Poems on Several Occasions (Broome)/The Third Chapter of Habbakkuk paraphrased

by William Broome

Fleuron from 'Poems on Several Occasions' by William Broome, 2nd edition published in 1739

 

The THIRD CHAPTER of

HABBAKKUK

PARAPHRASED.

An ODE.

 

---

Written in 1710, as an Exercise at St. JOHN's College in Cambridge.

---

 

I.

When in a glorious terrible Array,
From Paran's tow'ring height th' Almighty took his way;
Born on a Cherub's Wings he rode,
Intolerable Day proclaim'd the God;
No earthly Cloud
Could his effulgent Brightness shroud:
Glory, and Majesty, and Pow'r,
March'd in a dreadful Pomp before;
Behind, a grim, and meagre Train,
Pining Sickness, frantic Pain,
Stalk'd wildly on! with all the dismal Band,
Which Heav'n in Anger sends to scourge a guilty Land.

II.
With Terror cloath'd, he downward flew,
And wither'd half the Nations with a View;
Thro' half the Nations of th' astonish'd Earth
He scatter'd War, and Plagues, and Dearth!
And when he spoke,
The everlasting Hills from their Foundations shook;
The trembling Mountains, by a lowly Nod,
With Rev'rence struck, confess'd the God:
On Sion's holy Hill he took his Stand,
Grasping Omnipotence in his right Hand;
Then mighty Earthquakes rock'd the Ground,
And the Sun darken'd as he frown'd:
He dealt Affliction from his Van,
And wild Confusion from his Rear;
They thro' the Tents of Cushan ran,
The Tents of Cushan quak'd with Fear,
And Midian trembled with Despair.
I see! his Sword wave naked in the Air;
It sheds around a baleful Ray,
The Rains pour down, the Lightnings play,
And on their Wings vindictive Thunders bear.

III.
When thro' the mighty Flood,
He led the murmuring Croud,
What ail'd the Rivers that they backward fled?
Why was the mighty Flood afraid?
March'd He against the Rivers? or was He,
Thou mighty Flood! displeas'd at thee?
The Flood beheld from far,
The Deity in all his Equipage of War;
And lo! at once it bursts! in diverse falls
On either hand! it swells in Crystal Walls!
Th' eternal Rocks disclose! the tossing Waves
Rush in loud Thunder from a thousand Caves!
Why tremble ye, O! faithless, to behold
The op'ning Deeps their Gulphs unfold?
Enter the dreadful Chasms! 'tis God, who guides
Your wondrous Way! the God, who rules the Tides!
And lo! they march amid the deaf'ning Roar
Of tumbling Seas! they mount the adverse Shore!
Advance, ye chosen Tribes!—Arabia's Sands
Lonely, uncomfortable Lands!
Void of Fountain, void of Rain,
Oppose their burning Coasts in vain!
See! the great Prophet stand,
Waving his Wonder-working Wand!
He strikes the stubborn Rock, and lo!
The stubborn Rock feels the Almighty Blow;
His stony Entrails burst, and rushing Torrents flow.

IV.
Then did the Sun his fiery Coursers stay,
And backward held the falling Day;
The nimble-footed Minutes ceas'd to run,
And urge the lazy Hours on.
Time hung his unexpanded Wings,
And all the secret Springs
That carry on the Year,
Stopp'd in their full Career:
Then the astonish'd Moon,
Forgot her going down;
And paler grew,
The dismal Scene to view,
How thro' the trembling Pagan Nation,
Th' Almighty Ruin dealt, and ghastly Desolation.

V.
But why, ah! why, O Sion, reigns
Wide-wasting Havoc o'er thy Plains?
Ah! me, Destruction is abroad!
Vengeance is loose, and Wrath from God!
See! Hosts of Spoilers seize their Prey!
See! Slaughter marks in Blood his Way!
See! how embattled Babylon
Like an unruly Deluge rushes on!
Lo! the Field with Millions swarms!
I hear their Shouts! their clashing Arms!
Now the conflicting Hosts engage,
With more than morta! Rage!———
Oh! Heav'n! I faint———I die!———
The yielding Pow'is of Israel fly!———
Now banner'd Hosts surround the Walls
Of Sion! now she sinks, she falls!—
Ah! Sion, how for thee I mourn!
What Pangs for thee I feel!
Ah! how art thou become the Pagans Scorn,
Lovely, unhappy Israel?
A shivering Damp invades my Heart,
A trembling Horror shoots thro' every Part;
My nodding Frame can scarce sustain
Th' oppressive Load I undergo:
Speechless I sigh! the envious Woe
Forbids the very Pleasure to complain:
Forbids my fault'ring Tongue to tell
What Pangs for thee I feel,
Lovely, unhappy Israel!

VI.
Yet tho' the Fig-Tree should no Burthen bear,
Tho' Vines delude the Promise of the Year;
Yet tho' the Olive should not yield her Oil,
Nor the parch'd Glebe reward the Peasant's Toil,
Tho' the tir'd Ox beneath his Labours fall,
And Herds in Millions perish from the Stall;
Yet shall my grateful Strings
For ever praise thy Name,
For ever thee proclaim,
Thee everlasting God, the mighty King of Kings.

 

Endpiece from 'Poems on Several Occasions' by William Broome (1739, 2nd edition)