So mighty were th' amazing characters With which his feeling dream had thus dismay'd him, He his own fancy-framed foes defies: In rage, My arms, give me my arms,' he cries. 61 As when a pile of food-preparing fire 62 So boils the fired Herod's blood-swoll'n breast, To which his gnaw'd heart is the growing food, 63 A thousand prophecies, that talk strange things, Had sown of old these doubts in his deep breast; And now of late came tributary kings, Bringing him nothing but new fears from th' East, Show'd him his fears, and kill'd him with the sight. D 64 No sooner therefore shall the morning see (Night hangs yet heavy on the lids of day), To meet their troubled lord: without delay To th' heads and officers of ev'ry band, Declare who sends, and what is his command. 65 Why art thou troubled, Herod? what vain fear Thy blood-revolving breast to rage doth move? Poor jealousy! why should he wish to prey 66 Make to thy reason, man, and mock thy doubts; His trumpets? tender cries. alas! His men, to dare Poor beasts! a slow ox and a simple ass. IL FINE DEL LIBRO PRIMO.-'THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK.' ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS M. R. Lo, here a little volume, but great book (Fear it not, sweet, It is no hypocrite), Much larger in itself than in its look. It is, in one rich handful, Heaven, and all A thousand angels in one point can dwell. It is love's great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couch'd in your white bosom, and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against the ghostly foe to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. It is the armoury of light; Let constant use but keep it bright, You'll find it yields, To holy hands and humble hearts, More swords and shields Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Those of turtles, chaste and true, Wakeful and wise. Here is a friend shall fight for you, Hold but this book before your heart, Let prayer alone to play his part. 10 20 But oh the heart 29 20 That studies this high art, Must be a sure house-keeper, And yet no sleeper. Dear soul, be strong, Mercy will come ere long, And bring her bosom full of blessings, For worthy souls whose wise embraces But if the noble Bridegroom when he comes Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies Sphere of sweet and sugar'd lies, Of false, perhaps as fair, Doubtless some other heart Will get the start, And stepping in before, Will take possession of the sacred store Of hidden sweets and holy joys, Words which are not heard with ears, (These tumultuous shops of noise) Effectual whispers, whose still voice The soul itself more feels than hears. Am'rous languishments, luminous trances, Spiritual and soul-piercing glances, Whose pure and subtle lightning flies Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire, Yet doth not stay To ask the windows' leave to pass that way. Delicious deaths, soft exhalations Of soul! dear, and divine annihilations! Of joys, and rarified delights. An hundred thousand loves and graces, And many a mystic thing, Which the divine embraces Of th' dear spouse of spirits with them will bring; For which it is no shame, That dull mortal'ty must not know a name. Of all this hidden store Of blessings, and ten thousand more; If when he come He find the heart from home, Doubtless he will unload Himself some otherwhere, And pour abroad 58 70 80 |