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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

S. ANDREW by JOSEPH BEAUMONT

First Line: FARRE ON HIS MANLY SHOULDERS HAD THE SAINT
Last Line: THE TYRANT FOR HIS CROSSE HE WELL REPAYES.
Subject(s): COURAGE; SAINTS; VALOR; BRAVERY;
FARRE on his Manly shoulders had the @3Saint@1
Carry'd his @3Masters@1 mightie Crosse: nor @3Thrace@1
Nor spatious @3Scythia@1 ever saw Him faint,
But on He marched still, & march'd apace.

The dark @3Barbarians@1 wondered at ye Sight,
And cast their conquerd Hearts all in his way
Whilst in their Northern Superstitious Night
They saw ye Rise of a Meridian Day:

A Day, wch ought its East, not to ye Fast
But to ye South, to priveleg'd @3Palestine@1:
The Christian Day full Southern is, & drest
With highnoon rayes, when first it ginns to shine.

And now, said Heavn, though He would still goe on,
Wee must relieve Him for Our Honours sake:
Be then his @3LOAD@1 his @3EASE@1; let Him upon
The Crosse his Chaire of earned Triumph take.

Nor shall @3Aegeus@1, though Proconsul He,
Disdaine to help Him up upon His Throne:
In proudest Rome ne'r did @3Aegeus@1 see
So fair a Triumph, nor so long a one.

Nayld fast unto his Honour is ye Saint,
Arrayd in Scarlet from his owne rich veines.
Mistake not Pagans; tis no torturing Paint
Nor is this Crosse a Throne of Soveraine Paines.

Draw neer & hearken; does He there bewaile
Himselfe, or you? Craves He your Lenitie,
Or offers help to your lethargik Aile?
Fast are You nayld to Danger, He is free.

And to his freedome He invites you all.
How sweet sit Heavn & @3JESUS@1 on his Toung!
Whilst from His Lips full Streames of Life doe fall,
No words which to a dying Man belong.

Oft had He preachd, but never climbd till now
So fit a Pulpit, where ye World might see
What sweet fruit on that bitter Tree can grow
This Noble Pulpit preachd as well as He.

Long was His Sermon, for his last it was.
Two dayes it measur'd & yet seem'd but short.
What are two poore & flitting dayes, alas
To that which doth Eternity import?

And am I nayld in vaine, Deare @3Lord@1, said He
Unto this Pillar of renowned Death!
Though not poore I, yet Thou deserv'st for Me
That in this honour I may yeild my breath.

Up flew these Words, & downe there flew as fast
For His Sweet Convoy an illustrious Light:
With which from this dark world ye @3Saint@1 made haste
And to his @3Lords@1 Deare Bosome took his flight.

Where for @3Aegeus@1 with Requests more warme
Then was his reeking Blood, he strongly prayes;
And labouring that red Crie asleep to charme,
The Tyrant for his Crosse He well repayes.



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