Improvement of Imprisonment, Song – Poem 12
Another Spiritual Song compoſed, by occaſion of the laſt mentioned Diſtemper.
I.
VVHen in the Morn we riſe,
Alas! how little think we on,
What through our ears or eyes,
May pierce our hearts, ere that day's gone?
I, did but borrow
From what, next Morrow,
I hop'd to have enjoy'd;
And that, hath quite
The whole delight
Of both dayes, now deſtroy'd.
II.
My thoughtful heart grew ſad,
And repreſented unto me,
Such things as in the ſhade
Of Death's approaches uſe to be:
With many a doubt,
(Which Faith keeps out)
My Fancy fills my head;
And clouds are come,
Which with a Gloome
This day, have overſpread:
III.
If, whilſt the Sun gives light,
Become ſo dark, ſo ſoon, it may,
How black will be the Night
That ſhall enſue ſo dark a day?
My Soul, I ſee
Betray'd wee'l be,
By our own want of care,
To have prepar'd
A dayly guard,
To keep out carnal Fear.
IV.
No pow'r was in the World
Whereby a Paſſion like to this,
On me could have been hurl'd,
Had nought, been in my ſelf amiſſe:
By day or night,
(Be 't black or bright)
The Devil hath no power
Which can procure
Diſtemp'rature,
Without ſome fault of our.
V.
How frail a thing is man,
That, lifeleſs words, aray'd in white,
This Morn affright him can
Who, ſeemed fearleſs yeſter night?
Dread of ill newes,
Too plainly ſhews
That, with us all's not well:
For, if it were
We need not Fear,
Though ſtorm'd by Death and Hell.
VI.
For, if beneath GOD's Wing
Our ſafe repoſe we ſought to make,
None, ſuch Ill newes could bring,
That, much our Courage it could ſhake▪
Of, Plagues that ſmite
By day or night
We need not ſtand in awe
Of poyſonous things,
Of Serpents ſtings,
Nor of the Lyons Pawe.
VII.
Therefore, my Spirit rowze
(Our Foes, we ſee, are not aſleep)
Let us, no longer drowze,
But, better watch hereafter keep;
Come, Courage take,
And we ſhall make
Theſe Bugg-bears take their flight▪
For, 'tis our Fear,
No ſtrength of their
That now doth us affright.
VIII.
The Paſſions of the mind
Are but the fumes of Fleſh and Blood,
Which make the Reaſon blind,
By miſpreſenting Ill, or Good.
If, unto theſe,
We cloſly preſſe,
And, wiſtly on them look,
They will appear
Such as they are,
And, paſs away like ſmoke.
IX.
And, yet, my Soul, beware
Thou bring not to aſſault theſe Foes
Goliah's ſhield or Spear,
Nor in his Head-piece truſt repoſe.
No, nor unto
What Self can do,
But, take thou Davids ſling,
And, what he took
Out of the Brook,
Of Grace, among them fling.
A Meditation whilſt he was taking a Pipe of Tobbacco.
THough ſome, perhaps will think the things I do,
Much leſs then Idleneſs, amount unto;
Yet, to have no work troubles me, at leaſt,
As much, as therewith to be overpreſt;
And, then to be quite Idle, I had rather
Pick ſtrawes, catch Flies, or ſhells, and Pebles gather,
Or, (as I ſometimes do) the time to paſs,
Number my ſteps, or tell the panes of glaſs,
And often when a trifling act is done,
Make ſome good uſe of that, which promis'd none.
Here, all alone, I by my ſelf have took,
An Emblem of my Self, a Pipe of Smoke:
For, I am but a little piece of Clay
Fill'd with a Smoke that quickly fumes away.
This Vanity, our Clymat never knew
Till near the time, in which, firſt breath I drew;
And otherwhile, it is of wholſome uſe
(Though, for the moſt part ſubject to abuſe:)
Since firſt I ſmookt it, after (it came hither)
I laid it by, nigh thirty years together,
And for my healths ſake, then, did reaſſume
That Bauble wherewith we Tobbacco fume;
(Not hitherto diſabled to forgo it,
If any way offenſive I ſhould know it)
And, that in mind, as well as bodily
I might he ſomeway profited thereby,
Such Meditations come into my thought,
As theſe, which now, unto my mind are brought.
Ev'n as this Pipe was formed out of Clay,
And may be ſhapeleſs Earth again this day,
So may I too. So brittle, that one touch
May break it, this is; I, am alſo ſuch.
When it is broke, made whole it cannot be
By Humane Art; ſo will it fare with me
When I to duſt ſhall be reduc'd by Death,
Until reviv'd by an Eternal Breath.
This brittle ware, we, oft have ſtrangely ſeen
Preſerv'd from breaking: and ſo I have been.
When foul it growes, it muſt be purifi'd,
By Fire; I, in like manner muſt abide
Thoſe Fiery-Tryals, which will purge away
That filth which is contracted every day.
Moreover, when therein, this Herb's calcin'd,
Such things as theſe, it brings into mind;
That Cuſtom, by degrees, prevaileth ſtill,
To draw us, both to what is Good and Ill;
For, when this cuſtomarily is taken,
It can by very few, be quite forſaken,
Or, heeded, how they turn unto abuſe,
That, which is otherwiſe, of ſome good uſe;
Yea, ſo it them deludes, that oft they think
That, is well ſcented, which doth alway ſtink;
Yet, me it makes, with thankfulneſs to heed,
How, GOD wraps up, a Bleſſing in a Weed:
And, how (when I have weighed things together)
He makes one vanity to cure another;
Turns that to Good, which was, perhaps, for Evil,
At firſt, ſent in among us, by the Devil.
It minds me too, that, as this Herb by fire
Muſt be conſum'd, ſo, muſt all our deſire
Of Earthly things; and, that wherein we took
Moſt pleaſure, turn to Aſhes and to Smoke.
When I had writ thus much, of what I thought,
My Candle, and Tobbacco were burnt out.