^'■tVirRrjTWTffMjtr;-^! ^ : V. A 'U mmjvtfUvw-nmrittevitv-icrA'i^zTi: . © A SEVENTEENTH CENTURY ANTHOLOGY WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY ALICE MEYNELL H. M. CALDWELL COMPANY BOSTON NEW YORK Introduction A habit has prevailed among the less studious readers^ of connecting the poets of the later seventeenth century luith those of the early eighteenth. There is a common impression that the ' ' Restoration " had al- ready put on the perruque, raised the heel^ and practised the strut. But it was not so. The long locks were arranged by a French coiffeur, but they grew where they were curled. Not to carry the slight parable too far, there was abimdant nature in the poetry of that splendid time, nature even over- abundant, and amid the ''"conceits'" which the playful and impassioned poets practised with all ingenuity and artifice, there lived a wild sweetness ofnatm"^ —something wilder and more natural, more rapturous and unre- strained, than the spirit of the simpler Eliza- bethans. The truth is that no two ages of English poetry are so unlike, so completely divided, so suddenly severed, as the seventeenth cen- tury and the eighteenth. The difference and 2047309 the suddenness are the strangest of all facts in the history of our great literature. It was a change that took place precisely at the turn of the century. If we older readers had kept the childish habit of making a visual image — a kind of figure in the mind's eye — we should see the end of the seventeenth cen- tury draw in as the closing of a shutter and a sudden exclusion of the sky. The seventee^ith century had rapture, nature, spirituality, and light; the eighteenth had the lack of those high characters and signs of poetry. The poets who came nearest to the closing of the shutter are those on whom the light of poetry is most radiant and most 7varm — the mystics Vaughan and Traherne wrote on the verge of the dull and artificial night within the house of literature; they died in the light of genius. But it is not these mystics only who so shine. Lovelace the cavalier, Cowley the wit, Marvell the Puritan sang and shone; I think there is not one of their age — their great three-quarters of a century — who had not this heavenly quality of spirit and light. Of all the great company Dry den had the least share; he was most like to the poets of the age then to come, hut in him too the old and fresh inspira- tion lives — lives even thougJi dying; in him it is not dead. A nd if a foreshadowing of the eighteenth century appears, as an omen, here and there in the blank verse of Miltofi, yet the Milton of the lyrics, the Milton of *' Lycidas''\ is himself the majestic spirit of the seventeenth century, its very monarch, dominant poet, and representative. How the eighteenth century usually mis- interpreted and occasionally 7nishandled the seventeenth, may he seen in one interesting example. Here is Pope^s borrowing of this couplet of Ben Jonson's: — " What beckoning ghost, besprent with April dew. Hails me so solemnly to yonder yew ?" Pope opens his 07ily tender and impassioned poem with this : — " What beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ?" This couplet, the beginning of the ''Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady ", has a false ele- gance, a trivial polish, but the solemnity and freshness of the older poet is as it were put to death. Thus far I have considered the seventeenth- century poetry at its sudden close. Its open- inff was gradual. There was abruptness at the end, but there was development at the beginning. The Elisabethan genius changed slowly and did not die. The change is so s/ow and so beautiful that I have included in this collection a certain munher of poets ivhose breasts S7velled with the two ages, the two voices of our poetry. In regard to date I must take some latitude; for though the earlier poets of this book lived longer in the seventee?ith century than in the sixteenth^ they are in part virtually Elizabethan ^ but ripe Elizabethans. Ben Jonson is one of these, so is Donne. If zve take Cowley, Crashaw, Vaughan, Lovelace, and the Mil- ton of '^ Lycidas^'' as purely and eiitirely seventeenth-century poets, we find the differ- ence betwee?i them and Donne, between them and Ben Jonson. Herrick has the Eliza- be than freshness in his " Corinna^s Going a- Maying^\ but in the sudden lovely phrase, ''Rise and put on your foliage 1^'' he is seven- teenth century. That phrase is something richer. It is the rich quality that is so dis- tinctive of this later age. Rich grew over- sweet and over-mellow 7iow and then, in Crashaw^s exqttisite verse ; the beauty grew to a too-conscious glory. '' Fair and flagrant things " — Crashaw^s own brilliant phrase describes the bright excess of this wonderful poetry. But readers have been too much afraid of the ' ' conceits " of that age, and critics have been too much shocked. The conceits are almost ail perfectly poetical, rapturous in spite of artifice. At the end oj accounts, the sei^enteenth-ce^itury conceit is a far saner thing than the eighteenth- century '^ rage''— the ^* noble rage'' into zvhich the eighteenth century poet strove to lash himself, in vain. He it 7i'as, and he only, who put the stran's volnntarily into his hail' —cry his pardon! — into his periii'ig. The Elizabethan poetry is the apple- blossom, fine and fragrant, the seventeenth century the apple, fragrant and rich. The change from the sixteenth century to the seventeenth is a process, ivhile that from the seventeenth to the eighteenth is a catas- trophe. ALICE ME Y NELL. Contents Page John Donne (1573-1631) This Happy Dream - _ - - i Death ------- 3 Hymn to God the Father - - - 5 The Funeral - - _ _ - ■j Daybreak - 9 Richard Barnefield (1574-1627)— The Nightingale - - - - 11 Ben Jonson (i573?-i637)— Charis' Triumph 13 Jealousy ------ 15 Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H. - - 16 H^'mn to Diana - - - - - 17 On my First Daughter - - - 18 Echo's Lament for Narcissus - - 19 An Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy, a Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel - - 20 The Noble Balm 22 Thomas Dekker (i57o?-i64i ?) — Lullaby 25 Sweet Content - - - - - 26 CONTENTS Page Thomas Heywood (d. 1650?) — Good-morrow - - - - - 29 John Fletcher (1579-1625)— Invocation to Sleep - - - - 31 Beaumont and Fletcher— "I Died True" ----- 33 Francis Beaumont (i 584-1616) — On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey 35 William DruxMmond of Hawthornden ( 1 585- 1649)— Song- — " Phoebus, Arise !" - - - 37 Sleep, Silence" Child - - - - 40 To the Nig-htingale - - - - 41 Madrigal I - - - - - - 43 Madrigal II 44 Sir Francis Kynaston ( 1587- 1642)— To Cynthia, on Concealment of her Beauty 45 Nathaniel Field (1587-1633)— Matin Song- 47 George Wither (1588- 1667) — Sleep, Baby, Sleep! - - - - 49 Thomas Carew ( 1598?- 1639?)— Song — Ask Me no more where Jove bestows 53 To My Inconstant Mistress - - 54 CONTENTS Page An Hymeneal Dialogfue . . - 55 Ingrateful Beaut}- Threatened - - 57 Robert Herrick ( 159 i- 1674)— To Dianeme - - - - - 59 To Meadows - - - - - 60 To Blossoms - - - - - 61 To Daffodils . . _ . . 62 To Daisies, Not to Shut so Soon - 63 To Violets 64 To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time -..-_- 65 Dress -------66 In Silks - ^7 Corinna's Going a-Maying - - 68 Grace for a Child - - - - 72 Ben Jonson ------ 73 Cock-Crow ------ 74 A Thanksgiving- to God, for His House ------ 75 To Death ------ 78 The New-Year's Gift - - - - 79 Eternity So To his Saviour, a Child; a Present, by a Child ----- 81 To his Conscience - - - - 82 His Dream - 83 An Ode, or Psalm, to God - - - 84 Evil ------- 85 To his dear God - - - - - 86 To Heaven 8, His Meditation upon Death - - 88 CONTENTS Page Henry King, Bishop of Chichester ( 1 592- 1669)-- A Renunciation - - - - - 91 Exequy on his Wife - - - - 93 George Herbert ( 1593- '633)— Holy Baptism ----- 97 Virtue - - 98 Unkindness ------ 99 Love loi The Pulley ------ 102 The Collar 103 Life f05 Misery - - - - - - 106 Easter- - - - - - - no Discipline - - - - - - m A Dialog-ue- - - - - - "3 James vShirley (1596-1666) — Equality 115 Anonymous — Lullaby ------ 17 Sir William Davenant { 1606- 1668)— Morning - - - - - - 119 Edmund Waller ( 1606- 1687)— The Rose - - - - - - 121 To Vandike 123 On the Friendship betwixt two Ladies 125 Of Loving at First Sight - - - 127 xii CONTENTS Pase Thomas Randolph (1605- 1635)— His Mistress 129 Charles Best (fl. 1602) — A Sonnet of the Moon - - - 131 John Milton (1608-1674) — Hymn on Christ's Nativity - - 133 L'AlIeg-ro ------ 144 II Penseroso 150 Lycidas - - - - - - 157 On his Blindness - - - _ 168 On his Deceased Wife - - - 169 On Shakespeare - - - - - 170 Song- on May Morning- - - - 171 Invocation to Sabrina - - - 172 Invocation to Echo - - - - 174 The Revel - - - - - - i75 The Attendant Spirit - - - - 177 From Arcades - - - - - 179 To Mr. Lawrence - - - - r8o Sir John Suckling (1609-1642) — The Shades 181 Richard Crashaw (161 3?- 1649) — On a Prayer-Book sent to Mrs. M. R. 183 To the Morning- 189 Love's Horoscope _ _ . _ 192 On Mr. G. Herbert's Book - - 195 Wishes to his vSupposed Mistress - 196 Quern Vidistis Fastores, &c. - - 202 xiii CONTENTS Page Music's Duel _ _ - . . jo8 The Flamingo Heart - - - - 217 Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)— On the Death of Mr. Crashavv - - 22:1^ Hymn to the Light - . - . 227 On the Death of Sir Anthony X'andike, the Famous Painter- . . . 234 On the Death of Mr. William Hervey 237 For Hope ------ 245 On Orinda's Poems - - - - 248 Richard Lovelace (1618-1658)— To Lucasta on going to the Wars - 251 To Amarantha 252 Lucasta --_.-. 253 To Althea, from Prison - . - 255 A guiltless Lady imprisoned: after Penanced 257 The Rose ------ 259 The Grasshopper _ . _ - 261 Andrew Marvell ( 162 i- 1678)— A Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland - - - 263 The Picture of little T. C. in a Pros- pect of Flowers - - _ - 268 The Nymph Complaining of the Death of her Fawn ----- 270 Hopeless Love 275 The Garden ----- 277 The Fair Singer 280 xiv CONTENTS Page The Mower against Gardens - - 281 An Epitaph 283 The Coronet 284 Henry Vaughan (162 2- 1695) — The Dawning" ----- 287 Childhood 289 Corruption 291 The Night 293 The Eclipse 296 The Retreat 297 The World of Light - . - - 299 Sweet Peace 302 The Timber ----- 303 John Dryden (1631-1700)-— Ode to Mrs. Anne Killigrew - - 305 Sir George Etherege (i635?~i69i)— Song - 311 Thomas Traherne (i636?-i674)— The Salutation - - - - - 313 Wonder .-..-- 316 News 319 Sir Charles Sedley (1639?- 1701)— To Chloris ------ 323 To Celia 325 Aphera Behn (1640- 1689)— Song, from Abdclaza.r - . - 327 XV CONTENTS Page The Earl of Rochester (1647-1680)— An Apolog-y . - - . _ 329 The Duke of Buckingham (1628-1687)— On One who died, Discovering' her Kindness - 331 ( B 126 John Donne This Happy Dream ^ ^ Dear love, for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream ; It was a theme For reason, much too strong for fantasy. Therefore thou wak'dst me wisely; yet My dream thou brok'st not but con- \ tinu'dst it. I Thou art so true, that thoughts of thee \ suffice I To make dreams truth, and fables his- * tories; Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest. (B126) I B THIS HAPPY DREAM As lightning or a taper's light, Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me. Yet I thought thee (For thou lov'st truth) an angel at first sight; But when I saw thou saw'st my heart, And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art. When thou knew'st what I dreamt, then thou knew'st when Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then; I must confess, it could not choose but be Profane to think thee anything but thee. Coming and staying showed thee thee, But rising makes me doubt, that now Thou art not thou. That love is weak, where fear's as strong as he; 'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave, If mixture it of fear, shame, honour, have. Perchance of torches, which must ready be, Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me; Thou cam'st to kindle, goest to come : then I Will dream that hope again, but else would die. Death Death, be not proud, though some have called thee iMighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do SO, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou 'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men. And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 3 DEATH And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. Hymn to God the j^ j^ Father Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before ? Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run, And do run still, though still I do de- plore? When Thou hast done. Thou hast not done; For I have more. Wilt Thou forgive that sin, which I have won Others to sin, and made my sins their door? Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two and wallowed in a score? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; For 1 have more. HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER I have a sin of fear, that when I 've spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son Shall shine, as He shines now and here- tofore. And having done that, Thou hast done; I fear no more. The Funeral Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; The mystery, the sign, you must not touch, For 't is my outward soul, Viceroy to that which, unto heaven being gone, Will leave this to control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. But if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall, Through every part Can tie those parts and make me one of • all; The hairs, which upward grew, and strengtli and art Have from a better brain, THE FUNERAL Can better do't; except she meant that I B}' this should know my pain, As prisoners then are manacled when they 're condemned to die. Whate'er she meant by 't, bury it with me; For since I am Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry If into other's hands these relics came. As 't was humility To afford to it all that a soul can do, So 'twas some bravery That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you. Daybreak Stay, O sweet, and do not rise! The light that shines comes from thine eyes ; The day breaks not; it is my heart, Because that thou and I must part. Stay or else my joys will di^ And perish in their infancy. Richard Barnefield The Nightingale As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a row of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring Everything did banish moan Save the Nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn Leaned her breast against a thorn And there sung the dolefull'st ditty That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; Tereu, tere'i, by and by: That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain; THE NIGHTINGALE For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon my own. — Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on my pain: Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee. King Pandion, he is dead. All thy friends are lapped in lead: All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing: Even so, poor bird, like thee None alive will pity me. Ben J onson Chans' Triumph See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth ! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And enamoured do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that love's world compriseth! Do but look on her, she is bright As love's star when it riseth ! i3 CHARIS' TRIUMPH Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of the beaver, Or swan's down ever? Or have smelled o' the bud o' the brier Or the nard in the tire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! 14 Jealousy Wretched and foolish jealousy, How cam'st thou thus to enter me? I ne'er was of thy kind: Nor have I yet the narrow mind To vent that poor desire, That others should not warm them at my fire: I wish the sun should shine On all men's fruits and flowers as well as mine. But under the disguise of love. Thou say'st thou only cam'st to prove What my affections were. Think'st thou that love is helped by fear? Go, get thee quickly forth. Love's sickness and his noted want of worth, Seek doubting men to please. I ne'er will owe my health to a disease. 15 Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H. Wouldst thou hear what many say In a little? — reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die; Which in life did harbour give To more virtue than doth live. If at all she had a fault, Leave it buried in this vault. One name was Elizabeth, The other, let it sleep in death: Fitter where it died to tell Than that it lived at all. Farewell! l6 Hymn to Diana Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep. Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright! Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight. Goddess excellently bright! Lay thy bow of pearl apart. And thy crystal-shining quiver, Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night. Goddess excellently bright! { B 126 ) 17 On my First Daughter Here lies to each her parents' ruth, Mary, the daughter of their youth: Yet all Heaven's gifts being Heaven's due, It makes the father less to rue. At six months' end she parted hence With safety of her innocence; Whose soul Heaven's Queen (whose name she bears). In comfort of her mother's tears, Hath placed among her virgin train: Where, while that severed doth remain, This grave partakes the fleshly birth. Which cover lightly, gentle earth. x8 Echo's Lament for Narcissus Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears; Yet, slower yet ; O faintly, gentle springs; List to the heavy part the music bears; Woe weeps out her division when she sings. Droop herbs and flowers; Fall grief in showers, Our beauties are not ours; O, I could still. Like melting snow upon some craggy hill, Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil. 19 An Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy, a Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel Weep with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed Death's self is sorry. It was a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive Which owned the creature. Years he numbered scarce thirteen When fates turned cruel, Yet three filled zodiacs had he been The stage's jewel; And did act (what now we moan) Old men so duly, Ah, sooth, the Parca^ thought him one He played so truly. AN EPITAPH So by error to liis fate They all consented, But viewing him since, alas, too late They have repented; And have sought, to give new birth, In baths to steep him; But being much too good for earth, Heaven vows to keep him. The Noble j^ ^ Balm High-spirited friend, I send nor balms nor cor'sives to your wound: Your fate hath found A gentler and more agile hand to tend The care of that which Is but corporal; And doubtful days, which were named critical, Have made their fairest flight And now are out of sight. Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind Wrapp'd in this paper lie, Which in the taking if you misapply, You are unkind. Your covetous hand, Happy In that fair honour it hath gained. Must now be reined. True valour doth her own renown com- mand THE NOBLE BALM In one full action; nor have you now more To do, than be a husband of that store. Think but how dear you bought This fame which you have caught: Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth. 'Tis wisdom, and that high. For men to use their fortune reverently, Even in youth. 23 Thomas Dekker Lullaby Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock a lullaby. Care is heavy, therefore sleep you; You are care, and care must keep you. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing- a lullaby. Rock them, rock a lullaby. 25 Sweet Content Art thou poor, and hast ihou g-olden slumbers? O sweet content! Art thou rich, and is thy mind per- plexed? O punishment ! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet con- tent! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? O sweet content! Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment! 26 SWEET CONTENT Then he that patiently want's burden bears No burden bears, but Is a kuig, a khig ! O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet con- tent! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny 27 Thomas Heywood Good-morrow j^ J^ Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I '11 borrow; Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow. Notes from them both I '11 borrow. Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast, Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill, let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush. Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow! ,29 GOOD-MORROW You pretty elves, amongst yourselves. Sing my fair Love good-morrow. To give my Love good-morrow Sing, birds in every furrow! 30 John Fletcher Invocation to Sleep ^ FROM VALENTINIAN Care - charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose On this afflicted prince ; fall like a cloud In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud Or painful to his slumbers ; — easy, sweet, And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, Pass by his troubled senses ; sing his pain Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain ; Into this prince gently, oh gently, slide And kiss him into slumbers like a bride. 31 Beaumont and Fletcher "I Died True" Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow-branches bear; Say, I died true. My love was false, but J was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth. (Bic6) 33 Francis Beaumont On the Tombs in Westminster j^ j^ Abbey Mortality, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here ! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heaps of stones ; Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands ; Where from their pulpits sealed with dust They preach, In greatness is no trust. Here 's an acre sown indeed W^ith the richest royallest seed That the Earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin : Here the bones of birth have cried, Though gods they were, as men they died I 35 IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings : Here 's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate. William Drummond of Hawthornden Song ^ j^ Phoebus, arise ! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red: Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed That she thy career may with roses spread: The nightingales thy coming each-where sing : Make an eternal spring! Give life to this dark world which lieth djad ; Spread forth thy golden hair In larger locks than thou wast wont before, And emperor-like decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night Which serves but to make dear thy glori- ous light. 37 PHCEBUS, ARISE! This is that happy morn, That day, long-wished day Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates not hope betray), Which, purely white, deser\es An everlasting diamond should it mark. This is the morn should bring unto this grove My Love, to hear and recompense my love. Fair king, who all preserves, But show thy blushing beams, And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams Did once thy heart surprise. Nay, suns, which shine as clear As thou, when two thou didst to Rome appear. Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: If that ye winds would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre. Your stormy chiding stay; Let Zephyr only breathe, And with her tresses play, Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death. 38 PHCEBUS, ARISE! The winds all silent are, And Phoebus in his chair Ensaffroning sea and air Makes vanish every star: Night like a drunkard reels Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels t The fields with flowers are decked in every hue, The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue ; Here is the pleasant place— And nothing wanting is, save She, alas! 39 Sleep, Silence* j^ j^ Child Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest. Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings, indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, Sole comforter of minds with grief op- pressed ; Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing things Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness pos- sessed. And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings Thou sparest, alas ! who cannot be thy guest. Since I am thine, O come, but with that face To inward light which thou art wont to show ; With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe; Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath : I long to kiss the image of my death. 40 To the j^ j^ Nightingale Dear chorister, who from these shadows sends, Ere that the blushing- morn dare show her light, Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends, Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight : If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends. Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste de- light. May thee importune who like care pre- tends, And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite; Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try, And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains, Sith, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains? 41 TO THE NIGHTINGALE The bird, as if my question did her move, With trembling wings sobbed forth, "I love! I love!" 42 Madrigal I j^ j^ Like the Idalian queen, Her hair upon her eyne, With neck and breast's ripe apples to be seen, At first glance of the morn, In Cyprus' gardens gathering those fair flowers Which of her blood were born, I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours. The graces naked danced about the place The winds and trees amazed With silence on her gazed ; The flowers did smile, like those upon her face, And as their aspen stalks those fingers band. That she might read my case A hyacinth I wished me in her hand. 43 Madrigal W J^ J^ The beauty and the life Of life's and beauty's fairest paragon, O tears! O grief! hung at a feeble thread To which pale Atropos had set her knife; The soul with many a groan Had left each outward part, And now did take its last leave of the heart ; Nought else did want, save death, even to be dead; When the afflicted band about her bed, Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes, Cried, "Ah! and can death enter para- dise?" 44 Sir Francis Kynaston To Cynthia, on Concealment -^ J^ of her Beauty Do not conceal those radiant eyes, The starlight of serenest skies; Lest, wanting of their heavenly light, They turn to chaos' endless night! Do not conceal those tresses fair, The silken snares of th}' curled hair; Lest, finding neither gold nor ore, The curious silk- worm work no more. Do not conceal those breasts of thine, More snow-white than the Apennine; Lest, if there be like cold or frost, The lily be forever lost. 45 TO CYNTHIA Do not conceal that fragrant scent, Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent Perfumes; lest, it being supprest, No spices grow in all the rest. Do not conceal thy heavenh voice, Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice; Lest, music hearing no such thing, The nightingale forget to sing. Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse, Thy pearly teeth with coral lips; Lest that the seas cease to bring forth Gems which from thee have all their worth. Do not conceal no beauty, grace, That's either in thy mind or face; Lest virtue overcome by vice Make men believe no Paradise. 46 Nathaniel Field Matin ^ j^ Song Rise, Lady Mistress, rise! The night hath tedious been; No sleep hath fallen into mine eyes Nor slumbers made me sin. Is not she a saint then, say, Thoughts of whom keep sin away? Rise, Madam ! rise and give me light, Whom darkness still will cover. And ignorance, darker than night, Till thou smile on thy lover. All want day till thy beauty rise ; For the grey morn breaks from thine eyes. 47 George Wither Sleep, Baby. Sleep! ^ -^ Sleep, baby, sleep! what ails my dear, What ails my darling thus to cry? Be still, my child, and lend ihine ear, To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep. Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear? What thing to thee can mischief do? Thy God is now thy father dear, His holy Spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. Though thy conception was in sin, A sacred bathing thou hast had; And though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou now art made. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. (B126) 49 E SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP! While thus thy lullaby I sing, For thee great blessing's ripening be; Thine Eldest Brother is a king-, And hath a kingdom bought for thee. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. Sleep, baby, sleep, and nothing fear; For whosoever thee offends By thy protector threaten'd are, And God and angels are thy friends. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. When God with us was dwelling here, In little babes He took delight; Such innocents as thou, my dear. Are ever precious in His sight. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. A little infant once was He; And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His Virgin Mother's knee, That power to thee might be convey'd. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 50 SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP! In this thy frailt}- and thy need He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. The King of kings, when He was born. Had not so much for outward ease; By Him such dressings v/ere not worn, Nor suchlike swaddling-clothes as these. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay and asses fed: Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle or a bed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. The wants that He did then sustain Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee; And by His torments and His pain Thy rest and ease secured be. My baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 51 SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP! Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this. A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 52 Thomas Carew Song -^ -^ Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties, orient deep, These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more if east or west The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies! 53 To my Inconstant ^ ^ Mistress When thou, poor Excommunicate From all the joys of Love, shalt see The full reward and g^lorlous fate Which my strong- faith shall purchase me, Then curse thine own inconstancy. A fairer hand than thine shall cure That heart which thy false oaths did wound; And to my soul a soul more pure Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound, And both with equal glory crowned. Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain To Love, as I did once to thee : When all thy tears shall be as vain As mine were then: for thou shalt be Damned for thy false Apostacy. 54 An Hymeneal ^ ^ Dialogue Groom. — Tell me, my Love, since Hymen tied The holy knot, hast thou not felt A new-infused spirit slide Into thy breast, whilst mine did melt? Bride. — First tell me, Sweet, whose words were those? For though your voice the air did break, Yet 'did m}- soul the sense compose, And through your lips my heart did speak. Groom. — Then I perceive, when from the flame Of love my scorched soul did retire, Your frozen heart in that place came. And sweetly melted in that fire. Bridi\—'T is true, for when that mutual change Of souls was made, with equal gain, I straight might feel diffused a strange Bui gentle heat through every vein. AN HYMENEAL DIALOGUE Bride. — Thy bosom then I'll make my nest, Since there my willing- soul doth perch. Groom. — And for my heart, in thy chaste breast, I'll make an everlasting search. O blest disunion, that doth so Our bodies from our souls divide ; As two to one, and one four grow, Each by contraction multiplied. 56 Ingrateful Beauty J^ J^ Threatened Know, Celia (since thou art so proud), 'T was I that gave thee thy renown ! Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown, Had not my verse exhaled thy name, And with it imped the wings of fame. That killing power is none of thine; I gave it to thy voice and eyes; Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fixed thee there. Tempt me with such affrights no more Lest what I made I uncreate ! Let fools thy mystic forms adore; I '11 know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrapped truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils. Robert Herrick To Dianeme ^ ^ Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Which star-like sparkle in their skies ; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives ; yours yet free. Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone. 59 To Meadows Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been filled with flowers ; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. Ye have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home. You 've heard them sweetly sing-, And seen them in a round, Each virgin, like a Spring, With honeysuckles crowned. But now we see none here Whose silvery feet did tread. And with dishevelled hair Adorned this smoother mead. Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown, You Ve left here to lament Your poor estates alone. 60 To Blossoms Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What, were you born to be An hour or half's delight. And so to bid good-night? 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite ! But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave : And after they have shown their pride Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave. 61 To Daffodils j^ j^ Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon : As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as j'ou, We have as short a Spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. We die. As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the Summer's rain. Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. 62 To Daisies, Not to Shut ^ j^ so Soon Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night Hath not as yet begun To make a seizure on the light, Or to seal up the sun. No marigolds yet closed are, No shadows great appear; Nor doth the early shepherd's star Shine like a spangle here. Stay but till my Julia close Her life-begetting eye. And let the whole world then dispose Itself to live or die. 63 To Violets Welcome, Maids of Honour! You do bring- In the Spring, And wait upon her. She has Virgins man}^, Fresh and fair; Yet you are iMore sweet than any. Y'are the Maiden Posies, And so graced. To be placed 'Fore Damask Roses. Yet though thus respected, By and by Ye do lie, Poor Girls, neglected. To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying : And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying. The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, The higher he 's a-getting. The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he 's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time; And while ye may, go marry : For having lost but once your prime. You may for ever tarry. (B126) ^5 Dress J^ J^ A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness : — A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction, — An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher, — A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly, — A winning wave, deser\ing note, In the tempestuous petticoat, — A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility, — Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part. 66 In Silks J^ j^ Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me! Corinna's Going JS^ ^ a-Maying Get up, get up tor shame I Thr hlooinin^^ morn Upon her wings presents the gud un- shorn. See how Aurora throws lier fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air I Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and trer. Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east Above an hour since ; yet you nf)t drest — Nay! not so much as out of bed, When all the birds have matins said, And sung their thankful hymns: "ti-> sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in— Whereas a thousaiid virgins on tliis day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 68., COJ^/XXA'S GOIXG A-MAVIXG Ri>e, and pul on your foliaj^r, ;ind hv s<*en To come fortli, liUt- ilu* Sprini,'-tinu', fresh and ^^reen, And sweet as Flora. Take no can' Vor jewtis for your i^^own or liair: Kear not ; the leaves will strew (iems in abundance upon you : Besides, the childhood of the day has kepi Aj(^ainst you come. som»- ori«MU pt-arls un- wrpi : Come, and receive th«*ni while ihc \'\^\n Hani^^s on the dew-Iock.s of the nij^hl : And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash. dres^. be brief in prayinj^ : F«'W beads are best, when once wf j^o a- Maying. Come, m\ Curinna. come! and comlnj^^. mark How each field unn-< a >irfel, each street a park Made ^'reen, and trimmed with trees: see how Devotion §^ives each houst* a boujj^h Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this, An ark. a tabernacle is, 69 co7?AVAVi\v go/at; J-A/A]'/\G Made up of whitc-tliurn m-ally iiUn wove, As if here were those cooler >liade.s of love. Can such dehj^^hts be in the street And open tulds, and we not see't? Come, we '11 abroad : and l««t 's obey The proclamation made fur Ma) : And sin iiu niDrc, as \\r ha\e dom-. by staying : But, mv Corinn.i, < ome ! Id '> i^o a-Mayinj^. There's not a budding boy or j^irl, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cak'- \v(\ cream, Before that we have lel't to dream : And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth, And cliose their priest, ere we can cast oft' sloth: Many a green-gown has been given ; Many a kiss, both odd and even : Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye, Love's firmament : Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked : — Yet we 're not a-Maying. 70 COJ^LVAWS GOIXG A-MAVING Coiiit*! I«*l lis ^o, whilr uc air \u niir prime. And lake llio harniKss lolly of lh»- liinc! VV^' shall j^row old apact-, and (ii»- Hetbrf we know our liberty. Our life is short : and our days run As fast away as does the sun: Aiul as a vapour, or a drop of rain C)iu«- lost, can ne'er be found ajjain ; So when or you or I are made A fabU', sonj^, or tleelinj^ shade, All love, all likinl,^ all deli^^ht Lies drowned with us in endless ni^ht. Then while time *er\e.s. and we an- but decayinj^, Come, my C'orlnna, Lome ! let's j^o a-Mayini^. Grace for a Child Here, a little child, I stand, HeavinjJ^ up my either hand : Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat and on our all. Amen. 72 Ben Jonson J^ -^ Ah. Brii! Say how, or when, Sliall we th\ ^iirsts Meet at those lyric feasts Made at the Sun, The Dog^, the Triple Tun? Where we such clusters had As made us nobly wild, not mad ; And yet each verse of thine Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine, My Ben! Or come again Or send to us Thy wil's great o\rr-plus; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it. Lest we that talent spend : And having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of suchawit. the world should havenomore 73 Cock-Crow Bell-man of Night, if I about shall i^o For to deny my Master, do thou crow. Thou stop'st St. Peter in the midst of sin ; Stay me, by crowing- ere I do begin. Better it is, premonished, for to shun A sin, than fall to weeping when 't is done. 74 A Thanksgiving to God, for His J^ ^ House Lord, thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble Roof Is weather-proof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft, and dry; Where Thou my chamber for to ward Hast set a Guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while 1 sleep. Low is my porch, as is my Fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by th' poor, Who thither come and freely get Good words, or meat: Likeas my Parlour, so my Hall And Kitchen's small: 75 A THANKSGIVING A little Butterv, and therein A little Bin. Which keeps my little loaf of Bread L'nchipl, un tit-ad: Some brittle slicks ol" Thorn or Briar Make me a fire, Close by whose livint;^ coal 1 sit, And glow like it. Lord, 1 confess too, when I dine, The Pulse is Thine, And all those other Bits, that be There plac'd by Thee; The Worts, the Purslain, and the Mess Of water-cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content Makes those and my beloved Beet To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering Hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me Wassail Bowls lo drink, Spic'd to the brink. Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand, That soils my land; And gives me, for my Bushel sown, Twice ten for one: Thou mak'st my teeming Hen to lay Her egg each day: 76 A THANKSGIVING Besides my healthful Ewes to bear Mc twins each year: The wliile the conduits of my Kine Run Cream (for Wine). All these, and better Thou dost send Me, to this end. That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fir'd with incense, I resign As wholly Thine; But the acceptance, that must be. My Christ, by Thee. 71 To Death Thou bidst me come away, And I ']1 no longer stay, Then for to shed some tears For faults of former years; And to repent some crimes, Done in the present times: And next, to take a bit Of Bread, and Wine with it: To don my robes of love, Fit for the place above; To gird my loins about With charity throughout; And so to travail hence With feet of innocence: These done, I '11 only cry God mercy; and so die. 7^ The New- ^ ^ Year's Gift Let others look for pearl and gold, Tissues or tabbies manifold; One only look of that sweet hay Whereon the blessed Baby lay, Or one poor swaddling-clout, shall be The richest New-Year's gift to me. 79" Eternity O Years! and Age I Farewell: Behold 1 go, Where I do know Infinity to dwell. And these mine eyes shall see All times, how they Are lost i' th' Sea Of vast Eternity. Where never Moon shall sway The Stars; but she, And Night, shall be Drown'd in one endless Day. So To his Saviour, a Child; ^ ^ a Present, by a Child Go, pretty child, and bear this Flower Unto thy little Saviour; And tell Him, by that Bud now blown, He is the Rose of Sharon known: When thou hast said so, stick it there Upon His Bib, or Stomacher: And tell Him (for good handsel! too), That thou hast brought a Whistle new, Made of a clean straight oaten reed, To charm His cries (at time of need): Tell Him, for Coral, thou hast none; But if thou hadst. He should have one; But poor thou art, and known to be Even as moneyless, as He. Lastly, if thou canst win a kiss From those mellifluous lips of His; Then never take a second on. To spoil the first impression. (B126) 81 G To his Conscience Can I not sin, but thou wilt be My private Protonotary? Can I not woo thee to pass by A short and sweet iniquity? 1 Ml cast a mist and cloud, upon My delicate transgression, So utter dark, as that no eye Shall see the hug'd impiety: Gifts blind the wise, and bribes do please, And wind all other witnesses: And wilt not thou, with gold, be tied To lay thy pen and ink aside? That in the mirk and tonguelcss night, Wanton 1 may, and thou not w^ite? It w'ill not be: And, therefore, now. For times to come, I 'W make this Vow, From aberrations to live free; So I '11 not fear the Judge, nor thee. 32 His Dream 1 dreamt, last night, Thou didst transfuse Oil from Thy Jar, into my cruse; And pouring still Thy wealthy store, The vessel, full, did then run o'er: Methought, I did Thy bounty chide, To see the waste; but 'twas replied By Thee, Dear God, God gives man seed Oft-times for waste, as for his need. Then I could say, that house is bare That has not bread, and some to spare. 83 An Ode, or Psalm, to God Dear God, If Thy smart Rod Here did not make me sorry, 1 should not be With Thine, or Thee, In Thy eternal Glory. But since Thou didst convince My sins, by gently striking-; Add still to those First stripes, new blows, According- to Thy liking. Fear me, Or scourging tear me; That thus from vices driven, I may from Hell Fly up, to dwell With Thee, and Thine in Heaven. 84 Evil J^ Evil no Nature hath; the loss of good Is that which gives to sin a livelihood. 3S To his j^ ^ dear God I '11 hope no more For things that will not come: And, if they do, they prove but cumber- some; Wealth brings much woe: And, since it fortunes so, 'Tis better to be poor Than so abound. As to be drowned, Or overwhelmed with store. Pale care, avant! I '11 learn to be content Willi that small stock, Thy Bounty gave or lent. What may conduce To my most healthful use, Almighty God me grant; But that, or this, That hurtful is. Deny thy suppliant. 86 To Heaven open thy gates To him, who weeping waits, And might come in, But that held back by sin. Let mercy be So kind, to set me free, And 1 will strait Come in, or force the srate. His Meditation j^ ^ upon Death Be those few hours, which 1 have yet to spend, Blest with the Meditation of my end: Though they be few in number, I 'm con- tent; If otherwise, I stand indifferent: Nor makes it matter, Nestor's years to tell. If man lives long, and if he live not well. A multitude of days still heaped on, Seldom brings order, but confusion. Might I make choice, long life should be withstood; Nor would I care how short it were, If good: Which to effect, let every passing Bell Possess my thoughts, next comes my dole- ful knell: And when the night persuades me to my bed, I'll think I'm going to be buried: So shall the Blankets which come over me, Present those Turfs, which once must cover me: 88 MEDITATION UPON DEATH And with as firm behaviour I will meet The sheet I sleep in, as nn VVinding-- sheet. When sleep shall bath his body in mine eyes, I w'll believe, that then my body dies: And if I chance to wake, and rise thereon, I '11 have in mind my Resurrection, Which must produce me to that General Doom, To which the Peasant, so the Prince must come. To hear the Judge give sentence on the Throne, Without the least hope of affection. Tears, at that day, shall make but weak defence, When Hell and Horror fright the Con- science. Let me, though late, yet at the last, begin To shun the least Temptation to a sin; Though to be tempted be no sin, until Man to the alluring object gives his will. Such let my life assure me, when my breath Goes thieving from me, I am safe in death ; Which is the height of comfort, when I fall, I rise triumphant in m)' Funeral. 89 Henry King, Bishop of Chichester A Renunciation ^ «^ We, that did nothing- study but the way To love each other, with which thoughts the day Rose with delight to us and with them set, Must learn the hateful art, how to forget. We, that did nothing wish that Heaven could give Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live Beyond that wish, all these now cancel must, As if not writ in faith, but words and dust. Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make, W^itness the chaste desires that never break Into unruly heats; witness that breast Which in thy bosom anchored his whole rest — 91 A RENUNCIATION 'T is no default in us : I dare acquite Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white As thy pure self. Cross planets did envy Us to each other, and Heaven did untie Faster than vows could bind. Oh that the stars, When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars ! Since, then, some higher destinies com- mand. Let us not strive, nor labour to withstand What is past help. The longest date of grief Can never yield a hope of our relief Fold back our arms; take home our fruit- less loves. That must new fortunes try, like turtle- doves Dislodged from their haunts; we must in tears Unwind a love knit up in many j'ears. In this last kiss I here surrender thee Back to thyself — so thou again art free ; Thou in another, sad as that, resend The truest heart that lover e'er did lend. Now turn from each ; so fare our severed hearts As the divorced soul from her body parts. 92 Exequy on his Wife Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, Instead of dirges, this complaint; And, for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse, Receive a strew of weeping verse From thy grieved friend whom thou might'st see Quite melted into tears for thee. Dear loss ! since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee ! Thou art the book, The library whereon I look. Though almost blind. For thee, loved clay, I languish on, not live, the day. . . . Thou hast benighted me; thy set This eve of blackness did beget. Who wast my day (though overcast Before thou hadst thy noontide past). And I remember must in tears Thou scarce hadst seen so many years 93 EXEQUY ON HIS WIFE As day tells hours. By thy clear sun My love and fortune first did run ; But thou wilt never more appear Folded within my liemlsphere, Since both thy light and motion, Like a fled star, is fallen and gone, And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish The earth now interposed is. . . . I could allow thee for a time To darken me and my sad clime ; Were it a month, a year, or ten, I would thine exile live till then, And all that space my mirth adjourn, So thou would'st promise to return, And putting off thy ashy shroud At length disperse this sorrow's cloud. But woe is me! the longest date Too narrow is to calculate These empty hopes ; never shall I Be so much blest as to descry A glimpse of thee, till that day come Which shall the earth to cinders doom, And a fierce fever must calcine The body of this world — like thine, My little world ! That fit of fire Once off, our bodies shall aspire To our souls' bliss ; then we shall rise And view ourselves with clearer e3es In that calm region where no night Can hide us from each other's sight. 94 EXEQUY ON HIS WIFE Meantime thou hast her, earth! much good May my harm do thee ; shicc it stood With Heaven's will I might not call Her longer mine, 1 give thee all My short-lived right and interest In her whom living 1 loved best. Be kind to her, and prithee look Thou write into thy Doomsday book Each parcel of this rarity Which in thy casket shrined doth lie, As thou wilt answer Him that lent — Not gave — thee my dear monument. So close the ground, and 'bout her shade Black curtains draw ; my bride is laid. Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted! My last good - night ! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves, and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Stay for me there! I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale. And think not much of my delay — I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrow breed. 95 EXEQUY ON HIS WIFE Each minute is a short degree And every hour a step towards thee. 'T is true — with shame and grief I yield — Thou, like the van, first took'st the field ; And gotten hast the victory In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave. But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come ; And slow howe'er my marches be, 1 shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive The crime — I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part. George Herbert Holy Baptism ^ ^^ Since, Lord, to Thee A narrow way and little gate Is all the passage, on my infancy Thou didst lay hold, and antedate My faith in me. O, let me still Write Thee "great God", and me "a child"; Let me be soft and supple to Thy will, Small to myself, to others mild, Behither ill. Although by stealth My flesh get on; yet let her sister. My soul, bid nothing but preserve her wealth : The growth of flesh is but a blister; Childhood is health. ( B 126 ) 97 H Virtue J^ ^ Sweet day, so cool, so ctilm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave. Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal. Then chiefly lives. 98 Unkindness Lord, make me coy and tender to offend: In friendship, first I think if that agree Which I intend Unto my friend's intent and end; I would not use a friend as I use Thee. If any touch my friend or his good name, It is my honour and my love to free His blasted fame From the least spot or thought of blame; I could not use a friend as I use Thee. My friend may spit upon my curious floor; Would he have gold? I lend it instantly; But let the poor, And Thee within them, starve at door; I cannot use a friend as I use Thee. When that my friend pretendeth to a place, I quit my interest, and leave it free ; But when Thy grace Sues for my heart, I Thee displace; Nor would I use a friend as I use Thee. 99 UNKINDNESS Yet can a friend what Tliou hast done fulfil? O, write in brass, " My God upon a tree His blood did spill, Only to purchase my good-will " ; Yet use I not my foes as I use Thee. Love j^ ^ Love bade me welcome ; yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning If I lacked anything. "A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here": Love said, "You shall be he." " I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear! I cannot look on Thee." Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, ' ' Who made the eyes but I ? " "Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame Go where it doth deserve." "And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?" " My dear, then I will serve." "You must sit down," says Lov^e, "and taste My meat." So I did sit and eat. lOI The Pulley j^ J^ When God eit first made man, Having' a glass of blessings standing by, "Let us," said He, "pour on him all we can ; Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span." So strength first made a way, Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure ; When almost all was out, God made a stay. Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure. Rest in the bottom lay. " For if I should," said He, " Bestow this jewel also on My creature, He would adore My gifts instead of Me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: So both should losers be. "Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness; Let him i)c rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to My breast." I02 The Collar ^ j^ I struck the board, and cried, " No more; I will abroad. What, shall I ever sigh and pine? My lines and lite are free; free as the road, Loose as the wind, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me blood, and not restore What I have lost with cordial fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn Before my tears did drown it; Is the year only lost to me? Have I no bays to crown it. No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted, All wasted? Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures; leave thy cold dis- pute Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage, Thy rope of sands, 103 THE COLLAR Which petty thoughts have made; and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw, And be thy law, While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away! take heed; I will abroad. Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy fears ; He that forbears To suit and serve his need Deserves his load." But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild At every word, Methought I heard one calling, "Child"; And I replied, "My Lord." 104 Life ^ ^ I made a posy while the day ran by: Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie My life within this band; But Time did beckon to tlie flowers, and they By noon most cunningly did steal away, And withered in my hand. My hand was next to them, and then my heart; I took, without more thinking, in good part Time's gentle admonition; Who did so sweetly Death's sad taste convey. Making my mind to smell my fatal day. Yet sugaring the suspicion. Farewell, dear flowers; sweetly your time ye spent. Fit while ye lived for smell or ornament, And after death for cures. I follow straight, without complaints or grief. Since if my scent be good, I care not if It be as short as yours. 105 Misery j^ j^ Lord, let the angels praise Tliy name: Man is a foolish thing, a foolish thing; Folly and sin play all his game; His house still burns, and yet he still doth sing — Man is but grass, He knows it — "Fill the glass." How canst Thou brook his foolishness? Why, he '11 not lose a cup of drink for Thee: Bid him but temper his excess. Not he: he knows where he can better be — As he will swear — Than to serve Thee in fear. What strange pollutions doth he wed. And make his own ! as if none knew but he. No man shall beat into his head That Thou within his curtains drawn canst see: " The-y are of cloth Where never yet rame moth." io6 MISERY The best of men, turn but Thy hand For one poor minute, stumble at a pin ; They would not have their actions scanned, Nor any sorrow tell them that they sin, Though it be small. And measure not the fall. They quarrel Thee, and would give over The bargain made to serve Thee ; but Th} lo\e Holds them unto it, and doth cover Their follies with the wings of Thy mild Dove, Not suffering those Who would, to be Thy foes. My God, man cannot praise Thy name: Thou art all brightness, perfect purity; The sun holds down his head for shame, Dead with eclipses, when we speak of Thee: How shall infection Presume on Thy perfection? As dirty hands foul all they touch, And those things most which are most pure and fine, I07 MISERY So our clay-hearts, even when we crouch To sing^ Tliy praises, make them less divine: Yet either this Or none Thy portion is. Man cannot serve Thee: let him go And serve the swine— there, that is his delight: He doth not like this virtue, no; Give him his dirt to wallow in all night "These preachers make His head to shoot and ache." O foolish man! where are thine eyes? How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares ! Thou pull'st the rug, and wilt not rise, No, not to purchase the whole pack of stars : "There let them shine; Thou must go sleep or dine." The bird that sees a dainty bower Made in the tree, where she was wont to sit, Wonders and sings, but not His power \Vhomade thearbour; thisexceeds her wit. But man doth know The Spring whence all things flow: io8 MISERY And yet, as though he knew it not, His knowledge winks, and lets his humours reign; They make his life a constant blot, And all the blood of God to run in vain. Ah, wretch! what verse Can thy strange ways rehearse? Indeed, at first man was a treasure, A box of jewels, shop of rarities, A ring whose posy was "my pleasure"; He was a garden in a Paradise; Glory and grace Did crown his heart and face. But sin hath fooled him; now he is A lump of ilesh, without a foot or wing To raise him to a glimpse of bliss; A sick-tossed vessel, dashing on each thing, Nay, his own self: My God, I mean myself. 109 Easter I got me flowers to straw Th)- way, I got me boughs of many a tree; But Thou wast up by break of day, And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee. Yet though my flowers be lost, they say A heart can never come too late; Teach it to sing Thy praise this da}-, And then this day my life shall date. Discipline Throw away Thy rod, Throw away Thy wrath; my God, Take the gentle path! For my heart's desire Unto Thine is bent: 1 aspire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own. But by book, And Thy Book alone. Though I fail, I weep; Though I halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace. Then let wrath remove; Love will do the deed; For with love Stony hearts will bleed. DISCIPLINE Love is swift of foot; Love 's a man of war, And can shoot, And can hit from far. Who can 'scape his bow? That which wrought on Thee, Brought Thee low, Needs must work on me. Throw away Thy rod; Though man frailties hath. Thou art God; Throw away Thy wrath ! A Dialogue ^ j^ Man. Sweetest Saviour, if my soul Were but worth the having, Quickly should I then control Any thought of waving. But when all my care and pains Cannot give the name of gains To Thy wretch so full of stains, What delight or hope remains? Saviour. What, child, is the balance thine, Thine the poise and measure? If I say, "Thou shalt be Mine", Finger not My treasure. What the gains in having thee Do amount to, only He Who for man was sold can see; That transferred th' accounts to Me. Man. But as I can see no merit Leading to this favour, So the way to fit me for it Is beyond my savour. (8X26) 113 I A DIALOGUE As the reason, then, is Thine, So the way is none of mine; I disclaim the whole design; Sin disclaims and I resign. Saviour. That is all: if that I could Get without repining, And My clay, My creature, would Follow My resigning; That as I did freely part With My glory and desert, Left all joys to feel all smart — Man. Ah, no more ! Thou break'st my heart ! 114 James Shirley Equality j^ J^ The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. EQUALITY The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your might} deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. ii6 Anonymous Lullaby Weep you no more, sad fountains; What need you flow so fast? Look how the snowy mountains Heaven's sun doth gently waste. But my sun's heavenly eyes View not your weeping, That now lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping. Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets; Doth not the sun rise smiling When fair at eve he sets? Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes, Melt not in weeping, While she lies sleeping Softly, now soft'y lies Sleeping. 117 Sir William Davenant Morning j^ ^ The lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing shakes his dewy wings, He takes your window for the east. And to implore your light, he sings; Awake, awake, the morn will never rise. Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes ; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes ; Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn ! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn. 119 Edmund Waller The Rose ^ -^ Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that 's young And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come fortii, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. THE ROSE Then die ! that she The common uite of all thinijs rare May read in thee: How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! To Vandike ^ -^ Rare artisan ! whose pencil moves Not our delights alone, but loves; From thy shop of beauty we Slaves return, that entered free. The heedless lover does not know Whose eyes they are that wound him so; But, confounded with thy art, Asks her name who has his heart. Another who did long refrain Feels his old wound bleed fresh again, With dear remembrance of that face Where now he reads new hope of grace; Nor scorn nor cruelty does find, But gladly suffers a false wind To blow the ashes of despair From the reviving brand of care: Fool, that forgets her stubborn look This softness from thy finger took. Strange that thy hand should not inspire The beauty only, but the fire; Not the form alone, and grace, But act and power of a face. 123 TO V AND IKE May'st thou yet thyself as well As all the world besides excel; So you the unfeigned truth rehearse (That I may make it live in verse) Why thou couldst not at one essay That face to after-times convey, Which this admires; was it thy wit To make her oft before thee sit? Confess, and we'll forgive thee this; For who would not repeat that bliss, And frequent sight of such a dame Buy with the hazard of his fame? Yet who can tax thy blameless skill Though thy good hand had failed still. When Nature's self so often errs? She for this many thousand years Seems to have practised with much care To frame the race of woman fair; Yet never could a perfect birth Produce before to grace the earth, Which waxed old ere it could see Her that amazed thy art and thee. But now 't is done, O let me know Where those immortal colours grow. That could this deathless piece compose In lilies or the fading rose? No, for this theft thou hast climbed higher Than did Prometheus for his fire. 124 On the Friendship ^ ^ betwixt two Ladies Tell me, lovely loving pair, Why so kind and so severe? Why so careless of our care, Only to yourselves so dear? By this cunning change of hearts. You the pow'r of love control; While the boy's deluded darts Can arrive at neither soul. For in vain to either breast Still beguiled love does come Where he finds a foreign guest, Neither of your hearts at home. Debtors thus with like design, Where they never mean to pay, That they may the law decline. To some friend make all away. 125 FRIENDSHIP Not the silver doves that Hy, Yok'd in Citharea's car; Not the wings that lift so high And convey her son so far, Are so lovely, sweet and fair. Or do more ennoble love; Are so choicely matched a pair, Or with more content do move. X26 Of Loving at First J^ J^ Sight Not caring to observe the wind, Or the new sea explore, Snatched from myself, how far behind Already I behold the shore! May not a thousand dangers sleep In the smooth bosom of the deep? No, 't is so rockless and so clear That the rich bottom does appear Paved all with precious things, not torn From shipwrecked vessels, but there born. Sweetness, truth, and every grace Which time and use are wont to teach. The eye may in a moment reach, And read distinctly in her face. Some other nymphs, witli colours faint, And pencil slow, may Cupid paint, 127 OF LOVING AT FIRST SIGHT And a weak heart in time destroy. — She has a stamp, and prints the Boy; Can with a single look inflame The coldest breast, the rudest tame. 128 Thomas Randolph Mistress I have a mistress, for perfections rare In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair. Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes; Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice; And wheresoe'er my fancy would begin, Still her perfection lets religion in. We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers. I touch her, like my beads, with devout care. And come unto my courtship as my prayer. ( B 126 ) 129 Charles Best A Sonnet of the Moon Look how the pale Queen of the silent night Doth cause the ocean to attend upon her, And he, as long as she is in his sight, With his full tide is ready her to honour. But when the silver waggon of the Moon Is mounted up so high he cannot follow, The sea calls home his crystal waves to moan, And with low ebb doth manifest his sorrow. So you that are the sovereign of my heart. Have all my joys attending on your w^ill, 131 A SONNET OF THE MOON My joys low ebbing when you do depart, When you return, their tide my heart doth fill. So as you come, and as you do depart, Joys ebb and flow within my tender heart. 132 John Milton Hymn on Christ's j^ j^ Nativity It was the winter wild While the heaven-born Child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies: Nature in awe to Him Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathise: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty para- mour. Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with Innocent snow; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; 133 HYMN ON CHRIST'S NATIVITY Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul de- formities. But He, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere. His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; /\nd waving wide her myrtle wand. She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high uphung; The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light 134 HYMN ON CHRIST'S NATIVITY His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smootlily tlie waters kist, VVHiispering new joys to the mild ocean Wlio now hath quite forgot to rave. While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious in- jfluence; And will not take (heir flight For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow. Until their Lord Himself hespake, and bid them go. And though the shady gloom Had given day her room. The sun himself withheld his wonted speed. And hid his head for shame. As his inferior flame The new -enlightened world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear. 135 HYMN ON CHRIST S NATIVITY The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they than That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet As never was by mortal fingers strook— Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took ; The air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. Nature, that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrill- ing, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last ful- filling; 136 HYMN ON CHRIST'S NATIVITY She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heaven and Earth in hap- pier union. At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed; The helmed Cherubim And sworded Seraphim Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn quire. With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new- born Heir. Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made But when of old the Sons of Morning sung. While the Creator great His constellations set. And the well-balanced world on hinges hung; And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. Ring out, ye crystal spheres ! Once bless our human ears, ^37 HYMN ON CHRIST'S NATIVITY If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move ill melodious time; And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow; And with your ninefold harmony Make up full concert to the angelic sym- phony. Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back and fetch the age of gold; And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; ^^8 HYMN ON CHRIST'S NATIVITY And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates ot her high palace-hall. But wisest Fate says No ; This must not yet be so; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both Himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychained in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep. With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: The aged Earth aghast With terror of that blast Shall from the surface to the centre shake, When at the world's last sessi6n, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His Throne. And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, 139 HYMN ON CHRIST'S NATIVITY But now begins ; for from this happy day The old Drag-on underground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the pro- phetic cell. The lonely mountains o'er And the resounding shore A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale Edged with poplar pale. The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 140 HYMN ON CHRIST'S NATIVITY In consecrated earth And on the holy hearth The Lars and Lemures moan with mid- night plaint; In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Powder forgoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered God of Pales- tine; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn: In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue: In vain w^ith cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; 141 HYMN ON CHRIST'S NATIVITY The brutish g-ods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, TrampUng the unshowered grass with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest; Not but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain with tinibrelled anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his wor- shipped ark. He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show His Godhead true, Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew. So, when the sun in bed, Curtained with cloudy red, 142 HYMN ON CHRIST'S NATIVITY Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. But see ! the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's )-oungest-teemed star Hath fixed her polished car. Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed Angels sit In order ser- viceable. 143 L'Allegro ^ ^ Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low- browed rocks As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free. In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, V/hom lovely Venus at a birth With two sister Graces more To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wnnd that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-Maying — 144 L' ALLEGRO There on beds of violets blue And fresh-blown roses washed in dew F'illed her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee. Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity. Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides : — Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe ; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honour due. Mirth, admit me of thy crew. To live with her, and live with thee In unreproved pleasures free ; To hear the lark begin his flight And singing startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, i\nd at my window bid good-morrow Through the sweetbriar, or the vine. Or the twisted eglantine: While the cock with lively din (B126) 145 L V ALLEGRO Scatters the rear of darkness tliin, And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before : Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill : Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green. Right against the eastern gate Where the great Sun begins his state Robed in flames and amber light. The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; While the ploughman, near at hand. Whistles o'er the furrowed land. And the milkmaid singeth blithe. And the mower whets his scythe. And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Wliilst the landscape round it measures; Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; Mountains, on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest ; Meadows trim with daisies pied. Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, 146 V ALLEGRO Where perhaps some Beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, Are at their savoury dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tanned haycock in the mead. Sometimes vi'ith secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid, Dancing in the chequered shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the live-long day-light fail: Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat. How Faery Mab the junkets eat :— She was pinched and pulled, she said; And he by Friar's lantern led; Tells how the grudging goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn, 147 r ALLEGRO That ten day-labourers could not end ; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And, stretched out all the chimney's length. Basks at the fire his hairy strength ; And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. Towered cities please us then And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold. In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear. And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on. Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce 148 V ALLEGRO In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes run- ning, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony ; That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumber, on a bed Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee 1 mean to live. 149 II Penseroso .^ -^ Hence, vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bestead Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sun- beams, Or likest hovering dreams. The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy ! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight. And therefore to our w^eaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above 150 IL PENSEROSO The sea -nymphs, and their powers of- fended : Yet thou art higher far descended : Thee bright-haired Vesta, 'long of yore, To solitary Saturn bore ; His daughter she; in Saturn's reign Such mixture was not held a stain : Oft in glirhmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure. All in a robe of darkest grain Flowing with majestic train. And sable stole of Cipres lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn : Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies. Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : There, held in holy passion still. Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast : And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing : IL PENSEROSO And add to these retired Leisure That in trim gardens takes his pleasure: — But first and chiefest with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fierj^-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation ; And the mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a song In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er the accustomed oak. Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly. Most musical, most melancholy ! Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among, I woo to hear thy even-song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green. To behold the wandering Moon Riding near her highest noon. Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless w^ay. And oft, as if her head she bowed, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft on a plat of rising ground I hear the far-ofl" curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar; 152 IL PENSEROSO Or, if the air will not permit, Some still, removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm To bless the doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold The immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook : And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground. Whose power hath a true consent With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptered pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine ; Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage. But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musaeus from his bower, Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, IL PENSEROSO Drew Iron tears down Pluto's cheek And made Hell orranl what Love did seek ! Or call up him that kit hall-told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife That owned the virtuous ring and glass; And of the wondrous horse of brass On which the Tartar king did ride: And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of tourneys and of trophies hung, Of forests and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. Till civil-suited Morn appear, Not tricked and frounced as she was wont With the Attic Boy to hunt. But kercheft in a comely cloud While rocking winds are piping loud. Or ushered with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill. Ending on the rustling leaves With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the sun begfins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 154 IL PENSEROSO Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallowed haujit. There in close covert by some brook. Where no profaner eye ma\ look, Hide me from day's j^arish eye, While the bee with honeyed thii^^h, That at her flowery work doth singf, And the waters murmuring, W^ith such consort as they keep Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in airy stream Of lively portraiture displayed. Softly on my eyelids laid : And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high-embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And stoned windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced quire below In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 155 IL PENSEROSO DIssolsc* iiu- Into ec.>lasit'>, And brini,^ all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell Where I may sit and rightly spell Of ever}' star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew ; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And 1 with thee will choose to live. iS6 Lycidas ELKGY UN A FRIEND DKOWNED IN THIi IRISH CHANNEL, 1637 Yet once more, C) ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the melluwing year. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due : For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin, liien, Sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ; 157 LYCTDAS Be^in, and somewhat luudly ^\mo|> the string. Hence wilh drnial \ain and coy excuse: So may some gentle Muse With lucky words lavour ni) destined urn ; And, as In- passes, turn And hid fair peace be to m\ sahlr shroud. Fcti we were nursed upon the >eh"->ame hiil, Fed the same flock by fountain, .shade, and rill : Together both, ere tin- high law ns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, We drove a-lield, and both together heard What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at e\ening bright Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mule, Tempered to the oaten flute. Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long ; And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. 158 LVCIDAS But, oh! llic htavy change, now ihou art gom-, Now tliou art i^one and never must return ! Thee, Sliepherd, thee tlie woods and desert ca\es Witli wild tliymi' and the j^addint^ \ine o'er^rown, And all their eclK)es, mourn: The willows and the hazel copses ^reen Shall now no more be seen Fanninj^ their joyous leaves lu tiiy soft lays. As killing" as tli«' eankcr to the rose. Or taint-worm to th«.' weanlini,'^ herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their g^ay ward- robe wear When first the uhite-thorn blows; Such, Lyeidas, lliy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lyeidas? Kor neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie. Nor on the shaj^^gy top of IMona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizara stream : 159 LVCIDAS Ay me I 1 fondly droam Had ye been there . . . Vov wliat could that have done? What could llie Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, lor her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, ^lighted, shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit dolh raise (That last infirm it v of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, 1 60 LYCIDAS And slits the thin-spun life. " But not the praise," Phoebus rephed, and touched my trem- bhng ears ; " Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies: But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jo\c; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in hea\en expect thy meed." O fountain Arelhuse, and thou honoured flood, Smooth -sliding Mincius, crowiud with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood. But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea. He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? And questioned every gu^t of rugged winds That blows from off each beaked pro- montory. ( B 126 ) 161 M LYCIDAS They knew not of his story ; And sage Hippotades their answer l)rini;s, That not a blast was iVoni his dungeon strayed ; The air was cahn, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. It was that fatal and perhdious bark Built in the eelipse, and i iggi-d with eurses dark, That sunk so low that sacied head ol thine. Next Camus, reverend sire, went tooting slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine llower inseribed with woe, "Ah! who hath rei't," quoth he, " my dear- est pledge?" Last came, and last did go The Pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain); He shook his mitred locks, and stern be- spake : "How well could 1 have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake l63 LYCIDAS Creep and intrude and climb into the fold? Ot other care they little reckoning make Than how to scram I 'le at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden truest. Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art be- longs ! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped ; And when they list, tlnir lean and llashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes ot wretched straw ; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw. Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw- Daily devours apace, and nothing said : But that two - handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." 163 LYCIDAS Return, Alpheus; the dread voice is past That shrunk thv streams; roturii, Sicilian Must', And call iIk- \aks, and hid ih^ni iililur cast Their bells and Howerets of a thousand hues. Vc valleys low, where tlu niikl whispers use Of shades, and wanton uinds, and i;ush- ing brooks On whose fresh lajj the swarl star sparely looks ; Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted cow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet. The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired wood- bine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears : 164 LVCIDAS Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And datTadillies fill lli.ir cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoui^^hts dally with talst; surmise : Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sound- ing seas Wash far away, where'er thy hones are hurled, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, WMicre thou perhaps, under the whehninj^ tide, Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world ; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied. Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. Where the great Vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Hayona's hold ; Look homeward. Angel, now, ami nirlt with ruth : And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth ! Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycida^. your sorrow, is not dead, 16; LY'CWAS Sunk tlioiii^li he be honratli the wattTV tloor : So sinks the day-slar in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his dioopini;^ head And tricks his beams, and with new- spani^lcd ore Fhinies in lh«' forflicad ot ihr morning; sky : So Lycidas sunk k)\v, but niountrd hii^'^li Throui^h the dear mi^lit ol Him that w.ilkt'd the waves; Where, other tj-roves and other streams alon^, With nectar pure liis oozy locks he kives. And hears the unexpressive nuptial song- In the blest kini^'-doms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sint;, and sinjj^ini^ in their g^lory move. And wipe the tears for ever from lils eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore. In thy larg-e recompense, and shalt be g^ood To all that wander in that perilc»us flood. 1 66 LYCIDAS Tlius san.t( tli»' uncoulli swain to llie oaks and rills, Whik' tlic sllll morn \\v\\\ out with sandak gre\- ; Hi' touched tlic tender stops of various quills, With oaf^er ihoui^ht vvarMin^^ ills Doric lay : And now th«- sun iiad strctclu'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western hay: At last he rose, and twitched his mantle hlue : To-morrow tc> fresh woods, and pastures new. 167 On his ^ ^ Blindness When I consider how iny HL;ht is spent Krt' half my days, in thi^ dark world and wide, And tliat one taleni wliich is death to hide Lodg^ed witli ine useless, tluni^'^li my soul more bent To serve therewith my .Maki>r, and present M\ true account, lesi lie returnin>4 chide, — Doth God exact day-labour, lij^ht denit'd? I fondly ask: — But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies : God doth not need Either man's works, or His own ^|)ot of child- bed taint Purification in the Old Law did save, And such as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of htr in Heaven without re- straint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind ; Her face was veiled, yet tu my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness in \\vr person shined So clear as in no face with more delight. But oh! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked, she fled, and day brout^ht back mv night. 169 On Shakespeare j^ j^ WHiat needs my Shakt'sprarc, k)r his honoured bones, The labour of an aj^e in pilid stones? Or that his hallowed rcliques should be hl»l Under a star-y-poinlinj;^ pyramid? Dear son of mcmorv, j^rcat heir of fanu'. What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Tlu)u in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to shame of slow-endeavourinj^ art Thy i-asy numbers How, and that <'ach heart Hath from the leav(\s of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itst^f berea\ int;-. Dost make us marble with too much conceiving- ; And so sepulchered in such, pomp dost lie, That king's for sucli a tomb would wish to die. 170 Song on May Morning Now th»' hrlj^^ht iiiornin«^ star, clay'> liar- Comes dancini^ from iho Kasl, and leads with her Thr (lower) Mas', who from hi-r j:4rit'n lap throws Tlv* yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth and youth and younj^ desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessini,'^. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee and wish thee lontf. 17X Invocation to Sabrina FROM COMUS Sabrina fair! Listen, wluTc thou art sitlini^, Under the t^'hi.ssy, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids oi lilies knitting The loose train of thine amber - dripping hair. Listen for dear honinir'^. sake, Goddess ol the silver lake, Listen antl sa\e ! Listen, and appear to us. In name ot great Oceanus, By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace, And Tethys' grave majt-slic paci- By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look. And the Carpathian wizard's hook ; By scaly Triton's winding shell. And old soothsaying Glaucus' spell ; And her son that rules the strands; By Tlietis' tinsel-slippered feet, And the songs of sirens sweet ; 172 LWOCATIOX TO SABRIXA By dead Parthenope's dtar loinb, And fair Ligea's golden comb, Wlierewith she sits on diamond rocks Sleeking her soft alluring locks; By all the nymphs that nightly dance Upon thy streams with wily glance; Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head From thy coral-paven bed. And bridle in thy headlong wave, Till thou our summons answered have. Listen and save ! 173 Invocation to Echo FROM COMUS Swcfl Kclic, .-,u»\\v\\ V>\ -slow Meander's niarj^aiit f;rern, Anl in the violet-enibroidend \ale, W'liere llie love-lorn nii^^htinj^Mle Nii^hlly Id lliee her sad >on,i^^ inourticth well ; Canst thou not tell nie ol a sinL,He pair That likest thy Narcissus are? O, if thou have Hid them in some Howery cave, Tell me but where, Sweet Queen of Parley, dauj;liter of the Sphere ! So mayest thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies. VIA The Revel FROM COMU^ Tlu' stai that bid;> llu- sIk phcrd told Now the top of Heaven doth hold, And the i^ilded car oi day His j^Mowinj^ axle doth allay- In tlic stet'|) Atlantic stn-ani, And the slope sun his u[)\vard beam Shoots aj^ainst the dusky pole, Pacinj4^ toward the other j^^oal Of his chambtr in thr Kasl. Meanwhile wtlconu- joy and feast, Midni^'ht shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity. Hraid your locks with ro.sy twine, Oioppin^ odours, dropping \sine. Rigour now is gone to bed, And advice, with scrupulous head. Strict age, and sour severity With their grave saws in slumber lie. We that are ot purer fire Imitate the starry quire. Who in their nightly watchful spheres Lead in swift round the months and years. 175 THE REVEL The sounds and seas, willi all their finny drove Now to the moon in wavering- morrice nio\e, And on the tawny sands and shelves Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves; By dimpled hrook, and fountain brim The wood-nymphs decked with d.iisies trim Their merry wakes and pastimes keep; W'h^'^ hath nij^ht to do with sleep? 176 The Attendant Spirit FROM COMUS To the ocean now I fly, And those happy climes that He Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad fields of the sky. There I suck the liquid air, AH amid the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. Along the crisped shades and bowers Revels the spruce and jocund Spring; The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours Thither all their bounties bring. There eternal Summer dwells. And west winds with musky wing About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow- Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purpled scarf can show, (bij6) 177 N THE ATTENDANT SPIRIT And (Irciulio uilli Illysiaii (l«\v (Li^t, inorlals, if your rarr> be true) Reels of hyaciiuli and roses, W'iiere youiiij Adonis oft repes, W'.ixiiii,^ well ot Ills deep wound In -.lumber soft, and on the j^Mound Sadly sits the Assyrian queen. I^ut far above, in spangled sheen. Celestial Cupid, her tamed son, advanced, Molds his dear Psyche, sweet entranced, After her wanderinj^^ labours lonj,'. Till free consent the j^ods amon^ Make her his eternal bride, And from her fair unspotted side Two blissful twins are to be born, Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn. But now my task is smoothly done: I can Hy or I can run (Juickly to the j^reen earth's end, Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners ot the moon. Mortals that would follow me, Love Virtue; she alone is ivi.'i-, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime; Or if feeble Virtue were, Heaven itselt would stoop to iier. 178 From Arcades J^ j^ O'er the smooth onaiiicllcd j;^rreii \\'hrr«" lU) [)riiU of step liath boon, Follow Mu- as I sin^ And touch the warbled striiif^'' L'nd»'r the shady roof Of branchiiij^'^ ehii star-proof, Follow me; I will brinj*^ you where she sits Clad in splendour as befits Her deity. Such a rural queen All Arcadia hath not been. 179 To Mr. Lawrence Lawrence, dl" virtuous lather virtuous son, Now lliat the lielcU are dirU, and ways are mire, Where shall we sonielinies meet, .ind by the tire III I[) wa^tr a sullen day -what ma) he won From (he hard season's ^aininji;/ Time will run On smoother, till Fa\onius reinspire The frozen earth, and clothe with fresh altire Ihe lily and rose that neither sowefj nnr spun. What neat repa.>l >hall OmsI us. li^hl and choice, Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? He who of these delights can judge, and spare To interpose them oft, is not unwise. i8o Sir John Suckling The Shades J^ J^ Oh for some honest Iovjt's j^host, Some kind unbodied post Sent from the shades below! I strantjtiy lon^ to know Whether the nobler chaplets wear — Those thai their mistrer.s' scorn did bear Or thosf that were used klndlv. For whatsoe'er they tell u-> here To make these sufferings dt-ar, Twill there, 1 fear, be found That to the being crowned To have loved alone will not suffice, Unless we also have been wise, And have our loves enjoyed. What posture can we think him in That, hen- unloved, again ;3i THE SHADES Departs, ami 's ililihcr i^oiif Where each sits by liis own? Or iiow can that Elysium be Where I my mistress still must see ('ir(I«-(i in another'^, arms? 182 Richard Crashaw On a Prayer- Book sent to j^ JS/ Mrs. M. R. Lo, here a little volume, but pfra.il book ! A nest of new-born sweets, Whose native pages, 'sdaining To be thus folded, and conijjl.'iinin;; Of these ignoble sheets, Affect more comely bands, Fair one, from tliy kind hands. And contidently look To find the rest Of a rich bindint^ In your breast! It is in one choice iuindfiil, hta\en; and all Heaven's royal hosts encamped, tiuis small To prove that true Schools use to tell, A thou'^and angels in one point can dwell. 1R3 OAT A PRAYER-BOOK It is love's great artillery. Which here coiitracls it^t■lf. and comes to lie Close couched in your while bosom; and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against your ghostly foe to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. It is an armoury of light; Let constant use but keep it bright, You '11 find it yields To holy hands and humble hearts More swords and shields Than sin hath sn.ire^, or hell balh darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Those of turtles, chaste, and true, Wakeful, and wise. Here's a friend shall fight for you; Hold but this book before your heart, Let prayer alone to play his part. But, O! the heart That studies this high art Must be a sure housekeeper, And yet no sleeper. 184 ON A PRAYER-BOOK Dear soul, be strong; Morcy will come ere long, And bring lier bosom full of blessings, Flowers of never-fading graces, To make immortal dressings For worthy souls, whose wise embraces Store up themselves for Him who is alone The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin's Son. But if the nohir Bridegroom when He come Shall find the wandering heart from home, Leaving her chaste abode To gad abroad, Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies To take her pleasure, and to play And keep the Devil's holy day; To dance in the sunshine of some smiling But beguiling Spheres of sweet and sugared lies. Some slippery pair Of false, perhaps, as fair, Flattering, but foreswearing, eyes; Doubtless some other heart Will get the start Meanwhile, and, stepping in before. Will take possession of that secret store i8q ox A PR A } ER-BOOK Of irnKlt 11 s\v»('ts, aiid livly joy^, W(jrds wliicli an* not lu-ard with t'ars — These tumultuous shops of noise- EfTectual whispers, whose still voice The soul iisfh' inorr fiiU than lir.ir^; Aiiitnous lari_t;^iiishni<'iits, luniun'us trames, Slights which are not seen ulth eyes, Spiritual and soul-piercinj;^ i^lances Whose pure and suhtle M^htnini^ tlies Home to the iieart, and sei^ the house on tire And mehs it dc)wn in ^ueet desire, ^'el does not stav To ask the window's lea\e lu pass that way; Delicious deaths, soft exlirilations Of soul; dear and divine annihilations; A thousand unknown rites Of joys, and rarefied deli_i,'hts; A hundred thousiuid t^oods, iHori.-s, and graces, And many a mystic thing, Which the divine embraces Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring, For which it is no shame That dull mortality must not know a name. t86 ON A PRAYER-BOOK Of all this siorc {){ blfssintrs, and ten thousand more, If when Ht> conif He find thr heart from home, Doubtless He will unload Himself some olherwiurc. And pour abroad His precious svvet-i^, On the fair soul whom lirsi H«* nu'ets. O fair! O furtunatr! O rich! O d( ar! () happy, and thrice h.ippy ^he, Dear silver-breasted dove, Whoe'er she be, Whose early love With winged vows Makes haste to meet her morning S{)t)U' And close with His immortal kisses! Happy, indeed, who never misses To impro\e that precious hour, And every day Seize her sweet prey, All fresh and fragrant as He rises, Dropping, with a balmy shower, A delicious dew of spices. O. let the blissful heart hold fast Her heavenly armful, she shall taste At once ten thousand paradises! 1 3? ox A PRAYER-BOOK She shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and rosial sprint; of tho.se rare sweets, Which with a suellin- bosom then- she nu't'ls; Boundh'ss and intlniti'. bottomless treasures Of pun^ inebriating pleasures; Happy proof she shall discover, What joy, what bliss, How mafiy heavens at onc«- ii is, To have a (iod b«come her lover! i88 To the Morning SATISFACTION FOR SLEEI- JZ^ What succour can I hope the Muse will send, Whose drowsiness hath wronged ihe Muse's friend ? Wliat hope, Aurora, to propitiate thee, Unless the Muse sing my apology? O! in that morning of my shame, \\\v\\ I Lay folded up in sleep's capti\ity; How at the sight didst thou draw back thine eyes Into thy modest veil ! how didst thou rise Twice dyed in ihine own blushes, and didst run To draw the curtains and awake the sun! Who, rousing his illustrious tresses, came, And seeing the loathed object, hid for shame His head in thy fair bosom, and still hides Me from his patronage; I pray, he chides; i8g TO TffE MORXIXG And, pdintin^ to dull M()r|)Iu'U>, l»id> im- t;ik.- M\ own Apollo, li\ if I tan maUc His Lcllu- Ijr my HrlKon, and mt If Morplnus iiavc a Miisl' to uail on nu*. Iliiuf 'l is my lumihlr laiK\ lindh no u injL;^, No nimhlf raplurrs, starts lo hcavin and iMinK-^ I'aitluislastic Jiamiv. such as can t,M\r M.uiuw lo my f)Iunip f^cnius, make It llvi' Drcsst'd in the f^iorioiis madness ol a muse, \\ ho>t.' feet can walk th* milk\-uav and cllOOSJ' Her Starr) throne; whose huly h' lU < an warm The mra\f. and hokl u() an e.\aU< w .oin T(j lift me from my la/y urn, and climb L'pon the stooped shoidders ot old Timv-, And trace eternity. But all is dead, All these delicious hopes are buried In the deep wrinkles of his ani^ry brow. Where mercy cannot fmd them; but O thou Bright lady of the morn, pity doth lie So warm in thy soft breast, it cannot die; Have mercy, then, and when he next doth rise, O, meet the angry god, invade his eyes, TO TIJE MORXIXG And strokf liis r.icii.ml cliceks; on«^ timely kihs Will kill his anger, and iivi\c my bri^>. So to the treasure of thy pearly drw Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true My i;rief is; so my wakt tiij lay shall knock At the oriental j^ate>, and dul) mot k The early lark's shrill orisons to be An anthem at the day's nativity. And the same rosy-tinj^cred hand of thine, That shuts night's d}in^^ eyes shall open mine. liut liiou, faint j^od of sleep, forget that I Was ever known to be thy votary. No more my pillow shall thine altar b<', Nor will 1 olVer any more to thee M)self a melting sacritice; 1 ni born .\gain a fresh child of the buxom ninrn, Heir of the sun's tirst beams; why threat'st thou so? Why dost tlinii -Ii.ike tii\ le.Kl.-n sccplre? Go, Bestow thv j'"i'i'.^ upon w.iktiul \\u«-, Sickness and sorrow, whose pale lids ne'er know Thy downy linger dwell upon th«ir eyes; Shut in their tears, shut out their miseries. 191 Loves ^ ^ Horoscope Lovi', bra\f \'irtuc's youiim'r biutlui, Erst liatli m.idt' my luart a inolher. She consults the anxioub spheres, To calculate her youn^ son's years; She asks it' sad or savings powers Gave omen to his infant hours; She asks each star tliat then stood b} it" poor Love sliall live or die. Ah, my heart, is thai the way? Are these llie beams that rule thy day? Thou know'st a face in whose each look Beauty lays ope Love's fortune-book. On whose fair revolutions wait The obsequious motions of Love's fate. Ah, my heart! her eyes and she Have tauj3^ht thee new astrolog^y. Howe'er Love's native hours were set, Whatever starry synod met, 'T is in the mercy of her eye, If poor Love shall live or die. 192 LOVE'S HOROSCOPE If those sharp rays, puttirifj on Foiiils of death, bid Love bo g^one; Thouj4^h the heavens in council sat To crown an uncontrolled fate; Though their best aspects twined upon Thf kindest constellation, Cast amorous glances on his birth, And whispered the confederate earth To pave his paths with all the good That warms the bed of youth and blood: Love lias no plea against her eye; Beauty frowns, and Love must die. But it lu-r milder intluenct' move, And gild the hopes of humble Love; — Though heaven's inauspicious eye Lay black on Love's nativity; Though every diamond in Jove's crown Fixed his forehead to a frown; — Her eye a strong appeal can give. Beauty smiles, and Love shall live. O, if Love shall live, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear. In her breast, or in her breath. Shall I hide poor Love from death? For in the life aught else can give, Love shall die, although he live. (B126) 193 O Loi/rs HOROscori!: (3r. it I.ovc shall die, () vvliorc, But in luT eyr, ur in her ear, III lur hn-ath. or in hrr breast, Shall 1 build his funeral nest !' While I^ive shall thus entoniJx-d lie. Love shall live, althouj^h he die ! 194 On Mr. G. Herbert's Book KNTITLEO, 'the TRMTIK or SACRED IOKM>, ' SENT TO A (.fcN I LKWOMAN Know you, lair, on what you look? Dlvincst love lies in this book, ICxp«ctin}^ fire from your eyes, To kindle this his sacrifice. Wlun your hands untie thes«' strinfjs, Think you've an anj^e! by tli«' winu,^s: One that gladly will l)e ni^^di To wait ufK)n each inorninj^ sigh, To flutter in the balmy air Of your will perfumed prayer. These white plumes of his he Ml lend you, Which every day to heaven will send you, To take acquaintance of the sphere, .And all tin- smooth-faced kindred there. And thou4^h Herbert's name do owe These devotions, fairest, know That while 1 lay them on the slirine Of your white hand, thty are mine. 195 Wishes to his Supposed J^ ^ Mistress Whoe'er she be. That not inipobsible She That shall command mv heart and me: Where'er she lie, Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny: Till that ripe birth Of studied F"ate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth; Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine: Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called, my absent kisses. 196 WISHES I wish her beauty That owes not all its duty To g-audy tire, or glist'riii^ shoe-tie. Something- more than TalTata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm's toil, Or a bought blush, or a stn smile. A face that 's best By its own beauty drest, And can alone commend the rest. A cheek where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly rueth. A cheek where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being" owes. Lips where all day A lover's kiss may play. Vet carry nothing thence away. 197 WISHES Looks that oppress Their richest tires, hut dress And clothe their simi)le nakedness. I^iycs thai displace Their neit^hbour diamond, and outface That sunshine hy their own sweet f;;-race. Tresses tliat wear Jewels, but to declan- How much th< msclves more precious are; VV'hotee native ray Can tame the wanton day Of i^ems tiiat in iheir brii^lit shades play. Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear. Be its own blush, be its own tear. A well-tamed iieart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long- choosing a dart. Eyes that bestow Full quivers on love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe. Smiles that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall lake no harm. 198 JV/SlfES Blushes ihal bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aut^ht too hot within. Joys that confess, V^irtue their mistress, And ha\'e no other liead to dress. Fears fond and ^li^-hl As the coy bride's, when nii Of sweet discourse, u host- powers Can crown old winter's head with tlowers. Whate'er delii;hl Can make day's forehead brii^ht. Or ^ive down to the win^s of nit^fht. In her whole frame. Have Nature all the name, Art and ornament the shame. Her flattery, Picture and poesy. Her counsel her own virtue be. I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish no more. Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a i^arland of my vows; Her whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise; WISHES Her that dares be What these hnes wish to see; 1 sc^ek no further, it Is She. Tis She, and here. Lo! I unclothe and clear My wishes' cloudy character. May she enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it! Such worth as this is Shall fix my tlyin^ wishes, And determine them to kisses. Let her full ^lory, My fancies, tly before ye; Be ye my tactions :- -but her story Quern Vidistis Pastores, &c. A HVMN OF THE NATIVITY, SUNG BY THE SHEPHERDS JS^ Cho Come, we shepherds whose blest siik higher ; From this lo that. fri)m (hat to this, he Hies, Feels music's pulsr in all iitr arteries; Caught in a n«( whirli there Apollo spreads. His fmi^t-rs stru^-^lr wiiii th«- vocal ihrr.ids. h'oliowintj;^ tho^e litth- rills, he sinks into \ sea of Helicon ; his hand does ljo Those parts of sweetness \\ hi( h with nectar drop. Softer than that which panis in H«be'sciip: The humorous slrint^s e.\f)ound iiis hvirned touch I>\ \ariuus t^losses; now llu-v seem to .^^rutch And murmur in a buzzing^ din, then t^ingle in shrill-tont>ued accents, slriving^ to be single ; Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke, Gives life to some new g^race : thus doth he invoke Sweetness by all her names ; thus, bravely thus— 214 MUSIC'S DUEL I'Vauijlit wiili a fury s»i luirnumious — Tilt' lute's lii^lil (jt-nius nu\s dt)i-.s promlly rise, Heavt'd on llu- surt(«s of swoH'n i ha[>- sodifs, VVhos*^ nourish, inttror-Hk*-, dtttli turl tin- air With Hash of hif^h-born fanclt-s ; h^n* and ihci.' Dancing in lolly nu-asures, and anon Creeps on the soft lou( h of a tender lone, Whose trenihllnj^ nuirniurs, nn-ltint; in wild airs, Run to and fro, complainint^ his sweci ciires ; Because those precious nnsteries that dwell in music's ravished soul he dare n(»t tell, But whisput, had thy pale-faced purple took l-'lre from the hurnlnj^- ciu't-ks of that brijj-ht book. Thou wouldsl on her have heaped up all That could be found seraphical ; Whate'er this youth of fire wears fair, Rosy fingers, radiant hair, Glowing cheek, and glistVing wings, All those fair and flagrant things; But, before all, that fier}- dart Had filled the hand of this great heart. Do, then, as equal right requires, Since his the blushes be, and hers the fires, Resume and rectify thy rude design, Undress thy seraphim Into mine; Redeem this injury of thy art. Give him the veil, give her the dart. 218 THE FLAMING HEART Give him the veil, tlial he may cover The red clieeks of a rivalled lover, Ashamed that our world now can slion' Nests of new Seraphims here below. Give her the dart, for it is she, Fair youth, shoots both thy shaft and thee ; Say, all ye wise and v.dl-pierced iiearts That live and die amidst her darts, What is 't your tasteful spirits do prove In that rare life of her and love? Say and bear witness. Sends she not A seraphim at every shot? What mag^azines of immortal arms there shine ! Heav'n's j^reat artillery in each love-spun line ! Give, then, the dart to her who ^ives the flame, (jive him the veil who g^ives the shame. But if it be the frequent fate Of worst faults to be fortunate. If all 's prescription, and proud wrong Hearkens not to an humble song. For all the gallantry of him. Give me the suffVing seraphim. His be the bravery of those bright things, The glowing cheeks, tiie glistering wings. The rosy hand, the radiant dart ; Leave her alone ilie flaming he:irt. 219 THE FLAMING HEART Leave her that, and lliou shall leave her Not one loose shaft, but Love's whole quiver. For in Love's field was never found A nobler weapon than a wound. Love's passives are his activ'st part, The wounded is the wounding heart. O heart! the equal poise of Love's both parts, Big alike with wounds and darts, Live in these conquering leaves, live all the same, And walk through all tongues one trium- phant flame ! Live here, great heart, and love, and die, and kill. And bleed, and wound, and yield, and conquer still. Let this immortal Life, where'er it comes. Walk in the crowd of loves and martyr- doms. Let mystic deaths wait on 't, and wise souls be The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee. O sweet incendiary! show here thy art Upon this carcass of a hard, cold heart ; Let all thy scattered shafts of light, that play Among the leaves of thy large books of day, 220 THE FLAMING HEART ConibiiK-d af^^ainst this breast, at once break in And take away from me myself and sin; This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be, And my best fortunes sucii fair spoils of me. O thou undaunted dauj^hter of desires! By all thy dower of lights and tires, By all the eagle in thee, all the dove, By all thy lives and deaths of love. By thy large draughts of intellectual day. And by thy thirst of love more large than they ; By all thy brim-tilled bowls of tierce desire, By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire, By the full kingdom of that final kiss That seized thy parting soul, and sealed thee His ; By all the heav'ns thou hast in Him, Fair sister of the seraphim ! By all of Him we have in thee, Leave nothing of myself in me : Let me so read thy life that I Unto all life of mine may die. Abraham Cowley On the Death of j^ JS^ Mr. Crashaw Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given The two most sacred names of earth and heaven; The hard and rarest union which can be, Next that of Godhead with humanity. Long did the Muses banished slaves abide, And built vain pyramids to mortal pride; Like Moses, thou (though spells and charms withstand) Hast brought them nobly back home to their Holy Land. Ah, wretched we, poets of earth ! but thou Wert living the same poel which iliou'ri now. Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine, 223 ELEGY And join in an applause so great as thine, Equal society with them to hold, Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old. And they (kind spirits!) siiall all rejoice to see How little less than they exalted man mav be. Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell, The heaven liest thing on earth still keeps up hell. Nor have we yet quite purged the Christian land; Still idols here, like calves at Bethel, stand. And though Pan's death long since all oracles broke, Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke: Nay, with the worst of heathen dotage we (Vain men !) the monster woman deify; » Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face. And paradise in them, by whom we lost it, place. What different faults corrupt our Muses thus ! Wanton as girls, as old wives fabulous ! Thy spotless muse, like Mary, did con- tain 224 ELEGY The boundless Godhead; she did well dis- dain That her eternal verse employed should be On a less subject than eternity; And for a sacred mistress scorned to take But her whom God Himself scorned not His spouse to make. It (in a kind) her miracle did do; A fruitful mother was and virgin too. How well, blest swan, did Fate contrive thy death, And make thee retider up thy tunetul breath In thy great Mistress' arms, thou most divine And richest oft'ering of Loretto's shrine! Where, like some holy sacrifice to expire, A fever burns thee, and Ijve lights the fire. Angels (they say) brought the famed chapel there, And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air. 'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they And thou, their charge, went singing all the way. Hail, bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the poets militant below. ( B 126 ) 225 Q ELEGY (3ppu^t'd by uur old •■tuMiiv, .id\ersr chance, Attacked by envy and by i^iiorancf, Enchained by beauty, tortured by desires, Exposed by tyrant love to savaj^e beasts and Kires. Thou frojn low earth In nohhr llanics didst rise, And, like Elijah, inouni alive the skies. Elisha-like (but with a wish much less, More fit thy greatness and my littleness), Lo, here I beg (I, whom thou once didst pro\ e So humble to esteem, so good to love) Not that thy spirit might on me doubled be- I ask but half thy mighty spirit for nie; And when my muse soars with so strong a wing. Twill learn of things di\ine, and hrst of thee, to sing. 226 Hymn to j^ j^ the Light First-born ol" cliaus, who so fair didst come From ihf old N'('i;ru's darksome womb ! Which, when it saw ihi' lovely child, The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smiled ! Thou tide of i^lory which no rest dost know, But ever ebb and ever tlow ! Thou golden shower of a true Jove, Who does in thee descend, and Heaven to Karth make love ! Hail, active Nature's watchful life and health! Her ioy, her ornament, and wealth! Hail to thy husband, Heat, and thee! Thou the world's beauteous Bride, the lusty Bridegroom he. 227 HYMN TO THE LIGHT Say from what p^oldeii nuixrrs ol llie sky Do all tliy ui lifted arrows fly? Swifliu'ss and power by birth are thine: From I by preat Sire they came, thy Sire the Word di\ine. 'Tis. 1 beliexe, this arciicr) to show, That so much cost in colours thou And skill in painting dost bestow L'pon thy ancient arms, the t^audy heavenly bow. Swit"t as li^lil thoui^hts their empty career run, Thy race is finished when beg^un. Let a post-angel start with thee, And thou the goal of earth shalt reach as soon as he. Thou, in the moon's bright chariot proud and gay. Dost thy bright wood of stars survey; And all the year dost with thee bring Of thousand flowery lights thine ow n noc- turnal spring. 228 HYMX TO THE LIGHT Thou, Sc\ thlan-like, closl round ili\ lands above The sun's ^ili tent for iKl>t^ remove out of thy wav. Al ihy appearance, (irief itscH i> said To shake his \vinj.;s and rousr his liead: Aiul { loudy Care has often totdc A i^riUle ht'aniy >nillr, retli'iteii from thy look. At thy appearance, Fear itselt iji^rows bold'; Thy sunshine melts away his cold. Encoura£j«'d at the sig^ht ol" th«'e. To the cheek colour conies, and l"irnin»*SN to the knee. Even Lust, the master of a hardened face, Blushes, if thou be 'st in the place, To darkness' curtain he retires. In sympathisinii nio-ht he rolls liis smoky fires. 2^0 HYMN TO THE LIGHT When, j^otldi'sN, tlmu litV^i up lh\ wakent'd lit^ad Out of tlu- morning's purple uilI, riiy quire of bird^ about thee play, And all tin joyful world salutes tin* rislut; dav. 'I'he j>llOSts and nmn^i' i - pn n^ iii.il presume A IhkIv's pri\ilej^e to assuiuf. Vanish a^ain in\isil)ly, And Ixxlies j^ain aj^Min their visibility. All the world's bravery that delij^hls our eyes Is but lln se\eral liv unkindly here, Thy end lor ever, and my life to moan? O thou hast left me all alone! Thy .soul and body when death's agony Besieged .uound thy noble heart, Did not with more reluctance part Than 1, my dearest friend, do part from thee. 237 ON THE DEATH OF My dearest triend, would 1 he\d died for thee! Life and this world henceforth will tedious be. Nor shall I know hereafter what to do If once my griefs prove tedious too. Silent and sad I walk about all day, As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by Where their hid treasures lie; Alas, my treasure 's gone — why do I stay? He was my friend, the truest friend on earth ; A strong and mighty influence joined our birth. Nor did we envy the most sounding name By friendship given of old to fame. None but his brethren he and sisters knew Whom the kind youth preferred to me; And even in that we did agree, For much above myself I loved them too. Say, for you saw us, you immortal lights, Hovv' oft unwearied we have spent the nights, Til! the Ledccan stars, so famed for love, Wondered at us from above. 238 MR, WILLIAM HERVEY We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine; But search of deep philosophy, Wit, eloquence, and poetry; Arts which I loved, for they, my friend, were thine. Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cam- bridge, say. Have ye not seen us walking every day? Was there a tree about which did not know The love betwixt us two? Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade; Or your sad branches thicker join, And into darksome shades combine. Dark as the g^rave wherein my friend is laid. Henceforth no learned youths beneath you sing-, Till all the tuneful birds to your boug^hs they bring; No tuneful birds play with their wonted cheer And call the learned youths to hear; No whistling- winds through the glad branches fly; But all, with sad solemnity Mute and unmoved be. Mute as the grave wherein mv friend does lie. 239 ON THE DEATII OF To him my mu>c made ha^,le uitli pvi-ry strain Whilst it was lu-w and warm yet from the brain. He loved my wortiikss ihynu.s, and like a friend Would find t)ut sonnthlni; to commend. Hence now, my muNe, ihou canst not mc delight; Be this my latest verse With which I now adorn his luarse, And this my grief without thy help shall write. Had I a wreath of bays about my brow, 1 could contemn that flourishing honour now, Condemn it to the fire, and joy to hear It rage and crackle there. Instead of bays, crown with sad cypress me, Cypress which tombs does beautify. Not Phcebus grieved so much as I For him who first was made that mourn- ful tree. Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er Submitted to inform a body he-'e; High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have, But low and humble as his grave; 240 MR. WILLIAM HERVEY So high that all the \ u lues tluTc did come, As to the chiefest seat, Conspicuous and great; So low that for me too il madi- a room. He scorned this busy world below, and all That we, mistaken mortals, pleasure call; Was filled with innocent gaiety and truth, Triumphant o'er the sins of youth. He, like the stars to which he now is gone. That shine with beams like llame. Yet burn not with the same, Had all the lights of youth, of the fire none. Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught. As if for him knowledge had rather sought. Nor did more learning ever crowded lie In such a short mortality. Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ, Still did the notions throng About his eloquent tongue, Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. So strong a wit did nature to him frame. As all things but his judgment overcame; { B 1 26 ) 24 r H ON THE DEATH OF His JLidgmeiit like the heavenly moon did show, Tempering- that mig-hty sea below. O had he lived in learning-'s world, what bound Would have been able to control His overpowering soul? We have lost in him arts that not yet are found. His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, Yet never did his God or friends for- get. And when deep talk and wisdom came in view. Retired and gave to them their due. For the rich help of books he always took, Though his own searching mind before Was so with notions written o'er As if wise nature had made that her book. So many virtues joined in him, as we Can scarce pick here and there in his- tory; More than old writers' practice e'er could reach. As much as they could ever teach. 242 MR. WILLIAM HERVEY These did relig^ion, Queen of virtues sway And all their sacred motions steer Just like the first and highest sphere Which wheels about, and turns all heav'n one way. With as much zeal, devotion, piety. He always lived, as other saints do die. Still with his severe account he kept, Weeping all debts out ere he slept; Then down in peace and innocence he lay, Like the sun's laborious light. Which still in water sets at night. Unsullied with his journey of the day. Wondrous young man, why wert thou made so good, To be snatched hence ere better understood? Snatched before half enough of thee was seen! Thou ripe, and yet thy life but green! Nor could thy friends take their last sad farewell. But danger and infectious death Maliciously seized on that breath Where life, spirit, pleasure always used to dwell. But happy thou, ta'en from this frantic age. Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage! 243 MR. WILLIAM HERVEY A fitter time im- lieiu'ii w^ soul f'er chose, The place now only free from ihose. There 'mong the blest thou dost for ever shine, And wheresoe'er thou cast'st thy view Upon that white and radiant crew. See'st not a soul clothed with more lii^ht than thine. And if the g^iorious saints cease not to know Their wrctciied friends who flight uiih life below; Thy rtame to me does still the same abide, Only more pure and rarefied. There whilst immortal hymns thou dost rehearse, Thou dost with holy pity see Our dull and earthly poesic, Where j^rief and misery can be joined with verse. 244 For Hope J^ -^ Hope, of all Ills tliat men endure The only cheap and universal cure ! Thou captive's freedom and thou sick man's health ! Thou lover's victory, and thou be^t,rar's wealth ! Thou manna, which from heaven we eat. To every taste a several meat. Thou strong retreat! thou sure entailed estate Which nought has power to alienate! Thou pleasant, honest flatterer! for none Flatter unhappy men, but thou alone. Hope, thou first-fruits of happiness ! Thou gentle dawning of a bright success! Thou good preparative, without which our joy Does work too strong, and whilst it cures, destroy; Who out of fortune's reach dost stand, And art a blessing still in hand ! 245 FOR HOPE Whilst llu'c, luT cariU'sl-niDuev, we n'tain, We certain are to i;ain, Whether she her bargain hicaU, or clsr, fulfil; Thou onI\- t;ood, not worse for ending ill. IJrolhcr of failh, 'iwixl whom and thee The joys of hea\ en and earth divided be ! Though failh be heir, and have the tirst estate, Thy portion yet in moveables is jLj^reat. Happiness itself 's all one In thee, or in possession! Only the future's thine, the present his! Thine 's the mon- hard and noble bliss; Best apprehender of our joys, which hast So long a reach, and vet canst hold so fast ! Hope, thou sad lovers' only friend ! Thou way which may'st dispute it with the end ! For love I fear's a fruit that does delight The taste itself less than the smell and sight. Fruition more deceitful is Than thou canst be, when thou dost miss ; 246 FOR HOPE Men leave thee by ohuiIninj<-, and stiaigln flee Some other way a^ain to thee; And that 's a pleasant country, without doubt, To which all soon nturn that travel out. 347 On Orinda's ^ ^ Poems We allowed you beauty, and we did submit To all the tyrannies of it; Ah! cruel sex, will you depose us too in wit? # Orinda does in that too reign. Does man behind her in proud triumph draw, And cancel great Apollo's Salic law. We our old title plead in vain, Man may be head, but woman 's now the brain. Verse was Love's fire-arms heretofore, In Beauty's camp it was not known. Too many arms besides that Conqueror bore: 'Twas the great cannon we brought down To assault a stubborn town; Orinda first did a bold sally make, Our strongest quarter take. And so successful proved, that she Turned upon Love itself his own artillery. 248 ON ORINDA'S POEMS Thou dost my wonder, wouldsl my envy raise If to be praised 1 loved more llian to praise Where'er 1 see an excellence; I must admire to see thy well-knit sense, Thy numbers gentle and thy fancies hiirh, Those as thy forehead smooth, these spark- ling as thine eye. 'Tis solid, and 'tis manly all, Or rather 'tis angelical, For, as in angels we Do in thy verses see Both improved sexes eminently meet, They are than man more strong, and more than woman sweet. They talk of Nine, I know not who— Female Chimeras, that o'er poets reign. 1 ne'er could find their fancy true. But have invoked them oft I 'm sure in vain ! They talk of Sappho, but alas the sluur.e ! Ill manners soil the lustre of her fame. Orinda's inward virtue is so bright That like a lanthorn's fair enclosed light, It through the paper shines where she doth write. Honour, and friendship, and the generous scorn aAQ ON GRIND A' S POEMS Of tliltiL^s tor which we wore not lioni (Things that can only by a fond disease, Likf^ that of girls our vicious stomachs [di'ast'l. Are the instructive subjects of lier pen; And as the Roman victory Taught our rude land arts and civility, At once she overcomes, cnslaveb, and betters man. But Roni<' with all her arts could ne'er inspire A female breast with such a tire. The warlike .Amazonian train Who in Elysium now do peaceful reign, And Wit's mild empire before Arms prefer, Hope 't will be settled in her sex by her. Merlin the seer (and sure he would not He In such a sacred company) Does prophecies of learn 'd Orinda show, Which he had darkly spoke so long ago; Even Boadicea's angry ghost Forgets her own misfortune and disgrace, And to her injured daughters now does boast That Rome o'crcome at last, by a woman of her race. Richard Lovelace To Lucasta on going X.Q JS^ J^ the Wars Tell nie not, Sweet, I am unkliui, Thai from the nunnery Of thy ciiaste breast and qulit mind To war and arms 1 fly. True; a now mistress now 1 chase, The first foe in the field; Antl with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a lior>^»\ a shi«'M. Yet this inconstancy is such As thou, too, shalt adore; I could not love thee, dear, so mucli Loved 1 not honour more. To Amarantha THAT SIIK WOUI.U DISHEVI I I IKK HAIR Aniauuitlui, sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair! As my curious hand or eye Hoverin.t^ round tliee, let it tly. Let it fly as uncon fined As its calm ravisher the wind. Who hath left his darling", th' east. To wanton in that spicy nest. Every tress must be confessed; But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently rav(^lled. Do not, then, wind up that light In ribands, and o'er cloud in night, Like the sun in 's early ray; But shake vour head and scatter day 252 Lucasta J'AM.NO HEk OUsKlJUIES TO THE CHASTE MKMOKY OF MY DEAREST COUSIN, MRS. BOWES BARNE See wliat an undisliirbtcl tear She weeps for her last sleep! But viewing lier, straij^ht waked, a star, She weeps that she did weep. (irief ne'er before did tyrannise On the honour of that brow, And at tlie wheels of her brave eyes Was captive led, till now. Thus for a saint's apostasy, The uniniaf^ined woes And sorrows of the hierarchy None but an ani^-el knows. Thus for lost soul's recover}', The clappinijf of the wing-s And triumph of this victory None but an ant(el sings. 253 LUC A ST A So noiu- hut •*<\v kno\v> to Ix'ino.m This tqual virgin'^ lali-; None hul Luc;ist.i can //<•/' crown Ol' jL^lorv (-••!. -hratr. Thfii dart on nir, (haste Li^'ht, one ra; r>y wli'u h I ina\ cii^cn Thy joy clear ihroii-h this cloudy day To dress niy sorrow hy. 254 To Althea, ^ ^ from Prison W'ht-n Iov(* with uiKoiilim J winj^^s IIov«rs williin my gates, Aiul m\ divine Althea hrinj^s To whisper at the j^ratis; W'hrii 1 He taiij^led in hrr liair And fettered to lier eye; The birds that wanton in the air Know no such hhtrty. W'hi'ii llowing cu|)> run swiftly roun J W'itli no alhiyinj^ Thames, ( >ur careless lieads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty j^rief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such libert}*. Winn (like committed linnets) 1 With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty And glories of my King; -55 TO ALTIIEA, FROM PRISON W lit'ii I .sli.ill voice aloud how ^ood He is, how f^real should be, Enlart^ed winds tliat curl llie Hood Know no such hbrri\ . Sloiie walls do nol a prison in. ike Nor iron bars a caj,'e; Minds innoceni and t|uiei take Tlial for an herniitaj^e. If 1 have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar abov<- Knjoy such liberty. 20 A guiltless Lady imprisoned: JZ^ ^ after Penanced Hark, fair one, how whairVr hero is Doth lau^h and hin^ Ht thy distress, Not out of hate to thy relief, But joy -to enjoy thee, though in griel. See! that which chains you, you chain here, The prison is thy prisoner; How much ihv jailer's keeper art! He binds thy hands, but thou his heart. The gyves to rase so smooth a skin Are so unto themselves within; But, blest to kiss so fair an arm, Haste to be happy with that li:.rm; And play about thy wanton wrist. As if in them thou so wert dressed; But if too rough, too hard they press, O they but closely, closely kiss. { B 136 ) 237 ^ A LADY IMPRISONED And as lliy ban* feet bless the way, The people do not mock, but pray, And call thee, as amazed they run, Instead of prostitute, a nun. The merry torch burns wltii desire To kindle the eternal fire,' And lii^htly dances in thine eyes To tunes of epithalamics. The sheet tied ever to thy waist, How thankful to be so embraced! And see! thy very, very bands Are bound to thee to bind such hands. 1 Kvideiilly of love. 258 The Rose Sweet, serene, sky-likt- flower, Haste to adorn the bower; From thy lont^ cloudy bed, Shoot forth thy damask liead. New-startled blush of Flora, The t^rief of pale Aurora (Who will contest no more). Haste, haste to strew her floor! Vermilion ball that 's j^lven From lip to lip in Heaven; Love's couch's coverled, Haste, haste to make her bed. Dear offspring of pleased Venus And jolly, plump Silenus, Haste, haste to deck the hair Of the only sweetly fair! See ! rosy is her bower, Her floor is all this flower, 259 THE ROSE Her brd a rosy nest By a btd of roses pressed. But t-arly as she dresses, Why fly you her bright tresses? Ah ! I have found, T fear, — Because her cheeks are near. e6o The j^ j^ Grasshopper O thou ihat swing'st upon the wav'uii,^ ha\r Of some well-tilled oaten beard, Drunk every ni^hl with a delicious tear Dropped thee from heaven where thou wert reared ! The joys of earth and air are thlnr entire, That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly; And when thy poppy works thou dosl retire To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. Up with the day, tin- sun thou wt-lcom'st then, Sport'st in the gih plaits of his beams, And all these merry days mak'st merry men, Thvself, and melancholy streams. 261 Andrew Mar veil A Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's ^ Return from Ireland The forward youlli that would apix-ar Must now forsake his musis dear, Nor in the shadows sin.e: His numbers languishing . 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armour's rust, Removing from the wall The corselet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But throui^^h adventurous war Ur^ed his active star; And, like the three-forked lightning, tirst Breaking the clouds where it was nursl, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide; 203 CROMWELL S RETURN (For 't is all one to courai^c hi^h, The emulous, or enoniv, And with such to enclose Is more than to oppose;) Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent; And Ca'sar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. 'T is madness to resist or blame The force of angry Heaven's flame; And if we would speak trut-, Much to the man is due, Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reserved and austere, As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot, Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of Time, And cast the kingdoms old Into another mould. Though Justice against Fate complain And plead the ancient rights in vain (But those do hold or break, As men are strong or weak), Nature, that haleth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come. What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? 264 FROM IRELAND And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art; Where, twining' subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook's narrow case, That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn, While round the armed bands Did clap their bloody hands; He nothing com.mon did, or mean, Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try; Nor called the gods with vulgar spite To vindicate his helpless right. But bowed his comely head Down, as upon a bed. This was that memorable hour, Which first assured the forced power; So, when they did design The Capitol's first line, A bleeding head, where they begun. Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate. And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed; So much one man can do, That does both act and know. 265 CROMWELL'S RETURN They can affirm his praises best, And have, thou.erh overcome, confessed How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust; Nor yet grown stifter with comniMnd, But still in the republic's hand (How fit he is to sway, That can so well obey!) He to the Common's feet presents A kingdom for his first year's rents; And, what he may, forbears His fame, to make ft theirs; And has his sword and spoil ungirt, To lay them at the Public skirt. So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky. She, having killed, no more doth search, But on the next green bough to perch; Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure. What may not then our isle presume, WHiile victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear, If thus he crovv^s each year? As CfEsar, he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy a Hanibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be. The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his parti-coloured mind, 266 FROM IRELAND But, from his valour sad, Shrink underneath the plaid; TIappy, if in [he tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in nerir The Caledonian deer. But thou, the war's and fortune's son, March indefatigably on. And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect; Beside the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain 267 The Picture of little T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers j^ j^ See with what simplicity This nyn-«ph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them nanii's; But only with the roses plays, And them does tell What colours best become them, and what smell. Who can foretell for what high cause This darling of the gods was born? Yet this is she whose chaster laws The wanton Love shall one day fear, And, under her command severe, See his bow broke, and ensigns torn. Happy who can Appease this virtuous enemy of man ! 268 A PICTURE O then let me in tinir compound And parley with tliose conquerinp;^ eyes, Ere they have tried tlieir force to wound; Kre with their ghmcing- wheels they drive In triumph over hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise: Let me be laid, W'liere 1 may see thy glories from some shade. Meantime, whilst every verdant thin^ Itself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the Spring; Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeinj^ they are fair. And roses of their thorns disarm; But most procure That violets ma) a longer age endure. I3ut O young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers. Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora, angry at thy crime To kill her infants in their prime, Should quickly make the example yours; .\nd, ere we see, Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes in thee. The Nymph Complaining ^^ j^ j^ the Death of her Fawn The wanton trooper?, ridinir by Plave shot niy fawn, and it will dit. Ung^entle men ! they cannot thrive Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, Them any harm, alas ! nor could Thy death yet ever do them g^ood. I 'm sure I never wished them ill, Nor do I for all this, nor will. But if my simple prayers may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But O my fears ! It cannot die so. Heaven's King- Keeps register of everything, And nothing may we use in vain; Even beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands. Though they should wash their guilty hands 270 NYMPH AND FAWN 111 th'u^ warm lile-blood which doth pari From thine, and wound me to llic heart, Yet could they not be clean, their stain Is dyed in such a purple g^rain. There is not such another in The world, to offer for their sin. Inconstant Sylvio, when yet 1 had not found him counterfeit, One morning (I renumber well). Tied in this silver chain and bell. Gave it to me; nay, and 1 know What he said then, 1 'm sure 1 do: Said he, " Ix)ok how your huntsman here Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer!" But Sylvio soon had me beguiled; This waxed tame while he grew wild, And quite regardless of my smart Left me his fawn, but took my heart. Thenceforth 1 set myself to play My solitary time away With this; and, very well content. Could so mine idle life have spent; For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game; it seemed to bless Itself in me; how could 1 less Than love it? O, I cannot be Unkind to a beast that loveth me! 271 NYMPH AND FA WN Had it Used I<)^^^ I d(j not know VVliclhtr il too niijj^ht havr done so As Sylvio did; his ^x^is might be Perhaps as false, or more, tluin he. But I am sure, for aught that 1 Could in so short a time espy, Tliy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man. With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at my own fingers nursed; And as it grew, so every day It waxed more white and sweet than they— It had so sweet a breath! and oft I blushed to see its foot more soft And white- shall I say? — than my hand. Nay, any lady's of the land! It is a wondrous thing how tieet 'T was on those little silver feet: With what a pretty skipping grace it oft would challenge me the race: — And \\ hen 't had left me far away T would stay, and run again, and stay; For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown And lilies, that you would it guess 27^ NYMPH AND FAWN To be a little wilderness: And all the spring^-time ol" the year It only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie; Yet could not, till itself would rise. Find it, although before mine eyes. For in the flaxen lilies' shade It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed. Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed, And then to me 'twould boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to till, And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold: - Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without — roses within. help! O help! I see it faint And die as calmly as a saint! See how it weeps! the tears do come Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. So weeps the wounded balsam; so The holy frankincense doth flow; The brotherless Heliades Melt in such amber tears as these. 1 in a golden vial will Keep these two cr}'stal tears, and fill ( B 126 ) 273 T NYMPH AND FAWN It, till it (li)tli Dcillow, wiili mine, Then place il in Diana's slirine. Now my sweet fawn is vanished to V\ liither the swans and turtles go; In fair Klysiiiin to endure With milk-white lambs and ermines purr O, do not run too fast, for I Will but bespeak thy ^'rave, and die. First my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble; and withal Let it be weeping too; but thtn- The engraver sure his art may s[)are; For I so truly thee bemoan That I shall weep thout^h I be stone, Until my tears, still droppini^, wear My breast, themselves enf^'raving there; Then at my feet shalt thou be laid, Of purest alabaster made; For I would have thine image be White as 1 can, though not as thee. 374 Hopeless Love J^ J^ My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by despair Upon impossibility. Magnanimous despair alone Could show me so divine a thing, Where feeble hope could ne'er have flown But vainly flapped its tinsel wing. And yet I quickly might arrive Where my extended soul is fixed; But fate does iron wedges drive. And always crowds itself betwixt. For fate with jealous eyes does see Two perfect loves, nor lets them close; Their union would her ruin be. And her tyrannic power depose. And therefore her decrees of steel Us as the distant poles have placed 275 HOPELESS LOVE (Tliougli Lovt's whole wotUi oil us cloth Not by th'Miisrlvos to he cinbracrd, I'nlrss ihf i^idtly luavcii fall. And earth bonie new coiivul>iuii U .u , And, us to join, the world should all Be eramped into a planisphere. As lilies, so loves oblique may well Themselves in every an^le j^reet; But ours, so truly parallel, Thouj^h infinite, can never meet. Therefore the love which us doth bind, But fate so enviously debars. Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars. 276 The Garden TRANSLATED OUT OK HIS OWN LATIN How vainly mtii themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labours see Crowned from some sinjjle herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the Howers and trees do close To weave the g^arlands of Repose, Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men: Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow: Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name: 277 THE GARDEN Lillle, alas, tliey know oi lu't'd How far ihesc beauties her exceed! Fair trees! wheres'e'r your barks 1 wound, No name shall, but your own, he found. When we have run our passions' heat Love hillier makes his best retreat; The K^ods, who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race; Apollo hunted Daphn«* so Only that she mit^hl laurel i^row; And I'an did after Syrinx sp-ed Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling- on melons, as I pass. Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, F'ar other worlds and other seas; THE GARDEN Annihlhuliii^- all llial 's made To a j^Tfon ihou^lu in a jj^reen shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting- the hody's vest aside My soul into the boughs docs glide; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that iuippy Garden-state While man there walked without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 't were in one. To live in Paradise alone. How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs tiiis dial new! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run: And, as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers? 279 The Fair ^ ^ Singer To makr a final coiujufst of all inc, Love did compose bO swftM an fiu'my. In whom both beauties to my death a^ree, Joinint,'- themselves in fatal harmony, That, while she with her eyes my heart does bind, She with her voice mi^^ht captivate my mind. I could have fled from one but singly fair; My disentang^led soul itself mij^hl save. Breaking the curled trammels of her hair; But how should 1 avoid to be her slave, Whose subtle art invisibly can wreath My fetters of the very air I breathe? It had been easy fighting in some plain, Where victory might hang in equal choice, But all resistance against her is vain W^ho has the advantage both of eyes and voice, And all my forces needs must be undone She having gained both the wind and sun. a8o The Mower ^ ^ against Gardens Luxurious man, to brin^ liis vice in use, Did after him the world seduce. And from the fields the tlowers and plants allure, Where nature was most plain and pure. He first inclosed within the garden's square A dead and standing- pool of air. And a more luscious earth from them did knead, . Which stupefied them while it ted. The pink grew then as double as his mind; The nutriment did change the kind. With strange perfumes he did the roses laint ; And flowers themselves were taught to paint. The tulip white did for complexion seek, And learnt to interline its cheek ; Its onion root they then so high did hold. That one was for a meadow sold : Another world was searched through oceans new To find the mar^•el of Peru, 281 AGAINST GARDENS And yet these rarities inli;lu bo allowed To man, that sovereii;n \W\n^ and proud, Had he not dealt between the bark and tree Forbidden mixtures there to sec. No plant now knew the stock from whence it came ; He grafts upon the wild the tame, That the uncertain and adulterate fruit Might put the palate in dispute. His green seraglio has its eunuchs too, Lest any tyrant him undo, And in the cherr}' he does nature vex To procreate without a sex. 'TIs all enforced, the fountain and the grot, While the sweet fields do lie forgot. Where willing nature does to all dispense A wild and fragrant innocence, And fauns and fairies do the meadows till More by their presence than their skill. Their statues, polished by some ancient hand, May to adorn the garden stand. But, howsoeVr the figures do excel, The gods themselves with us do dwell. 282 An Epitaph /^ ^ Enough; and leave the rest to fame; 'Tis to commend her, but to name. Courtship which, living, she declined, When dead to offer were unkind. Where never any could speak ill, Who would officious praises spill? Nor can the truest wit, or friend. Without detracting, her commend; To say she lived a virgin chaste. In this age loose and all unlaced. Nor was, when vice is so allowed, Of virtue or ashamed or proud ; That her soul was on heaven so bent No minute but it came and went; That, ready her last debt to pay, She summed her life up every day; Modest as morn, as noonday bright. Gentle as evening, cool as night: — 'Tis true; but all too weakly said; 'Tis more significant, she's dead. 281 The Coronet j^ j^ WIuMi with the thorns with which I lonj^, loo \o\\)^. With many a piercini;^ wound, My Saviour's head have crowned, 1 seek with garhmds to redress that wrong, — Through ever}' garland, every mead, I gatlier flowers (my fruits are only flowers) Dismantling all the fragrant towers That onc^ adorned my shepherdess's head; And now when I have summed up all my store. Thinking (so I myself deceive) So rich a chaplet thence to weave As never yet the King of Glory wore, Alas! I find the Serpent old. Twining in his speckled breast, About the flowers himself does fold. With wreaths of fame and interest. Ah, foolish man that would'st debase with them, And mortal glory, Heaven's diadem ! 284 THE CORONET But Thuu who only could'bt ihc Serpent tame, Either his slippery knots at once untie, And disentangle all his winding snare, Or shelter too with him my curious frame, And let these wither so that he may die. Though set with skill and chosen out with care, That they, while Thou on both our spoils dost tread, May crown Thy feet that could not crown Thy head. As Henry Vaughan The Dawning J^ j^ Ah! what time wilt Thou come? When shall that cry, "The Bridegroom 's cominj^!" fill the sky? Shall it in the evening run, When our words and works are done? Or will Thy all-surprising light Break at midnight. When either sleep or some dark pleasure Possesseth mad man without measure? Or shall these early, fragrant hours Unlock Thy bowers? And with their blush of light descry Thy locks crowned with eternity? Indeed it is the only time That with Thy glory best doth chime : All now are stirring, every field Full hymns doth yield; The whole creation shakes off night, And for Thy shadow looks the light; 287 THE DAWNING Stars now \anish without luiinber, Sleepy planets set and slutnber, The pursy clouds disband and scatter, All expect some sudden matter; Not one beam triumphs, but from far That morning- star. O at what time soever Thou, Unknown to us, the heavens wilt bow, And, with Thy angels in the van, Descend to judge poor careless man. Grant I may not like puddle lie In a corrupt security, Where, if a traveller water crave, He finds it dead, and in a grave; But as this restless vocal spring All day and night doth run and sing, And, though here born, yet is acquainted Elsewhere, and flowing keeps untainted; So let me all my busy age In Thy free services engage; And though — while here — of force I must Have commerce sometimes with poor dust, And in my flesh, though vile and low, As this doth in her channel flow. Yet let my course, my aim, my love, And chief acquaintance be above ; So when that day and hour shall come, In which Thy Self will be the sun. Thou 'It find me dressed and on my way, Watching the break of Thy great day. 288 Childhood j^ j^ I cannot reach it ; and my striving eye Dazzles at it, as at eternity. Were now that chronicle alive, Those white designs which children drive, And the thoughts of each harmless hour, With their content too in my power, Quickly would I make my path even, And by mere playing go to heaven. Why should men love A wolf, more than a lamb or dove? Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams Before bright stars and God's own beams? W^ho kisseth thorns will hurt his face, But flowers do both refresh and grace; And sweetly living — fie on men ! — Are, when dead, medicinal then ; If seeing much should make staid eyes. And long experience should make wise; Since all that age doth teach is ill, Why should I not love childhood still? ( B 126 ) 289 U CHILDHOOD Why, if 1 si^e a rock or shelf, Shall I from thence cast down myself? Or by complying with the world, From the same precipice be hurled? Those observations are but foul, Which make me wise to lose my soul. And yet the practice worldlings call Business, and weighty action all, Checking the poor child for his play, But gravely cast themselves away. Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span Where weeping Virtue parts with man ; Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends. An age of mysteries ! which he Must live twice that would God's face see; Which angels guard, and with it play; Angels ! which foul men drive away. How do I study now, and scan Thee more than e'er I studied man, And only see through a long night Thy edges and thy bordering light ! O for thy centre and mid-day ! For sure that is the narrow wav! 290 Corruption j^ j^ Sure it was so. iMan in those early days Was not all stone and earth ; He shined a little, and by those weak rays Had some glimpse of his birth. He saw heaven o'er his head, and knew from whence He came, condemned, hither; And, as first-love draws strongest, so from hence His mind sure progressed thither. Things here were strange unto him ; sweat and till ; All was a thorn or weed ; Nor did those last, but — like himself — died still As soon as they did seed ; They seemed to quarrel with him ; for that act, That fell him, foiled them all; He drew the curse upon the world, and cracked The whole frame with his fall. This made him long for home, as loth to stay With murmurers and foes ; 291 CORRUPTION He sighed for Eden, and uould often say, "Ah! what bright days were those!" Nor was heaven cold unto him ; for eacli day The valley or the mountain Afforded visits, and still Paradise lay In some green shade or fountain. Angels lay leaguer here; each bush, and cell. Each oak and highway knew them : Walk but the fields, or sit down at some well. And he was sure to view them. Almighty Love! where art Thou now? mad man Sits down and freezeth on ; He raves, and swears to stir nor fire, nor fan. But bids the thread be spun. 1 see Thy curtains are close-drawn ; Thy bow Looks dim, too, in the cloud; Sin triumphs still, and man is sunk below The centre, and his sliroud. All 's in deep sleep and night : thick dark- ness lies And hatcheth o'er Thy people - But hark! what trumpet's that? what angel cries "Arise! thrust in Thy sickle"? 292 The Night 4^ J^ Through that pure virghi shrine, That sacred veil drawn o'er Thy glorious noon, That men might look and live, as glow- worms shine, And face the moon : Wise Nicodemus saw such light As made him know his God by night. Most blest believer he! Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes Thy long-expected healing wings could see When Thou didst rise! And, what can never more be done. Did at midnight speak with the Sun ! O, who will tell me where He found Thee at that dead and silent hour? What hallowed solitary ground did bear So rare a flower, Within whose sacred leaves did lie The fulness of the Deity? 293 THE NIGHT No mercy-seat of gold, No dead and dusty cherub nor carved stone, But His own living- works did my Lord hold And lodge alone; Where trees and herbs did watch, and peep, And wonder, while the Jews did sleep. Dear night ! this world's defeat ; The stop to busy fools; care's check and curb ; The day of spirits ; my soul's calm retreat Which none disturb ! Christ's progress, and his prayer- time ; The hours to wliich high Heaven doth chime. God's silent, searching flight ; When my Lord's head is filled with dew, and all His locks are wet w^ith the clear drops of night ; His still, soft call ; His knocking-time ; the soul's dumb watch, When spirits their fair kindred catch. 294 THE NIGHT Were my loud, evil days Calm and unhaunted as in thy dark tent, Whose peace but by some angel's winj^ or voice Is seldom rent ; Then I in heaven all the long year Would keep, and never wander here. But living where the sun Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire Themselves and others, I consent and run To every mire ; And by this world's ill-guiding light, Err more than I can do by night. There is in God — some say — A deep but dazzling darkness ; as men here Say it is late and dusky, because they See not all clear. O for that night ! where 1 in Him Might live invisible and dim ! 295 The Eclipse J^ J^ Whither, O whither didst Thou fly, When I did grieve Thine holy eye? When Thou didst mourn to see me lost, And all Thy care and counsels crossed? O do not grieve, where'er Thou art ! Thy grief is an undoing smart, Which doth not only pain, but break My heart, and makes me blush to speak. Thy anger I could kiss, and will ; But O Thy grief. Thy grief, doth kill ! 296 The Retreat J^ ^ Happy those early days when I Shine'd in my angel infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy ought But a white, celestial thought; When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first love, And looking back, at that short space. Could see a glimpse of his bright face ; When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before 1 taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense; But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track! 297 THE RETREAT That I might once more reach tliat plain Where first I left my j^Iorious train ; From whence the enlij^htened spirit sees That shady city of palm-trees. But ah ! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way ! Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move; And, when this dust falls to the urn. In that state I came, return. 298 The World ^ ^ of Light -^ ^ They are all gone into llie world of light, And I alone sit lingering here; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest, After the sun's remove. 1 see them walking in an air of glory. Whose light doth trample on my days : My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmerings and decays. O holy Hope! and high Humility, High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have shewed them me, To kindle my cold love. 299 THE WORLD OF LIGHT Dear, beauteous Death ! llie jewel of the just, Shining no where, but In the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark! He that hath fuuiul some tledj^t'd bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul, when man doth sleep: So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep. If a star were confined into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there ; But when the hand that locked her up gives room, She '11 shine through all the sphere. O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee! 300 THE WORLD OF LIGHT Resume Thy spirit from thi^ uorld of thrall ' Into tnio liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass; Or else remove me hence unto that hill Where I shall need no glass. 301 Sweet Peace j^ j^ My soul, there is a country Far beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry All skilful in the wars. There, above noise and danger, Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is tiiy gracious Friend, And — O my soul, awake! — Did in pure love descend To die here for thy sake. If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flower of Peace, The rose that cannot wither, Thy fortress and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure But One who never changes — Thy God, thy life, thy cure. 302 The Timber J^ ^ Sure, thuu didst flourish once I and many springs, Many briglit mornings, much dew, many showers Passed o'er thy head ; many light hearts and wings. Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers. And still a new succession sings and flies; Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring skies, While the low violet thrives at their root. But thou beneath the sad and heavy line Of death dost waste, all senseless, cold, and dark ; Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark. 303 THE TIMBER And yet,— as it iomt deep hate and dissent, Bred in thy growth betwixt liigh winds and thee, Were still alive — tliou dost great storms resent Before thtv come, and kno\\ 'st how near they be. P^lse all at rest thou liest, and the tierce breath Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease ; But this thy strange resentment after death Means only those who brokt — in life — thy peace. 304 John Dryden Ode TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED ^^ YOUNG LADY, MRS. ANNE ^^ ^^ KILLIGREW, EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER ARTS OK POESY AND PATNTING Thou youngest virgin - daughter of the skies, Made in the labt promotion of the blest; Whose palms, new-plucked from paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green, above the rest: Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star, Thou roll'st above us in thy wandering race. Or in procession fixed and regular Moved with the heaven's majestic pace, Or called to more superior bliss, { B 126 ) 305 ^ ODE TO Tliou trrad'st with >rraphiins the vast abyss : Whatever happy region be thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since heaven's eternal yrar is liiiiu-. Hear, then, a mortal must* thy praise re- hearse. In no ignoble verse, But such as thy own voire did practise here, When thy first-fruits of poesy were given To make thyself a welcome inmate there; While yet a young probationer And candidate of heaven. if by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfused into thy blood: So wert thou born into the tuneful strain (An early, rich and inexhausted vein). But if thy pre-existing soul Was formed at first with myriads more. It did through all the mighty poets roll Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. 306 MRS. ANNE KILLIGREW If so, tluri cease thy fli.^'ht, () hea\ en- born mind! Tliou hast no dross to purine from tliy ricli ore ; Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return, to Hi! or mend ihe choir of thy celestial kind. May we presume to say that, at thy birth, New joy was sprung^ in heaven as well as here on earth? For sure the milder planets did combine On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, And e\en the most malicious were in trine. Thy brother angels at thy birth Strung^ each his lyre, and tuned it high, That all the people of the sky Might know a poetess was born on earth; And then, if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres. And if no clustering swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew, 'T was that such vulgar miracles Heaven had not leisure to renew: For all the best fraternity of love Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above. 307 ODE TO O ^'raclous (jod! how tar have we PrDlaiu'd Tin hcutnly k''^ ^^ poesy! Made prostitute and protlij^ale the Muse, Debased to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordained above, Vox lont;"ues of aiij^els and tor hvmns of love! () wretched w