And by his torments and his pain, Thy rest and ease secured be.
My baby then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe, sweet baby, sleep. Thou hast yet more to perfect this, A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not.
Sweet baby then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe, sweet baby, sleep.
Poets are prophets, not only in the vulgar acception, among human authors, but so called also by Saint Paul, Tit. i. 12. By this hymn, therefore, such poets as are not past grace may be remembered to exercise their faculty to that end for which it was given unto them by God.
To truth's abuse and virtue's | That grace and virtue to destroy
GILES FLETCHER, THE YOUNGER
The Introduction and Notes are at page 1006 FROM Christ's Victory and Triumph, 1610
Christ's victory on earth
There all alone she spied (alas, the while) In shady darkness a poor desolate That now had measured many a weary mile, Through a waste desert, whither heav'nly fate And his own will him brought; he praying sate,.
And him to prey, as he to pray began,
The citizens of the wild forest ran,
And all with open throat would swallow whole the man.
Soon did the lady to her Graces cry,
And on their wings herself did nimbly strow; After her coach a thousand Loves did fly,
So down into the wilderness they throw, Where she and all her train that with her flow
Through the airy wave with sails so gay, Sinking into his breast that weary lay,
Made shipwreck of themselves and vanished quite away.
Seemëd that man had them devourëd all, Whom to devour the beasts did make pretense; But him their salvage thirst did nought appal, Though weapons none he had for his defence; What arms for innocence, but innocence?
For when they saw their Lord's bright cognizance Shine in his face, soon did they disadvance,
And some unto him kneel, and some about him dance.
Down fell the lordly lion's angry mood, And he himself fell down in congies low, Bidding him welcome to his wasteful wood; Sometime he kissed the grass where he did go, And as to wash his feet he well did know,
With fawning tongue he licked away the dust; And everyone would nearest to him thrust, And everyone, with new, forgot his former lust.
Unmindful of himself, to mind his Lord, The lamb stood gazing by the tiger's side, As though between them they had made accord; And on the lion's back the goat did ride, Forgetful of the roughness of the hide;
If he stood still, their eyes upon him baited, If walked, they all in order on him waited, And when he slept, they as his watch themselves conceited.
Wonder doth call me up to see; oh no, I cannot see, and therefore sink in wonder; The man that shines as bright as God, not so, For God he is himself, that close lies under That man, so close that no time can dissunder That band, yet not so close but from him break Such beams as mortal eyes are all too weak Such sight to see; or it, if they should see, to speak.
Upon a grassy hillock he was laid, With woody primroses befreckelëd; Over his head the wanton shadows played Of a wild olive, that her boughs so spread As with her leaves she seemed to crown his head, And her green arms to'embrace the Prince of peace; The sun so near, needs must the winter cease, The sun so near, another spring seemed to increase.
His hair was black and in small curls did twine, As though it were the shadow of some light,
And underneath, his face as day did shine, But sure the day shinëd not half so bright, Nor the sun's shadow made so dark a night. Under his lovely locks her head to shroud, Did make Humility herself grow proud; Hither to light their lamps did all the Graces crowd.
One of ten thousand souls I am, and more,
That of his eyes and their sweet wounds complain, Sweet are the wounds of love, never so sore; Ah, might he often slay me so again: He never lives that thus is never slain.
What boots it watch? those eyes, for all my art, Mine own eyes looking on, have stole my heart, In them Love bends his bow and dips his burning dart.
As when the sun, caught in an adverse cloud, Flies cross the world and there a new begets, The wat'ry picture of his beauty proud Throws all abroad his sparkling spangelets, And the whole world in dire amazement sets To see two days abroad at once, and all Doubt whether now he rise or now will fall; So flamed the godly flesh, proud of his heav'nly thrall.
His cheeks, as snowy apples sopped in wine, Had their red roses quenched with lilies white, And like to garden strawberries did shine, Washed in a bowl of milk, or rosebuds bright Unbosoming their breasts against the light; Here love-sick souls did eat, there drank, and made Sweet smelling posies that could never fade,
But worldly eyes him thought more like some living shade.
For laughter never looked upon his brow, Though in his face all smiling joys did bide; No silken banners did about him flow, Fools make their fetters ensigns of their pride. He was best clothed when naked was his side, A lamb he was and woolen fleece he bore, Wove with one thread; his feet low sandals wore, But barëd were his legs, so went the times of yore.
As two white marble pillars that uphold God's holy place where he in glory sets, And rise with goodly grace and courage bold
To bear his temple on their ample jets, Veined everywhere with azure rivulets,
Whom all the people on some holy morn With boughs and flow'ry garlands do adorn,— Of such, though fairer far, this temple was upborne.
Twice had Diana bent her golden bow And shot from heav'n her silver shafts to rouse
The sluggish salvages that den below, And all the day in lazy covert drowse; Since him the silent wilderness did house,
The heav'n his roof, and arbor harbor was, The ground his bed, and his moist pillow grass; But fruit there none did grow, nor rivers none did pass.
At length an aged sire far off he saw
Come slowly footing; every step, he guessed, One of his feet he from the grave did draw; Three legs he had, the wooden was the best, And all the way he went he ever blessed With benedicites and prayers store,
But the bad ground was blessed ne'er the more, And all his head with snow of age was waxen hoar.
A good old hermit he might seem to be, That for devotion had the world forsaken, And now was traveling some saint to see, Since to his beads he had himself betaken, Where all his former sins he might awaken
And them might wash away with dropping brine, And alms, and fasts, and church's discipline, And dead, might rest his bones under the holy shrine.
But when he nearer came, he louted low With prone obeisance and with curt'sy kind, That at his feet his head he seemed to throw; What needs him now another saint to find? Affections are the sails and faith the wind,
That to this saint a thousand souls convey Each hour. O happy pilgrims, thither stray! What caren they for beasts or for the weary way?
Soon the old palmer his devotions sung, Like pleasing anthems, modulëd in time, For well that aged sire could tip his tongue With golden foil of eloquence and lime,
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