Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ANNIVERSARIUM BAPTISMI (2), by JOSEPH BEAUMONT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ANNIVERSARIUM BAPTISMI (2), by                    
First Line: Love, I am thine: for yf I be
Last Line: O may I but be thine, I care not how!
Subject(s): Baptism; Worship; Christenings


LOVE, I am thine: for yf I be
Not so; Self is not Self to me.
No Title to my Self have I,
But in thy deer Propriety;
For this most memorable Day
Polluted Me washd clean away,
And I, who was before a dead
And still-born Thing, was quickened
Into a nobler Essence than
Springs from the rotten loyns of Man:
I of my mortal Parents wretched Sonn
To be thy blessed Childe to Day begun.

2

O truest Father, how did thy
Bounty inrich my Poverty!
How large a Portion didst Thou
On me, a younger Sonn, bestow!
A Portion of Strength & Health,
Of Arts & Natures usefull wealth,
Of gratious Motions, holy Heats,
Heart-cheering Joyes, spiritual Sweets,
Of high & noble Things, which none
But such a Sire could give a Sonn:
A Portion upon whose ample Store
I might have bravely liv'd for evermore!

3

I might have liv'd; had foolish I
To deadly Prodigality
Not sold my self, & turned Slave
Before I dy'd, unto my grave:
Had I that fair Estate not spent
Fond Lusts & Passions to content;
Nor on the score with Vengance run,
To be the surer twise undone.
O! should my Creditors awake
Their indignation, & take
Due course of Law against me, What would bayl
Me from the bottom of Hells deepest Jayl!

4

Meanwhile, alas, all that I finde
To feed my justly-starved Minde,
Are sappless skinns of Vanitie,
Husks drie & starv'd as well as She:
A Diet fitt enough for Swine
And Me; since both of us combine
With feet profane in dirt to tread
Those Perles which would adorn our head,
Or purchase nobler Cates which might
Our palates court with pure delight.
Ah cheating World, how hast thou mockd my taste,
Obtruding onely Famin for a Feast!

5

But Thou, great Lord of endless love,
Hast raised thy Patience farr above
The mountain of my Guilt: & I
Onely from that thy Victory
Pluck hopes of giving this my great
Unhappiness a sure defeat.
Behold thy pined Prodigall
Doth at thy lowest footstool fall,
Where I the prey of Pity ly;
Quarter, oh, quarter, or I dy!
I dy; for all my Living's spent & gone;
And none can raise the Dead but Thou alone.

6

I envy not thine Heirs, who be
Sonns of devout Frugalitie;
Nor reach I at a place in their
Felicities exalted Sphear:
Bold bold enough is my ambition,
Into thy Pay to begg admission,
And have my Name inroll'd & blest
Ev'n in thy meanest Hirelings list.
Alas 'tis not for famishd Me
To article with mighty Thee,
For 'tis to Mercy I surrender now:
O may I but be Thine, I care not how!





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