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 |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
Ch. XXVII.
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| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
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| LIII. |
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Ch. XXVII.
A paraphrase on the Book of Job |  |
Ch. XXVII.
The Pious Job here paus'd a while, and stay'd
For their reply; but no reply was made.
Then he his grave and wise Discourse revives,
And said, as God my great Creator lives,
Who has to hear and judge my Cause deny'd,
And my vext Soul with sharp Affliction try'd,
While the warm blood dilates my winding Veins,
And in my Nostrils while my Breath remains;
That Breath th' Almighty did himself inspire,
Gently to fan and feed the vital Fire;
No Falshood will I mix in this debate,
Nor with perfidious Lips express Deceit.
Under the Censure of my Friends I lye
Charg'd with Offences of the deepest Dye,
Oppression, Fraud, and deep Hypocrisy.
Shall I acquit their rash Censorious Tongue,
Confess th'Indictment, and my Virtue wrong?
Forbid, O Heav'n, that I should ever own
So black a Charge of Crimes to me unknown.
I till I Dye will stedfastly assert
The pure Intention of my upright Heart;
From this Profession will I ne'er depart.
Conscience, whose Court of Justice is within,
Can ne'er accuse me of delib'rate Sin.
The wicked and their ways I so detest,
That might I feed Revenge within my Breast,
And might I have permission to bestow
The greatest Curse, upon my greatest Foe,
I would desire that Foe might all his days
Delight in vicious Men, and vicious Ways.
For their reply; but no reply was made.
Then he his grave and wise Discourse revives,
And said, as God my great Creator lives,
Who has to hear and judge my Cause deny'd,
And my vext Soul with sharp Affliction try'd,
While the warm blood dilates my winding Veins,
And in my Nostrils while my Breath remains;
That Breath th' Almighty did himself inspire,
Gently to fan and feed the vital Fire;
No Falshood will I mix in this debate,
Nor with perfidious Lips express Deceit.
Under the Censure of my Friends I lye
Charg'd with Offences of the deepest Dye,
Oppression, Fraud, and deep Hypocrisy.
117
Confess th'Indictment, and my Virtue wrong?
Forbid, O Heav'n, that I should ever own
So black a Charge of Crimes to me unknown.
I till I Dye will stedfastly assert
The pure Intention of my upright Heart;
From this Profession will I ne'er depart.
Conscience, whose Court of Justice is within,
Can ne'er accuse me of delib'rate Sin.
The wicked and their ways I so detest,
That might I feed Revenge within my Breast,
And might I have permission to bestow
The greatest Curse, upon my greatest Foe,
I would desire that Foe might all his days
Delight in vicious Men, and vicious Ways.
What if the Sinner's Magazines are stor'd
With the rich Spoils that Ophir's Mines afford?
What if he spends his happy Days and Nights,
In softest Joys and undisturb'd Delights?
Where is his Hope at last, when God shall wrest
His trembling Soul from his reluctant Breast?
Must he not then Heav'n's Vengeance undergo,
Condemn'd to Chains, and Everlasting Woe?
This is his Fate; but often here below,
Justice o'ertakes him, tho' it marches slow.
And when the Day of Vengeance does appear,
The Wretch will cry, but will th' Almighty hear?
If bath'd in Tears Compassion he invokes,
The unrelenting Judge will multiply his Strokes.
His vain Complaints, and unregarded Prayer,
Will drive the raving Rebel to despair.
Or will he e'er with Confidence apply
Himself to God, and on his Aid rely?
Will he not rather cease in his distress,
His Prayers to Heav'n hereafter to address?
With the rich Spoils that Ophir's Mines afford?
What if he spends his happy Days and Nights,
In softest Joys and undisturb'd Delights?
Where is his Hope at last, when God shall wrest
His trembling Soul from his reluctant Breast?
Must he not then Heav'n's Vengeance undergo,
Condemn'd to Chains, and Everlasting Woe?
This is his Fate; but often here below,
Justice o'ertakes him, tho' it marches slow.
And when the Day of Vengeance does appear,
The Wretch will cry, but will th' Almighty hear?
If bath'd in Tears Compassion he invokes,
The unrelenting Judge will multiply his Strokes.
118
Will drive the raving Rebel to despair.
Or will he e'er with Confidence apply
Himself to God, and on his Aid rely?
Will he not rather cease in his distress,
His Prayers to Heav'n hereafter to address?
Do not disdain to learn, and I'll reveal,
How the just God does with the Wicked deal.
To you some secret Methods I'll detect,
By which he's pleas'd his Conduct to direct.
All you your selves have by Experience found,
For my Assertions there's abundant ground.
I grant that some, not all the wicked Band,
As you assert, feel God's vindictive Hand.
And this should make the proud Oppressor dread,
Lest Vengeance should assail his guilty Head.
Children he multiplies to be devour'd
By ling'ring Famine, or the raging Sword.
Untimely Death his Offspring shall consume,
And sink them deep in black Oblivion's Womb.
His Wives well pleas'd to see the Tyrant's Fate,
Shall joyful Mourners on his Funeral wait.
Tho' he does Gold in lofty Mountains heap,
And as the dust, has Silver Treasure cheap,
Tho' Robes of State wrought with Sidonian Skill,
And rich embroider'd Vests his Wardrobe fill;
Yet shall the Just and Upright Man divide
His precious Treasures, and his Purple Pride.
The Judge's righteous Sentence shall restore
The Wealth he wrested from the injur'd Poor.
His Dwelling, like the Moths, shall soon decay,
Which settles in a Garment for a Day;
But suddainly is crush'd, and swept away.
Or like the Lodge, a Keeper does erect,
His Garden Fruit or Vintage to protect;
Which, when the Swain has gather'd in his Store,
Is pull'd as quickly down, as reer'd before.
How the just God does with the Wicked deal.
To you some secret Methods I'll detect,
By which he's pleas'd his Conduct to direct.
All you your selves have by Experience found,
For my Assertions there's abundant ground.
I grant that some, not all the wicked Band,
As you assert, feel God's vindictive Hand.
And this should make the proud Oppressor dread,
Lest Vengeance should assail his guilty Head.
Children he multiplies to be devour'd
By ling'ring Famine, or the raging Sword.
Untimely Death his Offspring shall consume,
And sink them deep in black Oblivion's Womb.
His Wives well pleas'd to see the Tyrant's Fate,
Shall joyful Mourners on his Funeral wait.
Tho' he does Gold in lofty Mountains heap,
And as the dust, has Silver Treasure cheap,
Tho' Robes of State wrought with Sidonian Skill,
And rich embroider'd Vests his Wardrobe fill;
Yet shall the Just and Upright Man divide
His precious Treasures, and his Purple Pride.
119
The Wealth he wrested from the injur'd Poor.
His Dwelling, like the Moths, shall soon decay,
Which settles in a Garment for a Day;
But suddainly is crush'd, and swept away.
Or like the Lodge, a Keeper does erect,
His Garden Fruit or Vintage to protect;
Which, when the Swain has gather'd in his Store,
Is pull'd as quickly down, as reer'd before.
When Heav'n th'Oppressor shall of Life bereave,
The Wretch no Funeral Honours shall receive.
His cursed Corps expos'd to open Day,
Shall lye to ravening Beasts and Birds a Prey.
While one with open Eyes can look around,
Heav'n shall the Man, his Race, and Name confound.
A dreadful Inundation of Distress,
And Woes like thronging Waves, his Soul shall press.
An unexpected Storm of Wrath shall rise,
And in the Night, the careless Man surprise.
An Eastern Whirlwind shall his Palace tear,
Catch up, and with its rapid Eddy bear
Th' Oppressor far away thro' Wilds of Air.
God shall his fatal Darts against him throw,
Nor will he spare him, when involv'd in Woe.
The miserable Man for Mercy crys,
In vain he weeps, and prays, in vain he flys.
His Neighbours round shall his just fall deride,
Applauding Heav'n, that thus corrects his Pride.
The Wretch no Funeral Honours shall receive.
His cursed Corps expos'd to open Day,
Shall lye to ravening Beasts and Birds a Prey.
While one with open Eyes can look around,
Heav'n shall the Man, his Race, and Name confound.
A dreadful Inundation of Distress,
And Woes like thronging Waves, his Soul shall press.
An unexpected Storm of Wrath shall rise,
And in the Night, the careless Man surprise.
An Eastern Whirlwind shall his Palace tear,
Catch up, and with its rapid Eddy bear
Th' Oppressor far away thro' Wilds of Air.
God shall his fatal Darts against him throw,
Nor will he spare him, when involv'd in Woe.
The miserable Man for Mercy crys,
In vain he weeps, and prays, in vain he flys.
His Neighbours round shall his just fall deride,
Applauding Heav'n, that thus corrects his Pride.
120
I always thought the righteous God, at last
Would on the wicked sure Destruction cast;
Nay, some his Wrath does in their blooming blast:
But taught by observation, I assert,
That he is pleas'd to let the greater part,
In Peace and Splendour pass their happy years,
And long their day of Punishment defers.
Whilst oft the Just that serve and love their God,
Bewail their Wounds inflicted by his Rod.
This puzzling Conduct, these mysterious ways
Create my Trouble, and my Wonder raise.
But you, because your Reason can't unty
The hard perplexing Knot, the Fact deny.
As if you thought your narrow Wit and Sense,
Could reach th' unfathom'd Depths of Providence.
In things below your Wisdom may appear,
But these are Heights that far surmount your Sphere.
Would on the wicked sure Destruction cast;
Nay, some his Wrath does in their blooming blast:
But taught by observation, I assert,
That he is pleas'd to let the greater part,
In Peace and Splendour pass their happy years,
And long their day of Punishment defers.
Whilst oft the Just that serve and love their God,
Bewail their Wounds inflicted by his Rod.
This puzzling Conduct, these mysterious ways
Create my Trouble, and my Wonder raise.
But you, because your Reason can't unty
The hard perplexing Knot, the Fact deny.
As if you thought your narrow Wit and Sense,
Could reach th' unfathom'd Depths of Providence.
In things below your Wisdom may appear,
But these are Heights that far surmount your Sphere.
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Ch. XXVII.
A paraphrase on the Book of Job | |