Classic Poem

CHAPTER XI.

What he could have a heart, what heart a thought,
What thought a tongue, what tongue a show of fears,
Having his ship ballass'd with such a fraught,
Which calms the ever-weeping ocean's tears,
Which prospers every enterprise of war,
And leads their fortune by good fortune's star?

A pilot on the seas, guide on the land,
Through uncouth, desolate, untrodden way,
Through wilderness of woe, which in woes stand,
Pitching their tents where desolation lay;
In just revenge encountering with their foes,
Annexing wrath to wrath, and blows to blows.

But when the heat of overmuch alarms
Had made their bodies subject unto thirst,
And broil'd their hearts in wrath- allaying harms,
With fiery surges which from body burst,
That time had made the total sum of life,
Had not affection strove to end the strife.

Wisdom, affectionating power of zeal,
Did cool the passion of tormenting heat
With water from a rock, which did reveal
Her dear, dear love, plac'd in affection's seat;
She was their mother twice, she nurs'd them twice,
Mingling their heat with cold, their fire with ice.

From whence receiv'd they life, from a dead stone?
From whence receiv'd they speech, from a mute rock?
As if all pleasure did proceed from moan,
Or all discretion from a senseless block;
For what was each but silent, dead, and mute?
As if a thorny thistle should bear fruit.

'Tis strange how that should cure which erst did kill,
Give life in whom destruction is enshrin'd;
Alas, the stone is dead, and hath no skill!
Wisdom gave life and love, 'twas wisdom's mind;
She made the store which poisoned her foes,
Give life, give cure, give remedy to those.

Blood-quaffing Mars, which wash'd himself in gore,
Reign'd in her foes' thirst slaughter-drinking hearts;
Their heads the bloody store-house of blood's store,
Their minds made bloody streams disburs'd in parts
What was it else but butchery and hate,
To prize young infants' blood at murder's rate?

But let them surfeit on their bloody cup,
Carousing to their own destruction's health,
We drink the silver-streamed water up,
Which unexpected flow'd from wisdom's wealth;
Declaring, by the thirst of our dry souls,
How all our foes did swim in murder's bowls.

What greater ill than famine? or what ill
Can be compared to the fire of thirst?
One be as both, for both the body kill,
And first brings torments in tormenting first:
Famine is death itself, and thirst no less,
If bread and water do not yield redress.

Yet this affliction is but virtue's trial,
Proceeding from the mercy of God's ire;
To see if it can find his truth's denial,
His judgment's breach, attempts contempt's desire:
But O, the wicked sleeping is misdeed,
Had death on whom they fed, on whom they feed!

Adjudg'd, condemn'd, and punish'd in one breath,
Arraign'd, tormented, tortur'd in one law;
Adjudg'd like captives with destruction's wreath,
Arraign'd like thieves before the bar of awe;
Condemn'd, tormented, tortur'd, punished,
Like captives bold, thieves unastonished.

Say God did suffer famine for to reign,
And thirst to rule amongst the choicest heart,
Yet, father-like, he eas'd them of their pain,
And prov'd them how they could endure a smart;
But, as a righteous king, condemn'd the others,
As wicked sons unto as wicked mothers.

For where the devil reigns, there, sure, is hell;
Because the tabernacle of his name,
His mansion-house, the place where he doth dwell,
The coal-black visage of his nigrum fame;
So, if the wicked live upon the earth,
Earth is their hell, from good to worser birth.

If present, they are present to their tears;
If absent, they are present to their woes;
Like as the snail, which shows all that she bears,
Making her back the mountain of her shows;
Present to their death, not absent to their care,
Their punishment alike where'er they are.

Why, say they mourn'd, lamented, griev'd, and wail'd,
And fed lament with care, care with lament;
Say, how can sorrow be with sorrow bail'd,
When tears consumeth that which smiles hath lent?
This makes a double prison, double chain,
A double mourning, and a double pain.

Captivity, hoping for freedom's hap,
At length doth pay the ransom of her hope,
Yet frees her thought from any clogging clap,
Though back be almost burst with iron's cope;
So they endur'd the more, because they knew
That never till the spring the flowers grew;

And that by patience cometh heart's delight,
Long-sought-for bliss, long-far-fet happiness;
Content they were to die for virtue's right,
Sith joy should be the pledge of heaviness:
When unexpected things were brought to pass,
They were amaz'd, and wonder'd where God was.

He whom they did deny, now they extol;
He whom they do extol, they did deny;
He whom they did deride, they do enroll
In register of heavenly majesty;
Their thirst was ever thirst, repentance stopt it;
Their life was ever dead, repentance propt it.

And had it not, their thirst had burn'd their hearts,
Their hearts had cried out for their tongues' reply,
Their tongues had raised all their bodies' parts,
Their bodies, once in arms, had made all die:
Their foolish practices had made them wise,
Wise in their hearts, though foolish in their eyes.

But they, alas! were dead, to worship death,
Senseless in worshipping all shadow'd shows,
Breathless in wasting of so vain a breath,
Dumb in performance of their tongues' suppose:
They in adoring death, in death's behests,
Were punished with life and living beasts.

Thus for a show of beasts they substance have,
The thing itself against the shadow's will,
Which makes the shadows, sad woes in life's grave,
As nought impossible in heaven's skill:
God sent sad Ohs for shadows of lament,
Lions and bears in multitudes he sent:

Newly created beasts, which sight ne'er saw,
Unknown, which neither eye nor ear did know,
To breathe out blasts of fire against their law,
And cast out smoke with a tempestuous blow:
Making their eyes the chambers of their fears,
Darting forth fire as lightning from the spheres.

Thus marching one by one, and side by side,
By the profane, ill-limn'd, pale spectacles,
Making both fire and fear to be their guide,
Pull'd down their vain-adoring chronicles;
Then staring in their faces, spit forth fire,
Which heats and cools their frosty-hot desire:

Frosty in fear, unfrosty in their shame,
Cool in lament, hot in their power's disgraces;
Like lukewarm coals, half kindled with the flame,
Sate white and red mustering within their faces:
The beasts themselves did not so much dismay them,
As did their ugly eyes' aspects decay them.

Yet what are beasts, but subjects unto man,
By the decree of heaven, degree of earth?
They have more strength than he, yet more he can,
He having reason's store, they reason's dearth;
But these were made to break subjection's rod,
And show the stubbornness of man to God.

Had they not been ordain'd to such intent,
God's word was able to supplant their powers,
And root out them which were to mischief bent,
With wrath and vengeance, minutes in death's hours;
But God doth keep a full, direct, true course,
And measures pity's love with mercy's force.

The wicked thinks God hath no might at all,
Because he makes no show of what he is,
When God is loath to give their pride a fall,
Or cloud the day wherein they do amiss;
But should his strength be shown, his anger rise,
Who could withstand the sun-caves of his eyes?

Alas, what is the world against his ire!
As snowy mountains 'gainst the golden sun,
Forc'd for to melt and thaw with frosty fire,
Fire hid in frost, though frost of cold begun:
As dew-distilling drops fall from the morn,
So n[e]w destruction's claps fall from his scorn.

But his revenge lies smother'd in his smiles,
His wrath lies sleeping in his mercy's joy,
Which very seldom rise at mischief's coils,
And will not wake for every sinner's toy:
Boundless his mercies are, like heaven's grounds,
They have no limits they, nor heaven no bounds.

The promontory-top of his true love
Is like the end of never-ending streams,
Like Nilus' water-springs, which inward move,
And have no outward show of shadows' beams:
God sees, and will not see, the sins of men,
Because they should amend: amend! O when?

The mother loves the issues of her womb,
As doth the father his begotten son;
She makes her lap their quiet sleeping tomb,
He seeks to care for life which new begun;
What care hath He, think, then, that cares for all,
For aged and for young, for great and small!

Is not that father careful, fill'd with care,
Loving, long-suffering, merciful, and kind,
Which made with love all things that in love are,
Unmerciful to none, to none unkind?
Had man been hateful, man had never been,
But perish'd in the spring-time of his green.

But how can hate abide where love remains?
Or how can anger follow mercy's path?
How can unkindness hinder kindness' gains?
Or how can murder bathe in pity's bath?
Love, mercy, kindness, pity, either's mate,
Doth scorn unkindness, anger, murder, hate.

Had it not been thy will to make the earth,
It still had been a chaos unto time;
But 'twas thy will that man should have a birth,
And be preserv'd by good, condemn'd by crime:
Yet pity reigns within thy mercies' store,
Thou spar'st and lov'st us all; what would we more?