(Peace) whether ar’t thou fled? Thy native soyle
Is Christendome:
Into what unknowne Ile
Ar’t Thou retir’d from us?
What made thee to estrange thy self from home?
Turne exile thus:
Salem, lyes in her ruines buryed,
And yeldes no place,
For Thee to rest thy head,
‘Cause Shee refus’d t’afford
A place of rest, (long since) unto his grace,
Who is thy Lord.
Oh whether ar’t thou fled? To Scythian snowes
Or lybian Sands,
Wher fiery Phoebus glowes,
And pois’nous serpents crawle:
How have our sinnes, forc’d Thee to seeke for lands
Unhospitall?
Oh whether ar’t thou fled? What ha’st thou quite
Left us; And ar’t
Turn’d Nunne, or Anchorite:
Thy Lord did Thee ordaine
With us t’abide, although Hee did depart:
Oh turne againe.
Our Arke, hath long enough bin tost upon
The rageing billowes,
Of dire dissention,
Which makes us to lament,
And hang our harps, and hearts upon the willowes,
Of discontent.
Thou, Who dids’t from Mount Olivet ascend,
And like a Larke
Didst soare; then downe didst send
Thy Spirit from above;
Now with an olive branch, unto our Arke,
Send backe this Dove.
(Ralph Knevet)
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Based on Topics: Place Poems, Home PoemsBased on Keywords: anchorite, söyle, lybian, dids, ruines, larke, soare, buryed, arke, unknowne, ordaine