The Brahman
By Anonymous
The Brahman, th’angry deities to appease,
He being afflicted with a sad disease,
Unwilling to be grated thus asunder,
He did an act made Alexander wonder:
For on his funeral flagrantpile he lies,
Becoming thus both priest and sacrifice.
What was corporeal, the fire consumes;
His soul its pristine glory reassumes.
So doth the Phœnix fan her gilded wings
Till Phœbus’s rays her gaudy feathers sings;
Then, in that light in which she lives, she fries—
A glorious virgin victim; thus she dies.
Thus though the fire her grosser part consumes,
A principle is left which reassumes
The azure, purple, scarlet, golden plumes
Which did adorn her gorgeous gaudy mother;
Thus they succeed and still exceed each other.
Who would not such a blessed change explore?
Or who would such a change as this deplore?
Although I cannot in Sol’s fulgor fry,
Nor dare not like this Gymnosophist die
(Such Stoical tricks a Christian spirit loathes),
Yet as old Aaron did put off his clothes,
So I, being worn with sorrow, sin, and age,
Quite tired with acting in this scene and stage,
Would gladly my mortality lay by.
Who then can say, “Hadassah here doth lie,”
Whenas my soul shall reascend above
To God, the fount of life, light, joy, and love?
Nor shall my scattered dust forgotten rest,
But like the embryo in the Phœnix nest,
That Word that nothing did create in vain
Shall reinspire my dormant dust again;
And from obscurity my atoms raise
To sing in joy His everlasting praise,
And reunite my body to my spirit,
That we may those eternal joys inherit,
Which I may claim by my dear Savior’s merit.