That hung'st the solid earth in fleeting air,
Vein'd with clear springs, which ambient seas
In clouds the mountains wrap their hoary heads;
Luxurious vallies cloth'd with flowery meads:
Her trees yield fruit and shade; with liberal breasts,
All creatures she (their common mother) feasts.
Then man thy image mad'st; in dignity,
In knowledge, and in beauty like to thee;
Placed in a heaven on earth without his toil
The ever-flourishing and fruitful soil
Unpurchas'd food produced: all creatures were
His subjects, serving more for love than fear.
He knew no Lord but Thee; but when he fell
From his obedience, all at once rebel,
And in his ruin exercise their might:
Concurring elements against him fight:
Troops of unknown diseases-sorrow, age,
And death assail him with successive rage.
Hell let forth all her furies: none so great,
As man to man, ambition, pride, deceit :
Wrong arm'd with power, lust, rapine, slaughter
reign'd,
And flatter'd vice the name of virtue gain'd.
Then hills beneath the swelling waters stood,
And all the globe of earth was but one flood,
Yet could not cleanse their guilt: the following
Worse than their fathers, and their sons more base : Their God-like beauty lost-sin's wretched thrall; No spark of their divine original
Left unextinguished; all enveloped
With darkness; in their bold transgressions dead; When thou didst from the East a light display, Which rendered to the world a clearer day;
Whose precepts from hell's jaws our steps with
And whose example was a living law :
Who purg'd us with his blood; the way prepar'd To heaven, and those long-chain'd-up doors unbarr'd.
How infinite thy mercy! which exceeds
The world thou mad'st, as well as our misdeeds!
Which greater reverence than thy justice wins,
And still augments thy honour by our sins.
O who hath tasted of thy clemency
In greater measure, or more oft, than I!
My grateful verse thy goodness shall display,
O Thou who went'st along in all my way:
To where the morning with perfumed wings
From the high mountains of Panchæa springs,
To that new-found-out world, where sober night
Takes from the antipodes her silent flight;
To those dark seas, where horrid winter reigns,
And binds the stubborn floods in icy chains:
To Libyan wastes, whose thirst no showers assuage,
And where swoln Nilus cools the lion's rage.
Thy wonders in the deep have I beheld;
Yet all by those on Judah's hills excell'd:
There where the virgin's Son his doctrine taught,
His miracles, and our redemption wrought:
Where I, by Thee inspir'd, his praises sung;
And on his sepulchre my offering hung.
Which way soe'er I turn my face or feet,
I see thy glory, and thy mercy meet;
Met on the Thracian shores, when in the strife
Of frantic Simoans thou preserv'dst my life;
So when Arabian thieves belaid us round,
And whenby all abandon'd Thee I found.
That false Sidonian wolf, whose craft put on
A sheep's soft fleece, and me Bellerophon
To ruin by his cruel letter sent,
Thou didst by thy protecting hand prevent.
Thou sav'st me from the bloody massacres
Of faithless Indians; from their treacherous wars;
From raging fevers; from the sultry breath
Of tainted air, which cloy'd the jaws of death;
Preserved from swallowing seas, when tow'ring
Mixed with the clouds, and opened their deep graves;
From barbarous pirates ransom'd; by those taught
Successfully with Salian Moors we fought.
Then brought'st me home in safety; that this earth
Might bury me, which fed me from my birth:
Blest with a healthful age; a quiet mind,
Content with little; to this work designed;
Which I at length have finished by thy aid,
And now my vows have at thy altar paid.
THE family of Fletcher was rendered illustrious in the literary history of the 17th century, by a constellation of poetic power. Dr. Giles Fletcher, an accomplished scholar, and himself, as Wood the antiquary says, 66 an excellent poet," left two sons, Phineas and Giles, both of whom deserve an eminent place among our early English classics. John Fletcher, the dramatic writer, the associate of Beaumont, was their cousin. reason, therefore, might the writer of a copy of verses, prefixed to the works of Phineas Fletcher, say,
"Thy very name's a poet."
The principal composition of this author is "The Purple Island," a poem in twelve cantos, containing an allegorical description of the body and soul of man-a subject which no degree of skill in the poet could render agreeable as a whole to modern readers. It abounds, however, with passages of powerful description and great beauty both of thought and style.
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