Zion in Distress, Title page – Encomium 2
SION in DISTRESS: OR, THE GROANS OF THE Proteſtant CHRUCH.
Lam. I, 12. Is there any Sorrow like unto my Sorrow?
Verſ. 17. Sion ſpreadeth forth her Arms, and there is none to comfort her.
Verſ. 20. Behold, O Lord, I am in DISTRESS!
—Quis talia Fando
Temperet a lachrimis?—
Virgil.
LONDON: Printed by George Larkin, for Enoch Proſſer, at the Sign of the Roſe and Crown in Sweethings-Alley, at the Eaſt End of the Royal Exchange, 1681.
To the READER.
YOu are here preſented with a Reviv'd Poem, with ſuch Additions and Enlargements as makes it very different from the Firſt Impreſſion. It is ſuited to the Preſent State of the Proteſtant Church, ſhewing the Cauſes of her preſent Calamity, with an Ennumeration of ſome Prevailing Sins; the Plots and Contrivances of ROME againſt SION; the Marks of the Antichriſtian Beaſt and Scarlet Whore, with her Arraignment and Condemnation, (illuſtrated in difficult places with Marginal Notes.) Alſo ſome probable Diſcoveries of the Churches Redemption, and the approaching Glory of the Latter Day.
We have now a plain Proſpect (by the Gracious Diſcoveries of Providence) of thoſe Horrid and Execrable Plots, which the reſtleſs Adverſary has contriv'd againſt the Peace and very Being of SION, and which were much in the dark when my Muſe firſt bewail'd its Condition, and ſuſpected that this Epidemical Miſchief (now Reveal'd) was then a hatching.
In a Subject of Grief, a quaint and ornamental Method is not to be expected: for an abrupt and ſobbing Delivery is more natural in the Delineations of Sorrow, then a ſtudied well-poiz'd and artificial Harrangue. The Subject is Divine, and too lofty for ſo weak a Muſe; which I hope will oblige the Generous Reader to a candid and mild Conſtruction. I have writ according to the meaſure of Light received, and have contributed my Mite (in a well-meaning Spirit) to reduce us to our Selves.
Againſt the Reigning Evils which expoſe us to Temporal and Spiritual Enemies, many Wholeſome Precepts from Scripture and Reaſon are given.
The Riſe, Progreſs, and Perſecutions of the Man of Sin, are ſuccinctly delivered, with the Evidence of Approved Hiſtorians, (ſome of them Papists) whoſe Evidence againſt Themſelves ought to be convincing. There cann't be too many Defendants againſt ſo Vigorous an Aſſailant as Rome is.
There are many Excellent Tracts that diſcover the Villanies of Popery, and I wiſh they were more Common. It is a great comfort that the Spirit of the Nation is ſo much (and juſtly) incenſed againſt it. And that our Parliament is ſo Thorow and Reſolved to cruſh that Intereſt, whoſe Principles teach them to be (to all Hereticks, for ſo they call Proteſtants) Trayterous Subjects, ill Neighbours, and worſe Soveraigns.
To promote the Juſt Odium of my Native Countrey againſt ſo deſtructive and malignant an Enemy, is (in part) the Deſign of this Eſſay; (which being of ſmall bulk and price, may poſſibly come into more hands then larger Volumns.) If it contributes any thing in order to that End, it anſwers the Expectation of
Your Souls Well-Wiſher.
To his Friend the AVTHOR, On the FIRST IMPRESSION.
WHat Muſe is this, that thus inſpires thy Brain,
And leads thy Genius to ſo high a Strain?
Must thy Aſpiring Fancy now rehearſe
Thy Mothers Groans in an Elegiack Verſe?
Is Proſe too mean and unregarded now,
That ſtill in Verſe thou let'ſt the World know how
SION's abus'd by Rome's Infernal Crew?
How in her Blood they did their hands imbrew?
Let thy Endeavours proſper: Let them prove
To be Rome's ſhame: A Token of thy Love
To thy Diſtreſſed Mother, (now the ſcorn
Of black-mouth'd Imps, who are of Satan born.)
Aſpiring Soul! What from her Sorrows climb
To a Prophetick Spirit in thy Rhime!
Foretelling how ſhe ſhall deliver'd be
From all thoſe Bloody Beasts, whom thou do'ſt ſee
God will deſtroy, and will thy Mother make
Heav'ns Glory, and Earths Joy, for his Names ſake.
Jehovah bleſs thy Work this Book, though ſmall,
And make it prove a Preface to Rome's Fall.
Vale.
To my Friend the AUTHOR, Upon His REVIV'D POEM.
HEre's Grief in Raptures! Who could thus infuſe
All Strains of Sorrow? No Aonnian Muſe
Such Sacred Rhapſodies could e'er inſpire:
Nor were they borrow'd from Apollo's Quire.
No Inſpiration from the Theſpian Spring,
Does teach our Poet in this mode to ſing.
He ſuks no Hippocrene, nor feeds upon
The fancy'd Dew of Pagan Helicon.
He mounts no Pegaſus, nor gathers Drops
Diſtill'd by Clio from Parnaſſian Tops.
Theſe are but Whimſies—Some Seraphick Fire
His Muſe did with this Mourning Song inſpire
Who ran but, in the higheſt Notes of Grief,
Weep Tears in Verſe, when SION wants Relief?
Such as from. Art their lofty Strains do borrow,
Do but deſcribe an Artificial Sorrow:
But his is purely Natural: for we
Perceive it comes from perfect Sympathy.
His clear diſcerning Soul her danger ſees
Approaching on by unperceiv'd degrees.
He gives us Warning to prevent the Stroke,
To leave our Sins, and Mercy to invoke.
Here's a Prophetick Glaſs, where we may view
The ſwift Deſtruction that will (elſe) enſue.
But Friend, we thank thee that thou haſt not left us
Without ſome hope, nor has thy Book bereft us
Of Conſolation; for the SCARLET WHORE
Is there ſo Sentenc'd, that She'll riſe no more.