445 Religion poems

PErplex'd and troubl'd at his bad success The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply, Discover'd in his fraud, thrown from his hope, So oft, and the perswasive Rhetoric That sleek't his tongue, and won so much on Eve, So little here, nay lost; but Eve was Eve, This far his over-match, who self deceiv'd And rash, before-hand had no better weigh'd The strength he was to cope with, or his own: But as a man who had been matchless held In cunning, over-reach't where least he thought, To salve his credit, and for very spight Still will be tempting him who foyls him still, And never cease, though to his shame the more; Or as a swarm of flies in vintage time, About the wine-press where sweet moust is powr'd, Beat off, returns as oft with humming sound; Or surging waves against a solid rock, Though all to shivers dash't, the assault renew, Vain battry, and in froth or bubbles end; So Satan, whom repulse upon repulse Met ever; and to shameful silence brought, Yet gives not o're though desperate of success, And his vain importunity pursues. He brought our Saviour to the western side Of that high mountain, whence he might behold Another plain, long but in bredth not wide; Wash'd by the Southern Sea, and on the North To equal length back'd with a ridge of hills That screen'd the fruits of the earth and seats of men From cold Septentrion blasts, thence in the midst Divided by a river, of whose banks On each side an Imperial City stood, With Towers and Temples proudly elevate On seven small Hills, with Palaces adorn'd, Porches and Theatres, Baths, Aqueducts, Statues and Trophees, and Triumphal Arcs, Gardens and Groves presented to his eyes, Above the highth of Mountains interpos'd. By what strange Parallax or Optic skill Of vision multiplyed through air, or glass Of Telescope, were curious to enquire: And now the Tempter thus his silence broke. The City which thou seest no other deem Then great and glorious Rome, Queen of the Earth So far renown'd, and with the spoils enricht Of Nations; there the Capitol thou seest Above the rest lifting his stately head On the Tarpeian rock, her Cittadel Impregnable, and there Mount Palatine The Imperial Palace, compass huge, and high The Structure, skill of noblest Architects, With gilded battlements, conspicuous far, Turrets and Terrases, and glittering Spires. Many a fair Edifice besides, more like Houses of Gods (so well I have dispos'd My Aerie Microscope) thou may'st behold Outside and inside both, pillars and roofs Carv'd work, the hand of fam'd Artificers In Cedar, Marble, Ivory or Gold. Thence to the gates cast round thine eye, and see What conflux issuing forth, or entring in, Pretors, Proconsuls to thir Provinces Hasting or on return, in robes of State; Lictors and rods the ensigns of thir power, Legions and Cohorts, turmes of horse and wings: Or Embassies from Regions far remote In various habits on the Appian road, Or on the Æmilian, some from farthest South, Syene, and where the shadow both way falls, Meroe Nilotic Isle, and more to West, The Realm of Bocchus to the Black-moor Sea; From the Asian Kings and Parthian among these, From India and the golden Chersoness, And utmost Indian Isle Taprobane, Dusk faces with white silken Turbants wreath'd: From Gallia,Gades, and the Brittish West, Germans and Scythians, and Sarmatians North Beyond Danubius to the Tauric Pool. All Nations now to Rome obedience pay, To Rome's great Emperour, whose wide domain In ample Territory, wealth and power, Civility of Manners, Arts, and Arms, And long Renown thou justly may'st prefer Before the Parthian; these two Thrones except, The rest are barbarous, and scarce worth the sight, Shar'd among petty Kings too far remov'd; These having shewn thee, I have shewn thee all The Kingdoms of the world, and all thir glory. This Emperour hath no Son, and now is old, Old, and lascivious, and from Rome retir'd To Capreæ an Island small but strong On the Campanian shore, with purpose there His horrid lusts in private to enjoy, Committing to a wicked Favourite All publick cares, and yet of him suspicious, Hated of all, and hating; with what ease Indu'd with Regal Vertues as thou art, Appearing, and beginning noble deeds, Might'st thou expel this monster from his Throne Now made a stye, and in his place ascending A victor, people free from servile yoke? And with my help thou may'st; to me the power Is given, and by that right I give it thee. Aim therefore at no less then all the world, Aim at the highest, without the highest attain'd Will be for thee no sitting, or not long On David's Throne, be propheci'd what will. To whom the Son of God unmov'd reply'd. Nor doth this grandeur and majestic show Of luxury, though call'd magnificence, More then of arms before, allure mine eye, Much less my mind; though thou should'st add to tell Thir sumptuous gluttonies, and gorgeous feasts On Cittron tables or Atlantic stone; (For I have also heard, perhaps have read) Their wines of Setia,Cales, and Falerne, Chios and Creet, and how they quaff in Gold, Crystal and Myrrhine cups imboss'd with Gems And studs of Pearl, to me should'st tell who thirst And hunger still: then Embassies thou shew'st From Nations far and nigh; what honour that, But tedious wast of time to sit and hear So many hollow complements and lies, Outlandish flatteries? then proceed'st to talk Of the Emperour, how easily subdu'd, How gloriously; I shall, thou say'st, expel A brutish monster: what if I withal Expel a Devil who first made him such? Let his tormenter Conscience find him out, For him I was not sent, nor yet to free That people victor once, now vile and base, Deservedly made vassal, who once just, Frugal, and mild, and temperate, conquer'd well, But govern ill the Nations under yoke, Peeling thir Provinces, exhausted all By lust and rapine; first ambitious grown Of triumph that insulting vanity; Then cruel, by thir sports to blood enur'd Of fighting beasts, and men to beasts expos'd, Luxurious by thir wealth, and greedier still, And from the daily Scene effeminate. What wise and valiant man would seek to free These thus degenerate, by themselves enslav'd, Or could of inward slaves make outward free? Know therefore when my season comes to sit On David's Throne, it shall be like a tree Spreading and over-shadowing all the Earth, Or as a stone that shall to pieces dash All Monarchies besides throughout the world, And of my Kingdom there shall be no end: Means there shall be to this, but what the means, Is not for thee to know, nor me to tell. To whom the Tempter impudent repli'd. I see all offers made by me how slight Thou valu'st, because offer'd, and reject'st: Nothing will please the difficult and nice, Or nothing more then still to contradict: On the other side know also thou, that I On what I offer set as high esteem, Nor what I part with mean to give for naught; All these which in a moment thou behold'st, The Kingdoms of the world to thee I give; For giv'n to me, I give to whom I please, No trifle; yet with this reserve, not else, On this condition, if thou wilt fall down, And worship me as thy superior Lord, Easily done, and hold them all of me; For what can less so great a gift deserve? Whom thus our Saviour answer'd with disdain. I never lik'd thy talk, thy offers less, Now both abhor, since thou hast dar'd to utter The abominable terms, impious condition; But I endure the time, till which expir'd, Thou hast permission on me.   It is written The first of all Commandments, Thou shalt worship The Lord thy God, and only him shalt serve; And dar'st thou to the Son of God propound To worship thee accurst, now more accurst For this attempt bolder then that on Eve, And more blasphemous? which expect to rue. The Kingdoms of the world to thee were giv'n, Permitted rather, and by thee usurp't, Other donation none thou canst produce: If given, by whom but by the King of Kings, God over all supreme? if giv'n to thee, By thee how fairly is the Giver now Repaid?   But gratitude in thee is lost Long since.   Wert thou so void of fear or shame, As offer them to me the Son of God, To me my own, on such abhorred pact, That I fall down and worship thee as God? Get thee behind me; plain thou now appear'st That Evil one, Satan for ever damn'd. To whom the Fiend with fear abasht reply'd. Be not so sore offended, Son of God; Though Sons of God both Angels are and Men, If I to try whether in higher sort Then these thou bear'st that title, have propos'd What both from Men and Angels I receive, Tetrarchs of fire, air, flood, and on the earth Nations besides from all the quarter'd winds, God of this world invok't and world beneath; Who then thou art, whose coming is foretold To me so fatal, me it most concerns. The tryal hath indamag'd thee no way, Rather more honour left and more esteem; Me naught advantag'd, missing what I aim'd. Therefore let pass, as they are transitory, The Kingdoms of this world; I shall no more Advise thee, gain them as thou canst, or not. And thou thy self seem'st otherwise inclin'd Then to a worldly Crown, addicted more To contemplation and profound dispute, As by that early action may be judg'd, When slipping from thy Mothers eye thou went'st Alone into the Temple; there was found Among the gravest Rabbies disputant On points and questions fitting Moses Chair, Teaching not taught; the childhood shews the man, As morning shews the day.   Be famous then By wisdom; as thy Empire must extend, So let extend thy mind o're all the world, In knowledge, all things in it comprehend, All knowledge is not couch't in Moses Law, The Pentateuch or what the Prophets wrote, The Gentiles also know, and write, and teach To admiration, led by Natures light; And with the Gentiles much thou must converse, Ruling them by perswasion as thou mean'st, Without thir learning how wilt thou with them, Or they with thee hold conversation meet? How wilt thou reason with them, how refute Thir Idolisms, Traditions, Paradoxes? Error by his own arms is best evinc't. Look once more e're we leave this specular Mount Westward, much nearer by Southwest, behold Where on the Ægean shore a City stands Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil, Athens the eye of Greece, Mother of Arts And Eloquence, native to famous wits Or hospitable, in her sweet recess, City or Suburban, studious walks and shades; See there the Olive Grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic Bird Trills her thick-warbl'd notes the summer long, There flowrie hill Hymettus with the sound Of Bees industrious murmur oft invites To studious musing; there Ilissus rouls His whispering stream; within the walls then view The schools of antient Sages; his who bred Great Alexander to subdue the world, Lyceum there, and painted Stoa next: There thou shalt hear and learn the secret power Of harmony in tones and numbers hit By voice or hand, and various-measur'd verse, Æolian charms and DorianLyric Odes, And his who gave them breath, but higher sung, Blind Melesigenes thence Homer call'd, Whose Poem Phoebus challeng'd for his own. Thence what the lofty grave Tragoedians taught In Chorus or Iambic, teachers best Of moral prudence, with delight receiv'd In brief sententious precepts, while they treat Of fate, and chance, and change in human life; High actions, and high passions best describing: Thence to the famous Orators repair, Those antient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce Democratie, Shook the Arsenal and fulmin'd over Greece, To Macedon, and Artaxerxes Throne; To sage Philosophy next lend thine ear, From Heaven descended to the low-rooft house Of Socrates, see there his Tenement, Whom well inspir'd the Oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men; from whose mouth issu'd forth Mellifluous streams that water'd all the schools Of Academics old and new, with those Sirnam'd Peripatetics, and the Sect Epicurean, and the Stoic severe; These here revolve, or, as thou lik'st, at home, Till time mature thee to a Kingdom's waight; These rules will render thee a King compleat Within thy self, much more with Empire joyn'd. To whom our Saviour sagely thus repli'd. Think not but that I know these things, or think I know them not; not therefore am I short Of knowing what I aught: he who receives Light from above, from the fountain of light, No other doctrine needs, though granted true; But these are false, or little else but dreams, Conjectures, fancies, built on nothing firm. The first and wisest of them all profess'd To know this only, that he nothing knew; The next to fabling fell and smooth conceits, A third sort doubted all things, though plain sence; Others in vertue plac'd felicity, But vertue joyn'd with riches and long life, In corporal pleasure he, and careless ease, The Stoic last in Philosophic pride, By him call'd vertue; and his vertuous man, Wise, perfect in himself, and all possessing Equal to God, oft shames not to prefer, As fearing God nor man, contemning all Wealth, pleasure, pain or torment, death and life, Which when he lists, he leaves, or boasts he can, For all his tedious talk is but vain boast, Or subtle shifts conviction to evade. Alas what can they teach, and not mislead; Ignorant of themselves, of God much more, And how the world began, and how man fell Degraded by himself, on grace depending? Much of the Soul they talk, but all awrie, And in themselves seek vertue, and to themselves All glory arrogate, to God give none, Rather accuse him under usual names, Fortune and Fate, as one regardless quite Of mortal things.   Who therefore seeks in these True wisdom, finds her not, or by delusion Far worse, her false resemblance only meets, An empty cloud.   However many books Wise men have said are wearisom; who reads Incessantly, and to his reading brings not A spirit and judgment equal or superior, (And what he brings, what needs he elsewhere seek) Uncertain and unsettl'd still remains, Deep verst in books and shallow in himself, Crude or intoxicate, collecting toys, And trifles for choice matters, worth a spunge; As Children gathering p i bles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With Music or with Poem, where so soon As in our native Language can I find That solace?   All our Law and Story strew'd With Hymns, our Psalms with artful terms inscrib'd, Our Hebrew Songs and Harps in Babylon, That pleas'd so well our Victors ear, declare That rather Greece from us these Arts deriv'd; Ill imitated, while they loudest sing The vices of thir Deities, and thir own In Fable, Hymn, or Song, so personating Thir Gods ridiculous, and themselves past shame. Remove their swelling Epithetes thick laid As varnish on a Harlots cheek, the rest, Thin sown with aught of profit or delight, Will far be found unworthy to compare With Sion's songs, to all true tasts excelling, Where God is prais'd aright, and Godlike men, The Holiest of Holies, and his Saints; Such are from God inspir'd, not such from thee; Unless where moral vertue is express't By light of Nature not in all quite lost. Thir Orators thou then extoll'st, as those The top of Eloquence, Statists indeed, And lovers of thir Country, as may seem; But herein to our Prophets far beneath, As men divinely taught, and better teaching The solid rules of Civil Government In thir majestic unaffected stile Then all the Oratory of Greece and Rome. In them is plainest taught, and easiest learnt, What makes a Nation happy, and keeps it so, What ruins Kingdoms, and lays Cities flat; These only with our Law best form a King. So spake the Son of God; but Satan now Quite at a loss, for all his darts were spent, Thus to our Saviour with stern brow reply'd. Since neither wealth, nor honour, arms nor arts, Kingdom nor Empire pleases thee, nor aught By me propos'd in life contemplative, Or active, tended on by glory, or fame, What dost thou in this World? the Wilderness For thee is fittest place, I found thee there, And thither will return thee, yet remember What I foretell thee, soon thou shalt have cause To wish thou never hadst rejected thus Nicely or cautiously my offer'd aid, Which would have set thee in short time with ease On David's Throne; or Throne of all the world, Now at full age, fulness of time, thy season, When Prophesies of thee are best fullfill'd. Now contrary, if I read aught in Heaven, Or Heav'n write aught of Fate, by what the Stars Voluminous, or single characters, In their conjunction met, give me to spell, Sorrows, and labours, opposition, hate, Attends thee, scorns, reproaches, injuries, Violence and stripes, and lastly cruel death, A Kingdom they portend thee, but what Kingdom, Real or Allegoric I discern not, Nor when, eternal sure, as without end, Without beginning; for no date prefixt Directs me in the Starry Rubric set. So saying he took (for still he knew his power Not yet expir'd) and to the Wilderness Brought back the Son of God, and left him there, Feigning to disappear.   Darkness now rose, As day-light sunk, and brought in lowring night Her shadowy off-spring unsubstantial both, Privation meer of light and absent day. Our Saviour meek and with untroubl'd mind After his aerie jaunt, though hurried sore, Hungry and cold betook him to his rest, Wherever, under some concourse of shades Whose branching arms thick intertwind might shield From dews and damps of night his shelter'd head, But shelter'd slept in vain, for at his head The Tempter watch'd, and soon with ugly dreams Disturb'd his sleep; and either Tropic now Gan thunder, and both ends of Heav'n, the Clouds From many a horrid rift abortive pour'd Fierce rain with lightning mixt, water with fire In ruine reconcil'd: nor slept the winds Within thir stony caves, but rush'd abroad From the four hinges of the world, and fell On the vext Wilderness, whose tallest Pines, Though rooted deep as high, and sturdiest Oaks Bow'd their Stiff necks, loaden with stormy blasts, Or torn up sheer: ill wast thou shrouded then, O patient Son of God, yet only stoodst Unshaken; nor yet staid the terror there, Infernal Ghosts, and Hellish Furies, round Environ'd thee, some howl'd, some yell'd, some shriek'd, Some bent at thee thir fiery darts, while thou Sat'st unappall'd in calm and sinless peace. Thus pass'd the night so foul till morning fair Came forth with Pilgrim steps in amice gray; Who with her radiant finger still'd the roar Of thunder, chas'd the clouds, and laid the winds, And grisly Spectres, which the Fiend had rais'd To tempt the Son of God with terrors dire. And now the Sun with more effectual beams Had chear'd the face of Earth, and dry'd the wet From drooping plant, or dropping tree; the birds Who all things now behold more fresh and green, After a night of storm so ruinous, Clear'd up their choicest notes in bush and spray To gratulate the sweet return of morn; Nor yet amidst this joy and brightest morn Was absent, after all his mischief done, The Prince of darkness, glad would also seem Of this fair change, and to our Saviour came, Yet with no new device, they all were spent, Rather by this his last affront resolv'd, Desperate of better course, to vent his rage, And mad despight to be so oft repell'd. Him walking on a Sunny hill he found, Back'd on the North and West by a thick wood, Out of the wood he starts in wonted shape; And in a careless mood thus to him said. Fair morning yet betides thee Son of God, After a dismal night; I heard the rack As Earth and Skie would mingle; but my self Was distant; and these flaws, though mortals fear them As dangerous to the pillard frame of Heaven, Or to the Earths dark basis underneath, Are to the main as inconsiderable, And harmless, if not wholsom, as a sneeze To mans less universe, and soon are gone; Yet as being oft times noxious where they light On man, beast, plant, wastful and turbulent, Like turbulencies in the affairs of men, Over whose heads they rore, and seem to point, They oft fore-signifie and threaten ill: This Tempest at this Desert most was bent; Of men at thee, for only thou here dwell'st. Did I not tell thee, if thou didst reject The perfet season offer'd with my aid To win thy destin'd seat, but wilt prolong All to the push of Fate, persue thy way Of gaining David's Throne no man knows when, For both the when and how is no where told, Thou shalt be what thou art ordain'd, no doubt; For Angels have proclaim'd it, but concealing The time and means: each act is rightliest done, Not when it must, but when it may be best. If thou observe not this, be sure to find, What I foretold thee, many a hard assay Of dangers, and adversities and pains, E're thou of Israel's Scepter get fast hold; Whereof this ominous night that clos'd thee round, So many terrors, voices, prodigies May warn thee, as a sure fore-going sign. So talk'd he, while the Son of God went on And staid not, but in brief him answer'd thus. Mee worse then wet thou find'st not; other harm Those terrors which thou speak'st of, did me none; I never fear'd they could, though noising loud And threatning nigh; what they can do as signs Betok'ning, or ill boding, I contemn As false portents, not sent from God, but thee; Who knowing I shall raign past thy preventing, Obtrud'st thy offer'd aid, that I accepting At least might seem to hold all power of thee, Ambitious spirit, and wouldst be thought my God, And storm'st refus'd, thinking to terrifie Mee to thy will; desist, thou art discern'd And toil'st in vain, nor me in vain molest. To whom the Fiend now swoln with rage reply'd: Then hear, O Son of David, Virgin-born; For Son of God to me is yet in doubt, Of the Messiah I have heard foretold By all the Prophets; of thy birth at length Announc't by Gabriel with the first I knew, And of the Angelic Song in Bethlehem field, On thy birth-night, that sung thee Saviour born. From that time seldom have I ceas'd to eye Thy infancy, thy childhood, and thy youth, Thy manhood last, though yet in private bred; Till at the Ford of Jordan whither all Flock'd to the Baptist, I among the rest, Though not to be Baptiz'd, by voice from Heav'n Heard thee pronounc'd the Son of God belov'd. Thenceforth I thought thee worth my nearer view And narrower Scrutiny, that I might learn In what degree or meaning thou art call'd The Son of God, which bears no single sence; The Son of God I also am, or was, And if I was, I am; relation stands; All men are Sons of God; yet thee I thought In some respect far higher so declar'd. Therefore I watch'd thy footsteps from that hour, And follow'd thee still on to this wast wild; Where by all best conjectures I collect Thou art to be my fatal enemy. Good reason then, if I before-hand seek To understand my Adversary, who And what he is; his wisdom, power, intent, By parl, or composition, truce, or league To win him, or win from him what I can. And opportunity I here have had To try thee, sift thee, and confess have found thee Proof against all temptation as a rock Of Adamant, and as a Center, firm To the utmost of meer man both wise and good, Not more; for Honours, Riches, Kingdoms, Glory Have been before contemn'd, and may agen: Therefore to know what more thou art then man, Worth naming Son of God by voice from Heav'n, Another method I must now begin. So saying he caught him up, and without wing Of Hippogrif bore through the Air sublime Over the Wilderness and o're the Plain; Till underneath them fair Jerusalem, The holy City lifted high her Towers, And higher yet the glorious Temple rear'd Her pile, far off appearing like a Mount Of Alabaster, top't with Golden Spires: There on the highest Pinacle he set The Son of God; and added thus in scorn: There stand, if thou wilt stand; to stand upright Will ask thee skill; I to thy Fathers house Have brought thee, and highest plac't, highest is best, Now shew thy Progeny; if not to stand, Cast thy self down; safely if Son of God: For it is written, He will give command Concerning thee to his Angels, in thir hands They shall up lift thee, lest at any time Thou chance to dash thy foot against a stone. To whom thus Jesus: also it is written, Tempt not the Lord thy God, he said and stood. But Satan smitten with amazement fell As when Earths Son Antæus(to compare Small things with greatest) in Irassa strove With Joves Alcides, and oft foil'd still rose, Receiving from his mother Earth new strength, Fresh from his fall, and fiercer grapple joyn'd, Throttl'd at length in the Air, expir'd and fell; So after many a foil the Tempter proud, Renewing fresh assaults, amidst his pride Fell whence he stood to see his Victor fall. And as that Theban Monster that propos'd Her riddle, and him, who solv'd it not, devour'd; That once found out and solv'd, for grief and spight Cast her self headlong from th'Ismenian steep, So strook with dread and anguish fell the Fiend, And to his crew, that sat consulting, brought Joyless triumphals of his hop't success, Ruin, and desperation, and dismay, Who durst so proudly tempt the Son of God. So Satan fell and strait a fiery Globe Of Angels on full sail of wing flew nigh, Who on their plumy Vans receiv'd him soft From his uneasie station, and upbore As on a floating couch through the blithe Air, Then in a flowry valley set him down On a green bank, and set before him spred A table of Celestial Food, Divine, Ambrosial, Fruits fetcht from the tree of life, And from the fount of life Ambrosial drink, That soon refresh'd him wearied, and repair'd What hunger, if aught hunger had impair'd, Or thirst, and as he fed, Angelic Quires Sung Heavenly Anthems of his victory Over temptation, and the Tempter proud. True Image of the Father whether thron'd In the bosom of bliss, and light of light Conceiving, or remote from Heaven, enshrin'd In fleshly Tabernacle, and human form, Wandring the Wilderness, whatever place, Habit, or state, or motion, still expressing The Son of God, with Godlike force indu'd Against th' Attempter of thy Fathers Throne, And Thief of Paradise; him long of old Thou didst debel, and down from Heav'n cast With all his Army, now thou hast aveng'd Supplanted Adam, and by vanquishing Temptation, hast regain'd lost Paradise, And frustrated the conquest fraudulent: He never more henceforth will dare set foot In Paradise to tempt; his snares are broke: For though that seat of earthly bliss be fail'd, A fairer Paradise is founded now For Adam and his chosen Sons, whom thou A Saviour art come down to re-install. Where they shall dwell secure, when time shall be Of Tempter and Temptation without fear. But thou, Infernal Serpent, shalt not long Rule in the Clouds; like an Autumnal Star Or Lightning thou shalt fall from Heav'n trod down Under his feet: for proof, e're this thou feel'st Thy wound, yet not thy last and deadliest wound By this repulse receiv'd, and hold'st in Hell No triumph; in all her gates Abaddon rues Thy bold attempt; hereafter learn with awe To dread the Son of God: he all unarm'd Shall chase thee with the terror of his voice From thy Demoniac holds, possession foul, Thee and thy Legions, yelling they shall flye, And beg to hide them in a herd of Swine, Lest he command them down into the deep Bound, and to torment sent before thir time. Hail Son of the most High, heir of both worlds, Queller of Satan, on thy glorious work Now enter, and begin to save mankind. Thus they the Son of God our Saviour meek Sung Victor, and from Heavenly Feast refresht Brought on his way with joy; hee unobserv'd Home to his Mothers house private return'd.

Easter was the old North Goddess of the dawn. She rises daily in the East And yearly in spring for the great Paschal candle of the sun. Her name lingers like a spot Of gravy in the figured vestment Of the language of the Britains. Her totem the randy bunny. Our very Thursdays and Wednesdays Are stained by syllables of thunder And Woden's frenzy. O my fellow-patriots loyal to this Our modern world of high heels, Vaccination, brain surgery— May they pass over us, the old Jovial raptors, Apollonian flayers, Embodiments. Egg-hunt, Crucifixion. Supper of encrypted Dishes: bitter, unrisen, a platter Compass of martyrdom, Ground-up apples and walnuts In sweet wine to embody mortar Of affliction, babies for bricks. Legible traces of the species That devises the angel of death Sailing over our doorpost Smeared with sacrifice.

For Reverend Theodore Richardson If Mary came would Mary Forgive, as Mothers may, And sad and second Saviour Furnish us today? She would not shake her head and leave This military air, But ratify a modern hay, And put her Baby there. Mary would not punish men— If Mary came again.

The horse in harness suffers; he's not feeling up to snuff. The feeler's sensate but the cook pronounces lobsters tough. The chain's too short: The dog's at pains to reach a sheaf of shade. One half a squirrel's whirling there upon the interstate. That rough around the monkey's eye is cancer. Only God's impervious—he's deaf and blind. But he's not dumb: to answer for it all, his spokesmen aren't allowed to come.

is doing her usual for comic relief. She doesn’t see why she should get on the boat, etc., etc., while life as we know it hangs by a thread. Even God has had one or two great deadpan lines: Who told you(this was back at the start— the teeth of the tautology had just snapped shut)Who told you you were naked? The world was so new that death hadn’t been till this minute required.What makes you think(the ground withers under their feet)we were told? The woman’s disobedience is good for plot, as also for restoring plot to human scale: three hundred cubits by fifty by what? What’s that in inches exactly? Whereas all obstinate wife is common coin. In the beginning was nothing and then a flaw in the nothing, a sort of mistake that amplified, the nothing mistranscribed (it takes such discipline to keep the prospect clean) and now the lion whelps, the beetle rolls its ball of dung, and Noah with no more than a primitive double- entry audit is supposed to make it right. We find the Creator in an awkward bind. Washed back to oblivion? Think again. The housewife at her laundry tub has got a better grip. Which may be why we’ve tried to find her laughable, she’s such an unhappy reminder of what understanding costs. Ask the boy who cannot, though God know’s he’s tried, he swears each bar of melting soap will be his last, who cannot turn the water off when once he’s turned it on. His hands are raw. His body seems like filth to him. Who told you(the pharmacopoeia has changed, the malady’s still the same)Who told you you were food for worms? What makes you think(the furrow, the fruit) I had to be told?

When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best.... They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. — Donald Trump, June 16, 2015 They woke him up by pissing in his face. He opened his mouth to scream in Spanish, so his mouth became a urinal at the ballpark. Scott and Steve: the Leader brothers, celebrating a night at Fenway, where the Sox beat the Indians and a rookie named Rodríguez spun the seams on his changeup to hypnotize the Tribe. Later that night, Steve urinated on the door of his cell, and Scott told the cops why they did it:Donald Trump was right. All these illegals need to be deported. He was a Mexican in a sleeping bag outside JFK station on a night in August, so they called him a wetback and emptied their bladders in his hair. In court, the lawyers spoke his name:Guillermo Rodríguez, immigrant with papers, crop-picker in the fields, trader of bottles and cans collected in his cart. Two strangers squashed the cartilage in his nose like a can drained of beer. In dreams, he would remember the shoes digging into his ribcage, the pole raked repeatedly across his cheekbones and upraised knuckles, the high-five over his body. Donald Trump was right, said Scott. And Trump said:The people that are following me are very passionate

Robed in dungeon black, in mourning For themselves they pass, repace The dark linoleum corridors Of humid wards, sure in the grace Of self-denial. Blown by duty, Jet sails borne by a high wind, Only the face and hands creep through The shapeless clothing, to remind One that a woman lives within The wrappings of this strange cocoon. Her hands reach from these veils of death To harvest a child from the raw womb. The metal scales of paradox Tip here then there. What can the nun Think of the butchery of birth, Mastery of the flesh, this one Vigorous mystery? Rude life From the volcano rolls and pours, Tragic, regenerate, wild. Sad, The unborn wait behind closed doors.

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells; And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth the prison, into which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me, In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground; Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

Ask nothing more of me, sweet; All I can give you I give. Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet— Love that should help you to live, Song that should spur you to soar. All things were nothing to give, Once to have sense of you more, Touch you and taste of you, sweet, Think you and breathe you and live, Swept of your wings as they soar, Trodden by chance of your feet. I that have love and no more Give you but love of you, sweet. He that hath more, let him give; He that hath wings, let him soar; Mine is the heart at your feet Here, that must love you to live.

oh antic God return to me my mother in her thirties leaned across the front porch the huge pillow of her breasts pressing against the rail summoning me in for bed. I am almost the dead woman’s age times two. I can barely recall her song the scent of her hands though her wild hair scratches my dreams at night.   return to me, oh Lord of then and now, my mother’s calling, her young voice humming my name.