Iter Boreal 2, Poem 2 – Poem 12
THE TRAGEDY OF Mr. Chriſtopher Love, Late Miniſter of the Goſpel; Acted upon TOWER-HILL, Auguſt 22. 1651.
The Prologue.
NEw from a ſlaughter'd Monarchs Hearſe I come,
A Mourner to a Martyr'd Prophet's Tomb:
Pardon, great Charls his Ghoſt, my Muſe had ſtood
Yet three years longer, till ſh'had wept a Flood;
Too mean a Sacrifice for Royal Blood.
But ſhe muſt go, Heav'n does by Thunder call
For her Attendance at LOVE's Funeral:
Forgive, great Sir, this Sacriledged in me,
The tenth Tear he muſt have, it is his Fee;
'Tis due to him, and yet 'tis ſtoln from Thee.
The Argument.
'Twas when the Raging Dog did rule the Skies,
And with his ſcorching Face did tyrannize,
When cruel Cromwel, Whelp of that mad Star,
But ſure more fiery than his Sire by far,
Had dry'd the Northern Fife, and with his heat
Put frozen Scotland in a Bloody Sweat:
When he had conquer'd, and his furious Train
Had chas'd the North-Bear, & purſu'd Charls Wain
Into the Engliſh Orb; then 'twas thy fate
(Sweet LOVE) to be a Preſent from our State.
A greater Sacrifice there could not come,
Than a Divine, to bleed his Welcome home.
For He, and Herod think no Diſh ſo good,
As a John Baptiſts Head, ſerv'd up in Blood.
ACT. I.
The Philiſtims are ſet in their High Court,
And Love, like Samſon's fetch'd to make them ſport:
Unto the Stake the ſmiling Priſoner's brought:
Not to be try'd, but baited, moſt men thought:
Monſters, like Men, muſt worry him; and thus
He fights with Beaſts, like Paul at Epheſus.
Adams, Far, Huntington, with all the Pack
Of foiſting Hounds, were ſet upon his Back.
Prideaux and Keeble ſtand and cry, Halōo;
'T was a full Cry, and yet it would not do.
Oh how he foil'd them! Standers by did ſwear,
That he the Judge, and they the Traitors were:
For there he prov'd (although he ſeem'd a Lamb)
Stout, like a Lion, from whoſe Den he came.
ACT. II.
It is decreed; nor ſhall thy Worth, dear Love,
Reſiſt their Vows, nor their Revenge remove.
Though Pray'rs were join'd to Pray'rs, & tears to tears,
No Softneſs in their Rocky Hearts appears:
Nor Heav'n nor Earth abate their Fury can,
But they will have thy Head, thy Head, good Man.
Sure ſome She-Sectary longed, and in haſte
Muſt try how Presbyterian Blood did taſte.
'T is fit ſhe have the beſt, and therefore thine,
Thine muſt be broach'd, bleſt Saint! 'tis Drink divine,
No ſooner was the dreadful Sentence read,
The Priſoner ſtraight bow'd his condemned Head:
And by that humble Poſture told them all,
It was a Head that did not fear a fall.
ACT. III.
And now I wiſh the fatal Stroke were given;
I'm ſure our Martyr longs to be in Heaven,
AndHeav'n to have him there: one moments blow
Makes him triumphant; but here comes his wo,
His Enemies will grant a Months Suſpence,
If't be for the nonce to keep him thence:)
And that he may tread in his Saviours ways,
He ſhall be tempted too, his forty days:
And with ſuch baits too, Caſt thy ſelf but down,
Fall, and but worſhip, and your Life's your own.
Thus cry'd his Enemies; oh 'twas their pride,
To wound his Body, and his Soul beſide.
One Plot th'have more, when all their own do fail
If Devils can't, Diſciples may prevail.
Lets tempt him by his Friends, make Peter cry,
Good Maſter, Spare thy ſelf, and do not die.
One Friend entreats, a ſecond weeps, a third
Cries, Your Petition wants the other word:
I'l write it for you, ſaith a fourth; Your Life,
Your Life, Sir, cries a fifth, Pity your Wife,
And the Babe in her: Thus this Diamonds cut
By Diamonds only, and to terror put.
Methinks I hear him ſtill, You wound my heart;
Good Friends, forbear; for every word's a Dart:
'T is cruel pity, thus I do profeſs,
You'ld love me more, if you did love me leſs:
Friends, Children, Wife, Life, all are dear, I know
But all's too dear, if I ſhould buy them ſo.
Thus, like a rock that routs the waves, he ſtands,
And ſnaps aſunder, Sampſon-like, theſe bands.
ACT. IV.
The Day is come, the Priſoner longs to go,
And chides the ling'ring Sun for tarrying ſo:
Which bluſhing ſeems to anſwer from the Sky,
That it was loth to ſee a Martyr dye.
Methinks I heard beheaded Saints above
Call to each other, Sirs, Make room for LOVE.
Who when he came to tread the fatal Stage,
(Which prov'd his Glory, and his Enemies rage)
His Blood ne'r run t'his heart, Chriſts Blood was there
Reviving, it, his own was all to ſpare:
Which riſing in his Cheeks, did ſeem to ſay,
Is this the Bloud you thirſt for? Tak't, I pray.
Spectators in his Looks ſuch Life did ſee,
That they appear'd more like to die than he.
But oh his Speech! methinks I hear it ſtill;
It raviſh'd Friends, and did his Enemies kill:
His keener Words did their ſharp Ax exceed;
That made his head, but he their hearts, to bleed:
Which he concluded with ſo…t Prayer, and ſo
The Lamb lay down, and took the Butchers blow:
His Soul makes Heav'n ſhine brighter by a Star,
And now we're ſure there's one Saint Chriſtopher.
ACT. V.
LOVE lies a bleeding, and the World ſhall ſee
Heav'n act a part in this black Tragedy.
The Sun no ſooner ſpy'd the Head o'th' floor,
But he pull'd in his own, and look'd no more.
The Clouds, which ſcattered, and in colours were,
Met altogether, and in black appear:
Light'nings, which fill'd the Air with blazing light,
Did ſerve for Torches at that diſmal Night:
In which, and all next day, for many hours,
Heav'n groan'd in Thunder, & did weep in Showrs.
Nor do I wonder, that God thundered ſo,
When's Boanerges murdred lay below:
The High Court trembled, Prideaux, Bradſhaw, Keeble,
And all the guilty Rout, look'd pale and feeble.
Timerous Jenkins, and cold-hearted Drake,
Hold out, you need no baſe Petitions make:
Your Enemies thus Thunder-ſtruck, no doubt,
Will be beholding to you to go out.
B…t if you will recant, now thundring Heaven
Such Approbation to Love's cauſe hath given,
I'le add but this; Your Conſciences perhaps,
Ere long, ſhall feel far greater Thunder-claps.
The Epilogue.
But ſtay, my Muſe grows fearful too, and muſt
Beg that theſe Lines be buried with thy Duſt:
Shelter, bleſs'd Love, this verſe within thy Shroud,
For none but Heav'n dares take thy part aloud.
The Author begs this, leſt, if it be known.
Whilſt he bewails thy Head, he loſe his own.
R. W.
UPON The much to be Lamented DEATH OF THE Reverend Mr. Vines.
ARt thou gone too (thou great & gallant mind)
And muſt ſuch Sneaks as I be left behind?
If thus our Horſemen and Commanders die,
What can the Infantry do then but fly?
Oh Divine Vines! tell us, why wouldſt thou go,
Unleſs thou couldſt have left thy Parts below?
If there's a Metempſuchoſis indeed,
Tell us where we may find thee at our need?
Who hath thy Memory? thy Brain, thy Heart?
Whom didſt thou leave thy Tongue? (for ev'ry part
Of thee can make a Man.) What if we find
(As I'l not ſwear this Age won't change her mind)
Prelacy (though her Lands are ſold) revive?
Or Independency (who hopes to thrive,
No where ſuits Trump) ſhould dare diſpute at length?
Where haſt thou left thy Presbyterian Strength,
With which thou got'ſt the Game in th' Iſle of Wight,
Where the King cry'd that Vines was in the right?
When Eſſex dy'd (the Honour of our Nation)
Thou gav'ſt him a new life in thy Oration.
But when great Fairfax to his Fate ſhall yield,
Whom haſt thou left—to fetch from Naſeby-field
Th' Immortal Turf, and dreſs it with a Story,
That ſhall perpetuate his name and glory?
Where's thy rich Fancy (man?) To whom (beneath)
Didſt thou thy lofty and high ſtrain bequeath?
Tell us for thy own ſake; for none but he
That hath thy Wit, can write thy Elegie.
Till he be found, let this ſuffice, which I
Leave on thy Stone:—Here lies the Miniſtry.
R. W.
TO THE MEMORY OF Mr. Jeremy Whitaker, Powerful in Prayer and Preaching, Pious in Life, Patient in Sickneſs, &c.
NAy, now forbear; for pity ſake give o're,
You that would make the Clergy none, or poor:
We are made miſerable enough this year,
That we have loſt our Reverend Whitaker;
Loſs above Deaus and Chapters! had but he
Liv'd ſtill and preach'd: Ziba take all (for me.)
Nay I believe had ſacrilegious hands
Finger'd our poor remains of Tithes and Lands,
Whil'ſt he ſurviv'd they had but pray'd in vain,
Whitaker would have pray'd them back again,
As Luther did a young mans Soul repeal,
Giv'n to the Devil under Hand and Seal,
A Chariot and an Horſeman we have loſt,
In whoſe each ſingle Pray'r incamp'd an Hoſt.
How have I heard him on ſome ſolemn Day,
When doubtful War could make all London pray)
Mount up to Heav'n with armed cries and tears,
And rout, as far as York, the Cavaliers!
Have you not ſeen an early-riſing Lark
Spring from her Turf, making the Sun her mark,
Shooting her ſelf aloft, yet higher, higher,
Till ſhe had ſung her ſelf into Heaven's Quire?
Thus would he riſe in Pray'r, and in a trice
His Soul become a Bird of Paradiſe:
And if our faint Devotions Prayers be,
What can we call his leſs than Extaſie?
On his Preaching.
If with the Almighty he prevailed ſo,
Wonder not that he Wonders wrought below:
The Son of Conſolation and of Thunder
Met both in him, in others are aſunder.
He was (like Luke) Phyſician of both kinds,
Wrought Cures upon Mens Bodies & their Minds,
The Falling-ſickneſs of Apoſtacy,
Dropſie of Drunkenneſs, Prides Tympany,
The Meagrim of Opinions, new or old,
Palſie of Unbelief, Charities cold,
Luſts burning Fever, Angers Calenture,
The Collick in the Conſcience he could cure:
Set the ſouls broken bones; by holy Art
He hath diſſolv'd the Stone in many a Heart,
Harder than that he dy'd of—O come in,
Ye multitudes whom he hath heal'd of ſin,
And thereby made his Debtors—Pay him now
Some of thoſe tears which he laid out for you;
Intereſt-tears, I mean; for ſhould you all
Weep over him both Uſe and Principal,
'Twould waſh away the Stone (which covers him)
And make his Coffin (like an Ark) to ſwim.
Now wipe thine eyes (my Muſe) & ſtop thy Verſe
(Thy Ink can only ſerve to black his Hearſe,)
Yet (ſtay) i'll drop one Tear, ſigh one ſigh more,
'Tis this, although my Poetry be poor
O what a mighty Prophet ſhould I be,
Had this Elijah's Mantle faln to me!
Oh might I live his Life! I'd be content
His ſore Diſeaſes too ſhould me torment:
And if his Patience could mine become,
I would not be afraid of Martyrdom.
R. W.
UPON THE DEATH OF So many Reverend Miniſters of late.
STill we do find, Black cloth wears out the firſt;
And fruits that are the choiceſt keep the worſt.
Such men? So many? and they die ſo faſt?
They'r precious (death) on do not make ſuch waſte.
Scarce have we dry'd our eyes for loſs of one,
But in comes tidings that another's gone.
Oh that I had my former Tears agen,
(All but thoſe few laid out upon my ſin,)
Had I an Helicon in either Eye,
I have occaſion now to verſe them dry.
Triumph (licentious Age) lift up thy Song,
Presbytery ſha'nt trouble you ere long;
Thoſe that tormented you before your day,
Are now apace removing out o'th' way.
Yea, rather tremble (England) ſtand agaſt,
To ſee thy glorious Lamps go out ſo faſt;
When Death (like Sampſon) thus lays hold upon
The Pillars of the Church,—The Building's gone.
When we do ſee ſo many Stars to fall,
Surely, it boads the World's great Funeral.
London, look too't, and think what Heav'n is doing
Thy Flames are coming when thy Lots are going,
Well may we all fear God intendeth Wars,
When he commands home his Embaſſadors.
That Venerable Synod, which of late
Was made the Object of Mens Scorn and Hate,
(For want of Copes and Mitres, not of Graces)
Are now call'd up (with Moſes) and their Faces
When they return, ſhall ſhine; God ſees it fit,
Such an Aſſembly ſhould in Glory ſit.
The learned Twiſſe went firſt, (it was his right)
Then holy Palmer, Borroughs, Love, Gouge, White,
Hill, Whitaker, grave Gataker, and Strong,
Pern, Marſhal, Robinſon, all gone along.
I have not nam'd them half: their only ſtrife
Hath been (of late) who ſhould firſt part with Life.
Thoſe few who yet ſurvive, ſick of this Age,
Long to have done their parts, and leave the Stage.
Our Engliſh Luther, Vines, (whoſe Death I weep)
Stole away (and ſaid nothing) in a Sleep:
Sweet (like a Swan) he preach'd that day he went,
And for his Cordial took a Sacrament:
Had it but been ſuſpected—he would die,
His People ſure had ſtop'd him with their Cry.
My blearey'd Muſe ('tis tears have made her ſo)
Muſt waſh his Marble too, before ſhe go.
AN ELOGY UPON THE Earl of Eſſex HIS FUNERAL.
ANd are there all the Rites that muſt be done
Thrice Noble ESSEX, Englands Champion?
Some Men, ſome Walls, ſome Horſes put in black
With the Throng ſcrambling for Sweet-meats and Sack;
A gawdy Herald, and a Velvet Hearſe,
A tattar'd Anagram with grievous Verſe,
And a ſad Sermon to conclude withall,
Shall this be ſtil'd great ESSEX's …neral?
Niggardly Nation, be aſham'd of th'odds,
Leſs Valour among Heathen made men gods:
Should ſuch a General have dy'd in Rome,
He muſt have had an Altar, not a Tomb;
And there, in ſtead of youthful Elegies,
Grave Senators had offer'd Sacrifice
To Divine Devereux: O ſor a Vote,
(Ye Lords and Commons, ye are boun… …o do't)
A Vote, that who is ſeen to ſmile this year,
A Vote, that who ſo brings not in a Tear,
Shall be adjudg'd Malignant: It were wiſe
T'erect an Office in the Peoples eyes,
For iſſuing forth a conſtant ſum of Tears,
There's no way elſe to pay him his Arrears:
And when w'have drein'd this Ages eyes quite dry,
Let him be wept the next in Hiſtory;
Which if Poſterity ſhall dare to doubt,
Then Gloſters whiſp'ring Walls ſhall ſpeak him out:
And ſo his Funeral ſhall not be done,
Till he returnith' Reſurrection.
To the Father of a very vertuous Virgin, Deceaſed; who deſired an obſcure Perſon to make an Elegy, &c.
SIr, Be advis'd; She's not your Daughter now,
But a crown'd Saint in Heav'ns great Court, & you
Muſt take heed what you offer to her Shrine;
You'l be profane, if that be not Divine.
Sternhold (who kill'd the Pſalms, and David too
In Meeter and good meaning) did not do
More, violence to Heav'n, than you to her.
If, whil'ſt you think't a kindneſs, you ſhall blur
Her Honour with my Ink: 'tis a diſgrace
To ſet black Spots upon a glorious Face.
Diſdain will burſt her Coffin (ſure) to have
Such dirty Feet as mine ſtand on her Grave.
Beſides, 'tis niggardly to weep in Verſe,
Tears without meaſure beſt become her Hearſe,
The talking Book is ſhallow, ſtill we ſee
Great Sorrows, like deep Rivers, ſilent be.
Were I Apollo's Prieſt indeed, and fit
To ſend a Poem up in flames of Wit,
Yet i'm but one; Sir, to her Altar's due
Whole Hecatombs of Verſe, and Poets too.
Go ſearch St. Pauls-Church-yard, imploy choice eyes
To ſcan all Epitaphs and Elegies;
All the rich Fancies, ſacred Raptures, all
The Pearly drops which ever yet did fall
On ſpotleſs Virgins Tombs: then make your claim
Print and devote them to your Daughters name.
Thoſe vaſt Hyperboles, thoſe lofty Notes,
Which crackt the Muſes Voices, rent their throats
Offended ſcrup'lous Readers, made them think
Poetry only ſtrong Lines, and ſtrong Drink,
Allayed by her merit, ſoon will be
Reduc'd to ſober Truth, and Modeſty,
But ſtay, this counſel is but ſimple ſtuff,
(Englands Divine) Reynolds hath done enough:
His Sermon is her Monument in print,
And hath more Honour than all Poems in't.
That doth not only ſpeak her Saint, and more,
Can make him one too, who but reads it o're.
Reynolds records her Saint, and you may hope
That's more than canonizing by a Pope.
IN MEMORY Of Mris E. T. Who dyed April 7. 1659.
IT was the Spring, and Flowers were in conteſt,
Whoſe ſmels ſhould firſt reach Heav'n, and pleaſe it beſt;
Then did Eliza's ſweetneſs ſo ſurpaſs
All Rival Virgins, that ſhe ſent for was.
'Twas April when ſhe dy'd; no Month ſo fit
For Heav'n to be a mourner in, as it.
'Twas Eaſter too; that time did Death deviſe
Beſt for this Lamb to be a Sacrifice.
It was the Spring; The way 'twixt Heav'n & Earth
Was ſweetned for her paſſage, by the Birth
Of early Flowers, which burſt their Mothers womb,
Reſoly'd to live and die upon her Tomb.
It was the Spring; Between the Earth and Sky,
To pleaſe her Soul as it was paſſing by,
Birds fill'd the Air with Anthems, every neſt
Was on the Wing, to chaunt her to her Reſt:
Not a Pen-feathered Lark, who ne'r try'd Wing,
Nor Throat; but ventur'd then to fly, and ſing:
Following the Saint towards Heav'n, whoſe entrance there
Dampt them, and chang'd their Notes. Then penſive Air
Diſſolv'd to tears, which ſpoil'd the feather'd Train
And ſunk them to their neſts with grief again.
Mean time, me thought, I ſaw at Heav'ns fair Gate
The glorious Virgins meet, and kiſs their Mate.
They ſtood a while her Beauty to admire
Then led her to her place in their own Quire:
Which ſeem'd to be defective, untill ſhe
Added her Sweetneſs to their Harmony.
As Meddals ſcatter'd when ſome Prince goes by,
So lay the Stars that night about the Sky.
The Milky Way too, (ſince ſhe paſt it o're)
Methinks looks whiter than it was before.
AN EPITAPH Upon E. T.
REader, didſt thou but know what ſacred Duſt
Thou tread'ſt upon, thou'dſt judg thy ſelf unjuſt
Shouldſt thou neglect a ſhowr of tears to pay,
To waſh the Sin of thy own Feet away.
That Actor in the Play, who looking down
When he ſhould cry, O Heav'n,—was thought a Clown,
And guilty of a Soloeciſm—might have
Applauſe for ſuch an Action o're this Grave.
Here lies a piece of Heav'n, and Heav'n one day
Will ſend the beſt in Heav'n to fetch't away.
Truth is, this Lovely Virgin from her Birth
Became a conſtant ſtrife 'twixt Heav'n and Earth:
Both claim'd her, pleaded for her; either cry'd,
The Child is mine; at length they did divide:
Heav'n took her Soul; The Earth her Corps did ſeize,
Yet not in Fee, ſhe only holds by Leaſe;
With this Proviſo—when the Judge ſhall call,
Earth ſhall give up her ſhare, and Heav'n have all
UPON The Learned Works of the Reverend DIVINE Ed. Reynolds, D. D.
REader, who e're thou art, here thou maiſt find
Within theſe Works, a rare, rich, glorious mind
O Golden Precepts, which, alike, do ſhew
What's thy D ſtemper how to cure it too:
Do pains oppreſs thy Body? Sorrow Mind?
Draw near to God, Pray'r will acceptance find;
And then no doubt, he'll grant, thy Bodies Grief
May bring thy ſinking ſoul ſome ſmall Relief:
Do Paſſions over-top thy will? beware,
Virtue conſiſts not in ſo high a Sphere:
If thou the Golden Medium wilt find,
Shun thou too high, and too too low a mind.
Pleaſures are gilded Nothings, which like bubbles fly,
Swoln big with Emptineſs ſo burſt and die.
Do darkeſt times of ignorance draw near?
The rather view theſe weighty Lines: nor fear,
Nor wonder much at this reſplendent Light:
Diamonds ſhine brighteſt in the darkeſt night.
The Merchant-man ſold all he had, to buy
The rich, rare, Goſpel Jewel: O then why
Art thou ſo backward, ſince that thou mayſt make
This Gem thine own, yea, at a cheaper rate?
The fooliſh Virgins, when their Lord of Light
Paſt by, their lights were out: So that eternal night
Was their reward, and juſt, for they that deem
Pains coſt of greater worth, ſhall ne'r be ſeen
Within his Courts, who is great, good, and juſt.
Is Folly thus repaid? Reader, we muſt
Look that it ne'r be ſaid of thee or I,
That our Negleſt ſhould cauſe our light to die.
R. W.
Another.
LOok wiſhly (friend) thou ſeldom ſeeſt ſuch men
Heav'n drops ſuch Jewels down but now and then,
One in an Age, or Nation: oh 'tis rare,
Two Reynoldſes ſhould fall to Englands ſhare!
Could Rome but ſhew one ſuch, and this were He,
His Picture could not ſcape Idolatry:
Whom Papiſts (not with Superſtitious Fire)
Would dare t' adore, we juſtly may admire.
R. W.
Aliud.
LEarning, whoſe Forces did diſperſed lie
(Of late alarm'd by the Enemy)
Calling a Councel, did reſolve at lengt… ▪
To chuſe one General over all her ſtrength:
Divinity (who had the choice) did Name
Reynolds? All Voices center'd in the ſame:
Now here he ſtands and heads ſuch Books as bear
Truth in their Van, and Triumph in their Rear.
R. W.
AN EPITAPH For a Godly Mans Tomb.
HEre lies a piece of Chriſt, a Star in Duſt;
A Vein of Gold, a Chind Diſh that muſt
Be us'd in Heav'n, when God ſhall Feaſt the Juſt.
AN EPITAPH For a Wicked Mans Tomb.
HEre lies the Carkaſe of a curſed Sinner,
Doom'd to be Roaſted, for the Devil's Dinner.