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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
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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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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
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Cock-Crowing

Father of lights! what sunny seed,
What glance of day hast Thou confined
Into this bird? To all the breed
This busy ray Thou hast assigned;
Their magnetism works all night,
And dreams of paradise and light.

Their eyes watch for the morning hue;
Their little grain, expelling night,
So shines and sings as if it knew
The path unto the house of light.
It seems their candle, howe'er done,
Was tinned and lighted at the sun.

If such a tincture, such a touch,
So firm a longing can empower,
Shall Thy own image think it much
To watch for Thy appearing hour?
If a mere blast so fill the sail,
Shall not the breath of God prevail?

O Thou immortal Light and Heat!
Whose hand so shines through all this frame
That, by the beauty of the seat,
We plainly see who made the same,
Seeing Thy seed abides in me,
Dwell Thou in it, and I in Thee!

To sleep without Thee is to die;
Yea, 'tis a death partakes of hell:
For where Thou dost not close the eye,
It never opens, I can tell.
In such a dark Egyptian border,
The shades of death dwell, and disorder.

If joys, and hopes, and earnest throes,
And hearts whose pulse beats still for light
Are given to birds, who but Thee knows
A love-sick soul's exalted flight?
Can souls be tracked by any eye
But His who gave them wings to fly?

Only this veil which Thou hast broke,
And must be broken yet in me,
This veil, I say, is all the cloak
And cloud which shadows Thee from me.
This veil Thy full-eyed love denies,
And only gleams and fractions spies.

O take it off! make no delay;
But brush me with Thy light that I
May shine unto a perfect day,
And warm me at Thy glorious eye!
O take it off, or till it flee,
Though with no lily, stay with me!

poem by Henry Vaughan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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From The Pulpit To The Pew

Fill us with your power Lord, from the pulpit to the pew,
Reach down and touch all of those whom you foreknew.

Move back into our hearts Lord and push all our wills aside,
Allow The Spirit to take over, as He's the One who lives inside.

Thank you for The Holy Spirit Lord, who you sent down from above,
Let Him speak to our hearts about Christ's compassion and His Love.

Please Lord, as a church put us back on that narrow but right track,
And forgive us for knowing so much, while we simply turn our back.

The power to change everyone is in The Word and in your name,
We need to share The Word, as many are ignorant of God, to our shame.

Please change our shame into examples, like those you once did send,
Help us to reach out with boldness Lord, to our family and a friend.

You saved us for this purpose Lord, at the moment of our salvation,
To go out and preach The Gospel to every person, tribe, and nation.

The early church made such an impact with this single state of mind,
Christ's return was so real; they dare not leave anyone left behind.

Please wake us out of our slumber, for a world that's truly in need,
For His coming is now nearer then when we first heard and believed.

So please reach down and touch us Lord, all whom you foreknew.
We need your power for this purpose Lord, from the pulpit to the pew.

(Copyright © 07/2002)

poem by Bob Gotti
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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 123

Pleading with submission.

O thou whose grace and justice reign
Enthroned above the skies,
To thee our hearts would tell their pain,
To thee we lift our eyes.

As servants watch their master's hand,
And fear the angry stroke;
Or maids before their mistress stand,
And wait a peaceful look;

So for our sins we justly feel
Thy discipline, O God;
Yet wait the gracious moment still,
Till thou remove thy rod.

Those that in wealth and pleasure live,
Our daily groans deride,
And thy delays of mercy give
Fresh courage to their pride.

Our foes insult us, but our hope
In thy compassion lies;
This thought shall bear our spirits up,
That God will not despise.

poem by Isaac Watts
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Psalm 139

O Lord in me there lieth nought
But to thy search revealed lies;
For when I sit
Thou markest it:
Nor less thou notest when I rise:
Yea, closest closet of my thought
Hath open windows to thine eyes.

Thou walkest with me when I walk;
When to my bed for rest I go,
I find thee there,
And everywhere,
Not youngest thought in me doth grow,
No, not one word I cast to talk
But, yet unuttered, thou dost know.

If forth I march, thou goest before;
If back I turn, thou com'st behind;
So forth nor back
Thy guard I lack;
Nay, on me too thy hand I find.
Well I thy wisdom may adore,
But never reach with earthly mind.

To shun thy notice, leave thine eye,
O whither might I take my way?
To starry sphere?
Thy throne is there:
To dead men's undelightsome stay?
There is thy walk, and there to lie
Unknown, in vain should I assay.

O sun, whom light nor flight can match!
Suppose thy lightful flightful wings
Thou lend to me,
And I could flee
As far as thee the evening brings:
Even led to west he would me catch
Nor should I lurk with western things.

Do thou thy best, O secret night!
In sable veil to cover me:
Thy sable veil
Shall vainly fail:
With day unmasked my night shall be,
For night is day, and darkness light,
O Father of all lights, to thee.

poem by Philip Sidney
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Despised And Rejected

My sun has set, I dwell
In darkness as a dead man out of sight;
And none remains, not one, that I should tell
To him mine evil plight
This bitter night.
I will make fast my door
That hollow friends may trouble me no more.

'Friend, open to Me.'—Who is this that calls?
Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:
Cease crying, for I will not hear
Thy cry of hope or fear.
Others were dear,
Others forsook me: what art thou indeed
That I should heed
Thy lamentable need?
Hungry should feed,
Or stranger lodge thee here?

'Friend, My Feet bleed.
Open thy door to Me and comfort Me.'
I will not open, trouble me no more.
Go on thy way footsore,
I will not rise and open unto thee.

'Then is it nothing to thee? Open, see
Who stands to plead with thee.
Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou
One day entreat My Face
And howl for grace,
And I be deaf as thou art now.
Open to Me.'

Then I cried out upon him: Cease,
Leave me in peace:
Fear not that I should crave
Aught thou mayst have.
Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,
Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.
What, shall I not be let
Alone, that thou dost vex me yet?

But all night long that voice spake urgently:
'Open to Me.'
Still harping in mine ears:
'Rise, let Me in.'
Pleading with tears:
'Open to Me that I may come to thee.'
While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:
'My Feet bleed, see My Face,
See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,
My Heart doth bleed for thee,
Open to Me.'

So till the break of day:
Then died away
That voice, in silence as of sorrow;
Then footsteps echoing like a sigh
Passed me by,
Lingering footsteps slow to pass.
On the morrow
I saw upon the grass
Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door
The mark of blood for evermore.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The Dream

DEAR love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream;
It was a theme
For reason, much too strong for fantasy.
Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet
My dream thou brokest not, but continued'st it.
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truths, and fables histories;
Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best,
Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest.

As lightning, or a taper's light,
Thine eyes, and not thy noise waked me;
Yet I thought thee
—For thou lovest truth—an angel, at first sight;
But when I saw thou saw'st my heart,
And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art,
When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when
Excess of joy would wake me, and camest then,
I must confess, it could not choose but be
Profane, to think thee any thing but thee.

Coming and staying show'd thee, thee,
But rising makes me doubt, that now
Thou art not thou.
That love is weak where fear's as strong as he;
'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave,
If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have;
Perchance as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me;
Thou camest to kindle, go'st to come; then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would die.

poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Beauty, Time, and Love

I
FAIR is my Love and cruel as she 's fair;
Her brow-shades frown, although her eyes are sunny.
Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair,
And her disdains are gall, her favours honey:
A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour,
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love;
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her,
Sacred on earth, design'd a Saint above.
Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes,
Live reconciled friends within her brow;
And had she Pity to conjoin with those,
Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?
   For had she not been fair, and thus unkind,
   My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.

II
My spotless love hovers with purest wings,
About the temple of the proudest frame,
Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things,
Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.
My ambitious thoughts, confined in her face,
Affect no honour but what she can give;
My hopes do rest in limits of her grace;
I weigh no comfort unless she relieve.
For she, that can my heart imparadise,
Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is;
My Fortune's wheel 's the circle of her eyes,
Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss.
   All my life's sweet consists in her alone;
   So much I love the most Unloving one.

III
And yet I cannot reprehend the flight
Or blame th' attempt presuming so to soar;
The mounting venture for a high delight
Did make the honour of the fall the more.
For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore?
Danger hath honour, great designs their fame;
Glory doth follow, courage goes before;
And though th' event oft answers not the same--
Suffice that high attempts have never shame.
The mean observer, whom base safety keeps,
Lives without honour, dies without a name,
And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.--
   And therefore, Delia, 'tis to me no blot
   To have attempted, tho' attain'd thee not.

IV
When men shall find thy flow'r, thy glory, pass,
And thou with careful brow, sitting alone,
Received hast this message from thy glass,
That tells the truth and says that All is gone;
Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad'st,
Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining:
I that have loved thee thus before thou fad'st--
My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning.
The world shall find this miracle in me,
That fire can burn when all the matter 's spent:
Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see,
And that thou wast unkind thou may'st repent.--
   Thou may'st repent that thou hast scorn'd my tears,
   When Winter snows upon thy sable hairs.

V
Beauty, sweet Love, is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green
Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show,
And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,
Short is the glory of the blushing rose;
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.
When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth;
And that, in Beauty's Lease expired, appears
The Date of Age, the Calends of our Death--
   But ah, no more!--this must not be foretold,
   For women grieve to think they must be old.

VI
I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would read
Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile;
Flowers have time before they come to seed,
And she is young, and now must sport the while.
And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years,
And learn to gather flowers before they wither;
And where the sweetest blossom first appears,
Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither.
Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,
And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise;
Pity and smiles do best become the fair;
Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.
   Make me to say when all my griefs are gone,
   Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!

VII
Let others sing of Knights and Paladines
In aged accents and untimely words,
Paint shadows in imaginary lines,
Which well the reach of their high wit records:
But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes
Authentic shall my verse in time to come;
When yet th' unborn shall say, Lo, where she lies!
Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!
These are the arcs, the trophies I erect,
That fortify thy name against old age;
And these thy sacred virtues must protect
Against the Dark, and Time's consuming rage.
   Though th' error of my youth in them appear,
   Suffice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear.

poem by Samuel Daniel
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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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In The Night

Where art thou, thou lost face,
Which, yet a little while, wert making mirth
At these new years which seemed too sad to be?
Where art thou fled which for a minute's space
Shut out the world and wert my world to me?
And now a corner of this idle Earth,
A broken shadow by the day forgot,
Is wide enough to be thy hiding place,
And thou art shrunk away and needest not
The darkness of this night to cover thee.

Where art thou hidden? In the boundless air
My hands go forth to thee, and search and feel
As through the universe. I hold the night
Caught in my arms, and yet thou art not there.
Where art thou? What if I should strike a light
So suddenly that thou couldst never steal
Back to thy shadows? What if I should find
Thee standing close to me with all thy hair
Trailing about me and thine eyes grown blind
With looking at me vainly through the night?

There are three rings upon thy hand to--night,
One with a sapphire stone, and one there is
Coiled like a snake, and one on which my name
Is written in strange gems. By this dim light
I cannot read if it be writ the same.
See, I have worn no other ring but this!
Why dost thou look at it with eyes estranged?
Is it not thine?--Ah, God! Thou readest right!
And it is changed, and thou and I are changed,
And I have written there another name.

Oh happiness, how has it slipped away!
We, who once lived and held it in our hand!
What is the rest that these new years can bring?
Did we not love it in our love's to--day,
And pleasure which was so divine a thing,
The sweetest and most strange to understand?
And that is why it left regret behind,
As though a wild bird suddenly should stay
A moment at our side and we should find
When we looked up that it had taken wing.

And thou, hast thou forgotten how to love?
Hast thou no kissing in thy lips? Thy tongue,
Has it no secret whisper for my ear?
I have been watching thee to see thee move
A little closer to my side in fear
Of the long night. Oh, there is room among
The pillows for thy head if thou wouldst sleep!
And thou art cold, and I would wrap my love
To my warm breast and so my vigil keep
And be alone with darkness and with her.

Thou standest with thy hand upon my heart,
As once thou used to stand, to feel it beat.
Doth it beat calmer now than in those days?
Thy foolish finger--tips will leave a smart,
If they so press upon my side. Thy gaze
Is burning me. Oh speak a word and cheat
This darkness into pain, if pain must be,
And wake me back to sorrow with a start,
For I am weary of the night and thee
And thy strange silence and thy stranger face.

Canst thou not speak? Thy tale was but begun.
How can I answer thee a tale untold?
Whisper it quick before the morning break.
How loud thou weepest! Listen, there is one
Dreaming beside me who must not awake.
Close in my ear !--Ah! child, thy lips are cold,
Because thou art forsaken.--Misery!
Is there not room enough beneath the sun
For her, and thee, and me?

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Lines on the Death of Edward John Trelawny

LAST high star of the years whose thunder
Still men’s listening remembrance hears,
Last light left of our fathers’ years,
Watched with honour and hailed with wonder
Thee too then have the years borne under,
Thou too then hast regained thy peers.

Wings that warred with the winds of morning,
Storm-winds rocking the red great dawn,
Close at last, and a film is drawn
Over the eyes of the storm-bird, scorning
Now no longer the loud wind’s warning,
Waves that threaten or waves that fawn.

Peers were none of thee left us living,
Peers of theirs we shall see no more.
Eight years over the full fourscore
Knew thee: now shalt thou sleep, forgiving
All griefs past of the wild world’s giving,
Moored at last on the stormless shore.

Worldwide liberty’s lifelong lover,
Lover no less of the strength of song,
Sea-king, swordsman, hater of wrong,
Over thy dust that the dust shall cover
Comes my song as a bird to hover,
Borne of its will as of wings along.

Cherished of thee were this brief song’s brothers
Now that follows them, cherishing thee.
Over the tides and the tideless sea
Soft as a smile of the earth our mother’s
Flies it faster than all those others,
First of the troop at thy tomb to be.

Memories of Greece and the mountain’s hollow
Guarded alone of thy loyal sword
Hold thy name for our hearts in ward:
Yet more fain are our hearts to follow
One way now with the southward swallow
Back to the grave of the man their lord.

Heart of hearts, art thou moved not, hearing
Surely, if hearts of the dead may hear,
Whose true heart it is now draws near?
Surely the sense of it thrills thee, cheering
Darkness and death with the news now nearing
Shelley, Trelawny rejoins thee here.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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My Soul And I

Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark
I would question thee,
Alone in the shadow drear and stark
With God and me!

What, my soul, was thy errand here?
Was it mirth or ease,
Or heaping up dust from year to year?
'Nay, none of these!'

Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight
Whose eye looks still
And steadily on thee through the night
'To do His will!'

What hast thou done, O soul of mine,
That thou tremblest so?
Hast thou wrought His task, and kept the line
He bade thee go?

Aha! thou tremblest!--well I see
Thou 'rt craven grown.
Is it so hard with God and me
To stand alone?

Summon thy sunshine bravery back,
O wretched sprite!
Let me hear thy voice through this deep and black
Abysmal night.

What hast thou wrought for Right and Truth,
For God and Man,
From the golden hours of bright-eyed youth
To life's mid span?

What, silent all! art sad of cheer?
Art fearful now?
When God seemed far and men were near,
How brave wert thou!

Ah, soul of mine, thy tones I hear,
But weak and low,
Like far sad murmurs on my ear
They come and go.

I have wrestled stoutly with the Wrong,
And borne the Right
From beneath the footfall of the throng
To life and light.

'Wherever Freedom shivered a chain,
God speed, quoth I;
To Error amidst her shouting train
I gave the lie.'

Ah, soul of mine! ah, soul of mine!
Thy deeds are well:
Were they wrought for Truth's sake or for thine?
My soul, pray tell.

'Of all the work my hand hath wrought
Beneath the sky,
Save a place in kindly human thought,
No gain have I.'

Go to, go to! for thy very self
Thy deeds were done
Thou for fame, the miser for pelf,
Your end is one!

And where art thou going, soul of mine?
Canst see the end?
And whither this troubled life of thine
Evermore doth tend?

What daunts thee now? what shakes thee so?
My sad soul say.
'I see a cloud like a curtain low
Hang o'er my way.

'Whither I go I cannot tell
That cloud hangs black,
High as the heaven and deep as hell
Across my track.

'I see its shadow coldly enwrap
The souls before.
Sadly they enter it, step by step,
To return no more.

'They shrink, they shudder, dear God! they kneel
To Thee in prayer.
They shut their eyes on the cloud, but feel
That it still is there.

'In vain they turn from the dread Before
To the Known and Gone;
For while gazing behind them evermore
Their feet glide on.

'Yet, at times, I see upon sweet pale faces
A light begin
To tremble, as if from holy places
And shrines within.

'And at times methinks their cold lips move
With hymn and prayer,
As if somewhat of awe, but more of love
And hope were there.

'I call on the souls who have left the light
To reveal their lot;
I bend mine ear to that wall of night,
And they answer not.

'But I hear around me sighs of pain
And the cry of fear,
And a sound like the slow sad dropping of rain,
Each drop a tear!

'Ah, the cloud is dark, and day by day
I am moving thither
I must pass beneath it on my way--
God pity me!--whither?'

Ah, soul of mine! so brave and wise
In the life-storm loud,
Fronting so calmly all human eyes
In the sunlit crowd!

Now standing apart with God and me
Thou art weakness all,
Gazing vainly after the things to be
Through Death's dread wall.

But never for this, never for this
Was thy being lent;
For the craven's fear is but selfishness,
Like his merriment.

Folly and Fear are sisters twain
One closing her eyes.
The other peopling the dark inane
With spectral lies.

Know well, my soul, God's hand controls
Whate'er thou fearest;
Round Him in calmest music rolls
Whate'er thou Nearest.

What to thee is shadow, to Him is day,
And the end He knoweth,
And not on a blind and aimless way
The spirit goeth.

Man sees no future,--a phantom show
Is alone before him;
Past Time is dead, and the grasses grow,
And flowers bloom o'er him.

Nothing before, nothing behind;
The steps of Faith
Fall on the seeming void, and find
The rock beneath.

The Present, the Present is all thou hast
For thy sure possessing;
Like the patriarch's angel hold it fast
Till it gives its blessing.

Why fear the night? why shrink from Death;
That phantom wan?
There is nothing in heaven or earth beneath
Save God and man.

Peopling the shadows we turn from Him
And from one another;
All is spectral and vague and dim
Save God and our brother!

Like warp and woof all destinies
Are woven fast,
Linked in sympathy like the keys
Of an organ vast.

Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar;
Break but one
Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar
Through all will run.

O restless spirit! wherefore strain
Beyond thy sphere?
Heaven and hell, with their joy and pain,
Are now and here.

Back to thyself is measured well
All thou hast given;
Thy neighbor's wrong is thy present hell,
His bliss, thy heaven.

And in life, in death, in dark and light,
All are in God's care
Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night,
And He is there!

All which is real now remaineth,
And fadeth never
The hand which upholds it now sustaineth
The soul forever.

Leaning on Him, make with reverent meekness
His own thy will,
And with strength from Him shall thy utter weakness
Life's task fulfil;

And that cloud itself, which now before thee
Lies dark in view,
Shall with beams of light from the inner glory
Be stricken through.

And like meadow mist through autumn's dawn
Uprolling thin,
Its thickest folds when about thee drawn
Let sunlight in.

Then of what is to be, and of what is done,
Why queriest thou?
The past and the time to be are one,
And both are now!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Spectres

How terrible these nights are when alone
With our scarred hearts, we sit in solitude,
And some old sorrow, to the world unknown,
Does suddenly with silent steps intrude.

After the guests departed, and the light
Burned dimly in my room, there came to me,
As noiselessly as shadows of the night,
The spectre of a woe that used to be.

Out of the gruesome darkness and the gloom
I saw it peering; and, in still despair,
I watched it gliding swift across the room,
Until it came and stood beside my chair.

Why, need I tell thee what its shape or name?
Thou hast thy secret hidden from the light:
And be it sin or sorrow, woe or shame,
Thou dost not like to meet it in the night.

And yet it comes. As certainly as death,
And far more cruel since death ends all pain,
On lonesome nights we feel its icy breath,
And turn and face the thing we fancied slain.

With shrinking hearts, we view the ghastly shape;
We look into its eyes with fear and dread,
And know that we can never more escape
Until the grave doth fold us with the dead.

On the swift maelstrom of the eddying world
We hurl our woes, and think they are no more.
But round and round by dizzy billows whirled,
They reach out sinewy arms and swim to shore.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Written At Sea

What is my quarrel with thee, beautiful sea,
That thus I cannot love thy waves or thee,
Or hear thy voice but it tormenteth me?

Why do I hate thee, who art beautiful
Beyond all beauty, when the nights are cool,
And the stars fade because the moon is full?

Why do I hate thee? Thou art new and young,
And life is thine for loving, and thy tongue
Hath tones that I have known and loved and sung.

Thou hast a smile which would my smiling greet;
Thy brave heart beateth as my own doth beat,
And thou hast tears which should be true and sweet.

Thou art a creature, strong and fair and brave,
Such as I might have given the world to have
And love and cherish;--and thou art my slave.

I have my home in thee. Thy arms enfold
Me all night long, and I am rocked and rolled,
And thou art never weary of thy hold.

Thou art a woman in thy constancy,
And worthy better love than mine could be;
And yet, behold, I cannot suffer thee.

If thou wert dumb; if thou wert like the sky,
Which has not learned to speak our misery
In any voice less rude than the wind's cry;

If thou wert wholly young and didst not know
The secret of our ancient human woe,
Or if thou knewest it wholly as I know;

Or yet if thou wert old with all these years;
If thou wert dull to hopes and loves and fears;
If thou wert blind and couldst not see our tears;

If thou wert bounded by some rocky shore,
And hadst not given thyself thus wholly o'er
To our poor single selves with all thy store;

If thou wert not in thy immensity,
A single circle circling with the sky,
Where we must still be centres changelessly;

If thou wert other than thou art; alas,
If thou wert not of water, but a mass
Of formless earth, a waveless plain of grass;

If thou wert shapeless as the mountains are;
If thou wert clad in some discordant wear;
If thou wert not so blue and trim and fair;

If thou wert decked with towns and villages;
If there was heard, across the silent seas,
The music of church bells upon the breeze;

If thou wert this; or if thou wert not near,
But I could only sit apart and hear
The beating of thy waves, and find it drear,

But wild and quite unknown, and far from me;
Sea, if thou couldst no longer be the sea,
Then I could love thee as thou lovest me.

If thou wouldst have me love thee, beautiful sea,
Build up a wall of dark 'twixt thee and me;
Let me not see thee; call the night to thee.

League with the winds; rise up, and send them driven
To roll mad clouds about thy back at even.
Make thee a desolation of the heaven.

Thou shouldst compel me, with thy angry voice,
To choose 'twixt death and thee; and, at the choice,
If my cheek grew not pale, thou might'st rejoice,

And I might love thee, oh thou monstrous sea;
But now I cannot love thy waves or thee,
Or bear thy beauty in my misery.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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To Her Sea-Faring Lover

SHALL I thus ever long, and be no whit the neare?
And shall I still complain to thee, the which me will not hear?
Alas! say nay! say nay! and be no more so dumb,
But open thou thy manly mouth and say that thou wilt come:
Whereby my heart may think, although I see not thee,
That thou wilt come--thy word so sware--if thou a live man be.
The roaring hugy waves they threaten my poor ghost,
And toss thee up and down the seas in danger to be lost.
Shall they not make me fear that they have swallowed thee?
--But as thou art most sure alive, so wilt thou come to me.
Whereby I shall go see thy ship ride on the strand,
And think and say Lo where he comes and Sure here will he land:
And then I shall lift up to thee my little hand,
And thou shalt think thine heart in ease, in health to see me stand.
And if thou come indeed (as Christ thee send to do!)
Those arms which miss thee now shall then embrace [and hold] thee too:

Each vein to every joint the lively blood shall spread
Which now for want of thy glad sight doth show full pale and dead.
But if thou slip thy troth, and do not come at all,
As minutes in the clock do strike so call for death I shall:
To please both thy false heart and rid myself from woe,
That rather had to die in troth than live forsaken so!

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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To Victor Hugo

IN the fair days when God
By man as godlike trod,
And each alike was Greek, alike was free,
God’s lightning spared, they said,
Alone the happier head
Whose laurels screened it; fruitless grace for thee,
To whom the high gods gave of right
Their thunders and their laurels and their light.

Sunbeams and bays before
Our master’s servants wore,
For these Apollo left in all men’s lands;
But far from these ere now
And watched with jealous brow
Lay the blind lightnings shut between God’s hands,
And only loosed on slaves and kings
The terror of the tempest of their wings.

Born in those younger years
That shone with storms of spears
And shook in the wind blown from a dead world’s pyre,
When by her back-blown hair
Napoleon caught the fair
And fierce Republic with her feet of fire,
And stayed with iron words and hands
Her flight, and freedom in a thousand lands:

Thou sawest the tides of things
Close over heads of kings,
And thine hand felt the thunder, and to thee
Laurels and lightnings were
As sunbeams and soft air
Mixed each in other, or as mist with sea
Mixed, or as memory with desire,
Or the lute’s pulses with the louder lyre.

For thee man’s spirit stood
Disrobed of flesh and blood,
And bare the heart of the most secret hours;
And to thine hand more tame
Than birds in winter came
High hopes and unknown flying forms of powers,
And from thy table fed, and sang
Till with the tune men’s ears took fire and rang.

Even all men’s eyes and ears
With fiery sound and tears
Waxed hot, and cheeks caught flame and eyelids light,
At those high songs of thine
That stung the sense like wine,
Or fell more soft than dew or snow by night,
Or wailed as in some flooded cave
Sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave.

But we, our master, we
Whose hearts, uplift to thee,
Ache with the pulse of thy remembered song,
We ask not nor await
From the clenched hands of fate,
As thou, remission of the world’s old wrong;
Respite we ask not, nor release;
Freedom a man may have, he shall not peace.

Though thy most fiery hope
Storm heaven, to set wide ope
The all-sought-for gate whence God or Chance debars
All feet of men, all eyes—
The old night resumes her skies,
Her hollow hiding-place of clouds and stars,
Where nought save these is sure in sight;
And, paven with death, our days are roofed with night.

One thing we can; to be
Awhile, as men may, free;
But not by hope or pleasure the most stern
Goddess, most awful-eyed,
Sits, but on either side
Sit sorrow and the wrath of hearts that burn,
Sad faith that cannot hope or fear,
And memory grey with many a flowerless year.

Not that in stranger’s wise
I lift not loving eyes
To the fair foster-mother France, that gave
Beyond the pale fleet foam
Help to my sires and home,
Whose great sweet breast could shelter those and save
Whom from her nursing breasts and hands
Their land cast forth of old on gentler lands.

Not without thoughts that ache
For theirs and for thy sake,
I, born of exiles, hail thy banished head;
I whose young song took flight
Toward the great heat and light
On me a child from thy far splendour shed,
From thine high place of soul and song,
Which, fallen on eyes yet feeble, made them strong.

Ah, not with lessening love
For memories born hereof,
I look to that sweet mother-land, and see
The old fields and fair full streams,
And skies, but fled like dreams
The feet of freedom and the thought of thee;
And all between the skies and graves
The mirth of mockers and the shame of slaves.

She, killed with noisome air,
Even she! and still so fair,
Who said “Let there be freedom,” and there was
Freedom; and as a lance
The fiery eyes of France
Touched the world’s sleep and as a sleep made pass
Forth of men’s heavier ears and eyes
Smitten with fire and thunder from new skies.

Are they men’s friends indeed
Who watch them weep and bleed?
Because thou hast loved us, shall the gods love thee?
Thou, first of men and friend,
Seest thou, even thou, the end?
Thou knowest what hath been, knowest thou what shall be?
Evils may pass and hopes endure;
But fate is dim, and all the gods obscure.

O nursed in airs apart,
O poet highest of heart,
Hast thou seen time, who hast seen so many things?
Are not the years more wise,
More sad than keenest eyes,
The years with soundless feet and sounding wings?
Passing we hear them not, but past
The clamour of them thrills us, and their blast.

Thou art chief of us, and lord;
Thy song is as a sword
Keen-edged and scented in the blade from flowers;
Thou art lord and king; but we
Lift younger eyes, and see
Less of high hope, less light on wandering hours;
Hours that have borne men down so long,
Seen the right fail, and watched uplift the wrong.

But thine imperial soul,
As years and ruins roll
To the same end, and all things and all dreams
With the same wreck and roar
Drift on the dim same shore,
Still in the bitter foam and brackish streams
Tracks the fresh water-spring to be
And sudden sweeter fountains in the sea.

As once the high God bound
With many a rivet round
Man’s saviour, and with iron nailed him through,
At the wild end of things,
Where even his own bird’s wings
Flagged, whence the sea shone like a drop of dew,
From Caucasus beheld below
Past fathoms of unfathomable snow;

So the strong God, the chance
Central of circumstance,
Still shows him exile who will not be slave;
All thy great fame and thee
Girt by the dim strait sea
With multitudinous walls of wandering wave;
Shows us our greatest from his throne
Fate-stricken, and rejected of his own.

Yea, he is strong, thou say’st,
A mystery many-faced,
The wild beasts know him and the wild birds flee;
The blind night sees him, death
Shrinks beaten at his breath,
And his right hand is heavy on the sea:
We know he hath made us, and is king;
We know not if he care for anything.

Thus much, no more, we know;
He bade what is be so,
Bade light be and bade night be, one by one;
Bade hope and fear, bade ill
And good redeem and kill,
Till all men be aweary of the sun
And his world burn in its own flame
And bear no witness longer of his name.

Yet though all this be thus,
Be those men praised of us
Who have loved and wrought and sorrowed and not sinned
For fame or fear or gold,
Nor waxed for winter cold,
Nor changed for changes of the worldly wind;
Praised above men of men be these,
Till this one world and work we know shall cease.

Yea, one thing more than this,
We know that one thing is,
The splendour of a spirit without blame,
That not the labouring years
Blind-born, nor any fears,
Nor men nor any gods can tire or tame;
But purer power with fiery breath
Fills, and exalts above the gulfs of death.

Praised above men be thou,
Whose laurel-laden brow,
Made for the morning, droops not in the night;
Praised and beloved, that none
Of all thy great things done
Flies higher than thy most equal spirit’s flight;
Praised, that nor doubt nor hope could bend
Earth’s loftiest head, found upright to the end

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Divine Lover

I

Me Lord? can’st thou mispend
One word, misplace one look on me?
Call’st me thy Love, thy Friend?
Can this poor soul the object be
Of these love-glances, those life-kindling eyes?
What? I the Centre of thy arms embraces?
Of all thy labour I the prize?
Love never mocks, Truth never lies.
Oh how I quake: Hope fear, fear hope displaces:
I would, but cannot hope: such wondrous love amazes.

II

See, I am black as night,
See I am darkness: dark as hell.
Lord thou more fair than light;
Heav’ns Sun thy Shadow; can Sunns dwell
With Shades? ’twixt light, and darkness what commerce?
True: thou art darkness, I thy Light: my ray
Thy mists, and hellish foggs shall pierce.
With me, black soul, with me converse.
I make the foul December flowry May,
Turn thou thy night to me: I’le turn thy night to day.

III

See Lord, see I am dead:
Tomb’d in my self: my self my grave
A drudge: so born, so bred:
My self even to my self a slave.
Thou Freedom, Life: can Life, and Liberty
Love bondage, death? Thy Freedom I: I tyed
To loose thy bonds: be bound to me:
My Yoke shall ease, my bonds shall free.
Dead soul, thy Spring of life, my dying side:
There dye with me to live: to live in thee I dyed.

poem by Phineas Fletcher
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