University of Virginia Library

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59

Christ's PASSION, From a Greek Ode of Mr. Masters, formerly of New College.

An ODE.

I.

No more of earthly Subjects sing,
To Heav'n, my Muse, aspire;
To raise the Song, change every String,
And strike the Living Lyre.
Begin; in lofty Numbers show,
Th'Eternal King's unfathom'd Love,
Who reigns the Sov'reign God above,
And suffers on the Cross below.

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Prodigious Pile of Wonders! rais'd too high
For the dim ken of frail Mortality.
What Numbers shall I bring along?
From whence shall I begin the Song?
The mighty Mystery I'll sing inspir'd
Beyond the reach of human Wisdom wrought,
Beyond the Compass of an Angel's Thought,
How by the Rage of Man his God expir'd.

II.

I'll make the trackless Depths of Mercy known,
How to Redeem his Foe God render'd up his Son;
I'll raise my Voice to tell Mankind
The Victor's Conquest o'er his Doom,
How in the Grave he lay confin'd,
To seal more sure the rav'nous Tomb.

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61

Three Days th'infernal Empire to subdue,
He past Triumphant thro' the Coasts of Woe;
With his own Dart the Tyrant Death He slew,
And led Hell captive thro' her Realms below.

III.

A mingled Sound from Calvary I hear,
And the loud Tumult thickens on my Ear,
The Shouts of Murd'rers that insult the Slain,
The Voice of Torment and the Shrieks of Pain.
I cast my Eyes with horror up
To the curst Mountain's guilty Top;
See there! whom hanging in the midst I view!
Ah! how unlike the other two!
I see him high above his Foes,
And gently bending from the Wood
His Head in Pity down to Those,
Whose Guilt conspires to shed his Blood.

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62

His wide-extended Arms I see,
Transfix'd with Nails, and fasten'd to the Tree.

IV.

Man! senseless Man! canst thou look on?
Nor make thy Saviour's Pains thy Own:
The Rage of all thy Grief exert,
Rend thy Garments and thy Heart:
Beat thy Breast, and grovel low,
Beneath the Burden of thy Woe;
Bleed thro' thy Bowels, tear thy Hairs,
Breath Gales of Sighs, and weep a Flood of Tears.
Behold thy King with Purple cover'd round,
Not in the Tyrian Tinctures dy'd,
Nor dipt in Poison of Sidonian Pride,
But in his own rich Blood that streams from every Wound.

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63

Dost thou not see the Thorny Circle red?
The guilty Wreath that blushes round his Head?
And with what Rage the bloody Scourge apply'd,
Curls round his Limbs, and ploughs into his Side?