It was but now they gathered blooming May, go; It was but now they were so kind to throw Their own best garments, where thy feet should [they show. And now thyself they strip, and bleeding wounds See where the Author of all life is dying: O fearful day! he dead, what hope of living? See where the hopes of all our lives are buying: O cheerful day! they bought, what fear of grieving? Love, love for hate, and death for life is giving: Lo, how his arins are stretch'd abroad to grace thee, And, as they open stand, call to embrace thee: Why stay'st thou then, my soul! O fly, fly, thither haste thee. His radious head with shameful thorns they tear, They jolly at his grief, and make their game, That all might come to see, and all might see that came. Whereat the Heav'n put out his guilty eye, And at his birth, as all the stars Heav'n bad So now, both new, and old, and all away did fade. The trembling earth with horrour inly shook, The wise philosopher cried, all aghast, "The God of nature surely languished;" The sad Centurion cried out as fast, "The Son of God, the Son of God was dead;" The headlong Jew hung down his pensive head, And homewards far'd; and ever, as he went, He smote his breast, half desperately bent; The very woods and beasts did seem his death la ment. The graceless traitour round about did look, And help'd him fit the rope, and in his thought A thousand furies, with their whips, he brought; So there he stands, ready to Hell to make his vault. For him a waking bloodhound, yelling loud, Oft chang'd he place, in hope away to wind; But change of place could never change his mind: Himself he flies to lose, and follows for to find. There is but two ways for this soul to have, Feed on the howling ghosts, and fiery surges There lies the captive soul, aye-sighing sore, With that a flaming brand a fury catch'd, To fly from his own heart, and aid implore Of him, the more he gives, that hath the more, Whose storehouse is the Heav'ns, too little for his store. "Stay wretch on Earth," cried Satan," restless rest: Know'st thou not justice lives in Heav'n? or can "He gave thee life; why should thou seek to slay him? He lent thee wealth; to feed thy avarice? betray him? He kiss'd thee, though he knew his life the price; He wash'd thy feet: should'st thou his sacrifice?" He gave thee bread, and wine, his body, blood, As when wild Pentheus grown mad with fear, Once didst thou lose thy son, but foundst again; Now find'st thy Son, but find'st him lost and slain, Ah me! though he could death, how can'st thou life sustain ? "Where'er, dear Lord, thy shadow hovereth, To see, and if it meet thee wand'ring there, [moan, Looks from his starry bower, the Heav'ns do And trees drop tears, lest we should grieve alone, The winds have learn'd to sigh, and waters hoarsely groan. "And you sweet flow'rs, that in this garden grow, O that I might into your places slide! "Are these the eyes that made all others blind? Ah! why are they themselves now blemished! Is this the face, in which all beauty shin'd? What blast hath thus his flowers debellished? Are these the feet, that on the wat'ry head Of the unfaithful ocean passage found? "One hem but of the garments that he wore, So down into his torturers, arms he fell, And clasps the yielding pillow, half asleep, ber creep. There let him hang embowelled in blood, But nettles, kix, and all the weedy nation, But he, that living, had no house to owe it, O run ye saints apace, and with sweet flowers be-Well the blind man thy Godhead might maintain, strow it. And ye glad spirits, that now sainted sit Enough is me your plaints to sound again, And with him stood the happy thief that stole What though the sullen Pharisees repin'd? He that should both compare, at length would find The blind man only saw, the seers all were blind. Why should they think thee worthy to be slain? Was it because thou gav'st their blind men eyes? Or that thou mad'st their lame to walk again? Or for thou heald'st their sick men's maladies? Or mad'st their dumb to speak, and dead to rise! O could all these but any grace have won, What would they not to save thy life have done? The dumb man would have spoke, and lame man would have run. "Let me, O let me near some fountain lie, That through the rock heaves uphis sandy head, Or let me dwell upon some mountain high, Whose hollow root, and baser parts are spread On fleeting waters, in his bowels bred, That I their streams, and they my tears may feed: Or clothed in some hermit's ragged weed, Spend all my days in weeping for this cursed deed. "The life, the which I once did love, I leave; "Thus spend we tears that never can be spent, This heav'nly earth; here let it softly sleep, So home their bodies went to seek repose; But at the grave they left their souls behind: Ah, blessed virgin! what high angel's art So Philomel, perch'd on an aspin sprig, But leaning on a thorn her dainty chest, So when the lark (poor bird!) afar espy'th That their warm nest is now become their grave; And all about her plaintive notes she flings, CHRIST'S TRIUMPH AFTER DEATH. THE ARGUMENT. Christ's triumph after death, 1st, In his resurrection, manifested by its effects in the creatures, ver. 1-7.; in himself, ver. 8-12. 2d. In his ascension into Heaven, whose joys are described, ver. 13-16.; 1st, By the access of all good, the blessed society of the saints, angels, &c. ver. 17-19. The sweet quiet and peace enjoyed under God, ver. 20.; shadowed by the peace we enjoy under our sovereign, ver. 2126. The beauty of the place, ver. 27.; the carity (as the school calls it) of the saints bodies, ver. 28-31.; the impletion of the appetite, ver. 32, 33.; the joy of the senses, &c. ver. 34. 2d, By the amotion of all evil, ver. 35, 36.; by the access of all good again, ver. 37. in the glory of the holy city, ver. 38.; in the beatifical vision of God, ver. 39. BUT UT now the second morning from her bow'r Began to glister in her beams, and now The roses of the day began to flow'r In th' eastern garden; for Heav'n's smiling brow Half insolent for joy begun to show; The early Sun came lively dancing out, Th' engladden'd spring, forgetful now to weep, Wide flaming primroses set all on fire, And now the taller sons (whom Titan warms) Of unshorn mountains, blown with easy winds, Dandled the morning's childhood in their arms, And, if they chanc'd to slip the prouder pines, The under corylets did catch the shines, To gild their leaves; saw never happy year Such joyful triumph and triumphant cheer, As though the aged world anew created were. Say, Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire, And stick'st thy habit full of daisies red? Seems that thou dost to some high thought aspire, And some new-found-out bridegroom mean'st to Tell me, ye trees, so fresh apparelled, [wed: So never let the spiteful canker waste you, Answer me, Jordan, why thy crooked tide As though some other way thy stream would slide, The while the lambs to hear you dance and play, Tell me, sweet birds, what is it you so fain would say? And thou fair spouse of Earth, that every year Gett'st such a numerous issue of thy bride, How chance thou hotter shin'st, and draw'st more near? Sure thou somewhere some worthy sight hast spy'd, That in one place for joy thou can'st not hide; And you, dead swallows, that so lively now How could new life into your frozen ashes flow? Through the fleet air your winged passage row, Ye primroses, and purple violets, Tell me, why blaze ye from your leavy bed, And woo men's hands to rent you from your sets, As though you would somewhere be carried, With fresh perfumes, and velvets garnished? But ah! I need not ask, 'tis surely so, You all would to your Saviour's triumphs go. There would ye all await, and humble homage do. There should the Earth herself with garlands new There should the Sun another Sun behold, From whence himself borrows his locks of gold, That kindle Heav'n and Earth with beauties manifold. There might the violet, and primrose sweet, To let the living from his bowels creep, To climb his angels' wings, then open hang Your crystal doors;" so all the chorus sang Of heav'nly birds, as to the stars they nimbly sprang. Hark how the floods clap their applauding hands, Out leap the antique patriarchs all in haste, There Heav'n and Earth should see their Lord awake Of olive-leaves they bore to crown his head, from sleep. Their Lord, before by others judg'd to die, Now worthy to be God confess'd; before So fairest Phosphor, the bright morning star, [chaces And the bright drove, fleec'd all in gold, he To drink, that on the Olympic mountain grazes, The while the minor planets forfeit all their faces So long he wand'red in our lower sphere, [throw: The rest, that yet amazed stood below, "Toss up your heads, ye everlasting gates, That was before with thorns degloried: After them flew the prophets, brightly stol'd In shining lawn, and wimpled manifold, [gold. Striking their ivory harps, strung all in cords of To which the saints victorious carols sung, Ten thousand saints at once, that with the sound The hollow vaults of Heav'n for triumph rung: The cherubims their clamours did confound With all the rest, and clapt their wings around: Down from their thrones the dominations flow And at his feet their crowns and scepters throw And all the princely souls fell on their faces low. Nor can the martyrs' wounds them stay behind, But out they rush among the heav'nly crowd, Seeking their Heav'n out of their Heav'n to find, Sounding their silver trumpets out so loud, That the shrill noise broke through the starry cloud, And all the virgin souls in pure array, Came dancing forth and making joyous play; So him they led along into the courts of day. So him they led into the courts of day, Where never war, nor wounds abide him more, But in that house eternal peace doth play, [score, Acquieting the souls, that new besore Their way to Heav'n through their own blood did But now, estranged from all misery, As far as Heav'n and Earth discoasted lie, Swelter in quiet waves of immortality. And if great things by smaller may be guest, So, in the mid'st of Neptune's angry tide, Our Britain island, like the weedy nest Of true halcyon, on the waves doth ride, And softly failing, scorns the water's pride: While all the rest, drown'd on the continent, And tost in bloody waves, their wounds lament, And stand, to see our peace, as struck with wonderment. The ship of France religious waves do toss, And unto them, themselves are strangers grown, And unto these, the seas are faithless known, And unto her, alas! her own is not her own. Here only shut we Janus' iron gates, wings. Go blessed island, wander where thou please, Dear prince, thy subjects' joy, hope of their heirs, Making our Earth a Heav'n, and paradise of mirth. Let not my liege misdeem these humble lays, And gives him back the beams, before were his; Nor let the Prince of Peace his beadsman blame, And well I wot, my rhyme, albe unsmooth, Gaze but upon the house where man embow'rs: Here may the band, that now in triumph shines, All their eternal day in songs employing, Full, yet without satiety, of that And drunk with nectar torrents, ever hold Their sight drinks lovely fires in at their eyes, That on God's sweating altar burning lies; Their understanding naked truth, their wills And if a sullen cloud, as sad as night, What lustre super-excellent will he [light, In that all glorious court, in which all glories be? What shall so many suns' united rays, praise? Heav'n we Here let my Lord hang up his conquering lance, Through windy thoughts, that would their sails But now their naked bodies scorn the cold, And all of these on the saints' bodies grow, About the holy city rolls a flood Of molten chrystal, like a sea of glass, Anchor their fleshly ships fast in his wounded side. That all things else, besides itself, did pass: |