A paraphrase on the Book of Job As likewise on the Songs of Moses, Deborah, David: On Four Select Psalms: Some Chapters of Isaiah, and the Third Chapter of Habakkuk. By Sir Richard Blackmore |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
Chap. VII.
|
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
|
|
| LIII. |
 |
Chap. VII.
A paraphrase on the Book of Job |  |
Chap. VII.
The Life of Man has a determin'd date
Fix'd by Divine, Irrevocable Fate.
His Days will at a certain time expire,
As his, who lets his Labour out for Hire.
The Weary Slave does for the Evening pray,
Knowing his Labour ceases with the Day.
Then why should I with toilsom Life opprest,
Not be allow'd to pray for Death and Rest?
Th' uneasy Day in ling'ring Pain I spend,
And think the tedious Night will never end.
By Night when Men their anxious Thoughts disband,
And gently strok'd by Slumber's downy hand;
Reluctant Cares at last from raging cease,
And Sleep till Morn, to give the Wretched Peace.
Ev'n then my restless Thoughts to vex my Soul,
In everlasting Agitations roll.
My salvage Grief let loose, like Beasts of Prey,
By Night grows more outragious, than by Day.
My swelling Sorrows never will subside,
But higher rise in their Nocturnal Tyde.
A thousand times I turn, but turn in vain,
I change my Side, but always keep my Pain.
With longing Eyes I seek the dawning Light,
But Woe succeeds, as Day succeeds the Night.
My Ulcerated Flesh is cloath'd with Worms,
And Putrefaction every Limb deforms.
Fix'd by Divine, Irrevocable Fate.
His Days will at a certain time expire,
As his, who lets his Labour out for Hire.
The Weary Slave does for the Evening pray,
Knowing his Labour ceases with the Day.
Then why should I with toilsom Life opprest,
Not be allow'd to pray for Death and Rest?
Th' uneasy Day in ling'ring Pain I spend,
And think the tedious Night will never end.
By Night when Men their anxious Thoughts disband,
And gently strok'd by Slumber's downy hand;
Reluctant Cares at last from raging cease,
And Sleep till Morn, to give the Wretched Peace.
Ev'n then my restless Thoughts to vex my Soul,
In everlasting Agitations roll.
My salvage Grief let loose, like Beasts of Prey,
By Night grows more outragious, than by Day.
My swelling Sorrows never will subside,
But higher rise in their Nocturnal Tyde.
A thousand times I turn, but turn in vain,
I change my Side, but always keep my Pain.
27
But Woe succeeds, as Day succeeds the Night.
My Ulcerated Flesh is cloath'd with Worms,
And Putrefaction every Limb deforms.
My Days in quick Succession go and come,
As the swift Shuttle traverses the Loom.
Lord, in Compassion to me, call to mind,
That swift-wing'd Life out-flys the fleetest Wind.
No grateful Object more shall please my Sight,
No more Harmonious Sounds my Ear delight.
I must for ever my Abode forsake,
For ever of my Friends my Farewell take.
Shouldst thou displeas'd give me a frowning Look,
I sink, I dy, as if with Light'ning struck.
As ruin'd Clouds dissolve, and flow in Air,
And ne'er their lost Connexion can repair:
So he that once descends into the Tomb,
Before the great and Universal Doom,
No more his Form and Vigor will resume.
He'll never break the Leaden Chains of Death,
Nor more by turns exclude and draw his Breath.
He shall no more enjoy his former home,
Nor from the Grave to his dear Neighbours come.
Since Life by Common Fate must quickly cease,
And griping Death will ne'er her Prey release;
I'll not refrain, but for Compassion Cry,
For some repose and Ease, or else to Dye.
I'll speak, for Grief is bold and eloquent,
My Prayers and Crys shall give my Sorrow vent.
Expostulations and Complaints shall ease
My tortur'd Soul, and the sharp Pain appease.
As the swift Shuttle traverses the Loom.
Lord, in Compassion to me, call to mind,
That swift-wing'd Life out-flys the fleetest Wind.
No grateful Object more shall please my Sight,
No more Harmonious Sounds my Ear delight.
I must for ever my Abode forsake,
For ever of my Friends my Farewell take.
Shouldst thou displeas'd give me a frowning Look,
I sink, I dy, as if with Light'ning struck.
As ruin'd Clouds dissolve, and flow in Air,
And ne'er their lost Connexion can repair:
So he that once descends into the Tomb,
Before the great and Universal Doom,
No more his Form and Vigor will resume.
He'll never break the Leaden Chains of Death,
Nor more by turns exclude and draw his Breath.
He shall no more enjoy his former home,
Nor from the Grave to his dear Neighbours come.
Since Life by Common Fate must quickly cease,
And griping Death will ne'er her Prey release;
I'll not refrain, but for Compassion Cry,
For some repose and Ease, or else to Dye.
I'll speak, for Grief is bold and eloquent,
My Prayers and Crys shall give my Sorrow vent.
28
My tortur'd Soul, and the sharp Pain appease.
Am I a vast, a wild, Impetuous Deep,
That thou art forc'd to set thy Watch, and keep
Me thus in Bounds? Can I e'er dangerous grow,
E'er pass my Banks, and o'er the Region flow?
Am I a furious Monster of the Main,
That thou in Fetters dost my Rage restrain?
No. I extended lye upon my Bed,
And on my Couch repose my restless Head:
But then if Sleep around me nodding flyes
With flaggy Wings, and lights upon my Eyes;
Visions and Dreams compos'd of frightful Air,
The drowsy Stranger from my Eye-lids scare.
Therefore my Soul does quick Deliv'rance ask
From tedious Life's unsufferable Task:
Life I abhor; let me alone to Dye;
Why should I still in ling'ring Torments lye?
Why does Coy Death from my Embraces fly?
Why should I Live? Was I from Pain releast,
Life's but a vain and empty Name at best.
O, what is Man? What is the Hope and Trust
Of a poor piece of ill-cemented Dust?
What is the Wight, that God should condescend
To try his Strength, and with him should contend?
Wilt thou such Honour on a Wretch bestow,
Is he or worth thy Notice, or thy Blow?
Wilt thou thy Power against a Worm engage,
Is Man a proper Object of thy Rage?
But if thou scourgest with a kind Intent,
And thy sharp Strokes are for Correction meant
To make the Suff'rer thy just Laws obey,
And to reduce the Wand'rer to his way,
Still what is Man, that every Day his God
Should both Chastise, and Guide him with his Rod?
That he should Wound his Flesh to heal his Mind,
Beneficent in Wrath, and in Displeasure Kind?
Lord, spare a Wretch that has not long to live,
Some easie Minutes, some short respite give.
I own my Guilt, and my Offences blame,
Delug'd in Tears, and overwhelm'd with Shame.
What shall I do thy Favour to regain?
Can I implore th' Allmighty's Aid in vain,
Whose gracious Power does all Mankind sustain?
In deeds of Kindness thou dost most rejoyce,
Chast'ning is forc'd, but Mercy is thy choice.
Why hast thou set me as a Mark, to stand
Against the Darts of thy resistless Hand,
Which so much gaul my fest'ring Flesh, that I
Would lay my Life, my Burden down, and dye?
Forgive of all my Guilt the mighty Debt,
Remember Mercy, and my Sin forget.
That thou art forc'd to set thy Watch, and keep
Me thus in Bounds? Can I e'er dangerous grow,
E'er pass my Banks, and o'er the Region flow?
Am I a furious Monster of the Main,
That thou in Fetters dost my Rage restrain?
No. I extended lye upon my Bed,
And on my Couch repose my restless Head:
But then if Sleep around me nodding flyes
With flaggy Wings, and lights upon my Eyes;
Visions and Dreams compos'd of frightful Air,
The drowsy Stranger from my Eye-lids scare.
Therefore my Soul does quick Deliv'rance ask
From tedious Life's unsufferable Task:
Life I abhor; let me alone to Dye;
Why should I still in ling'ring Torments lye?
Why does Coy Death from my Embraces fly?
Why should I Live? Was I from Pain releast,
Life's but a vain and empty Name at best.
O, what is Man? What is the Hope and Trust
Of a poor piece of ill-cemented Dust?
What is the Wight, that God should condescend
To try his Strength, and with him should contend?
Wilt thou such Honour on a Wretch bestow,
Is he or worth thy Notice, or thy Blow?
Wilt thou thy Power against a Worm engage,
Is Man a proper Object of thy Rage?
29
And thy sharp Strokes are for Correction meant
To make the Suff'rer thy just Laws obey,
And to reduce the Wand'rer to his way,
Still what is Man, that every Day his God
Should both Chastise, and Guide him with his Rod?
That he should Wound his Flesh to heal his Mind,
Beneficent in Wrath, and in Displeasure Kind?
Lord, spare a Wretch that has not long to live,
Some easie Minutes, some short respite give.
I own my Guilt, and my Offences blame,
Delug'd in Tears, and overwhelm'd with Shame.
What shall I do thy Favour to regain?
Can I implore th' Allmighty's Aid in vain,
Whose gracious Power does all Mankind sustain?
In deeds of Kindness thou dost most rejoyce,
Chast'ning is forc'd, but Mercy is thy choice.
Why hast thou set me as a Mark, to stand
Against the Darts of thy resistless Hand,
Which so much gaul my fest'ring Flesh, that I
Would lay my Life, my Burden down, and dye?
Forgive of all my Guilt the mighty Debt,
Remember Mercy, and my Sin forget.
|
Chap. VII.
A paraphrase on the Book of Job | |