Classic and Contemporary Poetry
S. BARTHOLOMEW, by JOSEPH BEAUMONT First Line: Surely this gold's but earth, although Last Line: At heavns strait gate, didst first put off thy skin. Subject(s): Bartholomew, Saint (1st Century); Saints | ||||||||
SURELY this Gold's but Earth, although Through throngs of Tempests it can draw The greedy West Into ye East And make ye Ocean crowd into The Mouth of Inde: And will none goe To finde a Prize more golden then That glittering Ore, th' eternall Soules of Men? Yes, here's a Merchant ready; He, Were India more Worlds off, can be Content to passe Them all: He has A fairer gale then ever from The Mouth of any Winde did come; Full in his Sail God's Spirit blows, And not to fetch, but carry Gold, he goes. If Gold be not a Name too poor, To print upon his Noble store; The pretious Wares He thither bears Are genuine Peace, & boundlesse Blisse, And Loves, & Joyes, & Paradise: For these & more inshrined lie In JESU'S Name, Heavns best Epitomie. With this He trades, yet not to make Him selfe, but India rich: Come take Your choise, He cries, In this great Prize; Indeed tis richly worth much more Then all your idolized Ore; But you may goe on Trust for this, Give but your Faith, & yours ye Treasure is. His market thus in India done, Unto Armenia He doth run To traffique there With ye same ware. A Braver Merchant ne'r did come Into those parts; & there were some That dealt with Him, who quickly thrive Getting wherwith eternally to live. But having undertook to make His Chapmen Kings, ye King doth take High discontent To hear Him vent Doctrines so bold; No more, cries He, Of your Christs Kingdome; there shall be In my Armenia but one And thats mine owne undoubted lawfull Throne. The Gods by whose assistance I Ascended to this Royaltie Are Gods enough: I can allow Thy uselesse Christ no room, & yet Thy selfe maist for some use be fit. Say Slaves, will He not serve to flea? Though He be naught, yet good his skin may be. Mistaken Tyrant, what canst Thou And this thy tardy Torment doe? Long since our Saint Without constraint Threw off ye Worlds unworthy skins The foolish furniture of Sins; Yea & ye Flesh: what matter then For Him to lay aside his weary Skin? Take then thy most unconquerd Prey; And for ye skin Thou pluckst away Array Him round With one great Wound: Trie if thy Spight can boundlesse prove As are His Patience & his Love: Send Him more naked hence then He Came hither at his first Nativitie; So! now far fairer then before, He sparkles in his glorious Gore As ye stript Sun The Clouds being gone Though naked yet more beauteous is By that illustrious Nakednes, Having no shame to hide, wch may Beholding be to some more spruce array. What e'r ye stupid Tyrant think, The wiser Devills back doe shrink, And dare not look On this red book The Saints owne Rubrick, or once come Neere so strong Beams of Martyrdome, But wish a thousand times ye skin Were on ye Noble Martyrs back agin. No; let ye King this token keep That he did slay ye harmelesse Sheep: Heavn will provide A Robe to hide The Saint; faire Immortalitie Into a garment fram'd shall be, A garment full & fit, whose hue Though ever worne, keeps ever fresh & new. Goe then, Great Saint, unto thy Place Much richer then thy India was, A Place too high For Tyranny To reach Thee thence: there shalt Thou see The Crowne & Throne prepard for Thee, Who to be sure to enter in At Heavns strait Gate, didst first put off thy skin. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ST. AGNES' EVE by KENNETH FEARING THINKING ABOUT PAUL CELAN by DENISE LEVERTOV THE TEMPTATIONS OF SAINT ANTHONY by PHYLLIS MCGINLEY EL SANTO NINO DE ATOCHA by PAT MORA LA SAGRADA FAMILIA by PAT MORA THE VISITATION / LA VISITACION by PAT MORA NUESTRA SENORA DE LA ANUNCIACION by PAT MORA 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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