Remains, Poem 1 – Song 2
The Welcome.
I.
WElcome my child on high;
Heaven joys to ſee thee here.
Be not afraid, it is thy Fathers houſe,
And thy Saviour bought it dear.
It was for this he bled,
And his ſoul 'n offering did make.
When my Son thou didſt accept, this Jointure he thee made,
Now poſſeſs it for his ſake.
Whyart thou aſham'd? come behold me! behold me!
I have forgot thy ſin,
And made thee clean within:
Now thou'rt arrived here above,
Of nought think but of love,
I ſhall ne're be angry with thee agen.
II.
My ſervants that attend,
Put on his beſt attire,
Set a Crown on his brow, in brightneſs that outſhines
The cleareſt flames of fire.
Spread out that cloth of Gold,
His foot-cloth it muſt be.
If you have him dreſt, come bring him, ſet him here,
He muſt keep me company.
Have you done? if you have, bid him welcome, bid him welcome,
He was our friend on earth,
And royal in his birth.
For whileſt he lived, I ſaw he
Forſook all to love me,
And did truly ſerve me to his his death.
III.
A child! a bride! a wife!
Ragg'd and adorn'd ſo ſoon!
From the Dungeon to the Throne how quickly am I rais'd,
And my midnight turn'd to noon!
Even now on my death-bed,
I ſigh'd, I ſob'd, I groan'd;
I weeping cri'd, my God hath me forgot,
And by all my friends was moan'd.
What they think now on earth, I do not know, I do not know,
Nor for't do I much care;
What a weeping though they are,
Of little do they think I
Do poſſeſs ſuch glory,
That I'm made ſo much-of here above.
IV.
This is Jeruſalem,
Pav'd o're with ſlates of Gold;
Her rows of houſes like to towers ſtand,
It's more ſtately than was told:
Here's not a ſtreet but's ſtrow'd
With flowers of Paradiſe:
Not a ſtep that I tread, but ſuch ſweetneſſes I pownd,
More rich than Arabian ſpice:
Walls that her incloſe are far brighter, far brighter
Than th' oriental flame,
Or a thing that wants a name.
Her ſparkling gates are well known
To be made up of ſuch ſtone
That the richeſt Diamonds doth excel.
V.
Bleſt ſhades that here do dwell!
Theſe manſions that poſſeſs:
I never till now a place or people ſaw
That the God of Heaven doth bleſs.
Here's not a look ſpeaks care,
No ſign of tear or grief,
Not a ſigh, or a groan through all the ſtreets I hear,
Nor a beggar that wants relief.
All yet that I've met, are like Angels, like Angels;
In clearneſs they ſurpaſs
A Star or chryſtal-glaſs;
Whoſe unſoil'd beauty doth ſeem
To out-vye a Sun-beam,
Far, Oh far more ſplendid than all theſe.
VI.
Their locks like curls of light,
Their Lilly-necks hang o're,
Bedeckt with Ribbonds richer than of Gold,
I ne're ſaw ſuch before.
Sweetneſs of ſpirit blooms
And bloſſoms all the week,
In ſmiles of joy and love that do adorn
In their flowrings on each cheek.
In mantles as white as the fair Moon, the fair Moon,
They walk about each ſtreet,
And embrace all that they meet:
I never ſaw friends ſo love,
As they do here above.
Oh! I could lie at any of their feet.
VII.
I am where I would be,
In the City of my King:
This is the place I have deſir'd to ſee,
And to hear the cherubs ſing.
What lofty ſtrains are theſe!
I ne're heard voice ſo laviſh!
Not a note that I hear but melts me into joy,
And my heart doth in me raviſh!
In the cloſe when they ſhout, Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Glory to God on high,
And the Lamb that below did die.
There's warmth methinks in theſe names,
That melts me into love-flames:
Thoſe! Oh thoſe are names make melodie.
VIII.
But ſee what is't there ſtands,
A tablet all of Gold,
Spread with a cloth of threads as fine as light,
Oh its pity 't ſhould be foul'd.
What dainty Fare is that?
How richly is 't perſum'd!
Oh it ſmells and it looks as dreſt of fires of love,
Meat that's eat, yet ne're conſum'd.
May I taſte! may I taſte! yea, & welcome, & welcome,
Thy Lord did it prepare,
That thou mighteſt have a ſhare:
Now he hath got thee above,
He will feaſt thee with love:
Thou muſt now forget all grief and care.
IX.
Here's honey-combs indeed,
Sweets that will ne're annoy:
I ſcarcely could think that Heav'n it ſelf could yield
Such delights that could not cloy.
This wine I have but ſipt,
It will make a ſick ſoul well.
One drop it would fetch a ſoul to life again,
That with grief were ſunk to Hell.
Will this life always laſt? yea, for ever, for ever:
Of want there can't be fear,
When God will make the cheer,
And that proviſion muſt laſt,
That with eating can't waſte,
Such is all the food that we have here.
X.
What lulling murmur's this
That thus ſalutes mine ear!
It's pleaſant muttering accents almoſt made
Me quite forget my chear.
Theſe are the ſilver ſtreams
Of joys ſprung from the Throne,
Of which each drop's more beautiful than pearl,
And more rich than th' Onyx ſtone.
Tranſparent it is as the Chryſtal, the Chryſtal;
Of taſte and ſmell more ſweet
Than th' ointment on his feet.
Here ſouls and angels leap in,
And together all ſwim,
Who along her banks like arrows fleet.
XI.
Theſe dainty curling ſtreams,
About her ſhores that twine,
Is ſweetly ſhaded with a tree of life,
Yielding juice more rich than th'vine;
It's roots ſpreads in th'clouds,
As old as th' night and day.
Twelve ſorts of fruits, twelve times each ſeveral year
It doth yield, yet don't decay.
The Pomegranate or the grape a'nt ſo pleaſant, ſo pleaſant,
Compar'd to th'worſt of theſe,
Never fruit did half ſo pleaſe:
Beſides who taſts but one bit,
Is made immortal by it:
For its juice is clean from dregs or lees.
XII.
Here always it is ſpring,
A long continued May;
Our Sun ſtanding ſtill makes Summer ever laſt,
And an everlaſting day;
For my heart I cannot ſleep;
No, though I were to die:
Thoſe raviſhing Sun-beams keep me broad-awake,
Yea, and will eternally,
It's God and the Lamb that thus gliſſen, thus gliſſen,
Whoſe faces bluſh with light;
If I wink, it ſtraight were night:
Whileſt with theſe beams I'm then bleſt,
I'le never think upon reſt,
But conclude that waking's always beſt.
MORTALITY.
I.
FRom the womb,
From the womb,
Do I paſs to my tomb:
For my paſſage is quick in the caſt of an eye;
I here that am living, you'l ſtraight ſee me die:
This warm breathing duſt to a clod of cold clay
In a trice will be turn'd, then molder away.
Hark you but a while, you'l ſoon hear the bell
Toul out my Funeral-knel;
My thread is e'en ſpun,
My glaſs almoſt run,
That on earth I here cannot long dwell.
II.
Ev'ry breath, ev'ry breath,
Is a ſtep to my death.
My fleſh is conſuming each thought that I think;
Each minute that paſſeth, to my grave I do ſink.
The hungry worms my neighbours will be,
And my gueſts too that ſhortly will feed upon me.
I was born of corruption, a cruel ſtep-mother
That brought me but forth to ſmother:
No ſooner in th' world,
But out I am hurld,
So I'm ſhufled from th' one to th' other.
III.
What is death? what is death?
But a ſtop of th'breath:
Some ſmall puff of wind that will blow a flame out;
Or the turn of a door for a ſoul to ſtep out?
It's no more than the wreck of a Ship that hath croſt
A Sea that's tempeſtuous, where no paſſenger's loſt:
The planks of my body may be tomb'd in a wave,
But my God will my ſpirit ſave:
It's but to ſtep in,
At moſt to unpin
My rags that are fit for a grave.
IV.
What's a groan?
What's a groan?
That our friends thus bemoan:
When they by our beds ſide ſit to cloſe up our eyes?
It's no more than a crack from the Heaven that flies:
Our ſouls then like lightning are breaking their way
From the clods of our bodies, and why ſhould they ſtay?
It's a pang of corruption, our mother that brings
Forth ſouls that ſhe breeds to be Kings:
For no ſooner I'm dead,
But a Crown's on my head,
And Hoſannah in Heaven I ſing.
V.
Not a day, Not a day,
That doth paſs, but I pray
That my work were diſpatcht, that I might hence but go,
Though the firſt Inn I lodg at, is the grave I do know:
Thoſe chambers of darkneſs my ſoul do'nt affright,
It is but mine Inn, I dare lodg there one night:
In my Coffin I'le creep as into my bed,
And my winding-ſheet I'le not dread:
There ſoundly I'le ſleep
Till the morning doth peep,
From the duſt then I'le raiſe up my head.
Self-Eſtimation.
MOunt up my ſoul! and ſtroke into a calm,
The ſurges of proud paſſions with a Pſalm:
Stretcht out on either ſide; tower up thy head,
O'retop the waves, ſtear on, let reaſon lead.
Be't as thy Polar-ſtar, while thou art toſt,
Leſt 'mong perplexing billows thou be loſt.
Look how the firſt fiercely comes rowling on,
Which reaſon calls Self-Eſtimation!
A ſporting-wave turns viſage, now bold, now ſhie,
How fond, as if in love with thy Egoifie.
She fawns, and with her circling arms
Embraceth that, which quickly feels her charms.
See how ſhe ſoars aloft! and on her wing
Mounts ſelf, yet all this while but flattering.
When at the height, her ſleiked face turns glaſs,
Which repreſents ſelf's vertues in a maſs,
Thrice double to their proper magnitude.
Take heed, don't look, my ſoul, it doth delude;
Think, what's but a wave will quickly ſink,
And mounts ſo weak, in vallies ſooner ſhrink.
Waves quickly fall, they cannot ſtand ſo faſt,
Their weight will preſs their fainting knees at laſt.
Thus with her higher guſts of flattery
She turns thy brain, then turns thine enemy.
Strange metamorphis'd paſſion! glaſs juſt now,
Fit for reflection of an amorous brow!
Now in a cup ſhe's turn'd, bow'd fit for th'lip,
Preſents thee with a Nectar, bids thee ſip.
Sip not, my ſoul, waters that brackiſh are,
Are much too ſtrong for weaker heads to bear;
Their duller ſpirits they will ſoon convey,
And chill thy brains to ice: for, as they ſay,
Salt will freez hard, though in a thawing day.
CONTEMPT. A Dialogue betwixt Fleſh and Spirit.
Fleſh.
WHat all to ſmall! Nothing ſeems big enough
To entertain thee, yet doth th'houſholdſtuff
Of this vaſte Microcoſm prove now too ſmall
To dreſs and trim thy ſwoln-big heart withal!
Sp.
Her guſts to great contraction cannot bound
That which infinite can ſcarce ſurround;
Contentment ſhe muſt have, which cannot be
Found cloiſter'd in the cells of poverty.
F.
Won't world heapt upon world, and all made one,
Prove palace large enough for her alone?
If we ſuckt dry ten thouſand more, of joys
And drain them in one torernt.
Sp.
Yet all toys.
F.
What if we wreath a chaplet, and then ſteep't
In Stars, then crown her brow?
Sp.
She'l yet defie't,
Nor wont your duskie tapers yet ſuffice
To grace the room where fair foreign lies.
Natures bright flames of reaſon are but clouds,
As fainter lights when in the ſocket ſhrouds;
All glough too weak; light all thy graces up,
Yet all too ſmall, for with one glance ſhe'l ſup
That liquid fire quite dry, then with craving eyes
Seek out for more; not found, will thee deſpiſe.
F.
Then 't i'nt in me to ſatisfie the womb,
Which with a guſt ſuch pleaſures can entomb.
My flow'rs diſtill'd to ſweets can't pleaſures yield
Flagrant enough; nor though I hunt my field
With pretty winged beagles for to take
Light-footed odors, and all for her ſake,
To honey her delights; no melody will ſerve,
Her famiſht ear craving more than I have.
I'le eaſe my hands ſure then of ſuch a gueſt,
And let her ſeek her ſome-where elſe a reſt.
The ALARM.
I.
RISE, Riſe,
Hark! the Heav'nly cries,
That Eccho from the Skies!
From our ſlumbers to awake,
The Alarum doth ſound,
Bids us riſe from the ground:
For the Devil hath us found,
And to death will us wound,
But our God would have us crown'd:
Oh why then ſhould we lie,
Sleeping out till we die!
II.
What! What!
Is it that you have got,
Which your brains thus beſot,
That you care not to ſtir?
Why drank you ſo deep
Of that cup, where did ſteep
Venom'd joys, whence did creep
Fumes that have rockt aſleep,
At which waking you may weep!
When the danger you eſpy,
I was 'witcht, you will cry.
III.
See! ſee!
Yonder Prince, that is he
That did deliver me,
When an enemy I was,
Though I have him forſook,
Yet a ſmile from his look,
My ſoul a captive took;
When for fear of death I ſhook,
Gave me Clergy on the book:
Oh why then will you die,
When a Saviour is ſo nigh?
IV.
Wake! Wake!
Your ſlumbrings off ſhake,
And to Jeſus betake;
The General of Souls,
Heaven him a Captain made,
That 'gainſt banners diſplay'd,
In wounds through blood dare wade,
And of Devils not afraid,
For a Crown that ne're decay'd;
If he can but it win,
We ſhall all have't of him.
V.
Fight! Fight!
While the day yields you light,
That as Conquerors by night
In triumphs you may dwell;
I'nt it better to ride,
With victory by your ſide,
Then as ſlaves to abide
With the Devil your guide,
Who at length will you deride?
Let us arm then and on,
We ſhall loſe not a man.
VI.
Turn! Turn!
You whoſe ſouls that muſt burn,
If you thus from him run;
Stay but a while and think,
What harm will he do,
If that he ſaveth you
From amidſt the damned crew,
That in glowing flames will rue
Thoſe ſins that will undo:
Oh do not you refuſe
While he gives time to chuſe.
A SONG.
I.
WHither, Oh wandring wight!
Art thou thy jourey taking?
Why amidſt theſe caves and dens of wolves do'ſt walk
As Pilgrim quite forſaken!
What is thy Countries name?
Thy Parents are they living?
What is the cauſe thou ſtray'ſt ſo far from home,
And art thus pin'd with grieving?
Why ſtill doſt thou cry, Oh my Jeſus! my Jeſus!
What is that name I trow?
I would its meaning know:
For each time that thou nam'ſt him
Thy eyes fill to the brim,
And thy heart with throbbing almoſt burſts.
II.
A ſtranger I am here,
And ſo was all my kin;
Who in tents or caves like Hermites here did dwell,
Such have their poor cots been.
My off-ſpring's from on high,
A beam dropt from the Sun.
I call him Father that the Heav'ns made,
And he doth call me Son.
I am a-kin to that Jeſus! that Jeſus!
Who in tears ſo long l've ſought,
That from Hell with blood me bought:
For through this wilderneſs he,
Bleeding ran to ſeek me;
Whom when found, to Heav'n in clouds was caught.
III.
To Heaven I ſaid he's gone,
And that's my Countries name:
Where breaths the ſweeteſt freſheſt gales of grace,
Which will augment my flame.
This Country lyes on high,
Far diſtant from my ſight:
Beyond you hills and globes of fire that burn,
Stands a Palace wrapt in light,
Within which gilded roof dwells my Father, my Father,
With him my Prince of Peace;
Where of glory's no decreaſe.
Where Chores of Angels ſing round,
And my breth'ren ſit Crown'd;
Who would joy to ſee me arrive at laſt.
IV.
The deſart when I've croſt,
I do expect to find
A black and diſmal grove of Cypreſs-trees,
Where doth breathe a numbing wind;
There wearied mortals reſt,
Their languid limbs lay down.
Here Crown-tired Kings and leprous beggars lie;
All a gaſping on the ground.
In th' belly of which grove there a cave lies, a cave lies,
The Manſion-houſe of death,
Where I muſt loſe my breath;
In which black ſhades my Ghoſt muſt
ſhake off all her cold duſt,
Where do Angels wait to fetch me home.
A Spiritual Song.
YOU Rabſhekahs 'mong whom I dwell,
That paſs me and my cauſe to hell.
Do'nt me condemn and paſs your doom,
Till I am raiſed from my Tomb.
Gaze not upon my thread-bare skin,
Stuft with a ſlimy mud within.
Nor on the thatch upon my back,
Nor bread which I perhaps may lack.
Gaze not upon my watry eye,
Wherein a ſhow'r of tears do lye;
Nor on the clouds of looks that dim
The light of Heaven that's within.
Gaze not upon my blubber'd cheek,
Which lyes in puddles all the week;
Nor mind the throbbings of my breaſt,
Wherein I ſcarce find any reſt.
Gaze not upon my purblind mind,
That gropes in light its way to find:
Do not my words ſo ſtrictly mark;
My tongue walks ſometimes in the dark.
Gaze not upon my bleeding heart,
When God it wounds and makes to ſmart;
Or on me when you hear that I
For ſin do groan and wiſh to die.
Gaze not upon me in my race,
When ſtumbling I fall on my face:
Nor while in blood and wounds I fight
With hell, ſelf, world, till it be night.
For when my Jeſus once doth come,
My skin ſhall turn complexion:
My watery eye dries up and clears,
Which was beſprinkled all with tears.
My woollen thatch turns robes of light,
Whoſe Sun-ſhine-dims the ſtrongeſt ſight:
My barly-bread turns Manna ſweet,
And I ſhall with the Angels eat.
My ſulli'd cheeks ſhall then diſcloſe,
Their full-blown beauty in a roſe:
My Lord ſhall brood within my breaſt,
And hatch up glory in that neſt.
On this benighted mind of mine,
A ſevenfold Sun ſhall caſt its ſhine;
The morning of another day
Shall ſcatter thoſe night-fogs away.
Theſe gaping wounds my heart doth feel,
My God with balmy ſmiles ſhall heal;
He ſhall me melt in flames of love,
And ſhall this ſin and droſs remove.
The race will end which now I run,
The flowry garland will be won;
The conqueſt which I get by wounds,
Shall Ioad my head with ſplendid crowns.