Classic Poem

Reader, the following enigmatic song
Does not to wisest nat'ralists belong;
Their wisdom is but folly on this head;
They here may ruminate, but cannot read.
For though they glance the words, the meaning chokes;
They read the lines, but not the paradox.
The subject will, howe'er the phrase be blunt,
Their most acute intelligence surmount,
If with their nat'ral and acquired sight
They share not divine evangelic light.
Great wits may rouse their fancies, rack their brains,
And after all their labour lose their pains:
Their wisest comments were but witless chat,
Unapt to frame an explication pat.
No unregen'rate mortal's best engines
Can right unriddle these few rugged lines;
Nor any proper notions thereof reach,
Though sublimated to the highest stretch.
Masters of reason, plodding men of sense,
Who scorn to mortify their vain pretence,
In this mysterious deep might plod their fill;
It overtops the top of all their skill.
The more they vainly huff, and scorn to read,
The more it does their foolish wit exceed.
Those sinners that are sanctify'd in part,
May read this Riddle truly in their heart.
Yea, weakest saints may feel its truest sense,
Both in their sad and sweet experience.
Do'nt overlook it with a rambling view,
And rash suppose it neither good nor true.
Let heav'n's pure oracles the truth decide;
Renounce it, if it cant thy test abide.
Noble Bereans soon the sense may hit,
Who sound the divine depth of sacred writ;
Not by what airy carnel reason saith,
But by the golden line of heav'n-spun faith.
Let not the naughty phrase make you disprove
The weighty matter which deserves your love.
The subject treated may be most profound,
Though words may rattle with a rustic round.
High strains would spoil the Riddle's grand intent,
To teach the weakest, most illit'rate saint,
That M AHANAIM is his proper name;
In whom two struggling hosts make bloody game.
That such may know, whose knowledge is but rude,
How good consists with ill, and ill with good.
That saints be neither at their worst nor best,
Too much exalted, or too much deprest.
This paradox is fitted to disclose
The skill of Zion's friends above her foes;
To diff'rence, by light that heav'n transmits,
Some happy fools from miserable wits.
And thus, if bless'd, it may in some degree
Make fools their wit, and wits their folly see.
Slight not the Riddle then like jargon vile,
Because not garnish'd with a pompous stile.
Could th' author act the lofty poet's part,
Who make their sonnets soar on wings of art,
He on his theme had blush'd to use his skill,
And either clipt his wings, or broke his quill.
Why, this enigma climbs such divine heights,
As scorn to be adorn'd with human flights.
These guady strains would lovely truth disgrace,
As purest paint deforms a comely face.
Heav'n's mysteries are 'bove art's ornament,
Immensely brighter than its brightest paint.
No tow'ring lit'rature could e'er outwit
The plainest diction fetch'd from sacred writ;
By which mere blazing rhet'ric is outdone,
As twinkling stars are by the radiant sun.
The soaring orators, who can with ease
Strain the quintessence of hyperboles ,
And clothe the barest theme with purest dress,
Might here expatiate much, yet say the less,
If wi' th' majestical simplicity
Of scripture-orat'ry they disagree.
These lines pretend not to affect the sky,
Content among inglorious shades to ly,
Provided sacred truth be fitly clad,
Or glorious shine ev'n through the dusky shade.
Mark then, though thou should miss the gilded strain,
If they a store of golden truth contain:
Nor under-rate a jewel rare and prime,
Though wrapt up in the rags of homely rhyme.
Though haughty Desists hardly stoop to say,
That nature's night has need of scripture-day;
Yet gospel-light alone will clearly shew
How ev'ry sentence here is just and true,
Expel the shades that may the mind involve,
And soon the seeming contradiction solve.
All fatal errors in the world proceed
From want of skill such mysteries to read.
Vain men the double branch of trade divide,
Hold by the one, and slight the other side.
Hence proud Arminians cannot reconcile
Freedom of grace with freedom of the will.
The blinded Papist won't discern nor see,
How works are good, unless they justify.
Thus Legalists distinguish not the odds
Between their home-bred righteousness and God's.
Antinomists the saints perfection plead,
Nor duly sever 'tween them and their head.
Socinians won't these seeming odds agree,
How heav'n is bought, and yet salvation free,
Bold Arians hate to reconcile or scan,
How Christ is truly God, and truly man;
Holding the one part of I MMANUEL 's name,
The other part outrageously blaspheme.
The sound in faith no part of truth control;
Heretics own the half, but not the whole.
Keep then the sacred myst'ry still entire;
To both the sides of truth due favour bear,
Not quitting one to hold the other branch,
But passing judgment on an equal bench.
The Riddle has two feet, and, were but one
Cut off, truth falling to the ground, were gone.
'Tis all a contradiction, yet all true;
And happy truth, if verify'd in you.
Go forward then to read the lines, but stay,
To read the Riddle also by the way.