Miscellaneous Poems, with some Remarks on the Death of King Charles the II And the Happy Succession of King James the II. In a Poem to the Magistracy of England. By John Whitehall |
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The Soul, to a bad Conscience.
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 | Miscellaneous Poems, with some Remarks on the Death of King Charles the II |  |
The Soul, to a bad Conscience.
I
Whence art thou, thou eternal Pain,Thou restless Plague, thou stalking Shade,
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I charge thee hence again:
Why dost thou pinch, and rack, and lash me so?
I do conjure thee let me go;
I'l set my self from all thy tortures free,
Thou fancy'd Devil I will stifle thee,
And triumph in my liberty;
I am not into such a weakness brought,
But I am able sure to grapple with a thought.
II.
In Bacchanalean Feasts I'll drown thy Rage,The Royal Courts thy fury may asswage,
The Sports and Sweets of Love
May thee remove;
If not, I'l travel far
Into some Land beyond thy vast extent,
And tell the deceiv'd World I'm innocent;
If thou pursue me there, and break my Peace,
If there thy rage increase,
Like Pharaoh, I will hardned be
As Plagues augment on me;
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Jesuits shall be more Innocent than I,
I will excell in wickedness, and matchless die.
I'l cast my self upon sins spacious Main,
And sail where yet no Nero e'r hath been,
Into strange worlds of unknown sin,
And never feel the qualms of Conscience again:
I'l chain thee in some cavern of the Earth,
And if my wandring thoughts should err astray,
If they meet Heav'n or Virtue in the way,
Do not attempt to enter forth,
For if thou dost, I'l choak thee in thy birth.
III.
Why follows Cæsar guilty Brutus still?Why dost so oft appear,
To charge me with a well-remembred ill?
Thou sinkest there,
And risest here,
I flie from thee in vain,
Who wilt not suffer me one minutes peace to gain;
With friendly night wrap up that wounded breast,
Brutus his wound gapes wider than the rest.
Sink, sink, thou Shade, ten thousand fathom deep,
Be bury'd in Eternal Sleep;
Oh do not still pursue me, restless Ghost!
Hence thou Tormentor, hence;
Alas! in thee I've lost
The Sacred Peace of Maiden Innocence,
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Astonish'd at the action of my too rash hand.
IV.
I thought that charming David's tuneful Lyre,Touch'd with his skilful hand,
Might thee command,
And urge thy evil Spirit to retire:
But now (alas!) I see
How vain all these attempts would be;
Contagious Wickedness is thy Disease,
Too long thou hast incensed been
With loathsom, rank, deformed sin,
And none but Christ thy Fever can appease.
I've tasted the forbidden Tree,
And by the bold presumptous Vice
Have made an Hell of Paradice,
And from thy presence vainly strive to flee,
And cannot hide my guilty self from God and Thee.
I'l kneel in Sackcloth, and I'l humbly pray,
That with the precious Flood
Of Christ's most meritorious Blood,
He'l wash my sins away;
I shall no longer then thy stings abide,
But them, together with my sins, I'l hide
In my dear Saviour's wounded Side.
| Miscellaneous Poems, with some Remarks on the Death of King Charles the II | |