows of Honesty appear.
But when the Anchor's weigh'd, the Sails atrip,
And a kind Gale bear's on the floating Ship,
Soon as the Land can be perceiv'd no more,
And all Relief is distant as the Shoar,
Then the rough Winds their boist'rous Gusts discharge,
And all at once assault the helpless Barge.
Just as the furious Lybian Lions rave,
When eager to devour a Sentenc'd Slave;
Or as a Crew of sturdy Thieves prepare
To seize and plunder some lone Traveller;
Then the insulting Billows proudly rise,
And menace, with their lofty tops, the Skies:
Whilst the discolour'd Waters hide their head,
So much th'approaching Tempest's rage they dread.
And when each jarring Wind insults and raves,
And altogether hover o'er the Waves;
Short broken Seas ev'n from themselves are torn,
And different ways each crowding Billow born.
[All black below, above all foamy-white;
A horrid Darkness mixt with dreadful Light;
Here long, long Hills, roll far, and wide away;
There obrupt Vales fright back th'intruding Day.]
Here a vast Gulph of Ruin opens wide,
And the Ship's swallowed in the rapid Tide;
Or if born on a Tenth unlucky Wave,
The breaking bubble proves its watry Grave.
Thus the false Ocean treach'rously beguiles,
And thus in Frowns end its deceitful Smiles.
And a kind Gale bear's on the floating Ship,
Soon as the Land can be perceiv'd no more,
And all Relief is distant as the Shoar,
Then the rough Winds their boist'rous Gusts discharge,
And all at once assault the helpless Barge.
Just as the furious Lybian Lions rave,
When eager to devour a Sentenc'd Slave;
Or as a Crew of sturdy Thieves prepare
To seize and plunder some lone Traveller;
Then the insulting Billows proudly rise,
And menace, with their lofty tops, the Skies:
Whilst the discolour'd Waters hide their head,
So much th'approaching Tempest's rage they dread.
And when each jarring Wind insults and raves,
And altogether hover o'er the Waves;
Short broken Seas ev'n from themselves are torn,
And different ways each crowding Billow born.
[All black below, above all foamy-white;
A horrid Darkness mixt with dreadful Light;
Here long, long Hills, roll far, and wide away;
There obrupt Vales fright back th'intruding Day.]
55
And the Ship's swallowed in the rapid Tide;
Or if born on a Tenth unlucky Wave,
The breaking bubble proves its watry Grave.
Thus the false Ocean treach'rously beguiles,
And thus in Frowns end its deceitful Smiles.
But I suspected not th'unfaithful Main,
Nor did of its inconstancy complain;
I ne'er the fury of the Winds did blame,
Nor on the Tempests boisterous Rage exclaim;
(Which twists the surly Billows, till they rise,
And foaming-mad, attack the lowring Skies;)
Nor Curst the hardy Wretch that led the way,
And taught the World to perish in the Sea.
My Vessel ne'er lanch'd from my Native Shoar,
Nor did the Navigator's Art explore.
I study'd not the Chard, nor gave my mind
To learn to tack and catch the veering Wind.
Too soon these Artists of their Skill repent,
And perish by the Arts they did invent.
My Life's the Sea, whose treach'ry I declare,
My Self the Vessel Toss'd and Shipwrack'd there,
All the loud Storms of the insulting Wind,
Are restless Passions of my troubled Mind.
Thus harrest in this fluctuating State,
I pass thro' strange Vicissitudes of Fate.
Nor did of its inconstancy complain;
I ne'er the fury of the Winds did blame,
Nor on the Tempests boisterous Rage exclaim;
(Which twists the surly Billows, till they rise,
And foaming-mad, attack the lowring Skies;)
Nor Curst the hardy Wretch that led the way,
And taught the World to perish in the Sea.
My Vessel ne'er lanch'd from my Native Shoar,
Nor did the Navigator's Art explore.
I study'd not the Chard, nor gave my mind
To learn to tack and catch the veering Wind.
Too soon these Artists of their Skill repent,
And perish by the Arts they did invent.
My Life's the Sea, whose treach'ry I declare,
My Self the Vessel Toss'd and Shipwrack'd there,
All the loud Storms of the insulting Wind,
Are restless Passions of my troubled Mind.
56
I pass thro' strange Vicissitudes of Fate.
Deceitful Life! whose false Serenity
Chang'd in a moment, ends in Misery!
Thou want'st no sweet Allurements to betray:
Thy Beauty ever Charming, ever Gay;
While Love and Lust wrack the Distracted Mind,
No dang'rous Sands, no Rocks, or Shores we find:
But when a Tide of Crimes breaks fiercely in,
And beats the Soul on fatal Shelves of Sin;
Then, ah too late! the dismal Gulph it spies,
In which 'tis plung'd, and sunk by treach'rous Vice.
Chang'd in a moment, ends in Misery!
Thou want'st no sweet Allurements to betray:
Thy Beauty ever Charming, ever Gay;
While Love and Lust wrack the Distracted Mind,
No dang'rous Sands, no Rocks, or Shores we find:
But when a Tide of Crimes breaks fiercely in,
And beats the Soul on fatal Shelves of Sin;
Then, ah too late! the dismal Gulph it spies,
In which 'tis plung'd, and sunk by treach'rous Vice.
O! that, at least like wretched drowning Men,
These sinking Souls wou'd rise and float agen!
That, while their grosser Parts do downward move,
Their pure Devotion wou'd remain above!
But, just as Men to whom Earths gaping Womb
Becomes at once their Murth'rer and their Tomb;
Or as the Wretch beneath some falling Rock,
At once is Kill'd and Bury'd with the stroke:
Or those to whom deceitful Ice gives way,
In vain wou'd rise agen to distant Day:
So fare the Men by Sins swift Current born,
Thoughtless of Heav'n, by Heav'n th'are left forlorn.
These sinking Souls wou'd rise and float agen!
That, while their grosser Parts do downward move,
Their pure Devotion wou'd remain above!
But, just as Men to whom Earths gaping Womb
Becomes at once their Murth'rer and their Tomb;
Or as the Wretch beneath some falling Rock,
At once is Kill'd and Bury'd with the stroke:
Or those to whom deceitful Ice gives way,
In vain wou'd rise agen to distant Day:
So fare the Men by Sins swift Current born,
Thoughtless of Heav'n, by Heav'n th'are left forlorn.
57
See, Lord, how I with Wind and Tide engage,
While on each Hand unequal War they wage!
See how my Head is bow'd unto the Grave,
While I am forc'd to court the drowning Wave!
Seest thou my Soul lost in a double Death,
And wilt thou not reprieve my flitting Breath?
Behold, O Lord! behold, and Pity me,
And leave me not to Perish in the Sea:
O hold me up by thy Almighty Hand,
And I shall quickly reach the wish'd-for Land.
Be thou my Pylot, and my Motion guide,
Then I shall swim in spight of Wind and Tide.
While on each Hand unequal War they wage!
See how my Head is bow'd unto the Grave,
While I am forc'd to court the drowning Wave!
Seest thou my Soul lost in a double Death,
And wilt thou not reprieve my flitting Breath?
Behold, O Lord! behold, and Pity me,
And leave me not to Perish in the Sea:
O hold me up by thy Almighty Hand,
And I shall quickly reach the wish'd-for Land.
Be thou my Pylot, and my Motion guide,
Then I shall swim in spight of Wind and Tide.
The multitude of our Lusts raise a mighty Tempest, which so tosses them that sail in the Ocean of the Body, that the Mind cannot be its own Pylot.
Ambros. Apolog. pro David cap. 3.
59
XII.
Oh, that thou would'st hide me in the Grave! that thou would'st keep me secret, until thy Wrath be past!
Job xiv. 13.
Who, who will grant me a secure retreat,
Where I may shun thy furies scorching heat?
Whose piercing Flames whene'er I call to mind,
I fear I can no safe Concealment find:
Then I desire the covert of the Wood
And Caves, whence Beasts are rang'd to seek their Food:
Then in Earth's Womb wou'd hide my fearful Head,
Or in some Sea-worn Rock compose my Bed:
In hilly Caverns then my Self I'd save,
Or fly for Refuge to the silent Grave:
Or far remote from the fair Orbs of Light,
Wou'd in thick Darkness dwell, and endless Night.
Where I may shun thy furies scorching heat?
Whose piercing Flames whene'er I call to mind,
I fear I can no safe Concealment find:
Then I desire the covert of the Wood
And Caves, whence Beasts are rang'd to seek their Food:
Then in Earth's Womb wou'd hide my fearful Head,
Or in some Sea-worn Rock compose my Bed:
In hilly Caverns then my Self I'd save,
Or fly for Refuge to the silent Grave:
Or far remote from the fair Orbs of Light,
Wou'd in thick Darkness dwell, and endless Night.
When the loud Thunder rolls along the Sky,
Men to the Lawrels shelter trembling fly:
In vain (alas!) they hope Protection thence,
The helpless Tree proves not its own Defence;
Much less can that a place of Refuge be
From an All-seeing angry Deity.
Men to the Lawrels shelter trembling fly:
In vain (alas!) they hope Protection thence,
The helpless Tree proves not its own Defence;
60
From an All-seeing angry Deity.
Thy Eyes the closest Solitudes invade,
And pierce and pry into the darkest Shade.
The Wretch who took his Ruin from a Tree,
In vain with Leaves wou'd hide his Shame from Thee:
For while to shun thy Presence he assay'd,
Ev'n his Absconding his Offence betray'd.
In vain (alas!) to Caves and Dens we run,
We carry with us what we cannot shun.
The Den that did the Hebrew Captive save,
When He was freed, prov'd his Accusers Grave:
Nor was Lot's Incest hidden in his Cave.
As much in vain we court the Earths dark Womb,
And fly for shelter to the silent Tomb:
Vengeance, ev'n thither, will our Flight pursue,
And rise to punish those Black Ills we do.
Thus vainly Cain stopt Righteous Abel's Breath,
The mouth of Blood was opened by his Death
As vainly Jonas in the Sea conceal'd
His faithless Flight, ev'n by the Sea reveal'd:
His living Tomb obey'd Heav'ns great Command,
And cast him back to the forsaken Land.
A brittle Faith is all the glassy Sea can boast
Transparent Waves betray what they shou'd cover most.
Nor can we hope Concealment in a Tomb,
That casts our Bones from its o'er-burthen'd Womb.
In Rocks and Caves we must no Trust repose,
For their own sound the Secret will disclose.
And Leaves, and Trees themselves, alike will fade,
And then Expose what they were meant to Shade.
Nor Sea, nor Lands, nor Cave, nor Den, nor Wood,
Nor Stars, nor Heav'n it self can do me good:
Thou, Lord, alone canst hide my fearful Head,
Where I no Veng'ance, nor ev'n Thine can dread.
Whilst Thy kind Hand aside thy Thunder lays,
Stretch'd out, Disarm'd, a suppliant Wretch to raise.
And pierce and pry into the darkest Shade.
The Wretch who took his Ruin from a Tree,
In vain with Leaves wou'd hide his Shame from Thee:
For while to shun thy Presence he assay'd,
Ev'n his Absconding his Offence betray'd.
In vain (alas!) to Caves and Dens we run,
We carry with us what we cannot shun.
The Den that did the Hebrew Captive save,
When He was freed, prov'd his Accusers Grave:
Nor was Lot's Incest hidden in his Cave.
As much in vain we court the Earths dark Womb,
And fly for shelter to the silent Tomb:
Vengeance, ev'n thither, will our Flight pursue,
And rise to punish those Black Ills we do.
Thus vainly Cain stopt Righteous Abel's Breath,
The mouth of Blood was opened by his Death
As vainly Jonas in the Sea conceal'd
His faithless Flight, ev'n by the Sea reveal'd:
His living Tomb obey'd Heav'ns great Command,
And cast him back to the forsaken Land.
A brittle Faith is all the glassy Sea can boast
Transparent Waves betray what they shou'd cover most.
61
That casts our Bones from its o'er-burthen'd Womb.
In Rocks and Caves we must no Trust repose,
For their own sound the Secret will disclose.
And Leaves, and Trees themselves, alike will fade,
And then Expose what they were meant to Shade.
Nor Sea, nor Lands, nor Cave, nor Den, nor Wood,
Nor Stars, nor Heav'n it self can do me good:
Thou, Lord, alone canst hide my fearful Head,
Where I no Veng'ance, nor ev'n Thine can dread.
Whilst Thy kind Hand aside thy Thunder lays,
Stretch'd out, Disarm'd, a suppliant Wretch to raise.
Whither, O Adam! have thy Transgressions led thee, that thou shunn'st thy God, whom before thou sought'st? That Fear betrays thy Crime, that Flight thy Prevarication.
Amb. in Jerem. cap. 9.
63
XIII.
Are not my Days few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may bewail my self a little.
Job x. 20.
Must a few Minutes added to my Days
Be thought a favour passing Thanks or Praise?
Ages, indeed, might well deserve that Name,
And render my Ingratitude to Blame:
But, the increase of a few Days to come,
How little adds it to the slender Sum?
As well the Infant that but treads the Stage,
Is said to leave it in a good Old Age.
As well poor Insects may be said to live,
To whom their Birth-day does their Fun'ral give.
Be thought a favour passing Thanks or Praise?
Ages, indeed, might well deserve that Name,
And render my Ingratitude to Blame:
But, the increase of a few Days to come,
How little adds it to the slender Sum?
As well the Infant that but treads the Stage,
Is said to leave it in a good Old Age.
As well poor Insects may be said to live,
To whom their Birth-day does their Fun'ral give.
So fading Flow'rs their hasty Minutes count,
Whose longest Life scarce to one Day amount.
Flow'rs, in the Morning Boys, at Noon-tide Men,
At Night, with Age, feeble as Boys agen.
Thus in one short-liv'd Day they Bloom and Die,
And all the diff'rence of our Ages try.
Wou'd Time's o'er-hasty Wheels their Motion stay,
And the swift Hours not post so swift away,
The insects then might lengthen too their Song,
And the Flow'rs boast their Day had been so long.
But Time is ever hastning to be gone,
And, like a Stream, the Year glides swiftly on.
Successive Months closely each other Trace,
And meet the Sun along his Annual Race,
While short-liv'd Days, then either, march a swifter pace.
The harnest Hours are pressing forward still,
And, once gone by, are irretrievable.
“Thus envious Time loves on it self to prey,
“And still thro' its own Entrails eats its way.
It self pursues, it self it ever flies,
And on it self it ever Lives and Dies.
So wasting Lamps by their own Flames Expire,
And kindle at themselves their Fun'ral Fire.
Thus its own Course the Circling Year pursues,
Till like the Wheels on which 'tis mov'd it grows.
Whose longest Life scarce to one Day amount.
Flow'rs, in the Morning Boys, at Noon-tide Men,
At Night, with Age, feeble as Boys agen.
Thus in one short-liv'd Day they Bloom and Die,
And all the diff'rence of our Ages try.
64
And the swift Hours not post so swift away,
The insects then might lengthen too their Song,
And the Flow'rs boast their Day had been so long.
But Time is ever hastning to be gone,
And, like a Stream, the Year glides swiftly on.
Successive Months closely each other Trace,
And meet the Sun along his Annual Race,
While short-liv'd Days, then either, march a swifter pace.
The harnest Hours are pressing forward still,
And, once gone by, are irretrievable.
“Thus envious Time loves on it self to prey,
“And still thro' its own Entrails eats its way.
It self pursues, it self it ever flies,
And on it self it ever Lives and Dies.
So wasting Lamps by their own Flames Expire,
And kindle at themselves their Fun'ral Fire.
Thus its own Course the Circling Year pursues,
Till like the Wheels on which 'tis mov'd it grows.
This Truth the Ancients weightily Exprest,
Who made the Father on his Off-spring Feast:
For Time on Months and Years, its Children feeds,
And kills with Motion, what its Motion breeds.
Hours waste their Days, the Days their Months consume,
And the rapacious Months their Years Entomb.
Thus Years, Months, Days, and Hours, still keep their round,
Till all in vast Eternity are drown'd.
Who made the Father on his Off-spring Feast:
For Time on Months and Years, its Children feeds,
And kills with Motion, what its Motion breeds.
Hours waste their Days, the Days their Months consume,
And the rapacious Months their Years Entomb.
65
Till all in vast Eternity are drown'd.
Then, Lord, allow my Grief some little space,
To mourn the shortness of my hasty Race:
I wish not time for Laughter; if I did,
My Circumstances and the Place forbid.
All I desire, is time for Grief and Tears,
Let that be all th'Addition to my Years:
Which, tho' but short, yet have been full of Sin,
More than my Time was to Repent it in.
Yet if thou grant'st me some few Minutes more,
They'll make amends for my short Days before.
Come then, my cruel Hands, and without Rest
Or Pity, beat my hard, my senseless Breast!
Drop then, my Eyes, you cannot flow too fast;
While you delay, what precious Time is past?
'Tis done! my Tears have a prevailing force,
And Heav'n appeas'd, now stop their eager Course.
To mourn the shortness of my hasty Race:
I wish not time for Laughter; if I did,
My Circumstances and the Place forbid.
All I desire, is time for Grief and Tears,
Let that be all th'Addition to my Years:
Which, tho' but short, yet have been full of Sin,
More than my Time was to Repent it in.
Yet if thou grant'st me some few Minutes more,
They'll make amends for my short Days before.
Come then, my cruel Hands, and without Rest
Or Pity, beat my hard, my senseless Breast!
Drop then, my Eyes, you cannot flow too fast;
While you delay, what precious Time is past?
'Tis done! my Tears have a prevailing force,
And Heav'n appeas'd, now stop their eager Course.
When Man first sinn'd, he chang'd Eternity for Mortality, Nine hundred Years, or thereabout: But Sin increasing by degrees, Man's Life was contracted to a very short space.
Hieron. ad Paulam, Epist 12.
67
XIV.
Oh! that they were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end,
Deut. xxxii, 29.
Shame on besotted Man, whose baffled Mind
Is to all Dangers, but the present, Blind!
Whose Thoughts are all imploy'd on Mischiefs near,
But Ills remote, never fore-see, or fear.
The Soldier is prepar'd before th'Alarm,
The Signal giv'n 'twou'd be too late to Arm.
The Pylot's fore-sight waits each distant Blast,
And loses no Advantage in his haste.
Th'industrious Hind Manures and Sows the Field,
Which he expects a plenteous Crop should yield:
The lab'ring Ant in Summer stores at home
Provision e're old Age and Winter come.
But, oh! what means Man's stupid Negligence,
That of the future has no Care or Sense?
Does he expect Eternity below,
A Life that shall no Alteration know,
He's much abus'd; inevitable Death,
Tho' it delays, will one Day stop his Breath:
Vain are the hopes the firmest Leagues produce,
That Tyrant keeps no Faith, regards no Truce:
He does not to the Peace he makes incline,
To take Advantage is his whole Design:
To him Alliance is an empty Name,
He does all Int'rests, but his Own Disclaim.
Sooner the Ice or Snow shall mix with Flame;
Sooner the faithless Winds and Waves agree.
And Night and Day, and Lambs for safety flee
To bloody Wolves, than that make Peace with Thee:
Fiercely the greedy Spoiler strikes at all,
A Prey for his insatiate Jaws too small:
He tears ev'n tender Infants from the Breast,
And wraps them in a Shrowd, e're for the Cradle drest.
Nor Sex nor Age the grim Destroyer spares,
Unmov'd alike by Innocence and Years.
Here sprightly Youth, there hoary bending Age
Sweet Boys, and blooming Virgins glutt his Rage.
Like common Soldiers, chief Commanders Die,
And like Commanders, common Soldiers lie.
No shining Dust appears in Cræsus Urn,
Tho' all he touch'd he seem'd to Gold to turn.
Nor boasts fair Rachel's Face that Beauty here,
For which the Patriarch serv'd his twice-sev'n year,
And never thought the pleasing Purchase dear.
Ev'n Dives here from Laz'rus is not known,
For now One's Purple, th' Other's Rags, are gone.
Each has no Mansion but his narrow Cell,
Equal in Colour, and alike in Smell.
Why then shou'd Man of such vain Treasure boast,
So difficultly gain'd, so quickly lost?
For, late or early, all resign their Breath,
And bend, pale Victims to their Conqu'ror Death:
Each Sex, each Age, Profession, and Degree,
Moves tow'rds this Centre of Humanity.
Is to all Dangers, but the present, Blind!
Whose Thoughts are all imploy'd on Mischiefs near,
But Ills remote, never fore-see, or fear.
The Soldier is prepar'd before th'Alarm,
The Signal giv'n 'twou'd be too late to Arm.
The Pylot's fore-sight waits each distant Blast,
And loses no Advantage in his haste.
Th'industrious Hind Manures and Sows the Field,
Which he expects a plenteous Crop should yield:
The lab'ring Ant in Summer stores at home
Provision e're old Age and Winter come.
But, oh! what means Man's stupid Negligence,
That of the future has no Care or Sense?
Does he expect Eternity below,
A Life that shall no Alteration know,
He's much abus'd; inevitable Death,
Tho' it delays, will one Day stop his Breath:
68
That Tyrant keeps no Faith, regards no Truce:
He does not to the Peace he makes incline,
To take Advantage is his whole Design:
To him Alliance is an empty Name,
He does all Int'rests, but his Own Disclaim.
Sooner the Ice or Snow shall mix with Flame;
Sooner the faithless Winds and Waves agree.
And Night and Day, and Lambs for safety flee
To bloody Wolves, than that make Peace with Thee:
Fiercely the greedy Spoiler strikes at all,
A Prey for his insatiate Jaws too small:
He tears ev'n tender Infants from the Breast,
And wraps them in a Shrowd, e're for the Cradle drest.
Nor Sex nor Age the grim Destroyer spares,
Unmov'd alike by Innocence and Years.
Here sprightly Youth, there hoary bending Age
Sweet Boys, and blooming Virgins glutt his Rage.
Like common Soldiers, chief Commanders Die,
And like Commanders, common Soldiers lie.
No shining Dust appears in Cræsus Urn,
Tho' all he touch'd he seem'd to Gold to turn.
Nor boasts fair Rachel's Face that Beauty here,
For which the Patriarch serv'd his twice-sev'n year,
And never thought the pleasing Purchase dear.
69
For now One's Purple, th' Other's Rags, are gone.
Each has no Mansion but his narrow Cell,
Equal in Colour, and alike in Smell.
Why then shou'd Man of such vain Treasure boast,
So difficultly gain'd, so quickly lost?
For, late or early, all resign their Breath,
And bend, pale Victims to their Conqu'ror Death:
Each Sex, each Age, Profession, and Degree,
Moves tow'rds this Centre of Humanity.
But did they not a farther Journey go,
And that to Die were all they had to do;
Cou'd but their Souls dissolve as fast away,
As their corrupting Carcasses decay;
They'd covet Death to end their present Cares,
And for prevention of their future Fears,
They'd to the Grave, as an Asylum run,
And court the Stroke which now they wish to shun:
But Death (alas!) ends not their Miseries,
The Soul's Immortal, tho' the Body Dies.
Which, soon as from its Pris'n of Clay enlarg'd,
At Heav'ns Tribunal's sentenc'd or discharg'd.
Before an awful Pow'r, just and severe,
Round whose bright Head consuming Flames appear
The shackled Captive, dazled at his Sight,
Dejected stands, and shakes with wild Affright.
While, with strict Scrutiny, the Judge surveys
Its Heart, and close Impieties displays.
The Wretch convicted, does his Guilt confess,
Nor hopes for Mercy, for Concealment less;
While He, th'Accuser, Judge, and Witness too,
Damns it to an Eternity of Woe;
Where since no hope of an Appeal appears,
'Twou'd fain dissolve and drown it self in Tears.
And that to Die were all they had to do;
Cou'd but their Souls dissolve as fast away,
As their corrupting Carcasses decay;
They'd covet Death to end their present Cares,
And for prevention of their future Fears,
They'd to the Grave, as an Asylum run,
And court the Stroke which now they wish to shun:
But Death (alas!) ends not their Miseries,
The Soul's Immortal, tho' the Body Dies.
Which, soon as from its Pris'n of Clay enlarg'd,
At Heav'ns Tribunal's sentenc'd or discharg'd.
Before an awful Pow'r, just and severe,
Round whose bright Head consuming Flames appear
70
Dejected stands, and shakes with wild Affright.
While, with strict Scrutiny, the Judge surveys
Its Heart, and close Impieties displays.
The Wretch convicted, does his Guilt confess,
Nor hopes for Mercy, for Concealment less;
While He, th'Accuser, Judge, and Witness too,
Damns it to an Eternity of Woe;
Where since no hope of an Appeal appears,
'Twou'd fain dissolve and drown it self in Tears.
What Terrors then seize the forsaken Soul,
That finds no Patron for a Cause so foul?
Then it implores some Mountain to prevent,
By a kind Crush, its Shame and Punishment.
That finds no Patron for a Cause so foul?
Then it implores some Mountain to prevent,
By a kind Crush, its Shame and Punishment.
O wretched Soul, just Judge, hard Sentence too!
What harden'd Wretch dares sin that thinks on You?
Yet here, (alas!) ends not the fatal Grief,
There is another Death, another Life.
A Life as boundless as Eternity;
A Death whence shall no Resurrection be.
What Hell of Torments shall in This be found?
With what a Heav'n of Joys shall That abound?
Here rich Cœlestial Nectar treats the Soul;
There Fire and Brimstone crowns the flaming Bowl;
That, fill'd with Musick of th'Angelick Quire,
Shall each blest Soul with Extasies inspire;
While This disturb'd, at ev'ry hideous yell,
Shall in the Damn'd raise a new dread of Hell:
That knows no sharp Excess of Cold or Heat,
In This the Wretches always Freeze or Sweat.
There reign Eternal Rest, and soft Repose;
Here, painful Toil no end or Measure knows.
That, void of Grief, does nought Afflictive see;
This, still Disturb'd, from Troubles never free.
O happy Life! O vast unequall'd Bliss!
O Death accurs'd! O endless Miseries!
For that or this must be the doubtful cast,
Nor may we throw agen when once 'tis past.
Be wise then, Man, or will thy Care be vain,
To shun the Mis'ry, and the Bliss obtain;
Give Heav'n thy Heart, if thou its Crown wou'dst gain.
What harden'd Wretch dares sin that thinks on You?
Yet here, (alas!) ends not the fatal Grief,
There is another Death, another Life.
A Life as boundless as Eternity;
A Death whence shall no Resurrection be.
What Hell of Torments shall in This be found?
With what a Heav'n of Joys shall That abound?
Here rich Cœlestial Nectar treats the Soul;
There Fire and Brimstone crowns the flaming Bowl;
71
Shall each blest Soul with Extasies inspire;
While This disturb'd, at ev'ry hideous yell,
Shall in the Damn'd raise a new dread of Hell:
That knows no sharp Excess of Cold or Heat,
In This the Wretches always Freeze or Sweat.
There reign Eternal Rest, and soft Repose;
Here, painful Toil no end or Measure knows.
That, void of Grief, does nought Afflictive see;
This, still Disturb'd, from Troubles never free.
O happy Life! O vast unequall'd Bliss!
O Death accurs'd! O endless Miseries!
For that or this must be the doubtful cast,
Nor may we throw agen when once 'tis past.
Be wise then, Man, or will thy Care be vain,
To shun the Mis'ry, and the Bliss obtain;
Give Heav'n thy Heart, if thou its Crown wou'dst gain.
What more lamentable and more dreadful can be thought of, than that terrible Sentence, Go? What more delightful, than that pleasing Invitation, Come? They are two Words, of which nothing can be heard more affrighting than the One, nothing more rejoycing than the Other.
Aug. Soliloqu. cap. 3.
73
XV.
My Life is waxen Old with Heaviness, and my Years with Mourning,
Psal. xxxi. 11.
What
low'ring Star rul'd my unhappy Birth,
And banish'd thence all days of Ease & Mirth?
While Expectation still deludes my Mind,
Pleas'd with vain Hope some smiling Hour to find:
But still that smiling Hour forbears to come,
And sends a row of Mourners in its room.
I hop'd alternate Courses in each Day,
And that the foul to fairer wou'd give way,
And as the Sun dispels the Clouds of Night,
When he to Heav'n restores his welcom Light;
Or as the Moon's kind Infl'ence brings again
The rising Motion of the Low-ebb'd Main:
So I, with unsuccessful Augury,
Presag'd things so as I wou'd have them be:
But, oh! my Grief exceeds in length and sum
The Widow's Tribute at her Husband's Tomb:
She, when the Author of her Joy is gone,
Is twice-six Months confin'd to Mourn alone;
Yet the last half she does not, as before,
Hide her smooth Fore-head in a close Bendore.
But all my Years are in deep Mourning spent,
There's not a Month, not one short Day exempt.
No Rules give Bounds or Measure to my Woes,
But their Increase, like the feign'd Hydra's grows.
My Life so much in Sighs and Tears is spent,
It minds that least, for which 'twas chiefly meant.
And banish'd thence all days of Ease & Mirth?
While Expectation still deludes my Mind,
Pleas'd with vain Hope some smiling Hour to find:
But still that smiling Hour forbears to come,
And sends a row of Mourners in its room.
I hop'd alternate Courses in each Day,
And that the foul to fairer wou'd give way,
And as the Sun dispels the Clouds of Night,
When he to Heav'n restores his welcom Light;
Or as the Moon's kind Infl'ence brings again
The rising Motion of the Low-ebb'd Main:
So I, with unsuccessful Augury,
Presag'd things so as I wou'd have them be:
But, oh! my Grief exceeds in length and sum
The Widow's Tribute at her Husband's Tomb:
She, when the Author of her Joy is gone,
Is twice-six Months confin'd to Mourn alone;
74
Hide her smooth Fore-head in a close Bendore.
But all my Years are in deep Mourning spent,
There's not a Month, not one short Day exempt.
No Rules give Bounds or Measure to my Woes,
But their Increase, like the feign'd Hydra's grows.
My Life so much in Sighs and Tears is spent,
It minds that least, for which 'twas chiefly meant.
'Tis true, Storms often make the Ocean swell;
But the most violent are shortest still;
For when with eager Fury they engage,
They lose themselves in their excess of Rage.
And when their Winter-blasts Disrobe the Wood,
Their Summer-airs make all the Trespass good:
If the rough North does his black Wings display
When once he's gone, far lovelier grows the Day.
But Grief does all my hapless Years imploy,
Nor grants me one Parenthesis of Joy.
My Musick is in Sighs and Groans exprest,
With my own Hands extorted from my Breast:
This sad Diversion is my sole Delight,
My Musick this by Day, my Song by Night.
How oft' have Sighs, while I my Words confin'd,
Broke Prison, and betray'd my troubled Mind?
How oft' have I in Tears consum'd the Day,
And in Complaints pass'd the long Night away!
Oft' you, my Friends, did my wild Griefs condemn,
And I as oft' assay'd to stifle them:
Let loose the Reigns to Mirth, you always cry'd;
To loose the Reigns, (alas!) in vain I try'd:
For when with Laughter I a Sigh supprest,
It rais'd a fatal Conflict in my Breast;
And if I wish for Sleep to close my Eyes,
Still a fresh Show'r that envy'd Bliss denies;
Then if I stop its Course, impetuous grown,
'Twill force its way, and bear the Sluces down.
Each Brook, whose Stream my Tears have made to rise;
Each shady Grove, fill'd with my Mournful Cries;
Each lonely Vale, and ev'ry conscious Hill,
The kind Repeaters of my Sorrows still;
These know the Troubles which I wish'd conceal'd
Were by loud Throbbings of my Heart reveal'd;
From senseless Woods my Sorrows Pity found,
The Ecchoes oft' repeat the Mournful sound.
My secret Moans they vented o're again;
By turns we Wept, and did by turns Complain.
But the most violent are shortest still;
For when with eager Fury they engage,
They lose themselves in their excess of Rage.
And when their Winter-blasts Disrobe the Wood,
Their Summer-airs make all the Trespass good:
If the rough North does his black Wings display
When once he's gone, far lovelier grows the Day.
But Grief does all my hapless Years imploy,
Nor grants me one Parenthesis of Joy.
My Musick is in Sighs and Groans exprest,
With my own Hands extorted from my Breast:
This sad Diversion is my sole Delight,
My Musick this by Day, my Song by Night.
How oft' have Sighs, while I my Words confin'd,
Broke Prison, and betray'd my troubled Mind?
75
And in Complaints pass'd the long Night away!
Oft' you, my Friends, did my wild Griefs condemn,
And I as oft' assay'd to stifle them:
Let loose the Reigns to Mirth, you always cry'd;
To loose the Reigns, (alas!) in vain I try'd:
For when with Laughter I a Sigh supprest,
It rais'd a fatal Conflict in my Breast;
And if I wish for Sleep to close my Eyes,
Still a fresh Show'r that envy'd Bliss denies;
Then if I stop its Course, impetuous grown,
'Twill force its way, and bear the Sluces down.
Each Brook, whose Stream my Tears have made to rise;
Each shady Grove, fill'd with my Mournful Cries;
Each lonely Vale, and ev'ry conscious Hill,
The kind Repeaters of my Sorrows still;
These know the Troubles which I wish'd conceal'd
Were by loud Throbbings of my Heart reveal'd;
From senseless Woods my Sorrows Pity found,
The Ecchoes oft' repeat the Mournful sound.
My secret Moans they vented o're again;
By turns we Wept, and did by turns Complain.
So, mov'd by 'her Sister's lamentable Note,
Sad Philomel unlocks her mournful Throat,
As if the eml'ous Rivals were at Strife
Whose Tongue shou'd best express the height of Grief.
The widow'd Turtle so bewails her Mate,
With Grief unalterable, as his Fate.
And so the Stars have my sad Life design'd,
That not one Minute shou'd be fair or kind.
Sad Philomel unlocks her mournful Throat,
76
Whose Tongue shou'd best express the height of Grief.
The widow'd Turtle so bewails her Mate,
With Grief unalterable, as his Fate.
And so the Stars have my sad Life design'd,
That not one Minute shou'd be fair or kind.
And that my Sorrows may not find Relief,
By wanting new Occasions for my Grief,
'Tis their Decree, That, as my Infant-breath
Began with Sighs, so I shou'd Sigh to Death.
By wanting new Occasions for my Grief,
'Tis their Decree, That, as my Infant-breath
Began with Sighs, so I shou'd Sigh to Death.
77
Ought we not worthily to Lament, who are in a strange Country, and Banish'd to a Climate remote from our Native Soil?
Chrysost. in Psal. 115.
| Pia Desideria | |