On Mr. George Herbert's Sacred Poems, Called, The Temple. Poem by Daniel Baker

I.
So long had Poetry possessed been
By Pagans, that a Right in her they claim'd,
Pleaded Prescription for their Sin,
And Laws they made, and Arguments they fram'd,
Nor thought it Wit, if God therein was nam'd:
The true God; for of false ones they had store,
Whom Devils we may better call,
And ev'ry thing they deifi'd,
And to a Stone, Arise and help they cri'd.
And Woman--kind they fell before;
Ev'n Woman--kind, which caus'd at first their Fall,
Were almost the sole Subject of their Pen,
And the chief Deities ador'd by fond and sottish Men.


II.
Herbert at last arose,
Herbert inspir'd with holy Zeal,
Their Arguments he solv'd, their Laws he did repeal,
And spight of all th' enraged Foes
That with their utmost Malice did oppose,
He rescu'd the poor Captive, Poetry,
Whom her vile Masters had before decreed,
All her immortal Spirit to employ
In painting out the Lip or Eye
Of some fantastick Dame, whose Pride Incentives did not need.
This mighty Herbert could not brook;
It griev'd his pious Soul to see
The best and noblest Gift,
That God to Man has left,
Abus'd to serve vile Lust, and sordid Flattery:
So, glorious Arms in her Defence he took;
And when with great Success he'd set her free,
He rais'd her fancy on a stronger Wing,
Taught her of God above, and Things Divine to sing.


III.
Th' infernal Pow'rs that held her fast before
And great Advantage of their Pris'ner made,
And drove of Souls a gainful Trade,
Began to mutiny and roar.
So when Demetrius and his Partners view'd
Their Goddess, and with her, their dearer Gains to fall,
They draw together a confus'd Multitude,
And into th' Theater they crowd,
And great Diana, great, they loudly call.
Up into th' Air their Voices flie,
Some one thing, some another crie,
And most of them, they know not why.
They crie aloud, 'till the Earth ring again,
Aloud they crie; but all in vain.
Diana down must go; They can no more
Their sinking Idol help, than she could them before.
Down she must go with all her Pomp and Train:
The glorious Gospel--Sun her horned Pride doth stain,
No more to be renew'd, but ever in the Wane;
And Poetry, now grown Divine above must ever reign.


IV.
A Mon'ment of this Victory
Our David, our sweet Psalmist, rais'd on high,
When he this Giant under foot did tread,
And with Verse, his own Sword, cut off the Monster's Head.
For as a Sling and Heav'n--directed Stone
Laid flat the Gathite Champion, who alone
Made Thousands tremble, while he proudly stood
Bidding Defiance to the Hosts of God:
So fell th' infernal Pow'rs before the Face
Of mighty Herbert, who upon the Place
A Temple built, that does outgo
Both Solomon's, and Herod's too,
And all the Temples of the Gods by far;
So costly the Materials, and the Workmanship so rare
A Temple built, as God did once ordain
Without the Saw's harsh Noise
Or the untuneful Hammer's Voice,
But built with sacred Musick's sweetest strain,
Like Theban Walls of old, as witty Poets feign.


V.
Hail, heav'nly Bard, to whom great LOVE has giv'n
(His mighty Kindness to express)
To bear his Three mysterious Offices;
Prophet, and Priest on Earth thou wast, and now a King in Heav'n.
There thou dost reign, and there
Thy Bus'ness is the same 'twas here,
And thine old Songs thou singest o'er agen:
The Angels and the Heav'nly Quire
Gaze on thee, and admire
To hear such Anthems from an earthly Lyre,
Their own Hymns almost equall'd by an human Pen.
We foolish Poets hope in vain
Our Works Eternity shall gain:
But sure those Poems needs must die
Whose Theme is but Mortality.
Thy wiser and more noble Muse
The best, the only way did chuse
To grow Immortal: For what Chance can wrong,
What Teeth of Time devour that Song
Which to a Heav'nly Tune is set for glorifi'd Saints to use?
O may some Portion of thy Sp'rit on me
(Thy poor Admirer) light, whose Breast
By wretched mortal Loves hath been too long possest!
When, Oh! when will the joyful Day arise
That rescu'd from these Vanities,
These painted Follies I shall be,
If not an inspir'd Poet, yet an holy Priest like thee.