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. |
| 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. |
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| VIII. | VIII. |
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 | Pia Desideria |  |
193
VIII.
O wretched Man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this Death?
Rom. vii. 24.
Where are the lost Delights for which I grieve,
But which my Sorrows never can retrieve?
Such vast Delights—but mention not the Loss,
Whose sad Remembrance is thy greatest Cross:
And Fate is kindest when it robs us so,
To take away our Sense of suffering too.
On our first Parents Folly we exclaim,
As if They only were, as first, to blame:
On Eve and Adam we discharge our Rage,
And thus expose our naked Parentage.
Tho' thou who thy First Parents dost condemn,
Thou ought'st to blame thy Self as well as Them.
When Life at one rash Cast was thrown away,
Thou didst, as well as thy Forefather, play.
But I (alas!) condemn not Them alone,
Nor while I mind their Fall, forget my Own.
With Eve I was consenting to the Cheat,
Impos'd on Adam, and helpt him to Eat.
Hence I my Nakedness and Shame deriv'd,
And Skins of Beasts to cover Both receiv'd:
Was from my forfeit Eden justly driv'n,
The Curse of Earth, and the Contempt of Heav'n.
Nor do I now the general Loss bemoan;
My Grief's too little to bewail my Own.
The tragick Story from my Birth I'll take,
For early Grief did my first Silence break.
'Twas July's Month, the loveliest of the Year,
(Tho' all my Life December did appear:)
The Twenty-seventh; Oh! had it been my last,
I had not Mourn'd, nor that made too much haste.
That was the fatal Day that gave me Breath,
Which prov'd almost my teeming Parent's Death.
And still, as then, to her (alas!) I've been
A true Benoni, not a Benjamin.
No sooner was I for the Cradle drest,
But a strange Horror all around possest;
Who with one dire prophetick Voice presage
Th'attending Mis'ries of my growing Age.
Why did'st thou give me Life, more fatal Day
Than that which took th'Ægyptian Males away?
No more be numbred in the Calendar,
But in thy Place let a large Blot appear!
Or if thou must thy annual Station keep,
Let each Hour Thunder, and each Minute Weep:
Let, as on Cain, some Mark be fix'd on Thee,
That giving Life, didst worse than Murder Me.
Now, Friends, I find your fatal Aug'ry true;
My Woes each other, like my Hours pursue.
Hence the large Sources of my Tears arise,
And no dry Minute wipes my flowing Eyes.
No sooner had I left my childish Plays,
The harmless Pastimes of my happiest Days:
Now past a Child, yet still in Judgment so,
I study'd first what I was not to know.
And my first Grief was to lament my Fate,
And yet 'twas seldom I had time for that.
My stubborn Soul a long Resistance made,
Impatient thus by Nature to be sway'd:
Oft strove to Heav'n to raise its lofty Flight,
As oft supprest by its gross Body's Weight:
But what it cou'd not reach, its Eyes pursue;
Then cry'd, Ah God! and shed a briny Dew.
Twice more it wou'd repeat the pleasing Noise,
But struggling Sighs restrain'd th'imprison'd Voice.
Such sure were felt in Babels Monarchs Breast,
When of his Throne and Nature dispossest:
But conquer'd Patience yields at last to Grief,
And thus I vent my Woe, and beg Relief.
But which my Sorrows never can retrieve?
Such vast Delights—but mention not the Loss,
Whose sad Remembrance is thy greatest Cross:
And Fate is kindest when it robs us so,
To take away our Sense of suffering too.
On our first Parents Folly we exclaim,
As if They only were, as first, to blame:
On Eve and Adam we discharge our Rage,
And thus expose our naked Parentage.
Tho' thou who thy First Parents dost condemn,
Thou ought'st to blame thy Self as well as Them.
When Life at one rash Cast was thrown away,
Thou didst, as well as thy Forefather, play.
But I (alas!) condemn not Them alone,
Nor while I mind their Fall, forget my Own.
With Eve I was consenting to the Cheat,
Impos'd on Adam, and helpt him to Eat.
194
And Skins of Beasts to cover Both receiv'd:
Was from my forfeit Eden justly driv'n,
The Curse of Earth, and the Contempt of Heav'n.
Nor do I now the general Loss bemoan;
My Grief's too little to bewail my Own.
The tragick Story from my Birth I'll take,
For early Grief did my first Silence break.
'Twas July's Month, the loveliest of the Year,
(Tho' all my Life December did appear:)
The Twenty-seventh; Oh! had it been my last,
I had not Mourn'd, nor that made too much haste.
That was the fatal Day that gave me Breath,
Which prov'd almost my teeming Parent's Death.
And still, as then, to her (alas!) I've been
A true Benoni, not a Benjamin.
No sooner was I for the Cradle drest,
But a strange Horror all around possest;
Who with one dire prophetick Voice presage
Th'attending Mis'ries of my growing Age.
Why did'st thou give me Life, more fatal Day
Than that which took th'Ægyptian Males away?
No more be numbred in the Calendar,
But in thy Place let a large Blot appear!
Or if thou must thy annual Station keep,
Let each Hour Thunder, and each Minute Weep:
195
That giving Life, didst worse than Murder Me.
Now, Friends, I find your fatal Aug'ry true;
My Woes each other, like my Hours pursue.
Hence the large Sources of my Tears arise,
And no dry Minute wipes my flowing Eyes.
No sooner had I left my childish Plays,
The harmless Pastimes of my happiest Days:
Now past a Child, yet still in Judgment so,
I study'd first what I was not to know.
And my first Grief was to lament my Fate,
And yet 'twas seldom I had time for that.
My stubborn Soul a long Resistance made,
Impatient thus by Nature to be sway'd:
Oft strove to Heav'n to raise its lofty Flight,
As oft supprest by its gross Body's Weight:
But what it cou'd not reach, its Eyes pursue;
Then cry'd, Ah God! and shed a briny Dew.
Twice more it wou'd repeat the pleasing Noise,
But struggling Sighs restrain'd th'imprison'd Voice.
Such sure were felt in Babels Monarchs Breast,
When of his Throne and Nature dispossest:
But conquer'd Patience yields at last to Grief,
And thus I vent my Woe, and beg Relief.
196
Blest Author of my Life, hear my Complaint,
And free this Captive from its loath'd Restraint!
Speak but the Word, thy Servant shall be free!
Thou mad'st me thus, O thus unbody me!
Or if thou wilt not this Relief afford,
Grant some kind Poison, or some friendly Sword!
Dying I'd hug the Author of my Death,
And beg his Pardon with my latest Breath.
But to save Man the Guilt, send some Disease!
Death in the most affrighting shape will please.
Were I to act Perillu's scorching Scene,
I shou'd rejoyce to hear my Self complain.
Oh Heav'n! my Patience is o'ercome by Grief!
Is there above no Succour, no Relief?
The mercy Death is all I thee implore;
Lord! grant it soon, lest I Blaspheme thy Pow'r.
When for dispatch tormented Wretches pray,
No Cruelty's so barb'rous as Delay.
Why am I to this noisom Carcass ty'd,
Whose stench is Death in all its ghastly Pride?
Then speak the Word, and I shall soon be free;
Thou form'st me thus, O thus unbody Me!
And free this Captive from its loath'd Restraint!
Speak but the Word, thy Servant shall be free!
Thou mad'st me thus, O thus unbody me!
Or if thou wilt not this Relief afford,
Grant some kind Poison, or some friendly Sword!
Dying I'd hug the Author of my Death,
And beg his Pardon with my latest Breath.
But to save Man the Guilt, send some Disease!
Death in the most affrighting shape will please.
Were I to act Perillu's scorching Scene,
I shou'd rejoyce to hear my Self complain.
Oh Heav'n! my Patience is o'ercome by Grief!
Is there above no Succour, no Relief?
The mercy Death is all I thee implore;
Lord! grant it soon, lest I Blaspheme thy Pow'r.
When for dispatch tormented Wretches pray,
No Cruelty's so barb'rous as Delay.
Why am I to this noisom Carcass ty'd,
Whose stench is Death in all its ghastly Pride?
Then speak the Word, and I shall soon be free;
Thou form'st me thus, O thus unbody Me!
197
How does that Soul Live, that is inclosed in a covering of Death?
Amb. in Psal. cxviii.
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