The Poetical Works of John Dryden Volume I Part 11

243 Himself directs what first is to be done, And orders all the succours which they bring, The helpful and the good about him run, And form an army worthy such a king.

244 He sees the dire contagion spread so fast, That, where it seizes, all relief is vain: And therefore must unwillingly lay waste That country, which would else the foe maintain.

245 The powder blows up all before the fire: The amazed flames stand gather'd on a heap; And from the precipice's brink retire, Afraid to venture on so large a leap.

246 Thus fighting fires a while themselves consume, But straight, like Turks forced on to win or die, They first lay tender bridges of their fume, And o'er the breach in unctuous vapours fly.

247 Part stay for pa.s.sage, till a gust of wind s.h.i.+ps o'er their forces in a s.h.i.+ning sheet: Part creeping under ground their journey blind, And climbing from below their fellows meet.

248 Thus to some desert plain, or old woodside, Dire night-hags come from far to dance their round; And o'er broad rivers on their fiends they ride, Or sweep in clouds above the blasted ground.

249 No help avails: for hydra-like, the fire Lifts up his hundred heads to aim his way; And scarce the wealthy can one half retire, Before he rushes in to share the prey.

250 The rich grow suppliant, and the poor grow proud; Those offer mighty gain, and these ask more: So void of pity is the ign.o.ble crowd, When others' ruin may increase their store.

251 As those who live by sh.o.r.es with joy behold Some wealthy vessel split or stranded nigh; And from the rocks leap down for s.h.i.+pwreck'd gold, And seek the tempests which the others fly:

252 So these but wait the owners' last despair, And what's permitted to the flames invade; Even from their jaws they hungry morsels tear, And on their backs the spoils of Vulcan lade.

253 The days were all in this lost labour spent; And when the weary king gave place to night, His beams he to his royal brother lent, And so shone still in his reflective light.

254 Night came, but without darkness or repose,-- A dismal picture of the general doom, Where souls, distracted when the trumpet blows, And half unready, with their bodies come.

255 Those who have homes, when home they do repair, To a last lodging call their wandering friends: Their short uneasy sleeps are broke with care, To look how near their own destruction tends.

256 Those who have none, sit round where once it was, And with full eyes each wonted room require; Haunting the yet warm ashes of the place, As murder'd men walk where they did expire.

257 Some stir up coals, and watch the vestal fire, Others in vain from sight of ruin run; And, while through burning labyrinths they retire, With loathing eyes repeat what they would shun.

258 The most in fields like herded beasts lie down, To dews obnoxious on the gra.s.sy floor; And while their babes in sleep their sorrows drown, Sad parents watch the remnants of their store.

259 While by the motion of the flames they guess What streets are burning now, and what are near; An infant waking to the paps would press, And meets, instead of milk, a falling tear.

260 No thought can ease them but their sovereign's care, Whose praise the afflicted as their comfort sing: Even those whom want might drive to just despair, Think life a blessing under such a king.

261 Meantime he sadly suffers in their grief, Out-weeps an hermit, and out-prays a saint: All the long night he studies their relief, How they may be supplied, and he may want.

262 O G.o.d, said he, thou patron of my days, Guide of my youth in exile and distress!

Who me, unfriended, brought'st by wondrous ways, The kingdom of my fathers to possess:

263 Be thou my judge, with what unwearied care I since have labour'd for my people's good; To bind the bruises of a civil war, And stop the issues of their wasting blood.

264 Thou who hast taught me to forgive the ill, And recompense, as friends, the good misled; If mercy be a precept of thy will, Return that mercy on thy servant's head.

265 Or if my heedless youth has stepp'd astray, Too soon forgetful of thy gracious hand; On me alone thy just displeasure lay, But take thy judgments from this mourning land.

266 We all have sinn'd, and thou hast laid us low, As humble earth from whence at first we came: Like flying shades before the clouds we show, And shrink like parchment in consuming flame.

267 O let it be enough what thou hast done; When spotted Deaths ran arm'd through every street, With poison'd darts which not the good could shun, The speedy could out-fly, or valiant meet.

268 The living few, and frequent funerals then, Proclaim'd thy wrath on this forsaken place; And now those few who are return'd again, Thy searching judgments to their dwellings trace.

269 O pa.s.s not, Lord, an absolute decree, Or bind thy sentence unconditional!

But in thy sentence our remorse foresee, And in that foresight this thy doom recall.

270 Thy threatenings, Lord, as thine thou mayst revoke: But if immutable and fix'd they stand, Continue still thyself to give the stroke, And let not foreign foes oppress thy land.

271 The Eternal heard, and from the heavenly quire Chose out the cherub with the flaming sword; And bade him swiftly drive the approaching fire From where our naval magazines were stored.

272 The blessed minister his wings display'd, And like a shooting star he cleft the night: He charged the flames, and those that disobey'd He lash'd to duty with his sword of light.

273 The fugitive flames chastised went forth to prey On pious structures, by our fathers rear'd; By which to heaven they did affect the way, Ere faith in churchmen without works was heard.

274 The wanting orphans saw, with watery eyes, Their founder's charity in dust laid low; And sent to G.o.d their ever-answered cries, For He protects the poor, who made them so.

275 Nor could thy fabric, Paul's, defend thee long, Though thou wert sacred to thy Maker's praise: Though made immortal by a poet's song; And poets' songs the Theban walls could raise.

276 The daring flames peep'd in, and saw from far The awful beauties of the sacred quire: But since it was profaned by civil war, Heaven thought it fit to have it purged by fire.

277 Now down the narrow streets it swiftly came, And widely opening did on both sides prey: This benefit we sadly owe the flame, If only ruin must enlarge our way.

278 And now four days the sun had seen our woes: Four nights the moon beheld the incessant fire: It seem'd as if the stars more sickly rose, And farther from the feverish north retire.

279 In th' empyrean heaven, the bless'd abode, The Thrones and the Dominions prostrate lie, Not daring to behold their angry G.o.d; And a hush'd silence damps the tuneful sky.

280 At length the Almighty cast a pitying eye, And mercy softly touch'd his melting breast: He saw the town's one half in rubbish lie, And eager flames drive on to storm the rest.

281 An hollow crystal pyramid he takes, In firmamental waters dipt above; Of it a broad extinguisher he makes, And hoods the flames that to their quarry drove.

282 The vanquish'd fires withdraw from every place, Or, full with feeding, sink into a sleep: Each household genius shows again his face, And from the hearths the little Lares creep.

283 Our King this more than natural change beholds; With sober joy his heart and eyes abound: To the All-good his lifted hands he folds, And thanks him low on his redeemed ground.

284 As when sharp frosts had long constrain'd the earth, A kindly thaw unlocks it with mild rain; And first the tender blade peeps up to birth, And straight the green fields laugh with promised grain:

285 By such degrees the spreading gladness grew In every heart which fear had froze before: The standing streets with so much joy they view, That with less grief the perish'd they deplore.

286 The father of the people open'd wide His stores, and all the poor with plenty fed: Thus G.o.d's anointed G.o.d's own place supplied, And fill'd the empty with his daily bread.

287 This royal bounty brought its own reward, And in their minds so deep did print the sense, That if their ruins sadly they regard, 'Tis but with fear the sight might drive him thence.

288 But so may he live long, that town to sway, Which by his auspice they will n.o.bler make, As he will hatch their ashes by his stay, And not their humble ruins now forsake.

289 They have not lost their loyalty by fire; Nor is their courage or their wealth so low, That from his wars they poorly would retire, Or beg the pity of a vanquish'd foe.

290 Not with more constancy the Jews of old, By Cyrus from rewarded exile sent, Their royal city did in dust behold, Or with more vigour to rebuild it went.

291 The utmost malice of their stars is past, And two dire comets, which have scourged the town, In their own plague and fire have breathed the last, Or dimly in their sinking sockets frown.