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PRINCE ARTHUR. AN HEROICK POEM IN TEN BOOKS
by
SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE
THE PREFACE
To what ill purposes soever Poetry has been abus'd, its true and genuine End is by universal Confession, the Instruction of our Minds, and Regulation of our Manners; for which 'tis furnish'd with so many excellent Advantages. The Delicacy of its Strains, the Sweetness and Harmony of its Numbers, the lively and admirable manner of its Painting or Representation, and the wonderful Force of its Eloquence, cannot but open the Passages to our Breasts, triumph over our Passions, and leave behind them very deep Impressions. 'Tis in the power of Poetry to insinuate into the inmost Recesses of the Mind, to touch any Spring that moves the Heart, to agitate the Soul with any sort of Affection, and transform it into any Shape or Posture it thinks fit. 'Tis therefore no wonder that so wise a State, as that of Athens, should retain the Poets on the side of Religion and the Government. The Stage there was set up to teach the People the Scheme of their Religion, and those Modes of Worship the Government thought fit to encourage, to convey to them such Ideas of their Deities, and Divine Providence, as might engage their Minds to a Reverence of superiour, invisible Beings, and to observe and admire their Administration of humane Affairs. The Poets were look'd on as Divine, not only upon the account of that extraordinary Fury and Heat of Imagination, wherewith they were thought to be inspir'd, but likewise upon the account of their Profession and Imployment, their Business being to represent Vice as the most odious, and Virtue as the most desirable thing in the World.
Tragedy was at its first Institution a part of the Ancient Pagans Divine Service, when the Chorus which originally was so great a part, contain'd many excellent Lessons of Piety and Morality, and was wholly imploy'd in rectifying their mistakes about the Gods, and their Government of the World, in moderating their Passions, and purging their Minds from Vice and Corruption. This was the noble Design of the Chorus. And the Representation of great and illustrious Characters, gradually afterwards introduc'd, their Impious, or their Generous Actions, and the different Event that attended them, was to deter Men from Vice and Impiety, and encourage them to be Generous and Virtuous, be shewing them the Vengeance that at last overtook the one, and the Rewards and Praises that crown'd the other. The End of Comedy was the same, but pursu'd in another way. The business of Comedy being to render Vice ridiculous, to expose it to publick Derision and Contempt, and to make Men asham'd of Vile and Sordid Actions.
Tragedy design'd to Scare Men, Comedy to Laugh them out of their Vices. And 'tis very plain, that Satyr is intended for the same End, the Promotion of Virtue, and exposing of Vice; which it pursues by sharp Reproaches, vehement and bitter Invectives, or by a Courtly, but not less cutting Raillery. The Odes of the Lyric Poet were chiefly design'd for the Praises of their Gods, their Heroes and extraordianry Persons, to draw Men to an Admiration and Imitation of them.
But above all other kinds, Epick Poetry, as it is first in Dignity, so it mostly conduces to this End. In an Epick Poem, where Characters of the first Rank and Dignity, Illustrious for their Birth or high Employment are introduc'd, the Fable, the Action, the particular Episodes are so contriv'd and conducted, or at least ought to be, that either Fortitude, Wisdom, Piety, Moderation, Generosity, some or other Nobel and Princely Virtues shall be recommended with the highest Advantage, and their contrary Vices made as odious. To give Men right and just Conceptions of Religion and Virtue, to aid their Reason in restraining their Exorbitant Appetites and Impetuous Passions, and to bring their Lives under the Rules and Guidance of true Wisdom, and thereby to promote the publick Good of Mankind, is undoubtedly the End of all Poetry.
'Tis true indeed, that one End of Poetry is to give Men Pleasure and Delight; but this is but a subordinate, subaltern End, which is it self a Means to the greater, and ultimate one before mention'd. A Poet should imploy all his Judgment and Wit, exhaust all the Riches of his Fancy, and abound in Beautiful and Noble Expression, to divert and entertain others; but then it must be with this Prospect, that he may hereby engage their Attention, insinuate more easily into their Minds, and more effectually convey to them wise Instructions. 'Tis below the Dignity of a true Poet to take his Aim at any inferiour End. They are Men of little Genius, of mean and poor Design, that imploy their Wit for no higher Purpose, than to please the Imagination of vain and wanton People.
I think these Poets, if they must be called so, whose Wit as they manage it, is altogether unuseful are justly reproach'd; but I am sure those others are highly to be condemned, who use all their Wit in Opposition to Religion, and to the Destruction of Virtue and good Manners in the World. There have been in all Ages such ill Men that have perverted the right Use of Poetry, but never so many, or so bold or mischievous as in ours. Our Poets seem engag'd in a general Confederacy to ruin the End of their own Art, to expose Religion and Virtue, and bring Vice and Corruption of Manners into Esteem and Reputation. The Poets that write for the Stage (at least a great part of 'em) seem deeply concern'd in this Conspiracy. These are the Champions that charge Religion with such desperate Resolution, and have given it so many deep and ghastly Wounds. The Stage was an Outwork or Fort rais'd for the Protection and Security of the Temple, but the Poets that kept it, have revolted, and basely betray'd it, and what is worse, have turn'd all their Force and discharg'd all their Artillery against the Place their Duty was to defend. If any Man thinks this an unjust Charge, I desire him to read any of our modern Comedies, and I believe he will soon be convinc'd of the Truth of what I have said.
The Man of Sense and the Fine Gentleman in the Comedy, who as the chiefest Person propos'd to the Esteem and Imitation of the Audience, is enrich'd with all the Sense and Wit the Poet can bestow; this Extraordinary Person you will find to be a Derider of Religion, a great Admirer of Lucretius, not so much for his Learning, as his Irreligion, a Person wholly Idle, dissolv'd in Luxury, abandon'd to his Pleasures, a great Debaucher of Women, profuse and extravagant in his Expences, and in short, this Finish'd Gentleman will appear a Finish'd Libertine.
The Young Lady that must support the Character of a Vertuous, Well-manner'd Sensible Woman, the most perfect Creature that can be, and the very Flower of her Sex, this Accomplish'd Person entertains the Audience with confident Discourses, immodest Repartees, and prophane Raillery. She is throughly instructed in Intreagues and Assignations, a great Scoffer at the prudent Reservedness and Modesty of the best of her Sex, She despises the wise Instructions of her Parents or Guardians, is disobedient to their Authority, and at last, without their Knowledge or Consent, marries her self to the Fine Gentleman above mentioned. And can any one imagine, but that our Young Ladies and Gentlemen are admirably instructed by such Patterns of Sense and Virtue? If a Clergy-man be introduc'd, as he often is, 'tis seldome for any other purpose, but to abuse him, to expose his very Character and Profession: He must be a Pimp, a Blockhead, a Hypocrite; some wretched Figure he must make, and almost ever be so manag'd, as to bring his very Order into Contempt. This indeed is a very common, but yet so gross an Abuse of Wit, as was never endur'd on a Pagan Theater, at least in the ancient, primitive Times of Poetry, before its Purity and Simplicity became corrupted with the Inventions of after Ages. Poets then taught Men to reverence their Gods, and those who serv'd them. None had so little Regard for his Religion, as to expose it publickly, or if any had, their Govenments were too wise to suffer the Worship of their Gods to be treated on the Stage with Contempt.
In our Comedies the Wives of Citizens are highly encourag'd to despise their Husbands, and to make great Friendship with some such Vertuous Gentleman and Man of Sense as is above describ'd. This is their Way of recommending Chastity and Fidelity. And that Diligence and Frugality may be sufficiently expos'd, tho' the two Virtues that chiefly support the Being of any State, to deter Men from being Industrious and Wealthy, the Diligent, Thriving Citizen is made of the most Wretched, Contemptible Thing in the World: and as the Alderman that makes the best Figure in the City, makes the worst on the Stage, so under the Character of a Justice of Peace, you have all the Prudence and Virtues of the Country, most unmercifully insulted over.
And as these Characters are set up on purpose to ruin all Opinion and Esteem of Virtue, so the Conduct throughout, the Language, the Fable, and Contrivance seem evidently design'd for the same Noble End. There are few Fine Conceipts, few Strains of Wit or extraordinary Pieces of Raillery, but are either immodest or irreligious, and very few Scenes but have some spiteful and envious Stroke at Sobriety and Good Manners, whence the Youth of the Nation have apparently receiv'd very bad Impressions. The universal Corruption of Manners and irreligious Disposition of Mind that infects the Kingdom, seems to have been in a great Measure deriv'd from the Stage, or has at least been highly promoted by it. And 'tis great Pitty that those in whose Power it is, have not yet restrain'd the Licentiousness of it, and oblig'd the Writers to observe more Decorum. It were to be wish'd that Poets, as Preachers are in some Countries, were paid and licens'd by the State, and that none were suffer'd to write in Prejudice of Religion and the Government, but that all such Offenders, as publick Enemies of Mankind should be silenc'd and duly punish'd. Sure some Effectual Care should be taken that these Men might not be suffr'd by Debauching our Youth, to help on the Destruction of a brave Nation.
Some of these Poets, to excuse their Guilt, alledge for themselves, that the Degeneracy of the Age makes their leud way of Writing necessary; they pretend the Auditors will not be pleas'd, unless they are thus entertain'd from the Stage; and to please they say is the chief business of the Poet. But this is by no means a just Apology; 'tis not true, as was said before, that the Poet's chief business is to please. His chief business is to instruct, to make Mankind Wiser and Better; and in order to this, his Care should be to please and entertain the Audience with all the Wit and Art, he is Master of. Aristotle and Horace, and all their Criticks and Commentators, all Men of Wit and Sense agree, that this is the End of Poetry. But they say 'tis their Profession to Write for the Stage; and that Poets must Starve if they will not in this way humour the Audience. The Theater will be as unfrequented, as the Churches, and the Poet and the Parson equally neglected. Let the Poet then abandon his Profession, and take up some honest, lawful Calling, where joyning Industry to his great Wit, he may soon get above the Complaints of Poverty, so common among these ingenious Men, and lye under no necessity of prostituting his Wit to any such vile Purposes as are here censur'd. This will be a course of Life more Profitable and Honourable to himself, and more useful to others. And there are among these Writers some, who think they might have risen to the highest Dignities in other Professions, had they imploy'd their Wit in those Ways. 'Tis a mighty Dishonour and Reproach to any Man, that is capable of being useful to the World in any Liberal and Virtuous Profession, to lavish out his Life and Wit in propagating Vice and Corruption of Manners, and in battering from the Stage the strongest Entrenchments and best Works of Religion and Virtue. Whoever makes this his Choice, when the other was in his Power, may he go off the Stage unpity'd, complaining of Neglect and Poverty, the just Punishments of his Irreligion and Folly.
'Tis no dishonour to be a true Poet, if indeed a Man be one; that is, a noble Genius well cultivated, and employ'd in Writing in such a way, as reaches the End of his Art, and by discouraging Vice, promotes the Good of Mankind. But 'tis a mighty Dishonour and Shame, to employ excellent Faculties and abundance of Wit, to humour and please Men in their Vices and Follies. Such a one is more hateful, as an ill Man, than valuable, as a good Poet. The great Enemy of Mankind, notwithstanding his Wit and Angelick Faculties, is the most odious Being of the whole Creation.
Nor is this Abuse confin'd to the Stage, the same Strain runs thro' the other kinds of Poetry. What monstrous leud and irreligious Books of Poems, as they are call'd, have been of late days publish'd, and what is the greater wonder, receiv'd in a Civiliz'd and Christian Kingdom, with Applause and Reputation? The sweetness of the Wit, makes the Poison go down with Pleasure, and the Contagion spreads without Opposition. Young Gentlemen and Ladies are generally pleas'd and diverted with Poetry, more than by any other way of Writing; but there are few Poems they can fix on, but they are like to pay too dear for their Entertainment. Their Fancies are like to be fill'd with impure Ideas and their Minds engag'd in hurtful Passions, which are the more lasting, by being convey'd in lively Expressions, and all the Address of an artful Poet.
For this End among others, I undertook the writing of this Poem, hoping I might be able to please and entertain, not only wthout hurting the Reader, but to his advantage. I was willing to make one Effort towards the rescuing the Muses out of the hands of these Ravishers, to restore them to their sweet and chast Mansions, and to engage them in an Employment suitable to their Dignity. If I succeed not my self in this good Design, I hope at least I shall awaken the Courage and Compassion of some other brave Adventurers; that may more happily attempt this honorable Work.
To write an Epick Poem is a work of that Difficulty, that no one for near seventeen hundred years past has succeeded in it; and only those two great Wits Homer and Virgil before. That the modern Poets have been so unsuccessful, has not, I imagin, proceeded so much from want of Genius, as from their Ignorance of the Rules of writing such a Poem; or at least, from their want of attending to them. Tho' Aristotle's excellent Rules of Poetry were early publish'd by Victorius at Florence, and soon after farther illustrated by the Comments of several Italian Criticks, yet we do not find that Ariosto or Tasso either, were very careful to observe them. And indeed our modern Writers neither seem to have attended to those incomparable Rules, nor carefully to have consider'd the great Models that Homer and Virgil had left them. Some Readers that are not vers'd in this matter, imagin every thing written in Heroick Verse, is an Heroick Poem; but these have not consider'd the Nature of such a Work, nor look'd into the Criticks, who have written on this Subject. I shall therefore give the Definition of an Epick or Heroick Poem, that those that have it not already, may now have a true Idea of its Nature.
An Epick Poem is a feign'd or devis'd Story of an Illustrious Action, related in Verse, in an Allegorical, Probable, Delightful and Admirable manner, to cultivate the Mind with Instructions of Virtue. 'Tis a feign'd or devis'd Discourse; that is, a Fable; and so it agrees with Tragedy and Comedy. The word Fable at first signified indifferently a true or false Story, therefore Cicero for distinction, uses Fictas Fabulas in his Book de Finibus. But afterwards Custom obtain'd to use the word always for a feign'd Discourse. And in the first Ages, especially in the Eastern World, great use was made by Learned and Wise Men of these feign'd Discourses, Fables, or Apologues, to teach the ruder and more unpolish'd Part of Mankind. Theologians, Philosophers, and great Law-givers, every where fell into this way of instructing and cultivating the People in the Knowledge of Religion, Natural Philosophy, and Moral and Political Virtues. So Thales, Orpheus, Solon, Homer, and the rest of the great Men in those Ages have done, and the famous Philosopher Socrates is by some affirm'd to be the Author of many of the Fables that pass under Æsop's name. Most of them made their Fables in Verse, that by the addition of Harmony and Numbers they might the better attain their End. Strabo and Plutarch greatly commend this way of teaching the People; and these Reasons may be given for the usefulness of it. Naked Philosophical Precepts and Doctrines are of themselves harsh and dry, hardly attended to, and ungratefully entertain'd. If the Hearers are rude and course, or very vicious, there is no hope of gaining them by a grave and solemn Discourse of Virtue, and even the better and more civiliz'd Auditors are hardly kept attentive to it. Man is naturally a lover of Pleasure, and if you would do him Good, it must be, by pleasing him; you must give him Delight, and keep his Mind in a constant agreeable Agitation, else he will not attend to the most useful Counsel and Instruction. He is pleas'd already with the Notions and Habitudes, howsoever false or vicious, that have the present Possession of him, and you must give him a great deal of Pleasure and Entertainment to engage him to hear you, when you would perswade him to the trouble, of becoming Wiser and Better. Now the first Wise Men that undertook to civilize and polish the barbarous World, found this way of Fables especially in Verse, to be mighty Acceptable to the People: The Contrivance gave them Delight, and the Novelty rais'd their Admiration. They could learn them perfectly, and repeat them often, by which means the Instructions of Virtue covertly contain'd in them, were inculcated on their Minds.
And we find, that many Ages after Orpheus, Solon, Homer, &c. the Divine Law-giver of the Christians thought fit to teach the People by Apologues, Parables or Fables, under which he cover'd and disguis'd his Heavenly Instructions.
The Action must be Illustrious and Important; Illustrious in respect of the Person, who is the Author of it, who is always some Valiant, or Wise, or Pious Prince or great Commander: But let his Character be what it will in other respects (for there is no Necessity the Hero should be a good or a wise Person) 'tis always necessary he should have Courage; which single Quality is sufficient to make the Hero. And the Action must be important, both in respect of its Object and its End. 'Tis the Action of some great Person, about some noble and weighty Affair. 'Tis true, there are many other Persons concern'd, but tis the Action of the chief Person that gives the Being and Denomination to the Poem. This Action must be but one; when it ceases, the Poem is ended; and if it be reviv'd, and taken up again, 'tis a new Poem begins. Action is Motion; and if it ceases cannot be reviv'd, so as to be numerically the same. There are indeed many other Actions besides the Principal one, but they all depend on, and have relation to that which is Principal, with the Unity of which, the Unity of the Poem stands or falls. If this principal Action be broken, the Poem is broken too, if there be any other Action coordinate and independent on this, the Poem is monstrous, and has as many Heads, as there are found independent Actions. The Narration therefore of many Actions successively of one great Person, or the History of his Life related in Verse, is by no means an Heroick Poem, any one great action being sufficient for that. That which makes the Unity of the Action, is the regular Succession of one Part or Episode to another, not only as Antecedents and Consequents, but as it were Causes and Effects, wherein the Reader may discern that the former Episode makes the following necessary, and the Connection between them is such, that they assist and support each other, as the Members of the Body do, no Episode being out of its place, of a disproportion'd size to the Rest, or that could be spar'd from its place, without maiming, or at least deforming the Whole. If this order of the Episodes be preserv'd, and there appears none but what naturally and probably results from the principal Action, then the Action may be look'd on as one.
The Action must be related in an Allegorical manner; and this Rule is best observ'd, when as Divines speak; there is both a Literal Sense obvious to every Reader, and that gives him satisfaction enough if he sees no farther; and besides another Mystical or Typical Sense, not hard to be discover'd by those Readers that penetrate the matter deeper. Virgil seems most happy in this Conduct, whose Poem all along contains this double Sense, Homer has often only an Allegorical Sense without the Literal, and therefore is not so well accommodated to this Age, as he was not to that of Augustus. But Ariosto and Spencer, however great Wits, not observing this judicious Conduct of Virgil, nor attending to any sober Rules, are hurried on with a boundless, impetuous Fancy over Hill and Dale, till they are both lost in a Wood of Allegories. Allegories so wild, unnatural, and extravagant, as greatly displease the Reader. This way of writing mightily offends in this Age; and 'tis a wonder how it came to please in any. There is indeed a way of writing purely Allegorical, as when Vices and Virtues are introduc'd as Persons, the first as Furies, the other as Divine Persons or Goddesses, which still obtains, and is well enough accommodated to the present Age. For the Allegory is presently discern'd, and the Reader is by no means impos'd on, but sees it immediately to be an Allegory, and is both delighted and instructed with it. The devis'd Story must be related in a probable manner; without this all things will be harsh, unnatural, and monstrous; and consequently most odious and offensive to the Judicious. Probability must be in the Action, the Conduct, the Manners; and where humane means cannot, Machines are introduc'd to support it. Nothing is more necessary then Probability; no Rule more chastly to be observ'd.
An Epick Poem must likewise be delightful and admirable; and to make it so, must concur sublime Thoughts, clear and noble Expression, Purity of Language, a just and due Proportion, Relation, and Dependance between the Parts, and a beautiful and regular Structure and Connection discernable in the Whole. Without these it will not be capable of giving Delight, or raising Admiration. Admiration is the Formal Object of an Epick Poem, nothing is to be admitted there, but as it is admirable; and by this it is discriminated from all other sorts of Poetry. Every kind endeavours to please and delight, but this only attempts to please by astonishing and amazing the Reader. In an Epick Poem every thing should appear great and wonderful, the Thoughts cannot be too much Elevated, the Episodes too Noble, the Expression too Magnificent, nor the Action too Wonderful and Surprising, if Probability be preserv'd. No Riches of Fancy, no Pomp of Eloquence can be laid out too much on such a Work where the Design is throughout to raise our Admiration. To render the Action the more Admirable, Homer and Virgil have introduc'd the Gods, and engag'd them every where as Parties; and tho' I cannot say this is Essential and Necessary to an Epick Poem, yet 'tis evident, that interesting Heaven and Hell in the matter, does mightily raise the Subject, and makes the Action appear more wonderful. The Pagan Poets had in this a great advantage, their Theology was such, as would easily mix it self with their Poems, from whence they receiv'd their greatest Beauties. Homer indeed to raise his Subject by his frequent Machines, seems to have debas'd his Religion. Virgil's Conduct, in my Opinion, is more careful and chast. But some of our modern Criticks have believ'd 'tis scarce possible for a Christian Poet to make use of this advantage, of introducing Superiour, Indivisible Powers into the Action, and therefore seem to despair of seeing an Heroick Poem written now, that shall reach to the Dignity of those of the Pagans. They think the Christian Religion is not so well accommodated to this matter, as the Pagan was; and that if any Attempt be made this way, Religion is not so well accommodated to this matter, as the Pagan was; and that if any Attempt be made this way, Religion will suffer more, than the Poem will gain by it. My Opinion has always differ'd from these Gentlemen's, I believe a Christian Poet has as great advantages as the Pagan had; and that our Theology may enter into an Epick Poem, and raise the Subject without being it self debas'd. And this indeed was a second Reason why I undertook this Work, so full of Difficulty and Hazard. I was willing to give an Instance wherein it might appear, that the Assertion I have advanc'd, is actually true.
In the Definition which I have given of an Heroick Poem, according to the Sense and Judgment of the best Criticks, I have said, its End is to convey some Instruction of Virtue. But of this, I have discours'd at large at the beginning of this Preface, and there is no need of repeating it.
'Tis not for me to proceed to Censure other Mens Performances of this Kind; whoever will be at the Pains to read the Commentators on Aristotle, and Horace's Rules of Poetry; or that will but carefully consider Rapin, Dacier, and Bossu, those great Masters among the French, and the Judicious Remarks of our own excellent Critick Mr. Rymer, who seems to have better consider'd these matters, and to have seen farther into them, than any of the English Nation; will be soon able to see wherein the Heroick Poems that have been publish'd since Virgil by the Italian, French, and English Wits have been defective, by comparing them with the Rules of Writing set down by those great Masters. Whether I have succeeded better, must be left to the determination of the Judicious Reader.
In this Work I have endeavour'd mostly to form my self on Virgil's Model, which I look on, as the most just and perfect, and which is most easily accommodated to the present Age, supposing the Christian Religion in the place of the Pagan. I do not make any Apology for my Imitation of Virgil in so many places of this Poem; for the same great Master has imitated Homer as frequently and closely; and I do not find that any of his Criticks have condemn'd him for his doing so. Nor is it at all improbable, but that the Greek Poet himself imitated his Predecessors of the same Nation, tho' no doubt he wonderfully improv'd their Model. Homer was not the first Writer of an Epick Poem. We find Aristotle in his Book of the Art of Poetry, makes mention of several before him: He tells us of an Epick Poem, intituled, The Little Ilias, and another the Cyprica; and censures them both, as containing many perfect, distinct, and independent Actions. The last of these Poems is likewise mention'd by Herodotus in Euterpe, by Athenæus and Pausanias. And 'tis likely many more such Poems were written before Homer's time, who might be well suppos'd to have imitated them in what they had done well, as well as to have improv'd them in avoiding many of their Errors.
What Homer and Virgil have perform'd with Honour and universal Applause, I have attempted: What they have been able, I have been willing to do. If I have not succeeded, my disappointment will be the less, in that Poetry has been so far from being my Business and Profession, that it has imploy'd but a small part of my Time; and then, but as my Recreation, and the Entertainment of my idle hours. If this Attempt succeeds so far, as to excite some other Person that has a noble Genius, Leisure, and Application, to Honour his Country with a just Epick Poem, I shall think the Vacancies and Intervals that for about two years past, I have had from the Business of my Profession; which notwithstanding was then greater then at any time before, have been very well imploy'd.
PRINCE ARTHUR
BOOK I
I sing the Briton, and his Righteous Arms,
Who bred to Suff'rings, and the rude Alarms
Of bloody War, forsook his Native Soil,
And long sustain'd a vast Heroick Toil,
Till kinder Fate invited his Return,
To bless the Isle, that did his Absence mourn:
To re-enthrone fair Liberty, and break
The Saxon Yoke, that gall'd Britannia's Neck.
Tell, Sacred Muse, what made th' Infernal King
Use all his Arts, and all his Forces bring
The Generous Briton's Triumphs to oppose,
Afflict his Friends, and aid his cruel Foes.
Tell, why the angry Pow'rs below, combine
T'oppress a Valiant Prince, and thwart his brave Design.
Ambitious Lucifer, depos'd of late
From Bliss Divine, and high Angelick State,
Sinks to the dark, unbottom'd Deep of Hell,
Where Sin, and Death, and endless Sorrow dwell:
Here plung'd in Flame, and tortur'd with Despair
He plots Revenge, and meditates new War.
His Thoughts on deep Designs th' Apostate spent,
When this Conjuncture favour'd his Intent.
A spacious, dusky Plain lay wast and void,
Where yet Creating Power was ne'er employ'd
To fashion Elements, or strike out Light;
The silent, lonesome Walks of ancient Night.
In th' Archives kept in Heav'n's bright Towers, was found,
A sacred old Decree, wherein the Ground
Was set distinctly out, from Ages past,
For a new World, on this unbounded Wast.
Here did th' Artificer Divine of late,
The World so long before markt out, create.
And gave it to the Man he newly made,
Where all things him, as he did Heav'n, obey'd.
In Eden's Walks he made his blest Abode,
All full of Joy, of Glory, full of God.
Nature with vast Profusion on him pours,
Unmeasur'd Bliss, from unexhausted Stores.
Th' Apostate raging at his own Defeat
And envying this new Prince his happy Seat;
Labours to win him to his Side, to bear
Arms against Heav'n, and wage Confed'rate War.
Nor did his Arts in vain weak Man assail,
His false Seraphick Tongue, and Charms prevail.
Deluded Man from his high Station fell
Deserting Heav'n, to serve the Cause of Hell.
This fatal Conquest o'er fall'n Adam gain'd,
A mighty Empire Lucifer maintain'd;
Till the blest Prince of Peace, Heav'n's Lord and Heir,
By Pity's Tears, and charming Mercy's Prayer
Drawn down from Heav'n, freed lost Mankind, and broke
The Pow'r of Hell, and Sin's Tyrannick Yoke.
He makes Proud Lucifer his Host disband,
And wrests the Scepter from th' Usurper's Hand.
The Prince of Darkness owns the Conquerour,
And yields his Empire to a mightier Pow'r.
From Idols and their Priests the Nations freed,
Celestial Light, and Truth Divine succeed.
Religion large Dominions soon obtain'd,
And daily Conquests, and fresh Laurels gain'd.
To Albion's Shore the early pass'd the Main,
And brought along her bright Etherial Train.
From thence she chas'd Infernal Shades away,
And o'er the Isle, diffus'd a Heav'nly Day.
The Prince of Hell at her Appearance flies,
Spoil'd of his Altars, and his Votaries.
Confin'd to Barb'rous Northern Lands he staid,
Till the fierce Saxon, Albion did invade.
Victorious Octa who his Shrines ador'd,
Rebuilt his Altars, and his Groves restor'd.
Long abdicated Gods make Albion mourn,
At theirs, and their devouring Priests Return.
Th' Arch-Traytor's Rage hence against Arthur rose,
And all th' Infernal Pow'rs his Arms oppose;
Conscious should he his glorious End acquire,
And force th' intruding Pagan to retire,
Theirs, with the Saxon Empire must expire.
They must again forsake fair Albion's Land,
And leave Divine Religion to Command.
Scarce had they left the happy Neustrian Coast,
Born with a Prosperous Gale, scarce had they lost
The Tops of Spires, and rising Points of Land,
When Lucifer, that did observing stand
On the high Southern Promontory's Head,
Of Vecta's Isle, the Seas beneath him spread
With sharp Angelick Ken, views far and wide,
And soon Prince Arthur's hateful Fleet descry'd.
The Heav'ns serenely smil'd, and every Sail
Fill'd its wide Bosom, with th' indulgent Gale.
Mercy, Deliverance, Pity, Hope displaid
Their Silver Wings, and glad Attendance paid,
Sung on the Shrowds, or with the Streamers plaid.
Rage flash'd, like Lightning, from th' Apostate's Eyes,
And Envy swell'd him to the vastest Size.
Then thus he to himself.
Was not to me in the fam'd Wars of Heav'n,
The chief Command of all the Forces giv'n,
Sent by Confederate Potentates to wage
Unheard of War, and all Heav'n's Pow'r engage?
When I, to end with Honour the Campaign,
Drew my bright Troops out, on th' Etherial Plain;
And push'd on that great, last decisive Day,
With God-like Vigour, for th' Imperial Sway.
In Lustre chief, in Danger and Command,
Did I proud Michael's Veteran Troops withstand.
Michael, than whom a Braver Combatant,
For Skill and Strength, the Foe could never vaunt.
'Gainst fresh Battalions still pour'd on I stood,
Smeer'd with Celestial Dust, and Seraphs Blood.
Had not our Mould been Æther, Pure and Fine,
Labour'd with Care, anneel'd with Skill Divine;
The Blows of mighty Cherubs Death had cloy'd,
Unpeopled Heav'n, and the Bright Race destroy'd.
With Michael pain'd with ghastly Wounds, at length
I clos'd, and grasp'd him with Immortal Strength;
And down Heav'n's Precipice, had headlong hurl'd
The great Arch-Angel, to th' Infernal World,
Had not swift Uriel trembling at the Sight,
That fill'd all Heav'n, with Horrour and dire Fright,
Rush'd in, to save him from unequal Fight.
Their stagg'ring Army shrunk, and we had won
The Throne we fought for, But th' Almighty's Son
Brought strong Recruits, to reinforce their Host,
And win back what their General Michael lost.
'Tho' overmatcht, did I not firmly stand,
The chiefest Mark of his Revenging Hand?
Did I from Posts of greatest Danger run,
Or once his bright Triumphal Chariot shun?
Did I once shrink, when Showers of poyson'd Darts
Dipt in Eternal Wrath, shot thro' our Hearts?
When massy Rocks of Heav'nly Chrystal flew,
Which the strong Arms of mighty Seraphs threw?
Did I not run and timely Help afford,
Where Storms of Fire, and loudest Thunder roar'd?
'Tis true, o'er-born with Force, at last I fell,
But got Immortal Fame, tho' with it Hell.
Scarce was I vanquish'd and o'erthrown but late
By Power Almighty, and Eternal Fate.
Since that chief Lord, and Prince of Hell I've reign'd,
And from the Foe, his new-made World have gain'd.
And long maintain'd the Conquests I had won;
Now much lost back to his Almighty Son.
But faithful Octa has once more restor'd
This happy Isle to me its ancient Lord.
Have I been thus for great Atchievements fam'd,
My Deeds throughout all Heav'n and Hell proclaim'd;
And shall this British, despicable Wight,
Me and my Priests, force to a second Flight?
Rifle my Temples, and in Triumph bear,
Thro' shouting Throngs, the Spoils high in the Air?
Who then to me will Hymns of Praise return,
Who on my Altars Odorous Incense burn?
If I chastise not this vain Briton's Pride,
That does insulting on the Ocean ride.
If I secure not my new conquer'd Seat,
And all his wild, ambitious Arms defeat.
This having said, to Heav'n he mounts upright,
And to the Northern Pole directs his Flight.
All fir'd with Rage, and full of anxious Care,
With his swift Wings, he cuts the yielding Air.
As when the Sun pours from his Orb of Light,
A glorious Deluge, on the Face of Night.
His Golden Rays shot from the Rosy East,
Reach in a Moment, the remotest West,
And smiling on the Mountains Heads are seen,
Th' immense Expansion past, that lies between.
The Prince of Darkness now, once Prince of Light,
With equal Swiftness takes his Airy Flight,
And the vast Interval of Seas, and Isles,
Wild Desarts, spacious Forrests, snowy Hills,
Past in a Moment, does on Fioel Light;
Of Lapland Alpes, chief for amazing Height.
Where Thor resides, who heretofore by Lot
The Sovereign Rule o'er Winds and Tempests got.
Here in strong Prisons bound with heavy Chains,
His howling, savage Subjects he restrains,
And in Eternal Din, and Uproar reigns.
In close Apartments, round his desart Court,
Fierce Pris'ners are confin'd of different Sort.
Here Boundless Stores, and Treasures Infinite
Of Vapours, Steams, and Exhalations, fit
T'engender Winds, or Snow, or Hail, or Rain,
In Subterranean Magazins remain.
Here new fledg'd Winds, young yelping Monsters try
Their Wings, and sporting round their Prisons fly.
Here whistling East-winds prove their shriller Notes:
Here the hoarse South-winds, strain their hollow Throats.
Boreas the fiercest and most turbulent,
Of the mad Race, raves in his Dungeon pent.
At th' Adamantine Door vast Hills are thrown,
And abrupt Rocks of Ice, pil'd sevenfold on.
Capricious Whirlwinds, of more Force than Sound,
In everlasting Eddys turning round,
Grow Giddy, Furious and Extravagant,
And strive to break from their close Den's restraint.
When Thor unlocks their Prisons, out they fly,
A lawless Rout, and with their Hellish Cry
Out-howl the hideous Monsters of the Seas,
Or savage Roarings of the Wilderness.
Some range the Flats, and Scour the Champain Land,
Or roll in tott'ring heaps the Desart Sand.
Some to the lofty Woods direct their Course,
And with an uncontroul'd, impetuous Force
O'erturn opposing Structures in their hast,
Tear up tall Pines, and lay the Forest wast.
Some to the Ocean with like Speed resort,
And in loud Tempests on the Billows sport.
Embroil the Coasts, and in wild Outrages
Turn up to Heav'n, the Bottom of the Seas.
But husht at Thor's Command they all obey,
And to their ancient Prisons haste away.
To him, thus Lucifer, great Prince on thee
Fate has bestow'd the Empire of the Sea,
All there concern'd, invoke thy Deity.
The Merchants pray to thee to fill their Sails,
Enrich thy Priests, and purchase Prosperous Gales.
I too thy Suppliant, ask thy Powerful Aid,
A Haughty Prince, designing to invade
My faithful Subject Octa, and beguile
Me of my Hopes of fair Britannia's Isle;
Sails with a numerous Fleet, with Men and Arms,
And Octa trembles at his Proud Alarms.
Let him in Furious Hurricanes be tost,
Be sunk, or wreckt, or on the Ocean lost,
Beat him at least, from his intended Coast.
Make him thy Vengeance feel, thy Power regard,
And be what e'er thou askest, thy Reward.
Great Prince, then Thor reply'd,
Who rul'st the Realms of Hell with Soveraign Sway,
Whom all th' Infernal Thrones, and Pow'rs obey,
I own Obedience to thy high Command,
Who putt'st this Scepter first into my Hand.
Thou led'st in Heav'n our bright Battalions on,
And bravely didst attempt th' Almighty's Throne;
I saw thy mighty Deeds, and kept my Post
Close by thee, till that Glorious Day was lost.
Thy faded Splendor, and illustrious Scars,
From Ghastly Wounds, receiv'd in those just Wars,
I view with Reverence, 'tis true subdu'd
Headlong we fell from Heav'n's high Tow'r's, pursu'd
With Whirlwinds, and loud Thunder, down to Hell,
And Storms of Fire beat on us as we fell.
Yet after that, thou led'st us to invade
This Globous World, which we our Conquest made.
And my Election Patroniz'd by thee,
This great Command and Province fell to me.
That said, by him their heavy Gates unbar'd,
That loud on mighty Iron Hinges jarr'd,
Out ratling Eurus, and loud Boreas fly,
And with Outrageous Tempests fill the Sky.
They bend their Course strait to the British Coast,
And on those Seas lay out their Anger most.
Their furious Wings the swelling Surges beat,
And rouse Old Ocean from his Peaceful Seat.
The raging Seas in high ridg'd Mountains rise,
And cast their angry Foam against the Skies.
Then gape so deep, that Day Light Hell invades,
And shoots grey Dawning thro' th' affrighted Shades.
Low bellying Clouds soon intercept the Light,
And o'er the Britons spread a Nood Day Night.
Exploded Thunder tears th' Embowel'd Sky,
And Sulphurous Flames a dismal Day supply.
The Dire Convulsions, for a certain Space
Distorted Nature, wresting from its Place
This Globe, set to the Sun's more oblique View,
And wrench'd the Poles some Leagues yet more askew.
Horrour, Confusion, Uproar, Strife and Fear
In all their wild amazing Shapes appear.
Mean time old Chaos joyful at the Sight,
Look'd and smil'd horrible on older Night,
Hoping that Nature, their grand Foe would crack
With universal Ruin, and her Wreck
Would give them all their lost Dominions back.
The Sailor's Clamour, and enormous Cries,
The Crack of Masts, mix'd with th' outrageous Noise
Of Storms and Thunder, rending all the Air,
Form the last Scene of Horror and Dispair.
When the Just Arthur fill'd with Grief and Dread,
And Pale Confusion, deeply sigh'd, and said,
O righteous Heaven, why hast thou rang'd this Day
Against me all thy Terrors in Array!
Arm'd in thy Cause, thy Temples to restore,
And give that Aid thy sacred Priests implore.
If thou such fierce Destruction dost dispence,
To punish some unpardon'd old Offence,
On me let all thy Fiery Darts be spent,
Let not my Crime involve the innocent.
Whelm o'er my guilty Head these raging Seas,
And let this Sacrifice thy Wrath appease,
But let the British Youth return in Peace.
That said, his Ship unmasted, without Guide,
Driv'n by the Winds and Seas impetuous Tyde,
The Sight of all the scatter'd Navy lost,
Strikes on the Quicksand of an unknown Coast.
Mean time bright Uriel, Heav'n's high Favourite,
Left the Celestial Palaces of Light,
Sent by supream Command, and down he flies,
Let by a Golden Sun-beam thro' the Skies.
Meekness divine, serene and Heav'nly Grace,
And fresh immortal Youth shone on his Face.
Godlike his Form, his Looks so charming mild
That where he came all ravish'd Nature smil'd.
He strait alights on lofty Gobeum's Head,
That wonder'd at the Heav'n about it shed,
From the bright Cherubim, who touch'd his Lyre,
Fam'd for its Sweetness in the Heav'nly Quire:
Th' enchanted Winds straightway their Fury laid,
Grew wondrous still, and strict Attention paid.
Aerial Demons that by Twilight stray,
Sport in loud Thunder, and in Tempests play,
Spread their brown Wings, and fly in Clouds away.
The Day returns, the Heav'ns no longer scowl,
And fierce Sea-Monsters charm'd forget to howl.
The Winds retreat, and leave the peaceful Waves,
To rest their Wings, and sleep in Lapland Caves.
Soft Zephirs only stay to fan the Woods,
And play in gentle Gales along the Floods.
The Ocean smiles to see the Tempest fled,
New lays his Waves, and smooths his ruffl'd Bed.
All things thus husht, great Arthur gave Command
To quit their Ship, stuck in the barren Sand,
And in their Boats to make the Neighb'ring Land.
They spy a Creek not far a peaceful Seat
Where flying Waves by furious Tempests beat,
Find from the fierce Pursuit a safe Retreat.
Free from th' outrageous Clamours of the Deep,
They rest secure, and unmolested sleep.
Stretcht smooth beneath the shady Trees and Rocks,
That guard them from the Winds impetuous Shocks.
Here smaller Vessels may securely ride
And all th' Assaults of angry Sorms deride.
Here they arriv'd, and Heav'n they first ador'd,
That gave the Aid, their earnest Cries implor'd.
That sav'd them from the Winds, Waves, Rocks, and Storms,
Deaths of so many, and such hideous Forms.
Then for their parted Friends, with humble Prayer,
They ask Heav'n's Pity, and indulgent Care.
Now Arthur from the Rock, views far and wide
The Seas beneath, if thence might be descry'd
The Friends he lately lost, but views in vain,
No Friend appears on all the Desart Main.
Return'd he thus began:
Too dark th' Eternal's ways are, too profound,
For the most sharp created Wit to sound.
Clouds black, as those that rise the sacred Fence
Of his high Throne, surround his Providence.
Whose walks are trackless, and on every hand
About her paths, shades and thick Darkness stand.
Her ways are so perplext, so wide her steps,
Such turns and windings, and such frightful leaps;
Such Gulphs, and interposing Rocks appear,
There such Ascents, such dreadful Downfalls here,
That Reason strait affrighted stops her pace,
Is soon thrown off, and quits th' unequal Chase.
Th' Almighty's Councils are so high and steep,
Immense, unbounded, without bottom deep;
Angels amaz'd from their high Thrones of Bliss,
Trembling look down on this profound Abyss.
Sometimes he seems to thwart his own intent,
Stop and defeat his long design'd event;
Yet which way e're he steers, his end's attain'd,
By uncouth means, with greater wonder gain'd.
Sometimes his high permission, leaves opprest
The Men most like him, and that serve him best:
But still their Sufferings and severer Fate
Prepare them for some glorious future state.
Invited by sad Britain's Prayers, and Tears,
To save her State; and ease her deadly Fears,
We arm'd, depos'd Religion to enthrone,
T'enlarge the Christian Empire, not our own.
We arm'd thus, to restore in Hell's despight,
To Heav'n its Worship, and to Men their Right.
Resume your Courage then, it can't be true,
That Heav'n's Revenge should Heav'n's own Cause pursue.
These Evils are not in displeasure meant,
Heav'n is too Just, and you too Innocent.
Success and Triumph will our Arms attend,
And these rough ways lead to a glorious End.
With Pleasure we hereafter shall relate
These sufferings, that will greater Joys create.
He said, and all his anxious Cares supprest,
And kept conceal'd his trouble in his Breast.
With looks compos'd, 'twixt pleasure and despair,
Grave but serene, he bids them all repair
Their strength, exhausted with much toil and care.
Of Meats and Fruits part of their Naval Store,
That with them from their Ship they brought ashore:
Their weary Limbs repos'd, beneath the shade
Of well spread Trees, a grateful Meal they made.
Rich Wine of Burgundy, and choice Champaigne,
Relieve the toil they suffer'd on the Main.
But what more chear'd them than their Meats and Wine,
Was wise Instruction, and Discourse Divine,
From God-like Arthur's Mouth, by Heav'n inspir'd;
That all their Breasts with sacred Passions fir'd.
Great were his Thoughts, strong and sublime his Sense
Of Heav'n's Decrees, Foreknowledge, Providence.
He reason'd deep of Heav'n's mysterious Ends,
And made stern Justice, and fair Mercy Friends.
How high he soar'd, how Noble was his flight,
Speaking of Truth divine, and Wisdom infinite!
He opens all the Magazins above,
Of boundless Goodness and Eternal Love.
From these rich Stores of Heav'n, these sacred Springs
Of everlasting Joy and Peace, he brings
Ambrosial Food, and rich Nectarean Wine,
That chear pure Souls, and nourish Life Divine.
He then compar'd this transient mortal state,
To the fierce Tempest they escap'd so late,
That here is every great and good Mans Fate.
If God-like Men for Heav'n embark, and stand
Their Course direct, to make the blissful Land;
Strait Hell the bloody signal gives to Arm,
Cain's cruel offspring takes the dire alarm;
And potent Fiends by Sea their Forces joyn,
T'obstruct their way, and break their brave design.
All with consummate Malice, furious Rage,
Against th' adventurous Voyagers engage.
Through all the Sky they raise outrageous Storms,
And Death stands threat'ning in a thousand Forms.
Clouds charg'd with loud Destruction drown the day,
And airy Dæmons in wild Whirlwinds play.
Thick Thunderclaps, and Lightning's livid glare
Disturb the Sky, and trouble all the Air.
Outrage, Distraction, Clamour, Tumult Reign,
Through the Dominion of the unquiet Main.
The labouring Bark with Heav'nly Treasure fraught,
Now almost sunk, now up in Tempests caught.
Near Sands and Rocks, rides on the dark Abyss,
Long beaten off from the bright Coasts of Bliss.
At last calm Day succeeds this stormy Night,
And the glad Voyagers find in their sight,
The Realms of Peace, and the blest Shores of Light.
Here they arrive, and find a safe Retreat,
And all their pain and labours past forget.
There was a Cave hard by, that Nature made
In the hard Rock, and cover'd with the shade,
Of spreading Trees, that Day could not invade.
Hither the Pious British Prince retires,
To offer Praises up and pure desires.
Here rapt'rous Converse he with Heav'n maintains,
And aided by Devotion's purest strains,
Combates Almighty Power, and Conquest gains.
Devotion, that oft binds th' Almighty's Arms,
And with her Prayers and Tears, her powerful charms,
Of all its Thunder, his right hand disarms.
She passes quick Heav'n's lofty Crystal Walls,
And the high Gates fly open, when she calls.
The charming Goddess of Divine Address,
Has to th' Almighty's Presence free Access.
Her Power can sentenc'd Criminals Reprieve,
Judgment Arrest, and bid the Rebel live.
Her Charms did once the Sun's swift Chariot stay,
And on the Verge of Heav'n, held back the falling Day.
She makes contentious Winds forget their Strife,
And calls back to the Dead, departed Life.
Charm'd by her Voice, Rivers have stop'd their Course,
And the chill'd Fire laid down its burning Force.
Such is Devotion's Power, which Arthur knew,
And when distress'd still to this Refuge flew.
Much to his Conduct he, much to his Arms,
But more he trusted to Devotion's Charms.
Of Triumph and Success he rarely fail'd,
For those on Earth, and these in Heav'n prevail'd.
Now in the silent, shady Cave retir'd,
He with her sacred Fury lay inspir'd.
The Prince being thus entranc'd, a Heav'nly Light
Shoots smiling through the Wood with silent flight:
The Trees admire the Glory on them shed,
And seem'd to start, and humbly bow their Head;
When fresh arriv'd on Earth, with Heav'n's Commands,
Great Raphael's glorious Form by Arthur stands.
Celestial Sweetness, Mild and God-like Grace
Ineffable, sat on his blooming Face.
His Cheeks such Beauty shew'd, such Light and Joy his Eyes,
As from full Bliss, fresh Youth, and Strength immortal rise.
The purest piece of Heav'n's Etherial Blue,
In a rich Mantle, from his Shoulders flew.
Celestial Linnen, finely Spun and Wove
On Looms Divine, by all the Skill above,
Bleach'd on th' Empyreal Plains till White as Snow,
Made the long Robe that to his Feet did flow.
Immortal Gold, Illustrious as the Morn,
And dazling Gemms by high Arch Angels worn,
With pond'rous Pearl from Heav'n's bright Eastern Shore,
Adorn the shining Garments that he wore.
A Purple Girdle, from the Morning Sky
New rent, does round his Starry Vesture tye.
Thus he appear'd, and with the Light he gave,
And unknown Fragrancy, fill'd all the Cave.
Then thus he spake, Hail mine and Heav'n's kind Care,
Hither I come, drawn by thy powerful Prayer.
Know Righteous Prince, th' Almighty does approve,
Your firm Adhesion, and unshaken Love.
Ends Great and Wise lodg'd in his secret Breast,
Obstruct your Wishes, and your Course molest.
Yet still pursue your great and just Intent,
No Force or Arts shall your Design prevent,
Propitious Heav'n Decrees your wish'd Event.
You on these Coasts for happy Ends are thrown,
And after this, expect the British Crown.
Your Friends and Navy on the Ocean lost,
Are all arriv'd safe on th' Armorie Coast:
By the impetuous Tempest beaten back,
But Men and Ships sav'd from the threatn'd Wreck.
You're cast on Hoel's Land, amidst your Foes,
That hate your Cause, and your just Arms Oppose.
But fear not Hoel's Power, though now your Foe,
By Hell incens'd, he will not long be so.
Go then directly to his Court, for there,
A Glorious Work demands your Pious Care.
That said, with outstrecht Wings he soars upright,
And through the Winds vast Empire takes his flight.
He cuts the Clouds, and by the Planets flies
Up the steep Crystal Mountains of the Skies.
And swiftly passing through the Starry Sphears,
Before the Throne he in his place appears,
The Cherub's gone, and with him Arthur's fears.
Who to his Lords returns, and to their Heart
Courage and Joy, his Words and Looks impart.
His God-like Language does their Fears abate,
And with fresh hopes their troubl'd Breasts dilate.
Mean time th' Infernal Thrones and Powers resort,
At their great Monarch's Summons to his Court.
Where they in Council meet, and there debate
Important matters, high Designs of State.
Their Prince with Pride extended, mounts his Throne,
Of polish'd Gold, whence horrid splendor shone:
And mingl'd with the Shades tremendous Light,
More dreadful thus, as Fires, that Flame by Night.
In sad Magnificence, and dismal State,
He sits, and round th' Infernal Orders sate.
Then Lucifer began:
Immortal Potentates, Illustrious Lords,
The British Youth's ambitious aim affords,
A weighty subject for your high debate;
Who seeks the ruin of your Pow'r and State.
You all have heard, how with a mighty Force
Embark'd, he straight for Albion steer'd his Course,
King Octa to attack, our Votary,
And make our Priests from our new Altars fly.
I watch'd, and aided by the Power of Thor,
I shew'd the Miscreant another Shore.
His Fleet beat back, and haughty purpose crost,
He wanders, Shipwreckt on th' Armoric Coast.
Where faithful Hoel does the Specter hold,
Mighty in Arms, and in our Service bold.
Spirits Divine, high Peers of Hell, suggest,
By what sure Plagues he may be more distrest,
His Ruin finish'd, and his Sect opprest.
That said, a Fury crawls from out her Cell,
The bloodiest Minister of Death and Hell.
A mostrous Shape, a foul and hideous sight,
That did all Hell with her dire looks affright.
Huge, full gorg'd Snakes on her lean Shoulders hung,
And Death's dark Courts with their loud hissing rung.
Her Teeth and Claws were Iron, and her Breath,
Like Subterranean Damps, gave present Death.
Flames worse than Hells, shot from her bloody Eyes,
And Fire and Sword Eternally she Cries.
No certain Shape, no Feature regular,
No Limbs distinct in th' odious Fiend appear.
Her squallid, bloated Belly did arise,
Swoln with black Gore, to a prodigious Size.
Distended vastly, by a mighty Flood
Of slaughter'd Saints, and constant Martyrs Blood.
Part stood out prominent, but part fell down,
And in a swagging heap, lay wallowing on the ground.
A Monster so deform'd, so fierce as this,
It self a Hell, ne'er saw the dark Abyss.
Horrour till now the ugliest Shape esteem'd,
So much out-done, a harmless Figure seem'd.
Envy and Hate, and Malice blush'd to see
Themselves Eclips'd by such Deformity.
Her Feaverish Thirst drinks down a Sea of Blood,
Not of the Impious, but the Just and Good.
'Gainst whom she burns with unextinguish'd Rage,
Nor can th' exhausted World her Wrath asswage.
Then thus the Fury Persecution spake:
I mighty Prince of Hell, will undertake
This glorious Work, I quickly will inspire
Hoel, with my ungovernable Fire.
Without remorse he shall my Will Obey,
And crush this Briton, now his easie Prey.
Nero by me rais'd his Illustrious Name,
And Dioclesian got Immortal Fame.
I their rude, inbred Cruelty refin'd,
And stampt my perfect Image on their Mind.
My flames all Love's course mixture did destroy,
And purg'd off soft Compassion's base alloy;
I form'd and dissiplin'd their untaught Hate,
And rais'd their fierceness to a perfect State.
Where shame, and all reflecting Sense is lost,
And Hell can't purer strains of Malice boast.
Inexorable they all Cries withstood,
Ravish'd with Slaughter, and regal'd with Blood.
Hard marble Rocks might with more ease relent,
And Fire and Plague, learn sooner to repent.
Then Christian Kings my Fury entertain'd,
And taught by me, in Blood and Slaughter reign'd.
With pious Rage and fierce destructive Zeal,
I first inspir'd their Minds, and did reveal
The mystery, how deep Revenge to take,
And slay the Servants for the Master's sake.
How bloody Wrath might with Devotion joyn,
And sacred Zeal with Cruelty combine.
By me the unknown way they understood,
T'attone the Christians God, with Christian Blood.
By me they shook off Fear's and Love's Restraints;
And on God's Altars burnt his slaughter'd Saints.
I made them call, that all remorse might cease,
Murder Compassion, Desolation Peace.
Whilst my Infernal Heats their Breasts inspir'd,
To the vile Sect their own mad Zeal acquir'd,
Wider Destruction, and more fatal Harms,
Then all your Scythian, or your Gothick Arms.
And Rome, proud Rome herself, must owe to me
Her present State, and future Dignity.
The greatest Genius this, I e're could find,
And to receive my Image best inclin'd.
I will her Mind inspire, and to her Heart
Immortal hate, to Abel's Race impart.
These Breasts she empties with her Infant Jaws,
I File her Teeth, and Shape her tender Claws.
I Nurse her on the horrid Alps high Tops,
And feed her hunger with Cerberean Sops
Dipt in Tartarean Gall, and Hemlock Juice,
That in her Veins will noble Blood produce.
Fierce Tygers, Dragons, Wolves about her stay,
They grin, and snap, and bite, and snarling play.
I to her Jaws, throw Infants newly Born;
She sucks their Blood, and by her Teeth are torn
Their tender Limbs, while I rejoyce to see
Such noble proofs of growing Cruelty.
To her wide Breast, and vast capacious Soul,
I often Torrents of black Poison rowl:
She drinks the livid Flood, and through her Veins
Mad Fury runs, and wild Distraction reigns.
I'll lead her from the Rocks, her strength full grown,
Fix her high Seat in the Imperial Town,
And give her Scarlet, and a threefold Crown.
No Blood will then her mighty Thirst asswage,
No Ravage cloy her Antichristian Rage.
Her Mitred Sons that never can relent,
From the great Cain, shall prove their high Descent.
Their Deeds of strange Infernal Cruelty,
Shall shew their Race worthy of Him and me.
Lay-Bigots, I with time and labour wrought,
Some inward Grudgings still against me fought:
'Twas hard to raise their hate to a degree,
From struggling Nature, and all Pity free.
But these Church-Zealots, of a truer breed,
Are form'd with Ease, and scarce my Labour need.
Their forward Genius without teaching grows,
And all my hopes, and ev'n my wish out-does.
How often shall thy glorious Sons, O Rome,
With Martyrs Flames inlighten Christendom?
How often shall they, to deride their God,
Lift up in Prayer, their Hands all full of Blood?
The wasted World shall feel their loud Alarms,
Their blest Massacres, and their hallow'd Arms.
As if their high intent were to Efface,
All Footsteps left of Abel's hateful Race.
Bloody Tribunals, Rapine, Fire and Sword,
And Desolation, dayly Sport afford.
Mankind they shall with such dire Plagues attack,
As will their Church a holy Desart make.
Such is my Zeal to serve th' infernal State,
And shall this British Prince escape my Hate?
Forbid it Hell, and here she made a pause;
The Lords in Council gave a loud applause.
The Prince of Darkness leaping from his place,
Did in his Arms, his darling Fiend Embrace.
Her Anger then rose higher, and all Hell
Uneasie seem'd, she grew so terrible.
She strait contracts her vast dilated Size,
And through Hell's dusky Void, she upward flies.
As when rich Towns great Cost and Art employ
In Fire-works, to express their publick Joy,
For some great Vict'ry won by Land, or Sea,
Or on some Prince's Coronation Day.
The flaming Rockets hizzing fly by Night,
And fill the Sky with unknown Noise and Light.
The Sphears amaz'd stand, or move slowly on,
And wonder how the Day returns so soon,
And what new Stars rise brighter than their own.
So does the Fiend, her Snakes all hissing rise,
Through the thick haggair'd Air, and as she flies
Leaves tracks of Light, cast from her fiery Eyes.
And now arriv'd on the grey Coasts of Day,
Direct to Hoel's court she takes her way.
Where she alighted, when the Sun had hurl'd
His glorious Orb hence, to the other World.
'Twas then when all things look'd, as if old Night
Had Nature crush'd, and seiz'd her ancient Right,
Whilst Silence, Shades, and Lights around create,
Sad solemn Pomp, t'express her Death-like state.
Winds, and wild Beasts lye in their Dens at rest,
Nor these the Woods, nor those the Seas molest.
The sleeping Vultures drop their prey, the Dove
Ceases her Cooing, and forgets to love.
The Jocond Fairies Dance their silent round,
And with dark Circles mark the trampled ground.
Tartarean Forms Skim o're the Mountains Heads,
Or lightly sweep along the dewy Meads.
Ghosts leave their Tombs hid Murders to reveal,
Or Treasures which themselves did once conceal.
Visions thro' th' Air, and careless Phantoms stray,
Or round Mens troubled Heads while sleeping play.
The Fury Alman's Reverend Shape assumes,
Odin's High Priest, and so to Hoel comes.
For the Priest's Form, is fittest to engage
Princes in Blood, and move destructive Rage.
Thus chang'd the Fiend, such is her Craft, appears,
And thus began, just Hoel, all those years
I liv'd, I did with studious Care employ,
How best I might the Christian Crew destroy.
I thy great Soul in this blest Cause engag'd,
Inspir'd with Heats Divine, not yet asswag'd.
I quit Elysian Pleasures to impart,
What does with greater Joy extend my Heart;
And will do thine, Arthur, Curst be that Name,
Designing Empire, and Illustrious Fame
Embark'd with Arms, fair Albion to invade,
But by just Heav'n, is thy cheap Captive made.
Pursu'd with Thunder, and in Tempests tost,
At last he's Shipwreckt on this happy Coast.
With his sad Friends he wanders up and down,
Naked, perplext, deserted, and undone.
But yet just Heav'n Decrees him greater Harm,
But saves that Glory for your Zealous Arm.
To take his Life must be your Pious Care,
And with the Gods divided Honour share.
Thus you their En'my, and your own remove,
Secure your Peace, and please the Pow'rs above.
To Christians this can be no Injury,
That call for Torments, and are pleas'd to Dye.
They all seem fond to wear the Martyr's Crown,
And meet the Flames, with greater of their own.
No Rights, no Rules of Justice you invade,
For Ruin's their Profession, Death their Trade.
Go then, and grace the Briton, that comes on
To meet you, and receive the Martyr's Crown.
Remove this Pillar of their Church, and all
The unsupported Roof, will crack and fall.
Take this Defender of their Faith away,
The passive Rabble, tamely will Obey.
Their Lives in Sport you may at leisure take,
They quickly fall, that no Resistance make.
The Gods into your Hands have cast your Foe,
To take his Life will please Heav'n, him, and you.
That said, she breath'd her Soul into his Breast,
And her wild Fury all his Veins possest.
Infernal Flames Rage in his poison'd Blood,
And his swoln Heart Boils with th' impetuous Flood.
The Fiend her Shape of thicken'd Air dissovles,
And disappears, Hoel surpriz'd revolves
The welcome message in his Mind, and strait
Commands his Lords and Guards should on him wait,
On the first Shooting of the tender Day,
So eager did he seem to seize the Prey.
Now was the Eastern Sky-dy'd Purple spread,
For fair Aurora's Radiant Feet to tread.
She mounts serene, and with mild dawning Light,
Smiles on the lowring, dusky Face of Night;
That to Victorious Day yields up her Seat,
Whilst her black Forces silently Retreat.
As when a Lyon at the dawn of Day,
Rous'd with fierce Hunger up to Hunt his Prey,
Stretches his Limbs out, Yawns, and tries his Paws,
And for sure Death prepares his cruel Jaws.
He stands, and rolls about his Angry Eyes,
Lashing his Sides to make his Fury rise.
Then Scowrs the Hills, Ranges the Forrests o'er,
And Thunders thro the Desart with his hideous Roar.
The Winds all husht sit trembling on the Trees,
And scarcely Whisper out a gentle Breeze.
Wolves dare not Howl, but grinning softly creep,
And Leopards strecht out, feign themselves asleep.
Th' affrighted Herds close in their Covert lye,
And to escape his Rage, with Terrour dye.
Thus Hoel, with infernal Rage possest,
With fierce desire speeds to the bloody Feast.
A deadly Storm does on his Forehead lowr,
Himself his Rage, Arthur his Hopes devour.
Breathing out Death he march'd, but at mid-day,
He stands by Heav'n arrested in his way.
The Air serene a black thick Cloud appear'd,
And as it hover'd o'er their Heads, were heard
Celestial Flutes, and Harps divinely Strung,
With Hymns and Hallelujahs Set and Sung
By the best Masters of the Quire above,
With Bliss transported, and inspir'd with Love.
Whilst Hoel and his Friends pleas'd, and amaz'd,
Listen'd, and on the Scene descending gaz'd:
The broken Cloud, pours out pure Floods of Light,
Show'rs of Celestial Rays transcendent bright,
And Storms of Splendor, dazling Mortal Sight.
Th' illustrious Tempest does on Hoel beat,
Who falls astonish'd, headlong from his Seat.
Confounded with unsufferable Day,
Groveling in Glory on the shining Way,
And with bright Ruin overwhelm'd, he lay.
'Twas then, a soft, still Heav'nly Voice, that broke
From out the Cloud, to trembling Hoel spoke.
'Gainst me, what Fury did thy Arms Engage?
What mov'd thee with inexorable Rage
Vain Man, to persecute my Saints and Me?
In vain thou seek'st to baffle Heav'n's Decree.
Vain is thy Force, and impotent thy Hate,
Too weak thy Arms, to stem the Tyde of Fate.
The Torrent bears thy faint Resistance down,
Retire, or in Eternal Ruin Drown.
Then Hoel thus, O tell me, who thou art,
Great Spirit, and thy Will to me impart.
Tell me if Errour has my Feet misled,
What safer Paths I may hereafter tread.
The Voice reply'd:
I am the Christians God, whom you pursue.
Go meet my Servant Arthur, he shall shew
At large, what thou hast to believe, what do.
The Scene here disappear'd, his Lords come round,
And rais'd reviving Hoel from the Ground.
Who marches on, the British Prince to find,
And Act not what himself, but Heav'n design'd.
With anxious Thoughts the Vision he revolves,
And to Obey Heav'n's high Command resolves.
Whilst to his Lords the Vision he relates,
They find themselves advanc'd to Conda's Gates.
Arthur mean time, to whom great Raphael's word,
Unshaken Hopes, and Courage did afford;
Proceeded on his Way, but sent before
Embassadors to Hoel, to explore
His temper, and the Genius of his Court,
That he just steps might take by their Report.
He chose out to discharge this weighty Trust,
Valiant Pollador, Roderick the Just;
And Faithful Galbut, Friends that in distress,
(A thing unknown to Courts) their Love express.
Soon after Hoel had his Entrance made,
At the same City they arriv'd, and staid
But little, for th' admission which they pray'd.
Then Hoel first the Britons thus addrest,
Let no sad Thought your pious Prince molest.
A Message sent from Heav'n preventing yours,
To me great Joy, Safety to him procures.
Friendship and Love, fill my enlighten'd Mind,
From Hatred purg'd, from Treachery refin'd.
Return, and let your Valiant Leader know,
His God has to a Friend, transfrom'd his Foe.
Tell him he's safe from all intended Harms,
And that I hast, t' Embrace him in my Arms.
With Regal Bounty, he to all presents
Rich Swords, and various splendid Ornaments.
To Arthur sends a Chariot, dazling bright,
That to the Sun return'd redoubled Light.
And Horses of th' Iberian Noble Race,
That right Descent from the swift Eurus trace.
Bold, Gen'rous, Sprightly, as th' Illustrious Breed,
That in th' Etherial, blue Enclosures Feed.
That thro Heav'n's Wast, with the Sun's Chariot play,
And govern Time, by carrying round the Day.
Their Furniture of Gold, their Bridles Gold,
And golden Bits, their champing Mouths did hold.
They hast and all their Diligence employ,
To fill Just Arthur's Mind, with Peace and Joy.
To him returning they impart at large,
The kind, endearing Things they had in Charge.
As when his Sons to Jacob did relate,
That Joseph, liv'd, and liv'd in Regal State;
Telling of all his Riches, Power, Renown,
Egypt's Support, and Prop to Pharoah's Crown.
Resistless Floods of sudden Pleasure Roll
Along his Veins, and break in on his Soul.
He sinks beneath the pressure of his Joy,
And Joseph's Life, does almost his destroy.
Then Doubts and Fears, his Joys, high Tyde oppose,
From which Contention fiercer Tempests rose.
While his cross Passions fight with equal Power,
Each Triumphs in his turn, as Conquerour.
The Patriarch in this Distraction lost,
Is in each Storm with equal Danger tost.
But when the Chariots and rich Train he saw,
He did from thence fresh Life and Vigour draw.
His Breast from all contending Passions freed,
Calm Joy, and unmolested Peace succeed.
Enough the Patriarch was heard to Cry,
I'll hast to Joseph's Arms, and in them Dye.
So when Just Arthur heard the Message first,
His wavering Mind with Fears and wise Distrust,
And rising Tydes of suddain Joy was tost,
Uncertain which strong Passion press'd him most.
But when he saw the Presents Hoel sent,
His Doubts suppress'd, he grew more Confident.
And his calm Mind eas'd of his anxious Cares,
T' embrace his new, and generous Friend prepares.
And now advancing Night the Sky invades,
While close pursu'd by the Victorious Shades.
The Rayes that faintly from the Ground recoil,
On the green Fields, let fall their pearly spoil.
When Arthur to his secret Joys retires,
Where his exhaling Soul to Heav'n aspires,
In sacred Anhelations, and inflam'd Desires.
Fixt Contemplation feeds his Hope and Love,
With rapt'rous Preludes to the Joys above.
His ravish'd Eyes view the unmeasur'd Bliss,
In the next Life enjoy'd, believ'd in this.
So David often pass'd the silent Night,
And in his Transports felt sublime Delight,
Surpassing all that mighty Monarchs have,
That his own Crown, and all his Triumphs gave.
While baser Birds the humble Valley love,
And sing contented with their little Grove;
The Eagle's generous Pride does noble rise
To Heav'n, and thence does this low World despise.
Scorning a Vulgar Bough, he thinks he sees
Woods in the Clouds, and hanging Groves of Trees.
Thither he hasts, and leaves th' ignoble Brood,
That aim no higher, to their Shrubs and Wood.
If to his Prey he stoops, ashamed he flies
Back to his airy Dwelling in the Skies.
Where in the Clouds he hides his Royal Head,
Safe from the Snares, that watchful Fowlers spread.
So Men of courser Mould, and baser Birth,
Pleas'd with the Dust lye grov'ling on the Earth.
For Food their Souls all foul and bloated, seek
The Damps and Steams, that from its Bowels reek.
While Men divinely Born, still upwards move,
And scorn this World, that courts in vain their Love.
In Flames of Zeal, and Pangs of pure Desire,
These to the Seats of Light and Peace aspire.
Where they converse with the blest Minds above,
And wonder what on Earth invites Mens Love.
This Molehill Earth has lost its former Charms,
Molehill for Bulk, and Stings wherewith it swarms.
With Wonder they observe how Mortals Pride,
Can into Kingdoms this small Heap divide.
How one t' enlarge the Empire he has got,
Invades the Borders of his Neighbour's spot.
How this proud Monarch of a Turf, is vext
With restless cares, to dispossess the next.
As Heav'ns vast Globes that fill the World with Light,
Seem little Balls to distant Mortals sight,
That in the most capacious Planets, we
No room for States, and large Dominions see.
So these more noble Minds advanc'd so high,
Believe the same of us, that from the Sky,
The low-hung Earth's contracted Body Spy.
They keep above free from the fatal Nets,
That for unwary Feet the Tempter sets.
Free from the Earth's dark smoke, and endless Noise,
They dwell in Peace, and feed on Heav'nly Joys.
Such Pleasures Arthur while retir'd, enjoy'd,
And wish'd he ever might be thus employ'd.
And now th' radiant Gates of th' Eastern Sky,
Unbar'd by bright Aurora, open fly.
Strait issues out the Sun with mighty Force,
As Gyants do, prepar'd to run his Course.
The joyful Britons all things ready make,
And their new Friend to meet, their Journy take.
Scarce had the Sun his glitt'ring Chariot driv'n,
Up the steep Brow, and sharp Ascent of Heav'n,
When the glad Princes did each other meet,
And Hoel thus did first the Stranger greet.
As a faint Traveller in Arabian Sands,
Scorcht with the burning Sun-beams, panting stands,
Views the dry Desart with despairing Eyes,
And for the Springs, and distant Rivers Sighs.
As Sailers long for Land, Heav'n's Aid implore,
And with their greedy wishes grasp the Shore;
When beaten from the hospitable Coast,
And in loud Storms upon the Ocean tost;
Where Ruin in so many Shapes appears,
They scarcely can attend to all their Fears.
I've wish'd to see you with the like desire,
The Oracle of whom I must enquire,
The way to Peace, and Everlasting Bliss,
Which lost in Night, and unknown Paths, I miss.
When first I set out with an hostile Mind,
And Evils which I dread to name, design'd;
The Powers that guard your sacred Life alarm'd,
Soon interpos'd, and my wild Hand disarm'd.
Kind Heav'n that both our Safeties did design,
Turn'd from your Head the Blow, the Guilt from mine.
For on the way a Glory dreadful Bright
Around me shone, and with excessive Light,
As they do Stars, the weaker Sun-beams drown'd:
I as trantfixt, fell headlong to the Ground.
'Twas then a wondrous Heav'nly Voice I heard,
The words were these, but no blest Face appear'd.
'Gainst me what Fury does thy Arms engage?
What moves thee with inexorable Rage
Vain Man, to persecute my Saints and me?
In vain thou striv'st to baffle Heav'n's Decree.
Vain is thy Force, and Impotent thy Hate,
Too weak thy Arms to stem the Tide of Fate.
The Torrent bears thy faint Resistance down,
Retire, or in eternal Ruin drown.
I strait cry'd out, O tell me who thou art
Great Spirit, and thy Will to me impart.
Tell me if Error has my Feet misled,
What safer Paths I may hereafter tread.
The Voice reply'd:
I am the Christians God, whom you pursue,
Go find my Servant Arthur, he shall shew
At large, what thou hast to believe, what do.
Prince Arthur paus'd a while, then Silence broke,
And friendly thus th' Armoric King bespoke.
Th' Eternal's Providence I must adore,
That has compell'd me to th' Armoric Shore.
That I might here, serve such a glorious End,
And to the Christian Cause gain such a Friend.
Goodness Divine, King Hoel does invite
By Miracles, t' enjoy Celestial Light.
Cast on your Coasts, with Pleasure I will stay,
To aid and guide you in your Heav'nly way.
To whom th' Armoric Monarch thus Reply'd;
While we to Nannetum together ride,
Instruct, O Pious Prince, my willing Mind:
It is a task your God has you design'd.
Unfold his Heav'nly Will, and let me know,
What Worship to him, what Belief, I owe.
To whom the Prince, this favour must I ask,
Before I undertake the pious Task:
That you'll dispatch your Servants to the Coast,
To seek my Friends out, in the Tempest lost.
And if by chance cast on th' Armoric Shore,
They wander up and down, distress'd and poor,
Your angry Subjects, may not them annoy,
Nor with devouring Flames, their Ships destroy.
This Friendship shewn, I'll with a cheerful Mind,
Attempt the Task by you, and Heav'n enjoyn'd.
When the past Night did with her dusky Train
Advance, o'er shadowing all th' Aierial Plain;
A sudden Transport did my Soul engage,
And all my Limbs shook with the sacred Rage.
Straight caught up from the Body, through the Skies
To the third Heav'n, my ravish'd Soul did rise.
Where Things ineffable I saw, and heard
Divine Instruction, which my Mind prepar'd
To aid you in your Heav'nly Way, and shew
What Worship, to th' Eternal Mind is due.
Straight Hoel to the Shores his Servants sent,
Who might the Harms, that Arthur fear'd, prevent.
Who might the hapless Britons kindly treat,
And safe conduct them to his Royal Seat.
Such Love the King to Arthur's Friends exprest,
Who now prepar'd t'obey the King's Request.
BOOK II
Attentive Hoel's Eyes on Arthur's Face
Were fixt, who thus began with God-like grace.
Before th' unshaken Pillars of the Earth
Were Reer'd, before prolifick Nature's Birth,
Before the Register of Time begun,
Or Heav'n's bright Forces throng'd about the Sun,
Was a wild Void, that no set Bounds restrain'd,
Where Silence, Night, and Desolation reign'd.
Where yet no glimmering track of Light appear'd,
No Discord yet, or Harmony was heard.
From Ages past lay in th' Eternal's Mind,
A finish'd Model of a World, design'd
To be Erected by Almighty Hands,
Where now this Round, Capacious Fabrick stands.
The deep Foundations laid, in Heav'n they said
A strange new World was making, Fame soon spread
The tydings through the Palaces of Bliss,
To see a work so wonderful as this,
Millions of Angels to Heav'n's Turrets fly,
And on the Crystal Terras of the Sky,
Stood in bright Throngs, and on Creation, gaz'd,
And at the Sight were ravish'd, and amaz'd.
Almighty Vigour strove through all the Void,
And such prolifick Influence employ'd,
That ancient, barren Night did pregnant grow,
And quicken'd with the World in Embrio.
The struggling Seeds of unshap'd Matter ly,
Contending in her Womb for Victory.
No Order, Form, or Parts distinct and clear,
Did in the Crude Conception, yet appear.
Thick Darkness did the unripe Light Embrace,
That faintly glanc'd on Chaos shady Face.
The unfledg'd Fire has no bright Wings to rise,
But scarce distinguish'd, with the Water lies.
It's sprightly, ruddy Youth not yet attain'd,
The glitt'ring Seeds, Mother of Fire, remain'd
Like golden Sands, thick scatter'd on the Shore,
Of the wild Deep, and shone in burning Oar.
In glowing Heaps the Stars lay dusky bright,
Rude and unpolish'd Balls of unwrought Light.
The Sphears pil'd up about their Poles were Furl'd,
Design'd the Swadling Bands of th' Infant World.
The Sky dispers'd, lay in Etherial Oar,
And azure Veins, betray'd th' Empyreal Store.
The watry Treasures in th' unfashion'd Birth,
Lay in the rough Embraces of the Earth.
But at the great Command will Thaw, and throw
The Dross off, and like melted Metals flow.
Besides vast numbers of loose Atoms stray,
And in the restless Deep of Chaos play.
In dark Encounters they for Empire strive,
And gain what Chance, and wild Confusion give.
Which joyntly here possess the Sov'raign Sway,
Pleas'd with those Subjects most, that least Obey.
Order, a bansh'd Rebel, flies the Place,
And Strife and Uproar fill the noisy Space.
Tumult and Misrule please at Chaos Court,
And everlasting Wars his Throne Support.
Troops arm'd with Heat have here a Battel won,
But Moist and Cold the Victor soon dethrone.
Here heavier Seeds rush on in numerous Swarms,
And crush their Lighter Foes, with pond'rous Arms.
The lighter strait Command with equal Pride,
And on wild Whirlwinds in mad Triumph ride.
None long submits to a Superiour Power,
Each yields, and in his turn is Conquerour.
If some grown mild from fierce Contention cease,
And with calm Neighbours court a seperate Peace;
If Truce they make, and in kind Leagues combine,
Their short Embraces some rude Shocks disjoyn.
Th' Eternal's Voice compos'd these Atoms jars,
And justling Elements intestine Wars.
He sets imprison'd Heat and Vigor free,
And suits and ranges Natures that agree.
He through the Mass a mighty Ferment spread,
And where it came mis-shap'd Confusion fled.
Dark Chaos now throws off his gloomy Face,
Puts on fresh Beauty, and a Heav'nly Grace.
Th' Almighty spake, and strait the Sprightly Light
With lovely Looks broke from th' Abyss of Night;
On Golden Wings it mounts, and in its way
Its Smiles diffuse new Morn, and unripe Day.
Aloft vast spreading Sheets of Ether rise,
Matter for Sphears, and pure transparent Skies.
The Sky that for its Compass scarce finds room,
Spun thin, and wove on Nature's finest Loom.
The new-born World in its soft Bosom wraps,
And all around its Starry Mantle laps.
The Sun's vast Globe that till the Birth of Day,
All Rough and Cloudy in wild Chaos lay;
Well wrought and polish'd, is advanc'd on high;
The vagrant Beams that stray'd about the Sky,
Now becken'd by Creating Power obey,
And the bright Forces hither hast away.
Then hov'ring on the Spungy Globe they wait,
And round their new appointed Mansion sate.
The thirsty Orb drinks in the liquid Beams,
And now but one vast Sea of Glory seems.
It self a Heav'n with dazling Lustre bright,
Pours out pure Floods of overflowing Light.
Here as in Furnaces of boiling Gold,
Stars dipt come back, full as their Orbs can hold
Of glitt'ring Light, here too the Moon all drown'd,
Does with the Golden Metal fill her Round.
Sometimes half dipt it but in part adorns
Her Face, and shines with Blunt, Refulgent Horns.
Th' Etherial Plain now cultivated bears,
A shining Harvest of Illustrious Stars.
That at a distance seem small Lights, but near
Capacious Realms, and gloroius Worlds appear.
The Sphears spread forth their Bosoms, now resin'd,
And Belly out, like Sails swoln big with Wind.
The Air beat out, and purify'd does lye,
A Crystal deep between the Earth and Sky.
Through this thin Void the Sun's indulgent Beams,
Flow gently on the Earth in Golden Streams.
That kindly steal away the Watry Store,
And rob the Earth, but to enrich it more.
The Earth with its own Burden tir'd, and prest
Down with its weight, lies in the midst at rest.
A Deep broke up, God calls Waters, they
Feel the Command, and with quick flight Obey.
In mighty Heaps the foaming Deluge flows,
High liquid Walls and curling Ridges shows.
Some Waters with a smooth and gentle Tyde,
On the Earth's plain and level Surface glide.
Others that meet a Steep abrupt Descent;
Roll down in Floods more loud and turbulent.
At last they fall from the high Precipice,
In noisy Floods into the dark Abyss.
Till the vast Deluge with its liquid Store,
Fills up the Deep, and Crowns the Ambient Shore.
Now their tall Heads the rising Mountains show,
And wide mouth'd Vallies sink themselves, as low.
The Earth as yet all bare and naked lay,
For Heav'n's Command th' imprison'd Spirits stay.
God spake, and straight a lovely Spring appears,
And every Field fresh, verdant Cloathing wears.
Green Herbs adorn the Hills aspiring Heads,
And smiling Flowers paint the Enamell'd Meads.
Trees starting up, lifted their Heads so high,
They met the Clouds descending from the Sky.
Some rang'd in beauteous Order, Stately stood,
Others press'd close, and throng'd into a Wood.
Some where the Sun gives more indulgent Heat,
Transparent Gums, and Od'rous Juices Sweat.
The fragrant Balsom-Tree distills around,
Her healing Riches on the neighbouring Ground.
The humble Jess'mine breaths Perfumes abroad,
And wanton Zephyrs bear the balmy Load.
Pure Crystal Rivers through the Meadows flow,
Their flowry Banks smile on them, as they go.
Their watry Train in Snaky Windings slides,
And in their Streams the scaly Nation glides.
Birds glad to try their Wings rise from the Earth,
And with their Songs they celebrate their Birth.
Beasts in their various Kinds all Mild, and Tame,
Stood gazing round, and wonder'd whence they came.
The Bleating Flocks wander on every Hill,
And lowing Herds the Ecchoing Vallies fill.
The sporting Lyon Paws the wanton Bear,
Wolves seek the Woods, the Lawns the timorous Deer.
The Crested Snake rolls on the flowry Plain,
The shining Volumes of his Spiral Train.
Leviathan in th' Ocean takes his place,
Prince of the Waters, and the Finny Race.
Rolling amidst the Waves, he takes his Sport,
As a great Sea-God in his watry Court.
Swimming to Land he drives high Seas before,
Like a great Island floating near the Shore.
In wanton pastime he sucks in with Ease,
Then spouts against the Skies th' exhausted Seas:
Like some prodigious Water-Engine made
To play on Heav'n, if Fires should Heav'n invade.
So fair, so rich a Paradise as this,
Almighty Power call'd from the dark Abys:
To keep the Birth-day of the World, the Spring
Does all her Joys and fragrant Riches bring.
Nature appearing in her brightest Dress,
Does all her Sweets and Heav'nly Charms express.
The Sphears in tuneful Measres Roll above,
And Heav'n's bright Orbs in beauteous Order move.
The smiling Earth discovers perfect Joy,
Where nothing noxious can its Peace annoy.
The Air's so soft, such balmy Odours fly,
So sweet the Fruits, so pure and mild the Sky,
The Blissful States, too great to be exprest,
By all the Pleasures of the wanton East,
By th' Arab's Sweets from Zephirs, tender Wings
Gently shook off, or what the Merchant brings
Of Forreign Luxury with tedious Toil,
From Asia's Coast, or soft Campania's Soil.
Thus after five days Labour Nature stood,
God view'd his Creatures, and pronounc'd them Good.
But still there wanted one that might adore
Divine Perfections, and Heav'n's Gifts implore.
That might himself, and his great Author know,
Obey his God, and rule as God below.
Then Man was made, the Author fram'd and wrought
The purer Mould, with more Concern and Thought.
His Mind made up of pure Etherial Air,
Came from the Hands Divine all Bright and Fair.
And lodg'd in Clay did at its Entrance give
So quick a touch, as made that Clay to live.
And both united with such wondrous Art,
In part he's Angel, Animal in part.
In whom the Bounds of both the Worlds are seen,
Where Earth does terminate, and Heav'n begin.
One part, like sprightly Flames, will upward move,
Kin to the blest, unbody'd Minds above.
The other, only shap'd and quicken'd Earth,
From moulded Dust receives its humble Birth.
Yet Life divine, and high Perfection gains,
Ennobled by the Guest it entertains.
His Form erect, and Cherub-like his Face,
Where Sweetness temper'd Stern and Manly Grace.
Mil'd to be lov'd, and awful to be fear'd,
He, like some new discover'd God, appear'd.
Then did th' Almighty to his Bosom give,
To bless him perfectly, his Consort Eve.
Of a more soft and nicely temper'd Mould,
Her strokes were tender, his more strong and bold.
Sweetness that ravish'd, milder than the Morn,
And perfect Beauty did her Looks adorn.
She like a Goddess, with the Heav'nly Charms,
Of blushing Innocence, comes to his Arms.
What Joys Divine did on the Fav'rite wait,
These happy Hours that knew his Native State!
His Work thus finish'd, and Creation done,
Th' Almighty rests on his Eternal Throne.
Straight the loud Shouts and Acclamations giv'n,
Shook the high Towers and jarring Gates of Heav'n.
There stood an Alabaster Mount that shone,
In th' Air sublime, from the Imperial Throne
Remov'd at distance, and between them lay,
All pav'd with Stars, a broad, frequented way.
Hither for great Assemblies they repair,
From all the Regions of th' Etherial Air.
Here they in perfect Love and Peace debate,
Th' Affairs that most affect their sacred State.
Hither the Princes of the Heav'nly Court,
Follow'd with Throngs unnumber'd now resort.
There met, a solemn Jubilee they Vote,
In Honour of the Wonders lately wrought.
Straight a Procession publik was enjoyn'd,
And thus perform'd t'adore th' Eternal Mind.
Trumpets march'd first, and chiefly that whose Sound
Shall strike Convulsions thro' the trembling ground:
Break their dark Prisons down, and call away
Th' awaken'd Dead, on the great Judgment Day.
Next Heav'nly Viols, soft harmonious Flutes,
Resounding Dulcimers, and tuneful Lutes
And Harps, like that which hangs the glitt'ring Pride,
As Poets feign, of young Apollo's side.
With perfect Skill here chosen Cherubs play,
And Celebrate th' Almighty's Resting Day.
Then the blest Voices came with Hymns of Praise,
Angelick Musick, sweet Melodious Lays,
Such as bright Spirits in high Raptures sing,
Around the Throne of their Eternal King.
Now the first Rank of Potentates and Peers,
Mighty Arch-Angels, and high Thrones appears.
Crowns of substantial, massy Glory made,
Adorn'd with Gems, and Flow'rs that never Fade,
And Greens of Heav'nly growth all wreath'd between,
Are on the Heads of this bright Order seen:
Fresh Greens and Flow'rs, such as their Gardens bring,
Blest with mild Rays, and Everlasting Spring.
Vials of Incense in their Hands they bare,
And the sweet Clouds in Wheels roll up the Air.
Odours not to be told, fann'd from them fly,
And wondrous Fragrancy Perfumes the Sky.
Each had his Lyre, that from his Shoulders hung,
With Golden Wire, like radiant Sun-beams, strung.
Such was their Splendour, with such Grace they trod,
In Looks and Motion each appear'd a God.
Hither thick Crowds of vulgar Angels made,
And to admire this glorious Order staid,
And, as they pass'd, humble Obeisance paid.
Then lower Ranks in long Procession pass'd,
With Crowns and Badges of Distinction grac'd.
And all so Splendid, all so Rich and Gay,
That Heav'n before, ne'er saw so bright a Day.
Unfading Roses of Heav'nly Red,
On the bright Pavement were profusely spread.
Elysian Jess'mine, and blest Am'rant lay,
In od'rous heaps along the Milky way.
The Fountains all such Cost was then bestow'd,
With unexhausted Springs of Nectar flow'd.
And now advanc'd before th' Imperial Throne,
That lofty with excessive Brightness shone,
They from th' uneasie Lustre of the Light,
Protected with spread Wings their dazled sight.
In prostrate Adoration down they fell,
Opprest with Glory unsupportable.
Entranc'd, Transported, Ravish'd, there they ly,
And with blest Hallelujahs fill the Sky.
In Songs Sublime they praise th' Eternal Mind,
His Works from all the Ages past design'd,
His Greatness, Wisdom, Empire unconfin'd.
His Justice, that no Force or Prayer can move:
His spotless Truth, and Everlasting Love.
They Sing th' Eternal Son's Immortal Praise,
And to an equal height the sacred Spirit raise.
Then all arising from the sacred Quire,
O'erflowing with unbounded Joys, retire
To the blest Shades of the Celestial Bowers,
Where oft they choose to pass their happy Hours.
Their Hunger here delicious Banquets met,
With vast Profusion on rich Tables set,
Banquets Divine, not such as Mortals Eat.
High Dishes in long Pomp and Order stood,
Fill'd with choice Fruits, rare Meats, all Angels Food.
Ambrosial Juices, sweet Nectarean Wine,
Ravish'd their Tast, and made their Faces Shine.
The Sons of God thus chear'd, dissolve in Joy,
Whilst his high Praises their blest Tongues employ.
In Joys and Triumphs so the Day they spend,
Such Mirth and Show the Festival attend;
Then when the Ev'ning came, or what instead
Of Evening there, does in its turn succeed.
Glorious Illuminations made on high,
By all the Constellations of the Sky,
In bright Degrees, and shining Orders plac'd,
Spectators charm'd, and the blest Dwellings grac'd.
Through all th' inlight'n'd Air rare Fireworks flew,
Which the Celestial Youth with Shouting threw.
Comets fly up with their red sweeping Train,
Then fall in Starry Showers, and glitt'ring Rain.
In th' Air ten Thousand Meteors blazing hung,
That from Heav'n's gilded Battlements were flung.
Here furious, flying Dragons hissing came,
Here harmless Fires play in lambent Flame.
Such Universal Joy in Heav'n they shew'd,
And in such hallow'd Mirth the day conclude.
In such Delights they pass their time above,
And so shall we, if like them, we Obey and Love.
In all the Joys that happy Minds attain,
Blest Adam first began to live and reign.
He to fair Eden's Paradise resorts,
Where every Sense its proper Pleasure courts.
The joyful Spring by soft Favonius fan'd,
Diffus'd her Riches with a wanton Hand.
From new-blown Flowers luxurious Odours fly,
And Heav'nly Landskips meet his ravish'd Eye.
The twining Branches weave him shady Bowers,
And Hony-Dews fall in delicious Showers.
Birds with their Songs their Soveraign salute,
From Boughs that bend beneath their Golden Fruit.
Pure Streams to him their Crystal Waters bring,
And the glad Fish leap up, to see their King.
The harmless Beasts their humble Homage paid,
And the sole Monarch of the World obey'd.
Uninterrupted Peace his Mind possest,
And Joys unutterable fill'd his Breast.
He view'd his great Creator's glorious Face,
Clearly reflected from fair Nature's Glass.
On her bright Form he saw, th' Impressions shine,
Of Wisdom Infinite, and Pow'r Divine,
Whence all things, as free Emanations flow,
As Streams their Being to their Fountain owe.
Which binds fast Nature's vast unshaken Frame,
Lest it dissolve to Nothing, whence it came.
Whilst in his Thoughts the pleasing Objects Roll,
Fresh Pleasures Feed his still transported Soul.
His Eyes thus fixt, the great Seducer's Skill,
Could not engage his Thoughts, or move his Will.
A Day Serene smil'd on his Heav'nly Mind,
Dark with no Cloud, and undisturb'd with Wind.
No Guilt, no Frown from Heav'n disturbs his Soul,
Calm as deep Rivers in still Evenings roll.
No Storms of Passion, such as us molest,
Annoys the Peaceful Region of his Breast.
No boiling Lust swell'd the o'erflowing Blood,
To bear down Reason with th' impetuous Flood.
His spotless Mind knew yet no other Fire,
Then those pure Flames, that Heav'nly Minds inspire.
O happy Man! above description blest,
Had he maintain'd the Station he possest.
Upon the Crystal River's flowry side,
That winding did in slow Meanders glide;
As loath to leave the Blissful Place, there stood
A Tree that rose above th' Hesperian Wood,
Its Fruit seem'd pleasant, but forbidden Food.
For he that with enormous Bounty pours
On Man, fresh Pleasures in incessant Showers;
That nothing can disturb his flowing Joys,
Unless Variety suspends his Choice.
Bids him not Eat the fatal Fruit, to prove
His due Obedience, and his constant Love.
The grand Apostate for high Crimes displac'd,
From Heav'n by fierce Almighty Vengeance chas'd,
Till down th' unfathom'd Precipice he fell
Confounded, to the fiery Gulph of Hell:
With Rage and Envy sees Man's happy State,
Whence he for ever lost had fall'n so late.
Himself undone urg'd with infernal Spight,
And dire Revenge, makes Ruin his delight.
That he from Heav'n might this fair Province gain,
That Sin and Death might wider Sway attain,
And he his baleful Empire might extend,
Conceal'd beneath the specious Air of Friend,
Does to Man's Choice the fatal Tree commend.
As such whose Worth transcends the greatest price,
The Flower and Beauty of his Paradise.
Pleasing to Tast, but much more to the Mind,
Which those that Eat, should boundless Knowledge find.
Then points up to the fair forbidden Meat,
Bids him be Wise, and boldly take, and Eat.
He tempts him with the flatt'ring Hopes of Bliss,
Great as his God's, and lasting too, as his.
This gaudy Scene of Glory charm'd his Eye,
And his proud thoughts at God-like Greatness fly.
The bright Illusion turn'd his giddy Head,
And with vast Hopes his vain Ambition fed.
Thus gazing at the Glory of a God,
The Precipice was hid on which he trod.
The splendid Phantome now advances nigh,
And in his reach appears Divinity.
Which straight he grasps at, and to hold the more,
Empties his Hand of what it held before.
But sooner might he grasp unbody'd Minds,
And with clos'd Arms clasp in the raging Winds.
The glorious Shadow from his Hands does slide,
Mocks his Embraces, and defeats his Pride.
He Eat, but did no other Pleasures find,
Than the sad Terrors of a guilty Mind.
His cheated Hopes can no new Knowledge boast,
But of the Ill he feels, and Good he lost.
Thus fell lost Man, straight troubled Nature moan'd,
And shaking, with a strong Convulsion groan'd.
Ev'n Paradise look'd Sad, the Herds repin'd,
And lofty Cedars shook without a Wind.
The Roses fade, the Golden Apples turn'd
Pallid, and all the Sick Creation mourn'd.
To the thick Trees in vain fall'n Adam made,
To hide his blacker Guilt beneath their Shade.
Close Trees may so their well mixt Branches spread,
That Sun-beams cannot pierce their shady Head.
But God's clear Eye needs not so gross a Ray,
His Glory sheds a more Illustrious Day.
But had he been from his bright Eye conceal'd,
The crying Guilt had to his Ear reveal'd
Apostate Man, that Voice to Heav'n does rise
Loud, as the Thunder-claps, for which it cries.
What a black Train of Woes and hideous Fears,
Headed by one bold Crime, to Man appears.
The Serpent's Venom spreads through all his Veins,
And Sin's Contagion unresisted Reigns.
A Death-like Damp shoots through from his poisn'd Blood,
And fear's cold Chains Arrest the beating Flood.
A dreadful Face of Things confounds his Eye,
He cannot stay secure, nor can he fly.
Black Thoughts of Vengeance seize his guilty Heart,
And Conscience wounds him, with her poison'd Dart.
Amidst the Trees he starts at every Noise,
Grows Pale, and thinks he hears th' Almighty's Voice.
The trembling Branches make him tremble more,
Now feebler, than the Fig-leaves, which he wore.
Man's Soul, by this rude Shock from's Center driv'n,
Stands so a-skaunt, and so remote from Heav'n,
Tis scarcely warm'd by its weak, Oblique Ray,
And has at best but a cold, darksome Day.
Fall'n from its bright Etherial Seat on high,
Down to the lowest Regions of the Sky,
It feels th' attractive Earth's Magnetick Force,
And round this low-hung Ball directs its Course.
As when a Planet, once all fair and bright,
Sickens, and shines with pale and faded Light;
By some fierce Storm bred in its Bowels rent,
As Clouds are by the Thunder in 'em pent.
The mighty Orb disjoynted cracks, and all
The broken Parts in Noisy Ruin fall.
The hideous, burning Hull does floating lie,
And with the wondrous Wreck affrights the Sky.
Sometimes it blazes with a dismal Light,
And then grown dim, seems lost and drown'd in Night.
Then sinking does the Starry Sky forsake,
Contented some inferior Seat to take.
Where Heav'n new moulds the Heap, and from th' Abyss,
Calls forth perhaps a Moon, or Earth, like this.
So Man seduc'd by the Impostor fell,
From Heav'n's bright Coasts, to the black Verge of Hell.
There he his Lustre lost, and God-like Grace,
Shews the sad Ruins of a Heav'nly Face.
Where Peace dwelt undisturb'd, and smiling Light,
Confusion now, Chaos and horrid Night.
Black, frowning Clouds, and murmuring Thunder rose,
O'er the vext Region of his guilty Soul.
Fierce, driving Storms, and bleak Tempestuous Wind
Beat on the wasteful Desart of his Mind.
Revenge, Despair, Grief, Jealousie, and Fear,
Have in their Turns, supreme Dominion here.
Reason dethron'd must the Commands obey
Of this wild Rout, that holds the Sovereign Sway.
Mean Time, th' Almighty does his Summons send,
Thro' Heav'n for all his Angels to attend.
High in the Midst of the Etherial Skies,
A Mount of rocky Diamond did rise:
Insuperably steep, and too sublime
For the tir'd Wings of Cherubims to climb.
O'er-looking Heav'ns wide Vales and spacious Plains
It stands, and unmolested Peace maintains.
Here the Almighty's bright Tribunal stands,
Whence his Decrees are sent, and high Commands.
Hence he gives Laws to all the Worlds below,
And hence eternal Right and Justice flow.
Hence Punishments proceed, and just Rewards,
Hence Orders come to all th' Angelick Guards,
To keep the Peace of Heav'n, and next secure
On Earth th' afflicted, from th' Oppressor's Power.
And now the Thrones and Pow'rs the Vally fill,
And stand adoring round the sacred Hill.
Adam's Rebellion they had newly heard,
And God's fierce Wrath in dreadful Signs appear'd.
Lightnings and Thunders isue from his Throne,
Lightnings scarce heard of, Thunder seldom known.
Tremendous Murmurs, and a mighty Sound
Of wondrous Ruine from the Hill rebound.
T'express incens'd Omnipotence conspire
Whirlwinds, thick Darkness and consuming Fire,
United Terrors, that with Fury broke
From the blest Mount, whence thus th' Almighty spoke.
The Man I made, and with my Image grac'd,
And next to your Angelick Order plac'd,
Revolting to th' Apostate Prince of Hell,
Against my Throne has yielded to Rebel.
The Death I threaten'd, now I must inflict,
So Justice bids, nor is its Rule too strict.
You're here from all the Regions of the Sky,
To hear the Rebel doom'd, and see him Dye.
He spake, and thro' all Heav'n a Terror strook,
The Sphears, and all the Frame of Nature shook.
The Moon grew Pale, the Sun all Dim appear'd,
And all the Sons of God stood Mute, and fear'd.
Th' Almighty his Vindictive Arm makes bare,
Stretch'd out his Hand, and did for Death prepare.
Mercy Shreek'd out, and trembling on her Face
Fell down, and did with Tears his Feet Embrace,
Offspring Divine, in Heav'n the most belov'd,
By whom ev'n Fate unchangeable is mov'd.
Her Looks so moving, such Celestial Grace,
So mild, and sweet an Air dwell on her Face,
So tender and engaging all her Charms,
That oft th' Almighty's Fury she disarms.
Her Language melts Omnipotence, arrests
His Hand, and thence his Vengeful Lightning wrests.
Then thus she spake:
Shall the successful, sly Impostor boast,
That by his Power the new Creation's lost?
Shall he thus Triumph in his impious Deed,
And all our Hopes defeat from Adam's Seed?
Must this fair Race be lost, so lately made,
And Hell made Bold your Empire to invade?
Adam has sinn'd, and Heav'n's high Grace abus'd,
But sinn'd betray'd, and by Hell's Fraud seduc'd.
Can't Wisdom Infinite, Expedients find,
To punish Guilt, and yet preserve Mankind?
Compassion, with stern Justice mixt, will draw
Honour to Heav'n's just Government, and Awe
All from offending the Establish'd Law.
At this, the Eternal Son rose from his Place,
The bright Effulgence of his Father's Face,
His fair and express Image, full of Grace.
In whom Divine, Substantial Glory dwelt,
And who Almighty Life and Vigour felt.
Th' Essential Wisdom, th' Everlasting Word,
The Universal Heir, and Soveraign Lord.
And thus he Silence broke, mine be the Task
To do what Justice and Compassion ask.
To Rescue Man, my self will Man become,
Assuming Substance from a Virgin's Womb.
A willing Sacrifice, I'll Death Embrace,
Justice t'attone, and Ransom Adam's Race.
The Father straight assented, Mercy simil'd,
To see the Serpent of his Prey beguil'd.
Justice well pleas'd, accpets the offer'd Price,
And Heav'n's aton'd by its own Sacrifice.
The Heav'ns with loud rebounding Shouts did ring,
And the glad Angels in new Anthems sing,
The Intercessor, and mysterious King.
The rolling Years their Circles fill apace,
And well-breath'd Time runs its appointed Race.
Till it brought on the Hour when all should see,
The Son make good to Man, his blest Decree.
That our expected Hope might be enjoy'd,
Divinity appears with Man alloy'd.
His native Glory darts destructive Light,
And bright Oppression pours on Mortal's Sight;
He therefore draws a humane Veil between,
That temper'd Lustre might not Kill, when seen.
Here two Extreams of distance infinite,
In one ineffable, mysterious Knot unite.
God lives conceal'd, within a Mould of Clay,
And does in Dust himself, and's Glory lay.
He that in all th' expanded Skies wants room,
Lies now encompass'd with a Virgins Womb.
Immensity is wrapt in Swadling Bands,
The Prince by whom the World's wide Fabrick stands,
Supported in his Mother's Arms we see;
And vast Eternity begins to be.
He leaves his Starry Seat, and glitt'ring Crown,
And lays his dazling Robes of Glory down.
Then in an humble travelling Dress is seen
Seeking, as unknown Strangers do, an Inn.
Lord of the World, to whom proud Monarchs owe
Their Crowns and Scepters, he that does bestow
Honours and Wealth profusely on the Great,
Can't for his own Repose, find out a Seat,
But must from Men, to kinder Beasts, Retreat.
No other Court receives the new-born King,
That to debase himself, did choose to bring
No other Pomp, but naked Innocence;
Nothing for Ornament, or for Defence.
He that the Wants of all the World supplies,
Himself oppress'd with Pain and Hunger, Cries.
He Man's Assistance asks in vain, to whom
For Aid and Comfort all th' aflicted come.
Angels that did the Royal Stranger know,
The greatest Signs of Joy and Triumph show.
The Out-guards of their Camp saw marching round
Celestial Splendor rising from the Ground.
And gave th' alarm, the shining Squadrons fly
To th' Out-lines, and the Frontiers of the Sky:
To see the wond'rous Mediator Born,
Whom they Adore, though stupid Hebrews Scorn.
Some with spread Wings shoot swiftly thro' the Air,
And to the Shepherds first the Tydings bear,
That a great Shepherd was at Beth'lem Born,
Whose Deeds and Triumphs should that Name Adorn.
Tho' Angels Sing, obdurate Men are mute,
Nor will their Saviour, and their King Salute.
Yet some few famous Sages come from far,
Conducted by a brigter Morning Star,
Left all the Wealth and Wonders of the East,
To see a greater Sun rise in the West.
To find the Prince to Herod they resort;
For where should Kings be found, but in a Court?
But the directing Star that led their Way,
Stands still, and points down with a streaming Ray,
To a mean Stable, where the Stranger lay.
Where they with humble Adoration View,
The Infant Intercessor, known to few.
Whom they present with Odoriferous Gums,
Choice Spices, and Arabia's rich Perfumes.
The Sun of Righteousness begins to rise,
And Streaks with radiant Lines the Purple Skies.
Here did he from his healing Wings display,
The tender Dawn of Everlasting Day.
Pale Terror through the Courts of Darkness flew,
And Hell's sad Regions double Sorrow shew.
Th' Infernal Spirits wandring in the Air,
As Thunder-struck, in Anger and Despair,
With Shreeks and hideous Yellings fly the Sight,
And the keen Horrour of the Heav'nly Light.
Like obscene Birds of Night, they hast away
And shun in Clefts and Caves the Rising Day.
The Prince of Darkness now begins to fear,
The Dissolution of his Empire's near.
Th' ambiguous Oracles with Fear struck Dumb
Proclaim'd by Silence, the Messiah come.
Troubled and Sad th' Infernal Counsel sate,
Thoughtful how best t'avert th' impending Fate.
Various Projections, deep Designs were laid,
How best the dreaded Foe they might invade.
They first the Fury Jealousie dispatch,
To Herod's Court that might Occasion watch,
To kindle strong Suspicions in his Breast,
That th' Infant from him should his Scepter wrest.
She did so well perform her Hellish Part,
Herod soon yielded to her subtle Art.
For while the Sages leave their Eastern home,
And to admire the wondrous Infant come.
Herod, afraid his ravish'd Crown to loose,
The Royal Infant's hated Life pursues.
What to pale Tyrants dreadful won't appear,
When Love and Innocence can move their Fear.
'Tis true,
A King he is, whose Empire's vast Extent,
Shall pass all Bounds, and last when Time is spent.
Submissive Monarchs shall their Scepters lay
Before his Feet, and his Just Laws Obey.
Kingdoms opprest shall his strong Aids invoke,
And thrust their Necks beneath his gentle Yoke.
The Roman Eagles shall the Conqueror own,
And Cæsar Court him to Ascend his Throne.
Admir'd by all, he shall in Triumph go
Where fruitful Nile, or fam'd Hydaspes flow,
Uncheckt by Africk Heats, or Scythian Snow.
Nations invited by his Fame, shall come,
More than e'er made their Court to Conquering Rome,
In splendid Embassies to sue for Peace,
And Worlds unknown his Empire shall increase.
The Earth shall banish'd Justice now regain,
And Love and Truth attend the happy Reign.
Soft Peace and Joy the chearful Earth shall Crown,
And Savage Beasts shall lay their Fierceness down.
The Lyon, Wolf, and Lamb, no more their Prey,
And little Infants shall Promiscuous play.
The years in Golden Harness smiling pass,
And keeping beauteous Order run their Race.
Nor shall his Kingdom cease, or Subjects dye,
For when Time finds its empty Channel dry,
And all its disappearing Streams shall Sleep,
Lost and engulph'd in vast Duration's Deep.
Then shall this King his full Dominion gain,
And in Eternal Peace, and Triumph Reign.
But 'tis not Worldly Empire he design'd,
His Scepter is his Grace, his Throne the Mind.
Kings unmolested may their Scepters sway,
And Peaceful Subjects without Strife obey.
They may unrivall'd, and unenvy'd reign,
And all their Pomp, and Regal State maintain.
The great Redeemer has his Court unseen,
And reigns in Light, and Heavenly Love within.
But from the false Usurper's Cruelty
Officious Angels warn their Prince to fly.
He and his happy Parents leave their Home,
And all to Egypt's safer Border's come.
Egypt tho' for its Monsters famous grown,
Is now by treach'rous Palestine out-done.
For here they find a more secure Abode,
Egypt, once Jacob sav'd, and now his God.
The wandring God returns, the Tyrant dead,
To rich Judæ's Soil from whence he fled.
Where he begins his Kingdom to assert,
And his mirac'lous Virtue to exert.
The Blind receiv'd their Sight, their Feet the Lame,
And the Dumb spake to celebrate his Fame.
Loud Storms and Winds were husht at his Command,
And fierce wild Beasts did tame and harmless stand.
The wondring Dead arise, and hasty come,
Obsequious to his Call, from out their Tomb.
With fresh-created Fish and Loaves he fed
Th' admiring Crowd, that lay around him spread.
To the Decrepit he knew Force appoints,
And with strong Nerves new-brac'd their wither'd Joynts.
His Breath oft cool'd fierce Feavers raging Flames,
And his sole Word the deadly Poyson tames.
Round him in Crowds the sick and feeble throng,
The sick grow easie, and the feeble strong.
Fresh healing Vertue he diffus'd around,
And dying Men rose leaping from the ground.
The Languishing reviv'd, th' Afflicted cheer'd,
Took healthful Looks, and smil'd when he appear'd.
Demons at his Command vext Men forsake,
And to th' Infernal Caves and burning Lake,
Their hasty Flight, with piercing Screeches take.
Such Miracles did his high Office prove,
And Universal Admiration move,
Of all the chiefest was his wondrous Love.
He whom rebellious Men might justly fear,
In all his chosen Terrors would appear,
With Military Pomp, and Trumpets Sound,
His shining Host of Cherubs pour'd around;
Arm'd with keen Lightning, and the sharpest Sword,
That all his Magazins of Wrath afford,
To lay all Wast before him, and Efface
All Footsteps of Apostate Adam's Race,
He, unexampl'd Love! Attempts to win
Man from the Curse of Death, and Curse of Sin,
With Pity, more than that of Mothers Hearts,
With Mercy's Charms, and Love's preswasive Arts.
His high design was with his Heav'nly Light,
To chase away th' Impenetrable Night,
That cover'd this lost World, and re-inspire
Man's frozen Breast with fresh Celestial Fire.
Th' Almighty's faded Image to repair,
That its bright Lines might shine distinct and fair.
To raise laps'd Minds to that high State of Love,
Of Light and Bliss, the Blest enjoy above.
To pull all bold Usurping Passions down,
And settle Reason in its ancient Throne.
To break Sins heavy Chains, its Slaves release,
And fix 'twixt Earth and Heav'n a lasting Peace.
The Jews amus'd with Worldly Empire's Charms,
Hoping some Monarch with Victorious Arms,
With Roman pomp and Grandeur would arise,
The great Redeemer's humble State despise.
Inspir'd from Hell, his Message they refuse,
Deride his Person, and his Deeds accuse.
He that Supplies on all in want bestow'd,
Feasting with Miracles the hungry Crowd:
Finds from th' obdurate Hebrew no relief,
But with the Twelve Companions of his Grief,
He walk'd on his Eternal Purpose bent,
Scatt'ring his Heav'nly Gifts where'er he went.
Yet did unwelcom through their Regions stray,
From those ungrateful Cities thrust away,
Whence he had Devils and Diseases cast,
Him, and his proffer'd Heav'n, they from them chas'd.
At last his spotless Innocence traduc'd,
He stands before the Roman Throne accus'd;
On Cæsar's King Pilate in Judgment sits,
Condemns him, yet his Innocence acquits.
To please th' inexorable Jews he sheds
Blood, and Heav'n's dreadful Curses on their Heads.
That done, he wash'd his guilty Hands in vain,
The Blood he spilt, alone could Purge that Stain.
No Form of Cruelty his Foes omit,
They give sharp Stripes, and on his Face they Spit;
Which now adoring Angels blush to see,
Not for its Splendor, but Deformity.
To please united Cruelty and Scorn,
On's wounded Head they fix a Crown of Thorn.
They dress him in a Purple Robe, that gone,
His Blood with richer Purple dyes his own.
A Reed his Hand must for a Scepter sway,
Which with a Rod of Ir'n shall that Contempt repay.
They bow in Scorn before him, whilst he sate
A Pageant Prince, the mockery of State.
What various Shapes of Cruelty are shewn,
Under, and on his Cross he's made to groan.
And yet he bears a heavier Load within,
The pressure of the World's united Sin.
Stretcht on the cursed Tree his Body hangs,
Groaning its Life away in dying Pangs.
Forsaken both of Earth and Heav'n, his Breath
He wasted in the pains of lingring Death.
Whilst on his Soul the blackest Horrors dwell,
That feels the Pains, without the Guilt of Hell.
The Barb'rous Hebrews for whose sake he dy'd,
Stand by, and see their Sov'raign Crucify'd,
Without the slight Compassion of a Tear,
Scarce in the Crowd does one sad Face appear.
Their Insolence dares mock his dying Moans,
Sport with his Torments, and deride his Groans.
Though solid Rocks touch'd with Compassion rent,
The more obdurate Jew does not relent.
For Man he Dies, that Heav'n may be aton'd,
He dies, the Universe afflicted groan'd,
Heav'n's Everlasting Frame shook with the Fright,
And the scar'd Sun shrunk back, and hid his Light.
Thro' th' Earth's dark Vaults a shiv'ring Horror fled,
That whilst Convuls'd threw up th' awaken'd Dead.
Thin pallid Ghosts come sweeping o'er the Grass,
And howling Wolves Glare on them as they pass.
Hoarse Thunder Rolls in Subterranean Caves,
Chaos to hearken stills his Raging Waves.
Ev'n Hell gap'd horribly, such was the fright,
And thro' the Chasm let thro' prodigious Night.
Night that extinguish'd the Meridian Ray,
And with its gloomy Deluge choak'd the Day.
Sad Moans were heard, Shreeks, Howlings, Midnight Cries,
And Globes of Fire hung Blazing in the Skies.
A fierce Convulsion thro' the Temple went,
The Pillars trembled, and the Veil was Rent.
The Heav'n's and Earth both suffer'd when he dy'd,
As Nature's Self were with him Crucify'd.
Down by their Sides the silent Angels laid
Their Golden Harps, and neither Sung nor play'd;
Their drooping Wings, and Looks dejected show
Sadness, as much, as those blest Realms can know.
Thrice the swift Sun his radiant Chariot drove
O'er the blue Hills, and out-stretch'd Plains above,
As oft the Moon had shot her paler Light,
In silver Threads thro' the brown Vest of Night.
When the Reviving Saviour leave his Tomb,
And, as new-born, breaks from the Earth's dark Womb.
The Chains of Death shook off, he from the Ground,
Do's with new Force, Antæus like, rebound.
He comes in Triumph from the Conquer'd Grave,
And this blest proof of Resurrection gave.
Oft to his mournful Friends their Lord appear'd,
And their sad Minds with Heav'nly Pleasures cheer'd.
He then the Plan of his wise Kingdom laid,
Who should submit, and who should be obey'd.
To these he gave a Power to loose, and bind,
And with fix Bounds that Sacred Power