A SACRED poem DESCRIBING THE miraculous LIFE AND DEATH OF THE glorious CONVERT S. MARIE OF Egypt Who passed forty seven years in the deserts leading a penitential life to the astonishment of all succeeding ages.  
Plerumque gratior est Deo feruens post culpam vita; quam securitate torpens innocentia. D. Greg.   

THE argument OF THE POEM FROM APPROVED authors.  
MARY THE Egyptian being but 12. years old, left her Parents and came to Alexandria: where for 17 years she prostituted herself to insatiable lust. And to allure more to her company, exposed on free cost to their pleasure, maintaining herself in the mean time by begging and spinning of wool. It happened that many sailed to Jerusalem to celebrate the festivity of the exaltation of the Holy cross; whither she also traveled, not out of piety, but to gain new associates to her sensual delights. And now arrived even at the gates of the Temple, the rest continually entering, she alone strangely suffered repulse. Which having 3. or 4. times sustained; at length she understood that for her sins she was deemed unworthy to behold the holy cross. Wherefore seriously touched with compunction, and prostrate before an Image of the Blessed Virgin, she implored her aid, that with the rest she might behold & honour that sacred Instrument of our redemption; promising from that time never to contaminate herself with luxurious impurities. Then assaying to enter, she found no stoppage as before; but (like the sea rolling forward the waves) the multitude impelle her into the Temple. There according to her desire, having honoured the sanctified wood; she returned to the place, where formerly she had made her promise to the Blessed Virgin. And a voice from heaven directed her how she should dispose of herself for the glory of God and her eternal behoof. Whereupon taking with her three loaves of course bread, she hastened to the wilderness; and there for the space of 47. years, lived in such austerity as she neither beheld man nor living creature, confining herself to the presence of God and his Angels her sole spectators; her loaves after long tract of time being spent, she for 17. years sustained her feeble body with herbs only & roots; her garments rotting & falling from her: she was long so afflicted with winter's cold and scorching heats of that climate, as often fainting & void of breath, she laid on the ground destitute of sense & motion. For the first 17. years after her entrance into the wilderness, she was assailed with ugly and violent temptations; but through divine assistance still victorious. To conclude after a wonderful and most penitential life, interseasoned with divine consolations, Zozimas (a blessed Monk) coming into that part of the desert, found her out; and ministered unto her the B. Sacrament on the evening of Maundy Thursday, and after spiritual conference with her departed the year following upon her appointment, returning he found her deceased in a cave: whither a lion then approaching digged up a grave, in which with tears & prayers she was interred by Zozimas. The Roman martyrologue and Vsuard recount her day the 2. of April. The Grecians in their Menaloge observe it the day before. Nicephorus lib. 7. cap. 5. affirmeth her life to have been written by Sophronius Bishop of Jerusalem. The same is cited in the 2. Council of Nice. And by St. John Damascen. orat. 3. de Imag: and translated into Latin by Paul Diacon. Neopoleas, is extant in vitis Patrum: it was also composed in verse by Hyldebrand Episc. Senon: and by Bonad. Santon lib. 3. Monad: 29. and others. She lived about the year of Christ. 520. in the time of Justine the elder.   

THE miraculous LIFE OF S. MARIE OF Egypt.  
MARY of Aegypt's life I sing, and crimes,  
To no less guilty, much more hardened times.  
Smile truth: and ye, who both by choice and name  
(O happy) may so great a patron claim,  
Great in her looseness, greater in restraint,  
A wondrous sinner, a more wondrous saint.  
If my weak muse long nursed in wanton lore  
Led by a better choice, than 'twas before,  
(Blessed soul) thy praises chante: oh see and love  
The first fruits of her penance: from above  
Direct her flight, whiles she thy trophies sings,  
And imp new feathers to her tainted wings.  
Christ's faithful spouse which long had groaned, oppressed  
By hell-bred Arriâns swarming in the east,  
After th' amazement of that horrid night.  
Was now restored to hit wonted light  
By Justin named the Elder: fears were past,  
And (wicked error by fair truth displaced')  
The Church enjoyed an universal peace  
Praising the giver: so when loud storms cease,  
The merchant safe, paves on the calmer shore,  
Such thankful vows as he had made before.  
The now free temples through the city, were  
Thronged' by all sorts of people: psalms each where  
With hymns of joy are shrilld' by euéry tongue,  
And loud te-deums by the Clergy sung.  
The noise rings through the air: a pleasing sound.  
And there received', doth with new joy rebound  
From th'ecchôing angels to, th'almighty's ears,  
Who pleased with their zeal, from star-crowned' spheres  
Viewing the city and imperial throne  
Of great Byzantium: approves what's done.  
Thence Eastward twining his all-seeing eyes,  
The sacred land of palestine surveys,  
No regiön so forcibly invites  
His mild aspect, no air so much delights:  
For there's his garden, there those happy groaves  
Where first he stooped' (o strange) to mortal loves▪  
There Caluarye showered with eternal blood,  
There Zion, Olivet, and Jordans' flood,  
There Nazareth; Bethlem, powerfullye arrest  
His heavenly eye: and oh, above the rest,  
Hear him a band of living saints invites  
(Poor threadbare monks) to grace their pious tites:  
Th'almighty's self their burning zeal admires,  
Their many altars, and perpetual quyers,  
Their close retired walks, their silent celles,  
Their lowly cloisters, and far distant wells,  
So sunk of purpose that their drink and meat  
Might equally be purchased with their sweat,  
For they their food seek in the open fields,  
Or eat the crop which their own labour yields.  
Here contemplation without noise or strife  
Enjoys its peace, mixed with the active life,  
Whiles Mary sighing swims in pious tears,  
Laborious Marthe her burden gladly bears:  
For love both sisters in one bond unites,  
Shares equally their labours and delights:  
The world's great Ruler plays his part the while,  
Adds flame to flames, and at their fervour smiles.  
Yet no one soul could fix with more delight  
Th'almighty's eye, than that poor naked wight  
Which howling from the desert, with Loud cries  
And doleful clamours rent the injured' Skies:  
Grovelling on earth, her eyes bathed in warm streams,  
Her withered arms parched' with Sol's fiery beams  
Stretched at their length: the rest, a naked corpse  
In hoary tresses clad: with zealous force  
She beats at heaven's bright gates: and strong in faith  
Urgeth her pardon: and her pardon hath:  
Have mercy lord, the worst of sinners prays,  
Mercy my god: forget my damnëd days,  
For her dear sake, whose blessed name I bear:  
Ah can a Mary pray, and thou not hear?  
O powêrfull charm! the very name could move  
Both the effects of pardon, and of love.  
That everlasting goodness which long since  
Had razed' the memôry of her former sins,  
And those black characters, which her true tears  
Had (for thespace of seven and forty years)  
Washed with unwearied streams: not pleased' that she  
(whose life t'all sinner's might a comfort be,  
And had so pleasëd his eternal eye)  
Unknown, unhonourd', in those shades should die,  
Pointed out of his all foreseeing care  
A grave old monk, his wonders to declare:  
A glorious father, Zozimus his name,  
In goodness great, great in desert and fame,  
And who perhaps much greater might have been,  
Had he been less in his own greatness seen:  
Poor man already he seemed' even to play  
On virtue's green, and to have won the day,  
Sings joyful Paeans, glories in his years,  
Grown hoary in long penance: and appears  
That desert's only sun (in his own sight)  
Whence younger saints received' a borrôwed light.  
Unwise: for whiles he snatcheth at a crown  
Which might ere long, have justly been his own,  
He falls: thinks darkness light: falls still, and even  
As he is falling, thinks he mounts to heaven,  
So when our Northern Tine swells o'er the strands,  
Planing the fatal ford with both the lands:  
Some daring traveller spurs on enraged',  
Nor sees the peril, till too far engaged',  
Measûring his own life by the sea-like streams,  
Too late alas, entrapped' twixt two extremes  
He doubtful pauseth, if he forward press  
The danger's great, should he turn back, not less:  
Mean time, pale fear his better sense bereaves,  
And fiercer currant his weak eye deceives,  
For still borne down by its resistless force,  
Still dreams he rides too high: his wiser horse  
Bears strongly with the stream, but toils in vain;  
His Master Masters him: some-one amain  
Whoops from the shore, Bear up, Bear up: he hears:  
But false eyes trusts more than his truer ears:  
Till swept away by the remorseless flood  
he's lost, and makes it's fatal surname good.  
Such or much worse might have been Zozims end,  
Had he not heard à far more powêrful friend,  
Who through the organs of a whistling wind,  
In airy sounds thus checked his airy mind:  
Many, as aâged, more holy, and less proud,  
Their virtues in this sacred desert shroud:  
Fly therefore hence, and leave the place, in which  
Pride and self-love thy better thoughts bewitch:  
A convent near the banks of Jordan stands,  
Not great in circuit, or extent of lands,  
But great in sanctity: there seek, and find  
The cüre of a self-delighted mind.  
His eyes are opened', and his sin appears  
More great, augmented by ensuing fears,  
For what can now secürehim, who fell  
(Thinking himself in heaven) as deep as hell:  
He falls as low, as he had soared' too high,  
Anthaeus-like resuming strength there by:  
For whiles he prostrate cleaves t'his mother earth,  
By blazôning in its mould his baser birth,  
He riseth, stronger than he was before,  
Less in his own eye, but in god's much more:  
And takes his journey, guided by that hand  
Which erst when Abram left his native land,  
His house and friends, was with him in his way,  
And held him lest he from truth's path should stray.  
A withered stick his trembling joints sustains,  
Whiles wandering through vast woods, and vaster plains,  
Still from above imploring light and grace,  
He seeks near Jordan the desired place:  
Which where the river straightened twixt two hills  
The hanging cliffs with hollow echoes shrilles,  
He found at last: a convent of small show  
Yet well contrived', the walls and roafe, both low,  
No gluring outside, no art's new devise,  
Of curious worldlings to allure the eyes:  
No path but one, and that but little used',  
Which brought our zozim in himself confused'  
At such retiredness, to one only gate,  
It opening from within: there weak he sat  
With grief and toil: his former life now blames,  
And these poor monks thrice happy he proclaims,  
Whose inward sanctity he quickly guessed  
By What, their outward solitude expressed:  
Thus humbled in himself, he knocks with fear  
As one not worthy to find entrance there.  
The porter (Having eyed him through the grate)  
Informs his prelate of his form and state:  
He straight descending, in the entry meets  
The stranger: whom embracing, thus he greets:  
Welcome grave father: what could we deserve?  
Unworthy servants of him whom you serve,  
That you should visit us here, poor beginners,  
ill mortified and half-converted sinners?  
Zozim abashed, bends his brim-swelling eyes  
Down to the earth: and sighing thus replies:  
I seek perfection here, grown old in pride  
O take me for his sake who for such died.  
The Abbot glad receaves him: there he lives  
With saints, a saint: and disinchanted gives  
Not now t't'himself, but to those holy sire's  
virtue's full praise: sees in them, and admires  
Their patiênce, zeal, humility profound,  
Raised' by pure rapts above the starry round,  
Nimble obedience, charity in all,  
Whose charter warrants it shall never fall,  
All things wel-orderd', and in the choir  
Perpetual vigils, harmony, and prayer.  
But winter now declining, had begun  
To feel the powër of a warmer sun  
And Febrüarye old praepard to yield  
To springing March the honour of the field,  
Wednesday the first of cleansing days appears  
When the whole convent to one room repaired'  
And having craved assistance from above  
Came forth in unity, in peace, in love,  
Praepard' to cross the river: as each year  
In this blessed season they accustomed' were,  
To keep lent silent, nor to meet again  
Till the renewing of the sacred Cene.  
The gate as loathe to part with such loud' Guests  
its grief in th'opening with loud groans attests,  
whiles matching down to Jordan the whole quyêr  
In order sings this psalm led by the prior.  

Psalm 26.  
HEnce fear: our lord's my safety and my light:  
My life s protector: what shall me affright?  
Whiles bad men on me rushed, my flesh to tear,  
My foes who vexed' me fell, and weakened were:  
Opposed camps my courage shall not quell,  
In battle strong here fixed my hopes shall dwell;  
One thing I've asked our lord, this I'll request,  
That in his house I all my days may rest,  
That I his joys may view and temple blessed;  
For he hath kept me in his sanctuâry, in  
It's closest vaults, safe from the days of sin:  
H'ath reared' me on the rock: and placed me out  
Of foe's reach: in his house I've romd' about,  
Offering an host of clamour: I will sing  
And say a psalm to heaven's eternal king:  
My voice o lord to thee loud-crying hear,  
Have merry on me, and to me give ear,  
To thee my heart spoke, thee mine eyes desire,  
To thee o lord I ever will aspire:  
Turn not, nor in thy wrath decline thy face  
From me thy servant: help me with thy grace:  
Oh do not leave nor slight me in thy scorn  
My saviour and my God: for me forlorn  
My parents both have left: but thou didst take  
Compassion on me. Lord unto me make  
A law in thy way, and the right path guide,  
lest my proud enemies should thee deride:  
Nor yield me to the wills of raging foes  
For perjured' witness against me rose,  
And sin hath tied' t'it self: I shall, I trust,  
Thy joys see, in the region of the just:  
Expect our lord and manfully defend  
Thyself: take comfort, and our lord attend.  
Amen.   
Amen sung loud the psalm concludes: Amen,  
The ecchôing hills and dales intone again.  
When they at Jordans' banks arrived, and stood  
Musing awhile upon the sacred flood,  
The zealous troop with joy recalls to mind  
Those wondrous signs of love which to mankind  
God there had showed: salutes with humble vows  
The place, its tutelar Genius: and bows  
In memôrye of it's saints: foam grovesing lie,  
Kiss th'hallôwed banks, and streams as they slip by:  
Some gladly under the blessed current fall,  
Some wash their heads, their hands and faces all:  
Then ferryîng over to the farther side  
They into several paths themselves divide,  
All to the desert tending, none can stray  
Unless he meeffe his fellow in the way,  
For than who first the other coming spies  
Leaving that walk, to thicks and coverts flies,  
lest the shy enemy with secret pride  
Should blast their better actions, When descried  
By more eyes than their own. Oh that we could  
Those glorious conquests to the world unfold,  
which these religious fathers daily gained'  
In their unboasted conflicts: whiles restrained  
From mutual consolations, oft assailed  
By visible spirits, they as oft praevayld'  
Against their fiery legiôns: restless grief,  
Furious assaults, fresh combats, no relief,  
No hope, but from above: oh tho the height  
Of self-contempt have left in clouds of night  
Their memories obscured: yet their fame  
Charactered in wide heaven's immortal frame  
Shall ever live, and they for ever rest  
In the triumphant mansions of the blessed.  
'mongst althese fathers which even then prepared'  
Their souls to their not rashly hoped' reward,  
Not least in goodness, tho in order last;  
The late checked Zozimus with zealous haste  
Enters the solitude: spends nights and days  
In heavenly contemplations: duly prays  
At his accustomed' Hour's: never eate●  
But when with famine forced, and then such meats  
As the wild wood afforded: never sleeps  
But when stolen slumbers through the entries creeps  
Of his watched soul: then some knobd' tree in stead  
Of pillow serves, the earth, his native bed,  
Wide heaven his canopye, his rug and sheets  
The frost's pearld' Dew, cold rines, and piercing fleets:  
Where with his long white hair and hoary beard  
Entangled oft in icy knots appeared,  
When some times guided by the morning star,  
Some times the slowe-pacd' waine-mans' stooping car,  
His weak legs (prompted by a strong desire  
Where with it seems the willing heaveus inspire  
His forward soul) resume their daily toil  
Wading through thick and thin: new longings boil  
In's flaming breast, new thoughts infused' from heaven,  
Make the rough ways seem smooth, the mountains even.  
Whiles daylight serves his journey never ends,  
When night comes on, the night in tears he spends,  
His truly humbled soul, now only blind  
To see its own perfections, earns to find  
Some saintlike father in that desert place,  
Who may instruct him in the way of grace,  
For this he makes reiterated vows  
To heaven: for this to earth his knees he bows,  
And strong in faith tho for a time delayed  
Persists: still praying hopes, still hoping prayed  
The twentyeth day night's foggy damps had cleared,  
And brighter sun upon the heights appeared,  
When he his hours ending, with the day  
Renewed his task, and westward took his way:  
Westward far of upon a plain, he spies,  
Amooving bulk, of what his failing eyes  
Cannot yet judge, but towards it he makes,  
Doubling his pace, and at the nearest takes,  
Thwarting the spacious plain: nor long it was  
Ere he a doleful wretch, and naked as  
Simplicity itself, discerned: whose face  
(Tho black and old) yet wanted not its grace:  
Which in a countenance grave, and well composed'  
(Tho to all weathers and all suns exposed')  
Held good, against the injuries of time,  
Of place, of grief, and of the open clime:  
He stood aloof: and viewed her, whiles her eye  
Fixed on a higher object, past him by:  
Her age, her naked chin, and unshorn head,  
Whence white crisp locks in frosty curls were spread  
Over her blacker neck, straight made her known,  
A woman: or th'anatomye of one,  
Long abstinence and penance having brought  
Her body to a leanness beyond thought.  
Pale trembling fear the monk's whole body shakes  
And he his own long-wished hopes mistakes,  
Thinks that he sees some ghost, or Hellish fiend,  
To Torments in that wilderness confined'.  
Yet curbs his fear, and bold in his own right,  
Prepares him: not unused to such fight:  
The cross its sign he forms, first on himself,  
Then on the air, and the supposed elf,  
Whose much considering eye had neither seen  
He nor his cross, but still held on the green:  
The monk straight by a better thought inspired',  
Conceives his happiness so long desyrd',  
For which he oft had sighed', and oft-times prayed,  
Whiles in that tedious solitude he strayed:  
His sudden fear to sudden joy gives place,  
And he pursues her steps, whose saintlike face  
Already he disdains not to implore,  
But hastening after, sends these words before:  
O stay thou blessed soul, by heavens beloved',  
And be not at a sinner's presence moved'.  
The solitary saint (whose long-closd ears  
Had heard no voice in seven and forty years,  
Nor doleful eyes yet met with any face  
Of mortal creature in that forlorn place)  
Amazed' and blushing at her naked plight,  
Borne on the wings of shame takes speedy flight,  
And in those long known woods a skilful guide,  
Strives in the depth of them her shame to hide.  
The aged father strengthened with desire  
Flying with equal speed, pursues the flyer:  
She fast, he faster runs, she prays, he cries:  
And when his feet fail follows with his eyes:  
A wondrous race, fool angels looking on,  
Fittest spectators when such angels run:  
But Zozimus wins ground, and gets so near,  
As she (he thought) these breathless words might hear:  
Oh stay: by his great name I thee conjure  
For whom thou liuêst in solitude obscure:  
Take pity of mine age, my silver hairs,  
Whose frosty white the marks of reverence bears:  
Hear me a doleful sinner: ah regard  
These flowing tears: even as thou hopes reward  
After so strange a penance: do not fly,  
Not cruel to a dying man deny  
Thy prâyer and blessing: for his love, I say,  
Who flighteth none that with true fervour pray:  
Thus praying th'old man ran, and running prayed'  
Her answer shame, and inward grief delayed:  
He vexed with labour, much more vexed in mind,  
Still begs, still cries, still's answered with the wind.  
A p●●ne there was where in some winter-torrent  
Had left the vast print, of it's elder current:  
The shiverd rocks and rent up oaks yet showed',  
How dreadfully it erst had over flowed,  
Now a dry channel, hollow, empty, wide,  
Through which a little brook did stealing glide  
Amongst the crags and logs: which since that age  
The swelling flood had left, marks of its rage:  
Th' Egyptian first to this dry gulf attained,  
Slipped lightly through, and further bank had gaignd',  
When th'old man panting, weak, and wholly spent,  
Fearful to venture on the rough descent,  
Takes up: yet with his voice pursues the saint,  
Reiterates with tears his late complaint,  
Conjures her by herself, those caves, that wood  
The witness of her life, by all that's good  
In heaven or earth: and finding all but vain  
Howls and laments his undeserved pain;  
Then roaring out with doleful out cries shrilles  
The channel's concave and the hanging hills,  
From whence redoubled they again rebound  
Through echoes sad, a lamentable sound.  
The holy fugitif, moved with his tears.  
Replied at last, and thus made known her fear,  
Time-honourd Zozimas, whose life and name  
I honour from my soul: bear with my shame,  
And nakedness, which shuns thy graver eye  
And tho unwilling, yet is forced to fly:  
But if a caitiff wretch thou needs wilt grace,  
And longest' to see a forlorn sinner's face:  
Lend me thy cloak that clad therein, I may  
Blessed with thy blessing, praying with thee pray:  
The monk's amazed', to hear his name from one  
To whom he altogether was unknown:  
Yet silently admiring that foresight,  
Which he new came from more than human light  
His mantle throws, which whiles he walked aside  
She taking up, about her shoulders tied:  
Then to him came: he at her feet adores,  
And benedictiön with teers implores:  
She no less humbled, prostrate also lies,  
And craves that which he both craves, and denies,  
So whiles they for each other's blessing strive,  
Both want what both would have, but neither give:  
At last, th' Egyptian thus her suit renews,  
And with fresh wonders his assent pursues:  
Father, deny not to a wretch that grace,  
Which is most proper to your years and place,  
Your sanctity and habit: your pure hand  
Which daily toucheth, and hath at command  
Our God and maker is itself thereby  
Most blessed: and'ts blessing should to none deny.  
Zozim abashed, replies with sobs and tears,  
Most blessed mother, ah it well appears  
That nothing from your knowledge is concealed,  
To whom 〈◊〉 in spirit these things are revealed,  
Happy whose better part to this world dead  
Is to the bosom of its maker fled,  
Where your pure soul in his bright eye discovers  
Those secrets, which are only given to lovers:  
O since our merits are not iugd' by place,  
But by the gifts of his effectual grace,  
Let not your sanctity disdain to bless  
Our more in dignity, in goodness less.  
The Father thus importunately prayed:  
She with compassion moved' Kneeled up, and said:  
Blessed be God, who saves the souls of men:  
Then rose: and Zozim rising, cried Amen.  
Father (saith she) lo, you have found at last  
After much toil, and many labours past,  
A most infortunate creature, and one,  
Whose little goodness had you sooner known,  
You would not with such earnest zeal have sought,  
Nor a poor sinner's sight so dearly bought:  
Yet since I think you only were designed'  
By heavens high will, these silent shades to find,  
T'impart some pious help, which well I know,  
Your charitable hand is sent to do  
About this wretched carcase: pray, relate,  
How things are swayed' abroad, say in what state  
Th'affairs of Emperors and Christians are?  
How th'holy church, and our brethren fare?  
He answer made: our mother church long tossed  
With Arrîan storms, long by bad princes crossed,  
At last enjoys a calm of wished peace,  
Whiles heresies and civil tumults cease,  
Through your good prayers: wherefore let me crave  
Some part in them, since they such power have:  
Oh if directed by the powérs above  
I hither came, nor my poor presence move  
Your soul, to just contempt: be pleased' to pray  
For me stained' sinner, that this tedious way  
May not be wholly fruitless, which I tread,  
Ready to make my passage to the dead,  
Pray for the church, whole world, and for me crave  
That I may part securely to my grave.  
Father said she: not I: a sinful wretch,  
But you your purer hands to heaven should stretch,  
For all distressed souls: this as our due,  
We from your orders challenge, and from you:  
Yet since obedience bids me to fulfil  
Not what I think most fit, but what you will,  
Lo, I obey; this said: she humbly folds  
Her much-worn knees, her naked hands she holds  
Stretched at their full length, to the Orient sky,  
Her soul even swimming in her fixëd eye:  
Silent she prays, the cause her tears must gaigne,  
Dumb orators which never plead in vain,  
Vnevitable charms, al-forcing streams,  
Which heaven delighting in, with powêrful beams  
Attracts unto itself, and with such force,  
As even the compound of her heavier corpse  
Follows her melting soul, and fixed remains,  
Betwixt heaven's bright arch, and earth's spacious plains:  
Whiles it more light the whirling orbs transcends,  
And to the bosom of its maker tends.  
Zozim thewhile admiring that high grace,  
And fervour, which appeared in her face:  
Now lost in wonder, to the low earth sinks,  
And at his own lamented coldness shrinks:  
Thumps his bare breast, and as he grovelling lies,  
Deplores his own sins, and for mercy cries:  
When lo the sly-fiend prompts him, that this might  
Be some illusion, some infernal spirit,  
And sticks not wrongfully himself t'accuse,  
(Who justly would not) th'old man to abuse:  
Poor man he doubts, and whiles he fears deceat,  
Is cozened': Satan smiling at his cheat.  
When she, whose soul had strayed' Above the spheres,  
Returning to her place perceived' his fears  
Through the clear glass of that eternal light,  
Through which all see, but see not with such sight:  
Father, saith she: what troubled thought is this?  
Which makes you judge of me, and judge amiss,  
As though I only made à show to pray,  
A stumbling-block of scandal in your way:  
I am no spirit: but true flesh and blood,  
Once white as snow, washed in th'al-clensing flood  
Of holy baptism: now as black as shame  
And sin can die an ever-tainted fame:  
Here-with her forehead, eyes, her lips, and breast,  
Signing them with a ready hand she blessed:  
Saying, o father, may our lord preserve  
All these poor souls, which him would truly serve,  
From Satan and his sleights. Whose hopeless state  
Doth not a little grudge our better fate.  
He falling at her feet, his own breast beats,  
And her whole life's relation thus entreats:  
Blessed saint: whose soul from worldly noise divided,  
Is in this wilderness by angels guided,  
Even for his sake, who for our sakes was borne  
Of virgin's spotless womb, whom raggd and torn  
The Angels in mount Calûrye saw amazed':  
And on his wounds with admiration gazed':  
For his dear sake I say: for whom thou bear'st'  
These marks of penance, for whose love thou wear'st'  
This glorious nakedness: oh let-me know  
What, whence, thou art, and how long 'tis ago,  
Since first thou hither camest, a heavenly guest,  
Leaving the world impou'risht of it's best:  
Oh say: and nothing in dark silence fold,  
Which to God's holy honour may be told.  
For this (it seems) this tedious life of mine  
Hath been prolonged' by providence divine,  
For this, directed by a heavenly voice,  
I left my native celle, and former choice,  
myself alone in these dark caves designed,  
The rarest wonder of this age to find:  
And will you (ah too nice) those great works hide?  
Which God himself (it seems) would have descried:  
High graces oft to private souls are lent,  
But to a genêral good their use is meant,  
These by concealing, you'll usurp a due,  
We must ascribe to heaven, and not to you.  
The holy penitent with tears, begins  
To call to memory her former sins:  
Then sighing, spoke: behold, my unfaind grief  
And blushing eyes bewray my guilty life,  
Though my grieved' soul paint in this outward show  
Those sores, which on it like foul lepers grow,  
Since you my naked out side did behold,  
I shall with like simplicity unfold  
A blacker inside, and such sins, I fear,  
You'll fly me as some fiend, when them you hear:  
First praying you, incessantly to pray,  
That in the last of days, that dreadful day  
To guilty souls, when heaven and earth combined  
Shall stand against us, I may mercy find.  
With tears he only answrîng: she pursues  
And adding tears to tears, her grief renews.  
Borne, where the fruitful Nile oreflows the land,  
And leaves it mannurd' to the farmer's hand,  
At twelve years' age cloggd' with the tender love  
And care of mine old parents, I remove  
To Alexandrïa that royal seat,  
That farre-famd' Little world, that city great,  
That fatal rock, on which much youth vnstayd▪  
And many a lady's honour shipwreck made,  
Who now with me, may curse that il-famd' coast  
On which our better names we fondly lost,  
I blush to speak my first fault, and to tell,  
How from the state of innocence I fell,  
Nor think it fit, your chaster ear to wound  
With the most horrid and detested sound,  
Of my unsatiably bad desires:  
No flame can match them but hel's native fyêrs:  
Let this suffice, full seventeen years, and more,  
I in that city lived' a common whore,  
Neither did I at first mine honour grant  
Tempted with gold, or overcome with want:  
Nor since through avarice have I welterd in  
Th' un bridled rage of this detested sin,  
But drowned' in damnëd lusts, I held the vice  
Reward sufficient, and its own price,  
Where by to sin, and craft in sin, inurd',  
More customers I wickedly allurd,  
Living upon my needle bare and poor,  
Whiles forced' to beg my bread from door to door:  
Cursed wretch the mouths of Orphans to defraud,  
And who first made blessed poverty a bawd,  
Which rather than the charges should distaste  
My wicked mates, I willingly embraced:  
Thus long I sailed on deep damnation's seas,  
Whiles only lust my lustful soul could please,  
Yet still unsatisfied, and never tired'  
The more I find, the more to sin desired',  
When one day, walking on the sands, I spied  
Great multitudes thronging to this seaside,  
Bound for the holy land: the feast drew near  
Of th' holy rood, and these all pilgrims were:  
With them some toy, or rather some bad fiend  
Took me to join: I called to one: my friend,  
Pray tell me, is there room aboard to spare,  
Enough he answered, paying for your fare:  
Tush, with foul gestures, said I: here's as good,  
Making my fouler meaning understood.  
Pardon me holy father, for I wrong  
Your chaster ear, detaining it so long  
On these black sins, which whiles I here declare,  
My baneful breath infects the purer air:  
And heaven knows with what horrors I relate  
Th'abominations of my former state:  
Mother, said he, let not this cloud of shame  
Obscure the glory due to his great name,  
Whose power and grace such crimes can only clear,  
And nowhere more than in our sins appear.  
Then she continued thus: upon the sand  
Ready to boat I saw an able band  
Of tall young men, 'mongst whom I rushing in,  
With frontless impudence did thus begin:  
Have with you gallants, where so êre y'are bound,  
And think not that of me (Sirs) you have found  
A thankless wretch, for truly you shall see,  
That I am open hearted, kind and free:  
My strange immodesty their laughter moves,  
They all profess, and I accept their loves:  
With such lewd speeches, and much worse than these,  
I wooed those youths, and with them took the seas,  
Hoping, if ever, in such choice to find  
Pleasure, as ample as my boundless mind.  
Now o thou man of God how can I tell  
Those sins, fit only to be known in Hell,  
No mortal tongue can speak, no godly ear  
Can without horror, their relation hear:  
Yet this I'll say: what art, or lust could do,  
What fiends could tempt the worst of creatures to,  
I there came guilty of: which when I now  
Recall to memory, I wonder, how  
Those swelling tides were not allowed' to sweep  
My sinful soul to th'ever-lasting deep:  
Ah no! whiles I even in sins ocean lived'  
That shoare-less mercy my poor soul repriud':  
That long-forbearing God, who would have none  
To perish, calmed' from his eternal throne  
The fury of the sea, and angry wind,  
Against their maker's enemy combined.  
At last we landed on the Syrian shore:  
I still the same, taled on my hellish score,  
For all that journey, as by land we went,  
My malice on the wreak of souls was bent,  
Not only sinning with my long-known band,  
But tempting many natives of the land,  
And even to them, who for devotion came,  
Shameless to all made proffer of my shame.  
Now O, the very thought for judgement calls  
Of those sins, which within the holy walls  
I durst commit, even where a crimson flood  
Had washed the streets with my wronged' Saviours blood:  
Where not one soul so bad, as had the force  
To view those places, without some remorse,  
My devilish self excepted: dare I say  
That on the Eeve of that al-honourd' day,  
Nay even the day of th'exaltation: I  
(When every one repented, every eye  
Was turned to heaven) contrived' the while to win  
As many partners, as I could, to sin.  
Pardon my shame sir if too fast I run  
From this foul Hell, to the more gracious Sun  
Of my conversion: no words can express  
My sins, the mercies of my God, much less.  
Bright was the morn, and Tython's love, gray-eyed,  
Her purest sky in purpled streams had died,  
The golden Sun, which then appeared before  
I''s usual time, ran posting to adore  
The ever-honourd cross: dumb things declared'  
Their joy by signs, and for the feast prepared':  
Noah soul, in which the foulest sins had swarmed',  
But than came with remorse and penance armed',  
I who that sacrament of grace abhorred',  
More than the just edge of heaven's angry sword,  
Never more bold in sin, more hard in heart,  
Came in this feast to act my hellish part,  
Where with coy looks, and wanton words, in vain,  
I laboured some unhappy soul to gaigne,  
Thus wicked both in action and intent  
I with the people to the temple went.  
A building of such glory, state, and cost,  
Mine eyes in it's unmeasurd' Hugeness lost,  
Could not but under-prize those antique frames,  
Wherewith our Egypt it's less wonders fames:  
The sky-crowned roof (which in the midst no art  
Could join) the holy Sepulchre, and part  
Of Caluary, includes in th'oval round  
Of its extended circuit, vast, profound;  
I' out side (Sheets of brass) with fiery streams  
Blinds curious eyes from Sol's' retorted beams:  
White marble-columnes seventy three, uphold  
The inside, arched, and parietted with gold:  
Each pillars base and cornish cut, and wrought  
In curious imagery, the transomes fraught  
With counterfeits of saints, such as old time  
Hath most esteemed of, in the church's prime:  
Gallerd above, the walls and arches crested,  
Twice-guilt, and with choice floritrye invested:  
Parti-coloured marble laid checkerwise,  
In varied heawes the polished floor dies:  
The windoors equal to the roof in height,  
Through the whole fabric spread a gladsome light,  
Whereof each one supported with three rows  
Of marble pillars, like t'a temple shows:  
Between each rank with running transomes crossed  
Fretted with gold, and curiously embossed:  
The outside of the wall, (where wall there was,  
For some might think it had no wall but glass)  
Had round about, within its hollow pents  
The glittering statues of a thousand saints,  
With such rare art, in the pure marble carud',  
The workmanship alone for wonder served'.  
Such is this sumptuous temple: than the which,  
The world hath none more great, more famed', more rich,  
The work of Roman Helen: having viewed'  
This goodly building, boldly I intrude,  
Borne with the ride of the in-preasing crowd,  
Which like the oceans swelling billow flowed',  
To th'entry of the church: fool that I was'  
To think such sins could through that portal pass,  
The double gate within its brazen leaves,  
Without resistance, the whole press receaves,  
Where I in impudence only strong,  
Thought to have past with the more pious throng:  
But as the crowd had swayed' me to the gate,  
I still was driven back, by some hidden fate:  
Thousands I saw, which passed on every side,  
Entrance to none, but to myself, denied:  
Touched▪ with amazement, not yet with remorse,  
Again I forward pressed with greater force:  
Again that unseen angry arm, I feel,  
And forced back with a greater force, I reel:  
Even they, who in the stream next to me were,  
Past freely through the gates, and left me there:  
Thrice thus enraged, through the throng I broke,  
Thrice, in the same sort, I was beaten back:  
At last perplexed in mind, in body tired',  
Confused' with shame, and wonder, I retyrd'.  
Faint I sat down, and eyeing th'open gate,  
Thus fretted to myself: what sullen fate  
Resists my entry? and with broad disgrace  
Excludes me only from this hallowêd place?  
O, in this world of people is there none?  
With as great sins, although perhaps, less known  
Than mine are, which have entered: if there be?  
Why am I only plagued', all others free?  
Here wrath and indignatiön inflame  
My undiscerning soul, with angry shame:  
Blind that I was, who in this frantic mood,  
Could not descry the first spring of my good:  
But tamer reason calming this hot brunt,  
Summons my past life to a strict account,  
Forcing my much-rakt' memory t'unscroule  
My too-long-folded sins, a fatal role:  
My seeing soul with ghastlye terrors faints,  
Ihill horror in death's palest colours paints  
Dismaidness in my face, hell in my thought,  
And all the torments wherewith hell is fraught.  
Here grace began it's powêrful beams to shed,  
Which in my soul, remorse and sorrow bred:  
Those hideous sins which erst but pastimes were,  
Through this new light, in their true form appear,  
Such, as their greatness none else can conceive,  
Nor others better-minded, would believe,  
That ever such sins were: sins which the earth  
Were guiltless of, had it not given me birth,  
A greater monster than the which, till now  
It never teemd', nor after this shall do:  
Fear of eternity, and hel's black shades,  
With horrors near my fainting soul invades,  
That cunning fiend, which hitherto had soothed'  
My sinful disposition, and had smoothed'  
The harsh way of damnation, now appears  
In his own hideous shape, augments my fears,  
Makes my sins greater, than indeed they are,  
For none so great as aught to cause despair,  
Else infinitely bad, we might sin more,  
Than God's most infinite goodness could restore,  
O father, how the grief of what had past,  
And fear of torments, which for ever last,  
Rent my sad heart, where in despair took place,  
Striving to dim that little beam of grace,  
Through which my soul already did begin  
To see, and hate the foulness of its sin:  
When lo on each side troubled, and distressed,  
That selfsame grace my weeping eye addressed  
T'a goodly image, heawd' in parian stone:  
The virgin mother, with her litlë one,  
Folded in her pure arms: such as the light  
Of the twin-star, shows in a stormy night  
To hopeless sailors, such appeatd' this phare  
To my soul, running th'hazard of despair:  
With humbled head, and much more humbled heart  
I kneel, and kneeling, thus my woes impart:  
Most blessed virgin, far more blessed mother  
O ever blessed in both, above all other,  
Although I know, how ill, so dire a wretch  
May her polluted hands for favour stretch,  
How ill I may presume to look for grace,  
From thy deservedly averted face,  
Since hell more opposite can nothing find,  
To the eternal purîty of thy mind,  
Than this confused chaös of all crimes,  
Slave to her lusts, and monster of these times:  
I know so stained a soul should not expect  
Other, from thee, than hatred, and neglect,  
Yet since it pleased' that little son of thine,  
That mighty God, that power all-divine,  
For so despisd'a wretch, himself t'expose  
To all our miseryês, and disastrous woes;  
Mother of mercy, beit not said, that thou  
Didst' ere reject, an humbled sinner's vow:  
Obtain for me (what can that son refuse  
For which so dearly loud' a mother sues)  
That I poor sinner, though a worthless guest,  
Yet may assist at this al-honourd' feast,  
And prostrate, with true sorrow, may adore  
The marks of his dear wounds, and sacred gore:  
Thou spotless virgin, which art ever bent  
To succour such, as truly would repent:  
Lo here I vow, and from this howêr begin  
To hate, and fly all paths, which lead to sin:  
Be thou my surety (who can allege  
To thy great son a more accepted pledge)  
As soon as entered I shall have adored'  
His holy cross, and his great name implored▪  
myself from worldly joys I will retire,  
Both truly in effect, and in desire:  
Be thou my guide, and graciously impart  
Comfort, and help: for thou my suerty art.  
Thus having prayed: not rashly, confident,  
Under so great a patroness I went,  
And where the meeting throngs of such as entered,  
Shocked with the issûers forth, I fearless ventured:  
Oh father, hear, and wonder: have you seen  
The justling waves on Neptune's foaming green?  
When winds and tides, at variance, strongly plea  
For empire, on the billow-breaking sea:  
No otherwise, the floating multitudes  
Shouldering each other in opposed crowds,  
In streams uncertain yet, wave too and fro  
Whiles some role backwards others forward flow,  
These coming on even at the portal fail,  
Now th'▪ out comers, th'incommers now prevail:  
Myself, like to a bow-shot arrow flew,  
And borne with equal speed, through either crow  
(Which way or how I passed I can not tell)  
Prostrate before the sign of triumph fell.  
Here fear and horror, springing from the tide  
Of overflowing joy, my soul divide,  
Guilty of its own sins: a flood of tears,  
Badges of inward sorrow, drown my fears  
In seas of true content: no joy hath life  
Compared' to this sad joy, this joyful grief:  
Hence, springs true hatred of my former sins,  
Hence, heavenly love with better hopes begins  
To spread pure flames, and my best part inspires,  
O that a stream of tears should raise such fires!  
The marbled flooër grovelling I embraced,  
And cleansed' the chequered flags with kisses chaste,  
Then crawling on, and kneeling at the foot  
Of th'holy cross, I bathed' its sacred root  
With flowing tears, and empty holes adored'  
Yet with the blood of my redeemer gored':  
Oh what a full content, what seas of bliss  
My soul swam in! lost in the vast abyss  
Of that unmeasurd' love, which for our good  
Left these sad marks, of his much-wasted blood:  
Unworthy I, my sex's shame, the worst  
Of Aegipt's monsters, and the most accurst,  
Led by so great a patroness, was free  
To kiss the foot, of his blood-honourd tree,  
And through her favour made my guilty eyes  
Partakers of its glorious mysteries:  
And oh such sweetness there, such odours felt,  
As none can guess, the same who have not smelled  
A heavenly sent: the like, no flowrye field,  
Perfumed' panchaia, nor Sabaea, yield:  
My harder heart now in warm tears distills,  
And inward comfort my whole senses thrills  
O may all such as are oppressed in mind,  
The like relief in true repentance find.  
The brazen gates no-sooner had I past,  
When my whole burden on the green I cast,  
Before the image, where I first had prayed,  
And mindful of my former promise, said:  
Mother of God, who dost to none refuse  
Mercy, unless thy mercies they abuse,  
Through thee I have this glorious sight obtained,  
Not with a wicked eye to be profaned,  
Through thee I'll glorify my God, who saves  
The sinner, which through thee his mercy craves:  
What can a wretch say more? or more require?  
Having from thee obtained her heart's desire:  
'tis now my turn: blessed virgin: here I stand;  
Ready t'observe my vow, and thy command,  
O teach me heaven's path, yet unknown, to tread,  
And in the way of truth, thy pupil lead.  
This said: as I was rising from my prayêr,  
A heavenly voice came through the open air,  
Fly to the desert: there, sad soul repent,  
Beyond the Jordan: there find true content.  
My trembling knees on earth again I fold,  
And outstretched hands to heaven's bright arches hold,  
Alme virgin, lo, here once more, I abjure.  
The world and sin: thou which art ever pure,  
Mother, and maid: if gladly all I leave,  
And naked, to thy dear protection cleave,  
If readily I follow thy command,  
O do not thou withdraw thy helping hand,  
But thy poor creature guide, preserve, defend,  
Till in thy son, myself and vows both end:  
Here-with I rose: as I departed thence,  
Some charitable man stopped three small pence  
In to my hand: with which in hast I bought  
Three penny loafes, and by the baker taught  
The way, to Jordan which I was to take,  
With tears the holy city I forsake.  
The failing sun, yet, with a ruddy light  
I could see glimmering on mount Carmel's height,  
When to a little chapel of St. John,  
John, holy Zachary'es more holy son,  
Weary and weak I came: this chapel stood  
Upon the banks of the desired flood,  
There, as the sun even hid his sea-drenched beams,  
Hands, face, and feet, I wash in living streams:  
The night I spend in prayer, and with tears  
Read the black legend of my sinful years:  
Preparing my stained soul, with unfaind grief,  
The next day, to receive the food of life.  
Just heavens be merciful: I know I went  
Unworthily to this great sacrament,  
O sacred manna, fountain of all good,  
O deified bread, o angel's food,  
Hide me in thy eternal mercies, from  
The dreadful justice of thy threatened doom:  
Never sick soul presumed in house profane,  
So glorious o guest to entertain:  
But oh unsearched treasures! boundless seas  
Of mercies and of goodness! when I cease  
Thy mercies and thy grace to magnify,  
O let me without grace and mercy die:  
Never sick soul, so lame, and impotent,  
So full of horrors, which durst yet present  
I' naked inside, to that heavenly guest,  
received' more comfort in this sacred feast,  
Than I poor sinher: undeserved grace  
Did never yet more amiably embrace,  
A leprous soul, restored' with angel's food,  
And cleansed with my God's al-clensing blood:  
The inward joy, and spiritual delight,  
The peace of mind, and comfortable light;  
Which (liberâlly infused from above)  
Fired my soul with everlasting love,  
Were such, as should my words hope to deliver,  
My words would wrong the bounty of the giver:  
Alas how oft, to solitude confined',  
Have I since then, with holy hunger pined'  
After this blessed food: how oft distressed,  
And with the weight of mine own woes oppressed,  
Have I in agony, and hellish dread,  
Sighed for the comfort of this heavenly bread:  
How oft in bitterness and drought of heart,  
Have I aspired, but to some little part,  
Of this oreflowing grace, this taste of heaven,  
Now to a wretch so prodigally given:  
Ah I deserved' it not, my sins were such,  
Rather what then I had, was too too much,  
Yet he who knows both when and how to give,  
Will, when his pleased', a famished wretch relieve.  
Oh father, might a sinner ever pray  
With such full comfort, as I did that day,  
How should we beat our sin's deserved pain,  
Without which heavenly joys are hoped' in vain:  
But I the time, in mine own passions spend,  
Wronging your ear, which craves my story's end,  
Yet as you see I can not well let pass  
This pleasing memory so then I was  
No less unwilling to forsake the place,  
Wherein unworthy, I received' such grace.  
From hence, about high noon, though loath I part,  
More strong, more comforted, and light of heârt,  
Then ever I had been: prone on the banks  
Of silver Jordan, I yield humblest thanks  
To my great Mistress, for I must to her  
All favours what so e'er and gifts refer,  
Her son at her entreaty shall bestow,  
For all through her that's given, to her I owe:  
with tears I crave that she vouch safe t'abate  
My God's just wrath, whom in such wretched state,  
I had presumed', unworthy, to recêive,  
That he my faulty rashness would forgive,  
Then in his late-tried mercy●s confident,  
Myself and all t'his heavenly will present.  
My prayer ended: on the tufted grass  
Earth's native Carpet, half a loaf I place,  
And sitting down on Jordan's flowery bed,  
Praising th'almighty's name, I eat my bread:  
My htirst I quench in the undamagd' flood,  
For what I took in drink, my tears made good,  
Contented with this sober fare I rise,  
And to the orient sky cowert mine eyes,  
Giving all thanks to him, who to all gives,  
And with due food his creatures relieves:  
That eve, and most part of that night, I spent  
In prayêr: the rest to careful slumbers lent:  
Early next morning, ere the rising sun  
Had from the east his daily course begun,  
Watchful I rise my knees and heart I bow,  
Weep, and reiterate my former vow,  
And having to the glorious virgin prayed  
More earnestly than ever, for her aid  
In all my actions, till my soul inlargd'  
From mortal fetters, had it's vows discharged,  
With constant purpose, never to forsake  
The course, by her address I was to take,  
straight boating over the saint honoured flood,  
I hid me in this unfrequented wood:  
From which time, ever flying, I have fled,  
And this vast desert's depth inhabited,  
Expecting him with love and fear, who saves  
The humbled sinner, which, his mercy craves.  
Here she concluded: he, whose ravished ears  
Had seemed transported to th'harmonial spears,  
Whiles she spoke sweeter music, now displeased'  
Those accents of her heavenly voice were seized',  
Hoping a while, that of herself, she would  
Some other passage of her life have told,  
Stood mure: but silent shame with downcast eyes  
Her aaged face in virtue's colour dies,  
At things herself had said: this he perceives:  
And thus with words, her of new words deceives:  
How long (o sainted sinner) is it since  
These woods their first bliss borrôwed, from thy sins.  
Forty seven times: said she, the golden sun  
Through the twelve signs it's complete race hath run  
For so oft have I marked these trees left bare,  
And their rich out sides nipped by th' colder air.  
As oft, (if this we reckon) have I seen  
The fragrant spring restore their native green,  
Since zions holy city I forsook,  
And penance in this desert overtooke.  
Zozim again; how have you lived' since then,  
Whither relieved' by angels, or by men?  
Have you in peace and without strife attained  
To this perfection's height, unstopped, unstraind:  
Or have you felt the civil violence  
Of lawless passions? reason against sense,  
Will opposite to will, and rebel nature  
In arms, against the laws of its creator:  
Hath not that common foe, whose subtle slight  
Some times transforms him to an angel bright,  
Some times puts on the hideous shape of fear,  
With this t'amaze, with that the eyes to blear  
Of weaker souls: with cunning and with force  
Opposed' you in this solitary course?  
For with such tricks it ever was his use  
The desert's late improovers to seduce.  
Th' Egyptian sighs, who in the fearfulst kind,  
Had stood the utmost fury of the fiend,  
Yet loath those fatal conflicts to renew,  
From which she doubts fresh dangers might ensue,  
Pale at their memory, and willing to  
Forget thus sleights, what he desired' to know:  
Tentations I had many, and those such,  
I can not say too little, may too much.  
Their memory is horror, and may yet  
Breed danger, who is safe whom foes beset:  
But for my food! o stay, here, Zozim cried,  
With this half-answer not to be denied,  
For thinking it the will of heaven, he should  
Her wondrous life to aftertimes unfold',  
He would have all: ah whither is't you run  
From that which you should most insist upon?  
Weak of yourself, if through heaven's aiding pôwrs  
You have prevailed, the glory is not yours:  
Secrets of kings w'are warned to conceal,  
But glorious 'tis God's wonders to reveal.  
The sun burned' saint (her eyes glazed' with fresh tears)  
Made answer: for the space of seventeen years,  
Or there abouts, when to the silent shade  
Of gloomy woods, my first retreat I made,  
The raging monsters of untamd' desyers'  
The light-winged' Furies of my former fires  
Wasp-like, innumerous and busy swarms,  
Frighted my restless soul with dire alarms,  
They roamd', they raged', by day, by night obscure,  
No time, no place, my prayers were secure:  
Hot meats, where in our Egypt much exceeds,  
And bodies plumped to sinful pleasures feeds,  
Now represent themselves with all the store  
Of lawless cates, which I had used' before,  
Tempting with an unwilling, forced delight,  
My still in-vaine-resisting appetite:  
My bloodless veins with strong wines seemt to swell  
Which I was wont to quaff, as deep as Hell  
In sinful healths: lascivious tunes deter  
My even unwillingly attentive ear,  
Whiles my too busy, and unheedful tongue  
Hums the lewd parcels of some wanton song  
To these both tears, and prayers, I oppose,  
Batter my guilty breast with trebled blows,  
Implore the aid of my great patroness  
Whose succour never failed me in distress,  
For as it were even kneeling in the place  
Where first I saw her image, my sad case  
With tears I would expose: o happy they  
Who to the mother of all mercy fly,  
For whiles tears from mine eyes flowed, in full streams,  
A heavenly light diffused' in glorious beams  
Would round encircle me secure my fears,  
And change those streams of sorrows to glad tears:  
But oh the snares, the unresisted charms,  
The fierce assaults, th'unevitable arms;  
Wherewith soul lust, and actions unnamd',  
Ay me! my too prone memory inflamed,  
When all those wanton pranks of love, which I  
In former times had acted willingly,  
Presented now to my unwilling mind,  
Each one, its several face, its several kind:  
Then millions of chymera-like delights  
Would throng in, with un heard of appetites,  
And all lust's varied shapes: a hideous shoal,  
None can paint sin but to a sinful soul:  
Thrice happy ye, whose purer minds not know  
Those tortures, which our sins are subject to,  
Who in your state of innocence, secure,  
Dream not, what our (once guilty) souls endure:  
Mine yet with horror faints, even at the thought,  
Mindful, how weakly thus assailed, it fought:  
No flax, no sulphur, spreads more readily  
The nimble flame, which heedless hands apply,  
Than my prone senses, through sin's former use,  
Like lightning, these impoysond thoughts diffuse,  
My forced will its assent in vain denies,  
My soul melts in the flame, my marrow fries,  
I weep, when urged' with these enraged' desires,  
But o no sea of tears can quench such fires.  
My boiling limbs I spread on the cold' ground,  
Mine eyes and face in flowing sorrow drowned',  
Thus in the pangs of mortal agony,  
Whole days, whole nights oftime, I grovelinglye,  
Invoking full of trust, her virgin aid,  
Which never failed' me, though some times delayed,  
For from the dust I never rear my face,  
(Vexed with such thoughts) till that clear beam of grace  
It's light of comfortable sweetness sheds,  
And round about me glorious brightness spreads.  
For than the enemy retyers dismayed,  
Hot flames, and lust's abhorred suggestions vade:  
So when foul mists clog Iordans silver flood,  
The sun, cleared from some interposed cloud,  
The foggy damp disperses: and displays  
On the reflecting waves his brightest rays.  
Full seventeen years thus I afflicted lived,  
Invaded by the foe, by her relieved,  
So long when I had spent that little bread  
Where of I spoke, on herbs and roots I fed,  
Experience instructing me to choose  
Such as the woods afforded, best for use:  
So long: through th'alterd seasons of the year,  
I suffered much from the distempered sphere,  
In depth of winter, with cold mornings glaced,  
With snows, with sleetes, and storms of hail defaced,  
In summer tanned', and scorched with Titan's beams,  
My nakedness exposed to both extremes,  
For those sheer weeds the moist and bleaker air  
Had quickly rotted, which at first I beware:  
From which time forward; naked as you see,  
From sultry heat, from blashing winters free,  
Clad in the mercies of my God, in praise  
Of his blessed name, I spend my waning days:  
My soul which in these caves, heaven aiding, through  
A thousand snares, hath kept its former vow,  
Not ignorant, with what high favours graced,  
Innumerable hazards it hath past,  
And trusting to that grace, by which repriud'  
From these exterior troubles, it hath lived',  
Grows confident: and with inflamed' desires,  
To everlasting comforts glad aspyres:  
I drink, I feed, I'm clothed' out of heaven's store,  
The word of God all these supplies, and more,  
Because that man on bread not only feeds,  
But on each word which from our Lord proceeds,  
Nay even the very rock shall them array,  
Who the foul robe of sin have thrown away.  
Th'attentive father, when she had annexed  
These places, picked out of the sacred text,  
Demanded if she had been some times bred  
In studies, or the psalms perhaps had read:  
Noah truly said she, nor have seen the face  
Of mortal creature, in this forlorn place:  
But be not this your wonder: for God's word  
Doth sense and science to all his afford:  
Lo father, now my whole life's tract you have,  
And once again upon my knees I crave,  
That in those holy offerings which you make  
Daily to heaven, you some compassion take  
Of my much-burdend' Soul, and recommend  
To that great God of mercies my near end:  
A deep-fetched sigh here closed' her speech: the man  
Confounded kneeled', and with loud voice began,  
His eyes in warm tears swimming: Blessed be  
That God, by whom great things we compassed see,  
Strange high and wonderful, most dreadful things  
Things which no scypher within number brings,  
Blessed art thou, Lord, God almighty, who  
Art pleased' that I a sinful wretch should know  
All those good things, which thou reseru'st in store  
For them that love thee, who dost evermore  
Help them who seek thee: there th'Aegiptian takes  
The oldman's hand, and raising him thus speaks:  
Whiles I am living let no mortal ear  
(O man of God) what I have told thee hear,  
Touching my life and state: now go in peace,  
And when the sun shall this same day's increase  
Add to the full year's period, you me,  
And I shall you, God's grace assisting see,  
Yet for Christ's sake, let me entreat, that you  
When the next lent shall these blessed rites renew,  
Though all the rest their annual custom keep,  
In boating over Jordan's sacred deep,  
Yet pass not with them: Zozim marking her  
His monasteryes solemn rule tinferre,  
With wonder shrinking, only said in's heart,  
Glory to thee my God, who dost impart  
To them who love thee: she proceeded, stay  
At home, as I was saying, nor obey  
Thy rule here in, which wouldst thou; know in vain  
Man strives, when otherwise the heavens ordain:  
Then on that ever honoured' day, in which  
It pleased' our lord his people to enrich  
With the unualued treasure of his blood,  
And sacred body that life-giving food.  
Which, as his lou'es eternal testament,  
By his last will; in this great sacrament  
He left to his beloved: then I say,  
When the declining sun shall close the day,  
Having with due solemnity renewed'  
The sacred cene do not my hopes delude,  
But part of that celestial food reserve,  
The worst of sinners, and most poor to serve:  
This don, expect me on the farther side,  
Where Jordan's streams the world and us divide,  
That there once more I may receive the blood,  
And body of my God, which sacred food  
My famished soul (since those blessed streams I passed)  
Hath not been worthy in these woods to taste:  
O father, though I know myself the worst  
Of all that ever find, and most accurst,  
Yet do not you a sinner's prayer slight,  
For heaven itself in such oft takes delight,  
Hear me, and grant, that I unworthy may  
Receive my God, about that time of day,  
Wherein it pleased' himself to consecrate,  
And give his last of suppers the first date,  
Father be mindful of me, and farewell:  
One thing I had forgotten: pray you tell  
Your Abbot John: that some things are amiss  
Which he should not neglect: but as for this  
Say nothing for a while yet: tell him when  
Our lord shall think it fit: forbear till then  
she'd said, and kneeled for's blessing, which obtained  
With winged speed the thickest thicks she gaignd'.  
The air receaves her on glad wings, the grass  
Pressed lightly with her foot steps, as they pass  
Forceth to rise again (you'd say) to meet  
I''s happiness, and kiss her sacred feet:  
The woods haste to encounter their loud'ghest,  
The leaves to whispering winds their joys expressed,  
And spread a thicker shadow, for they know  
It is her will, that they should hide her so:  
Things without sense exult, th'oldman alone,  
Forsaken, and dejected, stands like one,  
Whose high-contemplative transported soul  
Wholly absorbed, and fixed in th'upper pole,  
Reared on the wings of pure eternal love,  
Admire those treasures, which are stored' above  
For true chaste lovers, and enjoys the place  
Of endless bliss: alas, one minut's space  
This high raised' Soul, to its frail home returns,  
Where sad, dejected, and oppressed it mourns;  
I''s misery the greater, by how much  
The late-tried joys of heaven it had found such.  
So stood the sad anachoret, deprived'  
Of that blessed object, which had erst revived'  
His death-likeage, whiles every word of hers  
Pierced like sweet music his attentive ears,  
Her countenance and illuminated face  
Diffusing part of that redounding grace,  
Which through the working of the holy ghost,  
His neighbouring soul with plenteous streams engrossed,  
What joy might with that joy of his compare?  
What misery now equal his despair,  
Since past felicities but vex the more,  
Than if they never had been known before.  
His eye pursue the saint, as far as he  
Through the dim glasses of those eyes could see,  
But when the spacious plain, and woods thick shade  
His prospect's utmost period had made,  
Lost in himself, he without motion stood  
His eyes and soul both sinking in a flood  
Of endless tears innumerable woes  
oppress him with their weight, and mortal throws  
His straightened heart and bowels thrill: but when,  
Weighing the varying state of mortal men,  
He had reflected on his grief, and called  
The will of God to mind: himself appalld'▪  
And fearful lest he had offended in  
His too rash sorrow, sorrows for his sin,  
And rectifying his inferior will,  
Vows that of heaven in all things to fulfil;  
Then kneeling kissed the grass where she had stepped,  
Which with observance dew, yet careful kept  
The prints of her dear feet: and with calm showers  
Waterd the drooping grass, and late-blessed flowers.  
But time calls on him, and himself restrains  
His too prone will, to dwell on those sad plains  
His hands with streaming eyes to heaven he lifts,  
And magnifyîng his maker in his gifts,  
Who had discovered that rich mine of grace  
To him sad sinner, homewards twines his face:  
Much pondering her strict life, much her great merit,  
But most the gift of that all-knowing spirit,  
Which to her deiformed soul împarts  
Thoughts hidden, and deep folds of mortal hearts.  
'Twas holy week: the fathers meet again,  
To celebrate at home their yearly cene:  
Which having solemnised' in open qûyer,  
All silent, to their long-void celles retire.  
Zozim at leisure here, begins to muse  
Upon his late adventure, and renews.  
The memory of all things, as they passed,  
Her sins, her age, strict penance, and long fast:  
Summons his senses, chiefly eyes and ears,  
(For their free passage full impression bears  
Both of her form and words) to lend him aid  
Whiles his attentive soul a brief had made  
Of all her words and graces: he the while,  
At euêry tear of hers, each little smile,  
Makes a full period, reviewes her face,  
Each lineament thereof, each heavenly grace,  
And of these parcels frames one perfect whole,  
Which he ingraves deep, in his tender soul,  
Nay now begins t'esteem, and much to make  
Of his own soul: even for the model's sake:  
Pigmalion-like, but with a happier flame,  
Doting upon th'imaginary frame  
Of his own brain: for wise, the whole refers  
To that great workman, whose hand never errs,  
Where it would goodness paint, nor can his s'kill  
Fail him, whose pencil is his only will:  
Nor wondereth Zozim now, that libêrall heaven  
Had such perfections to a creâture given,  
But mindful of the maker, learns to slight  
The shallow and unfinished counterfeit,  
Of that eternal prototype, which had  
This rare piece to his own resemblance made,  
Whose incrëated beauty he admires,  
And happy, burns in more than mortal fires.  
Blessed sinner: whose sole memory can move  
All creatures, to their great creators love:  
So powerful is goodness, to whose flame,  
None can approach, but must burn with the same:  
The best effect of friendship, which to none,  
But saints, nor even to these, is always known:  
Thrice happy was our Zozimas to choose  
So blessed a friend, but happier in the use  
He made thereof: for as all things appear  
More great in her, through favour, than they were:  
So through the glass of pious hatred, he  
His own offences trebled seems to see,  
For by how much her worth he over-rates,  
So much or more he of his own abates:  
Much he admires her life, her goodness much,  
But more himself blames, that he is not such:  
Oh who not envies this his blessed state,  
Happy to merit both by love and hate.  
Hence he to such supreme perfection grows,  
That it, it-self with admiration shows,  
To the whole closter, whiles he only blind,  
Sees not that light, which in his own soul shined▪  
To th'eyes of all men: and though he conceal  
The cause thereof, th'effects themselves reveal  
In euêrye act of his: nor rest'es it here,  
Too great, to be confined: the spacious spear  
Of one mens' soul, too small to comprehend  
So great a flame, is forced itself t'extend,  
Dilating that resistless fire, which burns  
All objects near, and its own substance turns.  
The convent now, or rather, eûery celle  
Might seem a heaven, where blessed saints only dwell,  
The elders mark with wonder-strocken eyes  
Such reformation, without their advice,  
And with more dew respects, learn to defer  
To hîm, whose good examples powêrful were  
To make all others good: for none despairs  
T'attain to that perfection, which he shares:  
The perfectest themselves more perfect grow,  
And now, by more than speculation know,  
That goodness in a creature, hath no ●nd,  
Whence to a greater good it may not tend.  
Whiles thus a heavenly life on earth they live,  
And their thoughts wholly to perfection give,  
Their ravished souls, fixed in a higher sphere,  
Mark not the altered seasons of the year,  
Nor lower orbs, and ever posting sun,  
Which little less than his full race had run,  
And by his absence left the colder climb  
Stormed' once more with long frosts (so swiftly time.  
Runs with the saints, and in devotion spent)  
Till warned now by near approaching lent,  
And by long custom taught they ready made  
To pass the Jordan, to the gloomy shade  
Of unfrequented woods, the blessed aboades  
Of living saints, and long since beaten roads  
By elder Hermits: whiles the rest prepare  
For their departure, Zozim's only care  
Casts, how to keep touch with his saintlike friend,  
Whom if he passed the flood, he could not tend  
As he had promised: gladly would do both,  
And to infringe their statutes he is loath,  
Nor would perhaps be suffered: this his doubt  
A fever clears, which ere the rest went out,  
Forced him to lie, and at his bodye's cost,  
His mind from scruple freed: his journey crossed:  
Where now remembering, how she parting said,  
Whither he would or not, he should be stayed,  
Taught by experience, her words believes:  
And at his own ●…o slender faith much grieves:  
Yet comforted in that he well-knowes, she  
Who so long since this sickness could foresee,  
Would not forget to pray for him: remits  
All to the will of heaven: ere long, his fits  
Not caused' by any natural excess,  
But by the hand of God himself, grew less,  
And quickly left him free from all disease,  
His mind and body both, in sweetest peace,  
Expecting that, not long-deferd' delight,  
Which both were to partake in her blessed sight.  
The wished day breaks to his longing eyes,  
He hastes to that unbloody sacrifice,  
Which glads the heavens, and earth, the quick and dead,  
And pixing part of that eternal bread,  
Which mindful of his holy penitent,  
He careful, had reserved' to this intent:  
Down to the Jordan, swimming in glad tears,  
His God and maker in his weak hands bears,  
And full of hope, in the appointed place,  
Expects to see her long-desired face,  
Much wondering, that she was not yet arrived',  
Much doubting, lest himself had misconceiud'  
The place agreed on, and begins to fear,  
lest she had com'd' before, and missed him there:  
Then to his present God recurres for aid,  
And prostrate on▪ his face, with fervour prayed:  
My Lord and God, who this pure soul didst frame,  
To the eternal honour of thy name,  
Since 'twas thy will, and ordinance divine,  
That I at first, found this choice friend of thine,  
Oh let me once more have the bliss to see  
The creature, which hath so much pleased thee:  
Let me not frustrate of my hopes return,  
My sins, my shame, and just repulse, to mourn  
In empty celles: This said his watery eyes  
Sends to the woods, alas those feeble spies  
Return bad news: for having marked' the flood  
its channel deep, betwixt them and the wood,  
Propound a new doubt, not conceived' before,  
How she should pass unto the hither shore:  
(No boat in sight) but this doubt's quickly cleared,  
When she unto his hopeless eyes appeared,  
Like to a new sun, rising on the strand:  
And signing with her wonder-working hand  
The smiling flood: begins to March thereon  
As 'twere firm land: even as the blushing sun  
Drooped' in the west, as shamed' to show his beams,  
Whiles a more glorious sun shined' on those streams:  
Yet at the wonder, he his head inclines  
And with dew reverence his place resigns:  
The waves the while more smooth and softly ●leet,  
Playing soft music to her naked feet,  
Which (Forced by upper streams to part) they kiss,  
And murmur, as robbed' of their greatest bliss,  
Yet lest their stand might fright her, they restrain  
Their own zeal, hasting gladly to the main.  
Zozim more senseless, than the senseless waves,  
(For they were used to such wonders) raves,  
And at the miracle amazed stands,  
But as he would have kneeled upon the sands,  
She now approaching to the hither side,  
Thus with a loud voice, from the waters cried:  
Father will you t'a creature kneel? forbear:  
Who in your hands the all-creator bear:  
The monk obeys, nor dare infringe her will,  
Which th'elements themselves joy to fulfil:  
She landing kneels, and kneeling humbly says  
Bless me, o father, bless me: he displays  
His wondering hands to heaven: oh blessed be  
Our God, the God of truth, whose works we see  
Never belie his words: he promise made,  
And verifyes in thee, what then he said,  
That all such, as their souls from sin would clear,  
Like to himself in greatness should appear:  
Glory to thee my lord and saviour, who  
By this thine handmaid, hast given me to know,  
How far I was from true perfection, when  
I thought myself (oh fool) the best of men.  
But she whose famished soul breathes purest fires  
Humbled in presence of her God, desyers  
The father in his office to proceed,  
Saying the Pater, and Apostles Creed:  
With trembling hands, he warily unfolds  
The sacred host: and to her full view holds:  
Th'assisting angels to the place repair,  
Commanding silence to the whispering air,  
Which now affords but sparingly such breath  
As might preserve th'inhabitants from death:  
Those blessed spirits with mild horrors shrink,  
And at the presence of their maker sink  
In love's abyss: admiring with glad shame,  
A sinner's soul, fiêrd with a greater flame,  
And more intense then theirs: whiles she with tears  
Arming her breast, against its pious fears,  
Swimming in fervour, and love's sweetest sweets,  
With opened' mouth, her great redeemer meets:  
The spheres stood still: whiles heaven and earth amazed,  
With awful silence, and high wonder gazed'  
Upon her ravished soul: all motions cease,  
Fearful to interrupt her mind's sweet peace:  
Whiles she possessed of her rich object feeds  
On pleasure, which all words, all thought exceeds:  
And now foreseeing her long-wished end  
To be at hand: her thoughts with fervour tend  
To joys eternal, and inspired tongue  
Swanlike, repeats part of old Simeon's song:  
Now thou thy servant dost dismiss o Lord  
In peace: according to thy blessed word.  
For mine eyes▪ thy salvation have seen.  
Here she broke of: and rising from the green  
(Proud of its burden) thus to Zozim spoke,  
Yet father, I have one request to make,  
Which you must not deny me: take the pains  
A year hence, to revisit those wild plains,  
Where first we met: for by th'old torrent, where  
We held discourse together this last year,  
You once again shall see me, if you please:  
As 'tis long since decreed: now go in peace.  
Can saints deceive then? how, herself knows well:  
But pitying his just grief, forbears to tell:  
Whiles he her words and meaning both mistakes,  
And's greatest misery, his comfort makes:  
With glad tears he replies: the heavens best know,  
How willingly I now would with thee go,  
And ever feed upon that soul of thine,  
In which all things be heavenly, and divine:  
But earth must not be heaven: yet ere I leave  
Thy gracious sight, disdain not to receive  
This slender portion: which said, he uncasd'  
His little burden, and before her placed'  
The choice of his provision: forth she stretched  
Her humble hand, and to her blessed mouth reached  
A grain or two of lentel, and no more,  
For grace she said her food was, and best store.  
But her high-mounting thoughts ill brook delays,  
And parting, she the doleful father prays,  
Not to forget her wants: with streaming eyes,  
He to her dear feet cleaves: and throbbing cries▪  
Pray for the holy church, the empire, and  
For me, who most in need of your help stand:  
Longer he would, but dares not, her detain,  
Whom to importune, he knew 'twas in vain:  
Loath he departs, ah little dreaming then,  
Never to see those saintlike eyes again!  
Whiles she makes haste back, to the longing wood,  
Walking upon the once more happy flood.  
Ah man what art thou? whose (tho godlike) mind  
Yet reels, and waves, with euêry little wind:  
The worlds the tennis-court, thou art the ball,  
Now with a lofty bound, now lowly fall,  
Twixt chance and passion tossed: nor old, nor young,  
Blessed with a settled fortune: never long,  
Nor twice together pleased': for following woes  
Still with distaste thy few good minutes close.  
If perfect men, even in ambitions which  
Tend to sole goodness, passion can bewitch:  
What may those wretches hope, whose love is sin,  
Where shall their bad day's end, or good begin?  
There joy is misery: their best hopes Hell:  
Where fettered by their own base choice they dwell,  
He whose highflying soul breathes purest flames,  
And only at eternal objects aims,  
His heart in undeserved sorrow steeps,  
And for a mortal creature's absence weeps,  
Yet much at his own weakness he repines,  
With multiplied acts his will resigns,  
Labours against the stream, and strives in vain  
Self-seeking sense, and nature to restrain,  
For goodness no less powerful is to move,  
Then beauty, either passiön, or love:  
Humbled, he ponders man's unsettled state,  
And at his own much wonders, who so late  
Did with such zeal to her blessed sight aspire.  
Sorrow now springing from fullfilld' desire.  
Hereby instructed, that man's spacious mind  
Can not within frail circles be confined,  
But as first from eternal orbs it came,  
So nothing can content it but the same.  
Home he returns: and in a silent celle  
Immutes those eyes, disdaining now to dwell  
On earthly objects, having seen the best  
Which that world's age could boast of, and most blessed:  
There he his thoughts on joys eternal bent,  
Oft rectyfying his oft crossed intent,  
And when, his soul with heaviness oppressed,  
Would some times interrupt his bodye's rest,  
His thoughts he to the wilderness would send,  
Winged' messengers, to his all knowing friend,  
Craving her prayërs: not in fact doth err,  
Though much he seem t'a crêature to defer,  
And more mistake her dwelling: she his tears  
Both sees, and pities, from the upper spheres,  
More pious now then ever, and obtains  
The mind's peace he desired, and happy gains,  
Not dreaming whence: whereby that year he spends  
In comforts great, and still to greater tends.  
The long-exspected day appeared at last,  
When he not mindless of his promise, past  
Over the Jordan, and with hasty pace,  
The next way took to the appointed place;  
Deluding hopes his boiling fancies fyêr,  
And all speed seems more slack, than his desire:  
He runs, and running, thinks his feet but slow,  
Not dreaming to what misery they go:  
And who knows? would he say, but that she stays,  
Expecting me, and for my coming prays,  
For saints their longings have: 'twas true, he said:  
She for their everlasting meeting prayed.  
Arriud' he strait sends forth his busy spies,  
Hoping to see those long-since-closed eyes,  
Too bright for earth to look on: They by chance  
In their return, upon a small cave glance,  
Which in the main rock, by no mortal taught  
Nature, art's Mistress, curiously had wrought,  
And in the native stone, had framed' a door:  
Two lights above: beneath, a pummizd' floor:  
Stored' with a pleasant fountain, fruit, and shade,  
Which to the spring a goodly palm tree made:  
His heart with joy beats: and his willing feet  
Run, their supposed happiness to meet:  
For 'twas a place, which he (with reason) guessed,  
Heaven had prepared, for such a heavenly guest.  
Entered, he finds her kneeling, with a face  
Which yet retained its former zeal and grace:  
Tho motion less, deprived' of sense and breath,  
The sweetest picture that e'er graced pale death,  
Here first seen smiling: her joined hands applied  
T'a crucifix, which in the rocks main side,  
Her bodkin had (not without form) designed,  
Tho much less perfect, than it, in her mind:  
The monk admires her zeal, and loath to break  
Her souls imagined' rapt, forbears to speak:  
But his impatient ears grudge that delight,  
(Bad councillors) which only blessed his sight,  
And longing to enjoy her heavenly voice:  
Their Master urge, first, with some little noise  
Of bootless sighs, than in a louder tone,  
As from a soul much suffering, to groan:  
All failing, to her key-cold feet he creeps,  
Where with good cause, tho yet unknown, he weeps:  
Too hasty lips: ah whiles you kiss, you kill:  
And guiltless heart, with deadly horrors thrill:  
Yet lips may err: his hands must also feel  
Those sacred soles, as cold, as stark as steel:  
Stiff were her hands: her nostrils without breath:  
All certain tokens of a certain death.  
His sorrow is too great to find a vent,  
With dry eyes on that doleful object bent,  
He stands more senseless, than the senseless stone,  
The growing rock had some life, he had none:  
And lifeless might to this day have remained,  
Had not her pure soul of her spouse obtained',  
That her bare corpse, exposed' to open view,  
Might by his means, receive it's mortal dew:  
Heaven his lost senses to their place restores,  
And he his misery in words deplores,  
Which no pen can express: but most he grieves,  
That he expressly sent, as he believes,  
To leave her story, and immortal fame  
To aftertimes, had not inquired her name:  
For it through chance, or rather hidden fate  
He had forgot to ask, she to relate:  
A new doubt, how to bury her, expelles  
The former: and her blessed name reveals,  
For whiles he seeks some tool, to break the ground,  
Her name, her age, and dying day he found,  
In Syrian characters scored' on the sand,  
Either by angels, or her own pure hand:  
Hereby he learns, that she had closed' her days  
Twelve whole months since: and yet would think she prays,  
Such sweet devotion in her face appears,  
And long-closd' lids, had he not missed their tears:  
For their dried channels in her much worn face,  
Were then first marked without those streams of grace;  
This want, himself not sparingly, supplies,  
But questionless would have wept out his eyes,  
Had not a more grim object, and as near,  
Restrained his grief, to make some room for fear.  
A hideous lion on his habit rubs,  
And trembling sides with harmless nostrils grubs,  
Whiles he, now pale with fear, amazed stands,  
And stretcheth to the corpse his palsy hands,  
Praying for help: the beast, with fiery eyes  
The death pale saints, and the whole cave surveys▪  
Than awfully his round walks, with a grace,  
Might make him judged▪ of more than mortal race:  
Till at the saint's feet, a full stop he makes,  
And as himself so the whole cave he shakes.  
The monks white hairs, with horror bristled, stand,  
Whiles he his whole length stretch forth on the sand:  
The rocks themselves with terror seem to sink,  
And too weak, for so main a burden, shrink:  
The monster couched his shaggy outside smooths,  
And dreadful paws, now mildly licking, soothes  
The trembling father, with a fawning cheer,  
Expelling part both of his grief, and fear:  
Who taking heart, thus spoke: Thou king of beasts  
Which never breaks thy maker's dreadful hests,  
More blessed herein, than man: since his high will  
Hath sent the hither, in his name, fulfil  
Thy happy office, and dig out a grave,  
T'interre this sacred corpse in its own ca●e:  
The beast with fury flies to work, and tears  
The ground up with his dreadful claws: new fears  
Assail the monk's heart, lest some sparkling stone  
Should maim the sacred carcase, or his own;  
So fiercely he, earth's craggy entrails rives,  
And round about the little parlour drives;  
Yet wary in his fury, ever keeps  
That compass harmless, where the blessed saint sleeps▪  
His panting sides with his own steer he beats  
Breathes fire, and ruin to the whole rock threats.  
His shaggy fle●● waves with his angry wind,  
And stares, with horror quilted: he inclined  
Close to his task, both with his teeth, and claws,  
The harder crags breaks: lighter mould with draws:  
And now inter'd in his own work he lies,  
Yet still works on: enough, the father cries:  
His furious labours in an instant cease,  
And he by Zozim blessed departs in peace:  
Whiles the sad monk in streams of sorrow fleets,  
And her cold limbs in his own mantle sheets.  
All rites performed, the sacred corpse he rears  
With due respect, and to its mansion bears,  
Where once more, at her blessed feet he fell,  
Kissed them, and weeping took his last farewell:  
First throwing in the sand, and lighter mould,  
Then shiverd crags, and bigger stones he rolled',  
Of which, upon her arms and sacred breast,  
The figure of a homely cross he dressed:  
And paying the last tribute of his tears,  
returns to his own celle: where full of years,  
And sanctitye, whiles her strange life he writes,  
She him to everlasting joys invites:  
His soul to heaven, his bones to earth return,  
And peacefully rest in their native urn.  
Blessed pair of saints: to whose all honoured shrines  
My black muse adds these late recanting lines,  
Mildly accept of her unfeigned zeal,  
And by your prayers, strengthen mine appeal  
From that of justice, to sweet mercy's throne,  
Most blessed of sinners, not to thee unknown:  
Mercy itself can not show more divine,  
Than by remitting greater sins than thine.  
Disdain not therefore to prepare a place,  
For my stained soul▪ great sins require great grace.  
And mercy calls on mercies: be my guide  
To those great mercies which thyself hast tried:  
That there thy praise I may for ever sing,  
(A laureld poet) to a happyêr string.  
Amen. Deo gratias.