Chapter XXIII: Canto III (3)

4 Hark! how the children shrill and high
'Hosanna' cry;
Their joys provoke the distant sky,
Where thrones and seraphim reply;
And their own angels shine and sing,
In a bright ring:
Such young, sweet mirth
Makes heaven and earth
Join in a joyful symphony.

5 The harmless, young, and happy ass,
(Seen long before[1] this came to pass,)
Is in these joys a high partaker,
Ordained and made to bear his Maker.

6 Dear Feast of Palms, of flowers and dew!
Whose fruitful dawn sheds hopes and lights;
Thy bright solemnities did shew
The third glad day through two sad nights.

7 I'll get me up before the sun,
I'll cut me boughs off many a tree,
And all alone full early run
To gather flowers to welcome thee.

8 Then, like the palm, though wronged I'll bear,
I will be still a child, still meek
As the poor ass which the proud jeer,
And only my dear Jesus seek.

9 If I lose all, and must endure
The proverbed griefs of holy Job,
I care not, so I may secure
But one green branch and a white robe.

[1] Zechariah ix. 9.

PROVIDENCE.

1 Sacred and secret hand!
By whose assisting, swift command
The angel showed that holy well
Which freed poor Hagar from her fears,
And turned to smiles the begging tears
Of young, distressed Ishmael.

2 How, in a mystic cloud,
Which doth thy strange, sure mercies shroud,
Dost thou convey man food and money,
Unseen by him till they arrive
Just at his mouth, that thankless hive,
Which kills thy bees, and eats thy honey!

3 If I thy servant be,
Whose service makes even captives free,
A fish shall all my tribute pay,
The swift-winged raven shall bring me meat,
And I, like flowers, shall still go neat,
As if I knew no month but May.

4 I will not fear what man
With all his plots and power can.
Bags that wax old may plundered be;
But none can sequester or let
A state that with the sun doth set,
And comes next morning fresh as he.

5 Poor birds this doctrine sing,
And herbs which on dry hills do spring,
Or in the howling wilderness
Do know thy dewy morning hours,
And watch all night for mists or showers,
Then drink and praise thy bounteousness.

6 May he for ever die
Who trusts not thee, but wretchedly
Hunts gold and wealth, and will not lend
Thy service nor his soul one day!
May his crown, like his hopes, be clay;
And what he saves may his foes spend!

7 If all my portion here,
The measure given by thee each year,
Were by my causeless enemies
Usurped; it never should me grieve,
Who know how well thou canst relieve,
Whose hands are open as thine eyes.

8 Great King of love and truth!
Who wouldst not hate my froward youth,
And wilt not leave me when grown old,
Gladly will I, like Pontic sheep,
Unto my wormwood diet keep,
Since thou hast made thy arm my fold.

ST MARY MAGDALENE.

Dear, beauteous saint! more white than day, When in his naked, pure array; Fresher than morning-flowers, which shew, As thou in tears dost, best in dew. How art thou changed, how lively, fair, Pleasing, and innocent an air, Not tutored by thy glass, but free, Native, and pure, shines now in thee! But since thy beauty doth still keep Bloomy and fresh, why dost thou weep? This dusky state of sighs and tears Durst not look on those smiling years, When Magdal-castle was thy seat, Where all was sumptuous, rare, and neat. Why lies this hair despised now Which once thy care and art did show? Who then did dress the much-loved toy In spires, globes, angry curls and coy, Which with skilled negligence seemed shed About thy curious, wild, young head? Why is this rich, this pistic nard Spilt, and the box quite broke and marred? What pretty sullenness did haste Thy easy hands to do this waste? Why art thou humbled thus, and low As earth thy lovely head dost bow? Dear soul! thou knew'st flowers here on earth At their Lord's footstool have their birth; Therefore thy withered self in haste Beneath his blest feet thou didst cast, That at the root of this green tree Thy great decays restored might be. Thy curious vanities, and rare Odorous ointments kept with care, And dearly bought, when thou didst see They could not cure nor comfort thee; Like a wise, early penitent, Thou sadly didst to him present, Whose interceding, meek, and calm Blood, is the world's all-healing balm. This, this divine restorative Called forth thy tears, which ran in live And hasty drops, as if they had (Their Lord so near) sense to be glad. Learn, ladies, here the faithful cure Makes beauty lasting, fresh, and pure; Learn Mary's art of tears, and then Say you have got the day from men. Cheap, mighty art! her art of love, Who loved much, and much more could move; Her art! whose memory must last Till truth through all the world be passed; Till his abused, despised flame Return to heaven, from whence it came, And send a fire down, that shall bring Destruction on his ruddy wing. Her art! whose pensive, weeping eyes, Were once sin's loose and tempting spies; But now are fixed stars, whose light Helps such dark stragglers to their sight.

Self-boasting Pharisee! how blind A judge wert thou, and how unkind! It was impossible that thou, Who wert all false, shouldst true grief know. Is't just to judge her faithful tears By that foul rheum thy false eye wears? 'This woman,' sayst thou, 'is a sinner!' And sat there none such at thy dinner? Go, leper, go! wash till thy flesh Comes like a child's, spotless and fresh; He is still leprous that still paints: Who saint themselves, they are no saints.

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, 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: 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[1] of his eye! When I behold thee, though my light be dim, Distant, and low, I can in thine see him, Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, And minds the covenant 'twixt all and one. O foul, deceitful men! my God doth keep His promise still, but we break ours and sleep. After the fall the first sin was in blood, And drunkenness quickly did succeed the flood; But since Christ died, (as if we did devise To lose him too, as well as paradise,) These two grand sins we join and act together, Though blood and drunkenness make but foul, foul weather. Water, though both heaven's windows and the deep Full forty days o'er the drowned world did weep, Could not reform us, and blood in despite, Yea, God's own blood, we tread upon and slight. So those bad daughters, which God saved from fire, While Sodom yet did smoke, lay with their sire.

Then, peaceful, signal bow, but in a cloud Still lodged, where all thy unseen arrows shroud; I will on thee as on a comet look, A comet, the sad world's ill-boding book; Thy light as luctual and stained with woes I'll judge, where penal flames sit mixed and close. For though some think thou shin'st but to restrain Bold storms, and simply dost attend on rain; Yet I know well, and so our sins require, Thou dost but court cold rain, till rain turns fire.

[1] Genesis ix. 16.

THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY.

MARK IV. 26.

1 If this world's friends might see but once
What some poor man may often feel,
Glory and gold and crowns and thrones
They would soon quit, and learn to kneel.

2 My dew, my dew! my early love,
My soul's bright food, thy absence kills!
Hover not long, eternal Dove!
Life without thee is loose and spills.

3 Something I had, which long ago
Did learn to suck and sip and taste;
But now grown sickly, sad, and slow,
Doth fret and wrangle, pine and waste.

4 Oh, spread thy sacred wings, and shake
One living drop! one drop life keeps!
If pious griefs heaven's joys awake,
Oh, fill his bottle! thy child weeps!

5 Slowly and sadly doth he grow,
And soon as left shrinks back to ill;
Oh, feed that life, which makes him blow
And spread and open to thy will!

6 For thy eternal, living wells
None stained or withered shall come near:
A fresh, immortal green there dwells,
And spotless white is all the wear.

7 Dear, secret greenness! nursed below
Tempests and winds and winter nights!
Vex not that but One sees thee grow,
That One made all these lesser lights.

8 If those bright joys he singly sheds
On thee, were all met in one crown,
Both sun and stars would hide their heads;
And moons, though full, would get them down.

9 Let glory be their bait whose minds
Are all too high for a low cell:
Though hawks can prey through storms and winds,
The poor bee in her hive must dwell.

10 Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still
To what most takes them is a drudge;
And they too oft take good for ill,
And thriving vice for virtue judge.

11 What needs a conscience calm and bright
Within itself an outward test?
Who breaks his glass to take more light,
Makes way for storms into his rest.

12 Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch
At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb;
Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch,
Till the white-winged reapers come!

CHILDHOOD.

I cannot reach it; and my striving eye Dazzles at it, as at eternity. Were now that chronicle alive, Those white designs which children drive, And the thoughts of each harmless hour, With their content too in my power, Quickly would I make my path even, And by mere playing go to heaven.

Why should men love A wolf more than a lamb or dove? Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams Before bright stars and God's own beams? Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face, But flowers do both refresh and grace; And sweetly living (fie on men!) Are, when dead, medicinal then. If seeing much should make staid eyes, And long experience should make wise, Since all that age doth teach is ill, Why should I not love childhood still? Why, if I see a rock or shelf, Shall I from thence cast down myself, Or by complying with the world, From the same precipice be hurled? Those observations are but foul, Which make me wise to lose my soul.

And yet the practice worldlings call Business and weighty action all, Checking the poor child for his play, But gravely cast themselves away.

Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span Where weeping virtue parts with man; Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends.

An age of mysteries! which he Must live twice that would God's face see; Which angels guard, and with it play, Angels! which foul men drive away.

How do I study now, and scan Thee more than ere I studied man, And only see through a long night Thy edges and thy bordering light! Oh for thy centre and mid-day! For sure that is the narrow way!

ABEL'S BLOOD.

Sad, purple well! whose bubbling eye Did first against a murderer cry; Whose streams, still vocal, still complain Of bloody Cain; And now at evening are as red As in the morning when first shed. If single thou, Though single voices are but low, Couldst such a shrill and long cry rear As speaks still in thy Maker's ear, What thunders shall those men arraign Who cannot count those they have slain, Who bathe not in a shallow flood, But in a deep, wide sea of blood-- A sea whose loud waves cannot sleep, But deep still calleth upon deep; Whose urgent sound, like unto that Of many waters, beateth at The everlasting doors above, Where souls behind the altar move, And with one strong, incessant cry Inquire 'How long?' of the Most High? Almighty Judge! At whose just laws no just men grudge; Whose blessed, sweet commands do pour Comforts and joys and hopes each hour On those that keep them; oh, accept Of his vowed heart, whom thou hast kept From bloody men! and grant I may That sworn memorial duly pay To thy bright arm, which was my light And leader through thick death and night! Aye may that flood, That proudly spilt and despised blood, Speechless and calm as infants sleep! Or if it watch, forgive and weep For those that spilt it! May no cries From the low earth to high heaven rise, But what, like his whose blood peace brings, Shall, when they rise, speak better things Than Abel's doth! May Abel be Still single heard, while these agree With his mild blood in voice and will, Who prayed for those that did him kill!

RIGHTEOUSNESS.

1 Fair, solitary path! whose blessed shades
The old, white prophets planted first and dressed;
Leaving for us, whose goodness quickly fades,
A shelter all the way, and bowers to rest;

2 Who is the man that walks in thee? who loves
Heaven's secret solitude, those fair abodes,
Where turtles build, and careless sparrows move,
Without to-morrow's evils and future loads?

3 Who hath the upright heart, the single eye,
The clean, pure hand, which never meddled pitch?
Who sees invisibles, and doth comply
With hidden treasures that make truly rich?

4 He that doth seek and love
The things above,
Whose spirit ever poor is, meek, and low;
Who simple still and wise,
Still homeward flies,
Quick to advance, and to retreat most slow.

5 Whose acts, words, and pretence
Have all one sense,
One aim and end; who walks not by his sight;
Whose eyes are both put out,
And goes about
Guided by faith, not by exterior light.

6 Who spills no blood, nor spreads
Thorns in the beds
Of the distressed, hasting their overthrow;
Making the time they had
Bitter and sad,
Like chronic pains, which surely kill, though slow.

7 Who knows earth nothing hath
Worth love or wrath,
But in his Hope and Rock is ever glad.
Who seeks and follows peace,
When with the ease
And health of conscience it is to be had.

8 Who bears his cross with joy,
And doth employ
His heart and tongue in prayers for his foes;
Who lends not to be paid,
And gives full aid
Without that bribe which usurers impose.

9 Who never looks on man
Fearful and wan,
But firmly trusts in God; the great man's measure,
Though high and haughty, must
Be ta'en in dust;
But the good man is God's peculiar treasure.

10 Who doth thus, and doth not
These good deeds blot
With bad, or with neglect; and heaps not wrath
By secret filth, nor feeds
Some snake, or weeds,
Cheating himself--That man walks in this path.

JACOB'S PILLOW AND PILLAR.

I see the temple in thy pillar reared, And that dread glory which thy children feared, In mild, clear visions, without a frown, Unto thy solitary self is shown. 'Tis number makes a schism: throngs are rude, And God himself died by the multitude. This made him put on clouds, and fire, and smoke; Hence he in thunder to thy offspring spoke. The small, still voice at some low cottage knocks, But a strong wind must break thy lofty rocks.

The first true worship of the world's great King From private and selected hearts did spring; But he most willing to save all mankind, Enlarged that light, and to the bad was kind. Hence catholic or universal came A most fair notion, but a very name. For this rich pearl, like some more common stone, When once made public, is esteemed by none. Man slights his Maker when familiar grown, And sets up laws to pull his honour down. This God foresaw: and when slain by the crowd, Under that stately and mysterious cloud Which his death scattered, he foretold the place And form to serve him in should be true grace, And the meek heart; not in a mount, nor at Jerusalem, with blood of beasts and fat. A heart is that dread place, that awful cell, That secret ark, where the mild Dove doth dwell, When the proud waters rage: when heathens rule By God's permission, and man turns a mule, This little Goshen, in the midst of night And Satan's seat, in all her coasts hath light; Yea, Bethel shall have tithes, saith Israel's stone, And vows and visions, though her foes cry, None. Thus is the solemn temple sunk again Into a pillar, and concealed from men. And glory be to his eternal name, Who is contented that this holy flame Shall lodge in such a narrow pit, till he With his strong arm turns our captivity!

But blessed Jacob, though thy sad distress Was just the same with ours, and nothing less; For thou a brother, and bloodthirsty too,

Didst fly,[1] whose children wrought thy children's woe: Yet thou in all thy solitude and grief, On stones didst sleep, and found'st but cold relief; Thou from the Day-star a long way didst stand, And all that distance was law and command. But we a healing Sun, by day and night, Have our sure guardian and our leading light. What thou didst hope for and believe we find And feel, a Friend most ready, sure, and kind. Thy pillow was but type and shade at best, But we the substance have, and on him rest.

[1] Obadiah 10; Amos i, 11.

THE FEAST.

1 Oh, come away,
Make no delay,
Come while my heart is clean and steady!
While faith and grace
Adorn the place,
Making dust and ashes ready!

2 No bliss here lent
Is permanent,
Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit;
Short sips and sights
Endear delights:
Who seeks for more he would inherit.

3 Come then, true bread,
Quickening the dead,
Whose eater shall not, cannot die!
Come, antedate
On me that state,
Which brings poor dust the victory.

4 Aye victory,
Which from thine eye
Breaks as the day doth from the east,
When the spilt dew
Like tears doth shew
The sad world wept to be released.

5 Spring up, O wine,
And springing shine
With some glad message from his heart,
Who did, when slain,
These means ordain
For me to have in him a part!

6 Such a sure part
In his blest heart,
The well where living waters spring,
That, with it fed,
Poor dust, though dead,
Shall rise again, and live, and sing.

7 O drink and bread,
Which strikes death dead,
The food of man's immortal being!
Under veils here
Thou art my cheer,
Present and sure without my seeing.

8 How dost thou fly
And search and pry
Through all my parts, and, like a quick
And knowing lamp,
Hunt out each damp,
Whose shadow makes me sad or sick!

9 O what high joys!
The turtle's voice
And songs I hear! O quickening showers
Of my Lord's blood,
You make rocks bud,
And crown dry hills with wells and flowers!

10 For this true ease,
This healing peace,
For this [brief] taste of living glory,
My soul and all,
Kneel down and fall,
And sing his sad victorious story!

11 O thorny crown,
More soft than down!
O painful cross, my bed of rest!
O spear, the key
Opening the way!
O thy worst state, my only best!

12 O all thy griefs
Are my reliefs,
As all my sins thy sorrows were!
And what can I,
To this reply?
What, O God! but a silent tear?

13 Some toil and sow
That wealth may flow,
And dress this earth for next year's meat:
But let me heed
Why thou didst bleed,
And what in the next world to eat.

'Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the Lamb.'--Rev. xix. 9.

THE WATERFALL.

With what deep murmurs, through time's silent stealth,
Does thy transparent, cool, and watery wealth
Here flowing fall,
And chide and call,
As if his liquid, loose retinue staid
Lingering, and were of this steep place afraid;
The common pass,
Where, clear as glass,
All must descend,
Not to an end,
But quickened by this deep and rocky grave,
Rise to a longer course more bright and brave.

Dear stream! dear bank! where often I
Have sat, and pleased my pensive eye;
Why, since each drop of thy quick store
Runs thither whence it flowed before,
Should poor souls fear a shade or night,
Who came (sure) from a sea of light?
Or, since those drops are all sent back
So sure to thee that none doth lack,
Why should frail flesh doubt any more
That what God takes he'll not restore?

O useful element and clear!
My sacred wash and cleanser here;
My first consigner unto those
Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes!
What sublime truths and wholesome themes
Lodge in thy mystical, deep streams!
Such as dull man can never find,
Unless that Spirit lead his mind,
Which first upon thy face did move
And hatched all with his quickening love.
As this loud brook's incessant fall
In streaming rings re-stagnates all,
Which reach by course the bank, and then
Are no more seen: just so pass men.
O my invisible estate,
My glorious liberty, still late!
Thou art the channel my soul seeks,
Not this with cataracts and creeks.

DR JOSEPH BEAUMONT.

This writer, though little known, appears to us to stand as high almost as any name in the present volume, and we are proud to reprint here some considerable specimens of his magnificent poetry.

Joseph Beaumont was sprung from a collateral branch of the ancient family of the Beaumonts, that family from which sprung Sir John Beaumont, the author of 'Bosworth Field,' and Francis Beaumont, the celebrated dramatist. He was born at Hadleigh, in Suffolk. Of his early life nothing is known. He received his education at Cambridge, where, during the Civil War, he was fellow and tutor of Peterhouse. Ejected by the Republicans from his offices, he retired to Hadleigh, and spent his time in the com- position of his _magnum opus_, 'Psyche.' This poem appeared in 1648; and in 1702, three years after the author's death, his son published a second edition, with numerous corrections, and the addition of four cantos by the author. Beaumont also wrote several minor pieces in English and Latin, a controversial tract in reply to Henry More's 'Mystery of Godliness,' and several theological works which are still in MS., according to a provision in his will to that effect. Peace and perpetuity to their slumbers!

After the Restoration, our author was not only reinstated in his former situations, but received from his patron, Bishop Wren, several valuable pieces of preferment besides. Afterwards, he exercised successively the offices of Master of Jesus and of Peterhouse, and was King's Professor of Divinity from 1670 to 1699. In the latter year he died.

While praising the genius of Beaumont, we are far from commending his 'Psyche,' either as an artistic whole, or as a readable book. It is, sooth to say, a dull allegory, in twenty-four immense cantos, studded with the rarest beauties. It is considerably longer than the 'Faery Queen,' nearly four times the length of the 'Paradise Lost,' and five or six times as long as the 'Excursion.' To read it through now-a-days were to perform a purgatorial penance. But the imagination and fancy are Spenserian, his colouring is often Titianesque in gorgeousness, and his pictures of shadows, abstractions, and all fantastic forms, are so forcible as to seem to start from the canvas. In painting the beautiful, his verse becomes careless and flowing as a loosened zone; in painting the frightful and the infernal, his language, like his feeling, seems to curdle and stiffen in horror, as where, speaking of Satan, he says--

'His tawny teeth
Were ragged grown, by endless _gnashing at
The dismal riddle of his living death._'

The 'Psyche' may be compared to a palace of Fairyland, where successive doors fly open to the visitor--one revealing a banqueting-room filled with the materials of exuberant mirth; another, an enchanted garden, with streams stealing from grottos, and nymphs gliding through groves; a third conducting you to a dungeon full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness; a fourth, to a pit which seems the mouth of hell, and whence cries of torture come up, shaking the smoke that ascendeth up for ever and ever; and a fifth, to the open roof, over which the stars are seen bending, and the far-off heavens are opening in glory; and of these doors there is no end. We saw, when lately in Copenhagen, the famous tower of the Trinity Church, remarkable for the grand view commanded from the summit, and for the broad spiral ascent winding within it almost to the top, up which it is said Peter the Great, in 1716, used to drive himself and his Empress in a coach-and-four. It was curious to feel ourselves ascending on a path nearly level, and without the slightest perspiration or fatigue; and here, we thought, is the desiderated 'royal road' to difficulties fairly found. Large poems should be constructed on the same principle; their quiet, broad interest should beguile their readers alike to their length and their loftiness. It is exactly the reverse with 'Psyche.' But if any reader is wearied of some of the extracts we have given, such as his verses on 'Eve,' on 'Paradise,' on 'End,' on 'The Death of his Wife,' and on 'Imperial Rome,' we shall be very much disposed to question his capacity for appreciating true poetry.

HELL.

1 Hell's court is built deep in a gloomy vale,
High walled with strong damnation, moated round
With flaming brimstone: full against the hall
Roars a burnt bridge of brass: the yards abound
With all envenomed herbs and trees, more rank
And fruitless than on Asphaltite's bank.

2 The gate, where Fire and Smoke the porters be,
Stands always ope with gaping greedy jaws.
Hither flocked all the states of misery;
As younger snakes, when their old serpent draws
Them by a summoning hiss, haste down her throat
Of patent poison their awed selves to shoot.

3 The hall was roofed with everlasting pride,
Deep paved with despair, checkered with spite,
And hanged round with torments far and wide:
The front displayed a goodly-dreadful sight,
Great Satan's arms stamped on an iron shield,
A crowned dragon, gules, in sable field.

4 There on's immortal throne of death they see
Their mounted lord; whose left hand proudly held
His globe, (for all the world he claims to be
His proper realm,) whose bloody right did wield
His mace, on which ten thousand serpents knit,
With restless madness gnawed themselves and it.

5 His awful horns above his crown did rise,
And force his fiends to shrink in theirs: his face
Was triply-plated impudence: his eyes
Were hell reflected in a double glass,
Two comets staring in their bloody stream,
Two beacons boiling in their pitch and flame.

6 His mouth in breadth vied with his palace gate
And conquered it in soot: his tawny teeth
Were ragged grown, by endless gnashing at
The dismal riddle of his living death:
His grizzly beard a singed confession made
What fiery breath through his black lips did trade.

7 Which as he oped, the centre, on whose back
His chair of ever-fretting pain was set,
Frighted beside itself, began to quake:
Throughout all hell the barking hydras shut
Their awed mouths: the silent peers, in fear,
Hung down their tails, and on their lord did stare.

JOSEPH'S DREAM.

1 When this last night had sealed up mine eyes,
And opened heaven's, whose countenance now was clear,
And trimmed with every star; on his soft wing
A nimble vision me did thither bring.

2 Quite through the storehouse of the air I passed
Where choice of every weather treasured lies:
Here, rain is bottled up; there, hail is cast
In candied heaps: here, banks of snow do rise;
There, furnaces of lightning burn, and those
Long-bearded stars which light us to our woes.

3 Hence towered I to a dainty world: the air
Was sweet and calm, and in my memory
Waked my serener mother's looks: this fair
Canaan now fled from my discerning eye;
The earth was shrunk so small, methought I read,
By that due prospect, what it was indeed.

4 But then, arriving at an orb whose flames,
Like an unbounded ocean, flowed about,
Fool as I was, I quaked; till its kind beams
Gave me a harmless kiss. I little thought
Fire could have been so mild; but surely here
It rageth, 'cause we keep it from its sphere.

5 There, reverend sire, it flamed, but with as sweet
An ardency as in your noble heart
That heavenly zeal doth burn, whose fostering heat
Makes you Heaven's living holocaust: no part
Of my dream's tender wing felt any harm;
Our journey, not the fire, did keep us warm.

6 But here my guide, his wings' soft oars to spare,
On the moon's lower horn clasped hold, and whirled
Me up into a region as far,
In splendid worth, surmounting this low world
As in its place: for liquid crystal here
Was the tralucid matter of each sphere.

7 The moon was kind, and, as we scoured by,
Showed us the deed whereby the great Creator
Instated her in that large monarchy
She holdeth over all the ocean's water:
To which a schedule was annexed, which o'er
All other humid bodies gives her power.

8 Now complimental Mercury was come
To the quaint margin of his courtly sphere,
And bid us eloquent welcome to his home.
Scarce could we pass, so great a crowd was there
Of points and lines; and nimble Wit beside
Upon the back of thousand shapes did ride.

9 Next Venus' face, heaven's joy and sweetest pride,
(Which brought again my mother to my mind,)
Into her region lured my ravished guide.
This strewed with youth, and smiles, and love we find;
And those all chaste: 'tis this foul world below
Adulterates what from thence doth spotless flow.

10 Then rapt to Phoebus' orb, all paved with gold,
The rich reflection of his own aspect:
Most gladly there I would have stayed, and told
How many crowns and thorns his dwelling decked,
What life, what verdure, what heroic might,
What pearly spirits, what sons of active light.

11 But I was hurried into Mars his sphere,
Where Envy, (oh, how cursed was its grim face!)
And Jealousy, and Fear, and Wrath, and War
Quarrelled, although in heaven, about their place.
Yea, engines there to vomit fire I saw,
Whose flame and thunder earth at length must know.

12 Nay, in a corner, 'twas my hap to spy
Something which looked but frowardly on me:
And sure my watchful guide read in mine eye
My musing troubled sense; for straightway he,
Lest I should start and wake upon the fright,
Speeded from thence his seasonable flight.

13 Welcome was Jupiter's dominion, where
Illustrious Mildness round about did flow;
Religion had built her temple there,
And sacred honours on its walks did grow:
No mitre ever priest's grave head shall crown,
Which in those mystic gardens was not sown.

14 At length, we found old Saturn in his bed;
And much I wondered how, and he so dull,
Could climb thus high: his house was lumpish lead,
Of dark and solitary comers full;
Where Discontent and Sickness dwellers be,
Damned Melancholy and dead Lethargy.

15 Hasting from hence into a boundless field,
Innumerable stars we marshalled found
In fair array: this earth did never yield
Such choice of flowery pride, when she had crowned
The plains of Shechem, where the gaudy Spring
Smiles on the beauties of each verdant thing.

PARADISE.

1 Within, rose hills of spice and frankincense,
Which smiled upon the flowery vales below,
Where living crystal found a sweet pretence
With musical impatience to flow,
And delicately chide the gems beneath
Because no smoother they had paved its path.

2 The nymphs which sported on this current's side
Were milky Thoughts, tralucid, pure Desires,
Soft turtles' Kisses, Looks of virgin brides,
Sweet Coolness which nor needs nor feareth fires,
Snowy Embraces, cheerly-sober Eyes,
Gentleness, Mildness, Ingenuities.

3 The early gales knocked gently at the door
Of every flower, to bid the odours wake;
Which, catching in their softest arms, they bore
From bed to bed, and so returned them back
To their own lodgings, doubled by the blisses
They sipped from their delicious brethren's kisses.

4 Upon the wings of those enamouring breaths
Refreshment, vigour, nimbleness attended;
Which, wheresoe'er they flew, cheered up their paths,
And with fresh airs of life all things befriended:
For Heaven's sweet Spirit deigned his breath to join
And make the powers of these blasts divine.

5 The goodly trees' bent arms their nobler load
Of fruit which blest oppression overbore:
That orchard where the dragon warder stood,
For all its golden boughs, to this was poor,
To this, in which the greater serpent lay,
Though not to guard the trees, but to betray.

6 Of fortitude there rose a stately row;
Here, of munificence a thickset grove;
There, of wise industry a quickset grew;
Here, flourished a dainty copse of love;
There, sprang up pleasant twigs of ready wit;
Here, larger trees of gravity were set,

7 Here, temperance; and wide-spread justice there,
Under whose sheltering shadow piety,
Devotion, mildness, friendship planted were;
Next stood renown with head exalted high;
Then twined together plenty, fatness, peace.
O blessed place, where grew such things as these!

EVE.

1 Her spacious, polished forehead was the fair
And lovely plain where gentle majesty
Walked in delicious state: her temples clear
Pomegranate fragments, which rejoiced to lie
In dainty ambush, and peep through their cover
Of amber-locks whose volume curled over.

2 The fuller stream of her luxuriant hair
Poured down itself upon her ivory back:
In which soft flood ten thousand graces were
Sporting and dallying with every lock;
The rival winds for kisses fell to fight,
And raised a ruffling tempest of delight.

3 Two princely arches, of most equal measures,
Held up the canopy above her eyes,
And opened to the heavens far richer treasures,
Than with their stars or sun e'er learn'd to rise:
Those beams can ravish but the body's sight,
These dazzle stoutest souls with mystic light.

4 Two garrisons were these of conquering love;
Two founts of life, of spirit, of joy, of grace;
Two easts in one fair heaven, no more above,
But in the hemisphere of her own face;
Two thrones of gallantry; two shops of miracles;
Two shrines of deities; two silent oracles.

5 For silence here could eloquently plead;
Here might the unseen soul be clearly read:
Though gentle humours their mild mixture made,
They proved a double burning-glass which shed
Those living flames which, with enlivening darts,
Shoot deaths of love into spectators' hearts.

6 'Twixt these, an alabaster promontory
Sloped gently down to part each cheek from other;
Where white and red strove for the fairer glory,
Blending in sweet confusion together.
The rose and lily never joined were
In so divine a marriage as there.

7 Couchant upon these precious cushionets
Were thousand beauties, and as many smiles,
Chaste blandishments, and modest cooling heats,
Harmless temptations, and honest guiles.
For heaven, though up betimes the maid to deck,
Ne'er made Aurora's cheeks so fair and sleek.

8 Enamouring neatness, softness, pleasure, at
Her gracious mouth in full retinue stood;
For, next the eyes' bright glass, the soul at that
Takes most delight to look and walk abroad.
But at her lips two threads of scarlet lay,
Or two warm corals, to adorn the way,--

9 The precious way whereby her breath and tongue,
Her odours and her honey, travelled,
Which nicest critics would have judged among
Arabian or Hyblaean mountains bred.
Indeed, the richer Araby in her
Dear mouth and sweeter Hybla dwelling were.

10 More gracefully its golden chapiter
No column of white marble e'er sustained
Than her round polished neck supported her
Illustrious head, which there in triumph reigned.
Yet neither would this pillar hardness know,
Nor suffer cold to dwell amongst its snow.

11 Her blessed bosom moderately rose
With two soft mounts of lilies, whose fair top
A pair of pretty sister cherries chose,
And there their living crimson lifted up.
The milky countenance of the hills confessed
What kind of springs within had made their nest.

12 So leggiadrous were her snowy hands
That pleasure moved as any finger stirred:
Her virgin waxen arms were precious bands
And chains of love: her waist itself did gird
With its own graceful slenderness, and tie
Up delicacy's best epitome.

13 Fair politure walked all her body over,
And symmetry rejoiced in every part;
Soft and white sweetness was her native cover,
From every member beauty shot a dart:
From heaven to earth, from head to foot I mean,
No blemish could by envy's self be seen.

14 This was the first-born queen of gallantry;
All gems compounded into one rich stone,
All sweets knit into one conspiracy;
A constellation of all stars in one;
Who, when she was presented to their view,
Both paradise and nature dazzled grew.

15 Phoebus, who rode in glorious scorn's career
About the world, no sooner spied her face,
But fain he would have lingered, from his sphere
On this, though less, yet sweeter, heaven, to gaze
Till shame enforced him to lash on again,
And clearer wash him in the western main.

16 The smiling air was tickled with his high
Prerogative of uncontrolled bliss,
Embracing with entirest liberty
A body soft, and sweet, and chaste as his.
All odorous gales that had but strength to stir
Came flocking in to beg perfumes of her.

17 The marigold her garish love forgot,
And turned her homage to these fairer eyes;
All flowers looked up, and dutifully shot
Their wonder hither, whence they saw arise
Unparching courteous lustre, which instead
Of fire, soft joy's irradiations spread.

18 The sturdiest trees, affected by her dear
Delightful presence, could not choose but melt
At their hard pith; whilst all the birds whose clear
Pipes tossed mirth about the branches, felt
The influence of her looks; for having let
Their song fall down, their eyes on her they set.

TO THE MEMORY OF HIS WIFE.

1 Sweet soul, how goodly was the temple which
Heaven pleased to make thy earthly habitation!
Built all of graceful delicacy, rich
In symmetry, and of a dangerous fashion
For youthful eyes, had not the saint within
Governed the charms of her enamouring shrine.

2 How happily compendious didst thou make
My study when I was the lines to draw
Of genuine beauty! never put to take
Long journeys was my fancy; still I saw
At home my copy, and I knew 'twould be
But beauty's wrong further to seek than thee.

3 Full little knew the world (for I as yet
In studied silence hugged my secret bliss)
How facile was my Muse's task, when set
Virtue's and grace's features to express!
For whilst accomplished thou wert in my sight
I nothing had to do, but look and write.

4 How sadly parted are those words; since I
Must now be writing, but no more can look!
Yet in my heart thy precious memory,
So deep is graved, that from this faithful book,
Truly transcribed, thy character shall shine;
Nor shall thy death devour what was divine.

5 Hear then, O all soft-hearted turtles, hear
What you alone profoundly will resent:
A bird of your pure feather 'tis whom here
Her desolate mate remaineth to lament,
Whilst she is flown to meet her dearer love,
And sing among the winged choir above.

6 Twelve times the glorious sovereign of day
Had made his progress, and in every inn
Whose golden signs through all his radiant way
So high are hung, as often lodged been,
Since in the sacred knot this noble she
Deigned to be tied to (then how happy) me.

7 Tied, tied we were so intimately, that
We straight were sweetly lost in one another.
Thus when two notes in music's wedlock knit,
They in one concord blended are together:
For nothing now our life but music was;
Her soul the treble made, and mine the base.

8 How at the needless question would she smile,
When asked what she desired or counted fit?
Still bidding me examine mine own will,
And read the surest answer ready writ.
So centred was her heart in mine, that she
Would own no wish, if first not wished by me.

9 Delight was no such thing to her, if I
Relished it not: the palate of her pleasure
Carefully watched what mine could taste, and by
That standard her content resolved to measure.
By this rare art of sweetness did she prove
That though she joyed, yet all her joy was love.

10 So was her grief: for wronged herself she held
If I were sad alone; her share, alas!
And more than so, in all my sorrows' field
She duly reaped: and here alone she was
Unjust to me. Ah! dear injustice, which
Mak'st me complain that I was loved too much!

* * * * *

11 She ne'er took post to keep an equal pace
Still with the newest modes, which swiftly run:
She never was perplexed to hear her lace
Accused for six months' old, when first put on:
She laid no watchful leaguers, costly vain,
Intelligence with fashions to maintain.

12 On a pin's point she ne'er held consultation,
Nor at her glass's strict tribunal brought
Each plait to scrupulous examination:
Ashamed she was that Titan's coach about
Half heaven should sooner wheel, than she could pass
Through all the petty stages of her dress.

13 No gadding itch e'er spurred her to delight
In needless sallies; none but civil care
Of friendly correspondence could invite
Her out of doors; unless she 'pointed were
By visitations from Heaven's hand, where she
Might make her own in tender sympathy.

14 Abroad, she counted but her prison: home,
Home was the region of her liberty.
Abroad diverson thronged, and left no room
For zeal's set task, and virtue's business free:
Home was her less encumbered scene, though there
Angels and gods she knew spectators were.

* * * * *

15 This weaned her heart from things below,
And kindled it with strong desire to gain
Her hope's high aim. Life could no longer now
Flatter her love, or make her prayers refrain
From begging, yet with humble resignation,
To be dismissed from her mortal station.

16 Oh, how she welcomed her courteous pain,
And languished with most serene content!
No paroxysms could make her once complain,
Nor suffered she her patience to be spent
Before her life; contriving thus to yield
To her disease, and yet not lose the field.

17 This trying furnace wasted day by day
(What she herself had always counted dross)
Her mortal mansion, which so ruined lay,
That of the goodly fabric nothing was
Remaining now, but skin and bone; refined
Together were her body and her mind.

18 At length the fatal hour--sad hour to me!--
Released the longing soul: no ejulation
Tolled her knell; no dying agony
Frowned in her death; but in that lamb-like fashion
In which she lived ('O righteous heaven!' said I,
Who closed her dear eyes,) she had leave to die.

19 O ever-precious soul! yet shall that flight
Of thine not snatch thee from thy wonted nest:
Here shalt thou dwell, here shalt thou live in spite
Of any death--here in this faithful breast.
Unworthy 'tis, I know, by being mine;
Yet nothing less, since long it has been thine.

20 Accept thy dearer portraiture, which I
Have on my other Psyche fixed here;
Since her ideal beauties signify
The truth of thine: as for her spots, they are
Thy useful foil, and shall inservient be
But to enhance and more illustrate thee.

IMPERIAL ROME PERSONIFIED.

1 Thus came the monster to his dearest place
On earth, a palace wondrous large and high,
Which on seven mountains' heads enthroned was;
Thus, by its sevenfold tumour, copying
The number of the horns which crowned its king.

2 Of dead men's bones were all the exterior walls,
Raised to a fair but formidable height;
In answer to which strange materials,
A graff of dreadful depth and breadth
Upon the works, filled with a piteous flood
Of innocently-pure and holy blood.

3 Those awful birds, whose joy is ravenous war,
Strong-taloned eagles, perched upon the head
Of every turret, took their prospect far
And wide about the world; and questioned
Each wind that travelled by, to know if they
Could tell them news of any bloody prey.

4 The inner bulwarks, raised of shining brass,
With firmitude and pride were buttressed.
The gate of polished steel wide opened was
To entertain those throngs, who offered
Their slavish necks to take the yoke, and which
That city's tyrant did the world bewitch.

5 For she had wisely ordered it to be
Gilded with Liberty's enchanting name;
Whence cheated nations, who before were free,
Into her flattering chains for freedom came.
Thus her strange conquests overtook the sun
Who rose and set in her dominion.

6 But thick within the line erected were
Innumerable prisons, plated round
With massy iron and with jealous fear:
And in those forts of barbarism, profound
And miry dungeons, where contagious stink,
Cold, anguish, horror, had their dismal sink.

7 In these, pressed down with chains of fretting brass,
Ten thousand innocent lambs did bleating lie;
Whose groans, reported by the hollow place,
Summoned compassion from the passers by;
Whom they, alas! no less relentless found,
Than was the brass which them to sorrow bound.

8 For they designed for the shambles were
To feast the tyrant's greedy cruelty,
Who could be gratified with no fare
But such delight of savage luxury.

END.

1 Sweet End, thou sea of satisfaction, which
The weary streams unto thy bosom tak'st;
The springs unto the spring thou first doth reach,
And, by thine inexhausted kindness, mak'st
Them fall so deep in love with thee, that through
All rocks and mountains to thy arms they flow.

2 Thou art the centre, in whose close embrace,
From all the wild circumference, each line
Directly runs to find its resting-place:
Upon their swiftest wings, to perch on thine
Ennobling breast, which is their only butt,
The arrows of all high desires are shot.

3 All labours pant and languish after thee,
Stretching their longest arms to catch their bliss;
Which in the way, how sweet soe'er it be,
They never find; and therefore on they press
Further and further, till desired thou,
Their only crown, meet'st their ambition's brow.

4 With smiles the ploughman to the smiling spring
Returns not answer, but is jealous till
His patient hopes thy happy season bring
Unto their ripeness with his corn, and fill
His barns with plenteous sheaves, with joy his heart;
For thou, and none but thou, his harvest art.

5 The no less sweating and industrious lover
Lays not his panting heart to rest upon
Kind looks and gracious promises, which hover
On love's outside, and may as soon be gone
As easily they came; but strives to see
His hopes and nuptials ratified by thee.

6 The traveller suspecteth every way,
Though they thick traced and fairly beaten be;
Nor is secure but that his leader may
Step into some mistake as well as he;
Or that his strength may fail him; till he win
Possession of thee, his wished inn.

7 Nobly besmeared with Olympic dust,
The hardy runner prosecutes his race
With obstinate celerity, in trust
That thou wilt wipe and glorify his face:
His prize's soul art thou, whose precious sake
Makes him those mighty pains with pleasure take.

8 The mariner will trust no winds, although
Upon his sails they blow fair flattery;
No tides which, with all fawning smoothness, flow
Can charm his fears into security;
He credits none but thee, who art his bay,
To which, through calms and storms, he hunts his way.

9 And so have I, cheered up with hopes at last
To double thee, endured a tedious sea;
Through public foaming tempests have I passed;
Through flattering calms of private suavity;
Through interrupting company's thick press;
And through the lake of mine own laziness:

10 Through many sirens' charms, which me invited
To dance to ease's tunes, the tunes in fashion;
Through many cross, misgiving thoughts, which frighted
My jealous pen; and through the conjuration
Of ignorant and envious censures, which
Implacably against all poems itch:

11 But chiefly those which venture in a way
That yet no Muse's feet have chose to trace;
Which trust that Psyche and her Jesus may
Adorn a verse with as becoming grace
As Venus and her son; that truth may be
A nobler theme than lies and vanity.

12 Which broach no Aganippe's streams, but those
Where virgin souls without a blush may bathe;
Which dare the boisterous multitude oppose
With gentle numbers; which despise the wrath
Of galled sin; which think not fit to trace
Or Greek or Roman song with slavish pace.

13 And seeing now I am in ken of thee,
The harbour which inflamed my desire,
And with this steady patience ballas'd[1] me
In my uneven road; I am on fire,
Till into thy embrace myself I throw,
And on the shore hang up my finished vow.

[1] 'Ballas'd:' ballasted.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

FROM ROBERT HEATH.

WHAT IS LOVE?

1 Tis a child of fancy's getting,
Brought up between hope and fear,
Fed with smiles, grown by uniting
Strong, and so kept by desire:
'Tis a perpetual vestal fire
Never dying,
Whose smoke like incense doth aspire,
Upwards flying.

2 It is a soft magnetic stone,
Attracting hearts by sympathy,
Binding up close two souls in one,
Both discoursing secretly:
'Tis the true Gordian knot, that ties
Yet ne'er unbinds,
Fixing thus two lovers' eyes,
As well as minds.

3 Tis the spheres' heavenly harmony,
Where two skilful hands do strike;
And every sound expressively
Marries sweetly with the like:
'Tis the world's everlasting chain
That all things tied,
And bid them, like the fixed wain,
Unmoved to bide.

PROTEST OF LOVE.

When I thee all o'er do view I all o'er must love thee too. By that smooth forehead, where's expressed The candour of thy peaceful breast, By those fair twin-like stars that shine, And by those apples of thine eyne: By the lambkins and the kids Playing 'bout thy fair eyelids: By each peachy-blossomed cheek, And thy satin skin, more sleek And white than Flora's whitest lilies, Or the maiden daffodillies: By that ivory porch, thy nose: By those double-blanched rows Of teeth, as in pure coral set: By each azure rivulet, Running in thy temples, and Those flowery meadows 'twixt them stand: By each pearl-tipt ear by nature, as On each a jewel pendent was: By those lips all dewed with bliss, Made happy in each other's kiss.

TO CLARASTELLA.

Oh, those smooth, soft, and ruby lips, * * * * * Whose rosy and vermilion hue Betrays the blushing thoughts in you: Whose fragrant, aromatic breath Would revive dying saints from death, Whose siren-like, harmonious air Speaks music and enchants the ear; Who would not hang, and fixed there Wish he might know no other sphere? Oh for a charm to make the sun Drunk, and forget his motion! Oh that some palsy or lame gout Would cramp old Time's diseased foot! Or that I might or mould or clip His speedy wings, whilst on her lip I quench my thirsty appetite With the life-honey dwells on it! * * * * * Then on his holy altar, I Would sacrifice eternally, Offering one long-continued mine Of golden pleasures to thy shrine.

BY VARIOUS AUTHORS.

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. (FROM BYRD'S 'PSALMS, SONNETS,' ETC. 1588.)

1 My mind to me a kingdom is,
Such perfect joy therein I find,
That it excels all other bliss
That God or nature hath assigned:
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

2 No princely port, nor wealthy store,
Nor force to win a victory;
No wily wit to salve a sore,
No shape to win a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall,
For why, my mind despise them all.

3 I see that plenty surfeits oft,
And hasty climbers soonest fall;
I see that such as are aloft,
Mishap doth threaten most of all;
These get with toil, and keep with fear:
Such cares my mind can never bear.