A Collection of Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Stay, Stranger, here, in this Apartment stand,
And view the Wonders of great Raphael's Hand;
Whose Skill do's all the Sons of Art controul,
They only paint the Body, he the Soul.
Such Admiration will thy Eyes possess,
As none but Raphael's Pencil can express.

444

THE STORY of ANANIAS.

See Peter there, who by his fatal Breath
At once gave Sentence, and inflicted Death:
His Eyes just Zeal and Indignation wear,
Such awful Frowns his Face and such an Air,
As all to Heav'n's Commissioner allow,
While Justice sate vindictive on his Brow.

See Ananias there resigns his Breath;
How Raphael lives in that Immortal Death!
Down the Dissembler fell amid'st the Crowd,
As struck with Flashes from an opening Cloud,
Or deadly Damps, which Caves beneath prepare,
Or suddain Blasts of red malignant Air.
Mark how his Eyes resist invading Night,
And labour to detain retreating Light;

445

Swimming in Clouds, they seek the doubtful Day,
And sinking deep in Shades, Hold eager lay
On every glimm'ring Streak and every broken Ray.
His Mouth still seems to mutter in the Dust,
Some second Falshood, to excuse the first:
His quiv'ring Lips of Life th' Appearance wear;
But to believe the Hypocrite forbear,
For by the Painter's Art they dead deceive,
And false, as living, wrong Impressions leave.

Observe attentive round th' Apostles spread
The thick Assembly seiz'd with shiv'ring Dread,
Who look surpriz'd, and at the wond'rous Sight,
Seem to start back, and own their great Affright.

446

THE Story of Elymas the Sorcerer.

Next to th' Apostle of the Gentiles turn,
How do his Eyes with Indignation burn?
In his warm Cheeks, what angry Colours glow,
What threat'ning Clouds sit gather'd on his Brow?
Whilst the Magician with a curst Design,
Obstructs the heav'nly Light and Truth Divine,
Which Paul on noble Sergius did display,
To chase Infernal Pagan Shades away,
And o'er his Mind diffuse celestial Day.

See to chastise audacious Elymas,
Austerely looking on the Sorcerer's Face,
He do's his Wonder-working Pow'r assume,
And strikes th' Impostor Blind, to strike him Dumb.
Thick Darkness on the Necromancer fell,
Like that upon his Soul, or that in Hell.

447

Scales made of Mists condens'd and solid Shade,
Repel the Beams, which his lost Sight invade;
This sable Curtain blunts the keenest Ray,
And still unpierc'd reverberates the Day.
The Sorcerer's Mien so justly is design'd,
His Face conceal'd, his Limbs will shew him blind:
With groping Hands to feel his Way he tries,
For Hands and Feet are now his only Eyes.

There Sergius seiz'd with decent Wonder sits,
Such as a great and noble Mind befits.
From the Magician's Blindness he receives
His Intellectual Sight, and then believes.
Thus from the Shade that on the Sorc'rer lies,
On the wise Roman, Rays celestial rise.
So in Creation, when the Infant Light,
To try its golden Wings first took its Flight,
The gentle Beams, that did around display
The tender Seeds and Rudiments of Day,

448

Sprang smiling from the dark Chaotick Gloom,
And broke from ancient Night's reluctant Womb.

What Consternation, what Excess of Fear,
In all the Figures standing round appear?
Their Postures represent their just Surprize,
They wonder with their Hands, their Lips and Eyes.
Strong Marks of Admiration all betray,
All are amaz'd, but in a diff'rent Way.

449

The Cripples at the Beautiful Gate of the Temple.

See, Stranger, there the famous Cripples wait
At the high Pillars of the Temple Gate,
Hoping the Rich, who in that Holy Place
Solicit Mercy and Celestial Grace,
Who Alms Divine and Heav'nly Gifts receive,
Will, in Exchange, some Temp'ral Succours give.
Yet to the craving naked Creatures, few
Express the Pity to their Sorrow due.
No Wight, so very beggarly and poor,
Did ever importune a Rich Man's Door.
Ne'er in a living Object did we see
Such moving Want, such perfect Misery.
Pale Cheeks, sunk Eyes, and ghastly Meagerness,
Famine, in all its woful State, express.

450

Their Bones, distorted from their Place, begin
To start, and break the loathsome wither'd Skin.
How slack their Sinews are? their Limbs how lame?
How shatter'd all the breathing Engine's Frame?
Diseas'd, decrepit, and with Hunger worn,
The Wretches make a Figure so forlorn,
That all Spectators must Compassion show
To such Distress and undissembled Woe.

Soon as the great Apostles they espy'd,
Aloud for Alms the crawling Cripples cry'd;
With fruitless Accents they for Silver pray
To these blest Men, who were as Poor as They.
Yet they solicit with such earnest Cries,
And on th' Apostles fix such eager Eyes,
As if they firmly thought, but knew not why,
That these kind Strangers would their Wants supply;
Which soon they did, not by bestowing Wealth,
But a far dearer Blessing, perfect Health;
The Apostle only speaks the high Command,
And the rejoycing Cripples rise and stand.

451

The Story of St. Peter's Draught of Fish.

See Peter at His Feet, whose mighty Word
Had the wide Net with Fish portentous stor'd.
This wond'rous Piece, with Admiration view,
Did ever Face such just Confusion shew?
Did Passions e'er in such Perfection reign,
Where each for Conquest strives, but strives in vain?
Devout Disturbance, Gratitude and Love,
A pious Medley, equal Wonder move.
From trembling Joints his Spirits upwards rise,
And to express th' Apostle's vast Surprize,
See his whole eager Soul collected in his Eyes.
In Limbs and Face so much he seems alive,
That Lookers-on might well this Judgment give,
That he has Voice, and ready is to speak,
But that Amazement do's his Utt'rance break.

452

Remark the holy Rapture in his Mien,
'Tis in each Vein, and every Muscle seen.
Were ever Hands, Compassion to implore,
So tenderly devout stretcht out before?
If any Force can Heav'n's rais'd Stroke arrest,
And from his Arm th' Almighty's Thunder wrest,
Or can invade the distant Seats of Bliss
With prosp'rous Violence, 'tis such as This.
All will pronounce, who here attentive dwell,
The Painter's Art, another Miracle.

The Story of St. Paul and Barnabas at Lystra.

How soon the various Many change their Mind,
As Waves unstable, fickle as the Wind?
Those they condemn'd as impious just before,
As Gods in Humane Shape they now adore.

453

So was the Saviour us'd, one Day the Sky
Their loud Hosannahs fill, the next they cry
Seize Him, the vile Blasphemer crucify!
They call'd th' Apostles Mercury and Jove,
Arriv'd on Earth from their blest Seats above;
To these suppos'd Celestial Strangers they
Honours Divine and Adoration pay.

Mark with Attention how the zealous Throng,
Inspir'd with wild Devotion, shove along
Their Ox, with flow'ry Superstition crown'd,
You'll think they shout, and that you hear the Sound.
With impious Clamours to the Altar they
The Beast, less stupid than themselves, convey.
The brawny Priest do's by the Victim stand,
His fatal Ax uplifted in his Hand.
Observe the sleek and pamper'd Glutton, see
His Skin, that shines with holy Luxury.
See how th' Apostles, fir'd with Zeal divine,
Run in to stop th' Idolatrous Design.

454

What strong Confusion, what a mighty Dread
Of undue Worship, in their Looks are read?
What great Disorder, how disturb'd an Air,
What just Abhorrence do their Faces wear?
Their Anger, how unfeign'd? their Trouble, how sincere?
None Honour e'er pursu'd with greater Zeal,
Than these blest Men, in shunning it, reveal.
So high their swelling Tides of Passion rise,
Such holy Fury flashes in their Eyes,
They so detest the barb'rous Crowd's Intent,
And show such Care their Purpose to prevent,
That Lookers-on have oft a doubtful Strife,
If 'tis the Picture, or the the real Life.

One would expect their Lips should Silence break;
But, if they can't, their Looks and Gestures speak,
By which expressive Language they reveal
What inwardly they think, as well as feel.
If they had Voice, you would such Accents hear,
Mistaken Men, your mad Design forbear;

455

To us your Adoration is not due,
We are but Men, as mortal Men, as you.
We can of no Divine Extraction boast,
We are but breathing Clay, and mould'ring Dust;
Weak Flesh and Blood like you, like your's our Frame
Is brittle, and our Passions are the same.
The Power, by which this Miracle is done,
We grant Divine, but know, 'tis not our own.
We give, blest Jesus, in Thy Pow'rful Name,
Ease to the Sick, and Vigour to the Lame.
The Worship, you intend us, we abhor,
You must the God, that made the World, adore.
If we the Lame restore, and cure the Blind,
'Tis to enlighten, and confirm the Mind.
Our mighty Works, that so much Wonder move,
Show that we bring our Doctrine from above,
And these Credentials our Commission prove.

456

St. Paul Preaching.

There does the Humane Seraph preaching stand,
Whose very Looks th' attentive Crowd command:
Divine Persuasion, with a Heav'nly Grace,
Sits on his Lips, and Pity in his Face.
No Preacher's Eyes did e'er before reveal
Such tender Love, mixt with such ardent Zeal.
That Orator must certain be obey'd,
Whose Mien is eloquent, whose Hands persuade:
To say he speaks, Spectators, do not fear,
For if you cannot, sure his People hear,
Else how could ev'ry Face such pious Passions wear?
With how much Eagerness the list'ning Throng
Gaze on his Eyes, and hang upon his Tongue?
On 'em, his Words, like Heav'nly Lightning, dart,
They leave the Body found, but melt the Heart;

457

And to the Mind the Seeds of Truth convey,
Which glow a while, then kindle into Day.
Celestial Meekness with such Ardour joyn'd,
Mild Gravity, with so much Fire combin'd,
The most reluctant Passions must controul,
Pierce thro' the Heart, and touch the inmost Soul.
The Preacher, with resistless Eloquence,
Do's, as the Sun from his bright Orb, dispence
O'erflowing Streams of pure Etherial Light,
That chases far away Infernal Night.
Paul shews such great Concern, such sacred Awe,
As if the Heav'nly Majesty he saw,
By whose supreme Commission he was sent,
To treat with Rebel Man, and bring him to repent.
Only that Preacher can th' Affections touch,
Who's so in Earnest, and whose Zeal is such.
'Tis plain that Paul his Hearers do's inspire
With his own Passions propagated Fire;
And while the Speaker, with Seraphic Art,
Divine Enchantment sends to ev'ry Heart,

458

He, by his own, do's their Devotion raise,
And to their Breasts his very Soul conveys.
Then, while with sacred Flames their Bosoms glow,
And their soft Hearts begin to melt and flow,
He, to compleat his Masterly Design,
On 'em imprints fair Images Divine.
See, how he triumphs with resistless Skill,
How he instructs the Mind, commands the Will.
His Breath, like Winds, that on the Ocean blow,
Moves all the waving Multitude below,
And drives the Tide of Passion to and fro.
This mighty Pow'r his Auditors confess,
Who such Emotion in their Looks express.
Was more sincere Devotion ever known?
Did e'er the Soul such painted Passions own?
Were e'er her various Shapes to such Advantage shown?
Th' Apostle's Words divine Desires produce,
And holy Ferments thro' their Breasts diffuse;
From Man to Man the blest Contagion flies,
They catch it at their Ears, and drink it at their Eyes.

459

Th' obdurate Wretch with Thunder he invades,
And with the Terrours of the Lord persuades:
And as the hardy Kind his Threats affright,
So his mild Arts ingenuous Minds invite.
One there inlighten'd, and convinc'd of Sin,
Shews in his Eyes, what Pangs he feels within;
Fierce Conscience binds him on her dreadful Rack,
And stretches all his Heart-strings, 'till they crack.
By the Disturbance in his Face appears,
What Pains he suffers, and what Wrath he fears.
He's so undone, so perfectly distrest,
As melts with Pity each Spectator's Breast.

That Figure mind, how much it does relent?
With fadder Looks, can any Face repent?
How just a Trouble, what a pious Grief,
Temper'd with Hopes of Mercy and Relief?
His melting Eyes, that swim in Tears, declare
How deep his Wound, how sharp his Sufferings are.

460

View the next Face, Spectator, thou wilt say
Confusion there do's all its Pomp display.
Did ever Man so much his Guilt deplore,
Detest and hate himself so much before?
How that unfeign'd, inimitable Shame,
And last Distress, advance great Raphael's Fame?

Our SAVIOUR and His Twelve Apostles.

There in the blest indulgent Jesus see
How Heav'nly Sweetness strives with Majesty;
Tho' each in full Perfection is design'd,
Yet more conspicuous Passions there we find,
Mercy in all her Charms, and Love to Human Kind.

See, holy Peter on his bended Knee
From his Great Master's Hand receives the Key,

461

That opens wide high Heav'n's immortal Gate
To all pure Souls, that for Admission wait,
But locks it fast against the impious Train
Doom'd to the Seats of Death and endless Pain.
Thus the Redeemer did the Saint invest
With Pow'r Divine, but not above the rest.
For all the sacred Tribe, as well as he,
Have Pow'r to bind, and set a Sinner free.
Much less this Grant did Sov'raign Right convey,
Obliging all th' Apostles to obey
Their Monarch Peter's Universal Sway:
But do not ask what Raphael's Notions were,
His Judgment might, his Pencil cannot err.

University of Virginia Library

THE CARTONS OF RAPHAEL URBIN, IN THE Gallery at Hampton-Court. [_] Printed in 1703.

[Stay, Stranger, here, in this Apartment stand]