Chapter IX: Canto III (1)

The sun in the morning disclosed his light, With complexion as ruddy as mine over night; And o'er th' eastern mountains peeping up's head, The casement being open, espied me in bed; With his rays he so tickled my lids that I waked, And was half ashamed, for I found myself naked; But up I soon start, and was dressed in a trice, And called for a draught of ale, sugar, and spice; Which having turned off, I then call to pay, And packing my nawls, whipt to horse, and away. A guide I had got, who demanded great vails, For conducting me over the mountains of Wales: Twenty good shillings, which sure very large is; Yet that would not serve, but I must bear his charges; And yet for all that, rode astride on a beast, The worst that e'er went on three legs, I protest: It certainly was the most ugly of jades, His hips and his rump made a right ace of spades; His sides were two ladders, well spur-galled withal; His neck was a helve, and his head was a mall; For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll spare, For the creature was wholly denuded of hair; And, except for two things, as bare as my nail, A tuft of a mane, and a sprig of a tail; And by these the true colour one can no more know, Than by mouse-skins above stairs, the merkin below. Now such as the beast was, even such was the rider, With a head like a nutmeg, and legs like a spider; A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat, The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat: Even such was my guide and his beast; let them pass, The one for a horse, and the other an ass. But now with our horses, what sound and what rotten, Down to the shore, you must know, we were gotten; And there we were told, it concerned us to ride, Unless we did mean to encounter the tide; And then my guide lab'ring with heels and with hands, With two up and one down, hopped over the sands, Till his horse, finding the labour for three legs too sore, Foaled out a new leg, and then he had four: And now by plain dint of hard spurring and whipping, Dry-shod we came where folks sometimes take shipping; And where the salt sea, as the devil were in 't, Came roaring t' have hindered our journey to Flint; But we, by good luck, before him got thither, He else would have carried us, no man knows whither.

And now her in Wales is, Saint Taph be her speed, Gott splutter her taste, some Welsh ale her had need; For her ride in great haste, and * * For fear of her being catched up by the fishes: But the lord of Flint castle's no lord worth a louse, For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his house; But in a small house near unto 't there was store Of such ale as, thank God, I ne'er tasted before; And surely the Welsh are not wise of their fuddle, For this had the taste and complexion of puddle. From thence then we marched, full as dry as we came, My guide before prancing, his steed no more lame, O'er hills and o'er valleys uncouth and uneven, Until 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven, More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well tell, We happily came to Saint Winifred's well: I thought it the pool of Bethesda had been, By the cripples lay there; but I went to my inn To speak for some meat, for so stomach did motion, Before I did further proceed in devotion: I went into th' kitchen, where victuals I saw, Both beef, veal, and mutton, but all on 't was raw; And some on't alive, but soon went to slaughter, For four chickens were slain by my dame and her daughter; Of which to Saint Win. ere my vows I had paid, They said I should find a rare fricasee made: I thanked them, and straight to the well did repair, Where some I found cursing, and others at prayer; Some dressing, some stripping, some out and some in, Some naked, where botches and boils might be seen; Of which some were fevers of Venus I'm sure, And therefore unfit for the virgin to cure: But the fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight, The beautiful virgin's own tears not more bright; Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear, Her conscience, her name, nor herself, were more clear. In the bottom there lie certain stones that look white, But streaked with pure red, as the morning with light, Which they say is her blood, and so it may be, But for that, let who shed it look to it for me. Over the fountain a chapel there stands, Which I wonder has 'scaped master Oliver's hands; The floor's not ill paved, and the margin o' th' spring Is inclosed with a certain octagonal ring; From each angle of which a pillar does rise, Of strength and of thickness enough to suffice To support and uphold from falling to ground A cupola wherewith the virgin is crowned. Now 'twixt the two angles that fork to the north, And where the cold nymph does her basin pour forth, Under ground is a place where they bathe, as 'tis said, And 'tis true, for I heard folks' teeth hack in their head; For you are to know, that the rogues and the * * Are not let to pollute the spring-head with their sores. But one thing I chiefly admired in the place, That a saint and a virgin endued with such grace, Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-willer To that whoring and filching trade of a miller, As within a few paces to furnish the wheels Of I cannot tell how many water-mills: I've studied that point much, you cannot guess why, But the virgin was, doubtless, more righteous than I. And now for my welcome, four, five, or six lasses, With as many crystalline liberal glasses, Did all importune me to drink of the water Of Saint Winifreda, good Thewith's fair daughter. A while I was doubtful, and stood in a muse, Not knowing, amidst all that choice, where to choose. Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my sight, From the rest o' th' fair maidens did carry me quite; I took the glass from her, and whip, off it went, I half doubt I fancied a health to the saint: But he was a great villain committed the slaughter, For Saint Winifred made most delicate water. I slipped a hard shilling into her soft hand, Which had like to have made me the place have profaned; And giving two more to the poor that were there, Did, sharp as a hawk, to my quarters repair.

My dinner was ready, and to it I fell, I never ate better meat, that I can tell; When having half dined, there comes in my host, A catholic good, and a rare drunken toast; This man, by his drinking, inflamed the scot, And told me strange stories, which I have forgot; But this I remember, 'twas much on's own life, And one thing, that he had converted his wife.

But now my guide told me, it time was to go, For that to our beds we must both ride and row; Wherefore calling to pay, and having accounted, I soon was down-stairs, and as suddenly mounted: On then we travelled, our guide still before, Sometimes on three legs, and sometimes on four, Coasting the sea, and over hills crawling, Sometimes on all four, for fear we should fall in; For underneath Neptune lay skulking to watch us, And, had we but slipped once, was ready to catch us. Thus in places of danger taking more heed, And in safer travelling mending our speed: Redland Castle and Abergoney we past, And o'er against Connoway came at the last: Just over against a castle there stood, O' th' right hand the town, and o' th' left hand a wood; 'Twixt the wood and the castle they see at high water The storm, the place makes it a dangerous matter; And besides, upon such a steep rock it is founded, As would break a man's neck, should he'scape being drowned: Perhaps though in time one may make them to yield, But 'tis prettiest Cob-castle e'er I beheld.

The sun now was going t' unharness his steeds, When the ferry-boat brasking her sides 'gainst the weeds, Came in as good time as good time could be, To give us a cast o'er an arm of the sea; And bestowing our horses before and abaft, O'er god Neptune's wide cod-piece gave us a waft; Where scurvily landing at foot of the fort, Within very few paces we entered the port, Where another King's Head invited me down, For indeed I have ever been true to the crown.

DR HENRY MORE.

This eminent man was the son of a gentleman of good family and estate in Grantham, Lincolnshire. He was born in 1614. His father sent him to study at Eton, and thence, in 1631, he repaired to Cambridge, where he was destined to spend the most of his life. Philosophy attracted him early, in preference to science or literature, and he became a follower of Plato, so decided and enthusiastic as to gain for himself the title of 'The Platonist' _par excellence_. In 1639, he graduated M.A.; and the next year, he published the first part of 'Psychozoia; or, The Song of the Soul,' containing a Christiano-Platonical account of Man and Life. In preparing the materials of this poem, he had studied all the principal Platonists and mystical writers, and is said to have read himself almost to a shadow. And not only was his body emaciated, but his mind was so overstrung, that he imagined himself to see spiritual beings, to hear supernatural voices, and to converse, like Socrates, with a particular genius. He thought, too, that his body 'exhaled the perfume of violets!' Notwithstanding these little peculiarities, his genius and his learning, the simplicity of his character, and the innocence of his life, rendered him a general favourite; he was made a fellow of his college, and became a tutor to various persons of distinguished rank. One of these was Sir John Finch, whose sister, Lady Conway, an enthusiast herself, brought More acquainted with the famous John Baptist Van Helment, a man after whom, in the beginning of the seventeenth century, the whole of Europe wondered. He was a follower and imitator of Paracelsus, like him affected universal knowledge, aspired to revolutionise the science of medicine, and died with the reputation of one who, with great powers and acquirements, instead of becoming a great man, ended as a brilliant pretender, and was rather an 'architect of ruin' to the systems of others, than the founder of a solid fabric of his own. More admired, of course, not the quackery, but the adventurous boldness of Helment's genius, and his devotion to chemistry; which is certainly the most spiritual of all the sciences, and must, especially in its transcendental forms, have had a great charm for a Platonic thinker. Our author was entirely devoted to study, and resisted every inducement to leave what he called his 'Paradise' at Cambridge. His friends once tried to decoy him into a bishopric, and got him the length of Whitehall to kiss the king's hand on the occasion; but when he understood their purpose, he refused to go a single step further. His life was a long, learned, happy, and holy dream. He was of the most benevolent disposition; and once observed to a friend, 'that he was thought by some to have a soft head, but he thanked God he had a soft heart.' In the heat of the Rebellion, the Republicans spared More, although he had refused to take the Covenant. Campbell says of him, 'He corresponded with Descartes, was the friend of Cudworth, and, as a divine and a moralist, was not only popular in his own time, but has been mentioned with admiration both by Addison and Blair.' One is rather amused at the latter clause. That a man of More's massive learning, noble eloquence, and divine genius should need the testimony of a mere elegant wordmonger like Blair, seems ludicrous enough; and Addison himself, except in wit and humour, was not worthy to have untied the shoelatchets of the old Platonist. We were first introduced to this writer by good Dr John Brown, late of Broughton Place, Edinburgh, and shall never forget hearing him, in his library, read some splendid passages from More's work, in those deep, mellow, antique tones which flavoured whatever he read, like the crust on old wine. His chief works are, 'A Discourse on the Immortality of the Soul,' 'The Mystery of Godliness,' 'The Mystery of Iniquity,' 'Divine Dialogues,' 'An Antidote against Atheism,' 'Ethical and Metaphysical Manuals,' &c. In writing such books, and pursuing the recondite studies of which they were the fruit, More spent his life happily. In 1661, he became a Fellow of the Royal Society. For twenty years after the Restoration, his works are said to have sold better than any of their day--a curious and unaccountable fact, considering the levity and licentiousness of the period. In September 1687, the fine old spiritualist, aged seventy- three, went away to that land of 'ideas' to which his heart had been translated long before.

More's prose writings give us, on the whole, a higher idea of his powers than his poem. This is not exactly, as a recent critic calls it, 'dull and tedious,' but it is in some parts prosaic, and in others obscure. The gleams of fancy in it are genuine, but few and far between. But his prose works constitute, like those of Cudworth, Charnock, Jeremy Taylor, and John Scott, a vast old quarry, abounding both in blocks and in gems --blocks of granite solidity, and gems of starry lustre. The peculiarity of More is in that poetico-philosophic mist which, like the autumnal gossamer, hangs in light and beautiful festoons over his thoughts, and which suggests pleasing memories of Plato and the Alexandrian school. Like all the followers of the Grecian sage, he dwells in a region of 'ideas,' which are to him the only realities, and are not cold, but warm; he sees all things in Divine solution; the visible is lost in the invisible, and nature retires before her God. Surely they are splendid reveries those of the Platonic school; but it is sad to reflect that they have not cast the slightest gleam of light on the dark, frightful, faith-shattering mysteries which perplex all inquirers. The old shadows of sin, death, damnation, evil, and hell, are found to darken the 'ideas' of Plato's world quite as deeply as they do the actualities of this weary, work-day earth, into which men have, for some inscrutable purpose, been sent to be, on the whole, miserable,--so often to toil without compen- sation, to suffer without benefit, and to hope without fulfilment.

OPENING OF SECOND PART OF 'PSYCHOZOIA.'

1 Whatever man he be that dares to deem
True poets' skill to spring of earthly race,
I must him tell, that he doth mis-esteem
Their strange estate, and eke himself disgrace
By his rude ignorance. For there's no place
For forced labour, or slow industry,
Of flagging wits, in that high fiery chase;
So soon as of the Muse they quickened be,
At once they rise, and lively sing like lark in sky.

2 Like to a meteor, whose material
Is low unwieldy earth, base unctuous slime,
Whose inward hidden parts ethereal
Lie close upwrapt in that dull sluggish fime,
Lie fast asleep, till at some fatal time
Great Phoebus' lamp has fired its inward sprite,
And then even of itself on high doth climb:
That erst was dark becomes all eye, all sight,
Bright star, that to the wise of future things gives light.

3 Even so the weaker mind, that languid lies,
Knit up in rags of dirt, dark, cold, and blind,
So soon that purer flame of love unties
Her clogging chains, and doth her sprite unbind,
She soars aloft; for she herself doth find
Well plumed; so raised upon her spreaden wing,
She softly plays, and warbles in the wind,
And carols out her inward life and spring
Of overflowing joy, and of pure love doth sing.

EXORDIUM OF THIRD PART.

1 Hence, hence, unhallowed ears, arid hearts more hard
Than winter clods fast froze with northern wind,
But most of all, foul tongue! I thee discard,
That blamest all that thy dark straitened mind
Cannot conceive: but that no blame thou find;
Whate'er my pregnant muse brings forth to light,
She'll not acknowledge to be of her kind,
Till eagle-like she turn them to the sight
Of the eternal Word, all decked with glory bright.

2 Strange sights do straggle in my restless thoughts,
And lively forms with orient colours clad
Walk in my boundless mind, as men ybrought
Into some spacious room, who when they've had
A turn or two, go out, although unbade.
All these I see and know, but entertain
None to my friend but who's most sober sad;
Although, the time my roof doth them contain
Their presence doth possess me till they out again.

3 And thus possessed, in silver trump I sound
Their guise, their shape, their gesture, and array;
But as in silver trumpet nought is found
When once the piercing sound is passed away,
(Though while the mighty blast therein did stay,
Its tearing noise so terribly did shrill,
That it the heavens did shake, and earth dismay,)
As empty I of what my flowing quill
In needless haste elsewhere, or here, may hap to spill.

4 For 'tis of force, and not of a set will,
Nor dare my wary mind afford assent
To what is placed above all mortal skill;
But yet, our various thoughts to represent,
Each gentle wight will deem of good intent.
Wherefore, with leave the infinity I'll sing
Of time, of space; or without leave; I'm brent
With eager rage, my heart for joy doth spring,
And all my spirits move with pleasant trembeling.

5 An inward triumph doth my soul upheave
And spread abroad through endless 'spersed air.
My nimble mind this clammy clod doth leave,
And lightly stepping on from star to star
Swifter than lightning, passeth wide and far,
Measuring the unbounded heavens and wasteful sky;
Nor aught she finds her passage to debar,
For still the azure orb as she draws nigh
Gives back, new stars appear, the world's walls 'fore her fly.

DESTRUCTION AND RENOVATION OF ALL THINGS.

1 As the seas,
Boiling with swelling waves, aloft did rise,
And met with mighty showers and pouring rain
From heaven's spouts; so the broad flashing skies,
With brimstone thick and clouds of fiery bane,
Shall meet with raging Etna's and Vesuvius' flame.

2 The burning bowels of this wasting ball
Shall gallup up great flakes of rolling fire,
And belch out pitchy flames, till over all
Having long raged, Vulcan himself shall tire,
And (the earth an ash-heap made) shall then expire:
Here Nature, laid asleep in her own urn,
With gentle rest right easily will respire,
Till to her pristine task she do return
As fresh as Phoenix young under the Arabian morn.

3 Oh, happy they that then the first are born,
While yet the world is in her vernal pride;
For old corruption quite away is worn,
As metal pure so is her mould well tried.
Sweet dews, cool-breathing airs, and spaces wide
Of precious spicery, wafted with soft wind:
Fair comely bodies goodly beautified.

4 For all the while her purged ashes rest,
These relics dry suck in the heavenly dew,
And roscid manna rains upon her breast,
And fills with sacred milk, sweet, fresh, and new,
Where all take life and doth the world renew;
And then renewed with pleasure be yfed.
A green, soft mantle doth her bosom strew
With fragrant herbs and flowers embellished,
Where without fault or shame all living creatures bed.

A DISTEMPERED FANCY.

1 Then the wild fancy from her horrid womb
Will senden forth foul shapes. O dreadful sight!
Overgrown toads, fierce serpents, thence will come,
Red-scaled dragons, with deep burning light
In their hollow eye-pits: with these she must fight:
Then think herself ill wounded, sorely stung.
Old fulsome hags, with scabs and scurf bedight,
Foul tarry spittle tumbling with their tongue
On their raw leather lips, these near will to her clung,

2 And lovingly salute against her will,
Closely embrace, and make her mad with woe:
She'd lever thousand times they did her kill,
Than force her such vile baseness undergo.
Anon some giant his huge self will show,
Gaping with mouth as vast as any cave,
With stony, staring eyes, and footing slow:
She surely deems him her live, walking grave,
From that dern hollow pit knows not herself to save.

3 After a while, tossed on the ocean main,
A boundless sea she finds of misery;
The fiery snorts of the leviathan,
That makes the boiling waves before him fly,
She hears, she sees his blazing morn-bright eye:
If here she 'scape, deep gulfs and threatening rocks
Her frighted self do straightway terrify;
Steel-coloured clouds with rattling thunder knocks,
With these she is amazed, and thousand such-like mocks.

SOUL COMPARED TO A LANTERN.

1 Like to a light fast locked in lantern dark,
Whereby by night our wary steps we guide
In slabby streets, and dirty channels mark,
Some weaker rays through the black top do glide,
And flusher streams perhaps from horny side.
But when we've passed the peril of the way,
Arrived at home, and laid that case aside,
The naked light how clearly doth it ray,
And spread its joyful beams as bright as summer's day.

2 Even so, the soul, in this contracted state,
Confined to these strait instruments of sense,
More dull and narrowly doth operate.
At this hole hears, the sight must ray from thence,
Here tastes, there smells; but when she's gone from hence,
Like naked lamp, she is one shining sphere,
And round about has perfect cognoscence
Whate'er in her horizon doth appear:
She is one orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear.

WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE.

Chamberlayne was, during life, a poor man, and, till long after his death, an unappreciated poet. He was a physician at Shaftesbury, Dorsetshire; born in 1619, and died in 1689. He appears to have been present among the Royalists at the battle of Newbury. He complains bitterly of his narrow circumstances, and yet he lived to a long age. He published, in 1658, a tragic comedy, entitled 'Love's Victory,' and in 1659, 'Pharonnida,' a heroic poem.

The latter is the main support of his literary reputation. It was discovered to be good by Thomas Campbell, who might say,

'I was the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.'

Silent, however, it continues since, and can never be expected to be thronged by visitors. The story is interesting, and many of the separate thoughts, expressions, and passages are beautiful, as, for instance--

'The scholar stews his catholic brains for food;'

and this--

'Harsh poverty,
That moth which frets the sacred robe of wit;'

but the style is often elliptical and involved; the story meanders too much, and is too long and intricate; and, on the whole, a few mutilated fragments are all that are likely to remain of an original and highly elaborate poem.

ARGALIA TAKEN PRISONER BY THE TURKS.

* * The Turks had ought Made desperate onslaughts on the isle, but brought Nought back but wounds and infamy; but now, Wearied with toil, they are resolved to bow Their stubborn resolutions with the strength Of not-to-be-resisted want: the length Of the chronical disease extended had To some few months, since to oppress the sad But constant islanders, the army lay, Circling their confines. Whilst this tedious stay From battle rusts the soldier's valour in His tainted cabin, there had often been, With all variety of fortune, fought Brave single combats, whose success had brought Honour's unwithered laurels on the brow Of either party; but the balance, now Forced by the hand of a brave Turk, inclined Wholly to them. Thrice had his valour shined In victory's refulgent rays, thrice heard The shouts of conquest; thrice on his lance appeared The heads of noble Rhodians, which had struck A general sorrow 'mongst the knights. All look Who next the lists should enter; each desires The task were his, but honour now requires A spirit more than vulgar, or she dies The next attempt, their valour's sacrifice; To prop whose ruins, chosen by the free Consent of all, Argalia comes to be Their happy champion. Truce proclaimed, until The combat ends, the expecting people fill The spacious battlements; the Turks forsake Their tents, of whom the city ladies take A dreadful view, till a more noble sight Diverts their looks; each part behold their knight With various wishes, whilst in blood and sweat They toil for victory. The conflict's heat Raged in their veins, which honour more inflamed Than burning calentures could do; both blamed The feeble influence of their stars, that gave No speedier conquest; each neglects to save Himself, to seek advantage to offend His eager foe * * * * * * * But now so long The Turks' proud champion had endured the strong Assaults of the stout Christian, till his strength Cooled, on the ground, with his blood--he fell at length, Beneath his conquering sword. The barbarous crew O' the villains that did at a distance view Their champion's fall, all bands of truce forgot, Running to succour him, begin a hot And desperate combat with those knights that stand To aid Argalia, by whose conquering hand Whole squadrons of them fall, but here he spent His mighty spirit in vain, their cannons rent His scattered troops.

* * * * *

Argalia lies in chains, ordained to die A sacrifice unto the cruelty Of the fierce bashaw, whose loved favourite in The combat late he slew; yet had not been In that so much unhappy, had not he That honoured then his sword with victory, Half-brother to Janusa been, a bright But cruel lady, whose refined delight Her slave (though husband), Ammurat, durst not Ruffle with discontent; wherefore, to cool that hot Contention of her blood, which he foresaw That heavy news would from her anger draw, To quench with the brave Christian's death, he sent Him living to her, that her anger, spent In flaming torments, might not settle in The dregs of discontent. Staying to win Some Rhodian castles, all the prisoners were Sent with a guard into Sardinia, there To meet their wretched thraldom. From the rest Argalia severed, soon hopes to be bless'd With speedy death, though waited on by all The hell-instructed torments that could fall Within invention's reach; but he's not yet Arrived to his period, his unmoved stars sit Thus in their orbs secured. It was the use Of the Turkish pride, which triumphs in the abuse Of suffering Christians, once, before they take The ornaments of nature off, to make Their prisoners public to the view, that all Might mock their miseries: this sight did call Janusa to her palace-window, where, Whilst she beholds them, love resolved to bear Her ruin on her treacherous eye-beams, till Her heart infected grew; their orbs did fill, As the most pleasing object, with the sight Of him whose sword opened a way for the flight Of her loved brother's soul.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

Vaughan was torn in Wales, on the banks of the Uske, in Brecknockshire, in 1614. His father was a gentleman, but, we presume, poor, as his son was bred to a profession. Young Vaughan became first a lawyer, and then a physician; and we suppose, had it not been for his advanced life, he would have become latterly a clergyman, since he grew, when old, exceedingly devout. In life, he was not fortunate, and we find him, like Chamberlayne, complaining bitterly of the poverty of the poetical tribe. In 1651, he published a volume of verse, in which nascent excellence struggles with dim obscurities, like a young moon with heavy clouds. But his 'Silex Scintillans,' or 'Sacred Poems,' produced in later life, attests at once the depth of his devotion, and the truth and originality of his genius. He died in 1695.

Campbell, always prone to be rather severe on pious poets, and whose taste, too, was finical at times, says of Vaughan--'He is one of the harshest even of the inferior order of the school of conceit; but he has some few scattered thoughts that meet the eye amidst his harsh pages, like wild flowers on a barren heath.' Surely this is rather 'harsh' judgment. At the same time, it is not a little laughable to find that Campbell has himself appropriated one of these 'wild flowers.' In his beautiful 'Rainbow,' he cries--

'How came the world's gray fathers forth
To mark thy sacred sign!'

Vaughan had said--

'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!'

Indeed, all Campbell's 'Rainbow' is just a reflection of Vaughan's, and reminds you of those faint, pale shadows of the heavenly bow you sometimes see in the darkened and disarranged skies of spring. To steal from, and then strike down the victim, is more suitable to robbers than to poets.

Perhaps the best criticism on Vaughan may be found in the title of his own poems, 'Silex Scintillans.' He had a good deal of the dulness and hardness of the flint about his mind, but the influence of poverty and suffering,--for true it is that

'Wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong;
They learn in suffering what they teach in song,'--

and latterly the power of a genuine, though somewhat narrow piety, struck out glorious scintillations from the bare but rich rock. He ranks with Crashaw, Quarles, and Herbert, as one of the best of our early religious poets; like them in their faults, and superior to all of them in refinement and beauty, if not in strength of genius.

ON A CHARNEL-HOUSE.

Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast-tentered[1] hope, Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope, Whose stretched excess runs on a string too high, And on the rack of self-extension die? Chameleons of state, air-mongering[2] band, Whose breath, like gunpowder, blows up a land, Come, see your dissolution, and weigh What a loathed nothing you shall be one day. As the elements by circulation pass From one to the other, and that which first was Is so again, so 'tis with you. The grave And nature but complete: what the one gave, The other takes. Think, then, that in this bed There sleep the relics of as proud a head, As stern and subtle as your own; that hath Performed or forced as much; whose tempest-wrath Hath levelled kings with slaves; and wisely, then, Calm these high furies, and descend to men. Thus Cyrus tamed the Macedon; a tomb Checked him who thought the world too strait a room. Have I obeyed the powers of a face, A beauty, able to undo the race Of easy man? I look but here, and straight I am informed; the lovely counterfeit Was but a smoother clay. That famished slave, Beggared by wealth, who starves that he may save, Brings hither but his sheet. Nay, the ostrich-man, That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff, Is chapfallen here: worms, without wit or fear, Defy him now; death has disarmed the bear. Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score Of erring men, and having done, meet more. Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents, Fantastic humours, perilous ascents, False, empty honours, traitorous delights, And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites,-- But these, and more, which the weak vermins swell, Are couched in this accumulative cell, Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone: Day leaves me in a double night, and I Must bid farewell to my sad library, Yet with these notes. Henceforth with thought of thee I'll season all succeeding jollity, Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit: Excess hath no religion, nor wit; But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain, One check from thee shall channel it again.

[1] Vast-tentered: extended. [2] Air-mongering: dealing in air or unsubstantial visions.

ON GOMBAULD'S ENDYMION.

I've read thy soul's fair night-piece, and have seen The amours and courtship of the silent queen; Her stolen descents to earth, and what did move her To juggle first with heaven, then with a lover; With Latmos' louder rescue, and, alas! To find her out, a hue and cry in brass; Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad Nocturnal pilgrimage; with thy dreams, clad In fancies darker than thy cave; thy glass Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass In her calm voyage, what discourse she heard Of spirits; what dark groves and ill-shaped guard Ismena led thee through; with thy proud flight O'er Periardes, and deep-musing night Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green The neighbour shades wear; and what forms are seen In their large bowers; with that sad path and seat Which none but light-heeled nymphs and fairies beat, Their solitary life, and how exempt From common frailty, the severe contempt They have of man, their privilege to live A tree or fountain, and in that reprieve What ages they consume: with the sad vale Of Diophania; and the mournful tale Of the bleeding, vocal myrtle:--these and more, Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score To thy rare fancy for. Nor dost thou fall From thy first majesty, or ought at all Betray consumption. Thy full vigorous bays Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays Of style or matter; just as I have known Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down Derived her birth, in gentle murmurs steal To the next vale, and proudly there reveal Her streams in louder accents, adding still More noise and waters to her channel, till At last, swollen with increase, she glides along The lawns and meadows, in a wanton throng Of frothy billows, and in one great name Swallows the tributary brooks' drowned fame. Nor are they mere inventions, for we In the same piece find scattered philosophy, And hidden, dispersed truths, that folded lie In the dark shades of deep allegory, So neatly weaved, like arras, they descry Fables with truth, fancy with history. So that thou hast, in this thy curious mould, Cast that commended mixture wished of old, Which shall these contemplations render far Less mutable, and lasting as their star; And while there is a people, or a sun, Endymion's story with the moon shall run.

APOSTROPHE TO FLETCHER THE DRAMATIST.

I did believe, great Beaumont being dead, Thy widowed muse slept on his flowery bed. But I am richly cozened, and can see Wit transmigrates--his spirit stayed with thee; Which, doubly advantaged by thy single pen, In life and death now treads the stage again. And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit Which starved the land, since into schisms split, Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess Wit's last edition is now i' the press. For thou hast drained invention, and he That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee. But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain At the designs of such a tragic brain? Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see Thy most abominable policy? Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit Their synod fast and pray against thy wit? But they'll not tire in such an idle quest-- Thou dost but kill and circumvent in jest; And when thy angered muse swells to a blow, Tis but for Field's or Swansteed's overthrow. Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve The peace of spirits; and when such deeds fail Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail. But, happy! thou ne'er saw'st these storms our air Teemed with, even in thy time, though seeming fair. Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease Withdrew betimes into the land of peace. So, nested in some hospitable shore, The hermit-angler, when the mid seas roar, Packs up his lines, and ere the tempest raves, Retires, and leaves his station to the waves. Thus thou diedst almost with our peace; and we, This breathing time, thy last fair issue see, Which I think such, if needless ink not soil So choice a muse, others are but thy foil; This or that age may write, but never see A wit that dares run parallel with thee. True Ben must live; but bate him, and thou hast Undone all future wits, and matched the past.

PICTURE OF THE TOWN.

Abominable face of things!--here's noise Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys, Pigs, dogs, and drums; with the hoarse, hellish notes Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats; With new fine worships, and the old cast team Of justices, vexed with the cough and phlegm. 'Midst these, the cross looks sad; and in the shire- Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear, With brotherly rufts and beards, and a strange sight Of high, monumental hats, ta'en at the fight Of Eighty-eight; while every burgess foots The mortal pavement in eternal boots. Hadst thou been bachelor, I had soon divined Thy close retirements, and monastic mind; Perhaps some nymph had been to visit; or The beauteous churl was to be waited for, And, like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss, You stayed and stroked the distaff for a kiss.

* * * * *

Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus, Thy memory will scarce remain with us. The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim They have not seen thee here since Charles' reign; Or, if they mention thee, like some old man That at each word inserts--Sir, as I can Remember--so the cipherers puzzle me With a dark, cloudy character of thee; That, certes, I fear thou wilt be lost, and we Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee. Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine And precious wit lie dead for want of thine. Shall the dull market landlord, with his rout Of sneaking tenants, dirtily swill out This harmless liquor shall they knock and beat For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat? Oh, let not such preposterous tippling be; In our metropolis, may I ne'er see Such tavern sacrilege, nor lend a line To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine! Here lives that chemic quick-fire, which betrays Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays; I have reserved, 'gainst thy approach, a cup, That, were thy muse stark dead, should raise her up, And teach her yet more charming words and skill, Than ever Coelia, Chloris, Astrophil, Or any of the threadbare names inspired Poor rhyming lovers, with a mistress fired. Come, then, and while the snow-icicle hangs At the stiff thatch, and winter's frosty fangs Benumb the year, blithe as of old, let us, 'Midst noise and war, of peace and mirth discuss. This portion thou wert born for: why should we Vex at the times' ridiculous misery? An age that thus hath fooled itself, and will, Spite of thy teeth and mine, persist so still. Let's sit, then, at this fire, and while we steal A revel in the town, let others seal, Purchase, or cheat, and who can, let them pay, Till those black deeds bring on a darksome day. Innocent spenders we! A better use Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse Rout to their husks: they and their bags, at best, Have cares in earnest--we care for a jest.

THE GOLDEN AGE.

Happy that first white age! when we Lived by the earth's mere charity; No soft luxurious diet then Had effeminated men-- No other meat nor wine had any Than the coarse mast, or simple honey; And, by the parents' care laid up, Cheap berries did the children sup. No pompous wear was in those days, Of gummy silks, or scarlet baize. Their beds were on some flowery brink, And clear spring water was their drink. The shady pine, in the sun's heat, Was their cool and known retreat; For then 'twas not cut down, but stood The youth and glory of the wood. The daring sailor with his slaves Then had not cut the swelling waves, Nor, for desire of foreign store, Seen any but his native shore. No stirring drum had scared that age, Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage; No wounds, by bitter hatred made, With warm blood soiled the shining blade; For how could hostile madness arm An age of love to public harm, When common justice none withstood, Nor sought rewards for spilling blood? Oh that at length our age would raise Into the temper of those days! But--worse than Aetna's fires!--debate And avarice inflame our state. Alas! who was it that first found Gold hid of purpose under ground-- That sought out pearls, and dived to find Such precious perils for mankind?

REGENERATION.

1 A ward, and still in bonds, one day
I stole abroad;
It was high spring, and all the way
Primrosed, and hung with shade;
Yet was it frost within,
And surly wind
Blasted my infant buds, and sin,
Like clouds, eclipsed my mind.

2 Stormed thus, I straight perceived my spring
Mere stage and show,
My walk a monstrous, mountained thing,
Rough-cast with rocks and snow;
And as a pilgrim's eye,
Far from relief,
Measures the melancholy sky,
Then drops, and rains for grief,

3 So sighed I upwards still; at last,
'Twixt steps and falls,
I reached the pinnacle, where placed
I found a pair of scales;
I took them up, and laid
In the one late pains,
The other smoke and pleasures weighed,
But proved the heavier grains.

4 With that some cried, Away; straight I
Obeyed, and led
Full east, a fair, fresh field could spy--
Some called it Jacob's Bed--
A virgin soil, which no
Rude feet e'er trod,
Where, since he stept there, only go
Prophets and friends of God.

5 Here I reposed, but scarce well set,
A grove descried
Of stately height, whose branches met
And mixed on every side;
I entered, and, once in,
(Amazed to see 't;)
Found all was changed, and a new spring
Did all my senses greet.

6 The unthrift sun shot vital gold
A thousand pieces,
And heaven its azure did unfold,
Chequered with snowy fleeces.
The air was all in spice,
And every bush
A garland wore; thus fed my eyes,
But all the ear lay hush.

7 Only a little fountain lent
Some use for ears,
And on the dumb shades language spent,
The music of her tears;
I drew her near, and found
The cistern full
Of divers stones, some bright and round,
Others ill-shaped and dull.

8 The first, (pray mark,) as quick as light
Danced through the flood;
But the last, more heavy than the night,
Nailed to the centre stood;
I wondered much, but tired
At last with thought,
My restless eye, that still desired,
As strange an object brought.

9 It was a bank of flowers, where I descried
(Though 'twas mid-day)
Some fast asleep, others broad-eyed
And taking in the ray;
Here musing long I heard
A rushing wind,
Which still increased, but whence it stirred,
Nowhere I could not find.

10 I turned me round, and to each shade
Despatched an eye,
To see if any leaf had made
Least motion or reply;
But while I, listening, sought
My mind to ease
By knowing where 'twas, or where not,
It whispered, 'Where I please.'

'Lord,' then said I, 'on me one breath,
And let me die before my death!'

'Arise, O north, and come, thou south wind; and blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.'--CANT. iv. 16.

RESURRECTION AND IMMORTALITY.

'By that new and living way, which he hath prepared for us, through the veil, which is his flesh.'--HEB. x. 20.

BODY.

1 Oft have I seen, when that renewing breath
That binds and loosens death
Inspired a quickening power through the dead
Creatures abed,
Some drowrsy silk-worm creep
From that long sleep,
And in weak, infant hummings chime and knell
About her silent cell,
Until at last, full with the vital ray,
She winged away,
And, proud with life and sense,
Heaven's rich expense,
Esteemed (vain things!) of two whole elements
As mean, and span-extents.
Shall I then think such providence will be
Less friend to me,
Or that he can endure to be unjust
Who keeps his covenant even with our dust?

SOUL

2 Poor querulous handful! was't for this
I taught thee all that is?
Unbowelled nature, showed thee her recruits,
And change of suits,
And how of death we make
A mere mistake;
For no thing can-to nothing fall, but still
Incorporates by skill,
And then returns, and from the womb of things
Such treasure brings,
As pheenix-like renew'th
Both life and youth;
For a preserving spirit doth still pass
Untainted through this mass,
Which doth resolve, produce, and ripen all
That to it fall;
Nor are those births, which we
Thus suffering see,
Destroyed at all; but when time's restless wave
Their substance doth deprave,
And the more noble essence finds his house
Sickly and loose,
He, ever young, doth wing
Unto that spring
And source of spirits, where he takes his lot,
Till time no more shall rot
His passive cottage; which, (though laid aside,)
Like some spruce bride,
Shall one day rise, and, clothed with shining light,
All pure and bright,
Remarry to the soul, for'tis most plain
Thou only fall'st to be refined again.

3 Then I that here saw darkly in a glass
But mists and shadows pass,
And, by their own weak shine, did search the springs
And course of things,
Shall with enlightened rays
Pierce all their ways;
And as thou saw'st, I in a thought could go
To heaven or earth below,
To read some star, or mineral, and in state
There often sate;
So shalt thou then with me,
Both winged and free,
Rove in that mighty and eternal light,
Where no rude shade or night
Shall dare approach us; we shall there no more
Watch stars, or pore
Through melancholy clouds, and say,
'Would it were day!'
One everlasting Sabbath there shall run
Without succession, and without a sun.

'But go thou thy way until the end be: for thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot at the end of the days.'--DAN. xii. 13.

THE SEARCH.

'Tis now clear day: I see a rose Bud in the bright east, and disclose The pilgrim-sun. All night have I Spent in a roving ecstasy To find my Saviour. I have been As far as Bethlehem, and have seen His inn and cradle; being there I met the wise men, asked them where He might be found, or what star can Now point him out, grown up a man? To Egypt hence I fled, ran o'er All her parched bosom to Nile's shore, Her yearly nurse; came back, inquired Amongst the doctors, and desired To see the temple, but was shown A little dust, and for the town A heap of ashes, where, some said, A small bright sparkle was abed, Which would one day (beneath the pole) Awake, and then refine the whole.

Tired here, I came to Sychar, thence To Jacob's well, bequeathed since Unto his sons, where often they, In those calm, golden evenings, lay Watering their flocks, and having spent Those white days, drove home to the tent Their well-fleeced train; and here (O fate!) I sit where once my Saviour sate. The angry spring in bubbles swelled, Which broke in sighs still, as they filled, And whispered, Jesus had been there, But Jacob's children would not hear. Loth hence to part, at last I rise, But with the fountain in mine eyes, And here a fresh search is decreed: He must be found where he did bleed. I walk the garden, and there see Ideas of his agony, And moving anguishments, that set His blest face in a bloody sweat; I climbed the hill, perused the cross, Hung with my gain, and his great loss: Never did tree bear fruit like this, Balsam of souls, the body's bliss. But, O his grave! where I saw lent (For he had none) a monument, An undefiled, a new-hewed one, But there was not the Corner-stone. Sure then, said I, my quest is vain, He'll not be found where he was slain; So mild a Lamb can never be 'Midst so much blood and cruelty. I'll to the wilderness, and can Find beasts more merciful than man; He lived there safe, 'twas his retreat From the fierce Jew, and Herod's heat, And forty days withstood the fell And high temptations of hell; With seraphim there talked he, His Father's flaming ministry, He heavened their walks, and with his eyes Made those wild shades a paradise. Thus was the desert sanctified To be the refuge of his bride. I'll thither then; see, it is day! The sun's broke through to guide my way.

But as I urged thus, and writ down What pleasures should my journey crown, What silent paths, what shades and cells, Fair virgin-flowers and hallowed wells, I should rove in, and rest my head Where my dear Lord did often tread, Sugaring all dangers with success, Methought I heard one singing thus:

1 Leave, leave thy gadding thoughts;
Who pores
And spies
Still out of doors,
Descries
Within them nought.

2 The skin and shell of things,
Though fair,
Are not
Thy wish nor prayer,
But got
By mere despair
Of wings.

3 To rack old elements,
Or dust,
And say,
Sure here he must
Needs stay,
Is not the way,
Nor just.

Search well another world; who studies this, Travels in clouds, seeks manna where none is.

'That they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, and find him, though he be not far off from every one of us: for in him we live, and move, and have our being.'--ACTS xvii. 27, 28.

ISAAC'S MARRIAGE.

'And Isaac went out to pray in the field at the eventide, and he lifted up his eyes, and saw, and, behold, the camels were coming.' --GEN. xxiv. 63.

Praying! and to be married! It was rare, But now 'tis monstrous; and that pious care Though of ourselves, is so much out of date, That to renew't were to degenerate. But thou a chosen sacrifice wert given, And offered up so early unto Heaven, Thy flames could not be out; religion was Hayed into thee like beams into a glass; Where, as thou grew'st, it multiplied, and shined The sacred constellation of thy mind.

But being for a bride, prayer was such A decried course, sure it prevailed not much. Hadst ne'er an oath nor compliment? thou wert An odd, dull suitor; hadst thou but the art Of these our days, thou couldst have coined thee twenty New several oaths, and compliments, too, plenty. O sad and wild excess! and happy those White days, that durst no impious mirth expose: When conscience by lewd use had not lost sense, Nor bold-faced custom banished innocence! Thou hadst no pompous train, nor antic crowd Of young, gay swearers, with their needless, loud Retinue; all was here smooth as thy bride, And calm like her, or that mild evening-tide. Yet hadst thou nobler guests: angels did wind And rove about thee, guardians of thy mind; These fetched thee home thy bride, and all the way Advised thy servant what to do and say; These taught him at the well, and thither brought The chaste and lovely object of thy thought. But here was ne'er a compliment, not one Spruce, supple cringe, or studied look put on. All was plain, modest truth: nor did she come In rolls and curls, mincing and stately dumb; But in a virgin's native blush and fears, Fresh as those roses which the day-spring wears. O sweet, divine simplicity! O grace Beyond a curled lock or painted face! A pitcher too she had, nor thought it much To carry that, which some would scorn to touch; With, which in mild, chaste language she did woo To draw him drink, and for his camels too.