Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON BOW-CHURCH AND STEEPLE, by ANONYMOUS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ON BOW-CHURCH AND STEEPLE, by                    
First Line: Look how the country-hobbs with wonder flock
Last Line: "to you who steeple upon steeple set, / cut my cocks-comb, if e're to heaven you get"
Subject(s): London;london Fire (1666); Great Fire Of 1666


Look how the Country-Hobbs with wonder flock
To see the City-crest, turn'd Weather-cock!
Which with each shifting Gale, veres too and fro;
London has now got twelve strings to her Bow!
The Wind's South-East, and strait the Dragon russels
His brazen wings to court the breeze from Brussels!
The Wind's at North! and now his hissing Fork,
Whirles round, to meet a flattering gale from York!
Boxing the Compass, with each freshing Gale,
But still to London turns his threatning Tail.
But stay what's there; I spy a stranger thing;
Our Red-cross brooded by the Dragons wing!
The wing is warm, but O! beware the sting!
Poor English-Cross, expos'd to winds and weathers,
Forc't to seek shelter in the Dragons feathers!
Ne're had old Rome so rare a piece to brag on,
A Temple built to great Bell, and the Dragon!
Whilst yet undaunted Protestants, dare hope,
They that will worship Bell shall wear the Rope,
O how our English Chronicles will shine!
Burnt, sixty six; Rebuilt, in seventy nine,
When Jacob Hall on his High-Rope shews tricks,
The Dragon flutters; the Lord-Mayors Horse kicks;
The Cheapside-crowds, and Pageants scarcely know
Which most t'admire, Hall, Hobby-Horse, or Bow;
But what mad Frenzy set your Zeal on fire?
(Grave Citizens!) to Raise Immortal Spire
On Sea-coal Basis? which will sooner yield
Matter to Burn a Temple, than to Build!
What the Coals build, the Ashes bury! no Men
Of Wisdom, but would dread the threatning Omen!
But say (Proud Dragon!) now preferr'd so High,
What Marvels from that Prospect dost thou spy?
Westward thou seest, and seeing hat'st the Walls
Of, sometimes Rev'rend, now Regenerate, Pauls,
Thy envious Eyes, such Glories cannot brook,
But as the Devil once over Lincoln, look:
And envies Poyson, will thy Bowels Tear
Sooner than Daniel's Dose, of Pitch, and Hair!
Then Eastward, to avoid that wounding sight,
Thy Glaring Eyes upon the Mum-glass, light.
Adorn'd with Monstrous forms to clear the scope,
How much thou art out-dragon'd by the Pope.
Ah fools! to dress a Monument of woe
In whistling Silks, that should in Sackcloth, go!
Nay strangely wise, our Senators appear
To build That, and a Bedlam in a year,
That if the Mum-glass crack, they may inherit
An Hospital becoming their great merit!
To Royal Westminster, next turn thine eye;
Perhaps a Parliament thou mayst espy,
Dragons of old gave Oracles at Rome;
Then Prophesie, their Day, their Date, and Doom!
And if thy Visual Ray can reach the Main;
Tell's when the Duke, new gone, returns again!
Facing about; next view our Guildhall well,
Where Reverend Fox-furrs charm'd by potent spell
Of Elephants, (turn'd wrong side outward) dare
Applaud the Plays; and yet hiss out the Player:
Player! whose wise Zeal for City, Country, King,
Shall to all points of the wide Compass ring
Whilst Bow has Bells, or Royal Thames a Spring!
Thy Roving Eye perhaps from Hague may send's
How the New League, has made Old Foes, New Friends:
But let substantial witness, Credence give it,
Or Ne're believe me, if the House believe it!
If true, I fear too late! France at one sup,
(Like Pearls dissolv'd in Cleopatra's Cup)
Trade, Empire, Neitherlands has swallowed up!
But heark! The Dragon speaks from Brazen Mouth,
Whose words, though wind, are spoken in Good south!
To you of Ratling fame, and great esteem;
The higher placed, the less you ought to seem!
To you of Noble Souls, and Gallant Minds,
Learn to outface (with me) the Huffing winds!
To tim'rous feeble Spirits, that live beneath;
Learn not of me to turn with every breath!
To those who like (Camelions) live on Air;
Popular Praise is thin Consumptive fare!
To you who Steeple upon Steeple set,
Cut my Cocks-comb, if e're to Heaven you get.





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