JOB'S CURSE, and his APPEAL. Taken out of Job, Chap. i, and xxxi. Mary Leapor Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T127827 p. 413 K101776.000 Leapor, Mrs. (Mary), 1722-1746. Poems upon several occasions: By Mrs. Leapor of Brackley in Northamptonshire. London printed: and sold by J. Roberts 1748 pp. 238-243. 15,[5],282p. ; 8⁰.

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JOB'S CURSE , and his APPEAL . Taken out of Job , Chap. i , and xxxi . LET not that Day in circling Moments run , When first these Eyes beheld th' odious Sun : Let his gay Beams forsake the mourning Fields , And starting backward roll his flaming Wheels ; Let sulphurous Hail descend in baneful Show'rs , And horrid Darkness mix the jumbling Hours ; Let trembling Mortals gaze in vain for Light , Curs'd be the Day and doubly curs'd the Night : Thou my great Judge these Imprecations hear , And rend her Minutes from the rolling Year ; To the sad Skies be every Star deny'd ; While scorching Plagues on quivering Meteors ride , Let the black Air no melting Musick know , But ring with Horror and Complaints of Woe : Through the grim Shade let grisly Terrors run , And weeping Sorrows that abhor the Sun : Let pale-ey'd Spectres burst their yawning Tombs , And dreadful Echos shake th' hideous Gloom ; The low'ring East pour down a lashing Storm ; Nor through her Gates admit th' struggling Morn : Let the dark Hours no lively breaking see , Because they gave these ceaseless Tears to me . As others have , alas ! why could not I Yield my short Being , and an Infant die ? Why was a Mother's Care indulg'd to me ? And why supported on her friendly Knee ? Why did I in her tender Bosom grow , A foster'd Subject of impending Woe ? Did friendly Death my marble Limbs enchain , This bleeding Heart would know no smarting Pain ; Then lasting Sleep would seal my shaded Eyes , Where frozen Pride and conquer'd Vengeance lies ; There weary Slaves forgotten Rest may find , And injur'd Orphans leave their Tears behind ; Tyrannick Rage must in the Grave subside , Where starving Wretches find their Wants supplyd , Thrice happy Rest , O why to me deny'd ! Life still will hover round despairing Slaves , Who slight her Favours , and would court their Graves ; Death gliding by us , shews his grizly Charms ; But the coy Phantom mocks our reaching Arms : He flies the Dungeons of intreating Woe , And strikes the Prosp'rous with unwelcome Blow : To blooming Youth his partial Arrows fly , O'er wither'd Mendicants , that vainly try To meet the fatal Shaft , and only wish to die . When Darkness sits as Regent of the Skies , And round my Bed redoubled Horrors rise , Till Night grows hideous with my constant Cries : My tortur'd Limbs with ceaseless Pangs are torn , But yet I live to see returning Morn : The piercing Sun thrusts in a spiteful Ray , To wound my Eyelids with unwelcome Day . Tyrannick Death , whom trembling Mortals flee , The Prince of Ills to ev'ry Wretch but me , Plays with the Torments of my struggling Heart , And o'er my Bosom shakes his ling'ring Dart . O ! sacred Judge , when will thy Wrath be done ? Why do I live to scare the wond'ring Sun ? Let not thy Mercy spare my wounded Clay , But strike and sweep me from offensive Day . My Heart is vexed with consuming Fears , And nourish'd only with continual Tears ; Close at my Heels pursue a meagre Train Of pining Sickness and distorting Pain , Pale-ey'd Confusion with dishivel'd Hair , And wild Impatience leading on Despair . Did I with Crimes profane my Days of Rest ? Did e'er Presumption swell my rising Breast ? Did guilty Flame my tainted Soul surprise ? Or Snares of Beauty catch my wand'ring Eyes ? If e'er Injustice swell'd my spreading Lands , If e'er Oppression stain'd my guiltless Hands ; Then let my God his flaming Vengeance throw , Renew my Plagues , and double every Woe . Did e'er my Servants of their Lord complain ? Did humble Rhetorick ever plead in vain ? In vain to me did helpless Widows cry ? Or at my Gate neglected Orphans lie ? No ; their glad Eyes my plenteous Table knew , And with my own the foster'd Infants grew . Was e'er my Portals barr'd against the Poor ? Did not the Stranger bless my friendly Door ? Tho' cold and hungry in my Courts he mourn'd , Joyful and full the smiling Wretch return'd . When every Good obey'd my lordly Will , Did I by Fraud my glitt'ring Coffers fill ? Did I by Fraud increase the tempting Store ? Or dote too fondly on the shining Ore ? Did restless Envy in my Bosom roll ? Or lurking Malice blot my tainted Soul ? No — this fond Heart has bled for distant Woe , And learn'd Compassion for a sinking Foe . Did e'er my Soul from its Creator run To painted Idols , or the beaming Sun ? Or to the Moon my wav'ring Senses yield , When her pale Rays adorn'd the glist'ring Field ? Yet stay , presumptuous Wretch , nor urge too far Thy doubtful Sentence at the dreadful Bar : What melting Rhet'rick , or what potent Friend , At Heav'n's Tribunal shall thy Cause defend ? Where smother'd Evils , hid from mortal Eye , Mature and open to Omniscience lie .