Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ALL SAINTS, by JOSEPH BEAUMONT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ALL SAINTS, by                    
First Line: The year although / a long & tedious thing till now
Last Line: Whose honour first from lowlines did rise!
Subject(s): All Saints' Day; Allhallowmas; Allhallows


THE year although
A long & tedious Thing till now;
Grows scant & narrow,
And glad to borrow
A cleanly shift, wherby
To wait on Pietie.
Religion hath outvie'd its Days, & bred
More Saints then could with Feasts be furnished.

For Saints indeed
Are not Times flitting brittle Breed,
But borne to be
Eternallie;
Nor can ye years poor Round
Their great Dimensions bound
For whom ye fairest Sphears extended be;
Saints must impeople Heavns-Immensitie.

Wherfore seing this
One Day for all selected is,
Let its full Glory
Outshine ye story
Of all ye year beside,
Now grown lesse fair & wide
Then these few Hours, the vast Epitomie
Of what excelld ye years Capacitie.

As when We see
In one rich Mixtures Unitie
Each Tribe & kinde
Of Sweets combinde,
And by Art taught to dwell
In one small chrystall cell,
Such is ye quintessentiall Confluence We
Finde in this single generall Feast to be.

A Feast of Feasts
Where holy Hearts (its onely Guests)
Finde every Dish
Exceed their Wish:
For all ye Morsells be
Themselves Feasts, yet agree
To shrink their bulke, & so contracted lie
In the rich lap of this Festivitie.

There lie the pure
Conserves of Lillies, good to cure
An Heart or Eye
Thats blemishd by
(A smoothe but rankling Rust)
The burning Spot of Lust:
Some call them Angells, sent to shine below,
Others, the Virgin Tribe of flaming Snow.

Next these, are store
Of purple Dainties colourd o're
With their own juice
Of speciall use
To chear the Heart, & make
It manly courage take.
These are of sundry sorts, yet all doe come
From one red Fount of Noble Martyrdome.

The third Course is
Though not so rich in hue as this,
Yet full & faire
And may compare
With that delicious store
Which was servd up before
For sundry Virtues, as in number farre
It them transcends for these Confessors are.

Illustrious Day,
In which ye whole year doth display
It selfe, & more!
O may our poore
Praises, & poorer We
Have leave to wait on Thee.
Our vilenesse sure the Saints will not despise,
Whose Honour first from Lowlines did rise!





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