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A67163
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Three poems of St. Paul's Cathedral viz. The ruins. The rebuilding. The choire.
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Wright, James, 1643-1713.
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1697
(1697)
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Wing W3700; ESTC R221253
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5,850
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15
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THREE POEMS OF St. PAUL's Cathedral VIZ. The RUINS The REBUILDING The CHOIRE Verum Haec tantum alias inter caput extulit Urbis Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi LONDON Printed by Ben. Griffin for Sam. Keble at the Turk's-Head over against Fetter-lane in Fleet-street 1697. The RUINS Writ in the Year 1668. IT was a Curious tho' a mournful Thought Led me to visit that unsightly Place Where dismal Fate such a sad Change had wrought That none cou'd know the Object by the Face I who have seen thy beauties Pride before Thou Queen of England's Churches I who here Have heard thy charming Voice view thee once more Tho' now nor Speech nor Comliness appear Yet Speechless as thou art were Donne and all Those moving Preachers here that once were thine All they cou'd say were less Emphatical Of Death false Glory and deceiful Time I did suppose 'em here and they are here What Wonder 's this Those who before did Teach Such Doctrines now lie mute and disappear And even these Stones assume their place and Preach The parts so many in this Sermon are As there are places in this ruin'd Pile First see where that wild Dunghill lies just there Beauty and Order sat enthroned e'rewhile Beauty What art thou posting thus away If Pauls which stood this Island 's Fame and Grace Above a Thousand Years fell in one Day How canst thou last one moment in a Face See in that place Confusions thick-sown Field With Limbs of Tombs A Lady's Arm lies there Of Aliblaster in a Marble Sheild 'Twixt half a Knight and a Devote at Prayer A Casual heap of divers sorts of Stone In several Forms all met from several Ways As if their meeting was design'd alone A Monument of Discord here to raise Here 's an imperfect Limb and there lies more Thus Poets say when the Great Floud was gone Lookt Pyrrha's Stones which did Mankind restore Their Humain shape scarce being half put on What Lead is that so bruis'd and smear'd with Filth Lies on the Brink of those new open'd Graves Like a fresh Furrow turn'd up by the Tilth Or Wreck new cast ashoar by angry Waves See Letters too †Hic jacet Nicholaus Bacon miles quondam Custos magni Sigilli Angliae sub Elizabetha Regina qui functus est Officio viginti annos Ob. An. Dom. 1578. Cast on a leaden Coffin that say Bacon lies here First Chancellor of that Name who heretofore Kept that unquiet Office twenty Year But cannot keep the peaceful Grave Fivescore This Lead in Pauls might as a Wonder shew But that Humility is Ruin proof Safe and intire this lay i' th' Floor below While Flames did humble that above the Roof Ha! What is that peeps through yon' Grave and Shroud With such a frighted and a frightful look Gastly as Comets from behind a Cloud When they declare what 's Writ in fates Black Book Gallants what think ye will this fashion do A Wig may well supply his loss of Hair His Nose is gone that may be wanting too But here 's no Eyes ah That is past repair Now wou'd you have an Object to invade All that is Man within you by the sight See there Death presence Chamber quite display'd Ha! this doth both the Eye and Nose affright Yet mind how that bold Sexton there doth tread Familiarly upon the Trunk half Clay And crams to it the Bones of several Dead Sure he 's more Dead and Senceless than are they Look here you Wantons for like this must be Your last soft Bed and such your spacious Room Such Garb such Mrith and such gay Company And such an Odoriferous Perfume Where 's the rich Cenotaph and richer Shrine With all those pompous Words here lately read Which Princes made Majestick Saints Divine All sunk and perisht all as are their Dead Memorials need their Epitaphs We might Cou'd we as truly point the where and whom With some Coal of this ruin'd Fabrick write Here lies within this place that Great Man's Tomb. False Guardians You but ill discharge your Trust Thus from your silent Wards to fall away Mingling your Rubbish with their finer Dust While of your Dead you nothing shew or say Scarcely their Names remain Yet * Bishop Braybrook supposed one of these Slept in his Grave two hundred Years intire Nor wonder he who owns this House can please To guard his Saints both from the Earth and Fire Oh Revernd Man If I mayn't call thee more Than such when to this prefect Shape of thine Flames knew their distance and Worms seem'd t' adore Thou wast thine own best Epitaph and Shrine But how cou'd Tombs preserve their Dead so small When Pauls nor them nor her own self cou'd save The greater Monument on the less did fall And what was once their Glory is their Grave This ponderous Fall in its sad passage hath Open'd a place that was both Roof and Floor A Reverend Vault sacred to Holy Faith Which n'ere was violated thus before Now the Old Tower's t'ane down and with good Cause Tho' spared by angry Flames yet for the Head Still to survive is against Nature's Laws When all the Body and its Limbs are dead See yet another Ruin here were laid Choice Authors by the Servants of the Muses And here to sacrilegious Flames betray'd To spare or Wit or Temples Fire refuses These half burnt Papers lying here needs must Be for the Library of the Dead mistook And for a Scholar fal'n himself to dust Ashes of Paper is a proper Book Cou'dst thou not Pauls in all thy Vaults of Stone Preserve these Papers from the Tyrant Flame When thou by Paper and by it alone Art still preserved to triumph o're the same Wer 't not for Books the Loss had double been But that thou art in Dugdale's painful Story And Beautious Illustrations to be seen Thy Memory had perisht with thy Glory See the Reward of learned Pains as he Hath writ for Pauls a Monument to Fame So the same Pauls in gratitude will be An Everlasting Honour to his Name The Rebuilding Writ in the Year 1677. WHat Infant Beauty 's this with Royal Grace Springs up a grateful Object to our Eyes In so deform'd and desolate a Place As Chymick Flowers from their own Ashes rise Does Time revolve back to the Saxons Days Devotions more than Golden Age 'T was thus Those were employed who did the Temples raise And left I blush I can not say to us For a succeeding Age produc'd a Race That durst assume the then unthought of Guilt And with a false but equal Zeal deface What the True Puritans before had built But now slow time repays again that Debt Which kind Antiquity of old did lend Fate has a Monarch raised who Good as Great Does like himself our wounded Faith defend Tell of the pious Ethelbert no more Nor mention peaceful Edgar's happy Fame Since that renown they justly claim'd before Lessens and drowns in Charles his greater Name