O SEASONABLE Feast! Never had We More need of Thee: So low these woefull Times had prest Our heavy hearts, none but the Comforter Himself, could our dark clowds of Sorrow cleer. 2 'Tis well he comes from heaven: For our poor earth Cannot put forth One sprout or bud of Comfort; even Our Joys lament, whilst a new Sea doth now (Woes stormy Sea) about our Britain flow. 3 How sudden & how strange A Legion We Of Spirits see, Which all about securely range! How desperately are wretched we possest: And who but thou can be our Exorcist? 4 Thou, mighty Spirit, who Confusion from The Worlds first wombe Didst sweetly chase: Our Waves of Woe Now crave thy ayd; oh gently move on them, And Britains Chaos into order tame! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PASSER-BY by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 12. A RENUNCIATION by THOMAS CAMPION THE VOLUNTEER by ELBRIDGE JEFFERSON CUTLER CURE FOR AFFLICTIONS by ARCHILOCHUS THE POET by PHILIP JAMES BAILEY TO A GARDEN -- ON LEAVING IT by WILLIAM BARNES THE ORGANIST IN HEAVEN (SAMUEL SEBASTIAN WESLEY) by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |