Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE CONFLAGRATION OF LONDON, POETICAL DELINEATED, by SIMON FORD


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE CONFLAGRATION OF LONDON, POETICAL DELINEATED, by                    
First Line: What ayls the poet? What unwonted fire?
Last Line: That's such an one, and let him stand for me.
Subject(s): Langham, Sir John (1584-1671); London Fire (1666); Great Fire Of 1666


Directed to the most Noble and Deserving Citizen,
Sir John Langham, Knight and Baronet.

POETRY'S PAINTING, Horat.

What ayls the Poet? What unwonted Fire
Thus on a suddain doth his brest inspire?
'Tis Thine, O London. From thy Funeral Urn
Those Flames take birth, that do thy Poet burn.
AEtna is my Parnassus; and a Cup
Of liquid Fire, Vesuvius belcheth up,
My Sacred Spring. To give these Passions vent,
I need no other Muse then th' Argument.
Your Favour, Sir, my Muse and I implore;
(Friend to the Poet, to the Muses more:)
'Tis your Concern. Those Neighbour-flames I sing,
That Divine Mercy to remembrance bring,
Which those small Reliques, where a part you have,
So lately snatcht from a great City's Grave.
Long had the Pest with an infectious breath
From emptied Houses throng'd the Gates of Death.
The Bed-man's Tumbrill no distinction made:
Where once their Dirt, chief Citizens were lay'd:
The Sexton oft the Grave himself did fill,
He digg'd for others; oft the Weekly Bill
Swell'd with its Makers; oft it did betide,
That who lay'd out his Friend, lay by his side:
When (th' barking Starr twice lodg'd) 'twas hop'd withall
A second Autumn would not prove a Fall.
But, trusted Hope, like Bankrupts, doth compound.
For ere the long contagious ayre grew sound,
And from th' excess of Pestilential heat,
London's Pulse did to healthful measure beat,
A far more doleful Fever her befalls.
A Fatal Fire conceiv'd in private Walls,
Nurs'd by Contempt, at last grows past Arrest;
Defies all Aides, and scorns to be supprest.
'Twas in the dotage of th' expiring Night,
When Sol's shrill Bird proclaim'd th' approaching Light,
And th' Eastern Starres began to shrink away,
Before the gloryes of the mounting Day:
When th' wakeful Bell-man from the City's eyes
Chas'd tempting sleep with his affrighting cryes.
All leave their beds before the earliest Lark,
Groping their clothes first, then their way, i' th' dark.
Each door's unlockt, and in the clamorous street,
Distracted Crowds, and doubtful tydings meet.
Till, 'twixt the Sun and Flame, a Sacred Day
(London's sad Lords-Day) broke; The Heavenly Ray
Strain'd through the waving blaze, upon each Spire
Of th' adverse Pyramids pourtray'd the Fire.
God's Bellows blow the Coals, and ev'ry where
Toss wanton Fire-balls dancing in the Air.
The liquid Pitch in flaming clouds doth rowle,
(The draught of Heaven shrivell'd to a scrowle)
And clammy Lightnings in strange Figure, falls,
Like sparks, from beaten Links at Funeralls.
The scared Citizens, with trembling, gaze
To watch the downfall of the hovering blaze:
Till, where least fear'd, it lights; and fatal showres
Through Chimney-tops into their dwellings powres.
Buckets, and Pumps they now for service press:
The service hot, and dubious the success:
They drain the Thames, and from the broken Lead
Divert the streams which private dwellings fed.
Each street a Brook becomes, each dam a Pond;
Cask knockt o' th' Head, and noblest Juyces tunn'd
Not for these Uses, now to these assign'd:
The sober stream with sprightful Nectar joyn'd,
Great Engines on the thirsty flame did shed,
But what the one did quench, the other fed:
For th' unctuous Liquors with the Foe conspire,
And drunken Vulcan vomits fiercer fire.
Who dwelt together, now together burn;
And Houses mix'd, to mixed Ashes turn.
What was the Nurse of Trade, becomes its Fate;
And Neighbourhood doth now depopulate:
The Flame's augmented by the Houses crowd,
Its Hunger still encreasing with its Food.
The Mower strikes not more destructive strokes,
When from the field he polls her golden lockes;
Then doth the flaming Sythe deal fatal blowes,
Whiles streets on swathes its keener fury throwes.
Now, Water's useless: and the next intent
Is, by great Ruines, greater to prevent.
By Hooks and Mines, next Houses levell'd lye,
In hope the Flames may for meer Hunger dye:
But all in vain. Those Ruines prove a Stile
O're which the Fire strides to the standing Pile.
Yea, where its actual contact is deni'de,
Like Mischiefs from inflamed Aire betide.
Here ruinous cracks, there doleful shriekes do sound,
And those that danger should unite, confound.
That hostile Ships possess'd the River, and
Pour'd French and Dutch in numerous Hoasts on Land;
And vaunting Romanists in armed Troopes
Were ready to go forth, and meet their Hopes;
(Terrors, in th' Issue, vain) mean while, became
(Nurs'd by reports) as fatal as the Flame.
False fears suggested, common aydes distract:
Whiles each his Cabin voids, the Vessel's wrackt.
Nothing but flight now any comfort yeelds;
As if mens hearts were sunk into their heels:
Who stayes behind, is thought resolv'd to dye;
And none trusts ought above him, but the skye.
So have I seen, when with a fatal spade
The Gard'ner doth an Emmet-hill invade,
How soon the laden crowd is scatter'd wide,
And the black Troopes their narrow paths do hide.
Their brood and wealth is all dispers'd abroad;
Though none can tell where to discharge his load,
Yet all consent to flye their ruinous cell,
And seek new homes where they may safer dwell.
Thus scatter'd Citizens trudg up and down,
Some charg'd with others Goods, some with their own.
Each hinders other, and obstructs his way:
Useless the most, except (perhaps) they pray.
Th' uncertain crowd with various motion reeles,
And following feet oppress preceding heeles.
The poor man's burden's light, as is his foot;
The rich man's load his slower pace doth suit.
The Porter makes his Markets in the wrack,
A Friend or Foe, as he bestows his Pack.
And happy now's the mean estate! The higher
Affords but richer prey to Thieves and Fire.
The rates of Portage with the danger rise,
Sometimes half-value's thought but equal Price:
And sometimes half's too short; Justice gives odds
To him that stakes a Life against my Goods.
The Country is deserted round about,
Some love brings in, some fear; to some (no doubt)
The motive's gain, no matter how it rises,
The greatest Hurryes yeeld the richest prizes.
Each Rode grows warm with Travellers, and they
Again reflected warmth feel from their way.
Some thought it (though) worth many a weary pace,
To see, whiles ought remain'd, what London was.
But stay, my Muse. A thousand Tongues to shew
The City's Hurryes, would be found too few.
For, as in Shipwrack, when through yawning chinks
The batter'd Vessel floods of water drinks:
One stares, another's pale, a third doth spill
His tears into the Brine he is to swill:
A fourth leaps over-board, and for his life
Bestirres his Arms; on top-sayle percht, a fifth
With's weight the leaning Vessel overbears:
A broken Plank another freights, and steers;
Yea, oft the same plank divers seek to stride,
Till, whose boat it shall be, by battel's try'de.
So far'd it here. The fright, in all the same,
Appear'd in various shapes. In one, the flame
Beheld, congeals his blood to Ice; and then
As 'tis felt nearer, thaws that Ice agen.
Another, on four legs escapes, his eye
Turn'd back, for fear the flame should swifter flye.
A third, betwixt two counsels holds the scales;
Fear swayes the beam, and then the worst prevails.
Others, mistake their way, amaz'd, and run
Into the danger that they seek to shun.
And some, that spent by long diseases were,
For their cure stand obliged to their fear:
To flye, or dye, was now their choice; that, made 'um
To use their limbs, and then they felt, they had 'um.
For close, a naked Tribe appears, (though glad
Their lives are safe with loss of all they had)
Great Instances, how little Nature needs,
And, How much too much our Excesses feeds!
An hedg with Hangings by Arachne spun,
From twig to twig, keeps off the mid-day Sun.
From rain, a sheet on cords extended, shields;
Next Bank a safe, though homely Chimney, yields,
Where, a course loaf on coals dispersed, broyles;
And a small pipkin the slight dinner boyles.
The Table, Turf; the Cellar, is a Pool;
A stone, by turns, a Bolster, and a Stool.
The Babe, once lapp'd in Silks, now lyes in Rags;
On the green floore the sorry Cradle wags:
The Mother, in a Nurses posture, by,
Charms him asleep with a sad Lullaby:
Kind Robin answers her with mournful Tones,
And the shrill Eccho doubles th' Infant-moans.
Now range the flames, like Travellers in Peace.
Where success hopeless is, endeavours cease.
The Battel's given for lost: and former checks
The Victor into hotter Vengeance vex.
O'reflowing eyes their flaming-Homes bewail;
But Tears cannot, where Flouds would not avail.
So th' helpless Bird about her plund'red Nest
Chatters, and flutters; fain she would arrest
Her Fate; but over-match't, takes the next Tree,
And there bemoans the wrack she's forc'd to see.
Some crowd the Tops of Steeples, thence to take
Their last farwel of (what they must forsake)
Dear LONDON: but soon glutted with the sight,
Kiss the kind Turrets, and bid 'um Good night.
Here Caesar comes, with Buckets in His eyes,
And Father in His heart. Come, come, he cryes,
Let's make one onset more. The scatter'd Troupes
At his word rally, and retrieve their Hopes.
The Rebel-Flames, they say, felt CHARLES was there;
And sneaking back, grew tamer then they were:
So that, no doubt, were Fates to be defeated
By man, the City's Fate had been retreated.
But Loyalty befriends the Flames. Their own
Dangers neglected, thine affrights. Alone,
Alone, dear Sir, let's fall, they cry'd aloud,
And hazard not three Kingdoms in a croud.
Long may King CHARLES survive his Cityes Fate,
His Life, and all our Hopes bear equal Date.
Flames can't undo us, whiles the King's secure:
He lost, though sav'd from flames, we must be poor.
Thus did the pious Trojan venture rather
All's Treasure to the City's wrack, then's Father!
His Subjects Love forc'd Caesar to withdraw,
More griev'd to leave the Loyalty he saw.
Next, Princely YORK, with sweat and dirt besmear'd,
(More glorious thus, then in his Robes) appear'd.
He, Neptune-like, his watry Realm doth raise,
And's Noble Arm the spit-floud Engine swayes:
That baffled, next his Thundring-Cannons spewe
An armed blaze, with Flames, Flames to subdue.
But whom the conquer'd Dutch and French did flie,
These Foes ('twas out of's Element) defie.
All Help at last grows helpless, but the Last.
That too, they try. To Churches, now in hast
Some flye for shelter, ne're were there before;
Others, to mourn they ne're shall see 'um more.
The flames even them, with th' owners leave, surprise,
Nor was't then Sacriledg, but Sacrifice.
That reverend Fabrick which the World admir'd,
Amongst a crowd of lesser note is fir'd.
Its Cloud-surmounting Steeple flam'd so high,
That threaten'd Heavens ne're fear'd a flame so nigh.
Yea, some beholders thought 'twas more then fear'd,
Whilst falling-sparks like falling-starres appear'd.
The Fates themselves burnt Monuments entomb'd,
Their Alabaster melts, and (what's presum'd
Beyond Art's Power) Marble's fusile grown;
The sacred Reliques of the dead are thrown
Out of their Tombs; and by a means unthought,
Are, with their Tombs, from Dust to Ashes brought.
[At Building Pauls] in the late Proverbs sense,
Henceforth, I doubt, may Prophesie commence.
And after-times for what of it they know,
Shall more to th' Pencil, then the Trowel owe.
Oft, unawares, doth man's presaging mind
Sent future Harms! sure, Dugdale, that inclin'd
Thy too Prophetick Genius to prevent
The Fate of that illustrious Monument,
Which, what it was, (sith 'twas not long to be)
Had scarce been long knowable, but for Thee.
Write Dugdale, with thy Founders, Pauls, and more;
Immortal made by him, by none, before.
With sacred flames, a learned blaze doth rise;
(For Twins, they say, Twin-fates do oft surprise)
The Labours of the teeming Press and Brain,
(An off-spring Ages can't restore again)
One Hour destroyes. St. Faith's betrusted Cell,
(For publique Faith it was) turn'd Infidel.
So Phoebus ne're for Phaethorn did mourn,
As now he did. The Sisters Nine did burn
Their Golden Tresses in the richer Fire;
Minerva did her Court in blacks attire.
Tear-flouds foul'd Helicon; your Poets Wit
Runs muddy (Sir) with this short sip of it.
The common Wrack the Royal Change doth share,
Babel of Tongues; the Universes Fayre;
Where both Poles daily met, and what within
The spacious distance of the Poles is seen:
The Kingdoms Marble Chronicle. To Thee
(Great Prince) it shew'd thy Royal Pedigree,
For three times Nine Descents. Thy Next, the Best,
Dislodg'd by Rebels, by Thee, repossest:
Now, with the Church He hugg'd, in Ruines lies,
But hopes, by Second CHARLES, a Second Rise.
By Him, You stood, His Name's and Vertue's Heir;
The Make-Peace Act Your gracious Hand did bear,
Draught of that Mind which in Your Royal Brest
The Image of th' Eternal Mind exprest;
In whom, Oblivion Vertue is, and who
(As You) by Pardons Treason doth subdue.
For Rebels, whom despair with Courage arms,
A safe Retreat into subjection charms.
Whence, though the Marble, and the Paint be not,
CHARLES living, th' Amnesty 'll ne're be forgot.
Gresham the Kings survives. The grateful Flame
The Founder spar'd, that would not spare the Frame.
The Watry Region scapes not. Conquering Flames
Owe a Revenge unto their Foe the Thames.
Scullers and Oars now, Westward Ho! all cri'de,
Nor had they leasure to expect a Tide.
From the Lee-shoare the Ships in hast retire,
The Wind was thought a milder Foe, then Fire.
The River shrinks, and from the threatning Heats,
Now to the Spring, now to the Sea retreats.
An Envoy-wave dispatcht to Thetis-Court,
Implores her help; which granted, to the Port
She marcht; but when she saw the Flames, she fled,
And under water hid her frighted Head.
Whiles heated Waves thus on themselves recoyle,
The Deep, without a Metaphor, doth boyle.
The scaly Troupes scarce safe at bottom were,
The daring Foes chas'd and attaqu'd 'em there.
The Fishermen ne're made so strange a draught;
'Tis thought, the Fish were par-boyl'd that they caught.
Four dayes did Phoebus set, but made no Night,
A brighter Blaze supply'd his baffled Light.
And all that while the City wak'd: What sense
Of weakness call'd for, Danger frighted thence.
Till the fifth Sun, ascending from the East,
With joy beheld the Emulous Fire supprest.
Whether because the Suburbs, where it stay'd,
Were less with crowded Buildings over-lay'd:
Or their Brick Edifices stopt it there:
Or, that the Flames so spread, more feeble were:
(As Boggs hash'd into Gutters, soon are dry'd:)
Or, that the Wind had spit out's Lungs, and dy'd:
Is doubted. Out of doubt, At God's Arrest
The all-devouring Fires themselves confest
Conquer'd, submitting to receive again
Their former (now too long rejected) Chaine.
The Fire is out. But dismal marks are seen,
To tell succeeding Ages where't hath been.
The Fate of old Troy did New-Troy betide,
Its doubtful Pedigree's thus justifi'd.
The City now is the once-City's Tomb,
A Sceleton of fleshless Bones become.
Its Venerable Ruines have the Name
Of what it was, but little else the same.
As in Kings Monuments, their Ashes bear
Titles, and Scutcheons which the Kings did wear.
Its greatest part without the Walls bestow'd,
London's not now within, but gone abroad.
Grief cramps my heart; nor doth my Muse suffice
To the last Act of London's Tragedies.
Let those impregnate Fancies, which the view
Of that Disaster fill'd, this Theme pursue.
Meer Fame, I know, dull Notions must infuse;
Yet wish not such a sight t' enrich my Muse.
In brief, (for tir'd Accountants close with Greats)
Know, Churches, Publique Halls, and Princely Seats,
Schools, Hospitals; and what brave Piles soe're
For State or Use our Ancestors did reare,
Lye raz'd; with what was rais'd by later Times,
To eternize their Vertues, or their Crimes.
All Europe mourns at London's Funerals.
Yea, our suspected Foes, (if true or false,
Day'll bring to light) like solemn grief declare.
We, (sith we wish 'em innocent) not dare
To charge 'em with a Guilt they thus disclaim.
And yet, if Time shall hidden fraud proclaim,
Resolve to lash 'em. Our just Muse bestows
Bayes on the valiant, Rods on treacherous Foes.

Hold Graver, hold! In vain thou dost engage
To crowd the Book into the Title-page.
Thy Plate too much beneath thy Project falls.
For, though it shew us Flames, and tottering Walls,
If that be all, thy Title thou'lt bely:
None takes the Scene to be the Tragedy.
No; Londons Flames should so be set to view,
That those who see, in part may feel 'em too;
And even those that cannot see, may find
Th' eye's not th' onely Glass that burns the mind.
Say then; canst thou express the shriekes and cryes,
That rent the Clouds, and pierc'd the melting Skies?
Can thy Descriptions accent Babels Voyces,
Or give due Ecchoes to confused Noyses?
Canst thou express the bawlings of a Croud,
Wherein none's heard, 'cause every one is loud?
Or the Extortions, Thefts, and cozening feats
Of Porters, Carters, Water-men, and Cheats?
Canst thou describe the sounds of tuneless Bells,
Whose awkward Musick tolls their Steeples Knells?
The cracks of tumbling Houses, and the greeting
Of tottering Roofs, and battering Cannons meeting?
Canst thou to view present the hissing steams
Of melted Metals check'd with cooling streams?
Or draw the medley of compounded smells,
Forc'd, some from fragrant, some from nasty Cells?
Canst reach the Horrors of distracted minds,
Where ghastly fear with woful grief combines?
Grief, which expression from amazement borrows,
Whiles Tears are stifled by profounder sorrows.
Or th' Hurrey which distemper'd Fancies fills,
Where Thought stabs Thought, and Project, Project kills?
Where what to save, 's in doubt, till all be lost,
And slow Resolves by speedy Fates are crost?
Canst draw the Misers Passions, while he lags
In midst of Flames, hugging his darling Bags;
Whom, loath to lose, and loath to give, divide,
Neer sacrific'd to what he deifi'd?
Or a just Love 'twixt equal Children parted,
Where one must be preferr'd, th' other deserted?
Or, whiles both Goods and Childrens danger scares,
The Mothers bowels, and the Fathers cares?
Or labouring throws, and Births precipitate,
Where the Fright's Midwife, and the Nurse is Fate?
If none of these within thy Picture come,
Confess it short, and give the Poet room.
Poetry is an Intellectual Mint,
That stamps a Picture with a spirit in't;
Whose secret Magick Senses want supplyes,
And makes Spectators where it finds no Eyes.
Thus that old Bard doth in his Iliad draw
Battels to th' life, 'tis said, he never saw:
And makes those Hector and Achilles see,
Whose outward Organs are as blind as He.
'Tis sacred Flame, whose subtil Influence
Can melt the Soul, and never scorch the Sence.
'Tis the Minds Microscope, that helps the Eye
To the least insect-thought's Anatomy:
That secret'st motions through their Symptomes traces;
And renders Souls as visible as Faces.
This, this can Londons Fate most lively shew,
That paints its inside-Flames, and outside, too.
And such an Artist, London, wish I thee;
And next, would wishing do't, That I were He.
Which, Graver, though I'm not, my Draught of thine
Hath th' odds, which better Poems have of mine.
Barr Emulation then, and try thy Art;
The Poets Zany is the Graver's part.
Thy Preface-Lines, I grant, may somewhat do
To stead the Stationer, and Poem too.
For oft the Book's turn'd for the Baby-Letter,
And sorry Cuts helps Ballads off the better.
In Legends too, some say, (nor is't deny'd)
Some are by th' painted Saints best edify'd:
For Lyes in Picture, with their Art delight,
Which, told for Truth, the Hearers Faith affright.
Yea, perhaps, thou may'st wiser Readers draw,
To greet a Muse, till now, they never saw.
For 'tis the Bush, that leads us to the Wine;
And men know where the Sight is, by the Sign.
On therefore, but with my advice comply,
And thus thy Scene fit to the Tragedy.
Conceit Troy's Flames, and those that Nero made,
To symbolize with the sad Tune he play'd:
Or those he caus'd, whose Name did Burning bear,
When Jove and Rome to Geese obliged were.
With those that laid Jerusalem in dust:
And those of Foreign Vulcans, tan'e on Trust
From Travellers; t' impregnate thy Design,
And make thy Fancy more resemble mine.
Then from some ghostly Father get a Spell,
To view the Cave, they say, joyns next to Hell:
From that Original thy Fancy fill,
(For that's pure Fancy) and then try thy skill.
Or, lastly, antedate the general Fire
In thought, and thy Invention thence inspire.
Thus arm'd, take Londons situation right,
And spread a Mantle o're't of blackest Night.
Take Lights and Shades from its Blaze: Lookers on
Were satisfi'd, it might supply the Sun.
Next, place in stead of th' often-changing Dame,
A black Cloud, big with sheets of Oyly Flame;
Ruffled by Eurus, puffing out o' th' East
AEtnean Vapours from's incensed Breast.
Let them drop melted Starres, toss'd up and down
To scatter ruines through the scared Town.
Out of the Skies, (to shew from whence it came)
Stretch out an Hand arm'd with a Rod of Flame.
Bound with a Scrowle, which let this Motto fill,
England amend, his hand is stretcht out still.
Let Flames, on march, a mile in front appear,
Brought up with Ruines smothering in the Rear:
I' th' Van, express me Pauls, as yet entire,
But let its Roof run from th' approaching Fire.
Some dwellings charg'd by scouting Heats, let smoak;
And others, stand forlorn t' expect the shock.
On top of some, thick Crowds with Buckets arm
For Charge; but flying at the first Alarm.
Let ruining Hooks others exposed shake;
And gaping Chasmes let Warlike Engines make.
Express me Roofs blown up into the Aire;
And Flames they flye beneath let meet 'em there.
Next, draw a reeking Thames, and Barges flying
With singed Sayles, and stifled Fishes dying.
This done, a Jesuit place in view o' th' whole,
At Faux's bo-peep in some sneaking hole,
Laughing in's sleeve: and let this be the Mot,
Ha! this hits better then the Powder-plot.
Then on the top of Pauls let be exprest,
A melting Phoenix in a flaming Nest.
Hope will expound the Emblem; though I fear
Few hope, 'twill soon be verified there.
Lastly, If any nook remain unfill'd,
(He's loath an whole Page for his Face be spill'd)
The Poet in a Cypress-wreath insert;
(The Lawrel is a badg of a Desert,
Which he pretends not to: besides, he wears
An heart more suiting to an Age of Tears:)
Pale, like the City's Ashes, make his Looks,
(Too many wear its Fires:) by, let his Books
(Jeremy's Threnes, Salvian, Gildas, and
The Tristia of the banish'd Poet) stand:
Let his Eyes drop into his Ink, and thence
Supply his Quill, and mingle with his sense.
But ne're ask, Who He is: Find any He
That's such an one, and let him stand for Me.





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