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Canto I

ARGUMENT

The Argument ? what needs a Proëme
To vamp a Three-half-penny Poëme ?
No, Reader, No ; ‘twas never writt
For thy sake, but for little Chitt.
St. George oth’ back-side of the Horn-book,
The Dragon kills, to Humour Scorn-book.
And thus to wheddle in young Fops,
The gilded Sign hangs o’re the Shops :
Miss won’t come in to Buy, before
She spies the Knick-knack at the Dore.
Thus Queasie Madams meat forbear
Until they read, The Bill of Fare.
Instead a Frontispiece, or Babbie,
We plac’t to please some puiney Rabbie,
Who hates an Author that enlarges,
And cons the Index to save charges.
Discord, that Tearing, Hectoring Ranter,
Provokes a Dean and his Arch-chanter,
Who had liv’d friendly forty years,
To fall together by the ears ;
A Rotten Pulpit plac’d i’th’ Quire
Furnished fewel to the Fire :
Three swashing Blades, blind Fates agree
Should do the work : but who they bee,
Pray ask the Canto, that can tell
Better than I : and so Farewell
Thus far the Porch, now view the House,
Here is the Mountain, there’s the Mouse.

Immortal feuds, and more than Civil Warrs,
And Fights thô fierce, disfigur’d with no Scarrs
I sing ! And thee Great Prelate, who of late,
Maugre the Changer, and Reluctant Fate
Didst raise at length a Pulpit in the Quire,
Th’ immortal Trophee of thy Mortal Ire.
Twice the Pragmatick Chanter, thô in vain,
Pesum’d to discompose thy peaceful Reign ;
Twice with Schismatick Pride did enterprise
To force the Chapter in Rebellion rise ;
As oft the Dean him swoln with envious rage,
Hurl’d Headlong from high hopes ; and by sage
Sexton assisted, terrify’d the People
Who durst dispute the Title to his Steeple.
Instruct me Muse, for thou canst tell, what Thirst
Of sweeet Revenge, thô Dire, engaged first
Religious Souls to break the Sacred Tye
Of blessed Peace and heaven-born Amitie,
To make old Friends new Rivals ; can there rest
Such bitter Gall in a Religious Breast ?
And thou Great Heroe, whose wise conduct stifled
The growing Schisme which else thy Church had rifled
With favour influence my Advent’rous Verse,
Nor dare to laugh, whilest I thay Acts rehearse.
In melting Pleasures of Fraternal Peace
An ancient Abbey long had dwelt at case,
Whose Scarlet Prebends blear’d poor Mortals eyes,
Whose Ermines, Winters Frost, and Snow defies ;
Basking in fat, and Wealth, themselves they Bless
In sweet Repose of Sacred Idleness :
Thus Stretcht at length on downy Featherbeds,
To chaunt their Matines ne’re lift up their Heads,
But before Dinner wek’d ; for they could smell
The Kitchin Steams, though Deaf to th’ Prayer-bell
When Eyes and Ears Nights leaden Key composes,
Kind Sleep yet open left their subtle Noses ;
These alwaies Eat in Person, but did praise
Their God by Proxie, in Harmonious Layes,
Pawning the Chanters, and Poor Singing-boyes
Condemn’d to those inferiour Drudgeries.
When Discord dappled o’re with thousand Crimes,
The Villanies of our Debauched times
Quitting the humble Seat of Parish Churches,
On a Magnificent Cathedral Perches,
The hideous clang of her hate-bearing wing
Peace trembled : whilst the Fiend arm’d with her Sting.
Allighting swift before the Pompous Pile
Of her proud Pallace, stood and paws’d a while.
Thence with observing eye, her Emprire viewing,
Fomented Feuds and Warrs thereon ensuing,
Hatred, and variance, her self she blesses,
Applauds her Wit in these Atchiev’d successe’
From Norwich there, and Bristol Coaches, she
Legions of Tories dear, arriv’d might see,
And could her Vassals boast of all Degrees,
Cittizens, Nobles, Clerks, Priests, Dignities ;
But above all her Feats renown’d in stories,
In this she Prides her self, in this she Glories,
That Troops of Barr-gowns rang’d under her Banner
Had routed Themes, and now Triumph’t on her ;
And yet she saw, and rag’d, and Griev’d to see
One Church disturb this rare Felicity,
One Church to brave her triumphs ; one Alone
Threaten to shake the firmness of her Throne,
That amidst all these Horricanes and Scuffles
No breath of Stormy Wind it’s Quiet ruffles.
Needs must so Odious a sight as this
Awake her Rage, make all her Serpents hiss ;
With Stygian Aconite her mouth she fills,
From glaring eyes she streams of Flame distills :
“ What ? (said she with a tone made windows Quiver),
“ Have I been able hitherto to Shiver
“ The Union ‘twixt Cordeliers, Carmelites,
“ Dominicans, Franciscans, Minorites,
“ Betwitxt the Molinists, the Celestines,
“ Jansenists, Jesuites, and Augustines ?
“ Have I by secreet Arts, nourisht the Stickle
“ Between the Church-men, and the Contenticle ?
“ And shall one Paultry-Chapel dare to Brave me ;
“ Nay hope in time to it’s nice Law t’ inslave me ?
“ And am I Discord still ? Who any more
“ With Incense will my Sacred Shrines Adore ?
Thus spoke the Hagg ! And in a trice unseen
Of an Old Chanter takes the shape and meen :
A corner’d Cap her Snake-wigg’d Head did cover,
Her rich Face sparkling Rubies studded over,
Her Nose, emboss’d with Carbuncles Divine
Before her steps did like a Flamboy shine ;
Accoutred tus, with Red-coat Soldiers pace
Haughty she march’t to find the Prelates Grace.
A Stately Bed, the Posts most richly Gilt,
Cover’d with Sumptuous Crimson Damask Quilt
Enclos’d with Double Curtains, scorning light
Of mid-day Sun, and counterfeiting Night,
Stood close in an Appartment like a Cell
Where Sweet Repose and Silence chose to Dwell ;
The Tester was all fac’d with Looking-Glass,
The rare Invention of this Golden Ass,
Contriv’d mysteriously that he might peep
And see how Blithe he lookt, when fast a-sleep.
Here lay the Mitred Head ! in a slumber down’d
Whilst gentle fumes his Dreaming Temples Crown’d ;
A sprightly Air adorns his Youthful Face,
His double Chine hangs down with goodly Grace ;
The Claret shin’d through the transparent Skin,
A broad conjecture where he late had been ;
And his Fat comely Corps, so thick and short
Made the soft Pillows groan under his Port :
Here, in Sack-posset arm’d, without repining
He waits in patience the blest hour of Dining.
The Goddess entering, saw the Table spread,
And all within doors rarely ordered,
Then Softly marching to his lodging, took him
Profoundly napping, and thus she bespoke him.
“ Sleep’st thou, Great Prelate ? Sleep’st thou then Supine ?
“ And to the Chanter mean’st thy Place Resign ?
“ Whilst he sings Oremus, makes Grave Processions,
“ And hurls about by whole-sale Vows and Blessings ?
“ Sleep’st thou securely, till the Chanter come,
“ And without Bull, or Brief procur’d from Rome,
“ Whilst thou’re wrap in sloath, and free from Fears,
“ Rotchet and Surplice shall pluck o’re thy Ears ?
“ Sluggard, awake, arise, bestir thee quick,
“ Renounce thy Ease, or quit thy Bishoprick !
She spoke, and from her Poysonous Mouth did fling
Into his Soul the Zeal of Quarrelling.
The Dean awakes ; The choler in his breast
Formented boils ; yet he the Fury Blest !
Have you not seen a Bull by Gad-fly stung,
When his tormented pride flownc’d, kick’t, and flund ?
The vexed Air, with Ecchoes frighted rings !
Whilst he exhales his Rage in Bellowings !
So storm’d the Prelate, with his Dream o’re-heated,
Poor Page, and Chambermaid were rudely treated ;
His mettle mov’d with conceiv’d Indignation,
Needs will he go to’ th’ Quire before Collation.
When Prudent Gilotin his Almoner
With grave Advice stept into stint the Stir ;
Shews him the Danger of that Rash Design,
How mad to go to Prayers, before he Dine ;
“ What rage (quote he) is this ? what head-strong crotchet ?
“ Pray Sir, regard the Honour of your Rotchet !
“ He that for Chappel lets warm Dinner cool,
“ May think himself Devout, I’le think him Fool !
“ Does our Church consecrate Prelates to Pray ?
“ For shame, this Zeal unseasonable allay !
“ Shall all your Learning e’re make me believe,
“ That this is Lent, or any Saints dayes Eve ?
“ Then Reassume your self, forbear to Doat,
“ Meat heated twice, is not worth half a Groat !
Thus reseason’d Gilotin, and very loath
T’ adjourn a Meal, bed ‘em serve in the broath.
The Prelate stood a while in deep suspence,
He ey’d the Soupe with Holy Reverence ;
O’recome at last with Reason and good Nature
He yields, and sits him down to tast the Creature :
‘Yet inward Rage did all the while provoke him,
Twas fear’d each Morsel would go near to choke him ;
Gilotin saw’t, and sigh’d ! in Zeal he rises
T’ acquaint his party with these Enterprises ;
Tells them with Grief of Heart, what rude Affronters
Of Lawn-sleev’d Grandeur were these Sawcy Chanters ;
Protests they’d vex’t his Lordship so that day
His Meat went down like Orts, or old chopt Hay !
Nay I may safely say’t without Presumption
This Course must bring him int’ a Deep Consumption!
Now might you see whole troops of Chanons, all
To Rendevouz in the great Pallace-hall !
So have you seen perhaps Legions of Cranes,
Marching on Wing o’re Strymons Spacious pains,
When the proud Pygmies, must’ring their warlike Nation
Design against them an Unjust Invasion !
Surpriz’d at sight of this great friendly Rabble,
The Sweetned Prelate rises from the Table ;
Nodding he Touch’t his Hat, to keep Decorum ;
Nor seem’d to slight, nor basely to Adore ‘um !
His face no longer shone with Orient Flame,
But pleas’d, recalls the good Beer-bowl brimmer
Of Racy Claret, and Commends a Swimmer
To the good Company ; they with joint consent
Follow the Prelates gracious Precedent ;
And, whilst their circling Healths and Heads go round,
Arnold and all his little Whigs, Confound !
With Nectar, killing-thirst they will allay ;
The Voider comes, the Cloath is ta’ne away,
The Prelate then with words expressing Grief,
Unto his Confidents declaims in brief !
“ My brave Confederates, in all Intrigues,
“ Propping my Interest with our holy Leagues,
“ Whose Votes Unanimous once made me Dean,
“ What boots this Meagre Title ? Honour Lean ?
“ My Name but mention’d ; Ay, and scarcely that,
“ Unless perhaps at the Magnificat ;
“ How can you bear to see this Rascal Nose me,
“ And his Combined mates thus dare t’oppose me ?
“ Invading all my Rights and Priviledges,
“ My Compeer th’ Impudent, himself Alledges.
“ Thus leaping o’re all bounds of Law and Reason,
“ I think t’Indite the Rebel of High Treason ;
“ For I have by me, or at least can get
“ Such Witnesses, be sure shall do the feat !
“ This Insolent Upstart e’re I was Dressing
“ Stept up into my Throne, and gave the Blessing ;
“ And now to cut my Throat, the last of Harms,
“ The Villain would usurp my proper Arms. -
More would he fain have said, but briny tears
Mixt with redoubled sighs and inward fears,
Did intercept his speech, cut short his Story,
And spoil’d the Tenor of his Oratory.
But Zealous Guilotin, who condol’d his Merits,
Had one Device yet left to chear his Spirits :
For marking how the Prelates speech did vary,
He calls for a brisk Glass of old Canary.
Mean time cam Sidrac in, whome Age made flow,
Limping upon his crutch, the News to know ;
Full fourscore years, this Dotard in the Quire
Had practis’d ; all the Customs of his Sire,
All Ancient usages he could Describe,
For he was Dad of all the singing Tribe ;
Him time preferr’d, when waving many another,
From poor Church-warden to a Vestry-brother ;
He by the Prelates pale and fading colour
Had quickly ghess’t the nature of his dolour,
And sweetly smiling, he Addresses thus :
“ And why, my Lord ! So Pusillanimous ?
“ Leave to the Chanter fruitless moans and tears,
“ Attend the wisdom of now fourscore years,
“ Enricht with large experience of affairs ;
“ If of thy wrongs thou hopest for Repairs,
“ Then lend thy Ear attentive, Sir, be wise,
“ And put in practice what the Heavens advise !
“ At th’ end o’th’ Quire where now the Haughty Knave
“ Enthon’d in borrowed luster dares to Brave
“ Thy Soveraingnty, upon that Iron Grate
“ Stood once a Pulpit square of Ancient date,
“ Behind this Machine, cover’d as with a skreen,
“ The Sneaking Chanter scarce could then be seen ;
“ Whil’st on the opposite Seat, our Dean did shine
“ In Humane eyes with Majesty Divine ;
“ How’t came about I know not, but some Devil
“ I do conclude the Author of this Evil ;
“ Whether some envious hand had pluckt it down
“ By Night ; or Time, or rigid Fate had thrown
“ The Structure from its Base, yet this is true,
“ One Morn we found i’th Floor the Sacred Pew !
“ The Chanter I suppose might Plot with Heaven ;
“ Be’t so ! we may with both in time be Even :
“ But down it came, and for the better Grace,
“ That Holy things might rest in Holy Place,
“ We lodg’d it in the Vestry straight, and there
“ ’T has lyen despis’d in dust, these thirty year
“ Fighting with Worms and Spiders, who therein
“ Their curious Webbs do weave, and fine thred Spin ;
“ And thirty more might lie, for use of Preaching,
“ Yet ‘tis a Tool for this Rogues over-reaching.
“ Now mark me Sir ! no sooner shall the Night
“ His sable Wings spread o’re the vanquisht Light,
“ But three out of our Number, without Ryot,
“ Will Slip into the Church, while all is quiet,
“ And under Covert of the darkness Strive
“ Once more the Ruinous Pulpit’s Mass Revive :
“ And of next day the Chanter dares o’rethrow it,
“ By twenty Actions thou shalt make him know it,
“ What ‘tis to rouze a sleeping Prelate ! This
“ The Proper Glory of a Prelate is,
“ To Vindicate against Malignant People
“ The Jus Divinum of his Ancient Steeple ;
“ To rescue from base Sacrilegious hands
“ His Tithes, his Offerings, Perquisites, and Lands ;
“ This makes him Glorious to the present Age,
“ This future Immortality Presage :
“ What, wilt confine thy Glories to a Quire ?
“ To Preach and Pray did Heaven award thy Hire ?
“ Such Virtues might Adorn the dayes of Yore,
“ When Prelates only Humble, Pious, Poor,
“ Boasted in empty Epithetes ; new Times
“ Require new Manners, suited to our Crimes ;
“ Let Church-men now frequent the Barr and Plead,
“ And Cook and Littleton, not Fathers read ;
“ The Law, the Law’s thy work ! then shall the Croud
“ Pressing thy Throne, with Prayers implore aloud
“ Thy Benedictions, which thou may’st Dispense
“ By dozens, scores, and Hundreds, and from thence
“ To his Regrett, the fretting envious Elf
“ Shall see thee thousands Bless ; and hang himself !
To see the Mighty Power of Eloquence,
How little short ‘tis of Omnipotence !
Sidrac’s discourse had charm’d their Ears and Heart,
And Planet-strook the Dean stood for his part ;
Now on the place before a foot they stirr,
The Lot must tell whom Destinies prefer
To this important service ; All pretend
Both Zeal, and Fitness for this Noble end ;
The Prelate then stroaking his Milk-white Beard
With Wisdom spoke, with Reverence was Head :
The Lot, my Masters ! I ordain your Law ;
From Urn Impartial each his Fortune draw ;
‘Twas said, ‘twas done ; Now all leave off the Quibling.
Each Mothers Son betakes himself to Scribling ;
Full thirty Names at least, in Tickets rolled
Were reckon’d ; And that none might be cajoled,
William, a Novice ‘mongst the singing boyes
(Who serv’d in time of Need t make a Noise,)
Must draw the Lots ; And now from fatal Bonnet
Each man abides his Doom, what e’re comes on it.
Thrice had the Dean with hands lift up to Heaven
Unto this Pious Work the Blessing given ;
His holy Hand thrice shakes the fatal Cap,
And happy man be’s Dole who has the Hap !
Now William trembling to the Work Addresses,
Him too the bounteous Dean All-to-be-Blesses ;
The Boy was newly shorn, of ruddy Hew,
But when he came to’t, the poor Lad look’t Blew ;
And now he draws ! First Brontin’s Name appears,
Thrice happy Name to cure the Prelates fears !
For wat less could that Thundring Name presage,
Than that he’d prove The Terror of the Age ?
All’s husht again ; and for the second turn
The boy advanc’d his shaking hand to th’ Urn ;
When the kind fates gave out th’ Auspicious Name
Of John the Clockmaker : A Cock oth’ Game,
This John had been, but now a jolly fellow
Had yok’d himself to Nan, hi dear Bed-fellow ;
This happy pair, (say they) before their Marriage
Had guilty been of some unhandsome carriage,
But after three years stealing secret pleasure
The Priest had joyn’d their hands, at least, together.
A third remains ; The Prelate takes the Urn,
And to play fair gives it a double turn :
Their fligg’ring Souls do now on Tiptoes stand,
Twixt fears and hopes for the deciding hand ;
How blithe wast thou, how Buxome, and how chicket,
When once thy Name proclaimed by the Ticket,
Past all the fear of Contingent Disaster,
Appear’d before the face of thy great Master,
Betrude (I mean) the Sexton ? Some do say,
Thy livid Front e’re while as pale as Clay,
Glow’d into Sanguine ; and thy Rosy Hew
Did the Wan Sallow of thy Hide Subdue !
Thy Gouty Legs and Toes benumm’d before,
Ventur’d to cut three Capes on the Floor !
Now might you hear the Crowd at chearful Rates
Applaud the Justice of the Gentle Fates,
Who by their peremptory strict commands
Dispos’d the work into such able Hands ;
Faith with the Court Dissolves, all satisfie’d,
And to their Quarters in great Triumph hy’d.
The Dean alone, to cool his Zeal enraged,
Slumber’d till a soft Supper might asswage it !

poem by Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux from Le Lutrin
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Canto IV

THE ARGUMENT

Alas ! The Poëms curious Model
Is Alter’d quite i'th’ Poets Noddle !
So Nature oft, for want of Tools,
Decrees Wise men, produces Fools :
To tell you True, my Muse and I
Design’d at first, the Victory
To Master Dean ; how’t came about
I cannot tell ; but now the Rout
Is His : yet so, The Fancy’s righer
To end in Pot, commence in Pitcher !
Such was the Project ! such th’ Event !
But listen to the Argument !
The Chanter’s Dream : A Chapter called ;
Fine Speeches made ; The Pulpit mawled ;
This Counter-Scuffle, I dare stand in’t,
The Goddess Discord had a hand in’t :
The Prelates foes ; The Changers friends ;
The Canto, and the Poëme ends.

The Pulpit now lifting its lofty Head
With carved Canopy stands Covered ;
When the Church-clocks with their melodious chime,
Summon’d the Singing-boyes to rise : ‘Tis time
To Rise to Matins ! Thus the Bells did Chink !
Thus did at least the dreaming Sluggard think.
Drown’d in sweet Sleep th’Arch-changer roll’d at case,
( A Soveraign Medicine ‘gainst the twinging Fleas, )
Whose roving Fancy traverst may a Theme,
Startled at last with terror of a Dream ;
He cry’d out, waken’d at his own fierce crying,
And parboil’d in his mellow Sweat lay frying.
His Pages starting at the sudden Noyse,
Began to bussle, rubbing their gum-glew’d Eyes ;
One frighted runs, but poor fool, knew not whither,
And from the dore leaps back, e’re well got thither :
Girot, ( a trustier Slave ne’re waited on him, )
Runs to his Master, ne’re a Rag upon him ;
What the Rope ails you ? (cry’d the testy Lacquey,)
Does th’ Night-mare ride you, or the Old Witch make you
Roar at this rate ? What a mad coil you keep here,
That people cannot steal a nap, or sleep here ?
Compose your self for shame ! The wiser Sun
His race Nocturnal has but half-way run ;
Is this a time for Prayers ? Let Singing-boyes
Whose Pension’s pay for’t, do those Drudgeries !
Ah friend ! ( reply’d the quaking Chanter ) friend !
Insult not o’re my juster Passion ; lend
Thy patient Ear to my sad Fate, and joyn
Thy secret sorrowes to these tears of mine !
Attend I say! ( I tremble whil’st I’m speaking, )
The weighty Reasons of my poor heart breaking !
God Morpheus long before the peep of day,
Had lockt my Senses up with leaden Key
In second sleep ; when dulcid fumes and vapours,
In Fancies Cell, disport in frolick Capers ;
Methought I fat enthroned in the Quire,
Where crowds of Choristers my Grace admire ;
There blest the gawping throng ; there Incense sweet,
Stolne from the Saints, my pleased Senses meer,
When from the bottom of the Vestry came
A Prodigy too terrible to name ;
From Dusky Clouds ( methought ) of wreathed Smoak
Wide opening, A Hideous Monster broke,
Whose Mouth, Eyes, Nostrils, vomit flame, fume, fire,
How pale look’d all the Choristers i'th’ Quire !
Him the proud Prelate dragg’d along in Chains,
Tame like a broken Colt, with Bit and Reins ;
But, that which struck us all more than half dead,
A Pulpit issued from the Dragons Head.
Horripilation seiz’d me ! my flesh quiver’d !
My loins relax’d with dismal horror shiver’d !
We all conclude from the Sulphureous smell,
Dragon and Pulpit both must come from Hell ;
Led by his Guide, the Monster doth aspire
Unto my Seat, there plac’d himself i'th’ Quire.
Think ! think, my Ganymede, how was I appaled
To see the Horrid Fiend thus high installed ;
I scriecht in vain, in vain I fled the Fury !
This I’le depose, is Truth before a Jury !
But here the Chaunter paws’d : he judg’d it best
To let his Eyes and Looks speak out the rest.
Girot essay’d to comfort him in vain ;
This Vission, Sir ! perhaps might rise from pain
In your disturb’d Head ; Melancholly Vapours
Careering in the Brain beget these Capers :
The Chaunter cross’d, storms, rages, and in choler
Leaps out of bed to mitigate his dolour ;
Scorning with sorry Page to brawl, and quarrell,
He calls in hast for’s Holy day Apparell !
A fair silk Cassolk, rich lin’d with Plush
Tho’ dusty ( Girot could not find the Brush, )
He first put on ; next a silk Mohair Grown
Which to his heels with dragling train hung down ;
A pair of Purple Gloves his proper badges,
A Rotchet wichi the Dean once gave as wages ;
Yet jealous left his Tail the ground should sweep,
The Shears had dockt it short, three Inches deep.
His corner’d Cap ( for fear of cold ) on’s Head,
His Hood in’s hand for hast, he hurried ;
Away he speeds thus gorgrously equipped,
Never did seventy years so nimbly trip it !
He curst and old Sciatica that Stop’d him,
But yet his wooden Crutch most stoutly prop’t him ;
Rage added wings ; inspir’d with Zealous Fire
( Whil’st other lagg’d ) he first arriv’d i’th’ Quire.
O Thou, who in a Rapture, tranc’d in Boggs,
Describ’st the Battel of the Mice and Froggs !
And Thou ! whose curious Pencil drew to th’ Life
All Italy for Goats-wooll fallen at strife ;
Or rather thou, whose Muse did Pen the Stories
Of the sad Contrasts ‘tween the Whiggs and Tories !
Lend me a Tongue that may express a Passion,
Of mixed Envy, Spight, Rage, Emulation,
Fisrt pale and dumb he stood, like one counfounded ;
As if ten thousand Furies him surrounded ;
His Mass of Blood boils, all his Humurous bubble ;
Such power have Pulpits to create our trouble !
His belly swell’d like Sybils raptur’d Priest,
With hollow sounding moise like Pythonist,
Strugling he stood under this inward load,
Releas’d at last he thus shook off the God !
See ! Girot fee ! the True Interpretation
Of my late Phantasme, which thy foolish Passion
Call’d a Delusion ! thus the Dream I conster,
This Pulpit is the Hideous Hell-born Monster !
This ! this the fata, the Malignant screen
Will never more let me, poor me, beseen !
Ah Prelate ! treble Vengeance now indeed
Thy plotting pate has heap’d upon my Head !
Could not thy Malice hug it self in bed,
Between two Nappy blanckets covered ?
To force my cold Seat, thy warm Couch resign ?
Put out thy right Eye, to put out both mine ?
O Heavens ! O Hell ! see how this Hateful Mass
Has made a Tomb of my once glorious Place ?
Where I may sleep Inglorious, Sans Regard,
Nor more than Powers Unseen, be seen, or heard !
Nay rather than endure this fowl disgrace,
A thousand times I’le quite this loathed Place :
Ne’re sing Te Deum more ! Renounce the Alter !
And end my days at Tyburn in a Halter !
I ought not, cannot, will not live a Minute
I’ th’ Church, whilst hateful Pulpit triumphs in it :
Come Girot ! lend thy friendly helping hand,
If I have breath and strength, it shall not stand !
He spoke ! his Arm waited upon his words,
Strength fill’d his Arm, and Fury strength affords :
Arrests the Pulpit ; and with haughty frown,
Come down thou Ideol ! or I’le pluck thee down !
Just in the juncture of this flaming hate,
As the wise Destinies ordain’d, and Fate,
Who should come in, but Girard the Bell-ringer ?
And at his heels amain, Ribout the Singer ?
No couple greater Bigots of the Chanters,
Against the Prelate none more desperate Ranters ;
At the Dire sight though both did Sympathize,
Yet they advis’d his Worship to be wise !
Pray Sir ! said they, for once be rul’d by Fools !
‘Tis dangerous medling naked, with edg’d Tools !
‘Tis ten to one the Prelate will Alledge
This fact of yours guilty of Sacriledge !
Nay who can tell but at the General Dyer
We may be Question’d, and Condemn’d of Ryot ?
Call then a Chapter ; put it to the Vote,
Let faithful tellers take the Poll, and note
The Ay’s and Noe’s ; And if we carry’t, then Sir !
Down goes the Innovation, once agen Sir !
The sage Advice repriev’d some little while
The trembling Pulpit : The Chanter feigns a smile !
Call then a Chapter ! Run ! Make hast ! Away !
Summon the Drowzy Drones ! Nay Pray you stay,
Quoth Honest Ribout the fam’d Chorister ;
No more hast than good speed, beseech you Sir !
Rash actions often bring too late Repentance !
Girard was hugely taken with the sentence,
And seconds him : Great Sir ! this weighty Business,
This Nice point will not bear Haste, or Remisness !
Perhaps the Chanters and the Monks may be
Awak’d, but did your Reverence ever see
Prebends and Canons before break of Day
Frequent the Chappel, there to sing, or say
Surfum Corda ! Believe me, Sir ! believe me,
I speak’d with troubled Heart, the ting does grieve me,
When six bells jangling, for these thirty Years
Could never pierce their Barricado’d Ears,
What hope two sniveling Chanters cryes should wake ‘em,
And to Cold Prayers from their warm Beds betake ‘em ?
Could you send Jove with his loud Thunder-claps,
Your Plot perhaps might take, and but perhaps :
With what Charms then, hope you here to prevail ?
These Adders stop their Ears with their own Tail.
The Chanter netled heard in fustian fume
Rejoyning Girard thus sawcily presume,
And thus ! Nay now false heart, I plainly see
What leg thou halt’st ! ‘Tis the Prelate, he
That mortifies thy base enfeebled Spirits,
Vile Venal Soul ! what know’st thou not my Merits ?
I oft have seen thee cringe with supple Hams,
To wow his blessings ; Alas ! mere flim-flams !
Well ! go, and basely bend thy Oyled knees,
I have enow without thee, to make ‘em rise.
Come Girot ! Come, my trusty steel-edg’d friend,
Thee on this desp’rate Errand I dare send,
Nor fear success : Take me the Thund’ring Hammer,
On Holy Thursday us’d to rais a Clamour ;
And trust me friend, The Rising Sun shall see
The Chapter met in it’s Formality !
‘Twas said, ‘twas done ! forth from the sacred Chest
Where it did lie from year to year at rest,
The Mawl is brought : Away they March, and cry
The Chapter waits you ; waits you instantly !
Discord would not be wanting in the Brawl,
She enters straight the Prelates Palace-Hall.
Augments the Din ; the Neighbour-hood she scares
With rising Scare-fires, sudden Massacres ;
The Chanons now Awake ! Strange tale to tell,
Such wonder in an Age had scarce befell !
One swears the Lightnings did invest the Town,
That Thunder-bolts had beat the Houses down,
And one cryes, Fire ! Fire ! Fire ! the Church doth burn
A second time ; A third hopes a new turn,
For Holy Thursday ! some whose guts chim’d Noon
Bless’t the Occasion that call’d them so soon
From Bed to Board; for all Agree, no Knell
Could more concern them than the Dinner-bell !
But yet the Noise that had unglew’d their eyes
Could not perswade the Sluggish Chanons rise,
Nor leave the Pleasure of th’ enchanted Bed,
Till wily Girot got this trick in’s Head ;
With Stentors Voice he makes loud Proclamation,
O yez ! I’th’ Chapter House, A rare Collation
Stands ready dress’t to meet you Appetite !
He needed to say no more : O blessed sight
To see the Prebends hast in Numerous throngs !
What Rhetorick has Soup ! how little Songs !
Deaf Bellies now found Ears ; one Chanon ran
With one hose off, the other scarcely on ;
Another durst not stay to tye his shooes,
But slip-sho’d hobbl’d, lest he Breakfast looks.
A third, whose appetite severely itches
Had not due time to hook his dropping Breeches !
Fallacious Hopes ! here was nor bread, nor Wine !
The cheated Fools must with Duke Humphrey dine !
Yet mute they sate, expecting when at last
The Servitors bring in the hope’d Repast ?
Nor was it Reason that the gutled Fops
Should spend their Tongues, who could not use their Chops.
The Chanter though he saw his plot succeed,
Yet fear’d Delay might unseen Danger breed ;
Rising with blubber’d eyes brim full of Tears.
Unbosoms to them all his Griefs and Fears.
But Chanon Everard, whose barking May
All Hungry Guests, but yet no Victuals saw,
Impatient of delay, as he was able,
Cry’d out aloud ; Pray Sirs, bring in the Table ;
What mean you thus to frustrate our rais’d Hopes ?
Must we sit alwayes pining in our Copes ?
The Chanter conscious of his cheat, gave way
To his Just Indignation ; nor durst say
Ought in Reply ; till Father Allain broke
The Horrid silence, and most gravely spoke :
This Allain you must know, was a learn’d Rabbin,
Who spent his days at study in his Cabbin ;
Twice twenty times had he turn’d o’rs the Summs
Of Father Bauny, had pick’t up the Crums
Of Thomas à Kempis ; he knew the Lattin,
Although his Gown was neither Silk nor Sattin ;
He gravely cought, and coughing gravely Rose,
Discharg’d his mind in Ciceronian Prose ;
Which cause the sence was Great, the language terse,
The Poet has Immortaliz’d in Verse.
I’le pawn my Life on’t (said the Canonist)
This in the Knavery of some Jansenist !
I dare believe my own eyes Information !
Our Prelate’s pleas’d with Gurniers Conversation :
Arnold that Heretick waits our Destruction,
And this Tools uses for the Deans seduction :
No doubt but he can from St. Austin prove
That one St. Lewis sent from Heaven above,
In after Ages rising in our France,
A Pulpit in this Chappel should advance :
Now to confute him there lies all the skill,
Hee’d plague us with the Torrent of his Quill ;
One Argument we’ve yet left to confute him,
Let’s burn him in Effigie, that will rout him !
Let others turn o’re each Voluminous Father,
That’s not my Province ; To be short, I’de rather
Consult with Father Bauny ; he alone
With me is twenty Austins, all in Once :
Go then and Rumage all Antiquity,
If any footsteps there, of Pulpits be ;
We’ve time enough e’re day ! fall to your task,
No longer space than till day-break we ask :
So many Heads, and hands I doubt not, can
Before Sun-rise peruse the Vatican !
This uncouth motion startled all that heard it,
Till fat-guts Everard open’d, and quite marr’d it :

A wise device ! (quote he) And pray, what Gains
Shall answer all this Cumber, all these pains ?
For one poor lowzy Pew, to break our Brains :
‘Tis more Ingenious to Study Meat,
Let his Thin Chops his Musty Authors Eat !
We’ve other Fish to fry ! I am a man
That Read alike Bible and Alchoran !
If I can learn what Rents my Tenants owe :
When Mortgag’d Vineyards forfeited to grow ;
Can I precisely learn the Quarters day,
When wooden Shooes trudge up their dues to pay ;
There lies my Talent ! I no learning lack,
But what is enter’d in my Almanack.
Imprimis, fifty Marks a year in Ground-Rents ;
Item, twice fifty more Per-ann in Pound-Rents !
When Wheat, and Mault in crowded Garners lie,
I boast me of a well-store’d Library !
Why vex we then Dead Fathers, Greeks and Lattins ?
Our Mother Tongue will serve to Mumble Mattins ;
I’le ask no help of Scotus to pull down
A Pulpit ! This great Arm the Work shall Crown.
All’s one to me, let Arnold judge or quit me,
I’le hit him home agen, whoe’re dares hit me :
Fie on these long Harangues ! Let’s live, and Drink !
And let censorious Whigs think what they think !
Thus Everard spoke ! A heavy Abbey Lubber !
Whose Head was alwayes nuzling in the Cubber’d !
Ribout the Chorister then demurely rose,
And these Impertinencies stiffly oppose.
I never lik’d tedious Circumlocutions,
And shall advise to more concise conclusions !
Let Trombaut make but the great Organs roar,
They’l blow the Pulpit quickly out o’th’ dore !
Needs must the Chanter own each man his friend,
Though diff’ring in the Means, they jumpt i’th’ Eend !
The General cry went still, Ay ! one and all !
Let the Proud Pulpit, Let the Pulpit fall !
Thus all Unanimous held the Conclusion,
But in the Premises was great Confusion :
Just so at Trent, when Concord in a Bag
Came Post from Rome, they hit it to a Tag !
The least he lik’d was he that last had spoke,
His Patience that a little did provoke :
I ne’re Approv’d ( quoth he ) this moal work !
Who knows what fallacy may under’t lurk ?
Who can assure me but the Pulpits blast
May puff the Organs out of Doors at last ?
We sometimes saw the sad experiment,
Away with that Dubious Expedient ;
Come, Come ! Lets make ( said he ) a Quick dispatch !
Whils’t we prate here, we fast in pain, and watch !
Down with the Idol ! As I am a sinner,
My eager stomach crockes, and calls for Dinner !
There will we sit, Chat Eat, Drink, Laugh, grow fat,
Exiling fretting Care, that kills a Cat !
He rose in hasty Zeal ; The faighful Troop,
Arm’d with the Pregnant hopes of Sacred Soup,
Follow their Leader : to the Quire they go,
There view the Object of then Rage, and Wo ;
There on the Common Enemy they lay
United hands ; and at the first essay
Pluck down the Provocation of their Spleen ;
So in the Woods of Ardenn have I seen
Sacred to Jove, an Ancient spreading Oak
Fall at the Axes oft redoubled stroke !
The Boards they rend in Pieces ; and the Quarry
In Triumph to the Chanters Kitchin carry !
So Arduous was the work ! of such Renown !
To set a Pulpit up, to pluck a Pulpit down !

FINIS

poem by Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux from Le Lutrin
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!

Canto III

THE ARGUMENT

An Owl instructed by the Night,
Cunningly counterfeits A Sprite :
In Pulpit close she lies Perdue,
And terrifies the Prelates Crew!
They Routed fly with heavy Clatter,
The Canto tells you, what's the matter ;
But Discord to Retrieve the sport
Rallies them soon in Warlike sort :
All Oppositions overpast,
They set the Pulpit up at last :
But fear not lest the Prelate Preacht in't ;
Alas he has a further reach in't !
To spight his Foes, yet for all's Feating,
The proof of th' Pudding's seen i'th' eating.

But Night in hast with her Dark Canopy,
Shrowding the viny Plains of Burgundy,
Flew back to th' City ; and as suddenly
Wheel'd round to view the Towers of Monlheri ;
Those walls, whose towering Summits mate the skies,
Built on a Rock which Duskie Clouds disguise.
And objects representing seen from far,
That they dis move perswade the Passenger.
Here ominous Birds, here Ravens foreboding fate,
In ruinous Chinks do roost, and keep their state ;
Here thirty Winters mur’d in obscure Cell
An Owl secure from hatefull Light did dwell :
This trusty Messenger of Dire mishap
Has the first News of Ill dropt in her lap ;
And always ready to proclaim sad Tiding
Waits in these Deserts, Nights approach abiding :
At whose return her Accents rend the Skies,
And fright the Vicinage with black Destinies ;
Complaining Progne answers to her Tones,
And mourning Philomel renews her Groans.
To whom Night thus : Come, follow me! The Bird
Obey’d, when first her Mistress voice she heard :
With flight Precipitant, the Pair, out spring
And reach the Town high fayling on the Wing,
The wasting at one Reach, they proudly Pearch
On highest Pinnacle of the fatal Church !
Night curst her Eyes to see the Camrades march,
For now All three had reacht the Porches Arch ;
She saw the Clock-maker, with faithful fingers
A glass of smiling Wine hold, glad, nor lingers :
Here Trusty Mates, A health I here Begin,
They pledg’d him, to their Patron Gilotin :
Oh see ( says Night ) these Rogues sing Huzza ! proud
Of sure success, under my favouring Shroud ;
But come ! the Traitors soon shall feel our Might,
If I at least be justly styled Night !
This said, she leads into the Sacred Vault,
Into the Vestry flies, there makes an Alt,
And in the Concave of the fatal Pew,
Orders Madge Howlet there to lie Perdue !
Mean while, our three great Champions flown with Wine,
And Wines effects, Audacity ; with Design
To push their Project on, without regard
To Danger near, had pass’d the Pallace-yard,
Embolden’d with success, still on they go
And mount the Stairs, leading to th’ Portico,
Here a Bookseller in his back-shop slept,
And under double Padlock safely kept
Rogero’s worthy Works ! and he may still
Keep ‘em entire, for sure no other will.
Now wary Boirude, fearing Danger nigh
Stops his rash Friends in heat of Zeal ; to try
How they might light a Candle : from his Pocket
He takes his Marchasite, begins to knock it
With hardned Steel, out springs an Active spark,
The hope of Light in the Despair of Dark ;
The spark in Tinder cherisht, toucht with Metch
In Sulphur dip’t, kindles with quick dispatch
The Torck ; which like a Comet blazing bright
Supplies the Office of Don Phœbus Light.
Boirude the Sexton, kept the Church-dore Key,
And if he entrance got, then why not they ?
With equal pace the Temples nave they measure !
Into the Vestry came : Here lies the Treasure !
Here prostate they behold the Pulpit’s frame,
And with due Reverence adore the fame !
The Gloomy shades of that Religioius place
Horrour begat, the Bigot Church-man’s Grace
Horror awakes Devotion ; they pray !
And dread those Deities they Scorn’d by day.
When thus the Clock-maker : Why stare ye thus,
My Masters, A-la-mort ? time’s precious !
Why stand we trembling, trifling, shall I, shall I ?
Our work’s before us, let’s no longer dally !
The Pulpit must be rais’, that by to morrow
Our Dean may see’t with Joy, his Foes with Sorrow !
So said, he laid his bones to’t ; and did strain
To roll it o’re, with all his Might, and Main ;
He scarce had mov’d it, O portentous wonder !
When from its hollow womb a Voice did Thunder ;
Brontin starts back ! The Sexton lookt like Dead !
John with his Dear, twice wisht himself in Bed !
But on their purpose obstinately bent,
They roll it o’re, true Zeal will ne’re relent !
Out flies the broad-fac’d Chorister of the Night,
And with her ruffling wings strikes out the Light :
This struck their Souls with horrible Confusion,
Amaz’d they stand, they doubt ; but in conclusion,
As soon as Fear lent them the use of Feet
Away they trudge, fill’d with shame and Regret ;
The Nave they soon recover ; whil’st their hair
Stands bristling on their heads, dissolving fear
Makes their Knees quiver underneath their Bodies,
And there they sneaking stand like baffled Noddies,
Sheltred by the same Darkness brought them thither,
The Squadron flies at last, they knew not whither.
So when a Jolly Grew of Truants gather
Into some Nook, to play their pranks together,
Secure of Eyes from Monitor and Master,
They burn the day in game, and sport the faster ;
If now by chance, the Tyrants Eye doth watch ‘em,
And unawares at Cards or Dice he catch ‘em ;
The sad surprise, their Mirth and Pastime dashes,
And each shifts for himself to scape his lashes.
Such was our Warriours plight when once the Owl
Sprung from the Pew, set up her Doleful howl.
Discord, who saw unseen their fowl disgrace,
Clapping her wings, pity’d their woful case :
Their Spirits quail’d, their Courages abated ;
Rallies in haft the Troop disanimated.
Of Sidrae, she th’ Audacious Visage borrow’d,
His front she smooth’d into a smile ; but furrow’d
Confirms his staggering steps ; thus stalks along
The Marble Pavement ; guided by a Torch,
Finds out the skulking Cowards near the Porch ;
Then with a squaking Voice spoke fourscore years,
Awakes their mettle, dissipates their Fears.
Rascals ! where are you? What Pannick Dread does rout you ?
Run from one paultry Owl ? ne’re look about you !
Where are those boasts which late breath’d nought but Thunder ?
Fie ! Shall a harmless Bird disperse y’ asunder ?
How would you sneak, vilce Souls, if at the Barr,
My daily sport, you met with horrid Warr ?
How would you stand a tedious Chanc’ry Hearing,
If poor Hobhowchin puts you in this fearing ?
Hw would your hearts misgive to bide a Triall,
No Friend at Hand, nor in your Purse a Ryall ?
Believe me ( Cowards ! ) I, with Grace be’t spoken,
Simply thô I stand here, have foil’d and broken
A Chapter, with her Chanons, Prebends, Dean ;
Nor was my Soul so Abject, Base, so Mean,
But I durst look the Proctors in their faces,
I have pursu’d ‘em all, Asham’d, confuted,
‘Tis Persecutors, cry’d out, Persecuted !
All this I did, and ten times more in sooth,
With the sole Breast-plate arm’d of Naked Truth !
The Church of old was mann’d with Gallant Spirits,
A Novice then confiding in the Merits
Of the fam’d Good Old Cause, dar’d to Defend it
In formâ Pauperis, and make ‘em end it !
But this Decrepid Age to Sloath inclines,
Nor brings forth now such Puissant Divines !
Thus far howe’re their Virtues imitate,
Let not an owl your Courages abate :
Think what a Blot it draws upon your Glory,
How it does stain the luster of your story :
If once the Chaunter learns your base Defeat,
Your flight Ignoble, and your vile Retreat,
Where e’re he meet you, hee’d thus fleer and flout you ;
Heark, the Owl cryes ! brave Souldiers look about you !
Then will your conscious guilt with shame upbraid you,
You’ curse your slavish fears that Cowards made you !
Then reinforce your Spirits, by preventing
Th’ Affronts, which will be bitter in resenting :
Remember, Sirs, whose Cause your hands engages,
First win, then bravely wear his Lawrel wages :
Recall your wonted worth, new frights forgetting ;
‘Tis Tork-shire Cloath, you know, that shrinks i’th’ wetting !
But I perceive success my speech doth follow,
Then march, run, fly ( brave Boys ! ) where dangers call you !
That our Great Mitred Prince, may see his Engines
Befre th’Affront be spread, taking due Vengeance.
This spoke, the Fiend disguis’d in flash of Fire
Vanisht, with fresh rage did their hearts inspire.
Just so it was, Great Conde ! at that battle
When thy brave Arms made Rhine and Sheld to rattle,
Thy wings, and Battle on lens spacious Border
Inclin’d to rout, and lean’d to foul discorder,
Thy Valour firm’d the wavering Troops that day,
And spirited their Files with fresh array !
Inspir’d new Hearts, and gave ‘em all New Hands,
Till vanquisht Victory follow’d thy Commands !
Thus in a moment Rage succeeded Fear,
And clouded courage once again shone clear !
They countermarch ! The Owl Retreats quite routed
And now they scorn her, whome so late they doubted.
Not unreveng’d ! for as she flew, she muted
In Boirude’s gaping mouth, triumph’d and hooted ;
Rascally Bird, (said he ) All Face and Feather !
The Shame of Day ; the Boder of Ill Weather !
Dar’st thou perfume ( profane ! ) to spice i’th’ Quire ?
And make the Pulpit A Sir-Reverence higher ?
And Scot-free this ! No, no, I’m not in sport ;
I’le trounce and bounce thee for’t i'th’ Spiritual Court ;
Where Doctors, Proctors, Paritors together
Shann’t leave upon thy Naked back one Feather ;
I’le make thee then for all thy Hooting, sneak
Like her that scap’d the Devils Arse i'th’ Peak :
But talk’s but talk ! Come Boyes, let’s fall to action !
The Owl is flown ! the last o’th’ Chanters faction !
The Pulpit now is heav’d into the Quire,
And on the Chanter’s Seat advanced higher,
Her Rotten ledge repair’d ; her Joints that gaped
With Planes united ; all was comely shaped !
The Wainscott eccho’s to the lab’ring hammer,
The Roof back to the Walls refounds the Clamor ;
The Organ-pipes provok’d with this rude Rumbling,
Struck up a Base, and gravely fell a grumbling !
Now Chanter ! black’s thy Day, thou little thinkest
What work’s a brewing ; Sleep in Boles thou drinkest,
On both ears ; snoring after late Debauches,
Nor dream’st what mischief now thy Head approaches :
Secure thou ly’st unmarm’d, unwarn’d of Harms,
Hugging thy Dainty Doxy in thy Arms !
O that some friendly Ghost, in Nightly Vision
Would timously reveal thy sad condition !
Now ! now they heave ! the hateful Pulpit rearing !
‘Twould strike thee dead, wer’t thou within the Hearing ;
Alas ! above thy Seat, the Machine glories
To have surmounted thee five lofty stories ;
The Sexton at three strokes, makes the Nail enter,
And now the Pulpit stands firm on its Center.

poem by Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux from Le Lutrin
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!

Canto II

ARGUMENT

Forsaken Nancy in this Canto,
Brings 'gainst her John a Quo Warranto,
'Cause he had left her in the Lurch,
To rear a Pulpit in the Church :
And under colour of Religion
Courted another pretty Pigeon.
Now you must know that all the Blame
Was laid upon the Baggage Fame ;
Who rais'd between them the sad Squabble,
By forging of this Idle Fable !
Next you shall see in Sluggish Dress,
That Gallant Lady Idleness ;
Who has more Suitors waiting on her,
Than the most virtuous Maid of Honour ;
But here I almost had forgot
To won the Error of our Plot,
The Poet laid his Scene in France,
But I can't tell by what Mischance,
He now and then dares venture over,
And steps as far as Deal or Dover.

Mean while a Hagg, made up of Mouths and Ears,
Who prates both what, and more than what she hears,
The Moderns call her Fame : This crafy Jade
Of Slandring drives and unknown subtle trade ;
For she had got the Faculty to Brew
With dubious, Certain ; and with false, things true ;
And with such Art she her Ingredients mixed,
That where she pleas'd A Calumny she fixed ;
This Baggage once in her mad Moods and Tenses
Had Lombard read, the Master o'th' Sentences ;
Thence she had learn'd to spread a Lie Malicious,
And then to serve a Turn, us'd the Officious ;
When her light business call'd to the Court
Us'd the Jocose, and lewdly ly'd in sport ;
Her trade she practiced first in private Letters,
Bespatter'd there, and vilifi'd her Betters ;
In Coffee-houses then she grew a Prater,
Broke off al Trades, she sets up Observator.
A Justice once clapt her i'th' Stocks and stript her,
Then by a tough-back't Knave feverely Whipt her ;
Not warn'd, the Brazen-face would out be flying
Against the State with her Opprobrious Lying ;
Jockey for Leasing put her to the Horning,
In England she was Pillory'd for Stuborning ;
A thousand pounds for False News she was fined ;
And till she paid the fine to Gaol Confined :
Venturing at last on Scandalum Magnatum,
Two Thousand more ; yet still the Jade did rate 'um :
Thus did the Gypsey flutter up and down
Through City, Country, Village, and good Town ;
Once at a Barbers Shop she took a Lodging,
But fickle in her Humour soon was trudging
To th' Cross-keys, Gun, and Ship : still her Head Quarters
Where e're she roam'd by day, was the Crack-farters !
Forging, and telling Stories, with swift Wings
This tale at last to Jealous Nancy brings :
She tells ( her tale I'm sure, lost nought i'th' telling, )
How Johns misguided zeal, 'gainst Vows rebelling,
Under a quaint pretence to set upright
A Pew ( forsooth ! ) intends to watch that Night ;
But the perfidious wretch, intends ( sayes fame )
To Gratifie another kind of Flame !
For tyr'd with Lawful Love, and honest Kisses,
He elswhere payes the Tribut of Careflies
Due to his Spouse alone : Easie Belief
Receiv'd the News with Terrour mixt with Grief !
With finger in Eye, and Hair about her Shoulders,
Poor Nan runs out ; thought Mad by the beholders,
Nor caring much whether she wrong or right him,
In this rude language straight begins t'Indite hime.
Dissembling Traitor ! could not Faith once plighted,
Nor those Embraces wherein we delighted,
Nor thy Poor Wench ready to run a Madding,
Cool thy hot Cod-piece, but thou must be Gadding ?
Perfidious Wretch ! didst thou sit up to make
A Clock or Watch, some Comfort I might take ;
And hope of Lawful gain might slake my Anguish,
Whilst in they Absence, I, poor I did Languish :
But what wild Phrenzie ? what capricious Folly ?
What Whimsey ? what Religious Melancholly ?
What strange Conondrum's got into they Head,
To leave for Rotten Pulpit thy sweet Bed ?
Ah ! whether goest my John ? dost Fly thy Nancy ?
Can our delightful Nights forsake thy Fancy ?
What ! can'st with dry Eyes view my tear still Dropping ?
See how the Stupid Block stands mute, and moping !
If my soft Heart easie to thy Desires
Hath alwayes met with Equal Flames thy fires ;
And if to gratifie thy Itch, ( my Honey, )
I stood not on th' nice points of Matrimony ;
If in my Arms, thou, thou hast had sole part,
Speak not that wounding, killing word, Depart.
Thus spoke our Lover whining, plain and round,
And clos'd her speech with an half-dying swoon ;
Upon a Pallet backwards down she fell,
Fortune had plac'd the Couch exceeding well ;
Twenty to one she else had broke her Rump,
Up starts amazed John, bestirs his Stump,
'Twixt Zeal and Love, his heart stood long divided,
Till Zeal at last the Question decided ;
And thus his smothr'd passion got vent,
Smoothing with kind words o're his wild Intent.
Dear Spouse, ( said he with voice unkidnly kind )
Shall e're thy favours slide out of my mind ?
The Rhine shall first his streams mix with the Loire,
Ere I forget the fence of my Devoir ;
Nay first shall France keep Faith and Oath with Spain,
E're I thy love-sick Agonies disdain :
But never Dream, that when I gave my Troth,
I would become a Slave unto my Oath ;
Our Nation knows no such nice Obligation,
The Ancient Faith's now quite worn out of fashion ;
Had the Fates trusted me with mine own Lot,
I ne're had rashly knit the Wedlock Knot ;
But from those subtle Rites had still been free
To taft the fruit of the forbidden Tree ;
But since that matters in this posture stand,
Grudge not my Glory, if I lend a hand
To this bless'd work, the Height of my desire,
To raise the Pulpit in the sacred Quire.
Compose these passions strugling in thy Breast,
Dry up thos Tears ! Come Sweet ! Lye down and rest !
He said ; but what, the Wench regarded not,
E're half was done, the first she had forgot ;
With hollow Cheeks, and staring Eyes she view'd him,
Trembling she lay, and in her heart beshrew'd him ;
Long silent, stifled thoughts with pain at last
Broke prison, Raging then she Rail'd as fast.
No, no, Base Verlet ! Thy Sire ne're was Baker,
Nor cam'st thou of the blood of a Clock-maker !
Thy Mother never rode in Hackney Coach,
A Bastard-brat rather of some Turn-brooch,
Or Caucasus did form thee, of a Pebble,
Or some fell Tigress nurs'd thee with her nibble ;
Sure with her Milk thou drew'st in Feritie,
Other I'le ne're believe until I Die :
For to what end should I the Rascal flatter ?
Let me sob, roar, or swoon, 'tis all a matter
To marble-hearted John ; and all I gain
Is to draw on fresh injuries again !
A Pew ! what Mortal throat can ever gulp it,
Thus to compare me with a Rotten Pulpit !
Has all my scolding squeez'd from's Eyes one Tear ?
Has he express't the least Remorse for's Dear ?
When he came hither first, this paltrey Jack
Had scarce a Shooe to's foot, a Rag to's back ;
Nay I can safely swear't, because I know't.
The Villain was not worth a single Groat ;
I like a Fool took him to Bed and Board,
And now the Rascal swaggers like a Lord :
But why thus Raving do I beat a Rock,
Only to purchase foam ? Base Spirits mock
Abject complaints ; Humble Petitionings,
Are sill contemn'd, but in the breasts of Kings.
Then study brave Revenge, despised Love,
Nor shall Repentance e're my Pity move ;
And when thay Ears shall hear my Passing-bell,
Then, then expect Another kind of Knell ;
My Angry Ghost shall haunt thy Conscious Soul,
I'le Ring thee such a Peal, shall make thee Howl ;
Hobgoblins shall thy house turn topsey-turvey,
Conscience shall then upbraid thee, what a Scurvey
Knave thou hast been to thy Deserted Wife,
And make thee Pulpits Curse, whil'st thou hast Life !
Nay, I'le pursue thee to the Stygian Lake,
And ugly Ballads, Boyes of thee shall make.
This said, she dropt backwards upon her breech,
For raging sorrow quite had stopt her speech ;
The noise awaken'd Asse her trusty Maid,
Who Hobling soon came in unto her Aid.
Now Darkness had exil'd th'expiring Day,
Supper to Service had given leave to play ;
The fudling Chanters now in Clubs were got,
Wetting their Whistles with the good Ale-pot.
Brontin, whom Zeal for th'service had made quicker,
Bethought himself, A Punch of Nappy Liquor
In a Cold Winters Night was no false Latine,
To qualifie Devotion for the Matine ;
This Cargo, Gilotin's deep providence
Laid in ; he was ( say truth ) A man of sence,
The smell o'th' Bottle made him eas'ly Jugg;
Thus trudg'd he nimble : Whom should he stumble next on,
But that tough stick of Wood, Boirude the Sexton ?
Now both together warm'd with Zeal were hasting
To mmet the Clock-maker, for Time was wasting :
Come ! come away ! (cry'd they ) with quick devotion,
The Sun's now gone to tipple in the Ocean !
The Murky Night which veils the Evenings bravery,
Will make a handsome Cloak to hide our Knavery ;
What ails thee Man ? where hast of late been mew'd up ?
Thou look'st as if first eaten, and then spew'd up :
Where is that morning Zeal, that with thee rose ?
Chear up, and pluck thy Heart out of thy Hose !
Come, fear no Colours ! The end the Act will hallow !
Then whether Honour calls thee, bravely follow.
The Clock-maker knew not well how to take it,
Nor whether Jest or Earnest he should make it,
Half Pale, half Red he look't with motley passion,
For Shame and Rage had dy'd him in that fashion ;
Yet, on my word the Knave had wit in's Anger,
And wisely took along his rusty Hanger ;
For he resolv'd at a Dead pinch to knock it,
And scorn'd to stand, and sneak with hands in Pocket :
Nails be a handful took, and on his shoulder
A Massie Beetle, frighted the beholders;
An Axe, a Saw, a Hammer, and a Mallet
The sturdy knave had truss'd in Leathern Wallet ;
They march accoutred in Warlike Parade,
And John appears at th' Head of the Brigade ;
The silent Moon, viewing their stately Port,
Withdrew her Beams, she might not spoil the sport.
Discord saw all, and set up a loud Laughter,
Th' Eccho rebounds and shook Heavens hollow Raster ;
The Noise had almost waken'd Idleness
As she at Court with Ease held sweet Caress,
The frisking Pleasures danced by her side,
The Nuns her Votaries, her Deify'd ;
One, in a Corner Stufft the Prebends hides,
One, pleasantly the Chanons robes Derides ;
Luxury to her State devoutly bows,
And Sleep drop't Poppy0water on her Brows.
This Even the sleepy Dose they had redoubled,
In vain! for Discord's cries her sleep had troubled !
And envious Night conspiring with that Devil,
Buzz'd in her Drowsy Ears the Tragick Evil ;
Night tells her how the Prelate did design
To make Disturbance in the Sacred Shrine ;
How she had seen three Mortal Foes to Quiet,
March in Battalia ; and Three will make a Ryot :
How Discord threatned, to augment the fray,
A Pulpit to erect by Break or Day ;
Which would the people raise in Mutinies,
Thus, thus the Fates had written in the Skies !
At this Report, portending deadly Harm,
Idleness rais'd her self up on one Arm,
One Languid Eye she opes, and with weak Voice
Drop't these soft whispers ; fearing her own Noise.
Ah Night ! sad tale thou tell'st ! what envious Fiend,
With new Combustions doth my Quiet rend ?
Ah ! what's become of those thrice blessed Dayes,
When Idle Princes crown'd with wither'd Bayes
Slept on their Thrones, and tamely worshipt me,
Leaving their Scepters to a Deputy ?
All Night the Court did Feast, and slept all Day,
Creeping abroad perhaps when verdant May
With Gentle breathing Zephyrs sweet approaches
Call'd them to th' Park, drawn in six Horse-and-Coaches.
That happy Age is fled ; for now a Prince
Has got the Throne, and banisht me long since ;
Scorning my Pleasures : to my melting Charms
He stops his Ears with Thundring Drums Alarms :
And breaks my pleasing Dreams with Trumpets Sound,
Nor Summers Heat, nor Winters Frost confound
His Daring projects ; warlike preparations,
Resolv'd to Attack the World with fresh Invasions !
Nay all my Subjects ripe for Insurrection
Imbibe with eagerness the Dire Infection.
'Twice had I hop'd with flatt'ring Peace to cool
His martial Ardor; 'twice to shut the School
Of Janus : All in Vain ! expect I find
More Worlds to satiate his Ambitious Mind !
'Twould tire my feeble feet to trace the way
Where the hard Stages of his Valour lay ;
But yet I pleas'd my self with hopes to meet
For my disturbed Soul some safe Retreat :
I fancied that A Church might ease afford,
Where Church-men sleep in Bed, and wake at Board ;
But Oh! these Chanters, Chanons make a Pother,
A Dog can't rest, whil'st one worries another :
And which provokes me most to Indignation,
The whole world's set a gog on Reformation.
What Holy Mother Church, Imposing faith,
This Age receives not with Implicit Faith ;
Nay Blind Obedience now is styl'd A Vice,
Sawcy Dissenters will be counted wise ;
Men now Plead Conscience, make a heavy Din
With Heaven and Hell ; of Duty prate, and Sin :
These empty Names have set the Worlds on fire !
Now e're they swallow, the will first enquire ;
They'l see a Reason given for Church Commands,
And use their Eyes, e're they bestir their Hands.
Who can Remember, and not sadly grieve,
Those easie dayes when on eht Prelates sleeve
The supple Laity had pinn'd their Soul,
Nor Private durst the Publick Faith Controll ;
When Canons, Conscience ; Rubrick, Reason mated,
And Souls had learn't to bow, and ne're debate it ?
Then Masse's, Ave's Credo's Glory earned,
Blind Vot'ries then could rech it unconcerned !
But now the Begging Fryars are all for travel,
They exercise their Toes in Dust and Gravel ;
The preaching Friars such a coil do keep,
My aking head can get no wink of Sleep !
Yet my Cistercians did a little bless
My hopes, in Cloisters pamp'ring Idleness,
When a Mischievous Pulpits Curst intent
Threatens to force me thence to Banishment!
Ah Night ! the Dear Associate of my Sleep,
Wilt with these Villains Correspondence keep ?
Ah Night ! Sweet Night ! If e're thou didst Essay
With me the Joyes concealed from Day,
Then suffer not..... Much more she would have spoke,
Had not a Qualm crept o're her heart, and broke
The Languid purpose : Down she sank in Bed,
Sigh'd, stretch'd her Arms, clos'd Eyes, and Slumbered !

poem by Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux from Le Lutrin
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Psalm 86

Thy gracious ear, O Lord, encline,
O hear me I thee pray,
For I am poor, and almost pine
With need, and sad decay.
Preserve my soul, for *I have trod Heb. I am good, loving,
Thy waies, and love the just, a doer of good and
Save thou thy servant O my God holy things
Who still in thee doth trust.
Pity me Lord for daily thee
I call; 4 O make rejoyce
Thy Servants Soul; for Lord to thee
I lift my soul and voice,
For thou art good, thou Lord art prone
To pardon, thou to all
Art full of mercy, thou alone
To them that on thee call.
Unto my supplication Lord
Give ear, and to the crie
Of my incessant praiers afford
Thy hearing graciously.
I in the day of my distress
Will call on thee for aid;
For thou wilt grant me free access
And answer, what I pray'd.
Like thee among the gods is none
O Lord, nor any works
Of all that other Gods have done
Like to thy glorious works.
The Nations all whom thou hast made
Shall come, and all shall frame
To bow them low before thee Lord,
And glorifie thy name.
For great thou art, and wonders great
By thy strong hand are done,
Thou in thy everlasting Seat
Remainest God alone.
Teach me O Lord thy way most right,
I in thy truth will hide,
To fear thy name my heart unite
So shall it never slide.
Thee will I praise O Lord my God
Thee honour, and adore
With my whole heart, and blaze abroad
Thy name for ever more.
For great thy mercy is toward me,
And thou hast free'd my Soul
Eev'n from the lowest Hell set free
From deepest darkness foul.
O God the proud against me rise
And violent men are met
To seek my life, and in their eyes
No fear of thee have set.
But thou Lord art the God most mild
Readiest thy grace to shew,
Slow to be angry, and art stil'd
Most mercifull, most true.
O turn to me thy face at length,
And me have mercy on,
Unto thy servant give thy strength,
And save thy hand-maids Son.
Some sign of good to me afford,
And let my foes then see
And be asham'd, because thou Lord
Do'st help and comfort me.

poem by John Milton
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Psalm 63

Longing after God; or, The love of God better than life.

Great God, indulge my humble claim,
Thou art my hope, my joy, my rest;
The glories that compose thy name
Stand all engaged to make me blest.

Thou great and good, thou just and wise,
Thou art my Father and my God;
And I am thine by sacred ties;
Thy son, thy servant, bought with blood

With heart, and eyes, and lifted hands,
For thee I long, to thee I look,
As travellers in thirsty lands
Pant for the cooling water-brook.

With early feet I love t' appear
Among thy saints, and seek thy face;
Oft have I seen thy glory there,
And felt the power of sovereign grace.

Not fruits nor wines that tempt our taste,
Nor all the joys our senses know,
Could make me so divinely blest,
Or raise my cheerful passions so.

My life itself without thy love
No taste of pleasure could afford;
'Twould but a tiresome burden prove,
If I were banish'd from the Lord.

Amidst the wakeful hours of night,
When busy cares afflict my head,
One thought of thee gives new delight,
And adds refreshment to my bed.

I'll lift my hands, I'll raise my voice,
While I have breath to pray or praise;
This work shall make my heart rejoice,
And spend the remnant of my days.

poem by Isaac Watts
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Psalm 115

The true God our refuge; or, Idolatry reproved.

Not to ourselves, who are but dust,
Not to ourselves is glory due,
Eternal God, thou only just,
Thou only gracious, wise, and true.

Shine forth in all thy dreadful name;
Why should a heathen's haughty tongue
Insult us, and, to raise our shame,
Say, "Where's the God you've served so long?"

The God we serve maintains his throne
Above the clouds, beyond the skies;
Through all the earth his will is done;
He knows our groans, he hears our cries.

But the vain idols they adore
Are senseless shapes of stone and wood;
At best a mass of glitt'ring ore,
A silver saint or golden god.

[With eyes and ears they carve their head;
Deaf are their ears, their eyes are blind;
In vain are costly off'rings made,
And vows are scattered in the wind.

Their feet were never made to move,
Nor hands to save when mortals pray;
Mortals that pay them fear or love
Seem to be blind and deaf as they.]

O Isr'el! make the Lord thy hope,
Thy help, thy refuge, and thy rest;
The Lord shall build thy ruins up,
And bless the people and the priest.

The dead no more can speak thy praise,
They dwell in silence and the grave;
But we shall live to sing thy grace,
And tell the world thy power to save.

poem by Isaac Watts
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Verses - Spoken to Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles-Harley, Countess of Oxford

Madam, Since Anna visited the muse's seat,
(Around her tomb let weeping angels wait)
Hail, thou, the brightest of thy sex, and best,
Most gracious neighbour and most welcome guest:
Not Harley's self, to Cam and Isis dear,
In virtues and in arts great Oxford's heir,
Not he such present honour shall receive
As to his consort we aspire to give.

Writings of men our thought to-day neglects,
To pay due homage to the softer sex:
Plato and Tully we forbear to read,
And their great followers whom this house has bred,
To study lessons from thy morals given,
And shining characters impress'd by Heaven.
Science in books no longer we pursue,
Minerva's self in Harriet's face we view;
For when with Beauty we can Virtue join,
We paint the semblance of a form divine.

Their pious incense let our neighbours bring
To the kind memory of some bounteous king:
With grateful hand due altars let them raise
To some good knight's or holy prelate's praise;
We tune our voices to a nobler theme,
Your eyes we bless, your praises we proclaim;
Saint John's was founded in a woman's name.
Enjoin'd by statute, to the fair we bow;
In spite of time we keep our ancient vow;
What Marg'ret Tudor was, in Harriet Harley now.

poem by Matthew Prior
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Perinde AC Cadaver

In a vision Liberty stood
By the childless charm-stricken bed
Where, barren of glory and good,
Knowing nought if she would not or would,
England slept with her dead.

Her face that the foam had whitened,
Her hands that were strong to strive,
Her eyes whence battle had lightened,
Over all was a drawn shroud tightened
To bind her asleep and alive.

She turned and laughed in her dream
With grey lips arid and cold;
She saw not the face as a beam
Burn on her, but only a gleam
Through her sleep as of new-stamped gold.

But the goddess, with terrible tears
In the light of her down-drawn eyes,
Spake fire in the dull sealed ears;
"Thou, sick with slumbers and fears,
Wilt thou sleep now indeed or arise?

"With dreams and with words and with light
Memories and empty desires
Thou hast wrapped thyself round all night;
Thou hast shut up thine heart from the right,
And warmed thee at burnt-out fires.

"Yet once if I smote at thy gate,
Thy sons would sleep not, but heard;
O thou that wast found so great,
Art thou smitten with folly or fate
That thy sons have forgotten my word?

O Cromwell's mother, O breast
That suckled Milton! thy name
That was beautiful then, that was blest,
Is it wholly discrowned and deprest,
Trodden under by sloth into shame?

"Why wilt thou hate me and die?
For none can hate me and live.
What ill have I done to thee? why
Wilt thou turn from me fighting, and fly,
Who would follow thy feet and forgive?

"Thou hast seen me stricken, and said,
What is it to me? I am strong:
Thou hast seen me bowed down on my dead
And laughed and lifted thine head,
And washed thine hands of my wrong.

"Thou hast put out the soul of thy sight;
Thou hast sought to my foemen as friend,
To my traitors that kiss me and smite,
To the kingdoms and empires of night
That begin with the darkness, and end.

"Turn thee, awaken, arise,
With the light that is risen on the lands,
With the change of the fresh-coloured skies;
Set thine eyes on mine eyes,
Lay thy hands in my hands."

She moved and mourned as she heard,
Sighed and shifted her place,
As the wells of her slumber were stirred
By the music and wind of the word,
Then turned and covered her face.

"Ah," she said in her sleep,
"Is my work not done with and done?
Is there corn for my sickle to reap?
And strange is the pathway, and steep,
And sharp overhead is the sun.

"I have done thee service enough,
Loved thee enough in my day;
Now nor hatred nor love
Nor hardly remembrance thereof
Lives in me to lighten my way.

"And is it not well with us here?
Is change as good as is rest?
What hope should move me, or fear,
That eye should open or ear,
Who have long since won what is best?

"Where among us are such things
As turn men's hearts into hell?
Have we not queens without stings,
Scotched princes, and fangless kings?
Yea," she said, "we are well.

"We have filed the teeth of the snake
Monarchy, how should it bite?
Should the slippery slow thing wake,
It will not sting for my sake;
Yea," she said, "I do right."

So spake she, drunken with dreams,
Mad; but again in her ears
A voice as of storm-swelled streams
Spake; "No brave shame then redeems
Thy lusts of sloth and thy fears?

"Thy poor lie slain of thine hands,
Their starved limbs rot in thy sight;
As a shadow the ghost of thee stands
Among men living and lands,
And stirs not leftward or right.

"Freeman he is not, but slave,
Who stands not out on my side;
His own hand hollows his grave,
Nor strength is in me to save
Where strength is none to abide.

"Time shall tread on his name
That was written for honour of old,
Who hath taken in change for fame
Dust, and silver, and shame,
Ashes, and iron, and gold."

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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A Funeral Elegy on the Death of The Lady Penelope Clifton

Since thou art dead, Clifton, the world may see
A certain end of flesh and blood in thee;
Till then a way was left for man to cry,
Flesh may be made so pure it cannot die;
But now thy unexpected death doth strike
With grief the better and the worse alike;
The good are sad they are not with thee there,
The bad have found they must not tarry here.
Death, I confess, 'tis just in thee to try
Thy pow'r on us, for thou thyself must die;
Thou pay'st but wages, Death, yet I would know
What strange delight thou tak'st to pay them so;
When thou com'st face to face thou strik'st us mute
And all our liberty is to dispute
With thee behind thy back, which I will use:
If thou hadst bravery in thee, thou wouldst choose
(Since thou art absolute, and canst controul
All things beneath a reasonable soul)
Some looked for way of killing; if her day
Had ended in a fire, a sword, or sea,
Or hadst thou come hid in a hundred years
To make an end of all her hopes and fears,
Or any other way direct to thee
Which Nature might esteem an enemy,
Who would have chid thee? now it shews thy hand
Desires to cozen where it might command:
Thou art not prone to kill, but where th' intent
Of those that suffer is their nourishment;
If thou canst steal into a dish, and creep
When all is still as though into a sleep,
And cover thy dry body with a draught,
Whereby some innocent lady may be caught,
And cheated of her life, then thou wilt come
And stretch thyself upon her early tomb,
And laugh as pleased, to show thou canst devour
Mortality as well by wit as pow'r.
I would thou hadst had eyes, or not a dart,
That yet at least, the clothing of that heart
Thou struck'st so spitefully might have appear'd
To thee, and with a reverence have been fear'd:
But since thou art so blind, receive from me
Who 'twas on whom thou wrought'st this tragedy;
She was a lady, who for public fame,
Never (since she in thy protection came,
Who sett'st all living tongues at large) received
A blemish; with her beauty she deceived
No man; when taken with it, they agree
'Twas Nature's fault, when from 'em 'twas in thee.
And such her virtue was, that although she
Received as much joy, having pass'd through thee,
As ever any did; yet hath thy hate
Made her as little better in her state,
As ever it did any being here;
She lived with us as if she had been there.
Such ladies thou canst kill no more, but so
I give thee warning here to kill no moe;
For if thou dost, my pen shall make the rest
Of those that live, especially the best,
Whom thou most thirstest for, to abandon all
Those fruitless things, which thou wouldst have us call
Preservatives, keeping, their diet so,
As the long-living poor their neighbours do:
Then shall we have them long, and they at last
Shall pass from thee to her, but not so fast.

poem by Francis Beaumont
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On the Death of Mr. Crashaw

Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given
The two most sacred names of earth and heaven,
The hard and rarest union which can be
Next that of godhead with humanity.
Long did the Muses banish'd slaves abide,
And built vain pyramids to mortal pride;
Like Moses thou (though spells and charms withstand)
Hast brought them nobly home back to their Holy Land.

Ah wretched we, poets of earth! but thou
Wert living the same poet which thou'rt now.
Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine,
And joy in an applause so great as thine,
Equal society with them to hold,
Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old.
And they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see
How little less than they exalted man may be.
Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell,
The heavenliest thing on earth still keeps up Hell.
Nor have we yet quite purg'd the Christian land;
Still idols here like calves at Bethel stand.
And though Pan's death long since all oracles broke,
Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke:
Nay with the worst of heathen dotage we
(Vain men!) the monster Woman deify;
Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face,
And Paradise in them by whom we lost it, place.
What different faults corrupt our Muses thus
Wanton as girls, as old wives fabulous!

Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain
The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain
That her eternal verse employ'd should be
On a less subject than eternity;
And for a sacred mistress scorn'd to take
But her whom God himself scorn'd not his spouse to make.
It (in a kind) her miracle did do;
A fruitful mother was, and virgin too.

How well, blest swan, did fate contrive thy death;
And make thee render up thy tuneful breath
In thy great mistress' arms! thou most divine
And richest offering of Loretto's shrine!
Where like some holy sacrifice t' expire
A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire.
Angels (they say) brought the fam'd chapel there,
And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air.
'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they,
And thou, their charge, went singing all the way.

Pardon, my Mother Church, if I consent
That angels led him when from thee he went,
For even in error sure no danger is
When join'd with so much piety as his.
Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak't, and grief,
Ah that our greatest faults were in belief!
And our weak reason were even weaker yet,
Rather than thus our wills too strong for it.
His faith perhaps in some nice tenents might
Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
And I myself a Catholic will be,
So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee.

Hail, bard triumphant! and some care bestow
On us, the poets militant below!
Oppos'd by our old enemy, adverse chance,
Attack'd by envy, and by ignorance,
Enchain'd by beauty, tortured by desires,
Expos'd by tyrant Love to savage beasts and fires.
Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise,
And like Elijah, mount alive the skies.
Elisha-like (but with a wish much less,
More fit thy greatness, and my littleness)
Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove
So humble to esteem, so good to love)
Not that thy spirit might on me doubled be,
I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me;
And when my Muse soars with so strong a wing,
'Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee to sing.

poem by Abraham Cowley
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St. Thomas' Day

We were not by when Jesus came,
But round us, far and near,
We see His trophies, and His name
In choral echoes hear.
In a fair ground our lot is cast,
As in the solemn week that past,
While some might doubt, but all adored,
Ere the whole widowed Church had seen her risen Lord.

Slowly, as then, His bounteous hand
The golden chain unwinds,
Drawing to Heaven with gentlest band
Wise hearts and loving minds.
Love sought Him first--at dawn of morn
From her sad couch she sprang forlorn,
She sought to weep with Thee alone,
And saw Thine open grave, and knew that thou wert gone.

Reason and Faith at once set out
To search the SAVIOUR'S tomb;
Faith faster runs, but waits without,
As fearing to presume,
Till Reason enter in, and trace
Christ's relics round the holy place -
"Here lay His limbs, and here His sacred head,
And who was by, to make His new-forsaken bed?"

Both wonder, one believes--but while
They muse on all at home,
No thought can tender Love beguile
From Jesus' grave to roam.
Weeping she stays till He appear -
Her witness first the Church must hear -
All joy to souls that can rejoice
With her at earliest call of His dear gracious voice.

Joy too to those, who love to talk
In secret how He died,
Though with sealed eyes awhile they walk,
Nor see him at their side:
Most like the faithful pair are they,
Who once to Emmaus took their way,
Half darkling, till their Master shied
His glory on their souls, made known in breaking bread.

Thus, ever brighter and more bright,
On those He came to save
The Lord of new-created light
Dawned gradual from the grave;
Till passed th' enquiring day-light hour,
And with closed door in silent bower
The Church in anxious musing sate,
As one who for redemption still had long to wait.

Then, gliding through th' unopening door,
Smooth without step or sound,
"Peace to your souls," He said--no more -
They own Him, kneeling round.
Eye, ear, and hand, and loving heart,
Body and soul in every part,
Successive made His witnesses that hour,
Cease not in all the world to show His saving power.

Is there, on earth, a spirit frail,
Who fears to take their word,
Scarce daring, through the twilight pale,
To think he sees the Lord?
With eyes too tremblingly awake
To bear with dimness for His sake?
Read and confess the Hand Divine
That drew thy likeness here so true in every line.

For all thy rankling doubts so sore,
Love thou thy Saviour still,
Him for thy Lord and God adore,
And ever do His will.
Though vexing thoughts may seem to last,
Let not thy soul be quite o'ercast; -
Soon will He show thee all His wounds, and say,
"Long have I known Thy name--know thou My face alway."

poem by John Keble
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The Men Of Old

WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast!
Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art,
If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart,
Thou tread'st the solemn Pantheon of the Past,
By the great Future's dazzling hope made blind
To all the beauty, power, and truth behind.
Not without reverent awe shouldst thou put by
The cypress branches and the amaranth blooms,
Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon their tombs
The effigies of old confessors lie,
God's witnesses; the voices of His will,
Heard in the slow march of the centuries still!
Such were the men at whose rebuking frown,
Dark with God's wrath, the tyrant's knee went down;
Such from the terrors of the guilty drew
The vassal's freedom and the poor man's due.
St. Anselm (may he rest forevermore
In Heaven's sweet peace!) forbade, of old, the sale
Of men as slaves, and from the sacred pale
Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor.
To ransom souls from bonds and evil fate
St. Ambrose melted down the sacred plate, —
Image of saint, the chalice, and the pix,
Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks.
'Man is worth more than temples!' he replied
To such as came his holy work to chide.
And brave Cesarius, stripping altars bare,
And coining from the Abbey's golden hoard
The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer
Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord
Stifled their love of man, — 'An earthen dish
The last sad supper of the Master bore:
Most miserable sinners! do ye wish
More than your Lord, and grudge His dying poor
What your own pride and not His need requires?
Souls, than these shining gauds, He values more;
Mercy, not sacrifice, His heart desires!'
O faithful worthies! resting far behind
In your dark ages, since ye fell asleep,
Much has been done for truth and human-kind;
Shadows are scattered wherein ye groped blind;
Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leap
Through peoples driven in your day like sheep;
Yet, like your own, our age's sphere of light,
Though widening still, is walled around by night;
With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has read,
Skeptic at heart, the lessons of its Head;
Counting, too oft, its living members less
Than the wall's garnish and the pulpit's dress;
World-moving zeal with power to bless and feed
Life's fainting pilgrims, to their utter need,
Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed;
Sect builds and worships where its wealth and pride
And vanity stand shrined and deified,
Careless that in the shadow of its walls
God's living temple into ruin falls.
We need, methinks, the prophet-hero still,
Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of will,
To tread the land, even now, as Xavier trod
The streets of God, barefoot, with his bell,
Proclaiming freedom in the name of God,
And startling tyrants with the fear of hell!
Soft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well;
But to rebuke the age's popular crime,
We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old time!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Upon The Translation Of The Psalms By Sir Philip Sidney And The Countess Of Pembroke, His Sister

ETERNAL God—for whom who ever dare
Seek new expressions, do the circle square,
And thrust into straight corners of poor wit
Thee, who art cornerless and infinite—
I would but bless Thy name, not name Thee now
—And Thy gifts are as infinite as Thou—
Fix we our praises therefore on this one,
That, as thy blessed Spirit fell upon
These Psalms' first author in a cloven tongue
—For 'twas a double power by which he sung
The highest matter in the noblest form—
So thou hast cleft that Spirit, to perform
That work again, and shed it here, upon
Two, by their bloods, and by Thy Spirit one ;
A brother and a sister, made by Thee
The organ, where Thou art the harmony.
Two that make one John Baptist's holy voice,
And who that Psalm, 'Now let the Isles rejoice,'
Have both translated, and applied it too,
Both told us what, and taught us how to do.
They show us islanders our Joy, our King ;
They tell us why, and teach us how to sing.
Make all this all three choirs, heaven, earth, and spheres ;
The first, Heaven, hath a song, but no man hears ;
The spheres have music, but they have no tongue,
Their harmony is rather danced than sung ;
But our third choir, to which the first gives ear
—For Angels learn by what the Church does here—
This choir hath all. The organist is he
Who hath tuned God and man, the organ we ;
The songs are these, which heaven's high holy Muse
Whisper'd to David, David to the Jews ;
And David's successors in holy zeal,
In forms of joy and art do re-reveal
To us so sweetly and sincerely too,
That I must not rejoice as I would do,
When I behold that these Psalms are become
So well attired abroad, so ill at home,
So well in chambers, in Thy Church so ill,
As I can scarce call that reform'd until
This be reform'd ; would a whole state present
A lesser gift than some one man hath sent ?
And shall our Church unto our Spouse and King
More hoarse, more harsh than any other, sing ?
For that we pray, we praise Thy name for this,
Which, by this Moses and this Miriam, is
Already done ; and as those Psalms we call,
—Though some have other authors—David's all,
So though some have, some may some Psalms translate,
We Thy Sidneian psalms shall celebrate,
And, till we come th' extemporal song to sing
—Learn'd the first hour that we see the King,
Who hath translated those translators—may
These their sweet learned labours all the way
Be as our tuning, that when hence we part,
We may fall in with them, and sing our part !

poem by John Donne
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Remonstrance.

'Opinion, let me alone: I am not thine.
Prim Creed, with categoric point, forbear
To feature me my Lord by rule and line.
Thou canst not measure Mistress Nature's hair,
Not one sweet inch: nay, if thy sight is sharp,
Would'st count the strings upon an angel's harp?
Forbear, forbear.

'Oh let me love my Lord more fathom deep
Than there is line to sound with: let me love
My fellow not as men that mandates keep:
Yea, all that's lovable, below, above,
That let me love by heart, by heart, because
(Free from the penal pressure of the laws)
I find it fair.

'The tears I weep by day and bitter night,
Opinion! for thy sole salt vintage fall.
-- As morn by morn I rise with fresh delight,
Time through my casement cheerily doth call
`Nature is new, 'tis birthday every day,
Come feast with me, let no man say me nay,
Whate'er befall.'

'So fare I forth to feast: I sit beside
Some brother bright: but, ere good-morrow's passed,
Burly Opinion wedging in hath cried
`Thou shalt not sit by us, to break thy fast,
Save to our Rubric thou subscribe and swear --
`Religion hath blue eyes and yellow hair:'
She's Saxon, all.'

'Then, hard a-hungered for my brother's grace
Till well-nigh fain to swear his folly's true,
In sad dissent I turn my longing face
To him that sits on the left: `Brother, -- with you?'
-- `Nay, not with me, save thou subscribe and swear
`Religion hath black eyes and raven hair:'
Nought else is true.'

'Debarred of banquets that my heart could make
With every man on every day of life,
I homeward turn, my fires of pain to slake
In deep endearments of a worshipped wife.
`I love thee well, dear Love,' quoth she, `and yet
Would that thy creed with mine completely met,
As one, not two.'

'Assassin! Thief! Opinion, 'tis thy work.
By Church, by throne, by hearth, by every good
That's in the Town of Time, I see thee lurk,
And e'er some shadow stays where thou hast stood.
Thou hand'st sweet Socrates his hemlock sour;
Thou sav'st Barabbas in that hideous hour,
And stabb'st the good

'Deliverer Christ; thou rack'st the souls of men;
Thou tossest girls to lions and boys to flames;
Thou hew'st Crusader down by Saracen;
Thou buildest closets full of secret shames;
Indifferent cruel, thou dost blow the blaze
Round Ridley or Servetus; all thy days
Smell scorched; I would

'-- Thou base-born Accident of time and place --
Bigot Pretender unto Judgment's throne --
Bastard, that claimest with a cunning face
Those rights the true, true Son of Man doth own
By Love's authority -- thou Rebel cold
At head of civil wars and quarrels old --
Thou Knife on a throne --

'I would thou left'st me free, to live with love,
And faith, that through the love of love doth find
My Lord's dear presence in the stars above,
The clods below, the flesh without, the mind
Within, the bread, the tear, the smile.
Opinion, damned Intriguer, gray with guile,
Let me alone.'

poem by Sidney Lanier
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Davideis: A Sacred Poem Of The Troubles Of David (excerpt)

BOOK I (excerpt)
I sing the man who Judah's sceptre bore
In that right hand which held the crook before;
Who from best poet, best of kings did grow;
The two chief gifts Heav'n could on man bestow.
Much danger first, much toil did he sustain,
Whilst Saul and Hell cross'd his strong fate in vain.
Nor did his crown less painful work afford;
Less exercise his patience, or his sword;
So long her conqueror fortunes spite pursued;
Till with unwearied virtue he subdued
All homebred malice, and all foreign boasts;
Their strength was armies, his the Lord of Hosts.

Thou, who didst David's royal stem adorn,
And gav'st him birth from whom thy self wast born;
Who didst in triumph at death's court appear,
And slew'st him with thy nails, thy cross and spear,
Whilst Hell's black tyrant trembled to behold,
The glorious light he forfeited of old;
Who Heav'ns glad burden now, and justest pride,
Sit'st high enthron'd next thy great Father's side,
(Where hallowed flames help to adorn that head
Which once the blushing thorns environed,
Till crimson drops of precious blood hung down
Like rubies to enrich thine humble crown.)
Even thou my breast with such blest rage inspire,
As mov'd the tuneful strings of David's lyre,
Guide my bold steps with thine old travelling flame,
In these untrodden paths to sacred fame;
Lo, with pure hands thy heav'enly fires to take,
My well-chang'd Muse I a chaste vestal make!
From earth's vain joys, and love's soft witchcraft free,
I consecrate my Magdalene to thee!
Lo, this great work, a temple to thy praise,
On polish'd pillars of strong verse I raise!
A temple, where if thou vouchsafe to dwell,
It Solomon's, and Herod's shall excel.
Too long the Muses-land have heathen bin;
Their gods too long were devils, and virtues sin;
But thou, Eternal Word, has call'd forth me
Th' apostle, to convert that world to thee;
T' unbind the charms that in slight fables lie,
And teach that truth is purest poesy.

...

poem by Abraham Cowley
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To The Chapel Bell

"Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,
Am now enforst a far unfitter task
For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds,"
For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.

Oh how I hate the sound! it is the Knell,
That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour;
And loth am I, at Superstition's bell,
To quit or Morpheus or the Muses bower.
Better to lie and dose, than gape amain,
Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain.

Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers
Say hast thou ever summoned from his rest,
One being awakening to religious awe?
Or rous'd one pious transport in the breast?
Or rather, do not all reluctant creep
To linger out the hour, in listlessness or sleep?

I love the bell, that calls the poor to pray
Chiming from village church its chearful sound,
When the sun smiles on Labour's holy day,
And all the rustic train are gathered round,
Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best
And pleas'd to hail the day of piety and rest.

Or when, dim-shadowing o'er the face of day,
The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow,
As thro' the forest gloom I wend my way,
The minster curfew's sullen roar I know;
I pause and love its solemn toll to hear,
As made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear.

Nor not to me the unfrequent midnight knell
Tolls sternly harmonizing; on mine ear
As the deep death-fraught sounds long lingering dwell
Sick to the heart of Love and Hope and Fear
Soul-jaundiced, I do loathe Life's upland steep
And with strange envy muse the dead man's dreamless sleep.

But thou, memorial of monastic gall!
What Fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given?
Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall
The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven;
And this Dean's gape, and that Dean's nosal tone,
And Roman rites retain'd, tho' Roman faith be flown.

poem by Robert Southey
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Christmas Antiphones

I -- In Church

Thou whose birth on earth
Angels sang to men,
While thy stars made mirth,
Saviour, at thy birth,
This day born again;

As this night was bright
With thy cradle-ray,
Very light of light,
Turn the wild world's night
To thy perfect day.

God whose feet made sweet
Those wild ways they trod,
From thy fragrant feet
Staining field and street
With the blood of God;

God whose breast is rest
In the time of strife,
In thy secret breast
Sheltering souls opprest
From the heat of life;

God whose eyes are skies
Love-lit as with spheres
By the lights that rise
To thy watching eyes,
Orbed lights of tears;

God whose heart hath part
In all grief that is,
Was not man's the dart
That went through thine heart,
And the wound not his?

Where the pale souls wail,
Held in bonds of death,
Where all spirits quail,
Came thy Godhead pale
Still from human breath -

Pale from life and strife,
Wan with manhood, came
Forth of mortal life,
Pierced as with a knife,
Scarred as with a flame.

Thou the Word and Lord
In all time and space
Heard, beheld, adored,
With all ages poured
Forth before thy face,

Lord, what worth in earth
Drew thee down to die?
What therein was worth,
Lord, thy death and birth?
What beneath thy sky?

Light above all love
By thy love was lit,
And brought down the Dove
Feathered from above
With the wings of it.

From the height of night,
Was not thine the star
That led forth with might
By no worldly light
Wise men from afar?

Yet the wise men's eyes
Saw thee not more clear
Than they saw thee rise
Who in shepherd's guise
Drew as poor men near.

Yet thy poor endure,
And are with us yet;
Be thy name a sure
Refuge for thy poor
Whom men's eyes forget.

Thou whose ways we praised,
Clear alike and dark,
Keep our works and ways
This and all thy days
Safe inside thine ark.

Who shall keep thy sheep,
Lord, and lose not one?
Who save one shall keep,
Lest the shepherds sleep?
Who beside the Son?

From the grave-deep wave,
From the sword and flame,
Thou, even thou, shalt save
Souls of king and slave
Only by thy Name.

Light not born with morn
Or her fires above,
Jesus virgin-born,
Held of men in scorn,
Turn their scorn to love.

Thou whose face gives grace
As the sun's doth heat,
Let thy sunbright face
Lighten time and space
Here beneath thy feet.

Bid our peace increase,
Thou that madest morn;
Bid oppressions cease;
Bid the night be peace;
Bid the day be born.

II--OUTSIDE CHURCH

We whose days and ways
All the night makes dark,
What day shall we praise
Of these weary days
That our life-drops mark?

We whose mind is blind,
Fed with hope of nought;
Wastes of worn mankind,
Without heart or mind,
Without meat or thought;

We with strife of life
Worn till all life cease,
Want, a whetted knife,
Sharpening strife on strife,
How should we love peace?

Ye whose meat is sweet
And your wine-cup red,
Us beneath your feet
Hunger grinds as wheat,
Grinds to make you bread.

Ye whose night is bright
With soft rest and heat,
Clothed like day with light,
Us the naked night
Slays from street to street.

Hath your God no rod,
That ye tread so light?
Man on us as God,
God as man hath trod,
Trod us down with might.

We that one by one
Bleed from either's rod.
What for us hath done
Man beneath the sun,
What for us hath God?

We whose blood is food
Given your wealth to feed,
From the Christless rood
Red with no God's blood,
But with man's indeed;

How shall we that see
Nightlong overhead
Life, the flowerless tree,
Nailed whereon as we
Were our fathers dead -

We whose ear can hear,
Not whose tongue can name,
Famine, ignorance, fear,
Bleeding tear by tear
Year by year of shame,

Till the dry life die
Out of bloodless breast,
Out of beamless eye,
Out of mouths that cry
Till death feed with rest -

How shall we as ye,
Though ye bid us, pray?
Though ye call, can we
Hear you call, or see,
Though ye show us day?

We whose name is shame,
We whose souls walk bare,
Shall we call the same
God as ye by name,
Teach our lips your prayer?

God, forgive and give,
For His sake who died?
Nay, for ours who live,
How shall we forgive
Thee, then, on our side?

We whose right to light
Heaven's high noon denies,
Whom the blind beams smite
That for you shine bright,
And but burn our eyes,

With what dreams of beams
Shall we build up day,
At what sourceless streams
Seek to drink in dreams
Ere they pass away?

In what street shall meet,
At what market-place,
Your feet and our feet,
With one goal to greet,
Having run one race?

What one hope shall ope
For us all as one
One same horoscope,
Where the soul sees hope
That outburns the sun?

At what shrine what wine,
At what board what bread,
Salt as blood or brine,
Shall we share in sign
How we poor were fed?

In what hour what power
Shall we pray for morn,
If your perfect hour,
When all day bears flower,
Not for us is born?

III--BEYOND CHURCH

Ye that weep in sleep,
Souls and bodies bound,
Ye that all night keep
Watch for change, and weep
That no change is found;

Ye that cry and die,
And the world goes on
Without ear or eye,
And the days go by
Till all days are gone;

Man shall do for you,
Men the sons of man,
What no God would do
That they sought unto
While the blind years ran.

Brotherhood of good,
Equal laws and rights,
Freedom, whose sweet food
Feeds the multitude
All their days and nights

With the bread full-fed
Of her body blest
And the soul's wine shed
From her table spread
Where the world is guest,

Mingling me and thee,
When like light of eyes
Flashed through thee and me
Truth shall make us free,
Liberty make wise;

These are they whom day
Follows and gives light
Whence they see to slay
Night, and burn away
All the seed of night.

What of thine and mine,
What of want and wealth,
When one faith is wine
For my heart and thine
And one draught is health?

For no sect elect
Is the soul's wine poured
And her table decked;
Whom should man reject
From man's common board?

Gods refuse and choose,
Grudge and sell and spare;
None shall man refuse,
None of all men lose,
None leave out of care.

No man's might of sight
Knows that hour before;
No man's hand hath might
To put back that light
For one hour the more.

Not though all men call,
Kneeling with void hands,
Shall they see light fall
Till it come for all
Tribes of men and lands.

No desire brings fire
Down from heaven by prayer,
Though man's vain desire
Hang faith's wind-struck lyre
Out in tuneless air.

One hath breath and saith
What the tune shall be -
Time, who puts his breath
Into life and death,
Into earth and sea.

To and fro years flow,
Fill their tides and ebb,
As his fingers go
Weaving to and fro
One unfinished web.

All the range of change
Hath its bounds therein,
All the lives that range
All the byways strange
Named of death or sin.

Star from far to star
Speaks, and white moons wake,
Watchful from afar
What the night's ways are
For the morning's sake.

Many names and flames
Pass and flash and fall,
Night-begotten names,
And the night reclaims,
As she bare them, all.

But the sun is one,
And the sun's name Right;
And when light is none
Saving of the sun,
All men shall have light.

All shall see and be
Parcel of the morn;
Ay, though blind were we,
None shall choose but see
When that day is born.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Good Night

1.

Love, thou hast wandered far and wide,
But here thy wanderings cease;
Thy long- sought mate is by thy side,
And thou canst sleep in peace.

2.

Night moans outside our window- pane,
And weeps from dripping eaves;
The air is thick with falling rain
Upon dead autumn leaves.

3.

The winds of winter rave and chafe
Around thy tranquil nest,
But I am here, and thou art safe —
Thy very soul may rest.

4.

The wild surf- thunder swells and falls
Upon the seething beach —
Thy world within thy chamber- walls
Nor winds nor waves can reach.

5.

Sleep, fired eyes! Sleep well, dear heart,
That ached so long for me!
No sudden hand shall tear apart
These arms that shelter thee

6.

Sleep well, though late- found joys be brief,
And bought with tears and pain;
Shut out the memory of thy grief —
Thou didst not grieve in vain.

7.

Think of our treasure, kept in store,
And not the price it cost —
Those precious years, that come no more,
Which thou and I have lost.

8.

O, wasted years, that lie behind
Hush — what is past is past.
Enough that we have lived to find
What life is worth at last.

9.

Though Fate has robbed us of so much,
We know not what we miss;
All ills are recompensed in such
A priceless good as this.

10.

Sleep,dear! The hours are passing on —
The midnight bells have tolled;
Think not how much of life is gone,
But how much more we hold.

11.

Yes, more — as wise men reckon life —
Though no wise man can tell
How soon, for husband and for wife,
The stroke of doom will knell.

12.

No echo of that solemn chime
Break through thy perfect peace!
No forecast of that awful time
When time for us will cease:

13.

When happier worlds shall shine in space,
For other eyes to see,
And none have any more a place
For thy true love and thee.

14.

Be blind to all, and deaf, and dumb,
In thy quick heart's despite!
Content thee — though the end must come,
It will not come to- night.

15.

This night let never thought of ill
Disturb thy slumber deep;
To- morrow I shall have thee still,
So thou canst safely sleep:

16.

Reprieved from that appalling fear,
As from thy long regret —
Be our last parting far or near,
We have not reached it yet.

17.

Thy head lies pillowed on my breast —
My cheek upon thy brow —
Dear love, good night! Thou art at rest
From Past and Future now.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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To The New-Born

A BLESSING on thy head, thou child of many hopes and fears!
A rainbow-welcome thine hath been, of mingled smiles and tears.
Thy father greets thee unto life, with a full and chasten'd heart,
For a solemn gift from God thou com'st, all precious as thou art!

I see thee not asleep, fair boy, upon thy mother's breast,
Yet well I know how guarded there shall be thy rosy rest;
And how her soul with love, and prayer, and gladness, will o'erflow,
While bending o'er thy soft-seal'd eyes, thou dear one, well I know!

A blessing on thy gentle head! and bless'd thou art in truth,
For a home where God is felt, awaits thy childhood and thy youth:
Around thee pure and holy thoughts shall dwell as light and air,
And steal unto thine heart, and wake the germs now folded there.

Smile on thy mother! while she feels that unto her is given,
In that young day-spring glance the pledge of a soul to rear for heaven!
Smile! and sweet peace be o'er thy sleep, joy o'er thy wakening shed!
Blessings and blessings evermore, fair boy! upon thy head.

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Exequy on his Wife

ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint,
Instead of dirges this complaint;
And for sweet flowers to crown thy herse
Receive a strew of weeping verse
From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see
Quite melted into tears for thee.
Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,
My task hath been to meditate
On thee, on thee! Thou art the book,
The library whereon I look,
Tho' almost blind. For thee, loved clay,
I languish out, not live, the day....
Thou hast benighted me; thy set
This eve of blackness did beget,
Who wast my day (tho' overcast
Before thou hadst thy noontide past):
And I remember must in tears
Thou scarce hadst seen so many years
As day tells hours. By thy clear sun
My love and fortune first did run;
But thou wilt never more appear
Folded within my hemisphere,
Since both thy light and motion,
Like a fled star, is fall'n and gone,
And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish
The earth now interposed is....
I could allow thee for a time
To darken me and my sad clime;
Were it a month, a year, or ten,
I would thy exile live till then,
And all that space my mirth adjourn--
So thou wouldst promise to return,
And putting off thy ashy shroud
At length disperse this sorrow's cloud.
But woe is me! the longest date
Too narrow is to calculate
These empty hopes: never shall I
Be so much blest as to descry
A glimpse of thee, till that day come
Which shall the earth to cinders doom,
And a fierce fever must calcine
The body of this world--like thine,
My little world! That fit of fire
Once off, our bodies shall aspire
To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise
And view ourselves with clearer eyes
In that calm region where no night
Can hide us from each other's sight.
Meantime thou hast her, earth: much good
May my harm do thee! Since it stood
With Heaven's will I might not call
Her longer mine, I give thee all
My short-lived right and interest
In her whom living I loved best.
Be kind to her, and prithee look
Thou write into thy Doomsday book
Each parcel of this rarity
Which in thy casket shrined doth lie,
As thou wilt answer Him that lent--
Not gave--thee my dear monument.
So close the ground, and 'bout her shade
Black curtains draw: my bride is laid.
Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed
Never to be disquieted!
My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall overtake:
Till age, or grief, or sickness must
Marry my body to that dust
It so much loves; and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there: I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay:
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree
And every hour a step towards thee....
'Tis true--with shame and grief I yield--
Thou, like the van, first took'st the field;
And gotten hast the victory
In thus adventuring to die
Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.
But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And slow howe'er my marches be
I shall at last sit down by thee.
The thought of this bids me go on
And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort. Dear--forgive
The crime--I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet and never part.

poem by Henry King
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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