The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. ::

500

TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. MR. THOMAS GOUGE,

WHO DIED JANUARY THE 8TH, 1699–700.

I.

Ye virgin souls, whose sweet complaint
Could teach Euphrates not to flow,
Could Sion's ruin so divinely paint,
Array'd in beauty and in woe:
Awake, ye virgin-souls, to mourn,
And with your tuneful sorrows dress a prophet's urn.
O could my lips or flowing eyes
But imitate such charming grief,
I'd teach the seas, and teach the skies
Wailings, and sobs, and sympathies;
Nor should the stones or rocks be deaf;
Rocks shall have eyes, and stones have ears,
While Gouge's death is mourn'd in melody and tears.

II.

Heav'n was impatient of our crimes,
And sent his minister of death
To scourge the bold rebellion of the times,
And to demand our prophet's breath;
He came commission'd for the fates
Of awful Mead, and charming Bates;
There he essay'd the vengeance first,
Then took a dismal aim, and brought great Gouge to dust.

III.

Great Gouge to dust! How doleful is the sound!
How vast the stroke is! and how wide the wound!
Oh painful stroke! distressing death
A wound unmeasurably wide!
No vulgar mortal dy'd
When he resign'd his breath.
The muse that mourns a nation's fall,
Should wait at Gouge's funeral,
Should mingle majesty and groans,
Such as she sings to sinking thrones,
And in deep-sounding numbers tell,
How Sion trembled, when this pillar fell.
Sion grows weak, and England poor,
Nature herself, with all her store,
Can furnish such a pomp for death no more.

IV.

The reverend man let all things mourn;
Sure he was some æthereal mind,
Fated in flesh to be confin'd,
And order'd to be born.
His soul was of th'angelic frame,
The same ingredients, and the mould the same,
When the Creator makes a minister of flame.
He was all form'd of heav'nly things.
Mortals, believe what my Urania sings,
For she has seen him rise upon his flamy wings.

V.

How would he mount, how would he fly
Up thro' the ocean of the sky,
Tow'rd the celestial coast!
With what amazing swiftness soar,
Till earth's dark ball was seen no more,
And all its mountains lost!
Scarce could the muse pursue him with her sight:
But, angels, you can tell,
For oft you meet his wondrous flight,
And knew the stranger well;
Say, how he past the radiant spheres
And visited your happy seats,
And trac'd the well-known turnings of the golden streets,
And walk'd among the stars.

VI.

Tell how he climb'd the everlasting hills,
Surveying all the realms above,
Borne on a strong-wing'd faith, and on the fiery wheels
Of an immortal love.
'Twas there he took a glorious sight
Of the inheritance of saints in light,
And read their title in their Saviour's right.
How oft the humble scholar came,
And to your songs he rais'd his ears
To learn th'unutterable name,
To view th'eternal base that bears
The new creation's frame.
The countenance of God he saw,
Full of mercy, full of awe,
The glories of his power, and glories of his grace:
There he beheld the wondrous springs
Of those celestial sacred things,
The peaceful gospel and the fiery law,
In that majestic face.
That face did all his gazing powers employ,
With most profound abasement and exalted joy.
The rolls of fate were half unseal'd,
He stood adoring by;
The volumes open'd to his eye,
And sweet intelligence he held
With all his shining kindred of the sky.

VII.

Ye seraphs that surround the throne,
Tell how his name was thro' the palace known,
How warm his zeal was, and how like your own;
Speak it aloud, let half the nation hear,
And bold blasphemers shrink and fear:

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Impudent tongues! to blast a prophet's name!
The poison sure was fetch'd from hell,
Where the old blasphemers dwell,
To taint the purest dust, and blot the whitest fame!
Impudent tongues! You should be darted thro',
Nail'd to your own black mouths, and lie
Useless and dead till slander die,
Till slander die with you.

VIII.

‘We saw him,’ say th'ethereal throng,
‘We saw his warm devotions rise,
‘We heard the fervour of his cries,
‘And mix'd his praises with our song:
‘We knew the secret flights of his retiring hours:
‘Nightly he wak'd his inward powers;
‘Young Israel rose to wrestle with his God,
‘And with unconquer'd force scal'd the celestial towers,
‘To reach the blessing down for those that sought his blood.
‘Oft we beheld the thunderer's hand
‘Rais'd high to crush the factious foe;
‘As oft we saw the rolling vengeance stand
‘Doubtful t'obey the dread command,
‘While his ascending pray'r upheld the falling blow.’

IX.

Draw the past scenes of thy delight,
My muse, and bring the wondrous man to sight.
Place him surrounded as he stood
With pious crowds, while from his tongue
A stream of harmony ran soft along,
And every ear drank in the flowing good:
Softly it ran its silver way,
Till warm devotion rais'd the current strong:
Then fervid zeal on the sweet deluge rode,
Life, love and glory, grace and joy,
Divinely roll'd promiscuous on the torrent flood,
And bore our raptur'd sense away, and thoughts and souls to God.
O might we dwell for ever there!
No more return to breathe this grosser air,
This atmosphere of sin, calamity and care.

X.

But heav'nly scenes soon leave the sight
While we belong to clay,
Passions of terror and delight,
Demand alternate sway.
Behold the man, whose awful voice
Could well proclaim the fiery law,
Kindle the flames that Moses saw,
And swell the trumpet's warlike noise.
He stands the herald of the threat'ning skies,
Lo, on his reverend brow the frowns divinely rise,
All Sinai's thunder on his tongue, and lightning in his eyes.
Round the high roof the curses flew
Distinguishing each guilty head,
Far from th'unequal war the atheist fled,
His kindled arrows still pursue,
His arrows strike the atheist thro',
And o'er his inmost powers a shudd'ring horror spread.
The marble heart groans with an inward wound:
Blaspheming souls of harden'd steel
Shriek out amaz'd at the new pangs they feel,
And dread the echoes of the sound.
The lofty wretch arm'd and array'd
In gaudy pride sinks down his impious head,
Plunges in dark despair, and mingles with the dead.

XI.

Now, muse, assume a softer strain,
Now sooth the sinner's raging smart,
Borrow of Gouge the wondrous art
To calm the surging conscience, and assuage the pain;
He from a bleeding God derives
Life for the souls that guilt had slain,
And straight the dying rebel lives,
The dead arise again;
The opening skies almosto bey
His powerful song; a heav'nly ray
Awakes despair to light, and sheds a cheerful day.
His wond'rous voice rolls back the spheres,
Recals the scenes of ancient years,
To make the Saviour known;
Sweetly the flying charmer roves
Thro' all his labours and his loves,
The anguish of his cross, and triumphs of his throne.

XII.

Come, he invites our feet to try
The steep ascent of Calvary,
And sets the fatal tree before our eye:
See here celestial sorrow reigns;
Rude nails and ragged thorns lay by,
Ting'd with the crimson of redeeming veins.
In wondrous words he sung the vital flood
Where all our sins were drown'd,
Words fit to heal and fit to wound,
Sharp as the spear, and balmy as the blood.
In his discourse divine
Afresh the purple fountain flow'd;
Our falling tears kept sympathetic time,
And trickled to the ground,
While ev'ry accent gave a doleful sound,
Sad as the breaking heart-strings of th'expiring God.

XIII.

Down to the mansions of the dead,
With trembling joy our souls are led,
The captives of his tongue;
There the dear Prince of light reclines his head
Darkness and shades among.

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With pleasing horror we survey
The caverns of the tomb,
Where the belov'd Redeemer lay,
And shed a sweet perfume.
Hark! the old earthquake roars again
In Gouge's voice, and breaks the chain
Of heavy death, and rends the tombs:
The rising God! he comes, he comes,
With throngs of waking saints, a long triumphing train.

XIV.

See the bright squadrons of the sky.
Downward on wings of joy and haste they fly,
Meet their returning Sovereign, and attend him high.
A shining car the Conqueror fills,
Form'd of a golden cloud;
Slowly the pomp moves up the azure hills,
Old Satan foams and yells aloud,
And gnaws th'eternal brass that binds him to the wheels.
The opening gates of bliss receive their King,
The Father-God smiles on his Son,
Pays him the honours he has won,
The lofty thrones adore, and little cherubs sing.
Behold him on his native throne,
Glory sits fast upon his head;
Dress'd in new light, and beamy robes,
His hand rolls on the seasons, and the shining globes,
And sways the living worlds, and regions of the dead.

XV.

Gouge was his envoy to the realm below,
Vast was his trust, and great his skill,
Bright the credentials he could show,
And thousands own'd the seal.
His hallowed lips could well impart
The grace, the promise, and command:
He knew the pity of Immanuel's heart,
And terrors of Jehovah's hand.
How did our souls start out to hear
The embassies of love he bare,
While every ear in rapture hung
Upon the charming wonders of his tongue.
Life's busy cares a sacred silence bound,
Attention stood with all her powers,
With fixed eyes and awe profound,
Chain'd to the pleasure of the sound,
Nor knew the flying hours.

XVI.

But, O my everlasting grief!
Heav'n has recall'd his envoy from our eyes,
Hence deluges of sorrow rise,
Nor hope th'impossible relief.
Ye remnants of the sacred tribe
Who feel the loss, come share the smart,
And mix your groans with mine:
Where is the tongue that can describe
Infinite things with equal art,
Or language so divine?
Our passions want the heav'nly flame,
Almighty love breathes faintly in our songs,
And awful threat'nings languish on our tongues;
Howe is a great but single name:
Amidst the crowd he stands alone;
Stands yet, but with his starry pinions on,
Drest for the flight, and ready to be gone;
Eternal God, command his stay,
Stretch the dear months of his delay;
O we could wish his age were one immortal day!
But when the flaming chariots come,
And shining guards, t'attend thy prophet home,
Amidst a thousand weeping eyes,
Send an Elisha down, a soul of equal size,
Or burn this worthless globe, and take us to the skies.

Psalm cxxxvii.

Lament. i. 2, 3.

Though he was so great and good a man he did not escape censure.

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