Zion in Distress, Poem 1 · Part 13 – Part 14
Sion.
WHen Sol once touches our Meridian Line,
It ſtraight deſcends, does by degrees decline;
Its heat grows leſs, its diſ-appearing Light
Yields to the Sable of approaching Night:
Juſt ſo the Goſpel in its Altitude,
Once ſhot ſuch Beams, that in this Iſle enſu'd
So great Converſion, that thoſe former Days
Did feel its bleſt and univerſal Rays.
A General Heat did warm this Happy Nation,
From its benign and pow'rful Operation:
But now it falls! and from our Horizon
Its vig'rous influence is almoſt gone.
Thouſands of Sermons lately have been preacht,
But very few (if any) ſinners reacht.
How ineffectual is the quick'ning word!
It ſhines, but warms not; its but like a Sword
That's fair to ſight, but has no Edge at all;
Few prick'd at heart! and ſcarce do any fall
At Jeſus feet! or have a ſence of Sin,
Confeſſing how rebellious they have bin!
It is a diſmal and apparent Sign
That Night comes on, when Phoebus does decline,
When Heat and Fervour fail, our Hemiſphere
Will quickly ſee its glory diſappear.
The Ev'ning of the Nat'ral Day is come,
When Harveſt-Work-men are repairing home:
So when quick Summons of Omnipotence,
Removes the Dreſſers of his Vineyard hence,
We may conclude the Goſpel-Morning paſt,
Becauſe Gods Servants diſappear ſo faſt.
Can I, when Gap-defenders fall aſleep,
But like old Iſr'el, for my Prophets weep?
How can the naked and unguarded Flock,
Suſtain the Brunt of an invading Shock?
When of its Shepherds it is thus bereft,
When ſcarce a Moſes, or a Joſhua's left,
How many active Guides, moſt dearly lov'd
By Me, have been in little time remov'd;
Scarce can I dry mine Eies for loſs of one;
But News arrive of many others gone:
If that my Head were Waters, and each Eie
A Well of Tears, I could diſtil 'em dry.
Bright Lamps extinguiſh't! and no other Lights
Appear to chace the horrour of our Nights!
Shook by concuſſions of my Foes I ſtand,
Whilſt few are rais'd to hold my trembling hand!
If thus my Horſemen, and Commanders dye,
What will become of the poor Infantry?
Who can ſupport the burden of the Day,
When ſuch brave Hero's daily drop away?
Is Summer paſt, or is the Harveſt done?
That ſuch preſages of a Storm come on!
Sure God (as Monarchs do) intendeth Wars,
When he recalls his choice Embaſſadors.
Ah too licentious World! come, look about,
Before the Lord, the bloudy Flag puts out:
When God from Sodom, righteous Lot did call,
Sulphureous Flaſhes did conſume them all.
Another ground of my prevailing fear
That England's black Cataſtrophe is near,
Is that, as in the Cloſure of the Day,
The Evening Wolves do range abroad to Prey
So Romiſh Beaſts in monſtrous Swarms do peep
From their black Caverns, to deſtroy my Sheep:
Such hate the tell-tale-light, and therefore hide
Themſelves in Dens, until the Ev'ning …ide.
Their curſed products are reſolves of Night,
Like ſilent Currs, that in the dark do bite.
Another Symptom of the days declenſion,
Is when the Shadows do increaſe dimenſion:
So when I look about, I plainly ſee
Our Ev'ning ſhadows very long to be.
In Humane Bodys when the Head grows Hoary,
It notes decay of Vigor, Strength and Glory.
Gray hairs are thick upon our Ephraim's Head,
His Strength decays, his Face is withered.
When joynts grow palſy'd, & the Blood's congeal'd
Into a Jelly, can the Man be heal'd?
When limbs grow stiff, and feeble Age does plow
Its wrinkled furrows on the Patients brow;
When heat gives place to a benumming cold,
When doting Fancy cares not to be told
Of its approaches to a certain Grave;
When it rejects the Phyſick that would ſave,
The Caſe is deſperate, for the Patient's juſt
Upon the Point to be intomb'd in Dust:
E'en ſo (Alas!) this Gaſping Nation lies
Under the preſſure of ſad Maladies!
'Tis ſick at heart, yet ſeems averſe to take
That ſacred Phyſick, whoſe Ingredients make
Diſeaſes vaniſh, and would ward the Blow
Which will, (I fear) produce its overthrow.
Ah! muſt our Glory (like a brittle Glaſs
Reduc'd to Fractions) into Atomes paſs!
So Rude a Chaos! an unform'd confuſion!
Threatning the whole with utter diſſolution.
Once Happy Iſle, I grieve at thy condition:
Where's thy Repentance? where is thy Contrition▪
Thou haſt been counted our Emanuel's Land,
The Goſpel ſeems on Tip-toe now to ſtand,
To bid thee farewel: Muſt thy Sun ſo ſoon
Be ſett! before it did approach to Noon!
Muſt that Illuſtrious Morning-light be gone,
That ſpread it Beams through all our Horizon?
Muſt wretched Malice, and prodigious Luſt,
Muſt bare-fac'd Pride, and impudent Diſtruſt,
Rob thee of this ineſtimable Jewel?
How canſt thou be ſo pittileſs, ſo cruel
Unto thy ſelf? Sin is the flaming dart
That cuts thy Veins, and wounds thy very heart.
Can Sion chuſe but ſend out mournful Crys?
And weep thy Downfal in ſad Elegies?
Within thy Bounds my Tabernacles were
Built up, and I did long inhabit here.
Thy Goſpel-glory, and Renown's gone forth
Into all Parts and Corners of the Earth.
Thou mayſt be juſtly ſtil'd the place of Viſion?
(Though made by Foes an Object of Deriſion)
The Joy of Saints, the Proteſtant's Delight,
The Mark and Butt of Antichriſtian ſpite.
But if the Crown be raviſht from thy Head,
And Romiſh Clouds thy Luſtre overſpread,
What heart ſo brawny, but thy doleful Cry
Muſt move to pity? what relentleſs Eye,
Can ſee thy fall, and not diſſolve to drops?
O fleeting Joys! O diſ-appearing hopes!
O haſtning horrour! O invading fears!
Had I a Sea of never-empty'd tears,
My boundleſs, helpleſs grief wide open ſets
The Sluces for its ſtreaming Rivulets.
The very Air, dreſt in Prodigious Forms,
Muſt groan in Thunder, and muſt weep in Storms.
Nature, of ſtrong Convulſions ſickned is,
To ſee this horrid Metamorphoſis!
Where Goſpel Paſtors did ſome Millions feed,
Muſt blind and ſottiſh ignorance ſucceed?
Muſt all their Throats be cut that won't adore
The hateful Carcaſs of a Rotten Whore?
Muſt all that execrate Rome's Superſtition,
Be Murder'd by a bloudy Inquiſition?
Muſt ſuch as won't to Idols …ow, be broke?
Muſt flaming Smithfield, belch out Fire and Smoke
Of Martyr'd Saints? muſt all that will not turn
(With Bibles and good Books) together burn?
Muſt Monkiſh Torys, meer Incarnate Devils,
Poſſeſs our Land, and peſter it with Evils,
Of ſuch an odious and abhorred Grain,
That but to name 'em is a laſting Stain?
Muſt our Renowned Miniſters give place
To Romiſh Block-heads? O the vile diſgrace
Of ſuch a Change! Muſt an adult'rous Prieſt
Belch out his Maſs, where they have preached Christ
Muſt that abſurd and irreligious Tribe
Who fetter Conſcience, and regard a Bribe
Beyond their Souls, be Leaders to our Flocks?
Muſt paultry Non-ſence, and thoſe Apiſh Mocks,
Mis-call'd Devotion, fill the Houſe of Prayer?
Muſt Peſtilence infect our purer Air?
Muſt Sodom be tranſlated to our Iſle,
And filthy Prieſts our chaſtity defile?
Muſt Satans Factors in a humane ſhape,
On modeſt Virgins perpetrate a Rape?
Muſt all our painful Miniſters be driven
To fiery Stakes, if they renounce not Heaven?
Muſt our dear Infants loſe their harmleſs lives
In f…aming Faggots, or with Popiſh Knives?
Muſt guiltleſs bloud through all our Streets rebound
A mournful Echo? muſt the horrid ſound
Of Axes, Whips, and dreadful Scourges tear
Our aking hearts, and pierce the yielding Air!
All this will be, if Rome can but prevail!
Amazement ſtops my Speech! my Spirits fail!
I only can in Interjections cry,
I ſink in Trances! O! I dy, I dy!
Sion's Children.
AH! how can we with any Patience bear
This ſad Complaint? Can any Children hear
Their Mother delug'd in a Sea of Grief,
And not step in to give her ſome relief!
Chear up, Illuſtrious Spouſe, and be not caſt
Into deſpair, by this approaching blaſt:
Christ is our Captain, then we may be bold,
In all our ſtorms, he is our Anchor-hold.
But what's this Beaſt, of whom thou doſt complain?
Whence came he first? and of what date's his Reign?
Give us his Marks, that we may ſurely know him,
Repel his Pride, and quickly overthrow him
With Vniverſal and Vnited Force,
Our Armed Legions ſhall impede his Courſe.
If God Commands (who do's the Scepter wield)
Wee'll fight his Battels, and diſpute his Field.
In Martial Syllogiſms our Arms ſhall ſpeak:
Wee'll ſtrom his Wall, and make his Pillars quake.
Araging Anger in our Boſom burns,
Patience Provok't too much, to Fury turns.