Classic and Contemporary Poetry
NATALITIUM: MARTIJ 13, 1643, by JOSEPH BEAUMONT First Line: What rash & hasty things are yeares, wch run Last Line: Can swell so high, as is thy heavn, & thee. Subject(s): Aging; Mortality; Prayer; Time | ||||||||
WHAT rash & hasty Things are yeares, wch run So fast upon their ruine! To arrive At their owne Races end, is to be gone Quite into Nothing, never to survive. Poore I whose Life is much lesse then a Span, And vainer then a Dream, am yet alive, Whilst eight & twenty long & tedious yeares Have lost themselves upon ye whirling Spheares. I'v liv'd thus long said I? Let me unspeak That Word, more hasty & more rash by far Then all those posting yeares. If I must make A true confession what my Fortunes are, I must leave Life to such as Live, and take With dull unworthy Things my proper Share. A Thing within tells me theres no denying; I have these eight & twenty yeares been Dying. When to this lingring Death I first was borne All tainted with a deep annealed staine, Helplesse I lay, & utterly forlorne; Untill my better Mother did Me deigne Her tender Bosome, & to drowne ye Scorne With which my loathsome Birth did strive in vaine, Deep drenched me in a heavnly Fount, whence I Rose faire as new borne Light from Easterne Skie. My timely Grave oh could I then have found, I might have filld with unspotted Dust. But now I shall pollute whatever ground Must hide these Corps, o're grown wth sinfull Rust. Sure my black sea of Crimes long since hath drown'd Whatever is in Mee, but my bare Trust In Him, who as He bounds all seas beside, Lo can He tame my Crimes high swelling Tide. What Kind of Sceen My Childhood was, nor I Can rightly judge, nor wiser Heads can say. Our tender yeares are a young Mysterie, The doubtfull Twi-light of a future Day: The Soule seems then scarcely arriv'd so high As ye Horizon: onely some weak Ray Steps out before Her, which may serve to be A Signe & Item of Humanitie. But ye next Act Spectators well might see How strange a part my Soule was like to play. Young Crossnesse when it gets Maturitie May prove Rebellion: Who grieves to obey Small, petty Precepts, with lesse ease will be Pliant to great Commands: Another Day This Urchin which kicks at his Parents now, Gods more restrayning Yoak away may throw. The Rod at home drave Me to school, & that At School to Study when I thither came. There like a Slave I wrought, & when I gott License to play, though at some toilesome game As from some Gally-chaines, or Dungeons grott Me thought I rescu'd was: And then ye same Day, which six houres before was long & slow Seem'd to get Wings, & much too fast to goe. Th' importunate Drops at length some impresse made Upon my stony Intellect, & I Was put Apprentice to ye Bookish Trade At full fifteene ith' Universitie. Where captiv'd in a Gowne, under ye shade Of thousand leaves I sate, and by The losse of almost all ye Time since then Have learned to be ye foolishest of Men. My itching mind proudly desir'd to prie Into whatever Learnings Title wore. With unfledgd Wings I often towred high, And snatch'd at things above my pitch, before I had sure hold of what beneath did lie. Yet on I ventur'd still, & caught at more; I caught ye Wind of Words, wch by a Blast Of following Notions soon away were past. At length I learn'd, & sure my Tutor was Th' ETERNALL WISDOME, well to rest content With shallow knowledge of such Objects, as Can never blesse their Knower: Complement And Ceremonious Learning I let passe To guild their Crest, who make Applause their bent Ambitious onely not to be a foole In that, wch Saints and Angells draws to Schoole. Mee thought I felt some heats of Noble Love, And saw such glances of my Spouses face, As rap'd my heart, & set it far above The Blandishments of any Mortall grace. But soone grown chill, degenerous did I prove And lost ye credit of that loftie place. Thus ye vaine Meteor, though exhaled farr In hopes of Heavn, proves but a falling Starr. But yet ye Starrs fall downe but once; whilst my Repeated falls in number far surpasse The Starrs all muster'd in ye clearest skie, And every Fall so bruiseth Me, alas, That in my Heart you easily may descrie Ten thousand all-black spots, whose hideous face Outlooks those few weak sparks wch did remaine, And wth a fatall Night my Soule did staine. This makes my blinded Mind to waver still In Matters of eternall Consequence; Which well I find doe far exceed ye skill Of Sinners to discerne, whose hoodwink'd sense Gropes but in things, whose grosser bulk can fill An hand of earth. None but thy influence Can guide my feet from wandring thus astray, Who art thy Selfe ye Candle, & ye Way. O guide Me thou, Deare Lord, who in my Heart Dost read a simple & unfain'd Desire To follow Truth & Thee: I would not start For all this World from either, nor aspire To any Glory, but ye meanest part In thy Sweet Love, which will exalt me higher Then all these lying baits, that us invite In Dreames & painted Nothings to delight. Let not my folly make me seem more wise Then thy Unerring Spouse, in whose Sweet Breast Thine owne Deare Spirit, ye Spirit of Wisdome lies, As Thou dost in thy Fathers Bosome rest. I shall be learn'd enough, if I can prize Humble obedient Knowledge as ye best. If I can understand but how to be A genuine Member of thy Church & Thee. So shall I be content; though more sad yeares Still keep Me Prisoner heere; though furious Warre On every Minute heaps a thousand feares, And does all Comfort, & all Hopes debarre, But what in Thy all-sweetning Face appeares. If Thy propitious Eye will be my Starre No Tempest shall deterre me, for no Sea Can swell so high, as is thy Heavn, & Thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ELEVEN EYES: FINAL SECTION by LYN HEJINIAN THE FATALIST: COME OCTOBER by LYN HEJINIAN THE FATALIST: HOME by LYN HEJINIAN THE FATALIST: TIME IS FILLED by LYN HEJINIAN SLOWLY: I FREQUENTLY SLOWLY WISH by LYN HEJINIAN ALL THE DIFFICULT HOURS AND MINUTES by JANE HIRSHFIELD A DAY IS VAST by JANE HIRSHFIELD FROM THIS HEIGHT by TONY HOAGLAND Γενεθλιακον by JOSEPH BEAUMONT Γενεθλιακον by JOSEPH BEAUMONT A CONCLUSORIE HUMNE TO THE SAME WEEK; & FOR MY FRIEND by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |
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