Poems on Several Occasions To which is added Gondibert and Birtha, A Tragedy. By William Thompson |
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Tome the Second.
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 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
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Tome the Second.
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SICKNESS a POEM: In FIVE BOOKS.
Book I.
The Lord Comfort Him, when He lieth Sick upon his Bed; make Thou all his Bed in his Sickness.
Psalms.
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Argument of the First Book.
Subject propos'd. The Folly of employing Poetry on wanton or trifling Subjects. Invocation of Urania. Reflections on the Instability of Life itself: Frailness of Youth, Beauty, and Health. The Suddenness and first Attacks of a Distemper, in particular of the Small Pox. Moral and religious Observations resulting from Sickness.
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Of Days with Pain acquainted, and of Nights
Unconscious of the healing Balms of Sleep,
That burn in restless Agonies away;
Of Sickness, and its Family of Woes,
The fellest Enemies of Life, I sing,
Horizon'd close in Darkness. While I touch
The Ebon-instrument, of solemn Tone,
Pluckt from the Cypress' melancholy Boughs,
Which, deepning, shade the House of Mourning, Groans
And hollow Wailings, through the Damps of Night,
Responsive wound the Ear. The sprightly Pow'rs
Of Musical Inchantment wave their Wings,
And seek the fragrant Groves and purple Fields,
Where Pleasure rolls her honey-trickling Streams,
Of blooming Health and laughter-dimpled Joy.
Unconscious of the healing Balms of Sleep,
That burn in restless Agonies away;
Of Sickness, and its Family of Woes,
The fellest Enemies of Life, I sing,
Horizon'd close in Darkness. While I touch
The Ebon-instrument, of solemn Tone,
Pluckt from the Cypress' melancholy Boughs,
Which, deepning, shade the House of Mourning, Groans
And hollow Wailings, through the Damps of Night,
Responsive wound the Ear. The sprightly Pow'rs
Of Musical Inchantment wave their Wings,
And seek the fragrant Groves and purple Fields,
Where Pleasure rolls her honey-trickling Streams,
Of blooming Health and laughter-dimpled Joy.
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Me other Scenes than laughing Joy, and Health
High-blooming, purple-living Fields and Groves,
Fragrant with Spring, invite. Too long the Muse,
Ah! much too long, a Libertine, diffus'd
On Pleasure's rosy Lap, has, idly, breath'd
Love-sighing Elegies, and Pastoral-strains,
The soft Seducers of our youthful Hours,
Soothing away the Vigour of the Mind,
And Energy of Virtue. But, farewel,
Ye Myrtle Walks, ye lilly-mantled Meads
Of Paphos, and the Fount of Acidale,
Where, oft, in Summer, Grecian Fables tell,
The Daughters of Eurynome and Jove,
Thalia and her Sister-Graces cool
Their glowing Features, at the noontide Hour,
Farewel!—But come, Urania, from thy Bow'rs
Of everlasting Day; O condescend
To lead thy Votary (with rapt'rous Zeal
Adoring Nature's God, the great Three-One!)
To Salem; where the Shepherd-Monarch wak'd
The sacred Breath of Melody, and swell'd
His Harp, to Angel's kindred Notes attun'd,
With Music worthy Heaven! O bath my Breast,
With Praises burning, in the Morning-Dews,
Which sparkle, Sion, on thy holy Hill.
High-blooming, purple-living Fields and Groves,
Fragrant with Spring, invite. Too long the Muse,
Ah! much too long, a Libertine, diffus'd
On Pleasure's rosy Lap, has, idly, breath'd
Love-sighing Elegies, and Pastoral-strains,
The soft Seducers of our youthful Hours,
Soothing away the Vigour of the Mind,
And Energy of Virtue. But, farewel,
Ye Myrtle Walks, ye lilly-mantled Meads
Of Paphos, and the Fount of Acidale,
Where, oft, in Summer, Grecian Fables tell,
The Daughters of Eurynome and Jove,
Thalia and her Sister-Graces cool
Their glowing Features, at the noontide Hour,
Farewel!—But come, Urania, from thy Bow'rs
Of everlasting Day; O condescend
To lead thy Votary (with rapt'rous Zeal
Adoring Nature's God, the great Three-One!)
To Salem; where the Shepherd-Monarch wak'd
The sacred Breath of Melody, and swell'd
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With Music worthy Heaven! O bath my Breast,
With Praises burning, in the Morning-Dews,
Which sparkle, Sion, on thy holy Hill.
The Prophets, Eagle-ey'd, celestial Maid,
Those Poets of the Sky! were taught to chaunt
The Glories of Messiah's Reign by thee:
Kindled by thee, the Eastern-pages flame
With Light'ning, and with Thunder shake the Soul;
While, from the Whirlwind, God's all-glorious Voice
Bursts on the tingling Ears of Job:
the Writ
Of Moses, meek in Spirit, but his Thoughts
Lofty as Heav'n's blue Arch. My humble Hopes
Aspire but to the Alpha of his Song;
Where, roll'd in Ashes, digging for a Grave,
More earnest than the Covetous for Gold
Or hidden Treasures, crusted o'er with Boils,
And roaring in the Bitterness of Soul,
And Heart-sick Pain, the Man of Uz complains.
Themes correspondent to thy Servant's Theme.
Those Poets of the Sky! were taught to chaunt
The Glories of Messiah's Reign by thee:
Kindled by thee, the Eastern-pages flame
With Light'ning, and with Thunder shake the Soul;
While, from the Whirlwind, God's all-glorious Voice
Bursts on the tingling Ears of Job:
The Book of Job is ascrib'd to various Authors, and amongst the rest to Moses. I am proud to observe that Dr. Young has strengthened this opinion in his Notes to his admirable Poem on Job. Most of the Arguments on each Side of the Question may be found in Pole's Synopsis Critic. in the Beginning of his Notes on the Book of Job; and in Mr. S. Weslay's curious Dissertation on the same Subject.
Of Moses, meek in Spirit, but his Thoughts
Lofty as Heav'n's blue Arch. My humble Hopes
Aspire but to the Alpha of his Song;
Where, roll'd in Ashes, digging for a Grave,
More earnest than the Covetous for Gold
Or hidden Treasures, crusted o'er with Boils,
And roaring in the Bitterness of Soul,
And Heart-sick Pain, the Man of Uz complains.
Themes correspondent to thy Servant's Theme.
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I sing to you, ye Sons of Men! of Dust,
Say rather: What is Man, who proudly lifts
His Brow audacious, as confronting Heav'n,
And tramples, with Disdain, his Mother-Earth,
But moulded Clay? an animated Heap
Of Dust, that shortly shall to Dust return?
Say rather: What is Man, who proudly lifts
His Brow audacious, as confronting Heav'n,
And tramples, with Disdain, his Mother-Earth,
But moulded Clay? an animated Heap
Of Dust, that shortly shall to Dust return?
We dream of Shadows, when we talk of Life,
Of Pelops' Shoulder,
Verg. Georg. iii.
Ex humero Pelopis non nituisset ebur.
Lib. i. Eleg. 4. of Pythagoras' Thigh,
Of Surius's Saints, and Ovid's Gods;
Meer Tales to cheat our Children with to Rest;
And, when the Tale is told, they sink to sleep,
Death's Image! so inane is mortal-Man!
Man's but a Vapour, toss'd by every Wind,
The Child of Smoak, which in a Moment flies,
And, sinking into nothing, disappears.
Man's a brisk Bubble, floating on the Waves
Of wide Eternity: He dances now
Gay-gilded by the Sun (tho' empty, proud;)
Phantastically fine! and now he drops
In a broad Sheet of Waters deep involv'd
And gives His Place to Others. O, ye Sons
Of Vanity, remember, and be wise!
Man is a Flow'r, which, in the Morning, fair
As Day-Spring, swelling from its slender Stem,
In Virgin-modesty, and sweet Reserve,
Lays out its blushing Beauties to the Day,
As Gideon's Fleece, full with the Dews of Heav'n.
But if some ruder Gale, or nipping Wind,
Disastrous, blow too hard, It, weeping, mourns
In Robes of Darkness; it reclines its Head
In languid Softness; withers every Grace;
And, ere the Ev'ning-Star the West inflames,
It falls into the Portion of those Weeds
Which, with a careless Hand, we cast away—
Ye thoughtless Fair-ones, moralize my Song!
Of Pelops' Shoulder,
The Poets feign that Tantalus served up his Son Pelops to the Table of the Gods: They re-united the Fragments, and formed his Shoulder, which was lost, of Ivory. Ovid. Met. Lib. vi.
—Humeroque Pelops insignis eburno.Verg. Georg. iii.
I shall add this beautiful Passage from Tibullus:
---Carmina ni sint,Ex humero Pelopis non nituisset ebur.
Lib. i. Eleg. 4.
This is told with so much Humour by Mr. Addison in one of his finest Works, that I rather chuse to give an Authority from him, than any of the Ancients. “The next Man astonished the whole Table with his Appearance: He was slow, solemn and silent, in his Behaviour, and wore a raiment curiously wrought with Hieroglyphicks. As he came into the middle of the Room, he threw back the Skirt of it, and discover'd a golden Thigh. Socrates at the Sight of it declared against keeping Company with any who were not made of Flesh and Blood; and therefore desired Diogenes the Laertian to lead him to the Apartment allotted the fabulous Heroes, and Worthies of dubious Existence, &c.” The Table of Fame, Tatler Vol. II. No 81.
Of Surius's Saints, and Ovid's Gods;
Meer Tales to cheat our Children with to Rest;
And, when the Tale is told, they sink to sleep,
Death's Image! so inane is mortal-Man!
Man's but a Vapour, toss'd by every Wind,
The Child of Smoak, which in a Moment flies,
And, sinking into nothing, disappears.
Man's a brisk Bubble, floating on the Waves
Of wide Eternity: He dances now
Gay-gilded by the Sun (tho' empty, proud;)
Phantastically fine! and now he drops
In a broad Sheet of Waters deep involv'd
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Of Vanity, remember, and be wise!
Man is a Flow'r, which, in the Morning, fair
As Day-Spring, swelling from its slender Stem,
In Virgin-modesty, and sweet Reserve,
Lays out its blushing Beauties to the Day,
As Gideon's Fleece, full with the Dews of Heav'n.
But if some ruder Gale, or nipping Wind,
Disastrous, blow too hard, It, weeping, mourns
In Robes of Darkness; it reclines its Head
In languid Softness; withers every Grace;
And, ere the Ev'ning-Star the West inflames,
It falls into the Portion of those Weeds
Which, with a careless Hand, we cast away—
Ye thoughtless Fair-ones, moralize my Song!
Thy Pulse beats Music; thou art high in Health;
The rather tremble. When the least we fear,
When Folly lulls us on her Couch of Down,
And Wine and Lutes and Odours fill the Sense
With their soft Affluence of bewitching Joys;
When Years of Rapture in thy Fancy glow
To entertain thy Youth; a sudden Burst
Of Thunder from the smallest Cloud of Fate,
Small as the Prophet's Hand, destroys, confounds,
And lays thy visionary Hopes in Dust.
By my Example taught, Examples teach
Much more than Precepts, learn to know thy End.
The rather tremble. When the least we fear,
When Folly lulls us on her Couch of Down,
And Wine and Lutes and Odours fill the Sense
With their soft Affluence of bewitching Joys;
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To entertain thy Youth; a sudden Burst
Of Thunder from the smallest Cloud of Fate,
Small as the Prophet's Hand, destroys, confounds,
And lays thy visionary Hopes in Dust.
By my Example taught, Examples teach
Much more than Precepts, learn to know thy End.
The Day was Valentine's: when Lover's Wounds
Afresh begin to bleed, and Sighs to warm
The chilly Rigour of relenting Skies:
Sacred the Day to Innocence and Mirth,
The Festival of Youth! in seeming Health
(As Custom bids) I hail'd the Year's fair Morn,
And with its earliest Purple braid my Brows,
The Violet, or Primrose, breathing Sweets
New to the Sense. Ianthe by my Side,
More lovely than the Season! rais'd her Voice,
Observant of His Rites, in festal Lays,
And thus addrest the Patron of the Spring.
Afresh begin to bleed, and Sighs to warm
The chilly Rigour of relenting Skies:
Sacred the Day to Innocence and Mirth,
The Festival of Youth! in seeming Health
(As Custom bids) I hail'd the Year's fair Morn,
And with its earliest Purple braid my Brows,
The Violet, or Primrose, breathing Sweets
New to the Sense. Ianthe by my Side,
Sickness being a Subject so disagreeable, in itself, to human Nature, it was thought necessary, as Fable is the Soul of Poetry, to relieve the Imagination with the following, and some other Episodes. For to describe the Anguish of a distemper without a mixture of some more pleasing incidents, would, no doubt, disgust every good-natur'd and tender Reader.
More lovely than the Season! rais'd her Voice,
Observant of His Rites, in festal Lays,
And thus addrest the Patron of the Spring.
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“Hail, Valentine! at thy Approach benign,
Profuse of Gems, the Bosom of the Earth
Her fragrant Stores unfolds: the Fields rejoice,
And, in the Infancy of Plenty, smile:
The Vallies laugh and sing: the Woods, alive,
Sprout into floating Verdure, to embow'r
Those happy Lovers, who record thy Praise.
Profuse of Gems, the Bosom of the Earth
Her fragrant Stores unfolds: the Fields rejoice,
And, in the Infancy of Plenty, smile:
The Vallies laugh and sing: the Woods, alive,
Sprout into floating Verdure, to embow'r
Those happy Lovers, who record thy Praise.
Hail, Valentine! at thy Approach benign,
Inhaling genial Raptures from the Sun,
The plumy Nations swell the Song of Joy,
Thy soaring Choiristers! The Lark, the Thrush,
And all th' aerial People, from the Wren
And Linnet to the Eagle, feel the Stings
Of amorous Delight, and sing thy Praise.
Inhaling genial Raptures from the Sun,
The plumy Nations swell the Song of Joy,
Thy soaring Choiristers! The Lark, the Thrush,
And all th' aerial People, from the Wren
And Linnet to the Eagle, feel the Stings
Of amorous Delight, and sing thy Praise.
Hail, Valentine! at thy Approach benign,
Quick o'er the soft'ning Soul the gentle Gales
Of Spring, awaking Bliss, instinctive, move
The ardent Youth to breath the sighs of Faith
Into the Virgin's Heart; Who, sick of Love,
With equal Fires, and Purity of Truth,
Consenting, blushes while she chaunts thy Praise.”
Quick o'er the soft'ning Soul the gentle Gales
Of Spring, awaking Bliss, instinctive, move
The ardent Youth to breath the sighs of Faith
Into the Virgin's Heart; Who, sick of Love,
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Consenting, blushes while she chaunts thy Praise.”
So sung Ianthe: to my Heart I prest
Her spotless Sweetness: when, (with wonder, hear!)
Tho' She shone smiling by, the torpid Pow'rs
Of Heaviness weigh'd down my beamless Eyes,
And press'd them into Night. The Dews of Death
Hung, clammy, on my Forehead, like the Damps
Of midnight Sepulchres; which, silent, op'd
By weeping Widows, or by Friendship's Hand,
Yawn hideous on the Moon, and blast the Stars
With pestilential Reek. My Head is torn
With Pangs insufferable, pulsive Starts,
And pungent Aches, griding thro' the Brain,
To Madness hurrying the tormented Sense,
And hate of Being.—Poor Ianthe wept
In Bitterness, and took me by the Hand
Compassionately kind: “Alas! she cry'd,
What sudden Change is this? (Again she wept.)
Say, can Ianthe prove the Source of Pain
To Thamalin? forbid it, gracious Heav'n!”
No, beauteous Innocence! As soon the Rose
Shall poison with its Balm; as soon the Dove
Become a white Dissembler, and the Stream
With lulling Murmurs, creeping thro' the Grove,
Offend the Shepherd's Slumber—Scarce my Tongue
These fault'ring Accents stammer'd, down I sink,
And a lethargick Stupor steeps my Sense
In dull Oblivion: till returning Pain,
Too faithful Monitor! and dire Disease
Bid me remember, Pleasure is a Dream,
That Health has Eagle's Wings, nor tarries long.
Her spotless Sweetness: when, (with wonder, hear!)
Tho' She shone smiling by, the torpid Pow'rs
Of Heaviness weigh'd down my beamless Eyes,
And press'd them into Night. The Dews of Death
Hung, clammy, on my Forehead, like the Damps
Of midnight Sepulchres; which, silent, op'd
By weeping Widows, or by Friendship's Hand,
Yawn hideous on the Moon, and blast the Stars
With pestilential Reek. My Head is torn
With Pangs insufferable, pulsive Starts,
And pungent Aches, griding thro' the Brain,
To Madness hurrying the tormented Sense,
And hate of Being.—Poor Ianthe wept
In Bitterness, and took me by the Hand
Compassionately kind: “Alas! she cry'd,
What sudden Change is this? (Again she wept.)
Say, can Ianthe prove the Source of Pain
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No, beauteous Innocence! As soon the Rose
Shall poison with its Balm; as soon the Dove
Become a white Dissembler, and the Stream
With lulling Murmurs, creeping thro' the Grove,
Offend the Shepherd's Slumber—Scarce my Tongue
These fault'ring Accents stammer'd, down I sink,
And a lethargick Stupor steeps my Sense
In dull Oblivion: till returning Pain,
Too faithful Monitor! and dire Disease
Bid me remember, Pleasure is a Dream,
That Health has Eagle's Wings, nor tarries long.
New Horrors rise. For in my pricking Veins
I feel the forky Flame: the rapid Flood
Of throbbing Life, excursive from the Laws
Of sober Nature, and harmonious Health,
Boils in tumultuary Eddies round
Its bursting Channels. Parching Thirst, anon,
Drinks up the vital Maze, as Simois dry,
Or Zanthus, by the Arm-ignipotent,
With a red Torrent of involving Flames
Exhausted; when Achilles with their Floods
Wag'd more than mortal War: the God of Fire
Wide o'er the Waters pour'd th' inundant Blaze,
The shrinking Waters to the bottom boil
And hiss in Ruin. O! ye Rivers, roll
Your cooling Crystal o'er my burning Breast,
For Ætna rages here! Ye Snows, descend;
Bind me in icy Chains, ye northern Winds,
And mitigate the Furies of the Fire!
I feel the forky Flame: the rapid Flood
Of throbbing Life, excursive from the Laws
Of sober Nature, and harmonious Health,
Boils in tumultuary Eddies round
Its bursting Channels. Parching Thirst, anon,
Drinks up the vital Maze, as Simois dry,
Or Zanthus, by the Arm-ignipotent,
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Exhausted; when Achilles with their Floods
Wag'd more than mortal War: the God of Fire
Wide o'er the Waters pour'd th' inundant Blaze,
The shrinking Waters to the bottom boil
And hiss in Ruin. O! ye Rivers, roll
Your cooling Crystal o'er my burning Breast,
For Ætna rages here! Ye Snows, descend;
Bind me in icy Chains, ye northern Winds,
And mitigate the Furies of the Fire!
Good Heav'n! what Hoards of unrepented Guilt
Have drawn this Vengeance down, have rais'd this Fiend
To lash me with his Flames? But, O, forgive
My Rashness, that dares blame Thy just Decrees.
It is Thy Rod: I kiss it with my Heart,
As well as Lips: like Aaron's may it bloom
With Fruits of Goodness: not, like Moses' turn
A Serpent; or, to tempt me to accuse
The kind Oppression of thy righteous Hand,
Or, sting me to despair.—Affliction, hail!
Thou School of Virtue! open wide thy Gates,
Thy Gates of Ebony! Yet, O, correct
Thy Servant, not with Judgment, not in Wrath,
But with thy Mercy, Lord! thy Stripes will heal.
Thus without Heresy, Afflictions prove
A Purgatory; save us as by Fire:
And purifying off the Dross of Sin,
Like old Elijah's Chariot, rap the Soul,
On Wings of Meditation, to the Skies.
Have drawn this Vengeance down, have rais'd this Fiend
To lash me with his Flames? But, O, forgive
My Rashness, that dares blame Thy just Decrees.
It is Thy Rod: I kiss it with my Heart,
As well as Lips: like Aaron's may it bloom
With Fruits of Goodness: not, like Moses' turn
A Serpent; or, to tempt me to accuse
The kind Oppression of thy righteous Hand,
Or, sting me to despair.—Affliction, hail!
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Thy Gates of Ebony! Yet, O, correct
Thy Servant, not with Judgment, not in Wrath,
But with thy Mercy, Lord! thy Stripes will heal.
Thus without Heresy, Afflictions prove
A Purgatory; save us as by Fire:
And purifying off the Dross of Sin,
Like old Elijah's Chariot, rap the Soul,
On Wings of Meditation, to the Skies.
In Health we have no Time to visit Truth:
Health's the Disease of Morals: few in Health
Turn o'er the Volumes which will make us Wise.
What are ye, now, ye tuneful Triflers! once
The eager Solace of my easy Hours,
Ye dear Deluders or of Greece or Rome,
Anacreon, Horace, Virgil, Homer, what?
The gay, the bright, the sober, the sublime?
And ye of softer Strain, ye amorous Fools,
Correctly indolent, and sweetly Vain,
Tibullus, Ovid; and the Female-verse
Of Her, who, plunging from Leucadia's Heights,
Extinguish'd, with her Life, her hopeless Fires,
Or rose a Swan, as love-struck Fancy deem'd.
Who wou'd not, in these Hours of Wisdom, give
A Vatican of Wits for one Saint Paul?
Dare Tully with the golden Mouth of Greece,
With Chrysostom in Rhet'rick-thunder join,
Advent'rous, now? as soon the feeble Sound,
Salmoneus, of thy brazen Bridge contends
Dum flammas Jovis & sonitus imitatur Olympi—
Demens qui nimbos, & non imitabile fulmen
Ære & Cornipedum cursu imitar at equorum.
Virg. Æn. Lib. 4.
With Jove's æthereal Peal, and bursting Roar
Fulminous, rending Earth, o'erturning Air,
And shaking Heav'n. Or shall the pointed Pen
Of Corduba, with hostile Labour bend
Its Sentences obscure against the Force
Of Hierom's noble Fire? as soon the Moon,
With blunted Horn, dares pour her pallid Beam
Against the boundless Majesty of Day,
The Sun's refulgent Throne; when, high, in Noon
He kindles up the Earth to Light and Joy.
My best Instructor, Sickness, shuts the Eye
From Vanity; she draws the Curtains round
The Couch, nor gives Admittance to the World:
But to Harpocrates consigns the Door,
Me unum esse invenies illorum jure sacratum,
Corneli, & factum esse puta Harpocratem.
Catull.
Metam. Lib. ix.
And, silent, whispers me, that “Life is vain.”
Health's the Disease of Morals: few in Health
Turn o'er the Volumes which will make us Wise.
What are ye, now, ye tuneful Triflers! once
The eager Solace of my easy Hours,
Ye dear Deluders or of Greece or Rome,
Anacreon, Horace, Virgil, Homer, what?
The gay, the bright, the sober, the sublime?
And ye of softer Strain, ye amorous Fools,
Correctly indolent, and sweetly Vain,
Tibullus, Ovid; and the Female-verse
208
Extinguish'd, with her Life, her hopeless Fires,
Or rose a Swan, as love-struck Fancy deem'd.
Who wou'd not, in these Hours of Wisdom, give
A Vatican of Wits for one Saint Paul?
Dare Tully with the golden Mouth of Greece,
With Chrysostom in Rhet'rick-thunder join,
Advent'rous, now? as soon the feeble Sound,
Salmoneus, of thy brazen Bridge contends
Salmoneus King of Elis, a province in the Peloponnesus. He was so arrogant as to affect being thought a God: for which End he built a Bridge of Brass, by driving over which in his Chariot, he endeavour'd to make himself be believ'd the Thunderer. But Jupiter, enrag'd at his Impiety, struck him dead with a real Thunderbolt.
Vidi crudeles dantem Salmonea pœnas,Dum flammas Jovis & sonitus imitatur Olympi—
Demens qui nimbos, & non imitabile fulmen
Ære & Cornipedum cursu imitar at equorum.
Virg. Æn. Lib. 4.
With Jove's æthereal Peal, and bursting Roar
Fulminous, rending Earth, o'erturning Air,
And shaking Heav'n. Or shall the pointed Pen
Of Corduba, with hostile Labour bend
Its Sentences obscure against the Force
Of Hierom's noble Fire? as soon the Moon,
With blunted Horn, dares pour her pallid Beam
Against the boundless Majesty of Day,
The Sun's refulgent Throne; when, high, in Noon
He kindles up the Earth to Light and Joy.
My best Instructor, Sickness, shuts the Eye
209
The Couch, nor gives Admittance to the World:
But to Harpocrates consigns the Door,
Harpocrates, the God of Silence amongst the Egyptians.
Si quicquam tacite commissum est fido ab amico,Me unum esse invenies illorum jure sacratum,
Corneli, & factum esse puta Harpocratem.
Catull.
Hence Erasnus, Lib. Adag. tells us, that reddere Harpocratem is the same as mutum reddere. So Catullus in another Place:
Patruum reddidit Harpocratem.Ovid describes him in the same Manner, without taking Notice of his Name, amongst the Attendants of Isis:
Quique premit vocem, digitoque silentia suadet.Metam. Lib. ix.
This Description intirely agrees with the several Medals and Statues of Harpocrates, which the learned Antiquary Gisb. Cuperus exhibits in his laborious Dissertation on that Subject, printed with Monumenta Antiqua.
But upon another Account likewise, Harpocrates may justly be appointed to attend upon the Sick; for he is numbered amongst the salutary Gods, who assisted in extream Dangers: as appears from Artemidorus, Oneir. L. ii. C. 44. where, after having mentioned Serapis, Isis, Anubis, and Harpocrates, he goes on thus; Semper enim servatores crediti sunt hi dii, eorum qui per omnia exercitati sunt, & ad extremum periculum pervenerunt, &c. Kircher also, in his Oedip. Egyp. p. 2. vol. II. p. 315. amongst others to the same purpose, has these remarkable Words:
Reverebantur Ægypti, præter cætera numina maximè Isin & Orisin, ac Horum sive Harpocratem, tanquam Iatricos Genios.
And, silent, whispers me, that “Life is vain.”
If Life be vain on what shall Man depend?
Depend on Virtue. Virtue is a Rock
Which stands for ever; braves the frowning Flood,
And rears its awful brow, direct, to Heaven.
Tho' Virtue save not from the Grave, she gives
Her Votaries to the Stars; she plucks the Sting
From the grim King of Terrors; smooths the Bed
Of Anguish, and bids Death, tho' dreadful, smile.
Death smiles on Virtue: And his Visage, black,
Yet comely seems. A Christian scorns the Bounds
Where limited Creation said to Time,
“Here I have End.” Rapt'rous, he looks beyond
Or Time or Space; he Triumphs o'er decay;
And fills Eternity: the next to God!
Depend on Virtue. Virtue is a Rock
Which stands for ever; braves the frowning Flood,
And rears its awful brow, direct, to Heaven.
Tho' Virtue save not from the Grave, she gives
Her Votaries to the Stars; she plucks the Sting
From the grim King of Terrors; smooths the Bed
Of Anguish, and bids Death, tho' dreadful, smile.
Death smiles on Virtue: And his Visage, black,
Yet comely seems. A Christian scorns the Bounds
Where limited Creation said to Time,
“Here I have End.” Rapt'rous, he looks beyond
Or Time or Space; he Triumphs o'er decay;
And fills Eternity: the next to God!
The End of the First Book.
215
THE PALACE OF DISEASE.
Book II.
Diseases dire, of which a monstrous Crew
Before Thee shall appear.
Milton.
Before Thee shall appear.
Milton.
216
Argument of the Second Book.
Reflections . Invocation of the Genius of Spenser. Apostrophe to the Dutchess of Somerset. The Palace of Disease. War. Intemperance. Melancholy. Fever. Consumption. Small Pox. Complaint on the Death of Lord Beauchamp.
217
Death was not Man's Inheritance, but Life
Immortal, but a Paradise of Bliss,
Unfading Beauty, and eternal Spring,
(The cloudess Blaze of Innocence's Reign:)
The Gifts of God's Right-Hand! till monstrous Sin,
The motly Child of Satan and of Hell,
Invited dire Disease into the World,
And her distorted Brood of ugly Shapes,
Echidna's Brood! and fix'd their curs'd Abode
On Earth, invisible to human Sight,
The Portion and the Scourge of mortal Man.
Yet tho' to human Sight invisible,
If She, whom I implore, Urania deign,
With Euphrasy
Aut vinum, aut cœcus, luminis osor, amor, &c.
Tunc ego, non frustrà, vocor—
Couleius Lib. Plant. p. 39. ---Purg'd with Euphrasy and Rue
The visual Nerve.
Milton. to purge away the Mists
Which, humid, dim the Mirror of the Mind;
(As Venus gave Æneas to behold
The angry Gods with Flame o'erwhelming Troy,
Neptune and Pallas,) not in vain, I'll sing
The mystick Terrors of this gloomy Reign:
And, led by her, with dangerous Courage press
Through dreary Paths, and Haunts, by mortal Foot
Rare visited;
unless by Thee, I ween,
Father of Fancy, of descriptive Verse,
And shadowy Beings, gentle Edmund, hight
Spenser!
the Sweetest of the tuneful Throng,
Or recent, or of eld. Creative Bard,
Thy Springs unlock, expand thy fairy Scenes,
Thy unexhausted Stores of Fancy spread,
And with thy Images inrich my Song.
Immortal, but a Paradise of Bliss,
Unfading Beauty, and eternal Spring,
(The cloudess Blaze of Innocence's Reign:)
The Gifts of God's Right-Hand! till monstrous Sin,
The motly Child of Satan and of Hell,
Invited dire Disease into the World,
And her distorted Brood of ugly Shapes,
Echidna's Brood! and fix'd their curs'd Abode
On Earth, invisible to human Sight,
The Portion and the Scourge of mortal Man.
Yet tho' to human Sight invisible,
If She, whom I implore, Urania deign,
218
With Euphrasy, Angl. Eyebright. This Herb was unknown to the Ancients; at least it is not mention'd by them. It is of extraordinary Service to the Eye, curing most of its Distempers.
—Cum debilitat morbi vis improba visum,Aut vinum, aut cœcus, luminis osor, amor, &c.
Tunc ego, non frustrà, vocor—
Couleius Lib. Plant. p. 39. ---Purg'd with Euphrasy and Rue
The visual Nerve.
Milton.
Which, humid, dim the Mirror of the Mind;
(As Venus gave Æneas to behold
See Virgil. Æn. Lib. ii. Which seems to be borrow'd from Homer. Ilias. Lib. v. We have several of the like Instances in the sacred Volumes. Gen. xxi. 19. And God open'd her Eyes and she saw a Well of Water. Numbers, xxii. 31. Then the Lord open'd the Eyes of Balaam, and he saw the Angel of the Lord, &c.
The angry Gods with Flame o'erwhelming Troy,
Neptune and Pallas,) not in vain, I'll sing
The mystick Terrors of this gloomy Reign:
And, led by her, with dangerous Courage press
Through dreary Paths, and Haunts, by mortal Foot
Rare visited;
See Virgil:
Sed me Parnassi deserta per ardua dulcis
Raptat amor: Juvat ire jugis, quà nulla priorum,
Castaliam molli divertitur orbita clivo.
Georg. Lib. iii.
Raptat amor: Juvat ire jugis, quà nulla priorum,
Castaliam molli divertitur orbita clivo.
Which is imitated from Lucretius, Lib. ii.
Avia Pieridum peragro loca, nullius ante
Trita pede, &c.
Trita pede, &c.
Father of Fancy, of descriptive Verse,
And shadowy Beings, gentle Edmund, hight
Spenser!
The Date of our English Poetry may with great Justice begin with Spenser. It is true, Chaucer, Gower, and Lydgate were Masters of uncommon Beauties, considering the Age they lived in, and have described the Humours, Passions, &c. with great Discernment. Yet none of them seem to have been half so well acquainted with the very Life and Being of Poetry, Invention, Painting, and Design, as Spenser. Chaucer was the best before him; but then he borrowed most of his Poems, either from the Ancients, or from Boccace, Petrarch, or the Provençal Writers, &c. Thus his Troilus and Cressida, the largest of his Works, was taken from Lollius; and the Romaunt of the Rose, was translated from the French of John de Meun, an Englishman, who flourished in the Reign of Richard II. and so of the rest. As for those who follow'd him, such as Heywood, Scogan, Skelton, &c. they seem to be wholly ignorant of either Numbers, Language, Propriety, or even decency itself. I must be understood to except the Earl of Surry, Sir Thomas Wiat, Sir Philip Sidney, several Pieces in the Mirror of Magistrates, and a few Parts of Mr. G. Gascoign's and Turbervill's Works.
Or recent, or of eld. Creative Bard,
Thy Springs unlock, expand thy fairy Scenes,
Thy unexhausted Stores of Fancy spread,
And with thy Images inrich my Song.
Come
Hertford! with the Muse, awhile, vouchsafe
(The softer Virtues melting in thy Breast,
The tender Graces glowing in thy Form)
Vouchsafe, in all the Beauty of Distress,
To take a silent Walk among the Tombs:
There lend a Charm to Sorrow, smooth her Brow,
And sparkle through her Tears, in shining Woe.
As when the Dove, (Thy Emblem, matchless Dame!
For Beauty, Innocence, and Truth are Thine)
Spread all its Colours oe'r the boundless Deep,
(Empyreal Radiance quivering round the Gloom)
Chaos reform'd, and bade Distraction smile!
(The softer Virtues melting in thy Breast,
The tender Graces glowing in thy Form)
219
To take a silent Walk among the Tombs:
There lend a Charm to Sorrow, smooth her Brow,
And sparkle through her Tears, in shining Woe.
As when the Dove, (Thy Emblem, matchless Dame!
For Beauty, Innocence, and Truth are Thine)
Spread all its Colours oe'r the boundless Deep,
(Empyreal Radiance quivering round the Gloom)
Chaos reform'd, and bade Distraction smile!
Deep in a Desert-vale, a Palace frowns
Sublimely mournful: to the Eye it seems
The Mansion of Despair, or ancient Night.
The Graces of the Season's never knew
To shed their Bounty here, or smiling, bless,
With hospitable Foot, its bleak Domain,
Uncultivated. Nor the various Robe
Of flushing Spring, with Purple gay, invests
Its blighted Plains; nor Summer's radiant Hand
Profusive, scatters o'er its baleful Fields
The rich Abundance of her glorious Days;
And golden Autumn here forgets to reign.
Sublimely mournful: to the Eye it seems
The Mansion of Despair, or ancient Night.
The Graces of the Season's never knew
To shed their Bounty here, or smiling, bless,
With hospitable Foot, its bleak Domain,
Uncultivated. Nor the various Robe
Of flushing Spring, with Purple gay, invests
Its blighted Plains; nor Summer's radiant Hand
220
The rich Abundance of her glorious Days;
And golden Autumn here forgets to reign.
Here only Hemlock, and whatever Weeds
Medea gather'd, or Canidia brew'd,
Wet with Avernus' Waves, or Pontus yields,
Ipse dedit Mœris; nascuntur plurima Ponto.
Virg. Eclog. 8. Herbasque quas & Colchos & Iberia mittit,
Venenorum ferax.
Hor. Epod. 5. Thessela quinetiam tellus herbasque nocentes,
Rupibus ingenuit.
Lucan. Lib. v.
Or Colchos, or Thessalia, taint the Winds,
And choak the ground unhallow'd. But the Soil
Refuses to embrace the kindly Seeds
Of healing Vegetation, Sage, and Rue,
Dittany, and Amello, blooming still
In Virgil's rural Page.
The Church-yard's Shade! and Cypress' wither'd Arms
In formidable Ranks surround its Courts
With Umbrage dun; administring a Roof
To Birds of ominous portent; the Bat,
The Raven boding Death, the screaming Owl
Of heavy Wing, while Serpents, rustling, hiss,
And croaking Toads the odious Concert aid.
Medea gather'd, or Canidia brew'd,
Wet with Avernus' Waves, or Pontus yields,
Pontus, Colchos, and Thessalia, well known for producing noxious and pois'nous Herbs and Plants.
Has herbas, atque hæc Ponto mihi lecta venena,Ipse dedit Mœris; nascuntur plurima Ponto.
Virg. Eclog. 8. Herbasque quas & Colchos & Iberia mittit,
Venenorum ferax.
Hor. Epod. 5. Thessela quinetiam tellus herbasque nocentes,
Rupibus ingenuit.
Lucan. Lib. v.
Or Colchos, or Thessalia, taint the Winds,
And choak the ground unhallow'd. But the Soil
Refuses to embrace the kindly Seeds
Of healing Vegetation, Sage, and Rue,
Dittany, and Amello, blooming still
In Virgil's rural Page.
Est etiam flos in pratis cui nomen Amello
Fecere agricolæ.
Virg. Georg. Lib. vi. Besides there grows a Flow'r in marshy Ground,
Its Name Amellus, easy to be found:
A mighty Spring works in it's Root, and cleaves
The sprouting Stalk, and shews itself in Leaves.
The Flow'r itself is of a golden Hue,
The Leaves inclining to a darker Blue, &c.
Addison's Works, Vol. I. 4to.
The bitter Yew,
Fecere agricolæ.
Virg. Georg. Lib. vi. Besides there grows a Flow'r in marshy Ground,
Its Name Amellus, easy to be found:
A mighty Spring works in it's Root, and cleaves
The sprouting Stalk, and shews itself in Leaves.
The Flow'r itself is of a golden Hue,
The Leaves inclining to a darker Blue, &c.
Addison's Works, Vol. I. 4to.
The Church-yard's Shade! and Cypress' wither'd Arms
In formidable Ranks surround its Courts
With Umbrage dun; administring a Roof
To Birds of ominous portent; the Bat,
The Raven boding Death, the screaming Owl
Of heavy Wing, while Serpents, rustling, hiss,
And croaking Toads the odious Concert aid.
221
The peevish East, the rheumy South, the North
Pregnant with Storms, are all the Winds that blow:
While, distant far, the pure Etesian-Gales,
And Western-breezes fan the spicy Beds
Of Araby the Blest, or shake their Balm
O'er fair Britannia's Plains, and wake her Flow'rs.
Eternal Damps, and deadly Humours, drawn
In pois'nous Exhalations from the Deep,
Conglomerated into solid Night,
And Darkness, almost to be felt, forbid
The Sun, with chearful Beams, to purge the Air,
But roll their suffocating Horrors round
Incessant, banishing the blooming Train
Of Health, and Joy, for ever, from the Dome.
Pregnant with Storms, are all the Winds that blow:
While, distant far, the pure Etesian-Gales,
And Western-breezes fan the spicy Beds
Of Araby the Blest, or shake their Balm
O'er fair Britannia's Plains, and wake her Flow'rs.
Eternal Damps, and deadly Humours, drawn
In pois'nous Exhalations from the Deep,
Conglomerated into solid Night,
And Darkness, almost to be felt, forbid
The Sun, with chearful Beams, to purge the Air,
But roll their suffocating Horrors round
Incessant, banishing the blooming Train
Of Health, and Joy, for ever, from the Dome.
In sad Magnificence the Palace rears
Its mouldering Columns; from thy Quarries, Nile,
Of sable Marble, and Egyptian Mines
Embowel'd. Nor Corinthian Pillars, gay
With foliag'd Capitals and figur'd Frize,
Nor feminine Ionique, nor, tho' grave,
The fluted Dorique, and the Tuscan plain,
In just Proportions Rise: but Gothic, rude,
Irreconcil'd in ruinous Design:
Save in the Center, in Relievo high,
And swelling emblematically bold,
In Gold the Apple rose , “whose mortal Taste
“Brought Death into the World, and all our Woe.”
Malignantly delighted, dire Disease
Surveys the glittering Pest, and grimly smiles
With hellish Glee. Beneath, totters her Throne,
Of jarring Elements; Earth, Water, Fire;
Where hot, and cold; and moist, and dry maintain
Unnatural War. Shapeless her frightful Form,
(A Chaos of distemper'd Limbs in one)
Huge as Megæra, cruel as the Grave,
Her Eyes, two Comets; and her Breath, a Storm.
High in her wither'd Arms, she weilds her Rod,
With Adders curl'd, and dropping Gore; and points
To the dead Walls, besmear'd with cursed Tales
Of Plagues red-spotted, of blue Pestilence,
Walking in Darkness; Havock at their Heels;
Lean Famine, gnawing in Despight her Arm:
Whatever Egypt, Athens, or Messine,
Constantinople, Troynovant, Marseils,
Or Cairo felt, or Spagnolet cou'd paint.
A sickly Taper, glimmering feeble Rays
Across the Gloom, makes Horror visible,
And punishes, while it informs, the Eye.
A thousand and ten thousand monstrous Shapes
Compose the Group; the execrable Crew
Which Michael, in Vision strange, disclos'd
To Adam, in the Lazar-house of woe;
A Colony from Hell. The knotted Gout,
The bloated Dropsy, and the racking Stone
Rolling her Eyes in Anguish; Lepra foul,
Strangling Angina; Ephialtick starts;
Unnerv'd Paralysis; with moist Catarrhs;
Pleuritis bending o'er its Side, in Pain;
Vertigo; murderous Apoplexy, proud
With the late Spoils of Clayton's honour'd Life:
Clayton, the good, the courteous, the humane;
Tenacious of his Purpose, and his Word
Firm as the fabled Throne of Grecian Jove.
Be just, O Memory! again recall
Those Looks illumin'd by his honest Heart,
That open Freedom, and that chearful ease,
The bounteous Emanations of his Soul:
His British Honour; Christian Charity;
And mild Benevolence for Human-kind.
Its mouldering Columns; from thy Quarries, Nile,
Of sable Marble, and Egyptian Mines
Embowel'd. Nor Corinthian Pillars, gay
With foliag'd Capitals and figur'd Frize,
Nor feminine Ionique, nor, tho' grave,
222
In just Proportions Rise: but Gothic, rude,
Irreconcil'd in ruinous Design:
Save in the Center, in Relievo high,
And swelling emblematically bold,
In Gold the Apple rose , “whose mortal Taste
“Brought Death into the World, and all our Woe.”
Malignantly delighted, dire Disease
Surveys the glittering Pest, and grimly smiles
With hellish Glee. Beneath, totters her Throne,
Of jarring Elements; Earth, Water, Fire;
Where hot, and cold; and moist, and dry maintain
Unnatural War. Shapeless her frightful Form,
(A Chaos of distemper'd Limbs in one)
Huge as Megæra, cruel as the Grave,
Her Eyes, two Comets; and her Breath, a Storm.
High in her wither'd Arms, she weilds her Rod,
With Adders curl'd, and dropping Gore; and points
To the dead Walls, besmear'd with cursed Tales
Of Plagues red-spotted, of blue Pestilence,
Walking in Darkness; Havock at their Heels;
223
Whatever Egypt, Athens, or Messine,
Constantinople, Troynovant, Marseils,
Or Cairo felt, or Spagnolet cou'd paint.
A sickly Taper, glimmering feeble Rays
Across the Gloom, makes Horror visible,
And punishes, while it informs, the Eye.
A thousand and ten thousand monstrous Shapes
Compose the Group; the execrable Crew
Which Michael, in Vision strange, disclos'd
To Adam, in the Lazar-house of woe;
A Colony from Hell. The knotted Gout,
The bloated Dropsy, and the racking Stone
Rolling her Eyes in Anguish; Lepra foul,
Strangling Angina; Ephialtick starts;
Unnerv'd Paralysis; with moist Catarrhs;
Pleuritis bending o'er its Side, in Pain;
Vertigo; murderous Apoplexy, proud
With the late Spoils of Clayton's honour'd Life:
Clayton, the good, the courteous, the humane;
Tenacious of his Purpose, and his Word
224
Be just, O Memory! again recall
Those Looks illumin'd by his honest Heart,
That open Freedom, and that chearful ease,
The bounteous Emanations of his Soul:
His British Honour; Christian Charity;
And mild Benevolence for Human-kind.
From every Quarter, Lamentations loud,
And Sighs resound, and rueful Peals of Groans
Roll echoing round the vaulted Dens, and Screams
Dolorous, wrested from the Heart of Pain,
And brain-sick Agony. Around her Throne
Six favourite Furies, next Herself accurst,
Their dismal Mansions keep; in Order each,
As most destructive. In the foremost Rank,
Of polish'd Steel, with Armour blood-distain'd,
Helmets and Spears, and Shields, and Coats of Mail,
With Iron stiff, or Tin, or Brass, or Gold,
Swells a triumphal Arch; beneath grim War
Shakes her red Arm: for War is a Disease,
The fellest of the fell! Why will Mankind,
Why will they, when so many Plagues involve
This habitable Globe, (the curse of Sin,)
Invent new Desolations to cut off
The Christian Race? At least in Christian Climes
Let Olives shade your Mountains, and let Peace
Stream her white Banner o'er us, blest from War,
And Laurels only deck your Poet's Brows.
Or, if the fiery Metal in your Blood,
And thirst of Human-Life your Bosom sting,
Too savage! let the Fury loose of War,
And bid the Battle rage against the Breasts
Of Asian Infidels: redeem the Tow'rs
Where David sung,
the Son of David bled;
And warm new Tasso's with the Epic-flame.
And Sighs resound, and rueful Peals of Groans
Roll echoing round the vaulted Dens, and Screams
Dolorous, wrested from the Heart of Pain,
And brain-sick Agony. Around her Throne
Six favourite Furies, next Herself accurst,
Their dismal Mansions keep; in Order each,
As most destructive. In the foremost Rank,
Of polish'd Steel, with Armour blood-distain'd,
Helmets and Spears, and Shields, and Coats of Mail,
With Iron stiff, or Tin, or Brass, or Gold,
Swells a triumphal Arch; beneath grim War
Shakes her red Arm: for War is a Disease,
225
Why will they, when so many Plagues involve
This habitable Globe, (the curse of Sin,)
Invent new Desolations to cut off
The Christian Race? At least in Christian Climes
Let Olives shade your Mountains, and let Peace
Stream her white Banner o'er us, blest from War,
And Laurels only deck your Poet's Brows.
Or, if the fiery Metal in your Blood,
And thirst of Human-Life your Bosom sting,
Too savage! let the Fury loose of War,
And bid the Battle rage against the Breasts
Of Asian Infidels: redeem the Tow'rs
Where David sung,
Tho' a Croisade may seem very romantick (and perhaps it is so) yet it has been applauded by the greatest Writers of different Ages; by Æneas Sylvius, by Bessarion, by Naugerius, &c. who have each writ Orations upon that Subject. And here I cannot help observing, that Casimire and Jac. Baldè, the two most celebrated of the modern Lyric Poets, have writ several of their finest Odes to animate the Christian Princes to such a Design; and that Tasso has adorn'd the Expedition of Godfrey of Bulloign with the most beautiful and perfect Poem since the Æneis (for I prefer Milton to Virgil himself.)
And warm new Tasso's with the Epic-flame.
Right opposite to War a gorgeous Throne
With Jewels flaming, and emboss'd with Gold,
And various Sculpture, strike the wond'ring Eye
With jovial Scenes (amid Destruction gay,)
Of Instruments of Mirth, the Harp, the Lute,
Of costly Viands, of delicious Wines,
And flow'ry Wreaths to bind the careless Brow
Of Youth, or Age; as Youth or Age demand
The pleasing Ruin from th' Enchantress, vile
Intemperance: than Circe subtler far,
Only subdu'd by Wisdom; fairer far,
Than young Armida, whose bewitching Charms
Rinaldo fetter'd in her rosy Chains;
Till, by Ubaldo held, his Diamond Shield
Blaz'd on his Mind the Virtues of his Race,
And, quick, dissolv'd her wanton Mists away.
See, from her Throne, slow-moving, she extends
A poison'd Gobblet! fly the beauteous Bane:
The Adder's Tooth, the Tiger's hungry Fang
Are harmless to her Smiles; her Smiles are Death.
Beneath the foamy Lustre of the Bowl,
Which sparkles Men to Madness, lurks a Snake
Of mortal Sting: fly: if you taste the Wine,
Machaon swears
that Moly cannot cure.
Where on th' all-bearing Earth unmark'd it grew.
And shew'd its Nature and its wondrous Pow'r;
Black was the Root, but milky white the Flow'r:
Moly the Name.
Mr. Pope.
Tho' innocent and fair her Looks, she holds
A lawless Commerce with her Sister Pests,
And doubly whets their Darts: away—and live.
With Jewels flaming, and emboss'd with Gold,
And various Sculpture, strike the wond'ring Eye
With jovial Scenes (amid Destruction gay,)
Of Instruments of Mirth, the Harp, the Lute,
226
And flow'ry Wreaths to bind the careless Brow
Of Youth, or Age; as Youth or Age demand
The pleasing Ruin from th' Enchantress, vile
Intemperance: than Circe subtler far,
Only subdu'd by Wisdom; fairer far,
Than young Armida, whose bewitching Charms
Rinaldo fetter'd in her rosy Chains;
Till, by Ubaldo held, his Diamond Shield
Blaz'd on his Mind the Virtues of his Race,
And, quick, dissolv'd her wanton Mists away.
See, from her Throne, slow-moving, she extends
A poison'd Gobblet! fly the beauteous Bane:
The Adder's Tooth, the Tiger's hungry Fang
Are harmless to her Smiles; her Smiles are Death.
Beneath the foamy Lustre of the Bowl,
Which sparkles Men to Madness, lurks a Snake
Of mortal Sting: fly: if you taste the Wine,
Machaon swears
Machaon celebrated in Homer; but here used, in general, for any Physician. So Ovid:
Firma valent per se, nullumque Machaona quærunt.And Martial:
Quid tibi cum medicis? dimitte Machaonas omnes.Mercury is said to have presented Moly to Ulysses to preserve him from the Charms of Circe. Homer's Odyss. Lib. x.
Thus while he spoke, the sovereign Plant he drew,Where on th' all-bearing Earth unmark'd it grew.
And shew'd its Nature and its wondrous Pow'r;
Black was the Root, but milky white the Flow'r:
Moly the Name.
Mr. Pope.
Laudatissima herbarum est Homero, quam vocari a diis putat Moly, & inventionem ejus Mercurio assignat, contraque summa veneficia demonstrat, &c. Plinius, Lib. xxv. C. 4.
Tho' innocent and fair her Looks, she holds
227
And doubly whets their Darts: away—and live.
Next, in a low-brow'd Cave, a little Hell,
A pensive Hag, moping in Darkness, sits
Dolefully-sad: her Eyes (so deadly-dull!)
Stare from their stonied Sockets, widely wild;
For ever bent on rusty Knives, and Ropes;
On Poigna'rds, Bowls of Poison, Daggers red
With clotted Gore. A Raven by her Side
Eternal Croaks; her only Mate Despair;
Who, scowling in a Night of Clouds, presents
A thousand burning Hells, and damned Souls,
And Lakes of stormy Fire, to mad the Brain
Moon-strucken. Melancholy is her Name;
Britannia's bitter Bane. Thou gracious Pow'r,
(Whose Judgments and whose Mercies who can tell!)
With Bars of Steel, with Hills of Adamant
Crush down the sooty Fiend; nor let her blast
The sacred Light of Heav'n's all-cheering Face,
Nor fright, from Albion's Isle, the Angel Hope.
A pensive Hag, moping in Darkness, sits
Dolefully-sad: her Eyes (so deadly-dull!)
Stare from their stonied Sockets, widely wild;
For ever bent on rusty Knives, and Ropes;
On Poigna'rds, Bowls of Poison, Daggers red
With clotted Gore. A Raven by her Side
Eternal Croaks; her only Mate Despair;
Who, scowling in a Night of Clouds, presents
A thousand burning Hells, and damned Souls,
And Lakes of stormy Fire, to mad the Brain
Moon-strucken. Melancholy is her Name;
Britannia's bitter Bane. Thou gracious Pow'r,
(Whose Judgments and whose Mercies who can tell!)
With Bars of Steel, with Hills of Adamant
Crush down the sooty Fiend; nor let her blast
The sacred Light of Heav'n's all-cheering Face,
Nor fright, from Albion's Isle, the Angel Hope.
228
Fever the fourth: adust as Afric-Wilds,
Chain'd to a Bed of burning Brass: her Eyes
Like roving Meteors blaze, nor ever close
Their wakeful Lids: she turns, but turns in vain,
Through Nights of Misery. Attendant Thirst
Grasps hard an empty Bowl, and shrivel'd strives
To drench her parched Throat. Not louder Groans
From Phalaris's Bull,
as Fame reports,
Tormented with distressful din the Air,
And drew the tender Tear from Pity's Eye.
Chain'd to a Bed of burning Brass: her Eyes
Like roving Meteors blaze, nor ever close
Their wakeful Lids: she turns, but turns in vain,
Through Nights of Misery. Attendant Thirst
Grasps hard an empty Bowl, and shrivel'd strives
To drench her parched Throat. Not louder Groans
From Phalaris's Bull,
Amongst several Instruments of Torment that Phalaris caused to be contrived, there was a Bull of Brass, in which People being cast, and a Fire plac'd under it, they bellowed like Oxen. Perillus the Artist, demanding a great Reward for his Invention, was put in it himself to try the first Experiment. Upon which Pliny makes this good-natur'd Reflection: Perillum nemo laudat, sæviorem Phalaride tyranno, qui taurum fecit, mugitus hominis pollicitus, igne subdito, & primus eum expertus cruciatum justiore sævitia, &c. Plinius, Lib. xxxiv. C. 8.
Tormented with distressful din the Air,
And drew the tender Tear from Pity's Eye.
Consumption near; a joyless, meagre Wight,
Panting for Breath, and shrinking into Shade
Eludes the Grasp: thin as th' embodied Air
Which, erst, deceiv'd Ixion's void embrace,
Ambitious of a Goddess! scarce her Legs
Feebly she drags, with wheezing Labour, on,
And Motion slow: a willow Wand directs
Her tottering Steps, and marks her for the Grave.
Panting for Breath, and shrinking into Shade
Eludes the Grasp: thin as th' embodied Air
Which, erst, deceiv'd Ixion's void embrace,
Ambitious of a Goddess! scarce her Legs
Feebly she drags, with wheezing Labour, on,
And Motion slow: a willow Wand directs
Her tottering Steps, and marks her for the Grave.
229
The last, so turpid to the View, affrights
Her Neighbour Hags. Happy Herself is blind,
Or Madness wou'd ensue; so bloated-black,
So loathsome to each Sense, the Sight or Smell,
Such foul Corruption on this Side the Grave;
Variola yclep'd; ragged, and rough,
Her Couch perplex'd with Thorns.—What heavy Scenes
Hang o'er My Heart to feel the Theme is Mine!
But Providence commands; His Will be done!
She rushes through my Blood; she burns along,
And riots on my Life.—Have Mercy, Heav'n!—
Variola, what art thou? whence proceeds
This Virulence, which all, but We, escape;
Thou nauseous Enemy to Human-kind:
In Man, and Man alone, thy mystick Seeds,
Quiet, and in their secret Windings hid,
Lie unprolifick; till Infection rouze
Her pois'nous Particles, of proper Size,
Figure, and Measure, to exert their Pow'r
Of Impregnation; Atoms subtle, barb'd,
Infrangible, and active to destroy;
By Geometrick or Mechanick Rules
Yet undiscover'd: quick the Leaven runs,
Destructive of the Solids, Spirits, Blood
Of mortal Man, and agitates the whole
In general Conflagration and Misrule.
As when the flinty Seeds of Fire embrace
Some fit Materials, Stubble, Furze, or Straw,
The crackling Blaze ascends; the rapid Flood
Of ruddy Flames, impetuous o'er its Prey,
Rolls its broad Course, and half the Field devours.
Her Neighbour Hags. Happy Herself is blind,
Or Madness wou'd ensue; so bloated-black,
So loathsome to each Sense, the Sight or Smell,
Such foul Corruption on this Side the Grave;
Variola yclep'd; ragged, and rough,
Her Couch perplex'd with Thorns.—What heavy Scenes
Hang o'er My Heart to feel the Theme is Mine!
But Providence commands; His Will be done!
She rushes through my Blood; she burns along,
And riots on my Life.—Have Mercy, Heav'n!—
Variola, what art thou? whence proceeds
This Virulence, which all, but We, escape;
Thou nauseous Enemy to Human-kind:
In Man, and Man alone, thy mystick Seeds,
Quiet, and in their secret Windings hid,
Lie unprolifick; till Infection rouze
Her pois'nous Particles, of proper Size,
Figure, and Measure, to exert their Pow'r
Of Impregnation; Atoms subtle, barb'd,
Infrangible, and active to destroy;
230
Yet undiscover'd: quick the Leaven runs,
Destructive of the Solids, Spirits, Blood
Of mortal Man, and agitates the whole
In general Conflagration and Misrule.
As when the flinty Seeds of Fire embrace
Some fit Materials, Stubble, Furze, or Straw,
The crackling Blaze ascends; the rapid Flood
Of ruddy Flames, impetuous o'er its Prey,
Rolls its broad Course, and half the Field devours.
As Adders deaf to Beauty, Wit, and Youth,
How many living Lyres, by Thee unstrung,
E'er half their Tunes are ended, cease to charm
Th' admiring World? So ceas'd the matchless Name,
By Cowley honour'd, by Roscommon lov'd,
Orinda: blooming Killigrew's soft Lay:
And manly Oldham's pointed Vigour, curs'd
By the gor'd Sons of Loyola and Rome.
And He who Phedra sung, in buskin'd Pomp,
Mad with incestuous Fires, ingenious Smith:
Oxonia's Sons! And, O, our recent Grief!
Shall Beauchamp die, forgotten by the Muse,
Or are the Muses with their Hertford dumb!
Where are Ye? weeping o'er thy learned Rhine,
Bononia, fatal to our Hopes! or else
By Kennet's chalky Wave, with Tresses torn,
Or rude, and wildly floating to the Winds,
Mute, on the hoary Willows hang the Lyre,
Neglected? or in rural Percy-lodge,
Where Innocence and He walk'd Hand in Hand,
The Cypress crop, or weave the Laurel-bough
To grace his honour'd Grave? Ye Lillies, rise
Immaculate; ye Roses, sweet as Morn;
Less sweet and less immaculate than He.
How many living Lyres, by Thee unstrung,
E'er half their Tunes are ended, cease to charm
Th' admiring World? So ceas'd the matchless Name,
By Cowley honour'd, by Roscommon lov'd,
Orinda: blooming Killigrew's soft Lay:
And manly Oldham's pointed Vigour, curs'd
By the gor'd Sons of Loyola and Rome.
And He who Phedra sung, in buskin'd Pomp,
Mad with incestuous Fires, ingenious Smith:
231
Shall Beauchamp die, forgotten by the Muse,
Or are the Muses with their Hertford dumb!
Where are Ye? weeping o'er thy learned Rhine,
Bononia, fatal to our Hopes! or else
By Kennet's chalky Wave, with Tresses torn,
Or rude, and wildly floating to the Winds,
Mute, on the hoary Willows hang the Lyre,
Neglected? or in rural Percy-lodge,
Where Innocence and He walk'd Hand in Hand,
The Cypress crop, or weave the Laurel-bough
To grace his honour'd Grave? Ye Lillies, rise
Immaculate; ye Roses, sweet as Morn;
Less sweet and less immaculate than He.
His op'ning Flow'r of Beauty softly smil'd,
And, sparkling in the liquid Dews of Youth,
Adorn'd the blessed Light! with Blossoms fair,
Untainted; in the rank Italian Soil
From Blemish pure. The Virgins stole a sigh,
The Matrons lifted up their wond'ring Eyes,
And blest the English-Angel as he pass'd,
Non Anglus, verum herc'le Angelus, Ipse, fores.
Rejoicing in his Rays! Why did we trust
A Plant so lovely to their envious Skies,
Unmercifully bright with savage Beams?
His were the Arts of Italy before,
Courting, and courted by the classic Muse.
He travel'd not to learn, but to reform,
And with his fair Example mend Mankind.
And, sparkling in the liquid Dews of Youth,
Adorn'd the blessed Light! with Blossoms fair,
Untainted; in the rank Italian Soil
232
The Matrons lifted up their wond'ring Eyes,
And blest the English-Angel as he pass'd,
At Bolognia he went by the Name of L'Angelo Inglese. The same Compliment seems to have been paid by that People to our great Milton in his Travels, as we learn by this Epigram of a learned Italian Nobleman in the 2d Volume of Milton's poetical Works:
Ut mens, forma, decor, facies, mos, si pietas sic,Non Anglus, verum herc'le Angelus, Ipse, fores.
Rejoicing in his Rays! Why did we trust
A Plant so lovely to their envious Skies,
Unmercifully bright with savage Beams?
His were the Arts of Italy before,
Courting, and courted by the classic Muse.
He travel'd not to learn, but to reform,
And with his fair Example mend Mankind.
Why need I name (for distant Nations know,
Hesperia knows; O would Hesperia sing!
As Maro, erst, and, late, Marino rais'd
The blooming Beauchamps of the former Times,
Marcellus, and Adonis to the Stars,
On Wings of soaring Fire! so wou'd She sing!)
His uncorrupted Heart; his Honour clear
As Summer-suns, effulging forth his Soul
In every Word and Look: his Reason's Ray
By Folly, Vanity, or Vice unstain'd,
Shining at once with Purity and Strength,
With English Honesty, and Attick Fire:
His Tenderness of Spirit, high-inform'd
With wide Benevolence, and candid Zeal
For Learning, Liberty, Religion, Truth:
The Patriot-glories burning in his Breast,
His King's and Country's undivided Friend!
Each publick Virtue, and each private Grace;
The Seymour Dignity, the Percy-flame;
All, all!—Ere twenty Autumns roll'd away
Their golden Plenty. Further still! behold
His animated Bloom; his flush of Health;
The Blood exulting with the balmy Tide
Of vernal Life! so fresh for Pleasure form'd
By Nature and the Graces: yet his Youth
So temperately warm, so chastly cool,
Ev'n Seraphims might look into his Mind,
Might look, nor turn away their holy Eyes!
Hesperia knows; O would Hesperia sing!
As Maro, erst, and, late, Marino rais'd
The blooming Beauchamps of the former Times,
Marcellus, and Adonis to the Stars,
On Wings of soaring Fire! so wou'd She sing!)
His uncorrupted Heart; his Honour clear
As Summer-suns, effulging forth his Soul
In every Word and Look: his Reason's Ray
By Folly, Vanity, or Vice unstain'd,
233
With English Honesty, and Attick Fire:
His Tenderness of Spirit, high-inform'd
With wide Benevolence, and candid Zeal
For Learning, Liberty, Religion, Truth:
The Patriot-glories burning in his Breast,
His King's and Country's undivided Friend!
Each publick Virtue, and each private Grace;
The Seymour Dignity, the Percy-flame;
All, all!—Ere twenty Autumns roll'd away
Their golden Plenty. Further still! behold
His animated Bloom; his flush of Health;
The Blood exulting with the balmy Tide
Of vernal Life! so fresh for Pleasure form'd
By Nature and the Graces: yet his Youth
So temperately warm, so chastly cool,
Ev'n Seraphims might look into his Mind,
Might look, nor turn away their holy Eyes!
Th' unutterable Essence of Good Heav'n,
That Breath of God, that Energy divine
Which gives us to be wise, and just, and pure,
Full on his Bosom pour'd the living Stream,
Illum'd, inspir'd and sanctify'd his Soul!
That Breath of God, that Energy divine
234
Full on his Bosom pour'd the living Stream,
Illum'd, inspir'd and sanctify'd his Soul!
And are these Wonders vanish'd? are those Eyes,
Where ardent Truth, and melting Mildness shone,
Clos'd in a foreign Land? no more to bless
A Father, Mother, Friend! no more to charm
A longing People? O, lamented Youth!
Since Fate and gloomy Night thy Beauties veil'd
With Shade mysterious, and eclips'd thy Beams,
How many Somersets are lost in Thee!
Where ardent Truth, and melting Mildness shone,
Clos'd in a foreign Land? no more to bless
A Father, Mother, Friend! no more to charm
A longing People? O, lamented Youth!
Since Fate and gloomy Night thy Beauties veil'd
With Shade mysterious, and eclips'd thy Beams,
How many Somersets are lost in Thee!
Yet only lost to Earth!—For trust the Muse,
(His Virtues rather trust) She saw him rise
She saw him smile along the tissu'd Clouds,
In Colours rich-embroider'd by the Sun,
Engirt with Cherub-wings, and Kindred-forms,
Children of Light, the spotless Youth of Heav'n!
They hail their blest Companion, gain'd so soon
A Partner of their Joys; and Crown with Stars,
Almost as fair, the Radiance of his Brows.
Ev'n where the Angel Host, with Tongues of Fire,
Chaunt to their glittering Harps th' Almighty's Praise,
And, in a burning Circle, shout around
The Jasper-throne, he mingles Flames with them;
He springs into the Center of the Choir,
And, drinking in the Spirit-most-divine,
He sings as sweet, and glows as bright as They.
(His Virtues rather trust) She saw him rise
She saw him smile along the tissu'd Clouds,
In Colours rich-embroider'd by the Sun,
Engirt with Cherub-wings, and Kindred-forms,
Children of Light, the spotless Youth of Heav'n!
They hail their blest Companion, gain'd so soon
A Partner of their Joys; and Crown with Stars,
235
Ev'n where the Angel Host, with Tongues of Fire,
Chaunt to their glittering Harps th' Almighty's Praise,
And, in a burning Circle, shout around
The Jasper-throne, he mingles Flames with them;
He springs into the Center of the Choir,
And, drinking in the Spirit-most-divine,
He sings as sweet, and glows as bright as They.
The End of the Second Book.
The Platonists suppose that Love, or the celestial Venus (of whom the Dove is likewise an Emblem) created the World out of Chaos.
Lord Beauchamp, only Son of the Earl of Hertford, died at Bolognia of the Small-pox, Sept. 11th, 1744, Aged 19.
243
THE PROGRESS OF SICKNESS.
Book III.
When I waited for Light there came Darkness.
My Skin is black upon me; and my Bones are burnt with Heat.
My Harp also is turned to Mourning.
Job.
My Skin is black upon me; and my Bones are burnt with Heat.
My Harp also is turned to Mourning.
Job.
244
Argument of the Third Book.
Reflections . The Progress of the Disease. Blindness. Delirious Dreams. Remedies for the Mind: 1. Patience: 2. Hope. 3. Prayer. Human Aid and Relief in Sickness: 1. Physick; Eulogium on that Science: 2. Friends; Digression on Friendship.
245
The Fair, the Bright, the Great, alas! are fall'n,
Nipt in the Bloom of Beauty, Wit, and Youth,
Death's undistinguish'd Prey. Shall I complain
(When such th' establish'd Ordinance of Heav'n)
If Sickness at my Bosom lay the Siege?
A Worm to Them! and to their Light a Shade,
Ungilded with one Beam, which melted down
The Tear fast-trickling o'er their honour'd Tombs:
We all must dye! Our every pulse that beats,
Beats toward Eternity, and tolls our Doom.
Nipt in the Bloom of Beauty, Wit, and Youth,
Death's undistinguish'd Prey. Shall I complain
(When such th' establish'd Ordinance of Heav'n)
If Sickness at my Bosom lay the Siege?
A Worm to Them! and to their Light a Shade,
Ungilded with one Beam, which melted down
The Tear fast-trickling o'er their honour'd Tombs:
We all must dye! Our every pulse that beats,
Beats toward Eternity, and tolls our Doom.
Fate reigns in all the Portions of the Year.
The Fruits of Autumn feed us for Disease;
The Winter's raw Inclemencies bestow
Disease on Death; while Spring, to strew our Herse,
Kindly unbosoms, weeping in their Dews,
Her flow'ry Race! and Summer (kinder still)
With the green Turf and Brambles binds our Graves.
The Fruits of Autumn feed us for Disease;
246
Disease on Death; while Spring, to strew our Herse,
Kindly unbosoms, weeping in their Dews,
Her flow'ry Race! and Summer (kinder still)
With the green Turf and Brambles binds our Graves.
But am I wake? or in Ovidian Realms,
And Circè holds the Glass? What odious Change,
What Metamorphose strikes the dubious Eye?
Ah, whither is retir'd the scarlet Wave,
Mantling with Health, which floated through the Cheek,
From the strong Summer-beam imbib'd? And where
The vernal Lilly's foftly-blended Bloom?
The Forehead roughens to the wond'ring Hand.
Wide o'er the Human-field, the Body, spreads
Contagious War, and lays its Beauties waste.
As once thy breathing Harvest, Cadmus, sprung,
Sudden, a Serpent-brood! an armed Crop
Of growing Chiefs, and fought Themselves to Death.
One black-incrusted Bark of gory Boils,
One undistinguish'd Blister, from the Soal
Of the sore Foot, to the Head's sorer Crown.
Job's Punishment! With Patience like his own,
O may I exercise my wounded Soul,
And cast myself upon his healing Hand,
Who bruiseth at his Will, and maketh whole.
And Circè holds the Glass? What odious Change,
What Metamorphose strikes the dubious Eye?
Ah, whither is retir'd the scarlet Wave,
Mantling with Health, which floated through the Cheek,
From the strong Summer-beam imbib'd? And where
The vernal Lilly's foftly-blended Bloom?
The Forehead roughens to the wond'ring Hand.
Wide o'er the Human-field, the Body, spreads
Contagious War, and lays its Beauties waste.
As once thy breathing Harvest, Cadmus, sprung,
Cadmus is reported by the Poets to have slain a monstrous Serpent in Bœotia, at the Command of Minerva; and sowed its Teeth in a Field, which produced an Host of armed Soldiers; who, fighting, slew one other. See Ovid. Met. l. iii. Suidas, Pausanias, &c. 'Tis said, that he sowed Serpents Teeth, and that Soldiers in Armour sprung up from them; because, as Bochart observes, in the Phœnician Language, to express Men armed with brazen Darts and Spears of Brass, they made use of Words, which might be translated “armed with the Teeth of a Serpent.”
Sudden, a Serpent-brood! an armed Crop
Of growing Chiefs, and fought Themselves to Death.
One black-incrusted Bark of gory Boils,
One undistinguish'd Blister, from the Soal
247
Job's Punishment! With Patience like his own,
O may I exercise my wounded Soul,
And cast myself upon his healing Hand,
Who bruiseth at his Will, and maketh whole.
Ah, too, the Lustre of the Eyes is fled!
Heavy and dull, their Orbs neglect to roll,
In motionless Distortion stiff and fix'd;
Till by the trembling Hand of watchful Age
(A weeping Matron, timorous to affright,
And piously fallacious in her Care,
Pretending Light offensive, and the Sun)
Clos'd; and, perhaps, for ever! ne'er again
To open on the Sphere, to drink the Day,
Or (worse!) behold Ianthe's Face divine,
And wonder o'er her Charms.—But yet forbear,
O dare not murmur; 'tis Heav'n's high Behest:
Tho' Darkness through the Chambers of the Grave
This Dust pursue, and Death's sad Shade involve,
E'er long, the Filial-light himself shall shine;
(The Stars are Dust to him, the Sun a Shade)
These very Eyes, these Tunicles of Flesh,
Ev'n tho' by Worms destroy'd, shall see my God,
And, seeing, ne'er remember Darkness more,
Environ'd with Eternity of Day.
Heavy and dull, their Orbs neglect to roll,
In motionless Distortion stiff and fix'd;
Till by the trembling Hand of watchful Age
(A weeping Matron, timorous to affright,
And piously fallacious in her Care,
Pretending Light offensive, and the Sun)
Clos'd; and, perhaps, for ever! ne'er again
To open on the Sphere, to drink the Day,
Or (worse!) behold Ianthe's Face divine,
And wonder o'er her Charms.—But yet forbear,
O dare not murmur; 'tis Heav'n's high Behest:
Tho' Darkness through the Chambers of the Grave
This Dust pursue, and Death's sad Shade involve,
E'er long, the Filial-light himself shall shine;
248
These very Eyes, these Tunicles of Flesh,
Ev'n tho' by Worms destroy'd, shall see my God,
And, seeing, ne'er remember Darkness more,
Environ'd with Eternity of Day.
Tho', at their visual Entrance, quite shut out
External Forms, forbidden, mount the Winds,
Retire to Chaos, or with Night commix;
Yet, Fancy's mimick Work,
ten thousand Shapes,
Antick and wild, rush sweeping o'er my Dreams,
Irregular and new; as Pain or Ease
The Spirits teach to flow, and in the Brain
Direction diverse hold: Gentle and bright
As Hermits, sleeping in their mossy Cells,
Lull'd by the Fall of Waters! by the Rills
From Heliconian Cliffs devolv'd;
or where,
Thy antient River, Kishon, sacred Stream!
Soft-murmurs on their Slumbers: Peace within,
And Conscience, ev'n to Ecstasy sublim'd
And beatific Vision. Sudden, black,
And horrible as Murderers; or Haggs,
Their Lease of Years spun out, and bloody Bond
Full-flashing on their Eyes; the Gulf, beneath,
Mad'ning with gloomy Fires; and Heav'n, behind,
With all her golden Valves for ever clos'd.
External Forms, forbidden, mount the Winds,
Retire to Chaos, or with Night commix;
Yet, Fancy's mimick Work,
The following Lines upon delirious Dreams may appear very extravagant to a Reader, who never experienc'd the Disorders which Sickness causes in the Brain; but the Author thinks that he has rather softened than exaggerated the real Description, as he found them operate on his own Imagination at that Time.
Antick and wild, rush sweeping o'er my Dreams,
Irregular and new; as Pain or Ease
The Spirits teach to flow, and in the Brain
Direction diverse hold: Gentle and bright
As Hermits, sleeping in their mossy Cells,
Lull'd by the Fall of Waters! by the Rills
From Heliconian Cliffs devolv'd;
Sir G. Wheeler, in his Voyages, has given a very beautiful Description of an Hermitage on the Borders of Mount Helicon, belonging to the Convent of Saint Luke the Hermit, not the Evangelist, called Stiriotes, from his Dwelling in those Deserts. See Wheeler's Journey into Greece, Fol. B. iv. pag. 325.
Thy antient River, Kishon, sacred Stream!
Soft-murmurs on their Slumbers: Peace within,
And Conscience, ev'n to Ecstasy sublim'd
And beatific Vision. Sudden, black,
249
Their Lease of Years spun out, and bloody Bond
Full-flashing on their Eyes; the Gulf, beneath,
Mad'ning with gloomy Fires; and Heav'n, behind,
With all her golden Valves for ever clos'd.
Now in Elysium lap'd, and lovely Scenes,
Where Honeysuckles rove, and Eglantines,
Narcissus, Jess'min, Pinks, profusely wild,
In every scented Gale Arabia breathe:
As blissful Eden fair; the Morning-work
Of Heav'n, and Milton's Theme! where Innocence
Smil'd, and improv'd the Prospect.—Now, anon,
By Isis' favourite Flood supinely laid,
In tuneful Indolence, behold the Bards
(Harps in each Hand, and Laurel on each Brow)
A Band of Demy-gods, august to sight,
In venerable Order sweetly rise,
(The Muses sparkling round Them) who have trod
In measur'd Pace its Banks, forever green,
Enamel'd from their Feet! Harmonious Notes,
Warbled to Dorique Reeds,
to Lesbian Lyres,
Or Phrygian Minstrelsie, steal on the Ear
Enamour'd with Variety: and loud
The Trumpets shrilling Clangours fill the Sky
With silver Melody—Now, happier still!
Round thy Italic Cloisters, musing slow,
Or in sweet Converse with thy letter'd Sons,
Philosophers, and Poets, and Divines,
Enjoy the sacred Walk, delighted, Queen's!
Where Addison and Tickell lay inspir'd,
Inebriated from the classic Springs,
And tun'd to various-sounding Harps the Song,
Sublime, or tender, humorous, or grave,
Quaffing the Muses' Nectar to their fill.
Where Smith in hoary Reverence presides,
(Crown'd with the Snow of Virtue for the Skies)
With graceful Gravity, and gentle Sway;
With perfect Peace incircled and Esteem.
Whose mild and bright Benevolence of Soul,
By Reason cool, and by Religion warm,
And generous Passion for the College-Weal,
More than a Muse inspire.—Momental Bliss!
For sudden rapt, the midnight Howl of Wolves,
The Dragon's Yell, the Lion's Roar, astound
My trembling Ear. Ha! down a burning Mount
I plunge deep, deep: sure Vulcan's Shop is here—
Hark, how the Anvils thunder round the Dens
Flammivomous! What? are those Chains to bind
This Skeleton! the Cyclops must be mad:
Those Bolts of Steel, those adamantine Links
Demand Typhæus' Strength to burst.—Away—
Venus and Mars—beware.—In giddy Whirls
I ride the Blast, and tow'ring through the Storm
Enjoy the Palace of the Morn. The Sun
Resigns the Reins of Phlegon to my Hands:
His mane Waves fire: he scorches me to Dust:
Avaunt, thou Fiend!—I'll hurl thee down the Deep
Of Heav'n, with bolted Thunder, and enwrapt
With forky Light'ning.—Now staggering I reel,
By Murderers pursu'd: my faithless Feet
Scarce shift their Pace: or down rushing amain,
I cease to recollect my Steps, and roll
Passive on earth.—Sure, 'twas Astolpho's Horn
Pour'd on my Ear th' annoying Blast: At which,
Rogero trembled, Bradamant grew pale,
And into Air dissolv'd th' Enchanted Dome.
Where Honeysuckles rove, and Eglantines,
Narcissus, Jess'min, Pinks, profusely wild,
In every scented Gale Arabia breathe:
As blissful Eden fair; the Morning-work
Of Heav'n, and Milton's Theme! where Innocence
Smil'd, and improv'd the Prospect.—Now, anon,
By Isis' favourite Flood supinely laid,
In tuneful Indolence, behold the Bards
(Harps in each Hand, and Laurel on each Brow)
A Band of Demy-gods, august to sight,
In venerable Order sweetly rise,
(The Muses sparkling round Them) who have trod
In measur'd Pace its Banks, forever green,
Enamel'd from their Feet! Harmonious Notes,
250
Or Phrygian Minstrelsie, steal on the Ear
Enamour'd with Variety: and loud
The Trumpets shrilling Clangours fill the Sky
With silver Melody—Now, happier still!
Round thy Italic Cloisters, musing slow,
Or in sweet Converse with thy letter'd Sons,
Philosophers, and Poets, and Divines,
Enjoy the sacred Walk, delighted, Queen's!
Where Addison and Tickell lay inspir'd,
Inebriated from the classic Springs,
And tun'd to various-sounding Harps the Song,
Sublime, or tender, humorous, or grave,
Quaffing the Muses' Nectar to their fill.
Where Smith in hoary Reverence presides,
(Crown'd with the Snow of Virtue for the Skies)
With graceful Gravity, and gentle Sway;
With perfect Peace incircled and Esteem.
Whose mild and bright Benevolence of Soul,
By Reason cool, and by Religion warm,
251
More than a Muse inspire.—Momental Bliss!
For sudden rapt, the midnight Howl of Wolves,
The Dragon's Yell, the Lion's Roar, astound
My trembling Ear. Ha! down a burning Mount
I plunge deep, deep: sure Vulcan's Shop is here—
Hark, how the Anvils thunder round the Dens
Flammivomous! What? are those Chains to bind
This Skeleton! the Cyclops must be mad:
Those Bolts of Steel, those adamantine Links
Demand Typhæus' Strength to burst.—Away—
Venus and Mars—beware.—In giddy Whirls
I ride the Blast, and tow'ring through the Storm
Enjoy the Palace of the Morn. The Sun
Resigns the Reins of Phlegon to my Hands:
His mane Waves fire: he scorches me to Dust:
Avaunt, thou Fiend!—I'll hurl thee down the Deep
Of Heav'n, with bolted Thunder, and enwrapt
With forky Light'ning.—Now staggering I reel,
By Murderers pursu'd: my faithless Feet
Scarce shift their Pace: or down rushing amain,
252
Passive on earth.—Sure, 'twas Astolpho's Horn
A Horn, in which if he do once but blow,
The Noise thereof shall trouble Men so sore,
That all both stout and faint shall fly therefro,
So strange a Noise was never heard before.
Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, translated by Sir John Harrington, B. xv. Stanz. 10.
The Noise thereof shall trouble Men so sore,
That all both stout and faint shall fly therefro,
So strange a Noise was never heard before.
With this Horn Astolpho affrighted the Amazons. See Book xx. St. 60, &c. and even Rogero, Bradamant, &c. in dissolving the enchanted Palace, B. xxii. St. 18, &c. Drives away the Harpies from Senapo, B. xxxiii. St. 114, &c.
Pour'd on my Ear th' annoying Blast: At which,
Rogero trembled, Bradamant grew pale,
And into Air dissolv'd th' Enchanted Dome.
Now starting from this Wilderness of Dreams,
I wake from fancy'd into real Woe.
Pain emptys all her Vials on my Head,
And steeps me o'er and o'er. Th' envenom'd Shirt
Of Hercules enwraps my burning Limbs
With Dragon's Blood: I rave and roar like him,
Writhing in Agony. Devouring Fires
Eat up the Marrow, frying in my Bones.
O whither, whither shall I turn for Aid?—
Methinks a Seraph whispers in my Ears,
Pouring Ambrosia on them, “Turn to God;
So Peace shall be thy Pillow, ease thy Bed,
And Night of Sorrow brighten into Noon.
Let the young cherub Patience, bright-ey'd Hope,
And rosy-finger'd Pray'r, combining hold
A sure Dominion in thy purpos'd Mind,
Unconquer'd by Affliction.”—I receive
The Mandate as from Heav'n itself.—Expand
Thyself, my Soul, and let them enter in.
I wake from fancy'd into real Woe.
Pain emptys all her Vials on my Head,
And steeps me o'er and o'er. Th' envenom'd Shirt
Of Hercules enwraps my burning Limbs
With Dragon's Blood: I rave and roar like him,
Writhing in Agony. Devouring Fires
Eat up the Marrow, frying in my Bones.
O whither, whither shall I turn for Aid?—
Methinks a Seraph whispers in my Ears,
Pouring Ambrosia on them, “Turn to God;
So Peace shall be thy Pillow, ease thy Bed,
And Night of Sorrow brighten into Noon.
Let the young cherub Patience, bright-ey'd Hope,
And rosy-finger'd Pray'r, combining hold
253
Unconquer'd by Affliction.”—I receive
The Mandate as from Heav'n itself.—Expand
Thyself, my Soul, and let them enter in.
Come, smiling Angel, Patience, from thy Seat;
Whether the Widow's Cot, or Hermit's Cell,
By Fasting strong, and potent from Distress;
Or Midnight-student's taper-glimmering Roof,
Unwearied with revolving tedious Tomes,
O come, thou Panacæa of the Mind!
The Manna of the Soul! to every Taste
Grateful alike: the universal Balm
To Sickness, Pain, and Misery below.
She comes! she comes! she dissipates the Gloom;
My eyes she opens, and new Scenes unfolds
(Like Moses' Bush, tho' burning, not consum'd)
Scenes full of Splendour, Miracle, and God.
Behold, my Soul, the Martyr-army, Who
With holy Blood the Violence of Fire
Quench'd, and with lingring Constancy fatigu'd
The persecuting Flame: or nobly stop'd
The Lion's Mouth, and triumph'd in his Jaws.
Hark, how the Virgin white-rob'd-tender Train
Chaunt Hallelujahs to the Rack; as dear
And pleasing to the Ear of God, as Hymns
Of Angels on the Resurrection-morn,
When all the Host of Heaven Hosanna sing!
Yet further; lift thy Eyes upon the Cross,
A bleeding Saviour view, a dying God!
Earth trembles, rend the Rocks, Creation groans:
The Sun, asham'd, extinguishes the Day:
All Nature suffers with her suffering Lord.
Amidst this War of Elements, serene,
And as the Sun-shine Brow of Patience, calm,
He dies without a Groan, and smiles in Death.
Shall Martyrs, Virgins, nay, thy Saviour bleed
To teach thee Patience? and yet bleed in vain?
Forbid it, Reason; and forbid it, Heav'n.
No; suffer: and, in Suffering, rejoice.
Patience endureth all, and hopeth all.
Whether the Widow's Cot, or Hermit's Cell,
By Fasting strong, and potent from Distress;
Or Midnight-student's taper-glimmering Roof,
Unwearied with revolving tedious Tomes,
O come, thou Panacæa of the Mind!
The Manna of the Soul! to every Taste
Grateful alike: the universal Balm
To Sickness, Pain, and Misery below.
She comes! she comes! she dissipates the Gloom;
My eyes she opens, and new Scenes unfolds
(Like Moses' Bush, tho' burning, not consum'd)
Scenes full of Splendour, Miracle, and God.
Behold, my Soul, the Martyr-army, Who
With holy Blood the Violence of Fire
Quench'd, and with lingring Constancy fatigu'd
254
The Lion's Mouth, and triumph'd in his Jaws.
Hark, how the Virgin white-rob'd-tender Train
Chaunt Hallelujahs to the Rack; as dear
And pleasing to the Ear of God, as Hymns
Of Angels on the Resurrection-morn,
When all the Host of Heaven Hosanna sing!
Yet further; lift thy Eyes upon the Cross,
A bleeding Saviour view, a dying God!
Earth trembles, rend the Rocks, Creation groans:
The Sun, asham'd, extinguishes the Day:
All Nature suffers with her suffering Lord.
Amidst this War of Elements, serene,
And as the Sun-shine Brow of Patience, calm,
He dies without a Groan, and smiles in Death.
Shall Martyrs, Virgins, nay, thy Saviour bleed
To teach thee Patience? and yet bleed in vain?
Forbid it, Reason; and forbid it, Heav'n.
No; suffer: and, in Suffering, rejoice.
Patience endureth all, and hopeth all.
255
Hope is her Daughter then. Let Hope distill
Her Cordial-spirit, as Hybla-honey sweet,
And healing as the Drops of Gilead-balm.
Cease to repine, as those who have no Hope;
Nor let Despair approach thy darkest Hour.
Despair! that Triple-Death! th' imperial Plague!
Th' exterminating Angel of th' accurst,
And sole Disease of which the damn'd are sick,
Kindling a Fever hotter than their Hell—
O pluck me from Despair, white-handed Hope!
O interpose thy Spear and silver Shield
Betwixt my Bosom and the Fiend! detrude
This impious Monster to primæval Hell;
To its own dark Domain: But light my Soul,
Imp'd with thy glittering Wings, to Scenes of Joy,
To Health and Life, for Health and Life are thine:
And fire Imagination with the Skies.
Her Cordial-spirit, as Hybla-honey sweet,
And healing as the Drops of Gilead-balm.
Cease to repine, as those who have no Hope;
Nor let Despair approach thy darkest Hour.
Despair! that Triple-Death! th' imperial Plague!
Th' exterminating Angel of th' accurst,
And sole Disease of which the damn'd are sick,
Kindling a Fever hotter than their Hell—
O pluck me from Despair, white-handed Hope!
O interpose thy Spear and silver Shield
Betwixt my Bosom and the Fiend! detrude
This impious Monster to primæval Hell;
To its own dark Domain: But light my Soul,
Imp'd with thy glittering Wings, to Scenes of Joy,
To Health and Life, for Health and Life are thine:
And fire Imagination with the Skies.
But whence this Confidence of Hope? In Thee,
And in thy Blood, my Jesus! (Bow, O Earth!
Heav'n bends beneath the Name, and all its Sons,
The Hierarchy! drop low the prostrate Knee,
And sink, in humble wise, upon the Stars.)
Yes, on Thy Blood and Name my Hope depends.—
My Hope? nay, Worlds on Worlds depend on Thee;
Live in Thy Death, from Thy Sepulchre rise.
Thy influential Vigour reinspires
This feeble Frame; dispells the Shade of Death;
And bids me throw myself on God in Prayer.
And in thy Blood, my Jesus! (Bow, O Earth!
Heav'n bends beneath the Name, and all its Sons,
256
And sink, in humble wise, upon the Stars.)
Yes, on Thy Blood and Name my Hope depends.—
My Hope? nay, Worlds on Worlds depend on Thee;
Live in Thy Death, from Thy Sepulchre rise.
Thy influential Vigour reinspires
This feeble Frame; dispells the Shade of Death;
And bids me throw myself on God in Prayer.
A Christian Soul is God's beloved House;
And Pray'r the Incense which perfumes the Soul:
Let Armies then of Supplications rise,
Besiege the golden Gates of Heav'n, and force,
With holy Violence, a Blessing down
In living Streams. If Hezekiah's Pray'r
The Sun arrested in his prone Career,
And bade the Shadow ten Degrees return
On Ahaz-dial, whirling back the Day:
Pour out thyself, my Soul! with fervent Zeal,
With over-flowing Ardour, and with Faith
Unwav'ring. To assist me, and to swell
My fainting Spirits to sublime Desires,
Wou'd Taylor from his starry Throne descend,
How Fear wou'd brighten! by his sacred Aid,
To live were Happiness, and gain to die.—
No: let him still adorn his starry Throne,
Well-merited by Labours so divine:
For, lo! the Man of God, and Friend of Man,
Theron, the purest Breast, and warmest Heart,
Flys on the Wings of Charity and Love
To join me in the Saving-Task, and raise
My weaker Pow'rs with his abundant Zeal;
Pure, sweet, and glowing as the incens'd Fires,
Of, Solomon, thy Golden-Altar, fann'd
By Wings of Cherubins into a Flame;
Till on the Skies the aromatick Gale
In Pyramids of Fragrance softly stole,
A grateful Offering to the Throne of Grace.
And Pray'r the Incense which perfumes the Soul:
Let Armies then of Supplications rise,
Besiege the golden Gates of Heav'n, and force,
With holy Violence, a Blessing down
In living Streams. If Hezekiah's Pray'r
The Sun arrested in his prone Career,
And bade the Shadow ten Degrees return
On Ahaz-dial, whirling back the Day:
Pour out thyself, my Soul! with fervent Zeal,
With over-flowing Ardour, and with Faith
Unwav'ring. To assist me, and to swell
257
Wou'd Taylor from his starry Throne descend,
How Fear wou'd brighten! by his sacred Aid,
To live were Happiness, and gain to die.—
No: let him still adorn his starry Throne,
Well-merited by Labours so divine:
For, lo! the Man of God, and Friend of Man,
Theron, the purest Breast, and warmest Heart,
Flys on the Wings of Charity and Love
To join me in the Saving-Task, and raise
My weaker Pow'rs with his abundant Zeal;
Pure, sweet, and glowing as the incens'd Fires,
Of, Solomon, thy Golden-Altar, fann'd
By Wings of Cherubins into a Flame;
Till on the Skies the aromatick Gale
In Pyramids of Fragrance softly stole,
A grateful Offering to the Throne of Grace.
Still, tho' I feel these Succours from the Skies,
In Operation mighty! still remain
Inferior Aids behind: terrestrial Stores
Medicinal: the Instruments of God.
For God created the Physician! God
Himself on Earth, our great Physician! spread
O'er Sick and Weak, shadowing, his healing Wings:
Each Miracle a Cure!—Before Disease,
Offspring of Sin, infested Human-kind,
In Paradise, the vegetable Seeds
Sprung from their Maker's Hand, invigorate-strong
With Med'cin. He foresaw our future Ills;
Foreseeing, he provided ample Cure;
Fossils, and Simples: Solomon, thy Theme,
Nature's Historian; wisest of the Wise!
Tho' Paradise be lost, the Tree of Life
In med'cin Blooms; then pluck its healing Fruits,
And with Thansgiving eat; and, Eating, live.
In Operation mighty! still remain
258
Medicinal: the Instruments of God.
For God created the Physician! God
Himself on Earth, our great Physician! spread
O'er Sick and Weak, shadowing, his healing Wings:
Each Miracle a Cure!—Before Disease,
Offspring of Sin, infested Human-kind,
In Paradise, the vegetable Seeds
Sprung from their Maker's Hand, invigorate-strong
With Med'cin. He foresaw our future Ills;
Foreseeing, he provided ample Cure;
Fossils, and Simples: Solomon, thy Theme,
Nature's Historian; wisest of the Wise!
Tho' Paradise be lost, the Tree of Life
In med'cin Blooms; then pluck its healing Fruits,
And with Thansgiving eat; and, Eating, live.
Ev'n pagan Wisdom bade her Sons adore,
As one, the God of Physick and the Day,
Fountain of Vegetation and of Life,
Apollo, ever blooming, ever young,
And from his Art immortal! Thus, of yore,
The prime of human Race from Heav'n deduc'd
The bright original of Physick's Pow'r:
And, nor unjustly, deem'd that he who sav'd
Millions from Death, himself shou'd never die.
As one, the God of Physick and the Day,
Fountain of Vegetation and of Life,
Apollo, ever blooming, ever young,
259
The prime of human Race from Heav'n deduc'd
The bright original of Physick's Pow'r:
And, nor unjustly, deem'd that he who sav'd
Millions from Death, himself shou'd never die.
An Instrument of various Pipes and Tubes,
Veins, Arteries, and Sinews, organiz'd,
Man, when in Healthy-tune, harmonious wakes
The Breath of Melody, in Vocal-praise,
Delighting Earth and Heav'n! discordant, oft,
As Accident, or Time, or Fate prevail,
This Human-organ scarce the Bellows heaves
Of Vital-respiration; or in Pain,
With Pauses sad: What Art divine shall tune
To order and refit this shatter'd Frame?
What Fingers touch into a Voice again?
Or Musick re-inspire? Who, but the Race
Of Pæan? who but Physick's saving Sons?
A Ratcliff, Frewin, Metcalf or a Friend?—
But something yet, beyond the kindly Skill
Of Pæan's Sons, Disease, like mine, demands;
Nepenthe to the Soul, as well as Life.
Veins, Arteries, and Sinews, organiz'd,
Man, when in Healthy-tune, harmonious wakes
The Breath of Melody, in Vocal-praise,
Delighting Earth and Heav'n! discordant, oft,
As Accident, or Time, or Fate prevail,
This Human-organ scarce the Bellows heaves
Of Vital-respiration; or in Pain,
With Pauses sad: What Art divine shall tune
To order and refit this shatter'd Frame?
What Fingers touch into a Voice again?
Or Musick re-inspire? Who, but the Race
Of Pæan? who but Physick's saving Sons?
A Ratcliff, Frewin, Metcalf or a Friend?—
But something yet, beyond the kindly Skill
260
Nepenthe to the Soul, as well as Life.
O for a Mother's watchful Tenderness,
And Father's venerable Care!—But They,
In Life immortal, gather endless Joys,
Reward of Charity, of Innocence,
Of pleasing Manners, and a Life unblam'd!
The Tears of Poverty and Friendship oft
Their modest Tombs bedew, where Eden's Flood,
(Ituna 'clep'd by Bards of old Renown,
Purpled with Saxon and with British Blood)
Laves the sweet Vale, that first my pratling Muse
Provok'd to Numbers, broken as the Ruins
Of Roman Towers which deck its lofty Banks,
And shine more beauteous by Decay.—But hark!
What Musick glads my Ear? 'Tis Theron's Voice,
Theron a Father, Mother; both, a Friend!—
Pain flies before his animating Touch:
The gentle Pressure of his cordial Hand,
A burning Mountain from my Bosom heaves!
What Wonders, sacred Friendship, flow from thee!
One Period from a Friend enlivens more,
Than all Hippocrates and Galen's Tomes,
Than all the Med'cines they unfold. I feel
Myself renew'd! not only Health, but Youth,
Rolls the brisk Tide, and sparkles at my Heart.
As the Live-atoms of Campanian Wines
Dance in the Virgin crystal, and o'erlook
With glorifying Foam, the nectar'd Brim;
Smiling, and lending Smiles to social Wit,
The jocund Hearth, and hospitable Board.
And Father's venerable Care!—But They,
In Life immortal, gather endless Joys,
Reward of Charity, of Innocence,
Of pleasing Manners, and a Life unblam'd!
The Tears of Poverty and Friendship oft
Their modest Tombs bedew, where Eden's Flood,
(Ituna 'clep'd by Bards of old Renown,
Purpled with Saxon and with British Blood)
Laves the sweet Vale, that first my pratling Muse
Provok'd to Numbers, broken as the Ruins
Of Roman Towers which deck its lofty Banks,
And shine more beauteous by Decay.—But hark!
What Musick glads my Ear? 'Tis Theron's Voice,
Theron a Father, Mother; both, a Friend!—
Pain flies before his animating Touch:
The gentle Pressure of his cordial Hand,
261
What Wonders, sacred Friendship, flow from thee!
One Period from a Friend enlivens more,
Than all Hippocrates and Galen's Tomes,
Than all the Med'cines they unfold. I feel
Myself renew'd! not only Health, but Youth,
Rolls the brisk Tide, and sparkles at my Heart.
As the Live-atoms of Campanian Wines
Dance in the Virgin crystal, and o'erlook
With glorifying Foam, the nectar'd Brim;
Smiling, and lending Smiles to social Wit,
The jocund Hearth, and hospitable Board.
Friendship is a Religion, from the first
The second-best: it points, like that, to Heav'n,
And almost antidates, on Earth, its Bliss.
But Vice and Folly never Friendship knew;
Whilst Wisdom grows by Friendship still more Wise.
Her Fetters, are a strong Defence; her Chains,
A Robe of Glory; Ophir gold, her Bands;
And he who wears them, wears a Crown of Joy.
The second-best: it points, like that, to Heav'n,
And almost antidates, on Earth, its Bliss.
But Vice and Folly never Friendship knew;
Whilst Wisdom grows by Friendship still more Wise.
Her Fetters, are a strong Defence; her Chains,
A Robe of Glory; Ophir gold, her Bands;
And he who wears them, wears a Crown of Joy.
262
Friendship's the Steel, which struck emits the Sparks
Of Candour, Peace, Benevolence, and Zeal;
Spreading their glowing Seeds—A holy Fire
Where Honour beams on Honour, Truth on Truth;
Bright as the Eyes of Angels and as pure.
An Altar whence two gentle-loving Hearts
Mount to the Skies in one conspiring Blaze
And spotless Union. 'Tis the Nectar-stream
Which feeds and elevates seraphic Love—
Health is Disease, Life Death, without a Friend.
Of Candour, Peace, Benevolence, and Zeal;
Spreading their glowing Seeds—A holy Fire
Where Honour beams on Honour, Truth on Truth;
Bright as the Eyes of Angels and as pure.
An Altar whence two gentle-loving Hearts
Mount to the Skies in one conspiring Blaze
And spotless Union. 'Tis the Nectar-stream
Which feeds and elevates seraphic Love—
Health is Disease, Life Death, without a Friend.
The End of the Third Book.
265
THE RECOVERY.
Book IV.
Thou hast deliver'd my Soul from Death, and my Feet from Falling, that I may walk before God in the Light of the Living.
Psalms.
266
Argument of the Fourth Book.
Reflections . Sickness at the worst. Hopes of Recovery cast on Heav'n alone. Prospect of Futurity at this Juncture. Guardian-Angel's Hymn to Mercy. Description of Her. She sends Hygeia to the Well of Life; both describ'd. Her Descent. The Effects. Abatement of the Distemper. Apostrophe to Sleep. Recovery of Sight; and Pleasure flowing from thence. Health by Degrees restor'd. Comparison between Sickness and Health in Regard to the Body and Mind.
267
Swift
too, thy Tale is told: a Sound, a Name,
No more than Lucian, Butler, or Scarron.
Fantastic Humour drop'd the feeling Sense,
Her Empire less'ning by his Fall. The Shades
Of frolick Rabelais, and He of Spain,
Madrid's facetious Glory, join his Ghost;
Triumvirate of Laughter!—Mirth is mad;
The loudest Languishing into a Sigh:
And Laughter shakes itself into Decay.
No more than Lucian, Butler, or Scarron.
Fantastic Humour drop'd the feeling Sense,
Her Empire less'ning by his Fall. The Shades
Of frolick Rabelais, and He of Spain,
Madrid's facetious Glory, join his Ghost;
Triumvirate of Laughter!—Mirth is mad;
The loudest Languishing into a Sigh:
And Laughter shakes itself into Decay.
“Lord! what is Man?” the Prophet well might ask;
We all may ask, “Lord! what is mortal Man?”
So changeable his Being, with himself
Dissimilar; the Rainbow of an Hour!
A Change of Colours, transient through his Life,
Brightens or languishes;—then fades to Air.
Ev'n e're an artful Spider spins a Line
Of Metaphysick Texture, Man's thin Thread
Of Life is broken: how analogous
Their Parallel of Lines! slight, subtle, vain,
We all may ask, “Lord! what is mortal Man?”
So changeable his Being, with himself
268
A Change of Colours, transient through his Life,
Brightens or languishes;—then fades to Air.
Ev'n e're an artful Spider spins a Line
Of Metaphysick Texture, Man's thin Thread
Of Life is broken: how analogous
Their Parallel of Lines! slight, subtle, vain,
Man, in a little Hour's contracted Round
Perplexes Reason: now to triumph swell'd,
To joyous Exultations, to a Blaze
Of Ecstasy; and now depress'd, again,
And drooping into Scenes of Death and Woe.
Perplexes Reason: now to triumph swell'd,
To joyous Exultations, to a Blaze
Of Ecstasy; and now depress'd, again,
And drooping into Scenes of Death and Woe.
That sudden Flow of Spirits, bright and strong,
Which play'd in sprightly Sallies round my Heart;
Was it a Gleam, fore-warning me from Heav'n,
Of quick-approaching Fate? As Tapers mount
Expiring into wide-diffusive Flame,
Give one broad Glare, into the Socket sink,
And Sinking disappear.—It must be so!—
The Soul, prophetick of it's Voy'ge, descry'd
The blissful Shore, exulting on the Wing,
In a glad Flutter: then, o'erwhelm'd with Joy,
She warn'd her old Companion of her Flight,
(The feeble Tenement of mould'ring Clay)
Who sadden'd at their Parting.—Yes,—I feel
Thy leaden Hand, O Death! it presses hard,
It weighs the Faculties of Motion down,
Inactive as the Foot of a dull Rock,
And drags me to thy dusty Chains: the Wheels
Of Life are fastned to the Grave, nor whirl,
Longer, the fiery Chariot on. The War,
The Struggle for Eternity begins.
Eternity! illimitable, vast,
Incomprehensible! For Heav'n and Hell,
Within her universal Womb, profound,
Are center'd.—Sleep or Death are on my Heart:
Swims heavily my Brain:—My Senses reel.
Which play'd in sprightly Sallies round my Heart;
Was it a Gleam, fore-warning me from Heav'n,
Of quick-approaching Fate? As Tapers mount
Expiring into wide-diffusive Flame,
Give one broad Glare, into the Socket sink,
And Sinking disappear.—It must be so!—
269
The blissful Shore, exulting on the Wing,
In a glad Flutter: then, o'erwhelm'd with Joy,
She warn'd her old Companion of her Flight,
(The feeble Tenement of mould'ring Clay)
Who sadden'd at their Parting.—Yes,—I feel
Thy leaden Hand, O Death! it presses hard,
It weighs the Faculties of Motion down,
Inactive as the Foot of a dull Rock,
And drags me to thy dusty Chains: the Wheels
Of Life are fastned to the Grave, nor whirl,
Longer, the fiery Chariot on. The War,
The Struggle for Eternity begins.
Eternity! illimitable, vast,
Incomprehensible! For Heav'n and Hell,
Within her universal Womb, profound,
Are center'd.—Sleep or Death are on my Heart:
Swims heavily my Brain:—My Senses reel.
What Scenes disclose themselves! What Fields of Joy!
What Rivers of Delight! What golden Bow'rs!
Sweetly oppress'd with beatifick Views,
I hear Angelick-instruments, I see
Primæval Ardours, and essential Forms;
The Sons of Light,
but of created Light,
All Energy, the Diligence of God!
Might I but join them! Lend your glitt'ring Wings,
Waft me, O quickly waft me to you Crown,
Bright with the flaming Roses of the Zone
Sidereal: Gracious, they, beck'ning, smile,
They smile me to the Skies! Hope leads the Way:
Mounting I spring to seize!—What Fury shakes
Her fiery Sword, and intercepts the Stars?
Ha! Amartia? Conscience, Conscience sends
Her griesly Form, to blast me at my End.
Behold! she points to burning Rocks, to Waves
Sulphureous, molten Lead, and boiling Gulphs,
Tempestuous with everlasting Fire.—
'Tis horrible!—O save me from myself!—
O save me, Jesu!—Ha! a Burst of Light
Blends with the Empyréum's azure Tide,
While Faith, triumphant, swells the Trump of God,
And Shouting, “Where's thy Victory, O Grave?
And where, O Death, thy Sting?” I see her spread
Her saving Banner o'er my Soul (the Cross!)
And call it to its Peers. Thick Crowds of Day,
Immaculate, involve me in their Streams,
And bathe my Spirit, whiten'd for the Sky.
What Rivers of Delight! What golden Bow'rs!
270
I hear Angelick-instruments, I see
Primæval Ardours, and essential Forms;
The Sons of Light,
Light is the first-born of all Creatures, and it is commonly observed that the Angels were created at the same Period of Time. St. Austin thinks them meant under Fiat Lux, Let there be Light: De Civitate Dei, l. xi. c. 9. This indeed is only conjectural, and we have no Article of the Apostles Creed which directs upon any Considerations of Angels; because perhaps it exceeds the Faculties of Men to understand their Nature, and it may not conduce much to our practical Edification to know them. Yet however this Observation may serve to illustrate that beautiful Passage in the Book of Job: When the Morning-Stars sang together, and all the Sons of God shouted for Joy.
All Energy, the Diligence of God!
Might I but join them! Lend your glitt'ring Wings,
Waft me, O quickly waft me to you Crown,
Bright with the flaming Roses of the Zone
Sidereal: Gracious, they, beck'ning, smile,
They smile me to the Skies! Hope leads the Way:
Mounting I spring to seize!—What Fury shakes
Her fiery Sword, and intercepts the Stars?
Ha! Amartia? Conscience, Conscience sends
Her griesly Form, to blast me at my End.
Behold! she points to burning Rocks, to Waves
Sulphureous, molten Lead, and boiling Gulphs,
Tempestuous with everlasting Fire.—
'Tis horrible!—O save me from myself!—
O save me, Jesu!—Ha! a Burst of Light
Blends with the Empyréum's azure Tide,
While Faith, triumphant, swells the Trump of God,
271
And where, O Death, thy Sting?” I see her spread
Her saving Banner o'er my Soul (the Cross!)
And call it to its Peers. Thick Crowds of Day,
Immaculate, involve me in their Streams,
And bathe my Spirit, whiten'd for the Sky.
While on this Isthmus of my Fate I lye,
Jutting into Eternity's wide Sea,
And leaning on this habitable Globe,
The Verge of either World! dubious of Life,
Dubious, alike, of Death; to Mercy thus,
Inspirited with supplicating Zeal,
My Guardian-Angel rais'd his potent Pray'r.
(For Angels minister to Man, intent
On Offices of Gentleness and Love.)
Jutting into Eternity's wide Sea,
And leaning on this habitable Globe,
The Verge of either World! dubious of Life,
Dubious, alike, of Death; to Mercy thus,
Inspirited with supplicating Zeal,
My Guardian-Angel rais'd his potent Pray'r.
(For Angels minister to Man, intent
On Offices of Gentleness and Love.)
“Hear, Mercy! sweetest Daughter of the Skies,
Thou loveliest Image of thy Father's Face,
Thou blessed Fount, whence Grace and Goodness flow,
Auspicious, hear! extend thy helping Arm,
With pitying Readiness, with willing Aid,
O lift thy Servant from the Vale of Death,
Now groveling in the Dust, into the Fields
Of Comfort, and the Pastures green of Health.
Hear, Mercy, sweetest Daughter of the Skies!
If e're thy Servant to the Poor his Soul
Drew out, and taught the Fatherless to sing;
If e're by Pity warm'd, and not by Pride,
He cloath'd the Naked, and the Hungry fed;
If e're Distress, and Misery, forelorn,
Deceiv'd his Cheek, and stole his untaught Tear,
An humble Drop of thy celestial Dew!
Hear, Mercy, sweetest Daughter of the Skies.
Thou loveliest Image of thy Father's Face,
Thou blessed Fount, whence Grace and Goodness flow,
Auspicious, hear! extend thy helping Arm,
272
O lift thy Servant from the Vale of Death,
Now groveling in the Dust, into the Fields
Of Comfort, and the Pastures green of Health.
Hear, Mercy, sweetest Daughter of the Skies!
If e're thy Servant to the Poor his Soul
Drew out, and taught the Fatherless to sing;
If e're by Pity warm'd, and not by Pride,
He cloath'd the Naked, and the Hungry fed;
If e're Distress, and Misery, forelorn,
Deceiv'd his Cheek, and stole his untaught Tear,
An humble Drop of thy celestial Dew!
Hear, Mercy, sweetest Daughter of the Skies.
Sprung from the Bosom of eternal Bliss,
Thy Goodness reaches farther than the Grave;
And near the Gates of Hell extends thy Sway,
Omnipotent! All, save the cursed Crew
Infernal, and the black-rebellious Host
Of Lucifer, within thy sweet Domain
Feed on Ambrosia, and may hope the Stars.
Hear, Mercy, sweetest Daughter of the Skies.
By thee, the great Physician from the Bed
Of Darkness call'd the Sick, the Blind, the Lame;
He burst the Grave's relentless Bars by thee,
And spoke the Dead to Life and Bloom again.
His Miracles, thy Work; their Glory, thine:
Then, O thou dearest Attribute of God!
Thy saving Health to this thy Servant lend!
Hear, Mercy, sweetest Daughter of the Skies!”
Thy Goodness reaches farther than the Grave;
And near the Gates of Hell extends thy Sway,
Omnipotent! All, save the cursed Crew
Infernal, and the black-rebellious Host
Of Lucifer, within thy sweet Domain
Feed on Ambrosia, and may hope the Stars.
273
By thee, the great Physician from the Bed
Of Darkness call'd the Sick, the Blind, the Lame;
He burst the Grave's relentless Bars by thee,
And spoke the Dead to Life and Bloom again.
His Miracles, thy Work; their Glory, thine:
Then, O thou dearest Attribute of God!
Thy saving Health to this thy Servant lend!
Hear, Mercy, sweetest Daughter of the Skies!”
Inclin'd upon a dewy-skirted Cloud
Purpled with Light, and dropping Fatness down,
Plenty and Bliss on Man, with looks as mild
As Ev'ning Suns (when flowry-footed May
Leads on the jocund Hours, when Love himself
Flutters in Green) effusing heart-felt Joy
Abundant, Mercy shone with sober Grace,
And Majesty at once with Sweetness mix'd
Ineffable. A Rainbow o'er her Head,
The Covenant of God, betok'ning Peace
'Twixt Heav'n and Earth, its florid Arch display'd,
High-bended by th' Almighty's glorious Hand;
The Languish of the Dove upon her Eyes
In placid Radiance melted, from the Throne
Of Grace infus'd, and fed with Light: her Smiles
Expansive cheer'd the undetermin'd Tracks
Of all Creation, from th' æthereal Cope,
August with moving Fires, down to the Shades
Infernal; and the Reign of Darkness drear.
Ev'n Men refine to Angels from her gaze,
Gracious, invigorating, full of Heav'n!
Purpled with Light, and dropping Fatness down,
Plenty and Bliss on Man, with looks as mild
As Ev'ning Suns (when flowry-footed May
Leads on the jocund Hours, when Love himself
Flutters in Green) effusing heart-felt Joy
Abundant, Mercy shone with sober Grace,
And Majesty at once with Sweetness mix'd
Ineffable. A Rainbow o'er her Head,
The Covenant of God, betok'ning Peace
'Twixt Heav'n and Earth, its florid Arch display'd,
274
The Languish of the Dove upon her Eyes
In placid Radiance melted, from the Throne
Of Grace infus'd, and fed with Light: her Smiles
Expansive cheer'd the undetermin'd Tracks
Of all Creation, from th' æthereal Cope,
August with moving Fires, down to the Shades
Infernal; and the Reign of Darkness drear.
Ev'n Men refine to Angels from her gaze,
Gracious, invigorating, full of Heav'n!
This Daughter of the Lamb, to fervent Pray'rs
And Intercession, opes her ready Ear,
Compassionate; and to Hygeia thus:
“Hygeia, hie thee to the Well of Life;
There dip thy Fingers; touch his Head and Breast;
Three Drops into his Mouth infuse, unseen,
Save by the Eye of Faith: he yonder lies—
Descend, and take the Ev'ning's western Wing.”
And Intercession, opes her ready Ear,
Compassionate; and to Hygeia thus:
“Hygeia, hie thee to the Well of Life;
There dip thy Fingers; touch his Head and Breast;
Three Drops into his Mouth infuse, unseen,
Save by the Eye of Faith: he yonder lies—
Descend, and take the Ev'ning's western Wing.”
275
She said. Hygeia bow'd; and bowing, fill'd
The circumambient Air with od'rous Streams,
Pure Essence of Ambrosia! Not the Breath
Of Lebanon, from Cedar Allies blown,
Of Lebanon, with aromatick Gales
Luxuriant, Spikenard, Aloes, Myrrh and Balm;
Nor the wise Eastern Monarch's Garden vy'd
In Fragrance, when his fair Circassian Spouse,
Enamour'd, call'd upon the South to fan
It's Beds of Spices, and her Bosom cool,
Panting with Languishment and love-sick Fires.
The circumambient Air with od'rous Streams,
Pure Essence of Ambrosia! Not the Breath
Of Lebanon, from Cedar Allies blown,
Of Lebanon, with aromatick Gales
Luxuriant, Spikenard, Aloes, Myrrh and Balm;
Nor the wise Eastern Monarch's Garden vy'd
In Fragrance, when his fair Circassian Spouse,
Enamour'd, call'd upon the South to fan
It's Beds of Spices, and her Bosom cool,
Panting with Languishment and love-sick Fires.
Forth from th' eternal Throne the Well of Life,
Pouring its Crystal, laves the Streets of God,
(Where Sickness never comes, nor Age, nor Pain)
Fast-trickling o'er the Pebble-Gems. Beneath
Unfading Amarant and Asphodel,
A Mirrour spreads its many-colour'd Round,
Mosaick-work, inlaid by Hands divine
In glist'ring Rows, illuminating each,
Each shading: Beryl, Topaz, Chalcedon,
Em'rald and Amethyst. Whatever Hues
The Light reflects, celestial Quarries yield,
Or melt into the vernant-showry Bow,
Profusive, vary here in mingling Beams.
Collected thus the Waters, dimpling, end
Their soft-progressive Lapse. The Cherubs hence
Immortal Vigour quaff and Bliss unblam'd.
Nor only flow for you, ye Sons of Light,
The Streams of Comfort and of Life, but flow
To heal the Nations. Wonderful to tell,
The aged they renew, the dead revive,
And more, the Festers of the wounded Soul,
Corrupted, black, to pristine White relume
Cicero de Leg. Lib. ii. ------Ante aras stat veste Sacerdos
Effulgens nivea.
Silius Ital. Lib. iii. Delius hic longè candenti veste Sacerdos
Occurrit.
Valerius Flacc. Lib. ii.
Fast. Lib. ii.
And Saint-like Innocence. The mystic Dove
Broods, purifying o'er them, with his Wings.
The Angel, who Bethesda's troubled Pool
Stirr'd, first his Pinions with these vital Drops
Sprinkled; then pour'd himself into the Flood,
Instilling Health and Nutriment divine,
Its waves to quicken, and exalt its Pow'rs.
Pouring its Crystal, laves the Streets of God,
(Where Sickness never comes, nor Age, nor Pain)
Fast-trickling o'er the Pebble-Gems. Beneath
Unfading Amarant and Asphodel,
A Mirrour spreads its many-colour'd Round,
Mosaick-work, inlaid by Hands divine
In glist'ring Rows, illuminating each,
Each shading: Beryl, Topaz, Chalcedon,
276
The Light reflects, celestial Quarries yield,
Or melt into the vernant-showry Bow,
Profusive, vary here in mingling Beams.
Collected thus the Waters, dimpling, end
Their soft-progressive Lapse. The Cherubs hence
Immortal Vigour quaff and Bliss unblam'd.
Nor only flow for you, ye Sons of Light,
The Streams of Comfort and of Life, but flow
To heal the Nations. Wonderful to tell,
The aged they renew, the dead revive,
And more, the Festers of the wounded Soul,
Corrupted, black, to pristine White relume
White has been accounted in all Ages the peculiar Tincture of Innocence, and white Vestments worn by Persons delegated for sacred Offices, &c. When our Saviour was transfigured before his Disciples, his Raiment became shining, exceeding white as Snow, Mark, chap. ix. 3. When he ascended into Heaven, the Angels descended in white Apparel, Acts i. 10. And to the Spouse of the Lamb was granted that she should be array'd in fine Linen, clean and white, which is the Righteousness of the Saints, Rev. xix. ver. 8, 14. Hence the Custom of the primitive Church of Cloathing the Persons baptized in white Garments.
Inde Parens sacro ducens de fonte Sacerdos
Infantes, niveo corpore, mente, habitu.
Paulinus, Epist. xii.
Infantes, niveo corpore, mente, habitu.
The Heathens paid likewise a great Regard to White:
Color albus præcipuè Deo charus est.Cicero de Leg. Lib. ii. ------Ante aras stat veste Sacerdos
Effulgens nivea.
Silius Ital. Lib. iii. Delius hic longè candenti veste Sacerdos
Occurrit.
Valerius Flacc. Lib. ii.
And not only the Priests, but likewise those who attended at the Sacrifices and paid their Devotions to their Gods:
Cernite fulgentes ut eat sacer agnus ad aras,
Tinctaque pòst oleâ candida Turba comas.
Tibull. Lib. ii. Eleg. 1.
Tinctaque pòst oleâ candida Turba comas.
And Ovid:
Linguis candida Turba favet.Fast. Lib. ii.
I shall only add one Passage, from Plautus:
------Ergo æquius vos erat
Candidatas venire, hostiatasque ad hoc
Fanum.
Rudens. Act. i. Sc. 5.
Candidatas venire, hostiatasque ad hoc
Fanum.
And Saint-like Innocence. The mystic Dove
Broods, purifying o'er them, with his Wings.
The Angel, who Bethesda's troubled Pool
Stirr'd, first his Pinions with these vital Drops
Sprinkled; then pour'd himself into the Flood,
Instilling Health and Nutriment divine,
Its waves to quicken, and exalt its Pow'rs.
277
Here lights Hygeia, ardent to fulfil
Mercy's Behest. The Bloom of Paradise
Liv'd on her youthful Cheek, and glow'd the Spring.
The deep Carnations in the Eastern Skies,
When ruddy Morning walks along the Hills,
Illustriously red, in purple Dews,
Are languid to her Blushes; for She blush'd
As through the op'ning File of winged Flames,
Bounding, she lightned, and her sapphire Eyes
With modest Lustre bright, improving Heav'n,
Cast, sweetly, round, and bow'd to her Compeers,
An Angel amid Angels. Light she sprung
Along th' empyreal Road: Her Locks distill'd
Salubrious Spirit on the Stars. Full soon
She pass'd the Gate of Pearl, and down the Sky,
Præcipitant, upon the Ev'ning-Wing
Cleaves the live Æther, and with healthy Balm
Impregnates, and Fœcundity of Sweets.
Mercy's Behest. The Bloom of Paradise
Liv'd on her youthful Cheek, and glow'd the Spring.
The deep Carnations in the Eastern Skies,
When ruddy Morning walks along the Hills,
Illustriously red, in purple Dews,
Are languid to her Blushes; for She blush'd
As through the op'ning File of winged Flames,
Bounding, she lightned, and her sapphire Eyes
With modest Lustre bright, improving Heav'n,
Cast, sweetly, round, and bow'd to her Compeers,
An Angel amid Angels. Light she sprung
Along th' empyreal Road: Her Locks distill'd
Salubrious Spirit on the Stars. Full soon
She pass'd the Gate of Pearl, and down the Sky,
Præcipitant, upon the Ev'ning-Wing
Cleaves the live Æther, and with healthy Balm
Impregnates, and Fœcundity of Sweets.
Conscious of her Approach, the wanton Birds,
Instinctive, carol forth, in livelier Lays,
And merrier Melody, their grateful Hymn,
Brisk-flutt'ring to the Breeze. Eftsoons the Hills,
Beneath the Gambols of the Lamb and Kid,
Of petulant Delight, the circling Maze
(Brush'd off its Dews) betray. All Nature smiles,
With double Day delighted. Chief, on Man
The Goddess ray'd herself: He, wond'ring, feels
His Heart in driving Tumults, vig'rous, leap,
And gushing Ecstasy: bursts out his Tongue
In Laud, and unpremeditated Song,
Obedient to the Musick in his Veins.
Thus, when at first, the instantaneous Light
Sprung from the Voice of God, and, vivid, threw
Its golden Mantle round the rising Ball,
The cumb'rous Mass, shot through with vital Warmth
And plastick Energy, to motion roll'd
The drowzy Elements, and active Rule:
Sudden the Morning Stars, together, sang,
And shouted all the Sons of God for Joy.
Instinctive, carol forth, in livelier Lays,
278
Brisk-flutt'ring to the Breeze. Eftsoons the Hills,
Beneath the Gambols of the Lamb and Kid,
Of petulant Delight, the circling Maze
(Brush'd off its Dews) betray. All Nature smiles,
With double Day delighted. Chief, on Man
The Goddess ray'd herself: He, wond'ring, feels
His Heart in driving Tumults, vig'rous, leap,
And gushing Ecstasy: bursts out his Tongue
In Laud, and unpremeditated Song,
Obedient to the Musick in his Veins.
Thus, when at first, the instantaneous Light
Sprung from the Voice of God, and, vivid, threw
Its golden Mantle round the rising Ball,
The cumb'rous Mass, shot through with vital Warmth
And plastick Energy, to motion roll'd
The drowzy Elements, and active Rule:
Sudden the Morning Stars, together, sang,
And shouted all the Sons of God for Joy.
279
Enters Hygeia, and her Task performs,
With healing Fingers touch'd my Breast and Head;
Three Drops into my Mouth infus'd, unseen,
Save by the Eye of Faith: Then re-ascends.
With healing Fingers touch'd my Breast and Head;
Three Drops into my Mouth infus'd, unseen,
Save by the Eye of Faith: Then re-ascends.
As Snow in Salmon, at the tepid Touch
Of southern Gales, by soft Degrees, dissolves
Trickling, yet slow, away; and loosen'd Frosts
The genial Impress feel of vernal Suns,
Relenting to the Ray; my torpid limbs
The Healing Virtue of Hygeia's Hand
And salutary Influence perceive,
Instant to wander through the whole. My Heart
Begins to melt, o'er-running into Joy,
Late froze with Agony. Kind Tumults seize
My Spirits, conscious of returning Health,
And dire Disease abating from the Cells
And mazy Haunts of Life. The judging Leech
Approves the Symptoms, and my Hope allows.
Of southern Gales, by soft Degrees, dissolves
Trickling, yet slow, away; and loosen'd Frosts
The genial Impress feel of vernal Suns,
Relenting to the Ray; my torpid limbs
The Healing Virtue of Hygeia's Hand
And salutary Influence perceive,
Instant to wander through the whole. My Heart
Begins to melt, o'er-running into Joy,
Late froze with Agony. Kind Tumults seize
My Spirits, conscious of returning Health,
And dire Disease abating from the Cells
And mazy Haunts of Life. The judging Leech
Approves the Symptoms, and my Hope allows.
280
The hostile Humours cease to bubble o'er
Their big-distended Channels; quiet now
And sinking into Peace. The Organs heave
Kindlier with Life: And Nature's Fabrick near
To Dissolution shatter'd, and its Mould
To Dust dissolv'd, tho' not its pristine Strength
(The lusty Vigour of its healthy Prime)
Yet gentle Force recovers; to maintain,
Against the Tyrant-Death's batt'ring Assaults.
The Fort of Life.—But Darkness, present still,
And absent sweet Repose, best Med'cine, Sleep,
Forbid by Heart the full Carouse of Joy.
Their big-distended Channels; quiet now
And sinking into Peace. The Organs heave
Kindlier with Life: And Nature's Fabrick near
To Dissolution shatter'd, and its Mould
To Dust dissolv'd, tho' not its pristine Strength
(The lusty Vigour of its healthy Prime)
Yet gentle Force recovers; to maintain,
Against the Tyrant-Death's batt'ring Assaults.
The Fort of Life.—But Darkness, present still,
And absent sweet Repose, best Med'cine, Sleep,
Forbid by Heart the full Carouse of Joy.
“Soft Pow'r of Slumbers, dewy-feather'd Sleep,
Kind Nurse of Nature! whither art thou fled,
A Stranger to my Senses, weary'd out
With Pain, and aking for thy Presence? Come,
O come! embrace me in thy liquid Arms;
Exert thy drowzy Virtue, wrap my Limbs
In downy Indolence, and bathe in Balm,
Fast-flowing from th' Abundance of thy Horn,
With Nourishment replete, and richer stor'd
Than Amalthea's;
who (so Poets feign)
With Honey and with Milk supply'd a God,
And fed the Thunderer. Indulgent quit
Thy Couch of Poppies! steal thyself on me,
(In rory Mists suffus'd and Clouds of Gold)
On me, thou mildest Cordial of the World?
Kind Nurse of Nature! whither art thou fled,
A Stranger to my Senses, weary'd out
With Pain, and aking for thy Presence? Come,
O come! embrace me in thy liquid Arms;
Exert thy drowzy Virtue, wrap my Limbs
In downy Indolence, and bathe in Balm,
Fast-flowing from th' Abundance of thy Horn,
281
Than Amalthea's;
Amalthea the Daughter of Melissus King of Crete, and Nurse of Jupiter, who fed him with Goats-Milk and Honey. But this Story is differently related. See Strabo, l. x. Diodor. Sicul. l. iv. c. 5. and Ovid. Fast. l. v. It is very remarkable that the Translation of the Septuagint uses the Expression Amalthea's Horn, for the Name of Job's third Daughter Keren-happuc (so called from her Beauty) alluding to a Grecian Fable invented long after; Job ch. the last, ver. 14. The same Translation likewise mentions Arachne in the ninetieth Psalm, and 9th Verse, which Image is left out in all our late Versions. A Christian Poet therefore may surely be excused for using the Word Ambrosia, &c. or drawing Metaphors or Comparisons from the Pagan Mythology in a serious Composition; which is the Practice of Milton and some of the best Poets. The Fault only is, when the Poet weaves the Heathen Fables with the Jewish and Christian Truths. As when Sannazarius introduces the Furies, Cerberus, &c. into his Poem (which is otherwise a very fine one) De Partu Virginis. And likewise when Camoens blends the Adventures of Bacchus with the Miracles of Christ, &c. in his Lusiad. But this by the by.
With Honey and with Milk supply'd a God,
And fed the Thunderer. Indulgent quit
Thy Couch of Poppies! steal thyself on me,
(In rory Mists suffus'd and Clouds of Gold)
On me, thou mildest Cordial of the World?
The Shield his Pillow, in the tented Field,
By Thee, the Soldier, bred in Iron-war,
Forgets the mimick Thunders of the Day,
Nor envies Luxury her Bed of Down.
Rock'd by the Blast, and cabbin'd in the Storm,
The Sailor huggs Thee to the doddering Mast,
Of Shipwreck negligent, while Thou art kind.
The Captive's Freedom, Thou! the Labourer's Hire;
The Beggar's Store; the Miser's better Gold;
The Health of Sickness; and the Youth of Age!
At thy Approach the wrinkled Front of Care
Subsides into the smooth Expanse of Smiles.
And, stranger far! the Monarch, crown'd by Thee,
Beneath his Weight of Glory gains Repose.
By Thee, the Soldier, bred in Iron-war,
Forgets the mimick Thunders of the Day,
Nor envies Luxury her Bed of Down.
Rock'd by the Blast, and cabbin'd in the Storm,
The Sailor huggs Thee to the doddering Mast,
Of Shipwreck negligent, while Thou art kind.
The Captive's Freedom, Thou! the Labourer's Hire;
The Beggar's Store; the Miser's better Gold;
The Health of Sickness; and the Youth of Age!
At thy Approach the wrinkled Front of Care
Subsides into the smooth Expanse of Smiles.
282
Beneath his Weight of Glory gains Repose.
What Guilt is mine, that I alone am wake,
Ev'n tho' my Eyes are seal'd, am wake alone?
Ah seal'd, but not by Thee! The World is dumb;
Exhal'd by Air, an awful Silence rules,
Still as thy Brother's Reign, or Foot of Time;
Ev'n Nightingales are mute, and Lovers rest,
Steep'd in thy Influence, and cease to sigh,
Or only sigh in Slumbers. Fifteen Nights
The Moon has walk'd in Glory o'er the Sky;
As oft the Sun has shone her from the Sphere,
Since, gentle Sleep, I felt thy cordial Dews.
Then listen to my Moaning; nor delay
To sooth me with thy Softness; to o'ershade
Thy Suppliant with thy Pinions: or at least,
Lightly to touch my Temples with thy Wand.
Ev'n tho' my Eyes are seal'd, am wake alone?
Ah seal'd, but not by Thee! The World is dumb;
Exhal'd by Air, an awful Silence rules,
Still as thy Brother's Reign, or Foot of Time;
Ev'n Nightingales are mute, and Lovers rest,
Steep'd in thy Influence, and cease to sigh,
Or only sigh in Slumbers. Fifteen Nights
The Moon has walk'd in Glory o'er the Sky;
As oft the Sun has shone her from the Sphere,
Since, gentle Sleep, I felt thy cordial Dews.
Then listen to my Moaning; nor delay
To sooth me with thy Softness; to o'ershade
Thy Suppliant with thy Pinions: or at least,
Lightly to touch my Temples with thy Wand.
So, full and frequent, may the crimson Fields
With Poppies blush, nor feel a Tarquin's Hand.
So may the West-Wind's Sigh, th' murm'ring Brook,
The Melody of Birds, Ianthe's Lute,
And Musick of the Spheres, be all the Sounds
That dare intrude on thy devoted Hour.
Nor Boreas bluster, nor the Thunder roar,
Nor Screech-Owl flap his Wing, nor Spirit yell,
As 'neath the Trembling of the Moon he walks,
Within the Circle of thy still Domain.
He comes! he comes! the reconciling Pow'r
Of Pain, Vexation, Care, and Anguish comes!
He hovers in the lazy Air:—He melts,
With Honey-heaviness, my Senses down.—
With Poppies blush, nor feel a Tarquin's Hand.
283
The Melody of Birds, Ianthe's Lute,
And Musick of the Spheres, be all the Sounds
That dare intrude on thy devoted Hour.
Nor Boreas bluster, nor the Thunder roar,
Nor Screech-Owl flap his Wing, nor Spirit yell,
As 'neath the Trembling of the Moon he walks,
Within the Circle of thy still Domain.
He comes! he comes! the reconciling Pow'r
Of Pain, Vexation, Care, and Anguish comes!
He hovers in the lazy Air:—He melts,
With Honey-heaviness, my Senses down.—
—I thank thee, Sleep!—Heav'ns! is the Day restor'd
To my desiring Eyes? their Lids, unglew'd,
Admit the long-lost Light, now streaming in
Painfully clear!—O check the rapid Gleam
With shading Silk, 'till the weak visual Orb,
Stronger and stronger, dares imbibe the Sun,
Nor, wat'ring, twinkles at unfolded Day.
As, where, in Lapland, Night collects her Reign,
Oppressive, over half the rounded Year
Uninterrupted with one struggling Beam;
Young Orra-Moor, in furry Spoils inroll'd,
Shagged and warm, first spies th' imperfect Blush
Of op'ning Light, exulting; scarce her Eyes
The Lustre bear, tho' faint; but, wid'ning fast
Th' unbounded Tide of Splendor covers, fair,
Th' expanded Hemisphere; and fills her Sight
With Gladness, while her Heart, warm-leaping, burns.
To my desiring Eyes? their Lids, unglew'd,
Admit the long-lost Light, now streaming in
Painfully clear!—O check the rapid Gleam
With shading Silk, 'till the weak visual Orb,
Stronger and stronger, dares imbibe the Sun,
Nor, wat'ring, twinkles at unfolded Day.
As, where, in Lapland, Night collects her Reign,
284
Uninterrupted with one struggling Beam;
Young Orra-Moor, in furry Spoils inroll'd,
Shagged and warm, first spies th' imperfect Blush
Of op'ning Light, exulting; scarce her Eyes
The Lustre bear, tho' faint; but, wid'ning fast
Th' unbounded Tide of Splendor covers, fair,
Th' expanded Hemisphere; and fills her Sight
With Gladness, while her Heart, warm-leaping, burns.
Sight, all-expressive! Tho' the feeling Sense
Thrills from Ianthe's Hand; at Handel's Lyre
Tingles the Ear; tho' Smell from blossom'd Beans
Arabian Spirit gathers; and the Draught,
Sparkling from Burgundy's exalted Vines,
Streams Nectar on the Palate: Yet, O Sight!
Weak their Sensations, when compar'd with Thee.
Without Thee, Nature lies unmeaning Gloom.
Whatever smiles on Earth, or shines in Heav'n,
From Star of Venus to Adonis Flow'r;
Whatever Spring can promise; Summer warm
To rich Maturity; gay Autumn roll
Into the Lap of Plenty, or her Horn;
Winter's majestic Horrors;—all are Thine.
All varying in Order's pleasing Round,
In regular Confusion grateful All!
Thrills from Ianthe's Hand; at Handel's Lyre
Tingles the Ear; tho' Smell from blossom'd Beans
Arabian Spirit gathers; and the Draught,
Sparkling from Burgundy's exalted Vines,
Streams Nectar on the Palate: Yet, O Sight!
Weak their Sensations, when compar'd with Thee.
Without Thee, Nature lies unmeaning Gloom.
Whatever smiles on Earth, or shines in Heav'n,
From Star of Venus to Adonis Flow'r;
Whatever Spring can promise; Summer warm
285
Into the Lap of Plenty, or her Horn;
Winter's majestic Horrors;—all are Thine.
All varying in Order's pleasing Round,
In regular Confusion grateful All!
And now progressive Health, with kind Repair,
My fever-weaken'd Joints and languid Limbs
New-brace. Live Vigour and auxiliar'd Nerves
Sinew the freshen'd Frame in Bands of Steel.
As in the Trial of the furnace Ore,
From baser Dregs refin'd, and drossy Scum,
Flames more refulgent, and admits the Stamp
Of Majesty to dignify the Gold,
Cæsar or George! the human Body, thus,
Enamel'd, not deform'd, from Sickness' Rage
More manly Features borrows, and a Grace
Severe, yet worthier of its Sovereign Form.
The Patriarch of Uz, Son of the Morn,
Envy'd of Lucifer, by Sores and Blanes
Sharply improv'd, to fairer Honours rose;
Less his Beginning blest than latter End.
How late a tortur'd-Lump of baleful Pain,
The Soul immerg'd in one inactive Mass
Of breathing Blanes, each Elegance of Sense,
Each intellectual Spark and fiery Seed
Of Reason, Mem'ry, Judgment, Taste and Wit,
Extinct and smother'd in unwieldy Clay
Scarce animated: and (O Blessing!) now
I seem to tread the Winds; to overtake
The empty Eagle in her early Chase,
Or nimble-trembling Dove, from preyful Beak,
In many a rapid, many a cautious Round,
Wheeling precipitant: I leave behind,
Exulting o'er its aromatic Hills,
The bounding Bether-Roe. The Poet's Mind,
(Effluence essential of Heat and Light!)
Not mounts a loftier Wing, when Fancy leads
The glitt'ring Track, and points him to the Skies,
Excursive: He empyreal Air inhales,
Earth fading from his Flight! triumphant soars
Amid the Pomp of Planetary Worlds,
Ranging Infinitude, beyond the Stretch
Of Newton's Ken, Reformer of the Spheres,
And, gaining on the Heav'ns, enjoys His Home!
My fever-weaken'd Joints and languid Limbs
New-brace. Live Vigour and auxiliar'd Nerves
Sinew the freshen'd Frame in Bands of Steel.
As in the Trial of the furnace Ore,
From baser Dregs refin'd, and drossy Scum,
Flames more refulgent, and admits the Stamp
Of Majesty to dignify the Gold,
Cæsar or George! the human Body, thus,
Enamel'd, not deform'd, from Sickness' Rage
More manly Features borrows, and a Grace
Severe, yet worthier of its Sovereign Form.
The Patriarch of Uz, Son of the Morn,
Envy'd of Lucifer, by Sores and Blanes
Sharply improv'd, to fairer Honours rose;
286
How late a tortur'd-Lump of baleful Pain,
The Soul immerg'd in one inactive Mass
Of breathing Blanes, each Elegance of Sense,
Each intellectual Spark and fiery Seed
Of Reason, Mem'ry, Judgment, Taste and Wit,
Extinct and smother'd in unwieldy Clay
Scarce animated: and (O Blessing!) now
I seem to tread the Winds; to overtake
The empty Eagle in her early Chase,
Or nimble-trembling Dove, from preyful Beak,
In many a rapid, many a cautious Round,
Wheeling precipitant: I leave behind,
Exulting o'er its aromatic Hills,
The bounding Bether-Roe. The Poet's Mind,
(Effluence essential of Heat and Light!)
Not mounts a loftier Wing, when Fancy leads
The glitt'ring Track, and points him to the Skies,
Excursive: He empyreal Air inhales,
Earth fading from his Flight! triumphant soars
Amid the Pomp of Planetary Worlds,
287
Of Newton's Ken, Reformer of the Spheres,
And, gaining on the Heav'ns, enjoys His Home!
The Winter of Disease all pass'd away,
The Spring of Health, in bloomy Pride, calls forth
Embosom'd Bliss, of rosy-winged Praise
The rising Incense, the impassion'd Glance
Of Gratitude, the Pant of Honour, quick
With emulating Zeal; the florid Wish
For sacred Happiness, and cordial Glow
From conscious Virtue felt: all the sweet Train
Of Vernal Solitude's refining Walks,
Best Gift of Heav'n, and Source of nameless Joys!
The Spring of Health, in bloomy Pride, calls forth
Embosom'd Bliss, of rosy-winged Praise
The rising Incense, the impassion'd Glance
Of Gratitude, the Pant of Honour, quick
With emulating Zeal; the florid Wish
For sacred Happiness, and cordial Glow
From conscious Virtue felt: all the sweet Train
Of Vernal Solitude's refining Walks,
Best Gift of Heav'n, and Source of nameless Joys!
The End of the Fourth Book.
291
THE THANKSGIVING.
Book V.
The Grave cannot praise
Thee; Death cannot celebrate Thee.—The Living, the Living, He shall praise Thee, as I do this Day.
Isaiah.
292
Argument of the Fifth Book.
The Effects which the Restoration of Health ought to have in the Solitudes of Spring. Rural Prospect. Excursion to the Battle at Tournay. Reflections on the Abuses of modern Poetry. Hymn to the ever-blessed and glorious Trinity: 1st, to God the Father, as Creator and Preserver: 2dly, to God the Son, as Mediator and Redeemer: 3dly, to God the Holy Ghost, as Sanctyfier and Comforter. Conclusion.
293
Come, Contemplation! therefore, from thy Haunts,
From Spenser's Tomb, (with reverent Steps and slow
Oft-visited by me; certès, by all,
Touch'd by the Muse:) from Richmond's-green Retreats,
Where Nature's Bard the Seasons on his Page
Stole from the Year's rich Hand: or Welwyn Groves,
Where Young, the Friend of Virtue and of Man,
Sows with poetick Stars the Nightly Song,
To Phœbus dear as is own Day! and drowns
The Nightingale's Complaint in sadder Strains
And sweeter Elegance of Woe, O come!
Now Ev'ning mildly-still and softer Suns
(While every Breeze is flowing Balm) invite
To taste the fragrant Spirit of the Spring
Salubrious; from Mead or Hawthorn-hedge
Aromatiz'd, and pregnant with Delight
No less than Health. And what a Prospect round
Swells greenly-grateful on the cherish'd Eye!
A universal Blush! a Waste of Sweets!
How live the Flow'rs, and, as the Zephyrs blow,
Wave a soft Lustre on their Parent-sun,
And thank him with their Odours for his Beams;
Mild Image of himself! reflected fair,
By Faintness fair, and amiably mild!
From Spenser's Tomb, (with reverent Steps and slow
Oft-visited by me; certès, by all,
Touch'd by the Muse:) from Richmond's-green Retreats,
Where Nature's Bard the Seasons on his Page
Stole from the Year's rich Hand: or Welwyn Groves,
Where Young, the Friend of Virtue and of Man,
Sows with poetick Stars the Nightly Song,
To Phœbus dear as is own Day! and drowns
The Nightingale's Complaint in sadder Strains
And sweeter Elegance of Woe, O come!
294
(While every Breeze is flowing Balm) invite
To taste the fragrant Spirit of the Spring
Salubrious; from Mead or Hawthorn-hedge
Aromatiz'd, and pregnant with Delight
No less than Health. And what a Prospect round
Swells greenly-grateful on the cherish'd Eye!
A universal Blush! a Waste of Sweets!
How live the Flow'rs, and, as the Zephyrs blow,
Wave a soft Lustre on their Parent-sun,
And thank him with their Odours for his Beams;
Mild Image of himself! reflected fair,
By Faintness fair, and amiably mild!
Hark! how the airy Echoes talk along
With undulating Answer, soft or loud,
The mocking Semblance of the imag'd Voice,
Babling itinerant from Wood to Hill,
From Hill to Dale, and wake their Sisters round,
To multiply Delight upon the Ear.
With undulating Answer, soft or loud,
The mocking Semblance of the imag'd Voice,
Babling itinerant from Wood to Hill,
From Hill to Dale, and wake their Sisters round,
To multiply Delight upon the Ear.
295
As float the Clouds, romantic Fancy pours
The Magazines of Proteus forth, and builds
Huge Castles in the Air; while Vessels sail
Spacious, along the fluid Element;
And Dragons burn in Gold, with azure Stains
Speckled: Ten thousand inconsistent Shapes
Shift on the Eye, and through the Welkin roll.
The Magazines of Proteus forth, and builds
Huge Castles in the Air; while Vessels sail
Spacious, along the fluid Element;
And Dragons burn in Gold, with azure Stains
Speckled: Ten thousand inconsistent Shapes
Shift on the Eye, and through the Welkin roll.
Here tufted Hills!-there shining Villas rise,
Circling; and Temples, solemn, fill the Mind
With Beauty, Splendor, and religious Awe!
Peace o'er the Plains expands her snowy Wing,
Dove-ey'd; and buxom Plenty laughs around!
Circling; and Temples, solemn, fill the Mind
With Beauty, Splendor, and religious Awe!
Peace o'er the Plains expands her snowy Wing,
Dove-ey'd; and buxom Plenty laughs around!
Far different Objects mortify the Eye
Along thy Borders, Scheld: (with William's Tears
Ennobled, Tears from brave Humanity
And Royal Pity drawn! nor of his Blood
Less prodigal!) Instead of herbag'd Plains,
Of Fields with golden Plenty waving wide,
Of lowing Vallies, and of fleecy Hills:
What Magazines of Death! what flaming Swords
Destruction brandish; what a burnish'd Glare
Of Horror wanders round; what Carnage vile
Of dubitable Limbs; what groaning Piles
Of dying Warriors on th' ensanguin'd Earth
(Ev'n Sons of Britain, Chiefs of high Renown)
Grov'ling in Dust, and with unmartial Fires
Sheer blasted! O 'tis pitiful to Sight!
It smites the honest Brain and Heart! The Cloud,
Belch'd from the brazen Throat of War, wou'd hide,
Industrious, the Ruin which it spreads,
As if asham'd of Massacre—But hark!—
What dire Explosion tears th' embowel'd Sky,
And rumbles from th' infernal Caves? The Roar
Of Ætna's troubled Caverns, when she heaves
Trinacria from her marble Pillars, fix'd
On the Foundations of the solid Earth,
And Thetis' bellows from her distant Dens,
O'erwhelm the Ear!—A Mine with deadly Stores
Infuriate, burst; and a whole squadron'd Host
Whirl'd through the riven Air. A human Show'r
With smouldry Smoak enroll'd and wrapt in Fire,
To cover Earth with Desolation drear!—
Along thy Borders, Scheld: (with William's Tears
Ennobled, Tears from brave Humanity
And Royal Pity drawn! nor of his Blood
Less prodigal!) Instead of herbag'd Plains,
Of Fields with golden Plenty waving wide,
Of lowing Vallies, and of fleecy Hills:
296
Destruction brandish; what a burnish'd Glare
Of Horror wanders round; what Carnage vile
Of dubitable Limbs; what groaning Piles
Of dying Warriors on th' ensanguin'd Earth
(Ev'n Sons of Britain, Chiefs of high Renown)
Grov'ling in Dust, and with unmartial Fires
Sheer blasted! O 'tis pitiful to Sight!
It smites the honest Brain and Heart! The Cloud,
Belch'd from the brazen Throat of War, wou'd hide,
Industrious, the Ruin which it spreads,
As if asham'd of Massacre—But hark!—
What dire Explosion tears th' embowel'd Sky,
And rumbles from th' infernal Caves? The Roar
Of Ætna's troubled Caverns, when she heaves
Trinacria from her marble Pillars, fix'd
On the Foundations of the solid Earth,
And Thetis' bellows from her distant Dens,
O'erwhelm the Ear!—A Mine with deadly Stores
Infuriate, burst; and a whole squadron'd Host
Whirl'd through the riven Air. A human Show'r
297
To cover Earth with Desolation drear!—
Curst be the Man, the Monk, the Son of Hell,
The triple Moloch! whose mechanic Brain,
Maliciously inventive, from its Forge,
Of cruel Steel, the sulphur Seeds of Wrath
Flash'd on the World, and taught us how to kill;
To hurl the blazing Ruin, to disgorge
From smoaking Brass the ragged Instruments
Of Fate, in Thunder, on the mangled Files
Of gallant Foes:—the Cowardice of Hell!
And, what the barb'rous Nations never knew,
(Tho' nourish'd by the Tigers, and their Tongues
Red with the Gore of Lions) to involve
The holy Temples, the religious Fanes,
To Hallelujahs sacred and to Peace,
With dreadless Fires. Shudd'ring the Angels weep
At Man's Impiety, and seek the Skies:
They weep! while Man, couragious in his Guilt,
Smiles at the Infant Writhing on his Spear;
The hoary Head pollutes the flinty Streets
With scanty Blood; and Virgins pray in Vain.
Blush, blush! or own Deucalion for thy Sire.
The triple Moloch! whose mechanic Brain,
Maliciously inventive, from its Forge,
Of cruel Steel, the sulphur Seeds of Wrath
Flash'd on the World, and taught us how to kill;
To hurl the blazing Ruin, to disgorge
From smoaking Brass the ragged Instruments
Of Fate, in Thunder, on the mangled Files
Of gallant Foes:—the Cowardice of Hell!
And, what the barb'rous Nations never knew,
(Tho' nourish'd by the Tigers, and their Tongues
Red with the Gore of Lions) to involve
The holy Temples, the religious Fanes,
To Hallelujahs sacred and to Peace,
With dreadless Fires. Shudd'ring the Angels weep
At Man's Impiety, and seek the Skies:
They weep! while Man, couragious in his Guilt,
Smiles at the Infant Writhing on his Spear;
298
With scanty Blood; and Virgins pray in Vain.
Blush, blush! or own Deucalion for thy Sire.
Yet should Rebellion, bursting from the Caves
Of Erebus, uprear her Hydra-Form,
To poison, Liberty, thy Light divine;
If she, audacious, stalk in open Day,
And hiss against the Throne by Heav'n's own Hand
Establish'd, and Religion Heav'n-Reform'd,
Britannia! rescue Earth from such a Bane:
Exert thy ancient Spirit; urge thyself
Into the Bowels of the glowing War,
Sweep her from Day to multiply the Fiends,
And scare the Damn'd!—and Thou! the God of Hosts,
Supreme! the Lord of Lords, and King of Kings!
Thy People, thy Anointed with thy Shield
Cover and shade; unbare thy righteous Arm,
And save us in the Hollow of thy Hand!
Michaël send, as erst against the Host
Of Lucifer, and let his Sword be drunk
With Rebel-Blood. The Battle is thy own;
When Virtue, Liberty, Religion call:
Thine is the Victory: the Glory thine!
Of Erebus, uprear her Hydra-Form,
To poison, Liberty, thy Light divine;
If she, audacious, stalk in open Day,
And hiss against the Throne by Heav'n's own Hand
Establish'd, and Religion Heav'n-Reform'd,
Britannia! rescue Earth from such a Bane:
Exert thy ancient Spirit; urge thyself
Into the Bowels of the glowing War,
Sweep her from Day to multiply the Fiends,
And scare the Damn'd!—and Thou! the God of Hosts,
Supreme! the Lord of Lords, and King of Kings!
Thy People, thy Anointed with thy Shield
Cover and shade; unbare thy righteous Arm,
And save us in the Hollow of thy Hand!
Michaël send, as erst against the Host
Of Lucifer, and let his Sword be drunk
299
When Virtue, Liberty, Religion call:
Thine is the Victory: the Glory thine!
Turn, Contemplation, from this savage Scene
Of Violence and Waste: my swimming Eyes
Have lost the Beauties of the vernal View!
Of Violence and Waste: my swimming Eyes
Have lost the Beauties of the vernal View!
Sweet are the Beauties of the vernal View!
And yet Devotion wafts to nobler Themes,
And lifts the Soul to Heav'n! For who, untouch'd,
With mental Adoration, feeling Laud,
Beholds this living-vegetable Whole,
This universal Witness of a God!
Tho' silent, yet convincing, uncontroul'd,
Which meets the Sense, and triumphs in the Soul?
Let me, by Isaac's wise Example fir'd,
When Meditation led him through the Fields,
Sweetly in pious Musings lost, adore
My God! for Meditation is too poor,
Below the Sacrifice of Christian Hearts:
Plato cou'd meditate
; a Christian, more:
Christians, from Meditation, soar to Pray'r.
And yet Devotion wafts to nobler Themes,
And lifts the Soul to Heav'n! For who, untouch'd,
With mental Adoration, feeling Laud,
Beholds this living-vegetable Whole,
This universal Witness of a God!
Tho' silent, yet convincing, uncontroul'd,
Which meets the Sense, and triumphs in the Soul?
Let me, by Isaac's wise Example fir'd,
When Meditation led him through the Fields,
Sweetly in pious Musings lost, adore
My God! for Meditation is too poor,
Below the Sacrifice of Christian Hearts:
300
Far be it from me to speak with Disrespect of this Pagan Philosopher. For my Part, I could almost declare my Admiration of Plato's beautiful Descriptions, &c. in the Words of B. Johnson on Shakespear: “To justify (says he) my own candour, I honour his Memory (on this side Idolatry) as much as any.” See his Discoveries, Vol. II. Fol. of his Works. Pag. 98.
I only here wou'd observe how falsly, not to say impiously, some modern Writers seem to take pains to recommend Plato's Ideal Morality in Opposition to the glorious Doctrines so fully reveal'd in the Holy Scriptures.
Christians, from Meditation, soar to Pray'r.
Methinks I hear, reprov'd by modern Wit,
Or rather Pagan: “Tho' ideal Sounds
Soft-wafted on the Zephyr's fancy'd Wing,
Steal tuneful Soothings on the easy Ear,
New from Ilissus' gilded Mists exhal'd;
Tho' gently o'er the Academic Groves,
The magic Echoes of unbodied Thoughts
Roll their light Billows through th' unwounded Air,
In mildest Undulations! yet a Priest,
Tasteless and peevish, with his Jargon shrill,
Scorns Academus; tho' its Flow'rs bestow
On Hybla Nectar, purer than her own,
From Plato's honey-dropping Tongue distill'd
In copious Streams, devolving o'er the Sense
Its sweet Regalement!” Philodemus,
yes:
(Tho' learn'd Lycæum's Cloisters lead the Mind
Attentive on, as far as Nature leads:
And Plato, for a Heathen, nobler dreams
Than dream some modern Poets:) Yes, a Priest,
A Priest dares tell you, Salem's hallow'd Walks,
And that illumin'd Mountain, where a God,
The God of my Salvation, and I hope
Of thine, unutterable Beauty beam'd,
(Tho' shaded from Excess of Deity,
Too fierce for mortal-aking Eyes to prove
The Rush of Glory) me, desirous, draw
From Athen's Owls, to Jordan's mystic Dove.
Thou sing of Nature, and the moral Charms
Gild with thy painted Muse: My Fingers lift
The Lyre to God! Jehova! Eloim!
Truth is my Leader; only Fancy, thine:
(Sweet Farinelli of enervate Song!)
I quit the Myrtle, for a Starry Crown.
And know, if Sickness shed her bluish Plagues
From Fog, or Fen, or Town-infected Damps,
(And, sure I'd pity thee) among thy Veins:
Then, then no Platonist! thy inmost Soul
Will thank me for this Preaching; nor disdain
To breath itself in Pray'r, as low as mine;
From God begin, with God conclude the Song;
Thus Glorifying with a Christian-Zeal.
Or rather Pagan: “Tho' ideal Sounds
Soft-wafted on the Zephyr's fancy'd Wing,
Steal tuneful Soothings on the easy Ear,
New from Ilissus' gilded Mists exhal'd;
Tho' gently o'er the Academic Groves,
The magic Echoes of unbodied Thoughts
Roll their light Billows through th' unwounded Air,
In mildest Undulations! yet a Priest,
Tasteless and peevish, with his Jargon shrill,
Scorns Academus; tho' its Flow'rs bestow
On Hybla Nectar, purer than her own,
From Plato's honey-dropping Tongue distill'd
In copious Streams, devolving o'er the Sense
Its sweet Regalement!” Philodemus,
Alluding to Q. Sectanus's admirable Satires; who introduces much such another Character under this Name. The true Author, as we are inform'd by Mons. Blainville in his curious Travels, is Mons. Sergardi, one of the finest and politest Gentlemen of Rome; by Philodemus, he means one Gravina, an atheistical Pretender to Philosophy, the Greek Language, &c. He thus makes him boast of himself, as if he drew the Principles of his System from Socrates.
Nos etenìm (puto jàm nosti) docti sumus, & quos
Socraticâ cœpi tractandos mollitèr arte
Sordibus emergunt vulgi, totâque probantur
Urbe.
See Q. Sectani Satyr. 4to, vol. I. Sat. 1. lib. i. v. 108, &c.
Socraticâ cœpi tractandos mollitèr arte
Sordibus emergunt vulgi, totâque probantur
Urbe.
(Tho' learn'd Lycæum's Cloisters lead the Mind
Attentive on, as far as Nature leads:
And Plato, for a Heathen, nobler dreams
301
A Priest dares tell you, Salem's hallow'd Walks,
And that illumin'd Mountain, where a God,
The God of my Salvation, and I hope
Of thine, unutterable Beauty beam'd,
(Tho' shaded from Excess of Deity,
Too fierce for mortal-aking Eyes to prove
The Rush of Glory) me, desirous, draw
From Athen's Owls, to Jordan's mystic Dove.
Thou sing of Nature, and the moral Charms
Gild with thy painted Muse: My Fingers lift
The Lyre to God! Jehova! Eloim!
Truth is my Leader; only Fancy, thine:
(Sweet Farinelli of enervate Song!)
I quit the Myrtle, for a Starry Crown.
And know, if Sickness shed her bluish Plagues
From Fog, or Fen, or Town-infected Damps,
(And, sure I'd pity thee) among thy Veins:
Then, then no Platonist! thy inmost Soul
Will thank me for this Preaching; nor disdain
To breath itself in Pray'r, as low as mine;
302
Thus Glorifying with a Christian-Zeal.
Father of Heav'n and Earth! Coæval Son!
And co-existing Spirit! Trinal-One!
Mysterious Deity; Invisible;
Indefinite, and Omnipresent God,
Inhabiting Eternity! Shall Dust,
Shall Ashes, dare presume to sing of Thee?
O for a David's Heart, and Tongue of Fire
To rival Angels in my Praise and Zeal!
Yet Love immense, and Gratitude, with Awe
Religious mix'd, shall elevate the Hymn,
My Heart enkindle, and inspire my Tongue.
And co-existing Spirit! Trinal-One!
Mysterious Deity; Invisible;
Indefinite, and Omnipresent God,
Inhabiting Eternity! Shall Dust,
Shall Ashes, dare presume to sing of Thee?
O for a David's Heart, and Tongue of Fire
To rival Angels in my Praise and Zeal!
Yet Love immense, and Gratitude, with Awe
Religious mix'd, shall elevate the Hymn,
My Heart enkindle, and inspire my Tongue.
Father-Creator! who beholds Thy Works,
But catches Inspiration! Thou the Earth
On Nothing hung, and balanc'd in the void
With a magnetic Force, and central Poise.
Ocean of Brightness Thou! Thy grand Behest
Flung on thy Orb, the Sun, a sparkling Drop,
To light the Stars, and feed their silver Urns
With unexhausted Flame; to bid them shine
Eternal in their Courses, o'er the Blue
Which mantles Night, and woo us to repose
With roscid Radiance. They, harmonious roll,
In Majesty of Motion, solemn, loud,
The universal Hallelujah: Sphere,
In lucid Order, quiring sweet to Sphere,
Deep-felt and loftier than a Seraph's Song;
The Symphony of well-according Worlds!
But Man, thy Beam, thy Breath, thy Image, shines
The Crown, the Glory, and the Lord of All;
Of all below the Stars! a Plant, from Heav'n
Traduc'd, to spread the Riches of its Bloom
O'er Earth, and water'd with æthereal Dews;
Incorruptíble Aliment! The Birds
Warble among his Boughs; the Cattle, safe,
Pasture within his Shade; and Earth beneath
Th' imperial Umbrage of his Branches smiles.
The smiling Earth, the spangled Spheres, and Man
Their great Creator praise! but praise how long,
Unless by thy Almighty Arm upheld,
Preserver infinite? By Thee unless
Upheld, the Earth wou'd from her Basis reel;
The Spheres forego their Courses, (off their Orbs
The silver Softness melted into Shade)
Obscurely dissonant; and mortal Man
(Void of thy Fostering fires) his stately Form
To Dust be moulder'd: Chaos wou'd resume
Her ancient Anarchy; Confusion, rule;
And Darkness swallow All. In Thee we live,
In Thee we move: Our Beings in Thy Chain,
Linkt to Eternity, fasten on Thee,
The Pillar of our Souls! For me, (how late
A Neighbour of the Worm!) when I forget
The Wonders of thy Goodness ray'd on me,
And cease to celebrate, with Matin-Harp
Or Vesper-Song, thy Plenitude of Love,
And healing Mercy; may the nightly Pow'r,
Which whispers on my Slumbers, cease to breathe
Her modulating Impulse through my Soul;
Untun'd, unhallow'd! Discord, string my Lyre,
Idly, my Finger, press the fretted Gold,
Rebellious to the Dictates of my Hand,
When indolent, to swell the Notes for Thee,
Father of Heav'n and Earth!—Coæval Son!
(His Word, His Essence, His Effulgence pure!)
Not less thy Filial Likeness I adore,
Nor from thy Father's Glory aught disjoin,
Redeemer! Mediator! from the Birth
Of uncreated Time, thy Father's Wrath
(Sprung from Omniscience!) to appease, for Man,
Upright as yet, to mediate, Mercy wak'd
Unbounded Love in Thee; unbounded Love
Contracted to the Measure of a Span
Immensity of Godhead, and thy Crown
Reft from thy faded Brow. Listen, O Earth!
And wonder, O ye Heav'ns! shall He, whose Feet
Are cloath'd with Stars, (the Glory of his Head
For who can tell?) whose Looks divine illume
The dazzel'd Eyes of Cherubs, and the Youth
Of Saints with everlasting Bloom renew:
Shall He, whose vital Smiles with Splendor fill
The Circuits of Creation, and sustain
Th' Abodes of all Existence, from the Depths
Of Hell beneath, above Heav'n's highest Orb,
With Life, and Health, and Joy! shall He, to God
Dear as his Eye and Heart, engraven there
Deep from Eternity; alone Belov'd,
Alone Begotten! say, shall He become
A Man of Grief—for Man? nay more his Foe,
Rebellious next the Fiends?—Astonishment
Had chain'd my Tongue to silence, if the Pow'rs
Of tenderest Pity and of warmest Love
Provok'd not pensive Measures, sadder Strains
Of Elegiack-Sorrow, with the Theme
Mournfully varying. Take, my Soul redeem'd!
O take the moaning Dove's dew-dropping Wing,
Fly, fly to Solyma! and melt thy Woe
To Cedron's Murmurs. Thence, extend thy Flight
To Golgotha's accursed Tree. Behold!
Clouds roll'd on Clouds of Wrath (the blackest Wrath
Of an offended God!) His Beauties shade;
But shade not long: it soon in Drops dissolves,
Sweet to the Soul as Manna to the Taste,
As Pride of Summer-Flow'r to Sight or Smell!
Behind this shadowing Cloud, this mystic Gloom,
The Sharon Rose, dy'd in the Blood of Heav'n,
The Lilly of the Vally, white from Stain,
Bows the fair Head, in Loveliness declines,
And, sweetly languishing, it droops and dies.
But darkness veils the Sun: a Curtain draw
Before the Passion; beyond Wonder great,
Great beyond Silence!—(Awe-struck pause awhile—)
And heavy as the Burthen of our Sins!—
'Tis finish'd!—Change the Lyre, the Numbers change;
Let holy Anthem-Airs inspire the Hymn.
Glory in Heav'n! Redemption to Mankind,
And Peace on Earth! Dominion! Blessing! Praise!
Thanksgiving! Pow'r! Salvation to our God!
Salvation to our God, and to the Lamb!
And, co-existing Spirit! Thou, whose Breath
My Voice informs, shall it be mute to Thee,
Eternal Paraclete? in Order, last,
Equal in Glory to Omnipotence
The First, as to the Second; and from Both
Proceeding; (O inexplicable Name!)
Mystical Link of the unnumber'd Three!
To Learning, Night; to Faith, the noon-tide Day.
Soul of the Universe!
See Lactantius, B. vii. c. 3. and Diogenes Laertius in the Life of Zeno. thy Wisdom, first,
The Rage compos'd of warring Elements,
(The Subject of a nobler future Song)
Yon all-surrounding Heav'ns with crystal Orbs
Garnish'd, and living Gems, in goodly Ranks
And disciplin'd Array; dividing Night
From Day, their Ordinances stablish'd sure.
Moving the Waters saw Thee o'er their Face,
O God, the Waters saw Thee, and affraid,
Into their Channels shrunk, (capacious Bed
Of liquid Element!) and own'd their Bounds
Impassable, as that eternal Gulph
'Twixt Bliss and Woe.—The Prince of Peace thy Beams
Largely imbib'd, when, Dovelike, o'er his Head,
Fast by the Banks of Jordan's sacred Stream,
Thy mantling Wings diffus'd their heav'nly Hues;
And Abba glorify'd his Only Son,
Well-pleased.—From thy Tongues of cloven Fire
Kindled, the Nations burn'd in flaming Zeal,
And unextinguish'd Charity, dispers'd
And glowing as the Summer Blaze at Noon.
The rushing Winds, on all their Wings convey'd
Thy Doctrine, strong to shake the guilty Soul;
As, erst, the Dome, low-stooping to its Base,
Before thy mighty Presence
Cum sonitu venit, ruere omnia visa repentè.
Æneis, lib. 8.
Liminaque laurusque Dei, totusque moveri
Mons circum.
Æneis, lib. 3.
Theb. lib. 4.
Tonat dies serenus, ac totis domus
Ut fracta tectis crepuit.
Thyestes, Act. II. learn'd to bend.
Thou, from the Morning-Womb,
upon our Souls,
Barren and dry, thy Sanctifying Dews,
Abroad, in silent Softness sheds: the Dews
Of Love unspotted, uncorrupted Joy;
Obedient Goodness, Temperance subdu'd;
Unshaken Faith, and Meekness without Guile.
Hence flow the Odours out, our Pray'rs perfume,
Like Incense, rising fragrant on the Throne,
From golden Vials pour'd, by Elder Hands!
Extinct thy influential Radiance, Sin,
Incumbent on the Soul, as black as Hell,
Holds godless Anarchy: by Thee refin'd,
Incens'd, sublim'd, and sanctify'd, the Soul
Invites the Holiest (O Abyss of Love!)
To chuse a Temple, purer than the Sun,
Incorruptíble, formed not by Hands,
Where best He loves to dwell.—Thou all my Bed,
Most holy Comforter! in Sickness smooth'd,
And Violet-Buds, and Roses, without Thorn,
Showr'd round the Couch. From Darkness and the Vale
Of shadowy Death, to Pastures fair, and Streams
Of Comfort, thy refreshing Right-Hand led
My wearied Soul, and bath'd in Health and Joy!
But catches Inspiration! Thou the Earth
On Nothing hung, and balanc'd in the void
With a magnetic Force, and central Poise.
Ocean of Brightness Thou! Thy grand Behest
Flung on thy Orb, the Sun, a sparkling Drop,
303
With unexhausted Flame; to bid them shine
Eternal in their Courses, o'er the Blue
Which mantles Night, and woo us to repose
With roscid Radiance. They, harmonious roll,
In Majesty of Motion, solemn, loud,
The universal Hallelujah: Sphere,
In lucid Order, quiring sweet to Sphere,
Deep-felt and loftier than a Seraph's Song;
The Symphony of well-according Worlds!
But Man, thy Beam, thy Breath, thy Image, shines
The Crown, the Glory, and the Lord of All;
Of all below the Stars! a Plant, from Heav'n
Traduc'd, to spread the Riches of its Bloom
O'er Earth, and water'd with æthereal Dews;
Incorruptíble Aliment! The Birds
Warble among his Boughs; the Cattle, safe,
Pasture within his Shade; and Earth beneath
Th' imperial Umbrage of his Branches smiles.
The smiling Earth, the spangled Spheres, and Man
Their great Creator praise! but praise how long,
304
Preserver infinite? By Thee unless
Upheld, the Earth wou'd from her Basis reel;
The Spheres forego their Courses, (off their Orbs
The silver Softness melted into Shade)
Obscurely dissonant; and mortal Man
(Void of thy Fostering fires) his stately Form
To Dust be moulder'd: Chaos wou'd resume
Her ancient Anarchy; Confusion, rule;
And Darkness swallow All. In Thee we live,
In Thee we move: Our Beings in Thy Chain,
Linkt to Eternity, fasten on Thee,
The Pillar of our Souls! For me, (how late
A Neighbour of the Worm!) when I forget
The Wonders of thy Goodness ray'd on me,
And cease to celebrate, with Matin-Harp
Or Vesper-Song, thy Plenitude of Love,
And healing Mercy; may the nightly Pow'r,
Which whispers on my Slumbers, cease to breathe
Her modulating Impulse through my Soul;
Untun'd, unhallow'd! Discord, string my Lyre,
305
Rebellious to the Dictates of my Hand,
When indolent, to swell the Notes for Thee,
Father of Heav'n and Earth!—Coæval Son!
(His Word, His Essence, His Effulgence pure!)
Not less thy Filial Likeness I adore,
Nor from thy Father's Glory aught disjoin,
Redeemer! Mediator! from the Birth
Of uncreated Time, thy Father's Wrath
(Sprung from Omniscience!) to appease, for Man,
Upright as yet, to mediate, Mercy wak'd
Unbounded Love in Thee; unbounded Love
Contracted to the Measure of a Span
Immensity of Godhead, and thy Crown
Reft from thy faded Brow. Listen, O Earth!
And wonder, O ye Heav'ns! shall He, whose Feet
Are cloath'd with Stars, (the Glory of his Head
For who can tell?) whose Looks divine illume
The dazzel'd Eyes of Cherubs, and the Youth
Of Saints with everlasting Bloom renew:
Shall He, whose vital Smiles with Splendor fill
306
Th' Abodes of all Existence, from the Depths
Of Hell beneath, above Heav'n's highest Orb,
With Life, and Health, and Joy! shall He, to God
Dear as his Eye and Heart, engraven there
Deep from Eternity; alone Belov'd,
Alone Begotten! say, shall He become
A Man of Grief—for Man? nay more his Foe,
Rebellious next the Fiends?—Astonishment
Had chain'd my Tongue to silence, if the Pow'rs
Of tenderest Pity and of warmest Love
Provok'd not pensive Measures, sadder Strains
Of Elegiack-Sorrow, with the Theme
Mournfully varying. Take, my Soul redeem'd!
O take the moaning Dove's dew-dropping Wing,
Fly, fly to Solyma! and melt thy Woe
To Cedron's Murmurs. Thence, extend thy Flight
To Golgotha's accursed Tree. Behold!
Clouds roll'd on Clouds of Wrath (the blackest Wrath
Of an offended God!) His Beauties shade;
But shade not long: it soon in Drops dissolves,
307
As Pride of Summer-Flow'r to Sight or Smell!
Behind this shadowing Cloud, this mystic Gloom,
The Sharon Rose, dy'd in the Blood of Heav'n,
The Lilly of the Vally, white from Stain,
Bows the fair Head, in Loveliness declines,
And, sweetly languishing, it droops and dies.
But darkness veils the Sun: a Curtain draw
Before the Passion; beyond Wonder great,
Great beyond Silence!—(Awe-struck pause awhile—)
And heavy as the Burthen of our Sins!—
'Tis finish'd!—Change the Lyre, the Numbers change;
Let holy Anthem-Airs inspire the Hymn.
Glory in Heav'n! Redemption to Mankind,
And Peace on Earth! Dominion! Blessing! Praise!
Thanksgiving! Pow'r! Salvation to our God!
Salvation to our God, and to the Lamb!
And, co-existing Spirit! Thou, whose Breath
My Voice informs, shall it be mute to Thee,
Eternal Paraclete? in Order, last,
Equal in Glory to Omnipotence
308
Proceeding; (O inexplicable Name!)
Mystical Link of the unnumber'd Three!
To Learning, Night; to Faith, the noon-tide Day.
Soul of the Universe!
The Heathens frequently give the Appellation of Soul or Spirit to God.
Thus Virgil:
Cœlum & terram camposque liquentes,
Lucentemque globum lunæ, Titania que astra
Spiritus intus agit.
Lucentemque globum lunæ, Titania que astra
Spiritus intus agit.
That he means God by Spirit, appears from another Place.
------Deum ire per omnes
Terrasque tractusque maris cœlumque profundum.
Terrasque tractusque maris cœlumque profundum.
And Zeno's Opinion is very remarkable;
Θεος εστι πνευμα διηκον δι' ολου του κοσμου.See Lactantius, B. vii. c. 3. and Diogenes Laertius in the Life of Zeno.
The Rage compos'd of warring Elements,
(The Subject of a nobler future Song)
Yon all-surrounding Heav'ns with crystal Orbs
Garnish'd, and living Gems, in goodly Ranks
And disciplin'd Array; dividing Night
From Day, their Ordinances stablish'd sure.
Moving the Waters saw Thee o'er their Face,
O God, the Waters saw Thee, and affraid,
Into their Channels shrunk, (capacious Bed
Of liquid Element!) and own'd their Bounds
Impassable, as that eternal Gulph
'Twixt Bliss and Woe.—The Prince of Peace thy Beams
Largely imbib'd, when, Dovelike, o'er his Head,
Fast by the Banks of Jordan's sacred Stream,
309
And Abba glorify'd his Only Son,
Well-pleased.—From thy Tongues of cloven Fire
Kindled, the Nations burn'd in flaming Zeal,
And unextinguish'd Charity, dispers'd
And glowing as the Summer Blaze at Noon.
The rushing Winds, on all their Wings convey'd
Thy Doctrine, strong to shake the guilty Soul;
As, erst, the Dome, low-stooping to its Base,
Before thy mighty Presence
The very Heathens imagin'd a Commotion in Nature at the Presence of the Deity.
—Vibratus ab æthere fulgorCum sonitu venit, ruere omnia visa repentè.
Æneis, lib. 8.
And in another Place, Virgil:
Vix ea fatus eram, tremere omnia visa repentèLiminaque laurusque Dei, totusque moveri
Mons circum.
Æneis, lib. 3.
So likewise Statius:
Mirabar cur templa mihi tremuere Dianæ.Theb. lib. 4.
And Seneca:
—Imo mugit è fundo solum,Tonat dies serenus, ac totis domus
Ut fracta tectis crepuit.
Thyestes, Act. II.
Thou, from the Morning-Womb,
Psalm cx. 3. This is a noble Metaphor to express the Beauties and Graces of the Holy Spirit. So that “From the Womb of the Morning” in the Psalmist, signifies this: From the heavenly Light of the Gospel, which is the Wing or Beam whereby the Sun of Righteousness revealeth himself, and breaketh out upon the World, the People shall adorn themselves from the first Forming of Christ in them, with the Dews of Grace, and the Gifts and Emanations of the Holy Ghost: which are Love, Joy, Peace, Long-Suffering, Gentleness, Goodness, Faith, Meekness, Temperance. Gal. v, 22, &c. When the Spirit of Christ bloweth thus upon us, and the Dews of Grace are poured into our Hearts, then the Spices flow out, which arise from the holy Duties and spiritual Infusions, mention'd above.
Barren and dry, thy Sanctifying Dews,
Abroad, in silent Softness sheds: the Dews
Of Love unspotted, uncorrupted Joy;
Obedient Goodness, Temperance subdu'd;
Unshaken Faith, and Meekness without Guile.
Hence flow the Odours out, our Pray'rs perfume,
Like Incense, rising fragrant on the Throne,
From golden Vials pour'd, by Elder Hands!
Rev. v. 8. The four and twenty Elders fell down before the Lamb, having every one of them Harps and golden vials full of Odours, which are the Prayers of the Saints; that is, the Prayers of good Men are as grateful to God as Incense from the Tabernacle. So David, Ps. xiv, 2. Let my Prayer be directed to thee as Incense.
Extinct thy influential Radiance, Sin,
Incumbent on the Soul, as black as Hell,
310
Incens'd, sublim'd, and sanctify'd, the Soul
Invites the Holiest (O Abyss of Love!)
To chuse a Temple, purer than the Sun,
Incorruptíble, formed not by Hands,
Where best He loves to dwell.—Thou all my Bed,
Most holy Comforter! in Sickness smooth'd,
And Violet-Buds, and Roses, without Thorn,
Showr'd round the Couch. From Darkness and the Vale
Of shadowy Death, to Pastures fair, and Streams
Of Comfort, thy refreshing Right-Hand led
My wearied Soul, and bath'd in Health and Joy!
To Light restor'd, and the sweet Breath of Heav'n,
Beneath thy Olive-Boughs,
To Thee direct my Eyes,
While Fate in every Vapour rolls,
And sick'ning Nature sighs.
The soft Recess of Breath,
Is made the Harbinger of Fate,
And poison'd Dart of Death.
But hark! the Passing-Toll,
In a long, sadly-solemn Knell,
Alarms anew my Soul.
But melancholy Fear,
Attended with the hollow Pomp
Of Sickness and Despair.
In ghastly Guise alarm;
The pleasing Sins of wanton Youth,
In many a fatal Charm.
My GOD! thy Mercy lend;
Let Hope her healing Wings diffuse;
O snatch me from the Fiend!
New Raptures fill my Heart:
A shining Train of Bliss succeeds;
The gloomy Scenes depart.
To Dissolution bring,
Yet dreary Death in vain affrights
And points in vain his Sting:
Its guardian Arm extend;
If Angels watch my parting Soul,
And save me at my End.
Thy Holy Will be done!
But let me live alone to Thee,
And die in Thee alone.
in plenteous flow,
The Golden Oil effusing on my Head
Of Gladness, let me ever sit and sing,
Thy numerous Godhead sparkling in my Soul,
Thyself instilling Praises, by thy Ear
Not unapprov'd! For Wisdom's steady Ray,
Th' enlight'ning Gift of Tongues, the sacred Fires
Of Poesy are Thine; United Three!
Father of Heav'n and Earth! Coæval Son!
And co-existing Spirit! Trinal One!
Beneath thy Olive-Boughs,
Alluding to the two Olive-Branches in Zecharia; ch. iv. ver. 11 and 12, which empty the golden Oil out of themselves. Amongst other Expositions of which Words, Junius and Tarnovius interpret them, to mean the various Gifts and Effusions of the Holy Spirit, which are, by Christ, deriv'd upon the Church. For Christ is called the Messiah, on Account of his being anointed with the Oil of Gladness; Ps. xiv, 8. And St. John speaketh thus of the Holy Ghost: Ye have an Unction from the Holy One; 1 John ii. 20. The anointing which ye received from him, abideth in you; John, c. ii. v. 27.
To Conclude; a Recovery from the Small-Pox a few Years ago, gave Occasion to the preceding Poem. I only at first (in Gratitude to the Great Physician of Souls and Bodies) designed to have published this Hymn to the Trinity upon a Recovery from Sickness. But the Subject being very extensive, and capable of admitting serious Reflections on the frail State of Humanity, I expatiated farther upon it. It cannot be suppos'd that I should treat upon Sickness in a medicinal, but only in a descriptive, a moral, and religious Manner: the Versification is varied accordingly: the descriptive Parts being more poetical; the moral, more plain; and the religious, for the most Part, drawn from the Holy Scriptures. I have just taken such Notice of the Progress of the Small-Pox, as may give the Reader some small Idea of it, without offending his Imagination. These few Notes are not intended for the learned Reader, but added, to assist those who may not be so well acquainted with the classical and other Allusions. I don't remember to have seen any other Poem on the same Subject to lead me on the Way, and therefore, it is to be hoped, the good-natur'd Reader will more readily excuse its Blemishes.
I have here added, by Way of Conclusion to the Notes, a short Hymn written (when very Young) in the great Epidemical Cold in 1732.
An Hymn in Sickness.
I
O Lord! to Thee I lift my Soul,To Thee direct my Eyes,
While Fate in every Vapour rolls,
And sick'ning Nature sighs.
II
Ev'n Air, the Vehicle of Life,The soft Recess of Breath,
Is made the Harbinger of Fate,
And poison'd Dart of Death.
III
No gentle Strains relieve my Ears:But hark! the Passing-Toll,
In a long, sadly-solemn Knell,
Alarms anew my Soul.
IV
No lovely Prospect meets my Eye,But melancholy Fear,
Attended with the hollow Pomp
Of Sickness and Despair.
V
My Sins wide-staring in my FaceIn ghastly Guise alarm;
The pleasing Sins of wanton Youth,
In many a fatal Charm.
VI
I sink beneath their black Approach:My GOD! thy Mercy lend;
Let Hope her healing Wings diffuse;
O snatch me from the Fiend!
VII
I feel, I feel Thy saving Health:New Raptures fill my Heart:
A shining Train of Bliss succeeds;
The gloomy Scenes depart.
VIII
Tho' straining Coughs this mortal FrameTo Dissolution bring,
Yet dreary Death in vain affrights
And points in vain his Sting:
IX
If gracious Heaven at that sad HourIts guardian Arm extend;
If Angels watch my parting Soul,
And save me at my End.
X
O Lord, or let me live or die,Thy Holy Will be done!
But let me live alone to Thee,
And die in Thee alone.
The Golden Oil effusing on my Head
Of Gladness, let me ever sit and sing,
Thy numerous Godhead sparkling in my Soul,
Thyself instilling Praises, by thy Ear
Not unapprov'd! For Wisdom's steady Ray,
311
Of Poesy are Thine; United Three!
Father of Heav'n and Earth! Coæval Son!
And co-existing Spirit! Trinal One!
The End of the Fifth Book.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |