Chapter I: W., A.M. Oxon (2)

THE SPHERE OF ARCHIMEDES OUT OF CLAUDIAN, [EPIGRAMMA XVIII.]

_Jupiter in parvo cum cerneret aethera vitro_
_Risit, et ad superos, &c._

When Jove a heav'n of small glass did behold,
He smil'd, and to the gods these words he told.
"Comes then the power of man's art to this?
In a frail orb my work new acted is,
The poles' decrees, the fate of things, God's laws,
Down by his art old Archimedes draws.
Spirits inclos'd the sev'ral stars attend,
And orderly the living work they bend.
A feigned Zodiac measures out the year,
Ev'ry new month a false moon doth appear.
And now bold industry is proud, it can
Wheel round its world, and rule the stars by man.
Why at Salmoneus' thunder do I stand?
Nature is rivall'd by a single hand."

THE PH[OE]NIX OUT OF CLAUDIAN, [IDYLL I.]

_Oceani summo circumfluus aequore lucus_
_Trans Indos, Eurumque viret, &c._

A grove there grows, round with the sea confin'd,
Beyond the Indies and the Eastern wind,
Which, as the sun breaks forth in his first beam,
Salutes his steeds, and hears him whip his team;
When with his dewy coach the Eastern bay
Crackles, whence blusheth the approaching Day,
And blasted with his burnish'd wheels the Night
In a pale dress doth vanish from the light.
This the bless'd Ph[oe]nix' empire is, here he,
Alone exempted from mortality,
Enjoys a land, where no diseases reign,
And ne'er afflicted like our world with pain.
A bird most equal to the gods, which vies
For length of life and durance with the skies,
And with renew'd limbs tires ev'ry age
His appetite he never doth assuage
With common food. Nor doth he use to drink
When thirsty on some river's muddy brink.
A purer, vital heat shot from the sun
Doth nourish him, and airy sweets that come
From Tethys lap he tasteth at his need;
On such abstracted diet doth he feed.
A secret light there streams from both his eyes,
A fiery hue about his cheeks doth rise.
His crest grows up into a glorious star
Giv'n t' adorn his head, and shines so far,
That piercing through the bosom of the night
It rends the darkness with a gladsome light.
His thighs like Tyrian scarlet, and his wings
--More swift than winds are--have sky-colour'd rings
Flow'ry and rich: and round about enroll'd
Their utmost borders glister all with gold.
He's not conceiv'd, nor springs he from the Earth,
But is himself the parent, and the birth.
None him begets; his fruitful death reprieves
Old age, and by his funerals he lives.
For when the tedious Summer's gone about
A thousand times: so many Winters out,
So many Springs: and May doth still restore
Those leaves, which Autumn had blown off before;
Then press'd with years his vigour doth decline,
Foil'd with the number; as a stately pine
Tir'd out with storms bends from the top and height
Of Caucasus, and falls with its own weight,
Whose part is torn with daily blasts, with rain
Part is consum'd, and part with age again;
So now his eyes grown dusky, fail to see
Far off, and drops of colder rheums there be
Fall'n slow and dreggy from them; such in sight
The cloudy moon is, having spent her light.
And now his wings, which used to contend
With tempests, scarce from the low earth ascend.
He knows his time is out! and doth provide
New principles of life; herbs he brings dried
From the hot hills, and with rich spices frames
A pile, shall burn, and hatch him with its flames.
On this the weakling sits; salutes the sun
With pleasant noise, and prays and begs for some
Of his own fire, that quickly may restore
The youth and vigour, which he had before.
Whom, soon as Ph[oe]bus spies, stopping his reins,
He makes a stand and thus allays his pains.
O thou that buriest old age in thy grave,
And art by seeming funerals to have
A new return of life, whose custom 'tis
To rise by ruin, and by death to miss
Ev'n death itself, a new beginning take,
And that thy wither'd body now forsake!
Better thyself by this thy change! This said
He shakes his locks, and from his golden head
Shoots one bright beam, which smites with vital fire
The willing bird; to burn is his desire,
That he may live again: he's proud in death,
And goes in haste to gain a better breath.
The spicy heap fir'd with celestial rays
Doth burn the aged Ph[oe]nix, when straight stays
The chariot of th' amazed moon; the pole
Resists the wheeling swift orbs, and the whole
Fabric of Nature at a stand remains,
Till the old bird a new young being gains.
All stop and charge the faithful flames, that they
Suffer not Nature's glory to decay.
By this time, life which in the ashes lurks
Hath fram'd the heart, and taught new blood new works;
The whole heap stirs, and ev'ry part assumes
Due vigour; th' embers too are turn'd to plumes;
The parent in the issue now revives,
But young and brisk; the bounds of both these lives,
With very little space between the same,
Were parted only by the middle flame.
To Nilus straight he goes to consecrate
His parent's ghost; his mind is to translate
His dust to Egypt. Now he hastes away
Into a distant land, and doth convey
The ashes in a turf. Birds do attend
His journey without number, and defend
His pious flight, like to a guard; the sky
Is clouded with the army, as they fly.
Nor is there one of all those thousands dares
Affront his leader: they with solemn cares
Attend the progress of their youthful king;
Not the rude hawk, nor th' eagle that doth bring
Arms up to Jove, fight now, lest they displease;
The miracle enacts a common peace.
So doth the Parthian lead from Tigris' side
His barbarous troops, full of a lavish pride
In pearls and habit; he adorns his head
With royal tires: his steed with gold is led;
His robes, for which the scarlet fish is sought,
With rare Assyrian needle-work are wrought;
And proudly reigning o'er his rascal bands,
He raves and triumphs in his large commands.
A city of Egypt, famous in all lands
For rites, adores the sun; his temple stands
There on a hundred pillars by account,
Digg'd from the quarries of the Theban mount.
Here, as the custom did require--they say--
His happy parent's dust down he doth lay;
Then to the image of his lord he bends
And to the flames his burden straight commends.
Unto the altars thus he destinates
His own remains; the light doth gild the gates;
Perfumes divine the censers up do send:
While th' Indian odour doth itself extend
To the Pelusian fens, and filleth all
The men it meets with the sweet storm. A gale,
To which compar'd nectar itself is vile,
Fills the sev'n channels of the misty Nile.
O happy bird! sole heir to thy own dust!
Death, to whose force all other creatures must
Submit, saves thee. Thy ashes make thee rise;
'Tis not thy nature, but thy age that dies.
Thou hast seen all! and to the times that run
Thou art as great a witness as the sun.
Thou saw'st the deluge, when the sea outvied
The land, and drown'd the mountains with the tide.
What year the straggling Phaeton did fire
The world, thou know'st. And no plagues can conspire
Against thy life; alone thou dost arise
Above mortality; the destinies
Spin not thy days out with their fatal clue;
They have no law, to which thy life is due.

PIOUS THOUGHTS AND EJACULATIONS.

TO HIS BOOKS.

Bright books! the perspectives to our weak sights,
The clear projections of discerning lights,
Burning and shining thoughts, man's posthume day,
The track of fled souls, and their Milky Way,
The dead alive and busy, the still voice
Of enlarg'd spirits, kind Heav'n's white decoys!
Who lives with you, lives like those knowing flow'rs,
Which in commerce with light spend all their hours:
Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun,
But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun.
Beneath you, all is dark, and a dead night,
Which whoso lives in, wants both health and sight.
By sucking you, the wise--like bees--do grow
Healing and rich, though this they do most slow,
Because most choicely; for as great a store
Have we of books, as bees of herbs, or more:
And the great task, to try, then know, the good.
To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food,
Is a rare, scant performance: for man dies
Oft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flies.
But you were all choice flow'rs, all set and drest
By old sage florists, who well knew the best:
And I amidst you all am turned a weed!
Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed.
Then thank thyself, wild fool, that wouldst not be
Content to know--what was too much for thee!

LOOKING BACK.

Fair shining mountains of my pilgrimage
And flowery vales, whose flow'rs were stars,
The days and nights of my first happy age;
An age without distaste and wars!
When I by thoughts ascend your sunny heads,
And mind those sacred midnight lights
By which I walk'd, when curtain'd rooms and beds
Confin'd or seal'd up others' sights:
O then, how bright,
And quick a light
Doth brush my heart and scatter night;
Chasing that shade,
Which my sins made,
While I so spring, as if I could not fade!
How brave a prospect is a bright back-side!
Where flow'rs and palms refresh the eye!
And days well spent like the glad East abide,
Whose morning-glories cannot die!

THE SHOWER.

Waters above! eternal springs!
The dew that silvers the Dove's wings!
O welcome, welcome to the sad!
Give dry dust drink; drink that makes glad!
Many fair ev'nings, many flow'rs
Sweeten'd with rich and gentle showers,
Have I enjoy'd, and down have run
Many a fine and shining sun;
But never, till this happy hour,
Was blest with such an evening-shower!

DISCIPLINE.

Fair Prince of Light! Light's living Well
Who hast the keys of death and Hell!
If the mole[66] man despise Thy day,
Put chains of darkness in his way.
Teach him how deep, how various are
The counsels of Thy love and care.
When acts of grace and a long peace,
Breed but rebellion, and displease,
Then give him his own way and will,
Where lawless he may run, until
His own choice hurts him, and the sting
Of his foul sins full sorrows bring.
If Heaven and angels, hopes and mirth,
Please not the mole so much as earth:
Give him his mine to dig, or dwell,
And one sad scheme of hideous Hell.

FOOTNOTES:

[66] The original edition has _mule_.

THE ECLIPSE.

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 cross'd.
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.

AFFLICTION.

O come, and welcome! come, refine!
For Moors, if wash'd by Thee, will shine.
Man blossoms at Thy touch; and he,
When Thou draw'st blood is Thy rose-tree.
Crosses make straight his crooked ways,
And clouds but cool his dog-star days;
Diseases too, when by Thee blest,
Are both restoratives and rest.
Flow'rs that in sunshines riot still,
Die scorch'd and sapless; though storms kill,
The fall is fair, e'en to desire,
Where in their sweetness all expire.
O come, pour on! what calms can be
So fair as storms, that appease Thee?

RETIREMENT.

Fresh fields and woods! the Earth's fair face!
God's footstool! and man's dwelling-place!
I ask not why the first believer
Did love to be a country liver?
Who, to secure pious content,
Did pitch by groves and wells his tent;
Where he might view the boundless sky,
And all those glorious lights on high,
With flying meteors, mists, and show'rs,
Subjected hills, trees, meads, and flow'rs,
And ev'ry minute bless the King
And wise Creator of each thing.

I ask not why he did remove
To happy Mamre's holy grove,
Leaving the cities of the plain
To Lot and his successless train?
All various lusts in cities still
Are found; they are the thrones of ill,
The dismal sinks, where blood is spill'd,
Cages with much uncleanness fill'd:
But rural shades are the sweet sense
Of piety and innocence;
They are the meek's calm region, where
Angels descend and rule the sphere;
Where Heaven lies leiguer, and the Dove
Duly as dew comes from above.
If Eden be on Earth at all,
'Tis that which we the country call.

THE REVIVAL.

Unfold! unfold! Take in His light,
Who makes thy cares more short than night.
The joys which with His day-star rise
He deals to all but drowsy eyes;
And, what the men of this world miss,
Some drops and dews of future bliss.

Hark! how His winds have chang'd their note!
And with warm whispers call thee out;
The frosts are past, the storms are gone,
And backward life at last comes on.
The lofty groves in express joys
Reply unto the turtle's voice;
And here in dust and dirt, O here
The lilies of His love appear!

THE DAY SPRING.

Early, while yet the dark was gay
And gilt with stars, more trim than day,
Heav'n's Lily, and the Earth's chaste Rose,
The green immortal Branch arose; }
And in a solitary place } S. Mark,
Bow'd to His Father His blest face. } c. 1, v. 35-
If this calm season pleased my Prince,
Whose fulness no need could evince,
Why should not I, poor silly sheep,
His hours, as well as practice, keep?
Not that His hand is tied to these,
From whom Time holds his transient lease
But mornings new creations are,
When men, all night sav'd by His care,
Are still reviv'd; and well He may
Expect them grateful with the day.
So for that first draught of His hand, }
Which finish'd heav'n, and sea, and land, } Job, c. 38,
The sons of God their thanks did bring, } v. 7-
And all the morning stars did sing. }
Besides, as His part heretofore
The firstlings were of all that bore
So now each day from all He saves
Their soul's first thoughts and fruits He craves.
This makes Him daily shed and show'r
His graces at this early hour;
Which both His care and kindness show,
Cheering the good, quickening the slow.
As holy friends mourn at delay,
And think each minute an hour's stay,
So His Divine and loving Dove
With longing throes[67] doth heave and move,
And soar about us while we sleep;
Sometimes quite through that lock doth peep,
And shine, but always without fail,
Before the slow sun can unveil,
In new compassions breaks, like light,
And morning-looks, which scatter night.
And wilt Thou let Thy creature be,
When Thou hast watch'd, asleep to Thee?
Why to unwelcome loath'd surprises
Dost leave him, having left his vices?
Since these, if suffer'd, may again
Lead back the living to the slain.
O, change this scourge; or, if as yet
None less will my transgressions fit,
Dissolve, dissolve! Death cannot do
What I would not submit unto.

FOOTNOTES:

[67] The original has _throws_.

THE RECOVERY.

I.

Fair vessel of our daily light, whose proud
And previous glories gild that blushing cloud;
Whose lively fires in swift projections glance
From hill to hill, and by refracted chance
Burnish some neighbour-rock, or tree, and then
Fly off in coy and winged flames again:
If thou this day
Hold on thy way,
Know, I have got a greater light than thine;
A light, whose shade and back-parts make thee shine.
Then get thee down! then get thee down!
I have a Sun now of my own.

II.

Those nicer livers, who without thy rays
Stir not abroad, those may thy lustre praise;
And wanting light--light, which no wants doth know--
To thee--weak shiner!--like blind Persians bow.
But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head,
From His own bright eternal eye doth shed
One living ray,
There thy dead day
Is needless, and man to a light made free,
Which shows that thou canst neither show nor see.
Then get thee down! then get thee down!
I have a Sun now of my own.

THE NATIVITY.

Written in the year 1656.

Peace? and to all the world? Sure One,
And He the Prince of Peace, hath none!
He travels to be born, and then
Is born to travel more again.
Poor Galilee! thou canst not be
The place for His Nativity.
His restless mother's call'd away,
And not deliver'd till she pay.

A tax? 'tis so still! we can see
The Church thrive in her misery,
And, like her Head at Beth'lem, rise,
When she, oppress'd with troubles, lies.
Rise?--should all fall, we cannot be
In more extremities than He.
Great Type of passions! Come what will,
Thy grief exceeds all copies still.
Thou cam'st from Heav'n to Earth, that we
Might go from Earth to Heav'n with Thee:
And though Thou found'st no welcome here,
Thou didst provide us mansions there.
A stable was Thy Court, and when
Men turn'd to beasts, beasts would be men:
They were Thy courtiers; others none;
And their poor manger was Thy throne.
No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold,
Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold.
No rockers waited on Thy birth,
No cradles stirr'd, nor songs of mirth;
But her chaste lap and sacred breast,
Which lodg'd Thee first, did give Thee rest.

But stay: what light is that doth stream
And drop here in a gilded beam?
It is Thy star runs page, and brings
Thy tributary Eastern kings.
Lord! grant some light to us, that we
May with them find the way to Thee!
Behold what mists eclipse the day!
How dark it is! Shed down one ray,
To guide us out of this dark night,
And say once more, "Let there be light!"

THE TRUE CHRISTMAS.

So, stick up ivy and the bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.
Green will remind you of the spring,
Though this great day denies the thing;
And mortifies the earth, and all
But your wild revels, and loose hall.
Could you wear flow'rs, and roses strow
Blushing upon your breasts' warm snow,
That very dress your lightness will
Rebuke, and wither at the ill.
The brightness of this day we owe
Not unto music, masque, nor show,
Nor gallant furniture, nor plate,
But to the manger's mean estate.
His life while here, as well as birth,
Was but a check to pomp and mirth;
And all man's greatness you may see
Condemned by His humility.

Then leave your open house and noise,
To welcome Him with holy joys,
And the poor shepherds' watchfulness,
Whom light and hymns from Heav'n did bless.
What you abound with, cast abroad
To those that want, and ease your load.
Who empties thus, will bring more in;
But riot is both loss and sin.
Dress finely what comes not in sight,
And then you keep your Christmas right.

THE REQUEST.

O thou who didst deny to me
This world's ador'd felicity,
And ev'ry big imperious lust,
Which fools admire in sinful dust,
With those fine subtle twists, that tie
Their bundles of foul gallantry--
Keep still my weak eyes from the shine
Of those gay things which are not Thine!
And shut my ears against the noise
Of wicked, though applauded, joys!
For Thou in any land hast store
Of shades and coverts for Thy poor;
Where from the busy dust and heat,
As well as storms, they may retreat.
A rock or bush are downy beds,
When Thou art there, crowning their heads
With secret blessings, or a tire
Made of the Comforter's live fire.
And when Thy goodness in the dress
Of anger will not seem to bless,
Yet dost Thou give them that rich rain,
Which, as it drops, clears all again.
O what kind visits daily pass
'Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass:
With what sweet looks doth Thy love shine
On those low violets of Thine,
While the tall tulip is accurst,
And crowns imperial die with thirst!
O give me still those secret meals,
Those rare repasts which Thy love deals!
Give me that joy, which none can grieve,
And which in all griefs doth relieve!
This is the portion Thy child begs;
Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs.

JORDANIS.

Quid celebras auratam undam, et combusta pyropis
Flumina, vel medio quae serit aethra salo?
Aeternum refluis si pernoctaret in undis
Ph[oe]bus, et incertam sidera suda Tethyn
Si colerent, tantae gemmae! nil caerula librem:
Sorderet rubro in littore dives Eos.
Pactoli mea lympha macras ditabit arenas,
Atque universum gutta minuta Tagum.
O caram caput! O cincinnos unda beatos
Libata! O Domini balnea sancta mei!
Quod fortunatum voluit spectare canalem,
Hoc erat in laudes area parva tuas.
Jordanis in medio perfusus flumine lavit,
Divinoque tuas ore beavit aquas.
Ah! Solyma infelix rivis obsessa prophanis!
Amisit genium porta Bethesda suum.
Hic Orientis aquae currunt, et apostata Parphar,
Atque Abana immundo turbidus amne fluit,
Ethnica te totam cum f[oe]davere fluenta,
Mansit Christicola Jordanis unus aqua.

SERVILII FATUM, SIVE VINDICTA DIVINA.

Et sic in cithara, sic in dulcedine vitae
Et facti et luctus regnat amarities.
Quam subito in fastum extensos atque esseda[68] vultus
Ultrici oppressit vilis arena sinu!
Si violae, spiransque crocus: si lilium [Greek: aeinon]
Non nisi justorum nascitur e cinere:
Spinarum, tribulique atque infelicis avenae
Quantus in hoc tumulo et qualis acervus erit?
Dii superi! damnosa piis sub sidera longum
Mansuris stabilem conciliate fidem!
Sic olim in c[oe]lum post nimbos clarius ibunt,
Supremo occidui tot velut astra die.
Quippe ruunt horae, qualisque in corpore vixit,
Talis it in tenebras bis moriturus homo.

FOOTNOTES:

[68] The original edition misprints _essera_.

DE SALMONE

_Ad virum optimum, et sibi familiarius notum: D. Thomam Poellum
Cantrevensem: S. S. Theologiae Doctorem._

Accipe praerapido salmonem in gurgite captum,
Ex imo in summas cum penetrasset aquas,
Mentitae culicis quem forma elusit inanis:
Picta coloratis plumea musca notis.
Dum captat, capitur; vorat inscius, ipse vorandus;
Fitque cibi raptor grata rapina mali.
Alma quies! miserae merces ditissima vitae,
Quam tuto in tacitis hic latuisset aquis!
Qui dum spumosi fremitus et murmura rivi
Quaeritat, hamato sit cita praeda cibo,
Quam grave magnarum specimen dant ludicra rerum?
Gurges est mundus: salmo, homo: pluma, dolus.

THE WORLD.

Can any tell me what it is? Can you
That wind your thoughts into a clue
To guide out others, while yourselves stay in,
And hug the sin?
I, who so long have in it liv'd,
That, if I might,
In truth I would not be repriev'd,
Have neither sight
Nor sense that knows
These ebbs and flows:
But since of all all may be said,
And likeliness doth but upbraid
And mock the truth, which still is lost
In fine conceits, like streams in a sharp frost;
I will not strive, nor the rule break,
Which doth give losers leave to speak.
Then false and foul world, and unknown
Ev'n to thy own,
Here I renounce thee, and resign
Whatever thou canst say is thine.

Thou art not Truth! for he that tries
Shall find thee all deceit and lies,
Thou art not Friendship! for in thee
'Tis but the bait of policy;
Which like a viper lodg'd in flow'rs,
Its venom through that sweetness pours;
And when not so, then always 'tis
A fading paint, the short-liv'd bliss
Of air and humour; out and in,
Like colours in a dolphin's skin;
But must not live beyond one day,
Or convenience; then away.
Thou art not Riches! for that trash,
Which one age hoards, the next doth wash
And so severely sweep away,
That few remember where it lay.
So rapid streams the wealthy land
About them have at their command;
And shifting channels here restore,
There break down, what they bank'd before.
Thou art not Honour! for those gay
Feathers will wear and drop away;
And princes to some upstart line
Gives new ones, that are full as fine.
Thou art not Pleasure! for thy rose
Upon a thorn doth still repose;
Which, if not cropp'd, will quickly shed,
But soon as cropp'd, grows dull and dead.
Thou art the sand, which fills one glass,
And then doth to another pass;
And could I put thee to a stay,
Thou art but dust! Then go thy way,
And leave me clean and bright, though poor;
Who stops thee doth but daub his floor;
And, swallow-like, when he hath done,
To unknown dwellings must be gone!
Welcome, pure thoughts, and peaceful hours,
Enrich'd with sunshine and with show'rs;
Welcome fair hopes, and holy cares,
The not to be repented shares
Of time and business; the sure road
Unto my last and lov'd abode!
O supreme Bliss!
The Circle, Centre, and Abyss
Of blessings, never let me miss
Nor leave that path which leads to Thee,
Who art alone all things to me!
I hear, I see, all the long day
The noise and pomp of the broad way.
I note their coarse and proud approaches,
Their silks, perfumes, and glittering coaches.
But in the narrow way to Thee
I observe only poverty,
And despis'd things; and all along
The ragged, mean, and humble throng
Are still on foot; and as they go
They sigh, and say, their Lord went so.
Give me my staff then, as it stood
When green and growing in the wood;
--Those stones, which for the altar serv'd,
Might not be smooth'd, nor finely carv'd--
With this poor stick I'll pass the ford,
As Jacob did; and Thy dear word,
As Thou hast dress'd it, not as wit
And deprav'd tastes have poison'd it,
Shall in the passage be my meat,
And none else will Thy servant eat.
Thus, thus, and in no other sort,
Will I set forth, though laugh'd at for't;
And leaving the wise world their way,
Go through, though judg'd to go astray.

THE BEE.

From fruitful beds and flow'ry borders,
Parcell'd to wasteful ranks and orders,
Where State grasps more than plain Truth needs,
And wholesome herbs are starv'd by weeds,
To the wild woods I will be gone,
And the coarse meals of great Saint John.

When truth and piety are miss'd
Both in the rulers and the priest;
When pity is not cold, but dead,
And the rich eat the poor like bread;
While factious heads with open coil
And force, first make, then share, the spoil;
To Horeb then Elias goes,
And in the desert grows the rose.
Hail crystal fountains and fresh shades,
Where no proud look invades,
No busy worldling hunts away
The sad retirer all the day!
Hail, happy, harmless solitude!
Our sanctuary from the rude
And scornful world; the calm recess
Of faith, and hope, and holiness!
Here something still like Eden looks;
Honey in woods, juleps in brooks,
And flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled sweets
With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets,
When the toils of the day are done,
And the tir'd world sets with the sun.
Here flying winds and flowing wells
Are the wise, watchful hermit's bells;
Their busy murmurs all the night
To praise or prayer do invite,
And with an awful sound arrest,
And piously employ his breast.

When in the East the dawn doth blush,
Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush;
Herbs straight get up, flow'rs peep and spread,
Trees whisper praise, and bow the head:
Birds, from the shades of night releas'd,
Look round about, then quit the nest,
And with united gladness sing
The glory of the morning's King.
The hermit hears, and with meek voice
Offers his own up, and their joys:
Then prays that all the world may be
Bless'd with as sweet an unity.

If sudden storms the day invade,
They flock about him to the shade:
Where wisely they expect the end,
Giving the tempest time to spend;
And hard by shelters on some bough
Hilarion's servant, the sage crow.

O purer years of light and grace!
The diff'rence is great as the space
'Twixt you and us, who blindly run
After false fires, and leave the sun.
Is not fair Nature of herself
Much richer than dull paint or pelf?
And are not streams at the spring-head
More sweet than in carv'd stone or lead?
But fancy and some artist's tools
Frame a religion for fools.

The truth, which once was plainly taught,
With thorns and briars now is fraught.
Some part is with bold fables spotted,
Some by strange comments wildly blotted;
And Discord--old Corruption's crest--
With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest.
So snow, which in its first descents
A whiteness, like pure Heav'n, presents,
When touch'd by man is quickly soil'd,
And after, trodden down and spoil'd.

O lead me, where I may be free
In truth and spirit to serve Thee!
Where undisturb'd I may converse
With Thy great Self; and there rehearse
Thy gifts with thanks; and from Thy store,
Who art all blessings, beg much more.
Give me the wisdom of the bee,
And her unwearied industry!
That from the wild gourds of these days,
I may extract health, and Thy praise,
Who canst turn darkness into light,
And in my weakness show Thy might.

Suffer me not in any want
To seek refreshment from a plant
Thou didst not set; since all must be
Pluck'd up, whose growth is not from Thee.
'Tis not the garden, and the bow'rs,
Nor sense and forms, that give to flow'rs
Their wholesomeness, but Thy good will,
Which truth and pureness purchase still.

Then since corrupt man hath driv'n hence
Thy kind and saving influence,
And balm is no more to be had
In all the coasts of Gilead;
Go with me to the shade and cell,
Where Thy best servants once did dwell.
There let me know Thy will, and see
Exil'd Religion own'd by Thee;
For Thou canst turn dark grots to halls,
And make hills blossom like the vales;
Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs,
And fresh delights for all sad hours;
Till from them, like a laden bee,
I may fly home, and hive with Thee

TO CHRISTIAN RELIGION.

Farewell, thou true and tried reflection
Of the still poor, and meek election:
Farewell, soul's joy, the quick'ning health
Of spirits, and their secret wealth!
Farewell, my morning-star, the bright
And dawning looks of the True Light!
O blessed shiner, tell me whither
Thou wilt be gone, when night comes hither!
A seer that observ'd thee in
Thy course, and watch'd the growth of sin,
Hath giv'n his judgment, and foretold,
That westward hence thy course will hold;
And when the day with us is done,
There fix, and shine a glorious sun.
O hated shades and darkness! when
You have got here the sway again,
And like unwholesome fogs withstood
The light, and blasted all that's good,
Who shall the happy shepherds be,
To watch the next nativity
Of truth and brightness, and make way
For the returning, rising day?
O what year will bring back our bliss?
Or who shall live, when God doth this?
Thou Rock of Ages! and the Rest
Of all, that for Thee are oppress'd!
Send down the Spirit of Thy truth,
That Spirit, which the tender youth,
And first growths of Thy Spouse did spread
Through all the world, from one small head!
Then if to blood we must resist,
Let Thy mild Dove, and our High-Priest,
Help us, when man proves false or frowns,
To bear the Cross, and save our crowns.
O honour those that honour Thee!
Make babes to still the enemy!
And teach an infant of few days
To perfect by his death Thy praise!
Let none defile what Thou didst wed,
Nor tear the garland from her head!
But chaste and cheerful let her die,
And precious in the Bridegroom's eye
So to Thy glory and her praise,
These last shall be her brightest days.

Revel[ation] chap. last, vers. 17.
"_The Spirit and the Bride say, Come._"

DAPHNIS.

_An Elegiac Eclogue. The Interlocutors, Damon, Menalcas._

_Damon._

What clouds, Menalcas, do oppress thy brow,
Flow'rs in a sunshine never look so low?
Is Nisa still cold flint? or have thy lambs
Met with the fox by straying from their dams?

_Menalcas._

Ah, Damon, no! my lambs are safe; and she
Is kind, and much more white than they can be.
But what doth life when most serene afford
Without a worm which gnaws her fairest gourd?
Our days of gladness are but short reliefs,
Giv'n to reserve us for enduring griefs:
So smiling calms close tempests breed, which break
Like spoilers out, and kill our flocks when weak.
I heard last May--and May is still high Spring--
The pleasant Philomel her vespers sing.
The green wood glitter'd with the golden sun.
And all the west like silver shin'd; not one
Black cloud; no rags, nor spots did stain
The welkin's beauty; nothing frown'd like rain.
But ere night came, that scene of fine sights turn'd
To fierce dark show'rs; the air with lightnings burn'd;
The wood's sweet syren, rudely thus oppress'd,
Gave to the storm her weak and weary breast.
I saw her next day on her last cold bed:
And Daphnis so, just so is Daphnis, dead!

_Damon._

So violets, so doth the primrose, fall,
At once the Spring's pride, and its funeral.
Such easy sweets get off still in their prime,
And stay not here to wear the soil of time;
While coarser flow'rs, which none would miss, if past,
To scorching Summers and cold Autumns last.

_Menalcas._

Souls need not time. The early forward things
Are always fledg'd, and gladly use their wings.
Or else great parts, when injur'd, quit the crowd,
To shine above still, not behind, the cloud.
And is't not just to leave those to the night
That madly hate and persecute the light?
Who, doubly dark, all negroes do exceed,
And inwardly are true black Moors indeed?

_Damon._

The punishment still manifests the sin,
As outward signs show the disease within.
While worth oppress'd mounts to a nobler height,
And palm-like bravely overtops the weight.
So where swift Isca from our lofty hills
With loud farewells descends, and foaming fills
A wider channel, like some great port-vein
With large rich streams to fill the humble plain:
I saw an oak, whose stately height and shade,
Projected far, a goodly shelter made;
And from the top with thick diffused boughs
In distant rounds grew like a wood-nymph's house.
Here many garlands won at roundel-lays
Old shepherds hung up in those happy days
With knots and girdles, the dear spoils and dress
Of such bright maids as did true lovers bless.
And many times had old Amphion made
His beauteous flock acquainted with this shade:
His flock, whose fleeces were as smooth and white
As those the welkin shows in moonshine night.
Here, when the careless world did sleep, have I
In dark records and numbers nobly high,
The visions of our black, but brightest bard
From old Amphion's mouth full often heard;
With all those plagues poor shepherds since have known,
And riddles more, which future time must own:
While on his pipe young Hylas play'd, and made
Music as solemn as the song and shade.
But the curs'd owner from the trembling top
To the firm brink did all those branches lop;
And in one hour what many years had bred,
The pride and beauty of the plain, lay dead.
The undone swains in sad songs mourn'd their loss,
While storms and cold winds did improve the cross;
But nature, which--like virtue--scorns to yield,
Brought new recruits and succours to the field;
For by next spring the check'd sap wak'd from sleep,
And upwards still to feel the sun did creep;
Till at those wounds, the hated hewer made,
There sprang a thicker and a fresher shade.

_Menalcas._

So thrives afflicted Truth, and so the light
When put out gains a value from the night.
How glad are we, when but one twinkling star
Peeps betwixt clouds more black than is our tar:
And Providence was kind, that order'd this
To the brave suff'rer should be solid bliss:
Nor is it so till this short life be done,
But goes hence with him, and is still his sun.

_Damon._

Come, shepherds, then, and with your greenest bays
Refresh his dust, who lov'd your learned lays.
Bring here the florid glories of the spring,
And, as you strew them, pious anthems sing,
Which to your children and the years to come
May speak of Daphnis, and be never dumb.
While prostrate I drop on his quiet urn
My tears, not gifts; and like the poor that mourn
With green but humble turfs, write o'er his hearse
For false, foul prose-men this fair truth in verse.

"Here Daphnis sleeps, and while the great watch goes
Of loud and restless Time, takes his repose.
Fame is but noise; all Learning but a thought;
Which one admires, another sets at nought,
Nature mocks both, and Wit still keeps ado:
But Death brings knowledge and assurance too."

_Menalcas._

Cast in your garlands! strew on all the flow'rs,
Which May with smiles or April feeds with show'rs,
Let this day's rites as steadfast as the sun
Keep pace with Time and through all ages run;
The public character and famous test
Of our long sorrows and his lasting rest.
And when we make procession on the plains,
Or yearly keep the holiday of swains,
Let Daphnis still be the recorded name,
And solemn honour of our feasts and fame.
For though the Isis and the prouder Thames
Can show his relics lodg'd hard by their streams:
And must for ever to the honour'd name
Of noble Murrey chiefly owe that fame:
Yet here his stars first saw him, and when Fate
Beckon'd him hence, it knew no other date.
Nor will these vocal woods and valleys fail,
Nor Isca's louder streams, this to bewail;
But while swains hope, and seasons change, will glide
With moving murmurs because Daphnis died.

_Damon._

A fatal sadness, such as still foregoes,
Then runs along with public plagues and woes,
Lies heavy on us; and the very light,
Turn'd mourner too, hath the dull looks of night.
Our vales, like those of death, a darkness show
More sad than cypress or the gloomy yew;
And on our hills, where health with height complied,
Thick drowsy mists hang round, and there reside.
Not one short parcel of the tedious year
In its old dress and beauty doth appear.
Flow'rs hate the spring, and with a sullen bend
Thrust down their heads, which to the root still tend.
And though the sun, like a cold lover, peeps
A little at them, still the day's-eye sleeps.
But when the Crab and Lion with acute
And active fires their sluggish heat recruit,
Our grass straight russets, and each scorching day
Drinks up our brooks as fast as dew in May;
Till the sad herdsman with his cattle faints,
And empty channels ring with loud complaints.

_Menalcas._

Heaven's just displeasure, and our unjust ways,
Change Nature's course; bring plagues, dearth, and decays.
This turns our lands to dust, the skies to brass,
Makes old kind blessings into curses pass:
And when we learn unknown and foreign crimes,
Brings in the vengeance due unto those climes.
The dregs and puddle of all ages now,
Like rivers near their fall, on us do flow.
Ah, happy Daphnis! who while yet the streams
Ran clear and warm, though but with setting beams,
Got through, and saw by that declining light,
His toil's and journey's end before the night.

_Damon._

A night, where darkness lays her chains and bars,
And feral fires appear instead of stars.
But he, along with the last looks of day,
Went hence, and setting--sunlike--pass'd away.
What future storms our present sins do hatch
Some in the dark discern, and others watch;
Though foresight makes no hurricane prove mild,
Fury that's long fermenting is most wild.
But see, while thus our sorrows we discourse,
Ph[oe]bus hath finish'd his diurnal course;
The shades prevail: each bush seems bigger grown;
Darkness--like State--makes small things swell and frown:
The hills and woods with pipes and sonnets round,
And bleating sheep our swains drive home, resound.

_Menalcas._

What voice from yonder lawn tends hither? Hark!
'Tis Thyrsis calls! I hear Lycanthe bark!
His flocks left out so late, and weary grown,
Are to the thickets gone, and there laid down.

_Damon._

Menalcas, haste to look them out! poor sheep,
When day is done, go willingly to sleep:
And could bad man his time spend as they do,
He might go sleep, or die, as willing too.

_Menalcas._

Farewell! kind Damon! now the shepherd's star
With beauteous looks smiles on us, though from far.
All creatures that were favourites of day
Are with the sun retir'd and gone away.
While feral birds send forth unpleasant notes,
And night--the nurse of thoughts--sad thoughts promotes:
But joy will yet come with the morning light,
Though sadly now we bid good night!

_Damon._

Good night!

FRAGMENTS AND TRANSLATIONS.

From _Eucharistica Oxoniensia in Caroli Regis nostri e Scotia Reditum
Gratulatoria_ (1641).

[TO CHARLES THE FIRST.]

As kings do rule like th' heavens, who dispense
To parts remote and near their influence;
So doth our Charles move also; while he posts
From south to north, and back to southern coasts;
Like to the starry orb, which in its round
Moves to those very points; but while 'tis bound
For north, there is--some guess--a trembling fit
And shivering in the part that's opposite.
What were our fears and pantings, what dire fame
Heard we of Irish tumults, sword, and flame!
Which now we think but blessings, as being sent
Only as matter, whereupon 'twas meant,
The British thus united might express,
The strength of joined Powers to suppress,
Or conquer foes. This is Great Britain's bliss;
The island in itself a just world is.
Here no commotion shall we find or fear,
But of the Court's removal, no sad tear
Or cloudy brow, but when you leave us. Then
Discord is loyalty professed, when
Nations do strive, which shall the happier be
T' enjoy your bounteous rays of majesty
Which yet you throw in undivided dart,
For things divine allow no share or part.
The same kind virtue doth at once disclose
The beauty of their thistle and our rose.
Thus you do mingle souls and firmly knit
What were but join'd before; you Scotsmen fit
Closely with us, and reuniter prove;
You fetch'd the crown before, and now their love.

H. Vaughan, Ies. Col.

From _Of the Benefit we may get by our Enemies_: translated from
Plutarch (1651).

1. [HOMER. ILIAD, I. 255-6.]

Sure Priam will to mirth incline,
And all that are of Priam's line.

2. [AESCHYLUS. SEPTEM CONTRA THEBES, 600-1.]

Feeding on fruits which in the heavens do grow,
Whence all divine and holy counsels flow.

3. [EURIPIDES. ORESTES, 251-2.]

Excel then if thou canst, be not withstood,
But strive and overcome the evil with good.

4. [EURIPIDES. FRAGM. MLXXI.]

You minister to others' wounds a cure,
But leave your own all rotten and impure.

5. [EURIPIDES. CRESPHONTES, FRAGM. CCCCLV.]

Chance, taking from me things of highest price,
At a dear rate hath taught me to be wise.

6. [INCERTI.]

[He] Knaves' tongues and calumnies no more doth prize
Than the vain buzzing of so many flies.

7. [PINDAR. FRAGM. C.]

His deep, dark heart--bent to supplant--
Is iron, or else adamant.

8. [SOLON. FRAGM. XV.]

What though they boast their riches unto us?
Those cannot say that they are virtuous.

From _Of the Diseases of the Mind and the Body_: translated from
Plutarch (1651).

1. [HOMER. ILIAD, XVII. 446-7.]

That man for misery excell'd
All creatures which the wide world held.

2. [EURIPIDES. BACCHAE, 1170-4.]

A tender kid--see, where 'tis put--
I on the hills did slay,
Now dress'd and into quarters cut,
A pleasant, dainty prey.

From _Of the Diseases of the Mind and the Body_: translated from Maximus
Tyrius (1651).

1. [ARIPHRON.]

O health, the chief of gifts divine!
I would I might with thee and thine
Live all those days appointed mine!

From _The Mount of Olives_ (1652).

1. [DEATH.]

Draw near, fond man, and dress thee by this glass,
Mark how thy bravery and big looks must pass
Into corruption, rottenness and dust;
The frail supporters which betray'd thy trust.
O weigh in time thy last and loathsome state!
To purchase heav'n for tears is no hard rate.
Our glory, greatness, wisdom, all we have,
If mis-employ'd, but add hell to the grave:
Only a fair redemption of evil times
Finds life in death, and buries all our crimes.

2. [HADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL.]

My soul, my pleasant soul, and witty,
The guest and consort of my body.
Into what place now all alone
Naked and sad wilt thou be gone?
No mirth, no wit, as heretofore,
Nor jests wilt thou afford me more.

3. [PAULINUS. CARM. APP. I. 35-40.]

What is't to me that spacious rivers run
Whole ages, and their streams are never done?
Those still remain: but all my fathers died,
And I myself but for few days abide.

4. [ANEURIN. ENGLYNION Y MISOEDD, III. 1-4.]

In March birds couple, a new birth
Of herbs and flow'rs breaks through the earth;
But in the grave none stirs his head,
Long is the impris'ment of the dead.

5. [INCERTI.]

So our decays God comforts by
The stars' concurrent state on high.

6. [JUVENAL. SATIRE XIII. 86-8.]

There are that do believe all things succeed
By chance or fortune: and that nought's decreed
By a divine, wise Will; but blindly call
Old Time and Nature rulers over all.

7. [INCERTI.]

From the first hour the heavens were made
Unto the last, when all shall fade,
Count--if thou canst--the drops of dew,
The stars of heav'n and streams that flow,
The falling snow, the dropping show'rs,
And in the month of May, the flow'rs,
Their scents and colours, and what store
Of grapes and apples Autumn bore,
How many grains the Summer bears,
What leaves the wind in Winter tears;
Count all the creatures in the world,
The motes which in the air are hurl'd,
The hairs of beasts and mankind, and
The shore's innumerable sand,
The blades of grass, and to these last
Add all the years which now are past,
With those whose course is yet to come,
And all their minutes in one sum.
When all is done, the damned's state
Outruns them still, and knows no date.

8. [VIRGIL. GEORGICS, IV. 12-138.]

I saw beneath Tarentum's stately towers
An old Cilician spend his peaceful hours.
Some few bad acres in a waste, wild field,
Which neither grass, nor corn, nor vines would yield,
He did possess. There--amongst thorns and weeds--
Cheap herbs and coleworts, with the common seeds
Of chesboule or tame poppies, he did sow,
And vervain with white lilies caused to grow.
Content he was, as are successful kings,
And late at night come home--for long work brings
The night still home--with unbought messes laid
On his low table he his hunger stay'd.
Roses he gather'd in the youthful Spring,
And apples in the Autumn home did bring:
And when the sad, cold Winter burst with frost
The stones, and the still streams in ice were lost,
He would soft leaves of bear's-foot crop, and chide
The slow west winds and ling'ring Summer-tide!

9. [VIRGIL. AENEID, III. 515.]

And rising at midnight the stars espied,
All posting westward in a silent glide.

10. [VIRGIL. GEORGICS, II. 58.]

The trees we set grow slowly, and their shade
Stays for our sons, while we--the planters--fade.
From _Man in Glory_: translated from Anselm (1652).

1. [ANSELM.]

Here holy Anselm lives in ev'ry page,
And sits archbishop still, to vex the age.
Had he foreseen--and who knows but he did?--
This fatal wrack, which deep in time lay hid,
'Tis but just to believe, that little hand
Which clouded him, but now benights our land,
Had never--like Elias--driv'n him hence,
A sad retirer for a slight offence.
For were he now, like the returning year,
Restor'd, to view these desolations here,
He would do penance for his old complaint,
And--weeping--say, that Rufus was a saint.

From the Epistle-Dedicatory to _Flores Solitudinis_ (1654).

1. [BISSELLIUS.]

The whole wench--how complete soe'er--was but
A specious bait; a soft, sly, tempting slut;
A pleasing witch; a living death; a fair,
Thriving disease; a fresh, infectious air;
A precious plague; a fury sweetly drawn;
Wild fire laid up and finely dress'd in lawn.

2. [AUGURELLIUS.]

Peter, when thou this pleasant world dost see,
Believe, thou seest mere dreams and vanity,
Not real things, but false, and through the air
Each-where an empty, slipp'ry scene, though fair.
The chirping birds, the fresh woods' shady boughs,
The leaves' shrill whispers, when the west wind blows,
The swift, fierce greyhounds coursing on the plains,
The flying hare, distress'd 'twixt fear and pains,
The bloomy maid decking with flow'rs her head,
The gladsome, easy youth by light love led;
And whatsoe'er here with admiring eyes
Thou seem'st to see, 'tis but a frail disguise
Worn by eternal things, a passive dress
Put on by beings that are passiveless.

From a Discourse _Of Temperance and Patience_: translated from
Nierembergius (1654).

1. [INCERTI.]

The naked man too gets the field,
And often makes the armed foe to yield.

2. [LUCRETIUS, IV. 1012-1020.]

[Some] struggle and groan as if by panthers torn,
Or lions' teeth, which makes them loudly mourn;
Some others seem unto themselves to die;
Some climb steep solitudes and mountains high,
From whence they seem to fall inanely down,
Panting with fear, till wak'd, and scarce their own
They feel about them if in bed they lie,
Deceiv'd with dreams, and Night's imagery.

In vain with earnest strugglings they contend
To ease themselves: for when they stir and bend
Their greatest force to do it, even then most
Of all they faint, and in their hopes are cross'd.
Nor tongue, nor hand, nor foot will serve their turn,
But without speech and strength within, they mourn.

3. [INCERTI.]

Thou the nepenthe easing grief
Art, and the mind's healing relief.

4. [INCERTI.]

Base man! and couldst thou think Cato alone
Wants courage to be dry? and but him, none?
Look'd I so soft? breath'd I such base desires,
Not proof against this Lybic sun's weak fires?
That shame and plague on thee more justly lie!
To drink alone, when all our troops are dry.

* * * * *

For with brave rage he flung it on the sand,
And the spilt draught suffic'd each thirsty band

5. [INCERTI.]

[Death keeps off]
And will not bear the cry
Of distress'd man, nor shut his weeping eye

6. [MAXIMUS.]

It lives when kill'd, and brancheth when 'tis lopp'd.

7. [MAXIMUS.]

Like some fair oak, that when her boughs
Are cut by rude hands, thicker grows;
And from those wounds the iron made
Resumes a rich and fresher shade.

8. [GREGORY NAZIANZEN.]

Patience digesteth misery.

9. [MARIUS VICTOR.]

----They fain would--if they might--
Descend to hide themselves in Hell. So light
Of foot is Vengeance; and so near to sin,
That soon as done, the actors do begin
To fear and suffer by themselves: Death moves
Before their eyes; sad dens and dusky groves
They haunt, and hope--vain hope which Fear doth guide!--
That those dark shades their inward guilt can hide.

10. [INCERTI.]

But night and day doth his own life molest,
And bears his judge and witness in his breast.

11. [THEODOTUS.]

Virtue's fair cares some people measure
For poisonous works that hinder pleasure.

12. [INCERTI.]

Man should with virtue arm'd and hearten'd be,
And innocently watch his enemy:
For fearless freedom, which none can control,
Is gotten by a pure and upright soul.

13. [INCERTI.]

Whose guilty soul, with terrors fraught, doth frame
New torments still, and still doth blow that flame
Which still burns him, nor sees what end can be
Of his dire plagues, and fruitful penalty;
But fears them living, and fears more to die;
Which makes his life a constant tragedy.

14. [INCERTI.]

And for life's sake to lose the crown of life.

15. [INCERTI.]

Nature even for herself doth lay a snare,
And handsome faces their own traitors are.

16. [MENANDER.]

True life in this is shown,
To live for all men's good, not for our own.

17. [INCERTI.]

As Egypt's drought by Nilus is redress'd,
So thy wise tongue doth comfort the oppress'd.

18. [INCERTI.]

[Like] to speedy posts, bear hence the lamp of life.

19. [DIONYSIUS LYRINENSIS.]

All worldly things, even while they grow, decay;
As smoke doth, by ascending, waste away.

20. [INCERTI.]

To live a stranger unto life.

From a _Discourse of Life and Death_: translated from Nierembergius
(1654).

1. [INCERTI.]

Whose hissings fright all Nature's monstrous ills;
His eye darts death, more swift than poison kills.
All monsters by instinct to him give place,
They fly for life, for death lives in his face;
And he alone by Nature's hid commands
Reigns paramount, and prince of all the sands.

2. [INCERTI.]