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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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199

IX.

I am in a Straight between Two, having a desire to be Dissolved, and to be with Christ,

Philip. i. 23.


How shall I do to fix my doubtful Love?
Shall I remain below, or soar above?
Here Earth detains me, and retards my Flight;
There Heav'n invites me to sublime Delight:
Heav'n calls aloud, and bids me haste away;
While Earth allures, and gently whispers, stay!
But hence thou sly Inchantress of my Heart!
I'll break thy Fetters, and despise thy Art.
Haste, haste, kind Fate, unlock my Prison Door!
Were I releas'd, how I aloft wou'd Soar?
See, Lord! my struggling Arms tow'rds Thee are sent,
And strive to grasp thee in their wide Extent.
Oh! had I pow'r to mount above the Pole,
And touch the Center of my longing Soul!
Tho' torn in sunder by the Flight I be,
I'd lose one half, might t'other reach but Thee.

200

But thou above derid'st my weak Designs,
And still opposest what thy Word injoins.
Vainly I beg what thou dost still deny,
And stretch my Hands to reach what's plac'd too high.
Oft to my Self false Hopes of Thee I feign,
And think thou kindly com'st to break my Chain.
Now, now, I cry, my Soul shall soar above!
But this (alas!) was all dissembled Love.
Sure this Belief some Pity might obtain;
Thou shou'dst at least for this have broke my Chain.
But if I'm still confin'd, my Wings I'll try;
And if I fail, in great Attempts I die.
But see! He comes, and as he glides along,
He beckons me, and seems to say, Come on.
I'll rise, and flie into his lov'd Embrace,
And snatch a Kiss, a thousand, from his Face.
Now, now he's near, his sacred Robe I touch,
And I shall grasp him at the next approach:
But he (alas!) has mock'd my vain Design,
And fled these Arms, these slighted Arms of mine:
For tho' the Distance ne'er so little be,
It seems th'Extremes of the vast Globe to me.
Thus does my Love my Longing tantalize,
And bids me follow, while too fast he flies.

201

Thus sportive Love delights in little Cheats,
Which oft are punish'd with severe Deceits.
The World has an Original in Me,
To paint deluded Lovers Misery:
And he who has his easie Fair betray'd,
Finds all his Falshood with large Int'rest paid.
I ne'er suspected thou cou'dst Faithless be,
But sad Experience has instructed me.
As a chain'd Mastiff, begging to be loose,
With restless Clamours fills the deafned House;
But if deny'd, his Teeth the Chain engage,
And vent on that their inoffensive Rage:
So I Complain, Petition to be freed,
And humbly Prostrate beg the Help I need.
But when you Frown, and my Request deny,
Deaf as the Rocks to my repeated Cry;
Then I against my hated Clog exclaim,
And on my Chain lay all the guilty Blame.
Thus Grief pretends, by giving Passion vent,
To ease the pain of my Imprisonment.
But I unjustly blame the Chain alone,
And spare the cruel Hand that ty'd it on.
Well might the barb'rous load of Chains I bear
Become a Renegado Slave to wear;

202

But why this harsh ill Usage, Love, to Me,
Whose whole endeavour is to come to Thee?
But when my Soul attempts that lofty Flight,
'Tis still supprest by a gross Bodies Weight.
So fare young Birds, by Nature wing'd in vain,
Whom sportful Boys with scanty Threads restrain;
When eager to retrieve their Native Air,
They rise a little height, and flutter there:
But having to their utmost Limits flown,
The more they strive to mount, they fall the faster down.
Each, tho' it sleeps in its young Tyrants Breast,
And is with Banquets from his Lips Carest;
Yet prizes more the freedom of the Wood,
Than all the Dainties of its dear bought Food.
Could Tears dissolve my Chains, O with what ease
I'd weep a Deluge for a quick release?
But Tears are vain, reach, Lord! thy Hands to me,
And in return I'll stretch my Chains to thee.
Thou, only thou canst loose my Bands; for none
Can take them off, but he that put them on.

203

How long shall we be fastned here? We stick to the Earth, and as if we should always live there, we wallow in the Mire. God gave us Bodies of Earth, that we should carry them to Heaven, not that we should by them debase our Souls to the Earth.

Chrysost. hom. 55. ad pop. Antioch.