Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE MISFORTUNES OF ST PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, by ANONYMOUS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MISFORTUNES OF ST PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, by                    
First Line: Could we consult th' eternal mighty fates
Last Line: "till then, we'll not disgrace the name of paul; / but thee misfortunes hieroglyphic call"
Subject(s): "london Fire (1666);st. Paul's Cathedral, London;" Great Fire Of 1666


Could we Consult th' Eternal Mighty Fates,
Which give fixt Laws to Greatest Kings and States,
And know what they above have once decreed
For their poor Vassals, we should have no need
To make Reflections on what'ere is done;
Or be solicitous for what's to come:
Free from such Cares we unconcern'd could sit,
Like Loyal Subjects, ready to submit.
But since the Gods will not such favour show
To shallow, finite Beings here below;
They'l not deny a Pardon sure, if we
Encompassed with whole Troops of Misery;
In mournful Accents do at length express
That Grief which does our anxious thoughts oppress?
Nor need we study for a Theme more fit
For serious Tragedy, than Comic Wit:
If we but look upon that Sacred Place,
Which did too much ungrateful England grace;
We must confess its infelicity
Exceeds the Bounds of an Hyperbole.
That stately Pile, and Sacred to the Name
Of Thee, Great Paul! is now the Nations shame.
Thou most unhappy Church, there's none can be
In pure unhapiness compar'd to Thee.
You may derive your Royal Pedigree
From him, who was of Saxon Monarchy
The greatest glory, nay yet farther, who
Was something greater, giving Birth to you.
For many Ages did you stand intire,
Whilst every one your glory did admire:
This British Isle, tho' great, could not contein
A thing so large as thy prodigious Name.
No Nation then so rude, but strove to be
Spectators of all Arts Epitome.
Thousands of wandring Pilgrims round thee throng,
Sated with joy and admiration.
'Twas such a glorious, rare amazing Scene,
That they could scarce believe what they had seen.
But thy Illustrious Splendour prov'd to be
The Prologue to a Future Tragedy:
For Gods at last stood in an extasy,
To see a thing so great, so brave as Thee.
How much says Jove that Palace doth out-shine
This mean, this despicable House of mine?
It derogates too much from my Grandeur;
I can no longer this affront endure.
'Tis fit that these bold Sons of Earth should know,
That their Dominion only is below:
These higher Orbs, the Clouds and Sky, are mine;
Nor will I my Prerogative resign.
From hence their swelling thoughts will soar so high;
They'l scorn the Gods, and hufft their Deity.
This Second Babel therefore soon shall down,
For fear they Rival me too in my Crown.
He gave the word: th' officious Lightning ran,
And like the Caesar, saw and overcame.
Yet Jove himself, who does Heavens Scepter sway,
Respect and Honour to this place did pay:
His strict Injunctions to the Flames were such,
He suffer'd not their greedy hands to touch
The Body, or Foundation of the Quire;
But only check'd th' ambition of the Spire.
That Lofty Head, which did too high aspire,
Was soon Lopp'd off by the victorious Fire.
Then did that Tyrant, Time, the common Foe
Of aged things, strive hard to overthrow
Thy weak and tottering Columns, but in vain;
For all its Force thou well could'st then sustain:
Great CHARLES, That Earthly God did Thee Defend,
Who was to holy things a constant Friend;
Thy Friend and thy Physician he did prove,
Fed with the Sacred Fire of zealous Love.
He heal'd thy wounds; nor did he leave thee so;
But added to thy State a Portico.
But when thy Zealous Patron Charles had been
Huff'd by bold Rebels, when their Plots were green,
His Native Right out-justled by the Rout,
And Treacherous Swords against the Scepter fought;
When that prevailing Party bore such Sway,
Nought could, but Royal Blood, their Rage allay;
Those Hurricanes of State who could withstand,
When dismal Ruine overflow'd the Land?
Thy spotless Innocency prov'd to be
But an incentive to their Cruelty.
So does the harmless Dove a Victim fall
To Hawks, which Banquet at her Funeral.
Thy Loyalty did truly then appear,
Thou didst a part in all his Sufferings bear
Who was the Lord's anointed; and we own
It fit, that Kings don't mourn, or dye alone.
Like a dejected Widow, you had on
Griefs Livery, because your Lord was gone.
No Chorister durst then approach that Quire,
Which Men, nay Angels once might well admire.
Thy Hymns Divine were Banish'd; and the noise
Of Horses lowder than the choisest voice.
Though Marble, you sure wept to see such Guests
So near your Hallow'd Altar daily feast.
Unparalleld Prophaneness! since we know,
That Heathens never us'd their Temples so.
Their Blind Devotion still such reverence pay'd
To those Mock-Gods which their own hands had made.
What'ere was dedicated to their Name,
Might not be touch'd by any thing prophane.
But our Reformers were so frugal grown,
They thought it was too much for God alone,
A whole Cathedral to Monopolize.
And therefore were so zealous and so wise,
Him and his service both they bid farewell;
And suffer Horses in his Courts to dwell.
Religion sure, is brought to strange decay,
When none but Horses tread the sacred way.
Those Storms were overblown at last; the Air
Once more began to look serene and fair:
Our Prince's Restauration seem'd to be
A happy and long-wish'd for Jubile.
Those Eyes which seldom saw that Stranger sleep,
Oppress'd with misery, forgot to weep.
The sad Reflections on past Tyranny,
Were swallowed up in thoughts of Liberty.
Such universal joy as knows no Bounds,
In ev'ry Loyal Subjects heart was found.
Then did you like those Embers that have lain
In heaps of Ashes, your Lost Strength regain:
In peace and Triumph then you had a share;
Because misfortunes you so well did bear.
No strength so great, no universal sway;
But must at last to Nature Tribute pay.
The Blooming Rose, the Glory of the Spring,
By one cold Blast is left a silly thing.
When Phoebus with the greatest State and Pride,
Mounted his Chariot, doth in Triumph ride;
Some sullen and malicious Cloud in spight,
With Sable Curtains doth ecclipse his Light.
So was thy Infant-Bliss a Martyr made,
To th' utmost rage of cruel flames betray'd:
Flames crueller than those which did destroy
Thy walls, the works oth' Gods O Troy!
A fiery Army sure's enough to make
The haughtiest and most daring spirit quake:
Such grim-look'd Enemies did then appear,
Which never understood what 'twas to fear,
The frowning General his well-Marshall'd Troops
Summons together; then about him looks:
My Fellow-Souldiers, you have always been
With Laurel Crown'd; but yet have never seen
An Enemy so vast, so brave as this;
Who of the greatest danger worthy is.
Behold a City sleeping and secure,
Not apprehending us, or danger near:
One bold Attack will make her Towers shake;
The next, a place so unprovided take.
Here Heaps of Gold, and Jewels crowded lye,
As if it were the Worlds vast Treasury.
A Prospect of such Plunder sure would set
New Edges on your Swords, and Courage whet;
He spake: th' impatient Troops in hast fall on,
As if they thought, they'd been kept back too long.
Each takes his several Post; thus did they fight;
And then their rallied Companies unite.
Horrour's Effigies then fill'd every place,
To see its Ruine marching on apace.
In vain they supplicate the mighty power
Of conquering Flames, and shed a fruitless Shower
Of Briny Tears, whilst each repeated Cry
Helpes to make up the Scene of Misery.
The Sun when he his Course had scarce half run,
Blushing, Retires, to see himself out-done;
To see a Fire on Earth so strangely bright,
Which made continual day, and knew no Night,
Such Clouds of Smoak each Minute did arise;
The Gods might think 'twas some great Sacrifice.
A Real Sacrifice it was; but such,
No Tongue or Pen can 'ere lament too much:
Mistake most dismal, and unheard device,
When Altars are themselves the Sacrifice.
Those Sacred Temples which did others save,
Now burn'd to Ashes, cannot find a Grave:
But must with common things confused lye,
Unless distinguished by an Elegy.
In this how kindly did the Fates conspire?
Though Urns they wanted, yet had Funeral Fire.
Thy Crisis now unhappy Church we see,
Who long had strugled with hard Destiny:
Tryals of Fire you did before endure,
Which purged your Dross, yet left you not secure:
These Flames Impartial were, and mow'd down all;
Nor could you e're have had a nobler fall;
Sharing your Fate, when others did attend,
Ambitious of their Mother-Churches End.
The difference this; although y'ad all one death,
On them alone the Fates bestow'd new breath:
They only rose again, 'tis only they,
Who seem to antidate the general day.
Continual Changes through each Creature pass,
Until Transform'd again to what it was.
Heavens glorious Host, the Stars with sparkling Eyes
Have their Declinings, but they set to rise.
Although Queen Cynthia constant Waining bears,
In her full Lustre she sometimes appears.
So is the Oak, when it with Storms hath strove,
The Glory, and the Monarch of the Grove,
Of all its brave and green array bereft,
To Cruel Winter's Mercy naked left;
But when the Rage of envious Winter's gone,
Its new green Livery is soon put on.
Those dying Plants, which lately sought a Tomb,
Within their Mother Earth's indulgent Womb
Put forth their Heads, and stand amaz'd awhile,
To see again one universal Smile.
Each Tree and Plant, looks then so brisk and gay,
Nature it self seems to keep Holy-day.
New Vigour is infus'd to every thing,
But only you; you know no second Spring.
Your utter Ruine's by the Fates decreed;
Who give fresh wounds, and laugh to see them bleed.
Pandora's Box was empty once; but we
Behold another fruitful Progeny
Of Evils and Misfortunes, hover round
Thy dislocated Members on the ground.
Though one would think the Fates should tired be
Of one continu'd Scene of Cruelty;
Or that their Wit, nay Rage could not invent
A Plague for thee, which has not yet been sent;
Triumphing on your Ruines now they tread,
Like an Insulting Conqueror o're the Dead.
Behold a place, which lately did appear
Too great a Labour for an Age to rear;
In twice six years, so rich, so stately grown,
As if Devouring Flames it ne're had known.
Strange Paradox! can Fire, that dismal thing,
New Strength and Honour to a City bring?
Such was thy Fate, O London; Loe it came
To Usher in thy present Wealth and Fame:
That there might Room and fit Reception be
For such a Stately, Noble thing as thee.
Compar'd to you Old London's mean and low,
As Shrubs which under Cedar's shadows grow.
Of other Cities you may well be Queen,
When ev'ry House does like a Palace seem.
The Proud AEgyptian Memphis fam'd of old,
A Rival Pyramid may here behold.
Those Churches, which with you had equal fate
In Fire and Ashes, both live now in State:
They all appear in such a Splendid Dress,
Their Ruine seems their greatest Happiness.
But for Precedence striving, could not stay,
For thee their Mother-Church to lead the way.
On them, though plenteous Showrs of Joy did fall,
Poor Gideon's Fleece was dry amongst them all.
Whilst all things else their joy in Triumph sound,
Like an unpitied Beggar on the ground,
Poor solitary Nymph You set alone,
The only Auditor of your own Moan.
O sad Catastrophe! how chang'd are you?
Of what you were, you scarce the shadow shew.
Full of pretended piety and Care
We ruin'd what the very Flames did spare.
We pull'd down what their Mercy let remain;
But have forgot to build Thee up again.
Those Hands, whose Strength and Vigour then was shewn;
Are useless now, and paralytick grown.
Forsaken of false Friends, you sadly stand
Derision's common Object through the Land.
This wounded deeper than all former Ills;
For more than wretched's he whom pity kills.
A rough, confus'd, imperfect thing are you;
As Chaos was, 'ere any Form it knew.
One part begun, unfinish'd does admire,
After so many years to be no higher:
It looks upon those Heaps of Stones below,
And fancies them to be remiss and slow:
It frets and fumes, to see their strange Delay;
And bids them hasten, hasten, come away.
They sighing, answer, Ah! we cannot move,
Unless supported by the zeal and Love
Of some Mecaenas; 'tis the joyful sound
Of such a Voice, must raise us from the ground.
Although we don't believe, th' Enchanting Lyre
Of Orpheus could the very Stones inspire:
Or that the Stones should so ingenious be,
To dance, and keep an uniformity;
And with such good Invention were fill'd,
That they themselves the City Thebes did build;
Yet we shall scarce this Place Rebuilded see,
Unless that Method now Repeated be:
For whilst the Stones for Aid do Sigh and Moan,
More deaf than they, and Flinty we are grown.
Hundreds of Priests and Levites every day
Are thy Spectators; so they pass away.
But scarce one good Samaritan is found,
To pity, or relieve thee on the Ground.
Although so many wear the Holy Robe,
Most prove such Friends, as others did to Job.
Unhappy Church! well mayst thou long to be
Reduced to a pure Non-Enity.
Till then, we'll not disgrace the Name of Paul;
But Thee Misfortunes Hieroglyphic call.





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