Chapter III: Part THE SECOND: LXII (1)

_THE HAPPY LIFE._

How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another’s will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are, 5
Whose soul is still prepared for death;
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood 10
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 15
Nor ruin make accusers great;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend; 20

--This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
_Sir Henry Wotton._

LXIII

_WINIFREDA._

Away, let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care,
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors 5
With pompous titles grace our blood?
We’ll shine in more substantial honours,
And to be noble we’ll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where’er ’tis spoke; 10
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.

What though from fortune’s lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we possess,
We’ll find within our pittance plenty, 15
And be content without excess.

Still shall each returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that’s the only life to live. 20

Through youth and age in love excelling,
We’ll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures, 25
While round my knees they fondly clung;
To see them look their mother’s features,
To hear them lisp their mother’s tongue.

And when with envy time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys, 30
You’ll in your girls again be courted,
And I’ll go wooing in my boys.
_Anon._

LXIV

_A LECTURE UPON THE SHADOW._

Stand still, and I will read to thee
A lecture, Love, in love’s philosophy.
These three hours that we have spent
Walking here, two shadows went
Along with us, which we ourselves produced: 5
But, now the sun is just above our head,
We do those shadows tread,
And to brave clearness all things are reduced.
So whilst our infant loves did grow,
Disguises did and shadows flow 10
From us and from our cares; but now it is not so.

That love hath not attained the highest degree,
Which is still diligent lest others see;
Except our loves at this noon stay,
We shall new shadows make the other way. 15
As the first were made to blind
Others, these which come behind
Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes,
If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,
To me thou falsely thine, 20
And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.
The morning shadows wear away,
But these grow longer all the day;
But, oh! love’s day is short, if love decay.

Love is a growing or full constant light, 25
And his short minute, after noon, is night.
_John Donne._

LXV

_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 5
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; 10
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light,
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there 15
Fixèd become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west,
The phœnix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 20
_Thomas Carew._

LXVI

THE PRIMROSE.

Ask me why I send you here
This sweet Infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose, thus bepearled with dew?
I will whisper to your ears, 5
The sweets of love are mixt with tears.
Ask me why this flower does show
So yellow-green, and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak,
And bending, yet it doth not break? 10
I will answer, these discover
What fainting hopes are in a lover.
_Robert Herrick._

LXVII

_TRUE LOVELINESS._

It is not beauty I demand,
A crystal brow, the moon’s despair,
Nor the snow’s daughter, a white hand,
Nor mermaid’s yellow pride of hair:

Tell me not of your starry eyes, 5
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:--

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks,
Like Hebe’s in her ruddiest hours, 10
A breath that softer music speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,

These are but gauds: nay, what are lips?
Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
Whose brink when your adventurer slips, 15
Full oft he perisheth on them.

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft
That wave hot youth to fields of blood?
Did Helen’s breast, though ne’er so soft,
Do Greece or Ilium any good? 20

Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;
Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed;
There’s many a white hand holds an urn
With lovers’ hearts to dust consumed.

For crystal brows there’s nought within, 25
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Siren’s hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.

Give me, instead of beauty’s bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind, 30
Which with temptation I would trust,
Yet never linked with error find,--

One in whose gentle bosom I
Could pour my secret heart of woes,
Like the care-burthened honey-fly 35
That hides his murmurs in the rose,--

My earthly comforter! whose love
So indefeasible might be
That, when my spirit wonned above,
Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 40
_Anon._

LXVIII

_THE ROSE’S MESSAGE._

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. 5

Tell her that’s young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That had’st thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died. 10

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired. 15
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair! 20
_Edmund Waller._

LXIX

_THE ROSES PRIDE._

Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves
The wanton wind to sport himself presumes,
Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives
For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes!

Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon; 5
What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?
Thou’ art wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,
And passing proud a little colour makes thee.

_Sir Richard Fanshawe._

LXX

_TO CASTARA. THE REWARD OF INNOCENT LOVE._

We saw and wooed each other’s eyes,
My soul contracted then with thine,
And both burnt in one sacrifice,
By which our marriage grew divine.

Let wilder youth, whose soul is sense, 5
Profane the temple of delight,
And purchase endless penitence
With the stol’n pleasure of one night.

Time’s ever ours, while we despise
The sensual idol of our clay, 10
For though the suns do set and rise,
We joy one everlasting day;

Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,
While each of us shine innocent;
The troubled stream is still impure; 15
With virtue flies away content.

And though opinions often err,
We’ll court the modest smile of fame,
For sin’s black danger circles her
Who hath infection in her name. 20

Thus when to one dark silent room
Death shall our loving coffins thrust,
Fame will build columns on our tomb,
And add a perfume to our dust.
_William Habington._

LXXI

_LOVE’S ANNIVERSARY._

TO THE SUN.

Thou art returned, great light, to that blest hour
In which I first by marriage, sacred power,
Joined with Castara hearts: and as the same
Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame;
Which had increased, but that by love’s decree 5
’Twas such at first, it ne’er could greater be.
But tell me, glorious lamp, in thy survey
Of things below thee, what did not decay
By age to weakness? I since that have seen
The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow green 10
And wither, and the beauty of the field
With winter wrinkled. Even thyself dost yield
Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher;
But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire.
_William Habington._

LXXII

_THE SURRENDER._

My once dear Love! hapless that I no more
Must call thee so--the rich affection’s store
That fed our hopes, lies now exhaust and spent,
Like sums of treasure unto bankrupts lent.
We, that did nothing study but the way 5
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 10
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,
Witness the chaste desires that never brake
Into unruly heats; witness that breast, 15
Which in thy bosom anchored his whole rest,
’Tis no default in us, I dare acquit
Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white
As thy pure self. Cross planets did envy
Us to each other, and Heaven did untie 20
Faster than vows could bind. Oh that the stars,
When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars!
Since then some higher destinies command,
Let us not strive, nor labour to withstand
What is past help. The longest date of grief 25
Can never yield a hope of our relief;
And though we waste ourselves in moist laments,
Tears may drown us, but not our discontents.
Fold back our arms; take home our fruitless loves,
That must new fortunes try, like turtle doves 30
Dislodgèd from their haunts. We must in tears
Unwind a love knit up in many years.
In this last kiss I here surrender thee
Back to thyself,--so thou again art free;
Thou in another, sad as that, resend 35
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.
_Henry King._

LXXIII

_THE BRIDE’S TRAGEDY._

O waly, waly up the bank,
And waly, waly down the brae,
And waly, waly yon burn-side,
Where I and my Love wont to gae.
I leaned my back unto an aik, 5
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak’,
Sae my true Love did lichtly me.

O waly, waly, but love be bonnie,
A little time while it is new, 10
But when ’tis auld, it waxeth cauld,
And fades away like morning dew.
Oh! wherefore should I busk my head,
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook, 15
And says he’ll never love me mair.

Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne’er be prest by me,
Saint Anton’s well shall be my drink,
Since my true Love’s forsaken me. 20
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves off the tree?
O gentle Death! when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearie.

’Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 25
Nor blawing snaw’s inclemency;
’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow town,
We were a comely sight to see; 30
My Love was clad in the black velvet,
And I mysel’ in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kissed,
That love had been sae ill to win,
I’d locked my heart in a case of gowd, 35
And pinned it with a siller pin.
And oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse’s knee,
And I mysel’ were dead and gane,
With the green grass growing over me! 40
_Anon._

LXXIV

_BURD HELEN._

I wish I were where Helen lies;
Night and day on me she cries;
Oh that I were where Helen lies
On fair Kirconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 5
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!

Oh think na but my heart was sair,
When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair! 10
I laid her down wi’ meikle care
On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide, 15
On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hackèd him in pieces sma’,
I hackèd him in pieces sma’,
For her sake that died for me. 20

O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I’ll make a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair
Until the day I die.

Oh that I were where Helen lies! 25
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, ‘Haste and come to me!’

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee, I were blest, 30
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest
On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
And I in Helen’s arms lying, 35
On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies:
Night and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,
Since my Love died for me. 40
_Anon._

LXXV

_LOVE’S ENTERPRISE._

Over the mountains
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves;
Under floods that are deepest, 5
Which Neptune obey,
Over rocks that are steepest
Love will find out the way.

Where there is no place
For the glowworm to lie; 10
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
Where the midge dares not venture,
Lest herself fast she lay;
If Love come, he will enter 15
And find out the way.

You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward from his flight; 20
But if she whom Love doth honour
Be concealed from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him 25
By having him confined;
And some do suppose him,
Poor heart! to be blind;
But if ne’er so close you wall him,
Do the best that you may, 30
Blind Love, if so you call him,
Will find out his way.

You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle 35
The phœnix of the east;
The lioness, you may move her
To give o’er her prey;
But you’ll ne’er Stop a lover:
He will find out the way. 40

If the earth should part him,
He would gallop it o’er;
If the seas should o’erthwart him,
He would swim to the shore.
Should his Love become a swallow, 45
Through the air to stray,
Love will lend wings to follow,
And will find out the way.

There is no striving
To cross his intent, 50
There is no contriving
His plots to prevent;
But if once the message greet him,
That his true-love doth stay,
If death should come and meet him, 55
Love will find out the way.
_Anon._

LXXVI

_THE TWA BROTHERS._

There were twa brothers at the scule,
And when they got awa’--
‘Its will ye play at the stane-chucking,
Or will ye play at the ba’,
Or will ye gae up to yon hill head, 5
And there we’ll warsell a fa’.’

‘I winna play at the stane-chucking,
Nor will I play at the ba’,
But I’ll gae up to yon bonnie green hill,
And there we’ll warsel a fa’.’ 10

They warsled up, they warsled down,
Till John fell to the ground;
A dirk fell out of Willie’s pouch,
And gave him a deadly wound.

‘Oh, Billie, lift me on your back, 15
Take me to yon well fair,
And wash the bluid frae aff my wound,
And it will bleed nae mair.’

He’s lifted his brother upon his back,
Ta’en him to yon well fair; 20
He’s washed the bluid frae aff his wound,
But ay it bled mair and mair.

‘Tak ye aff my Holland sark,
And rive it gair by gair,
And stap it in my bluidy wound, 25
And syne ’twill bleed nae mair.’

He’s taken aff his Holland sark,
And torn it gair by gair;
He’s stappit it in his bluidy wound,
But ay it bled mair and mair. 30

‘Tak now aff my green sleiding,
And row me saftly in;
And tak me up to yon kirk style,
Where the grass grows fair and green.’

He’s taken aff the green sleiding, 35
And rowed him saftly in;
He’s laid him down by yon kirk style,
Where the grass grows fair and green.

‘What will ye say to your father dear
When ye gae hame at e’en?’ 40
‘I’ll say ye’re lying at yon kirk style,
Where the grass grows fair and green.

‘O no, O no, my brother dear,
O you must not say so;
But say that I’m gane to a foreign land, 45
Where nae man does me know.

When he sat in his father’s chair
He grew baith pale and wan.
‘O what blude’s that upon your brow?
O dear son, tell to me.’ 50
‘It is the blude o’ my gude gray steed,
He wadna ride wi’ me.’

‘O thy steed’s blude was ne’er sae red,
Nor e’er sae dear to me: 55
O what blude’s this upon your cheek?
O dear son, tell to me.’
‘It is the blude of my greyhound,
He wadna hunt for me.’

‘O thy hound’s blude was ne’er sae red, 60
Nor e’er sae dear to me:
O what blude’s this upon your hand?
O dear son, tell to me.’
‘It is the blude of my gay gosshawk,
He wadna flee for me.’ 65

‘O thy hawk’s blude was ne’er sae red,
Nor e’er sae dear to me:
O what blude’s this upon your dirk?
Dear Willie, tell to me.’
‘It is the blude of my ae brother, 70
O dule and wae is me!’

‘O what will ye say to your father,
Dear Willie, tell to me?’
‘I’ll saddle my steed, and awa’ I’ll ride
To dwell in some far countrie.’ 75

‘O when will ye come hame again,
Dear Willie, tell to me?’
‘When the sun and mune dance on yon green,
And that will never be.’

She turned hersel’ right round about, 80
And her heart burst into three:
‘My ae best son is deid and gane,
And my tother ane I’ll ne’er see.’
_Anon._

LXXVII

_THE TWA SISTERS._

There were twa sisters lived in a bouir;
_Binnorie, O Binnorie_;
The youngest o’ them, oh, she was a flouir!
_By the bonnie mill-dams o’ Binnorie._

There came a squire frae the west; 5
He lo’ed them baith, but the youngest best;

He gied the eldest a gay gowd ring;
But he lo’ed the youngest abune a’ thing.

He courted the eldest wi’ broach and knife;
But he lo’ed the youngest as his life. 10

The eldest she was vexèd sair,
And sore envied her sister fair.

And it fell once upon a day,
The eldest to the youngest did say:

‘Oh, sister, come to the sea-strand, 15
And see our father’s ships come to land.

She’s ta’en her by the milk-white hand,
And led her down to the sea-strand.

The youngest sat upon a stane;
The eldest came and pushed her in. 20

‘Oh, sister, sister, lend me your hand,
And you shall be heir of half my land.’

‘Oh, sister, I’ll not reach my hand,
And I’ll be heir of all your land.

‘Shame fa’ the hand that I should take! 25
It twinned me and my world’s maik.’

‘Oh, sister, reach me but your glove,
And you shall be sweet William’s love.’

‘Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove,
And sweet William shall better be my love. 30

‘Your cherry cheeks and yellow hair
Had gar’d me gang maiden evermair.’

First she sank, and syne she swam,
Until she cam to Tweed mill-dam.

The miller’s dauchter was baking breid, 35
And gaed for water as she had need.

‘Oh, father, father, in our mill-dam
There’s either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.’

The miller quickly drew his dam;
And there he fand a drowned woman. 40

You couldna see her yellow hair,
For gowd and pearls that were sae rare.

You couldna see her middle sma’,
Her gowden girdle was sae braw.

You couldna see her lilie feet, 45
Her gowden fringes were sae deep.

You couldna see her fingers sma’,
Wi’ diamond rings they were covered a’.

‘Sair will they be, whae’er they be,
The hearts that live to weep for thee!’ 50

Then by there cam a harper fine,
That harpèd to the king at dine.

And, when he looked that lady on,
He sighed, and made a heavy moan.

He has ta’en three locks o’ her yellow hair, 55
And wi’ them strung his harp sae fair.

And he brought the harp to her father’s hall,
And there the court was assembled all.

He laid his harp upon a stone,
And straight it began to play alone. 60

‘O yonder sits my father, the king!
And yonder sits my mother, the queen!

‘And yonder stands my brother Hugh,
And by him my William sweet and true!’

But the last tune that the harp played then, 65
_Binnorie, O Binnorie_,
Was, ‘Woe to my sister, false Helen!’
_By the bonny mill-dams o’ Binnorie._
_Anon._

LXXVIII

_TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY._

Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth
Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green,
And with those few art eminently seen,
That labour up the hill of heavenly truth;
The better part with Mary and with Ruth 5
Chosen thou hast; and they that overween,
And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen,
No anger find in thee, but pity’ and ruth.
Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends
To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, 10
And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure
Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends
Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night,
Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure.
_John Milton._

LXXIX

_EYES AND TEARS._

How wisely Nature did decree,
With the same eyes to weep and see!
That, having viewed the object vain,
They might be ready to complain.
And, since the self-deluding sight 5
In a false angle takes each height,
These tears, which better measure all,
Like watery lines and plummets fall.
Two tears, which sorrow long did weigh
Within the scales of either eye, 10
And then paid out in equal poise,
Are the true price of all my joys.
What in the world most fair appears,
Yea, even laughter, turns to tears:
And all the jewels which we prize, 15
Melt in these pendants of the eyes.
I have through every garden been,
Amongst the red, the white, the green;
And yet from all those flowers I saw,
No honey but these tears could draw. 20
So the all-seeing sun each day
Distils the world with chymic ray;
But finds the essence only showers,
Which straight in pity back he pours.
Yet happy they whom grief doth bless, 25
That weep the more, and see the less;
And, to preserve their sight more true,
Bathe still their eyes in their own dew.
So Magdalen in tears more wise
Dissolved those captivating eyes, 30
Whose liquid chains could flowing meet,
To fetter her Redeemer’s feet.
Nor full sails hasting laden home,
Nor the chaste lady’s pregnant womb,
Nor Cynthia teeming shows so fair 35
As two eyes, swoln with weeping, are.
The sparkling glance that shoots desire,
Drenched in these waves, does lose its fire.
Yea, oft the Thunderer pity takes,
And here the hissing lightning slakes. 40
The incense was to Heaven dear,
Not as a perfume, but a tear;
And stars show lovely in the night,
But as they seem the tears of light.
Ope then, mine eyes, your double sluice, 45
And practise so your noblest use;
For others too can see, or sleep;
But only human eyes can weep.
Now, like two clouds dissolving, drop,
And at each tear in distance stop: 50
Now, like two fountains, trickle down:
Now, like two floods o’er-run and drown:
Thus let your streams o’erflow your springs,
Till eyes and tears be the same things;
And each the other’s difference bears; 55
These weeping eyes, those seeing tears.
_Andrew Marvell._

LXXX

_TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MASTER GEORGE SANDYS, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE PSALMS._

I press not to the choir, nor dare I greet
The holy place with my unhallowed feet;
My unwashed Muse pollutes not things divine,
Nor mingles her profaner notes with thine;
Here, humbly waiting at the porch, she stays, 5
And with glad ears sucks in thy sacred lays.
So, devout penitents of old were wont,
Some without door, and some beneath the font,
To stand and hear the Church’s liturgies,
Yet not assist the solemn exercise: 10
Sufficeth her, that she a lay-place gain,
To trim thy vestments, or but bear thy train;
Though not in tune nor wing she reach thy lark,
Her lyric feet may dance before the ark.
Who knows, but that her wandering eyes that run, 15
Now hunting glowworms, may adore the sun:
A pure flame may, shot by Almighty power
Into her breast, the earthly flame devour:
My eyes in penitential dew may steep
That brine, which they for sensual love did weep. 20
So (though ’gainst nature’s course) fire may be quenched
With fire, and water be with water drenched;
Perhaps my restless soul, tired with pursuit
Of mortal beauty, seeking without fruit
Contentment there, which hath not, when enjoyed, 25
Quenched all her thirst, nor satisfied, though cloyed,
Weary of her vain search below, above
In the first Fair may find the immortal Love.
Prompted by thy example, then no more
In moulds of clay will I my God adore; 30
But tear those idols from my heart, and write
What his blest Spirit, not fond love, shall indite;
Then I no more shall court the verdant bay,
But the dry leafless trunk on Golgotha;
And rather strive to gain from thence one thorn, 35
Than all the flourishing wreaths by laureats worn.
_Thomas Carew._

LXXXI

_THE FLOWER._

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! e’en as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away, 5
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivelled heart
Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
Quite under ground; as flowers depart 10
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power, 15
Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing bell.
We say amiss,
This or that is: 20
Thy word is all, if we could spell.

Oh, that I once past changing were,
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither: 25
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring-shower,
My sins and I joining together.

But while I grow in a straight line,
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own, 30
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone
Where all things burn,
When Thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown? 35

And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my only Light,
It cannot be 40
That I am he,
On whom thy tempests fell at night.

These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
Which when we once can find and prove, 45
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.
_George Herbert._

LXXXII

_GOD UNSEARCHABLE._

Weigh me the fire; or canst thou find
A way to measure out the wind;
Distinguish all those floods that are
Mixt in that watery theatre;
And taste thou them as saltless there 5
As in their channel first they were;
Tell me the people that do keep
Within the kingdoms of the deep;
Or fetch me back that cloud again,
Beshivered into seeds of rain; 10
Tell me the motes, dust, sands, and spears
Of corn when summer shakes his ears;
Show me that world of stars, and whence
They noiseless spill their influence:
This if thou canst, then show me Him 15
That rides the glorious Cherubim.
_Robert Herrick._

LXXXIII

_AT A SOLEMN MUSIC._

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven’s joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ,
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
And to our high-raised phantasy present 5
That undisturbèd song of pure concent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne
To Him that sits thereon,
With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee;
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row 10
Their loud up-lifted angel-trumpets blow;
And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms 15
Singing everlastingly:
That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportioned sin
Jarred against Nature’s chime, and with harsh din 20
Broke the fair music that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood,
In first obedience and their state of good.
Oh may we soon again renew that song, 25
And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
To his celestial consort us unite,
To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
_John Milton._

LXXXIV

_THE RAINBOW._

Still young and fine! but what is still in view
We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new.
How bright wert thou, when Shem’s admiring eye
Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry!
When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, 5
The youthful world’s gray fathers, in one knot
Did with intentive looks watch every hour
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower!
When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair,
Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air: 10
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours
Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers.
Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie
Of thy Lord’s hand, the object of his eye!
When I behold thee, though my light be dim, 15
Distant and low, I can in thine see Him,
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne,
And minds the covenant betwixt all and One.
_Henry Vaughan._

LXXXV

_L’ALLEGRO._

Hence, loathèd Melancholy,
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn,
’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!
Find out some uncouth cell, 5
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. 10
But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth;
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,
With two sister Graces more, 15
To ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore:
Or whether (as some sager sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-maying, 20
There on beds of violets blue,
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,
Filled her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 25
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek; 30
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 35
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 unreprovèd pleasures free; 40
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, 45
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:
While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin; 50
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, 55
Through the high wood echoing shrill:
Sometimes walking, not unseen,
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate
Where the great Sun begins his state, 60
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, 65
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,
Whilst the landscape round it measures; 70
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, 75
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide:
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some Beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 80
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two agèd oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,
Are at their savoury dinner set
Of herbs, and other country messes, 85
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. 90
Sometimes with 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, 95
Dancing in the chequered shade;
And young and old come forth to play
On a sunshine holiday,
Till the livelong daylight fail:
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100
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 drudging goblin sweat, 105
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn,
That ten day-labourers could not end;
Then lies him down the lubbar-fiend, 110
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, 115
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, 120
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 125
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. 130
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson’s learnèd sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild.
And ever against eating cares 135
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
Married to immortal verse;
Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linkèd sweetness long drawn out, 140
With wanton heed and giddy cunning;
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony;
That Orpheus’ self may heave his head 145
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. 150
These delights if thou canst give,
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
_John Milton._

LXXXVI

_IL PENSEROSO._

Hence, vain deluding Joys,
The brood of Folly without father bred!
How little you bested,
Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toys!
Dwell in some idle brain, 5
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the sunbeams;
Or likest hovering dreams,
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus’ train. 10
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 weaker view 15
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 20
The sea-nymphs’, and their powers offended:
Yet thou art higher far descended:
Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore
To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she; in Saturn’s reign 25
Such mixture was not held a stain:
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida’s inmost grove,
Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30
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 cypres lawn, 35
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: 40
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, 45
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring
Aye round about Jove’s altar sing:
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure: 50
But first and chiefest with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hist along, 55
’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: 60
Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among,
I woo, to hear thy even-song;
And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65
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 way; 70
And oft, as if her head she bowed,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound
Over some wide-watered shore, 75
Swinging slow with sullen roar:
Or, if the air will not permit,
Some still removèd place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; 80
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 85
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 90
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 95
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; 100
Or what, though rare, of later age
Ennobled hath the buskined stage.
But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musæus from his bower!
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 105
Such notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did seek!
Or call up him that left half-told
The story of Cambuscan bold, 110
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: 115
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of turneys, and of trophies hung,
Of forests and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120
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, 125
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. 130
And, when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To archèd walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak, 135
Where the rude axe with heavèd stroke
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.
There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look, 140
Hide me from day’s garish eye,
While the bee with honied thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such consort as they keep, 145
Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings, in aery stream
Of lively portraiture displayed,
Softly on my eyelids laid. 150
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 155
To walk the studious cloisters pale,
And love the high-embowèd roof
With antique pillars massy-proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light: 160
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
Dissolve me into ecstasies, 165
And bring 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 170
Of every 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, 175
And I with thee will choose to live.
_John Milton._

LXXXVII

_CONTENTATION._

DIRECTED TO MY DEAR FATHER, AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND, MR. ISAAC WALTON.

Heaven, what an age is this! what race
Of giants are sprung up, that dare
Thus fly in the Almighty’s face,
And with his Providence make war!

I can go nowhere but I meet 5
With malcontents and mutineers,
As if in life was nothing sweet,
And we must blessings reap in tears.

O senseless man! that murmurs still
For happiness, and does not know, 10
Even though he might enjoy his will,
What he would have to make him so.

Is it true happiness to be
By undiscerning Fortune placed
In the most eminent degree, 15
Where few arrive, and none stand fast?

Titles and wealth are Fortune’s toils,
Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare:
The great are proud of borrowed spoils,
The miser’s plenty breeds his care. 20

The one supinely yawns at rest,
The other eternally doth toil;
Each of them equally a beast,
A pampered horse, or labouring moil:

The titulados oft disgraced 25
By public hate or private frown,
And he whose hand the creature raised,
Has yet a foot to kick him down.

The drudge who wold all get, all save,
Like a brute beast both feeds and lies; 30
Prone to the earth, he digs his grave,
And in the very labour dies.

Excess of ill-got, ill-kept, pelf
Does only death and danger breed;
Whilst one rich worldling starves himself 35
With what would thousand others feed.

By which we see that wealth and power,
Although they make men rich and great,
The sweets of life do often sour,
And gull ambition with a cheat. 40

Nor is he happier than these,
Who in a moderate estate,
Where he might safely live at ease,
Has lusts that are immoderate.

For he, by those desires misled, 45
Quits his own vine’s securing shade,
To’ expose his naked, empty head
To all the storms man’s peace invade.

Nor is he happy who is trim,
Tricked up in favours of the fair, 50
Mirrors, with every breath made dim.
Birds, caught in every wanton snare.

Woman, man’s greatest woe or bliss,
Does ofter far, than serve, enslave,
And with the magic of a kiss 55
Destroys whom she was made to save.

Oh! fruitful grief, the world’s disease!
And vainer man, to make it so,
Who gives his miseries increase
By cultivating his own woe. 60

There are no ills but what we make
By giving shapes and names to things;
Which is the dangerous mistake
That causes all our sufferings.

We call that sickness, which is health; 65
That persecution, which is grace;
That poverty, which is true wealth;
And that dishonour, which is praise.

Alas! our time is here so short,
That in what state soe’er ’tis spent, 70
Of joy or woe, does not import,
Provided it be innocent.

But we may make it pleasant too,
If we will take our measures right,
And not what Heaven has done, undo 75
By an unruly appetite.

The world is full of beaten roads,
But yet so slippery withal,
That where one walks secure, ’tis odds
A hundred and a hundred fall. 80

Untrodden paths are then the best,
Where the frequented are unsure;
And he comes soonest to his rest,
Whose journey has been most secure.

It is content alone that makes 85
Our pilgrimage a pleasure here;
And who buys sorrow cheapest, takes
An ill commodity too dear.
_Charles Cotton._

LXXXVIII

_IN PRAISE OF HOPE._

Hope, of all ills that men endure
The only cheap and universal cure!
Thou captive’s freedom, and thou sick man’s health!
Thou loser’s victory, and thou beggar’s wealth!
Thou manna, which from heaven we eat, 5
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! 10

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, 15
And art a blessing still in hand!
Whilst thee, her earnest-money, we retain,
We certain are to gain,
Whether she her bargain break, or else fulfil;
Thou only good, not worse for ending ill! 20

Brother of Faith, ’twixt whom and thee
The joys of Heaven and earth divided be!
Though Faith be heir, and have the fixed estate,
Thy portion yet in moveables is great.
Happiness itself’s all one 25
In thee, or in possession!
Only the future’s thine, the present his!
Thine’s the more hard and noble bliss;
Best apprehender of our joys, which hast
So long a reach, and yet canst hold so fast! 30

Hope, thou sad lover’s only friend!
Thou way, that 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 35
Than thou canst be, when thou dost miss;
Men leave thee by obtaining, and straight flee
Some other way again to thee:
And that’s a pleasant country, without doubt,
To which all soon return that travel out. 40
_Abraham Cowley._

LXXXIX

_PROLOGUE._

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. SPOKEN BY MR. HART, AT THE ACTING OF ‘THE SILENT WOMAN.’

What Greece, when learning flourished, only knew,
Athenian judges, you this day renew.
Here too are annual rites to Pallas done,
And here poetic prizes lost or won.
Methinks I see you, crowned with olives, sit, 5
And strike a sacred horror from the pit.
A day of doom is this of your decree,
Where even the best are but by mercy free:
A day, which none but Jonson durst have wished to see,
Here they, who long have known the useful stage, 10
Come to be taught themselves to teach the age.
As your commissioners our poets go,
To cultivate the virtue which you sow;
In your Lycæum first themselves refined,
And delegated thence to human-kind. 15
But as ambassadors, when long from home,
For new instructions to their princes come,
So poets, who your precepts have forgot,
Return, and beg they may be better taught:
Follies and faults elsewhere by them are shown, 20
But by your manners they correct their own.
The illiterate writer, empiric-like, applies
To minds diseased, unsafe, chance remedies:
The learned in schools, where knowledge first began,
Studies with care the anatomy of man; 25
Sees virtue, vice, and passions, in their cause,
And fame from science, not from fortune, draws.
So poetry, which is in Oxford made
An art, in London only is a trade.
There haughty dunces, whose unlearnèd pen 30
Could ne’er spell grammar, would be reading men.
Such build their poems the Lucretian way;
So many huddled atoms make a play;
And if they hit in order by some chance,
They call that nature which is ignorance. 35
To such a fame let mere town-wits aspire,
And their gay nonsense their own cits admire.
Our poet, could he find forgiveness here,
Would wish it rather than a plaudit there.
He owns no crown from those Prætorian bands, 40
But knows that right is in the senate’s hands,
Not impudent enough to hope your praise,
Low at the Muses’ feet his wreath he lays,
And, where he took it up, resigns his bays. 45
Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit,
But ’tis your suffrage makes authentic wit.
_John Dryden._

XC

_PROLOGUE._

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.