The LETTER

Rev. Sir,

FOR many years now past, a dire disease,
And dreadful dizziness affects my brain;
So that I can't by any means have ease,
Nor, O my God! get riddance of my pain.

I've often sought advice for this disease
From men of practice and reputed skill;
Nay, I have even cross'd the raging seas,
In hopes to find assistance for this ill.

But now all temporal relief does fail,
To men of sense and piety I send,
O'er land and sea, concerning this odd ail,
And for advice on which I may depend.

I fain wou'd know, 'Whether the gracious God
Who rules this world below, and those above,
Has chast'ned me with his afflictive rod,
And sent this ail - in anger, or in love?'

The VICAR's Answer

YOU tell me, worthy Sir, that God has sent
On you an ail, no physic can remove,
And that you fain wou'd find out his intent,
Whether He sent it, out of wrath, or love?

I tell thee, then, thy scruples to remove,
As plain as words can point it out - that God
Did not chastise thee out of hate, but love,
When thou wert beaten with affliction's rod.

'Tis not a foe, but an indulgent Sire,
That treats thee thus with a correction mild,
And humbles the rebellious flesh entire,
That He by any means may save his child.

Thy pain is but a messenger of love
Which Christ himself in kindness deign'd to send,
That He thy patience and thy faith might prove,
And to forewarn thee of thy latter end.

Welcome him then - come He, whene'er He will,
And bear thy trouble with a patient mind -
And thank thy gracious Sire for his good-will,
And the correction for thy good design'd.

Thy present trouble will not hurt thee more,
Than does the purge that carries off the bile,
But rather make thee fitter than before,
To relish life and pleasure yet a while.

No wine, unmix'd with lees, was ever known -
No gold, without some dross, was ever seen -
No grain, entirely clean, was ever sown -
No man, but one, was ever free from sin.

To fan thy chaff - to fine thy drossy part -
To draw thy dregs - thy morals to amend -
To tame thy flesh - and to improve thy heart -
It was, that God did thy disorder send.

'Twas not to marr thee, but thy ways to mend -
'Twas not to give thee a complete o'erthrow -
But to instruct, and guide thee, as a friend,
That the Almighty gave thee such a blow.

Old Adam sinn'd, e'en in the earliest times -
Lot had his lusts - and Noah drank too deep -
Aaron and Moses too were stain'd with crimes -
E'en Paul and Peter for their sins might weep.

Be thou assur'd by me, most worthy Knight!
(Although thy life is virtuous in the main)
Thy conversation is not faultless quite;
However great thy parts, thou'rt still a man.

It makes thee cast each worldly thought aside -
It makes thee strive each virtue to obtain -
It makes thee spurn the world, and all its pride,
To follow Christ with all thy might and main.

O therefore praise thy Father, that's above,
For his instructions and paternal care,
Who makes thee, out of his abundant love,
Thus in his righteousness receive a share!

God punishes the children of his love,
His greatest fav'rites oft'nest feel the rod,
Lest they shou'd 'mongst ungracious worldlings rove,
And be rebellious to the will of God.

God scourges most, whom he does most respect,
And his own children lays the hardest on;
The man whom he does not for sin correct,
Must be a bastard, not a lawful son.

No wheat, 'till winnow'd, free from chaff is known,
No unbleach'd cambrick, is for whiteness priz'd,-
No gold is pure, 'till it is melted down -
No Christian good - 'till he has been chastiz'd.

The frankincense will yield no smell, 'till li't -
The grape no wine, 'till in the vintage trod -
The flint, 'till struck, no fire will e'er emit -
The man no fruit, 'till he has felt the rod.

Cloves will, when pounded, give a stronger scent -
Vines will, by cutting, more luxuriant rove -
The palm will grow the more, for being bent -
The man will, for correction, better prove.

The more the fragrant chamomile is press'd,
The more it scatters its perfumes abroad -
The more a Christian is on earth distress'd,
The more his faith, the more his fear of God.

Remember thou that the Almighty Pow'r
Does, for thy benefit alone, give pain.
The pain perhaps may not endure an hour,
But, for a whole eternity, the gain.

Despair not then, when by thy ail thou'rt seiz'd,
Thy life is in thy great Creator's hand,
Who can restore thy health, whene'er he's pleas'd,
And give thee ease - if thou wilt ease demand.

Take comfort, elevate thy drooping heart,
Be full of faith, thyself a man approve;
Christ soon will come, and his bless'd aid impart,
He'll soothe thy pains, and thy disease remove.

The Hand, that fell'd, can lift thee up again,
The spear, that gave the sore, can heal the sore;
And He, who sent thy pain, can ease thy pain,
And to thee health, he took away, restore.

Cry out for help to the celestial Pow'r,
He is thy Father, and will hear thy cry,
His help he'll give, if thou'lt his help implore;
Beg it with fervor, and he can't deny.

Whate'er the nature is of thy disease,
He can give ease, he perfect health can give;
Pray then for ease, and he will give thee ease;
Confide in him, and he will ne'er deceive.

If he shou'd not, just at thy wish, remove,
Suffer with patience yet a-while, the load:
When for thy soul 'tis best, thou soon shalt prove
The pow'rful aid of thy indulgent God.

No longer shalt thou be attack'd by pain,
Nor shall it to a greater height increase,
Than God thinks proper, for thy body's gain,
And for thy precious soul's eternal peace.

Thy sorrows only for a while endure,
Long pleasure shall succeed the moment's pain;
Be patient therefore, 'till thou hast a cure,
And many years thou may'st enjoy again.

May he, who kindly strength'ned Job, to be
In his unequall'd suff'rings so resign'd,
With his celestial Spirit strengthen thee,
To bear thy sickness with a patient mind.

May he, who sent an angel from above
To soothe, near Cedron's stream, his Son's distress,
Another send, out of his wondrous love,
To comfort thee, and make thy suff'rings less.

Thou didst in health a good example show,
How we may lead lives good and pious here;
Give us the like again, to teach us how
We may, with resignation, sickness bear.

Permit, thy gracious Sire, thy wounds to dress,
Permit him from thy flesh, the thorn to pluck,
Permit him, the foul matter to express,
To cleanse the sore, and thence the poison suck.

Permit thy Saviour to extract the sting -
The serpent's deadly sting, that galls thy heel,
Lest to thy heart the venom thence shou'd spring,
And thy poor soul the smart forever feel.

God does for thee a mighty care express,
And better thou shou'dst bear, than most, the pain:
He purges thee, at present, through distress,
That thou may'st everlasting health obtain.

God makes thee fit, whilst thou on earth dost stay,
Thy part in the celestial scenes to bear ;
He cleanses all the filthiness away,
Which might, 'twixt thee and heaven, interefere.

Thou art a stone, for sacred works design'd,
Thou must be par'd by God's own hammer, clean,
Thou must be rul'd, and levell'd to his mind,
If thou in heaven to reside dost mean.

Thou art, as corn, intended for the Lord,
And must be soundly thrash'd, whilst thou art here;
Thy chaff too must be clear'd, ere at the board
Of Christ above, 'tis fit thou shou'dst appear.

Much sweetness, for the time already past,
Thou hast received, ere first thou drew'st thy breath,
Of bitterness thou must some portion taste
Again, like thy Redeemer, ere thy death.

Take thou a sip of that imbitter'd cup
Which Christ, before thee, to the bottom quafft ;
Our blessed Master freely drank it up;
And must not each disciple take a draught?

Remember thou, that Christ did undergo,
For our transgressions here, much greater pain,
A greater weight of agony, and woe:
Let us a little, in our turn, sustain.

Reflect that there is scarce a saint above,
Though now imparadis'd amongst the blest,
Who did not a much greater suff'rer prove:
And thou must suffer too, like all the rest.

Abel, was murder'd by his brother Cain,
Joseph, was sold to Egypt for a slave,
Isaiah, with a wooden saw was slain,
Ere they were suffer'd seats in heav'n to have.

Saint Stephen by the Jews was ston'd to death,
Saint Lawrence broil'd alive in dreadful pain,
Saint James was, by a spear, depriv'd of breath,
Ere they were suffer'd heaven to obtain.

Saint Peter was, unto a cross, made fast,
Saint Bart'lomew was foully flay'd alive,
Saint John was to a boiling caldron cast,
Ere they to God were suffer'd to arrive.

There never was a man, who sojourn'd here,
And to the faith of Jesus gave assent,
But did some evil or chastisement bear,
Before he to the joys of heaven went.

From Egypt none to Canaan found the road,
But through the sea, or through the mount of fire;
No man in heaven ever made abode,
Who did not to the narrow gate aspire.

The cross thou for a certainty must bear,
Ere thou the crown triumphal canst obtain:
In all my days, I never yet did hear
That one the crown, without the cross, cou'd gain.

Like a good soldier, bear about thy cross,
And thou shalt doubtlessly the crown obtain:
With Jesus suffer ev'ry pain and loss,
And thou shalt afterwards with Jesus reign.

Expect not heaven, whilst thou'rt here below,
Expect not happiness, whilst yet alive,
Expect not, never-ceasing health to know,
Until to paradise thou shalt arrive.

No sweet, without a bitter, e'er was known,
No perfect joy, without a dash of woe,
Without the cross, none e'er receiv'd the crown,
Without some grief, none e'er to bliss did go.

No Patriarch, Prophet, Martyr, ever yet,
No, nor Apostle, was allow'd to go
From this our globe, before he paid this debt -
Not even Christ, before he suffer'd woe.

Then do not you, dear Sir, expect to find,
What none on earth did ever find before;
But labour all you can, with patient mind,
To bear the load your blessed Saviour bore.

Remember Christ endur'd a thousand times
More pain, than thou dost at the present bear,
That on the cross he suffer'd for thy crimes;
And thou'lt forget thy pains, howe'er severe.

Believe me therefore - it was out of love,
That Christ did thee with this disease correct,
And that thou mightest, to conviction, prove
Thereby, that thou art one of his elect.

Remember thou that ev'ry thing is found
To turn out to the true believer's gain,
Each cross and loss, and ev'ry smarting wound,
His adverse state, and agonizing pain.

Remember likewise still, whilst thou hast breath,
That nothing can the faithful soul remove,
Nor loss, nor corss, nor the grim tyrant, Death,
From his Creator's, and his Saviour's love.

May He, who rais'd his friend with mighty pow'r
To perfect health, from his sepulchral cell,
Thee also to thy former health restore,
And, from thy bed of sickness, make thee well.

May He, who spar'd the faithful patriarch's heir,
On Moriah's top from the up-lifted knife,
With similar indulgence kindly spare,
Yet many years, thy valuable life.

May He, who formerly his prophet sent
To heal the pious Hezekiah's sore,
Now send an angel with the same intent,
Who may Sir Lewis Mansel's health restore!