How my head in ointment swims! Fresh from th' pure glance of Thine eye, There I'll dwell for ever, there Will I find a purer air, To feed my life with; there I'll sup Balm and nectar in my cup; And thence my ripe soul will I breathe Warm into the arms of Death. :0: Psalm crrrvii. On the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood, There we sate, and there we wept : Our harps, that now no music understood, Nodding, on the willows slept : While unhappy captived we, Lovely Sion, thought on thee. They, they that snatch'd us from our country's breast Would have a song carved to their ears In Hebrew numbers, then (O cruel jest!) When harps and hearts were drown'd in tears: One of Sion's songs to-day. Sing? play? to whom (ah!) shall we sing or play, Ah! thee Jerusalem! ah! sooner may This hand forget the mastery Of Music's dainty touch, than I The music of thy memory. Which, when I lose, O may at once my tongue No, no, Thy good, Sion, alone must crown But Edom, cruel thou! thou criedst down, down Her falling thou didst urge and thrust, And haste to dash her into dust: Dost laugh, proud Babel's daughter? do, laugh on, Till thy ruin teach thee tears, Even such as these; laugh, till a 'venging throng Laugh till thy children's bleeding bones On a Treatise * of Charity. Rise, then, immortal maid! Religion, rise! Be what thy beauties, not our blots, have made thee, Girt all thy glories to thee: then sit down, Open this book, fair Queen, and take thy crown. Where thou shalt reach all hearts, command each eye. Which they themselves were; each one putting on A majesty that may beseem thy throne. * Shelford's "Discourses" (Cambridge: 1635), in which volume the adopted text of the present poem appears. Most edd. lack the last 10 lines of the present text.-ED. The holy youth of Heaven, whose golden rings By the fair laws of thy firm-pointed pen, Pure sluttishness for pure religion : No longer shall our Churches' frighted stones A melancholy mansion in those cold Urns. Like God's sanctuaries they look'd of old: Now seem they Temples consecrate to none, Or to a new god, Desolation. No more the hypocrite shall th' upright be Because he's stiff, and will confess no knee : While others bend their knee, no more shalt thou, (Disdainful dust and ashes!) bend thy brow; Nor on God's altar cast two scorching eyes Baked in hot scorn, for a burnt sacrifice : But (for a lamb) thy tame and tender heart To bring a pair of meek and humble eyes. This shall from henceforth be the masculine theme What can the poor hope from us, when we be Nor shall our zealous ones still have a fling At that most horrible and hornèd thing, Forsooth the Pope: by which black name they call The Turk, the devil, Furies, Hell and all, And something more. O he is Anti-Christ: Doubt this, and doubt (say they) that Christ is Christ: Why, 'tis a point of Faith. Whate'er it be, I'm sure it is no point of Charity. In sum, no longer shall our people hope, To be a true Protestant's but to hate the Pope. On Mr. George Herbert's Book, entitled "The Temple of Sacred Poems," SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN. Know you, fair, on what you look ? Divinest love lies in this book: |