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May 28th. 1706. To my Worthy Friend, Mr. James Bayley, Living (if Living) in Roxbury, A POEM.
MY Old Companion! and my Friend!
I cannot Come, and therefore send.
Some pity should be shown to One
That's heavy laden with the Stone;
That's wearied out with fits of pain
Returning like Clouds after Rain.
Alas! my Brother, what can I
Do for thee, more than Pray and Cry,
To Counsel, and to comfort try,
And bear a part by Sympathy?
Excuse me, though I Write in Verse,
It's usual on a Dead mans Hearse:
Thou many a Death hast under-gone,
And Elegies made of thine own.
Our Saviours Funeral Obsequies,
One Celebrates before His eyes;
And He the Oyntment kindly takes,
That for His Burial she makes.
Two Saints array'd in glorious dress,
Appear, and talk of His Decease;
Whose Death from thine did take the Sting,
And wholsome make that Poyson thing.
And I have seen thine hand, and Pen,
Play on that Cockatrices den
In measur'd Lines, as if inspir'd,
And
Paroxisms had only fir'd
An holy Soul with flaming zeal,
That flesh-pains it could scarcely feel.
What, in one breath, both Live and Dye,
Groan, Laugh, Sigh, Smile, Cry, Versifie?
Is this the Stone? are these the pains
Of that Disease that plagues the Reins?
That slyly steals into the bladder?
Then bites, and stings like to the Adder.
Is this the Scourge of Studious men?
That leaves unwhipt scarce five of ten
And Whips them once, and over again.
In Christs School there's smart Discipline,
To make His Scholars more divine;
Blest they who do not take offence,
Whose joy lyes in the Future Tense;
Who when they are in most distress,
Love Christ the more, and not the less.
His Yoke is easy, burthen light,
To them that understand things right;
And none will afterward complain,
Who Hell escape, and Heaven obtain.
Well! if this Stone should do its worst,
It cannot make thee be accurst:
For if thou shouldst be Ston'd to Death,
And this way Pelted out of Breath,
Thou wilt like
Stephen fall asleep,
And free from pain for ever keep.
Great Pains, with as great Patience, may
Fall little short of
Martyrs Pay:
For Christs Rewards are all of Grace,
No Merit but His, in either case.
Our Lord thee good Example offer'd,
Who learn'd Obedience while He suffer'd,
Who for the joy was set before Him,
Endur'd the Cross He bore, and bore Him,
Who though He Pray'd it might be gone,
Yet also said, Thy will be done.
That Stone which builders did refuse,
For thy Foundation choose, and use.
Think also when thine Agonies
Are most intense, and force loud cryes;
They are not worthy to compare
With those that Christ for thee did bear:
Yea, think what Christ for thee hath done,
Who took an harder, heavyer Stone
Out of thine
Heart; and it is gone.
Who did thy Wounded
Spirit cure
Of Soul-pains, that none can endure,
And this is easyer to be borne,
For in the
Flesh abides this thorne:
And if Christ do not it remove,
Sufficient is His Grace, and Love,
To give thee comfort, and Support,
Because this pain is light, and short;
And works for thee the Glory great,
That doth exceed in length, and weight.
Besides, these Torments cant compare,
With Torments that
Eternal are:
For they are utterly undone,
That rowl the
Sisypean Stone;
Not they whose pains are limited,
And are releas'd, as soon as dead.
Add one thought more; that this distress
Makes thee partake of
Holiness:
The more the flesh is hack'd, and hew'd,
The more Corruption is subdu'd.
Life is to thee the less endear'd,
And
Death by
[...] is the less fear'd:
For it's but once thou hast to dye,
And then Live to Eternity.
Thy weary Body shall have Rest,
Thy Soul from thence forth shall be blest;
Thy dust be
[...]; for Christ shall find it,
And leave thi
[...] cruel Stone behind it.
One Stone Gold's truth doth bring to light;
Another makes Iron sharp, and bright:
A third our grain doth Pulverize,
And Separate the chaff likewise.
Thine, all these profits bring to thee,
In nobler sense than th' other three.
Thine proves thy Grace to be Sincere;
Of rust, and dulness, doth thee clear.
And makes thee Watch, and Pray, and long
To change thy groans, for
[...] Song.
Though grinding pains thy nature bruise,
They fit thee for thy Masters use:
And when thy dust shall be resin'd;
Thou shalt be neither pain'd, nor pin'd;
Nor full of petrifying juice,
Hard Studies, Heats, and Colds produce.
Then shall hid Manna be thy fare,
In which no gritt, nor gravel are;
Yea, Christ will give thee a
White Stone,
With a
New Name engrav'd thereon,
To the Enjoyer only Known.
Lord, once thou saidst, Arise and Walk;
Thy Words Were Works; Mine are but Ta
[...]
Be pleas'd to bid thy son, Good chear!
And say, Thy Sins forgiven are!
Then, Sink, or Swim; or Live, or Die,
He will thee greatly Glorifie.
Say so to me too, so will I.
A Man of Sorrow once Thou wast,
And still a fellow-feeling hast,
So to Thy Pity, I commend
My self, and my afflicted Friend!
Nicholas Noyes