Protestantisme Reviv'd. OR, The Persecuted CHURCH Triumphing.
IN Sable Weeds I saw a Matron clad,
Whose Looks were grave, whose Countenance was sad;
Pensive with Care, she musing sate alone,
Her State, too too unhappy, to bemoan:
Deep bitter Pangs I saw her undergoe,
And pay the tributary Drops of Woe.
So wept
Deucalion when he saw the State
And Face of Nature chang'd and desolate.
By this dumb Elegy a while sh' exprest
The gloomy Sorrows of her troubled Breast.
Then heaving up her Head, she silence broke,
And with a heavy Sigh dejected spoke.
Good God! what Grief surrounds my aged Head!
What new distracting Woes I daily wed!
Who am by spitefull Foes in Triumph led:
They pierce my side with wounds, they break my rest,
And snatch my sucking Children from my Breast:
My elder Sons inhumanely they treat,
My weaker ones they bubble with Deceit.
Thus they insult, thus put me to disgrace,
And spit their frothy Venom in my Face:
My growing sorrows to compleat the more,
I' m flouted by a Babylonish Whore.
Put me to death they can't, since Heav'n decreed,
I must not dye, though with my Saviour bleed,
But humbly should in after-times succeed:
What most my anxious Soul tormented hath,
Is, He that should defend, betrayes my Faith.
Thus, thus abus'd, I' m to all Griefs betray'd,
Thus my Delights are double Sorrows made.
Who e're was Curb'd by such a Concubine?
Who so perplext? Was ever Grief like mine?
Then she bow'd down her Head, and with her Tears
Bedew'd the parched Earth: When streight appears
A Comforter by pittying Heaven sent
To raise her drooping Spirits, almost spent:
Who when he had respectfull Homage paid,
In terms obliging, reverently said,
Mother, I know the Cause of all thy Grief,
I' m sent thy Succour, and thy true Relief:
Thy God has heard thy Sighs, thy faithful Prayers,
And graciously receiv'd thy flowing Tears:
I'le wipe them off, I'le rugged Grief expell,
And usu'al Joy shall in thy Count'nance dwell:
I've made thy haughty Domineerers bow,
And own their Lives they to my Bounty owe:
I've broke your Yoke, I've freed you from your Chain,
And set you once at Liberty again:
I've foyl'd them all, I have disarm'd them quite,
They have the Power to Bark, but not to Bite.
To Ease your Pain by th' God of Heav'n I'm sent,
He acts, and I'm the Honour'd Instrument.
Then she arose, Joy smiling in her Eye,
And with a chearful Voice did thus reply:
Thanks Gracious God, thanks thou Victorious Son,
By whom I have my wonted Glory won:
Rejoyce my Sons, and
Hallelujahs sing,
Unto our Saviour, our Triumphant King.
For I an Anthem will compose, and then,
We'll sweetly sound it to our God.
Amen.
C. A. Linc. Coll. Oxon.
LON [...], Printed for S. Walsall at the Heart and Bible near the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, 1688.