But unexpectedly returns,
And to his faithful champion hath in place Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mourns, And all that band them to resist
His uncontrollable intent;
His servants he, with new acquist
Of true experience, from this great event, With peace and consolation hath dismist, And calm of mind, all passion spent.
ON HIS BLINDNESS.
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent1 which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, chide; Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?' 2 I fondly ask: but Patience3, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.'
ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones + Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones, Forget not in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roil'd Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled5 to the hills, and they
4 Great numbers of the Waldenses were murdered, on account of their reli
gion, by order of the Duke of Savoy.
5 Redoubled, re-echoed.
To heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all th' Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant'; that from these may grow A hundred fold, who having learn'd thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.2
TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY.
Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth Wisely hast shunn'd the broad way and the green, And with those few art eminently seen, That labour up the hill with heav'nly truth, The better part with Mary and with Ruth Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth.3 Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends
To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friends Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night,
Hast gain'd thy entrance, virgin wise and pure.
ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND, DECEASED CEMBER 16. 1646.
When faith and love, which parted from thee never, Had ripen'd thy just soul to dwell with God, Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load
Of death, call'd life; which us from life doth sever. Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour+, Štaid not behind, nor in the grave were trod; But, as faith pointed with her golden rod, Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever. Love led them on, and faith, who knew them best Thy hand-maids, clad them o'er with purple beams And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest, And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.
1 The pope, who wears a triple crown.
9 Rome, the Babylon of prophecy. See Rev. c. xviii. 4., xxvii. 9. 3 Ruth, tenderness hence ruthless.
4 See Revelations, xiv. 13.
ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF TWENTY
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three and twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arriv'd so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven; All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great Task-master's eye.
AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC POET, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
What needs my Shakspeare, for his honour'd bones, The labour of an age in piled stones?
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a star-ypointing1 pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name! Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,
Hast built thyself a livelong monument.
For whilst, to th' shame of slow-endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow; and that each heart Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued2 book, Those Delphic lines such deep impression took; Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And, so sepúlcher'd, in such pomp dost lie, That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die.
1 Y, the obsolete prefix of the participle.
2 Unvalued, invaluable.
3 Delphic, oracular, full of hidden meaning.
Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, Sing, Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire
That Shepherd who first taught the chosen seed, In the beginning, how the heav'ns and earth Rose out of chaos: or, if Sion's hill
Delight thee more, and Silva's brook that flow'd Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence Invoke thy aid to my advent'rous song, That with no middle flight intends to soar Above th' Aonian mount', while it pursues Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer Before all temples th' upright heart and pure, Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the first Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread, Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss, And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is dark, Illumine; what is low, raise and support; That to the highth of this great argument
may assert eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to men.
Say first, for Heav'n hides nothing from thy view, Nor the deep tract of hell; say first, what cause Mov'd our grand parents, in that happy state, Favour'd of Heav'n so highly, to fall off From their Creator, and transgress his will For one restraint, lords of the world besides ? Who first seduc'd them to that foul revolt? Th' infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile, Stirr'd up with envy and revenge, deceiv'd The mother of mankind, what time his pride Had cast him out from Heav'n, with all his host
A mount of the Greek Muses. This subject is more sublime than any celebrated by classical poets.
Of rebel angels; by whose aid, aspiring To set himself in glory above his peers, He trusted to have equall'd the Most High, If he opposed; and, with ambitious aim Against the throne and monarchy of God, Rais'd impious war in heav'n, and battle proud, With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power Hurl'd headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky, With hideous ruin and combustion, down To bottomless perdition; there to dwell In adamantine chains and penal fire, Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms. Nine times the space that measures day and night To mortal men, he with his horrid crew Lay vanquish'd, rolling in the fiery gulf, Confounded, though immortal: but his doom Reserv'd him to more wrath; for now the thought Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
Torments him: round he throws his baleful eyes, That witness'd huge affliction and dismay, Mix'd with obdurate pride and stedfast hate : At once, as far as angels ken, he views The dismal situation waste and wild; A dungeon horrible on all sides round,
As one great furnace flam'd; yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell; hope never comes That comes to all: but torture without end Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur, unconsum'd: Such place eternal Justice had prepar'd For those rebellious; here their prison ordain'd In utter darkness, and their portion set As far remov'd from God and light of heav'n, As from the center thrice to th' utmost pole. O, how unlike the place from whence they fell! There the companions of his fall, o'erwhelm'd With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire, He soon discerns; and welt'ring by his side One next himself in pow'r, and next in crime, Long after known in Palestine, and nam'd Beelzebub.
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