Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE CHOIRE, by JAMES WRIGHT (1643-1713)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE CHOIRE, by                    
First Line: Th' almighty architect forms in mankind
Last Line: Twas fiction then, but now we see it, here.
Subject(s): London Fire (1666); St. Paul's Cathedral, London; Great Fire Of 1666


Th' Almighty Architect forms in Mankind
The Heart, and nobler Organs of the Soul,
In the first place; so here first built we find
The sacred Choire, that animates the Whole.

Full twenty Years (a time but short when past,
Tho' long to come) this noble Object gave:
See and admire, what Miracles at last
We may by patient Expectation have.

'Tis true th' Eternal built the World's vast Frame
By one commanding Word, then left to Man
With time to furnish, and adorn the same:
The Creature works not as his Maker can!

Those who extoll old Rome are forced to say
The Great Vitruvius in our Wren survives:
The Sons of Modern Rome as truly may
Confess, the ancient Piety still lives.

Such solid Art, and uniform Design,
Admiring England ne're did yet behold:
Where Strength and Curiosity combine,
To fame these latter Days above the old.

What shall I first applaud, what first display?
The charming Objects please so many ways,
That in the Choice 'tis difficult to say
Where to begin; more where to end our Praise.

Without, within, below, above, the Eye
Is fill'd with equal Wonder and Delight;
Beauty appears in all Variety,
Yet in each different Dress, 'tis exquisite.

The rich Festoons are of such noble kind
Around the Sacred Pile, as sure had been
Too good for outward Work, did we not find
Something more Great, more Wonderful, within.

The Gates that open to this Glorious Place
Are of so rare, so exquisite a Mold,
Who views 'em thinks he has before his Face
The Temple-Gate call'd Beautiful of Old.

Rich in their Price, in Workmanship no less,
And still to make it more Authentical,
The hammer'd Mettle carries an Impress
Of Holy Peter joyn'd to that of Paul.

Well may St. Peter's Figure here be seen,
For if those Gates of which he shews the Keys
Have ever truly represented been,
It is undoubtedly by such as these.

The Organ such, for Pipes, Case, Cost, and those
Rich Marble Legs on which the Frame does stand,
That all who see the Work may well suppose
This the Cathedral Organ of the Land.

Such Ornaments, such Miracles of Art,
Enrich the Stalls, those Springs of Harmony,
That did nor Voice, nor Organ, bear their part,
Yet this alone, were Musick to the Eye.

A Cherub's Head appears o're every Seat
Form'd with surpassing Skill, as hov'ring there
Like the bright Ministers of Heaven who wait
To catch, and carry up the Suppliants Prayer.

The pollisht Floor seems to th' admiring Eye
Too Rich and Delicate to tread upon:
More precious, here, than such in Italy;
For here 'tis Marble, there, the Country Stone.

The Altar-Piece, and Decorations there,
Are of a New, and singular Design:
And all as pleasing as surprizing are,
While with a solemn Gayety they shine.

This is a handsome Abstract of the Whole:
For all the Objects that we here do find
Are so adapted to a pious Soul,
At once they cheer, and elivate, the Mind.

How inexcusable is then that Man
Who backward goes, or in By-paths will stray,
When in this open, easie Road, he can
Advance to Heaven in such a heavenly Way?

London has now a Church! long mist before:
For 'tis a certain Truth which all must own,
That for the space of thirty Years, or more,
The Parish had a Church, the City none.

He who ascends the Roof, and thence looks down,
While all around he takes th' amazing View
Of this Unbounded, and still growing Town,
Stupendious Great, and no less Beautious too,

Graced with so many Spires, such Princely Halls,
Whole Streets of Wonders, readily admits
That such a City fits a Church like Pauls,
And such a Church such City well befits.

Majestick Beauty! when the Harmony
Which from thy tuneful Voice is daily given,
Blesses the Ear, while thus you please the Eye,
How justly both appear a Tast of Heaven!

Musick, which charms a Soul so many ways,
Can all th' Affections of the mind produce,
And every Passion mitigate and raise,
Is best imploy'd for God, in sacred use.

The only Science that's in Heaven profest,
Useless are other Arts, which we admire:
In this the Angells joyn and all the Blest,
Who with Mankind make one full, perfect, Choire.

By Musick's Scale (like Jacob's Ladder) we
In Spirit mount the highest Heavens, and thus
Meet Angels in united Harmony;
And the same way Angels descend to us.

Praise is the noblest Sacrifice, and paid
Duly from noblest Souls, but always best
(When to the best of Objects, Heaven, 'tis made)
With Songs, and Instruments of Joy, exprest.

Most aptly then, and with a happy Choice,
In a Thanksgiving and an Act of Praise,
This Church revives, for Peace, her long lost Voice:
Celestial Peace! for which the whole Church prays.

Peace, that shut Janus Temple, opens this:
And thus in Consequence it ought to be;
So fully opposite the Difference is
'Twixt true Religion, and Idolatry.

Apace the mighty Fabrick now will rise,
And the Whole finisht, soon, we hope to see;
Since in the Work the Church, her self imploys,
By dayly Prayer, and sacred Harmony.

To build with Harmony proves strangely true!
False and incredible did once appear
What some have said Amphion's Lute cou'd do;
'Twas Fiction then, but now we see it, here.





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