Classic Poem

When all the cruel torments he had borne,
Galled with chains, and on the rack nigh torn,
Pinching with glowing pincers his own heart,
All lame and restless, full of wounds and smart,
He to the postern creeps, so inward hies,
And from the gate a two-fold path descries,
One leading up a hill, Repentance' way,
And (as more worthy) on the right hand lay:
The other headlong, steep, and liken'd well
Unto the path which tendeth down to hell:
All steps that thither went show'd no returning,
The port to pains, and to eternal mourning;
Where certain Death liv'd, in an ebon chair,
The soul's black homicide, meagre Despair,
Had his abode: there 'gainst the craggy rocks
Some dash'd their brains out with relentless knocks;
Others on trees (O most accursed elves!)
Are fastening knots, so to undo themselves.
Here one in sin, not daring to appear
At Mercy's seat with one repentant tear,
Within his breast was lancing of an eye,
That unto God it might for vengeance cry;
There from a rock a wretch but newly fell,
All torn in pieces, to go whole to hell.
Here with a sleepy potion one thinks fit
To grasp with Death, but would not know of it;
There in a pool two men their lives expire,
And die in water to revive in fire.
Here hangs the blood upon the guiltless stones;
There worms consume the flesh of human bones.
Here lies an arm; a leg there; here a head;
Without other limbs of men unburied,
Scatt'ring the ground. and as regardless hurl'd,
As they at virtue spurned in the world.
Fie, hapless wretch! O thou, whose graces sterving,
Measur'st God's mercy by thine own deserving;
Which cri'st (distrustful of the power of Heaven)
" My sins are greater than can be forgiven; "
Which still are ready to " curse God and die "
At every stripe of worldly misery:
O learn thou, in whose breasts the dragon lurks,
God's mercy ever is o'er all his works.
Know he is pitiful, apt to forgive;
Would not a sinner's death, but that he live.
O ever, ever rest upon that word
Which doth assure thee, though his two-edg'd sword
Be drawn in justice 'gainst thy sinful soul,
To separate the rotten from the whole;
Yet if a sacrifice of prayer be sent him,
He will not strike; or, if he strike, repent him.
Let none despair: for cursed Judas' sin
Was not so much in yielding up the King
Of life to death, as when he thereupon
Wholly despair'd of God's remission.
Riot, long doubting stood which way were best
To lead his steps: at last, preferring rest
(As foolishly he thought) before the pain
Was to be past ere he could well attain
The high-built palace, 'gan adventure on
That path which led to all confusion,
When suddenly a voice as sweet as clear,
With words divine began entice his ear:
Whereat, as in a rapture, on the ground
He prostrate lay, and all his senses found
A time of rest; only that faculty
Which never can be seen, nor ever die,
That in the essence of an endless nature
Doth sympathize with the All-good Creator,
That only wak'd which cannot be interr'd
And from a heavenly choir this ditty heard.

Vain man, do not mistrust
Of heaven winning;
Nor (though the most unjust)
Despair for sinning.
God will be seen his sentence changing,
If he behold thee wicked ways estranging.

Climb up where pleasures dwell
In flow'ry alleys;
And taste the living well
That decks the valleys.
Fair Metanoia is attending
To crown thee with those joys which know no ending.

Herewith on leaden wings sleep from him flew,
When on his arm he rose, and sadly threw
Shrill acclamations; while an hollow cave,
Or hanging hill, or heaven an answer gave.
O sacred essence, light'ning me this hour!
How may I lightly style thy great Power? Echo . Power.

Power? but of whence? under the green-wood spray,
Or liv'st in heav'n? say. Echo . In heavens aye.
In heavens aye I tell. May I it obtain
By alms, by fasting, prayer, by pain? Echo. By pain.
Show me the pain, 't shall be undergone:
I to mine end will still go on. Echo. Go no.
But whither? On! Show me the place, the time,
What if the mountain I do climb? Echo. Do; climb.
Is that the way to joys which still endure?
O bid my soul of it be sure! Echo. Be sure.
Then thus assured, do I climb the hill.
Heaven be my guide in this thy will. Echo. I will.
As when a maid taught from her mother wing
To tune her voice unto a silver string,
When she should run, she rests, rests when should run,
And ends her lesson having now begun:
Now misseth she her stop, then in her song,
And doing of her best she still is wrong,
Begins again, and yet again strikes false,
Then in a chase forsakes her virginals,
And yet within an hour she tries anew,
That with her daily pains (Art's chiefest due)
She gains that charming skill; and can no less
Tame the fierce walkers of the wilderness,
Than that Oeagrin harpist, for whose lay
Tigers with hunger pin'd and left their prey:
So Riot, when he 'gan to climb the hill,
Here maketh haste and there long standeth still,
Now getteth up a step, then falls again,
Yet not despairing all his nerves doth strain
To clamber up anew, then slide his feet,
And down he comes: but gives not over yet,
For (with the maid) he hopes a time will be
When merit shall be link'd with industry.