Classic Poem

1

I cannot hold; My day growes darke and dull;
My troubled Ayre is dampe: my clouds are full;
The windes are still, my story sighes are spent;
I must powre downe; my soule must burst, or vent:
No Azure dapples my bedark'ned skies;
My Passion has no April in her Eyes;
I cannot spend in mists: I cannot mizzle
My fluent braines are too severe to drizzle
Sleight drops: my prompted fancie cannot showre,
And shine within an howre.

2

Yet those that weepe on trust, that feed their eares
with sad reports, and ground their Inkhorne tears
On babling Fame; whose wisdomes are perplext
to draw forthlearned Coments from the Text
Of unknowne worth; that use'embalme the dead
With drops of course and Art (drops lively shed
From copied passion) o let such perfume
Suspitious lines with skill; whilest I presume
On strength of Nature; Sorrow can infuse
A spirit without a Muse.

3.

I Need no Art to set a needlesse glosse
Vpon true griefe, or beautifie a losse
With rak'd invention; My rude Pen forbeares
To burnish sorrow, or to polish tears;
No farre fetch'd Metaphor shall smooth or slick
My ruffled straine, no strict, review shall lick
My rugged lines; our slow-pac'd feet shall tread
A carelesse garbe, and being sadly led,
Shall blunder on, like those whose steps are turning
To the sad house of mourning.

4.

Come Reader come, Put off thy common weed,
And dresse thy soule in sables; come and feed
Thy Lungs with lib'rall sighs, and drench thine eyes
With holy water; let thy Fountaines rise
And fill thy sanguine Cisternes to the brim:
Spread forth thy widened Armes, and learne to swim
In thine owne teares, or else their hasty streames
May chance to overwhelme thee in th' extreames
Of boystrous passion: Passion has no bounds;
It conquers, or compounds.

5.

This day our darkned Hemispheare has lost
A glorious starre, whose brightnesse did, almost
Appeare another Sunne, whose heaven-bred rayes
Shot forth such Flames at darknesse, that our dayes
Vnsoll'd with shades, did seeme to overthrow
Hell Gates, and make another heaven below:
But now our heaven is clouded, our bright starre
Is ravisht hence; our Israel's Westerne Carre
Hath lost a wheele; and we have chang'd our light
To shades; our day to night.

6.

This day a Starre is faine, whose golden head
Guilt everie eye with flame; whose lustre led
The wandring Wisemen of the world to see
The sacred object of a bended knee:
That Starre, by whose faire conduct we addrest
To view that Babe, new-borne in every brest;
That gracious Starre, which glorified our spheare;
That fill'd each eye with object; every eare
With Oracle; That Starre has lost her light,
And cloath'd our eyes with night.

7.

This day a Fillour's faine, that did support
The holy Rafters of faire Sion's Court;
A great Colosse, whose marble shoulders bore
So large a share, that even the sacred floore
Did startle, and her consecrated wall
Did shake and tremble at the sudden fall;
Our Pillour's downe, that Pillour which became
By day, our Israel's Cloud; by night her flame:
What eye that loves our Sion can behold
Such ruines, and yet hold?

8.

Great pale-fac'd Tyrant, child of man's transgression
O could thy crueltie finde no expression
More milde than this? In such a time to beare
A Shepheard hence, and the bold Wolfe so neare?
What arm shall rescue us? what crook shall guide us?
What hand shall fold us? or what Cave shall hide us?
O, what heroick heart will interpose
Betwixt our lifes, and our blood-thirstle foes?
Great pale-fac'd Tyrant, 'tis our Shepheard's heart
That bleeds; but ours, that smart.

9.

Bvt what can teares availe? Or what reliefe
Can sad complaint expect! Can whining griefe
Vnlocke the brazen Gates of grisly death,
And warme his Ashes with a second breath?
Husband thy sighes; hoard up thy fluent teares
For thine owne use: Thy well-examin'd yeares
Will finde a just occasion to dispend
More drops than thy poore Stock can recommend;
Leave him to rest; His blest estate appeares
No subject for thy teares.

10.

Goe glorious Soule, and lay thy Temples downe
In Abram's bosome, in the sacred Doune
Of soft Eternitie; be full possest
With holy Armefuls of Angellike rest:
Put on thy Milke-white Robe, and take the prize
Of promis'd glorie; let the gladder eyes
Of smooth-fac'd Cherubims, enrich'd with smiles
Dart beames of everlasting joy; the whiles
Poore we transforme our teares into a trust
To spring a Phaenix from a Phaenix dust.