Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649
337. The Weeper
HAIL, sister springs,Parents of silver-footed rills!Ever bubbling things,Thawing crystal, snowy hills!Still spending, never spent; I meanThy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.
Heavens thy fair eyes be;Heavens of ever-falling stars;'Tis seed-time still with thee,And stars thou sow'st whose harvest daresPromise the earth to countershineWhatever makes Heaven's forehead fine.
Every morn from henceA brisk cherub something sipsWhose soft influenceAdds sweetness to his sweetest lips;Then to his music: and his songTastes of this breakfast all day long.
When some new bright guestTakes up among the stars a room,And Heaven will make a feast,Angels with their bottles come,And draw from these full eyes of thineTheir Master's water, their own wine.
The dew no more will weepThe primrose's pale cheek to deck;The dew no more will sleepNuzzled in the lily's neck:Much rather would it tremble here,And leave them both to be thy tear.
When sorrow would be seenIn her brightest majesty,—For she is a Queen—Then is she drest by none but thee:Then and only then she wearsHer richest pearls—I mean thy tears.
Not in the evening's eyes,When they red with weeping areFor the Sun that dies,Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.Nowhere but here did ever meetSweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.
Does the night arise?Still thy tears do fall and fall.Does night lose her eyes?Still the fountain weeps for all.Let day and night do what they will,Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.
Not So long she livedWill thy tomb report of thee;But So long she grieved:Thus must we date thy memory.Others by days, by months, by years,Measure their ages, thou by tears.
Say, ye bright brothers,The fugitive sons of those fair eyesYour fruitful mothers,What make you here? What hopes can 'ticeYou to be born? What cause can borrowYou from those nests of noble sorrow?
Whither away so fastFor sure the sordid earthYour sweetness cannot taste,Nor does the dust deserve your birth.Sweet, whither haste you then? O say,Why you trip so fast away?
We go not to seekThe darlings of Aurora's bed,The rose's modest cheek,Nor the violet's humble head.No such thing: we go to meetA worthier object—our Lord's feet.
Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649
338. A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa
LOVE, thou are absolute, sole LordOf life and death. To prove the word,We'll now appeal to none of allThose thy old soldiers, great and tall,Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach downWith strong arms their triumphant crown:Such as could with lusty breathSpeak loud, unto the face of death,Their great Lord's glorious name; to noneOf those whose spacious bosoms spread a throneFor love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat:We'll see Him take a private seat,And make His mansion in the mildAnd milky soul of a soft child.Scarce has she learnt to lisp a nameOf martyr, yet she thinks it shameLife should so long play with that breathWhich spent can buy so brave a death.She never undertook to knowWhat death with love should have to do.Nor has she e'er yet understoodWhy, to show love, she should shed blood;Yet, though she cannot tell you why,She can love, and she can die.Scarce has she blood enough to makeA guilty sword blush for her sake;Yet has a heart dares hope to proveHow much less strong is death than love….
Since 'tis not to be had at home,She'll travel for a martyrdom.No home for her, confesses she,But where she may a martyr be.She'll to the Moors, and trade with themFor this unvalued diadem;She offers them her dearest breath,With Christ's name in 't, in charge for death:She'll bargain with them, and will giveThem God, and teach them how to liveIn Him; or, if they this deny,For Him she'll teach them how to die.So shall she leave amongst them sownHer Lord's blood, or at least her own.
Farewell then, all the world, adieu!Teresa is no more for you.Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys,Never till now esteemed toys!
Farewell whatever dear may be—Mother's arms, or father's knee!Farewell house, and farewell home!She 's for the Moors and Martyrdom.
Sweet, not so fast; lo! thy fair spouse,Whom thou seek'st with so swift vows,Calls thee back, and bids thee comeT' embrace a milder martyrdom….
O how oft shalt thou complainOf a sweet and subtle pain!Of intolerable joys!Of a death, in which who diesLoves his death, and dies again,And would for ever so be slain;And lives and dies, and knows not whyTo live, but that he still may die!How kindly will thy gentle heartKiss the sweetly-killing dart!And close in his embraces keepThose delicious wounds, that weepBalsam, to heal themselves with thus,When these thy deaths, so numerous,Shall all at once die into one,And melt thy soul's sweet mansion;Like a soft lump of incense, hastedBy too hot a fire, and wastedInto perfuming clouds, so fastShalt thou exhale to heaven at lastIn a resolving sigh, and then,—O what? Ask not the tongues of men.
Angels cannot tell; suffice,Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys,And hold them fast for ever there.So soon as thou shalt first appear,The moon of maiden stars, thy whiteMistress, attended by such brightSouls as thy shining self, shall come,And in her first ranks make thee room;Where, 'mongst her snowy family,Immortal welcomes wait for thee.O what delight, when she shall standAnd teach thy lips heaven, with her hand,On which thou now may'st to thy wishesHeap up thy consecrated kisses!What joy shall seize thy soul, when she,Bending her blessed eyes on thee,Those second smiles of heaven, shall dartHer mild rays through thy melting heart!
Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee,Glad at their own home now to meet thee.All thy good works which went before,And waited for thee at the door,Shall own thee there; and all in oneWeave a constellationOf crowns, with which the King, thy spouse,Shall build up thy triumphant brows.All thy old woes shall now smile on thee,And thy pains sit bright upon thee:All thy sorrows here shall shine,And thy sufferings be divine.Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems,And wrongs repent to diadems.Even thy deaths shall live, and newDress the soul which late they slew.Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scarsAs keep account of the Lamb's wars.
Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writLove's noble history, with witTaught thee by none but Him, while hereThey feed our souls, shall clothe thine there.Each heavenly word by whose hid flameOur hard hearts shall strike fire, the sameShall flourish on thy brows, and beBoth fire to us and flame to thee;Whose light shall live bright in thy faceBy glory, in our hearts by grace.Thou shalt look round about, and seeThousands of crown'd souls throng to beThemselves thy crown, sons of thy vows,The virgin-births with which thy spouseMade fruitful thy fair soul; go now,And with them all about thee bowTo Him; put on, He'll say, put on,My rosy Love, that thy rich zone,Sparkling with the sacred flamesOf thousand souls, whose happy namesHeaven keeps upon thy score: thy brightLife brought them first to kiss the lightThat kindled them to stars; and soThou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go.And, wheresoe'er He sets His whiteSteps, walk with Him those ways of light,Which who in death would live to see,Must learn in life to die like thee.
Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649
339. Upon the Book and Picture of the Seraphical Saint Teresa
O THOU undaunted daughter of desires!By all thy dower of lights and fires;By all the eagle in thee, all the dove;By all thy lives and deaths of love;By thy large draughts of intellectual day,And by thy thirsts of love more large than they;By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce desire,By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire;By the full kingdom of that final kissThat seized thy parting soul, and seal'd thee His;By all the Heav'n thou hast in Him(Fair sister of the seraphim!);By all of Him we have in thee;Leave nothing of myself in me.Let me so read thy life, that IUnto all life of mine may die!
Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649
340. Verses from the Shepherds' Hymn
WE saw Thee in Thy balmy nest,Young dawn of our eternal day;We saw Thine eyes break from the East,And chase the trembling shades away:We saw Thee, and we blest the sight,We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.
Poor world, said I, what wilt thou doTo entertain this starry stranger?Is this the best thou canst bestow—A cold and not too cleanly manger?Contend, the powers of heaven and earth,To fit a bed for this huge birth.
Proud world, said I, cease your contest,And let the mighty babe alone;The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest,Love's architecture is His own.The babe, whose birth embraves this morn,Made His own bed ere He was born.
I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow,Come hovering o'er the place's head,Off'ring their whitest sheets of snow,To furnish the fair infant's bed.Forbear, said I, be not too bold;Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold.
I saw th' obsequious seraphimTheir rosy fleece of fire bestow,For well they now can spare their wings,Since Heaven itself lies here below.Well done, said I; but are you sureYour down, so warm, will pass for pure?
No, no, your King 's not yet to seekWhere to repose His royal head;See, see how soon His new-bloom'd cheek'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed!Sweet choice, said we; no way but so,Not to lie cold, you sleep in snow!
She sings Thy tears asleep, and dipsHer kisses in Thy weeping eye;She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips,That in their buds yet blushing lie.She 'gainst those mother diamonds triesThe points of her young eagle's eyes.
Welcome—tho' not to those gay flies,Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings,Slippery souls in smiling eyes—But to poor shepherds, homespun things,Whose wealth 's their flocks, whose wit 's to beWell read in their simplicity.
Yet, when young April's husband show'rsShall bless the fruitful Maia's bed,We'll bring the first-born of her flowers,To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head.To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keepThe shepherds while they feed their sheep.
To Thee, meek Majesty, soft KingOf simple graces and sweet loves!Each of us his lamb will bring,Each his pair of silver doves!At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes,Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!
Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649
341. Christ Crucified
THY restless feet now cannot goFor us and our eternal good,As they were ever wont. What thoughThey swim, alas! in their own flood?
Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift,Yet will Thy hand still giving be;It gives, but O, itself's the gift!It gives tho' bound, tho' bound 'tis free!
Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649
342. An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife Who died and were buried together
TO these whom death again did wedThis grave 's the second marriage-bed.For though the hand of Fate could force'Twixt soul and body a divorce,It could not sever man and wife,Because they both lived but one life.Peace, good reader, do not weep;Peace, the lovers are asleep.They, sweet turtles, folded lieIn the last knot that love could tie.Let them sleep, let them sleep on,Till the stormy night be gone,And the eternal morrow dawn;Then the curtains will be drawn,And they wake into a lightWhose day shall never die in night.
Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658
343. To Lucasta, going to the Wars
TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind,That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mindTo war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is suchAs thou too shalt adore;I could not love thee, Dear, so much,Loved I not Honour more.
Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658
344. To Lucasta, going beyond the Seas
IF to be absent were to beAway from thee;Or that when I am goneYou or I were alone;Then, my Lucasta, might I cravePity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.
But I'll not sigh one blast or galeTo swell my sail,Or pay a tear to 'suageThe foaming blue god's rage;For whether he will let me passOr no, I'm still as happy as I was.
Though seas and land betwixt us both,Our faith and troth,Like separated souls,All time and space controls:Above the highest sphere we meetUnseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.
So then we do anticipateOur after-fate,And are alive i' the skies,If thus our lips and eyesCan speak like spirits unconfinedIn Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.
Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658
345. Gratiana Dancing
SHE beat the happy pavement—By such a star made firmament,Which now no more the roof envìes!But swells up high, with Atlas even,Bearing the brighter nobler heaven,And, in her, all the deities.
Each step trod out a Lover's thought,And the ambitious hopes he broughtChain'd to her brave feet with such arts,Such sweet command and gentle awe,As, when she ceased, we sighing sawThe floor lay paved with broken hearts.
Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658
346. To Amarantha, that she would dishevel her Hair
AMARANTHA sweet and fair,Ah, braid no more that shining hair!As my curious hand or eyeHovering round thee, let it fly!
Let it fly as unconfinedAs its calm ravisher the wind,Who hath left his darling, th' East,To wanton o'er that spicy nest.
Every tress must be confest,But neatly tangled at the best;Like a clew of golden threadMost excellently ravelled.
Do not then wind up that lightIn ribbands, and o'ercloud in night,Like the Sun in 's early ray;But shake your head, and scatter day!
Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658
347. The Grasshopper
O THOU that swing'st upon the waving hairOf some well-filled oaten beard,Drunk every night with a delicious tearDropt thee from heaven, where thou wert rear'd!
The joys of earth and air are thine entire,That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;And when thy poppy works, thou dost retireTo thy carved acorn-bed to lie.
Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then,Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams,And all these merry days mak'st merry men,Thyself, and melancholy streams.
Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658
348. To Althea, from Prison
WHEN Love with unconfined wingsHovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at the grates;When I lie tangled in her hairAnd fetter'd to her eye,The birds that wanton in the airKnow no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly roundWith no allaying Thames,Our careless heads with roses bound,Our hearts with loyal flames;When thirsty grief in wine we steep,When healths and draughts go free—Fishes that tipple in the deepKnow no such liberty.
When, like committed linnets, IWith shriller throat shall singThe sweetness, mercy, majesty,And glories of my King;When I shall voice aloud how goodHe is, how great should be,Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for an hermitage;If I have freedom in my loveAnd in my soul am free,Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.
Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667
349. Anacreontics 1. Drinking
THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,And drinks and gapes for drink again;The plants suck in the earth, and areWith constant drinking fresh and fair;The sea itself (which one would thinkShould have but little need of drink)Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.The busy Sun (and one would guessBy 's drunken fiery face no less)Drinks up the sea, and when he 's done,The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:They drink and dance by their own light,They drink and revel all the night:Nothing in Nature 's sober found,But an eternal health goes round.Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high,Fill all the glasses there—for whyShould every creature drink but I?Why, man of morals, tell me why?
Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667
350. Anacreontics 2. The Epicure
UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,On flowerly beds supinely laid,With odorous oils my head o'erflowing,And around it roses growing,What should I do but drink awayThe heat and troubles of the day?In this more than kingly stateLove himself on me shall wait.Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up!And mingled cast into the cupWit and mirth and noble fires,Vigorous health and gay desires.The wheel of life no less will stayIn a smooth than rugged way:Since it equally doth flee,Let the motion pleasant be.Why do we precious ointments shower?—Nobler wines why do we pour?—Beauteous flowers why do we spreadUpon the monuments of the dead?Nothing they but dust can show,Or bones that hasten to be so.Crown me with roses while I live,Now your wines and ointments give:After death I nothing crave,Let me alive my pleasures have:All are Stoics in the grave.
Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667
351. Anacreontics 3. The Swallow
FOOLISH prater, what dost thouSo early at my window do?Cruel bird, thou'st ta'en awayA dream out of my arms to-day;A dream that ne'er must equall'd beBy all that waking eyes may see.Thou this damage to repairNothing half so sweet and fair,Nothing half so good, canst bring,Tho' men say thou bring'st the Spring.
Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667
352. On the Death of Mr. William Hervey
IT was a dismal and a fearful night:Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling Light,When Sleep, Death's image, left my troubled breastBy something liker Death possest.My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,And on my soul hung the dull weightOf some intolerable fate.What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know!
My sweet companion and my gentle peer,Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,Thy end for ever and my life to moan?O, thou hast left me all alone!Thy soul and body, when death's agonyBesieged around thy noble heart,Did not with more reluctance partThan I, my dearest Friend, do part from thee.
My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee!Life and this world henceforth will tedious be:Nor shall I know hereafter what to doIf once my griefs prove tedious too.Silent and sad I walk about all day,As sullen ghosts stalk speechless byWhere their hid treasures lie;Alas! my treasure 's gone; why do I stay?
Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,How oft unwearied have we spent the nights,Till the Ledaean stars, so famed for love,Wonder'd at us from above!We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine;But search of deep Philosophy,Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry—Arts which I loved, for they, my Friend, were thine.
Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, sayHave ye not seen us walking every day?Was there a tree about which did not knowThe love betwixt us two?Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade;Or your sad branches thicker joinAnd into darksome shades combine,Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid!
Large was his soul: as large a soul as e'erSubmitted to inform a body here;High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have,But low and humble as his grave.So high that all the virtues there did come,As to their chiefest seatConspicuous and great;So low, that for me too it made a room.
Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caughtAs if for him Knowledge had rather sought;Nor did more learning ever crowded lieIn such a short mortality.Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,Still did the notions throngAbout his eloquent tongue;Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.
His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,Yet never did his God or friends forget;And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,Retired, and gave to them their due.For the rich help of books he always took,Though his own searching mind beforeWas so with notions written o'er,As if wise Nature had made that her book.
With as much zeal, devotion, piety,He always lived, as other saints do die.Still with his soul severe account he kept,Weeping all debts out ere he slept.Then down in peace and innocence he lay,Like the Sun's laborious light,Which still in water sets at night,Unsullied with his journey of the day.
But happy Thou, ta'en from this frantic age,Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage!A fitter time for Heaven no soul e'er chose—The place now only free from those.There 'mong the blest thou dost for ever shine;And wheresoe'er thou casts thy viewUpon that white and radiant crew,See'st not a soul clothed with more light than thine.
Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667
353. The Wish
WELL then! I now do plainly seeThis busy world and I shall ne'er agree.The very honey of all earthly joyDoes of all meats the soonest cloy;And they, methinks, deserve my pityWho for it can endure the stings,The crowd and buzz and murmurings,Of this great hive, the city.
Ah, yet, ere I descend to the graveMay I a small house and large garden have;And a few friends, and many books, both true,Both wise, and both delightful too!And since love ne'er will from me flee,A Mistress moderately fair,And good as guardian angels are,Only beloved and loving me.
O fountains! when in you shall IMyself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy?O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be madeThy happy tenant of your shade?Here 's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood:Here 's wealthy Nature's treasury,Where all the riches lie that sheHas coin'd and stamp'd for good.
Pride and ambition hereOnly in far-fetch'd metaphors appear;Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,And nought but Echo flatter.The gods, when they descended, hitherFrom heaven did always choose their way:And therefore we may boldly sayThat 'tis the way too thither.
Hoe happy here should IAnd one dear She live, and embracing die!She who is all the world, and can excludeIn deserts solitude.I should have then this only fear:Lest men, when they my pleasures see,Should hither throng to live like me,And so make a city here.
Alexander Brome. 1620-1666
354. The Resolve
TELL me not of a face that 's fair,Nor lip and cheek that 's red,Nor of the tresses of her hair,Nor curls in order laid,Nor of a rare seraphic voiceThat like an angel sings;Though if I were to take my choiceI would have all these things:But if that thou wilt have me love,And it must be a she,The only argument can moveIs that she will love me.
The glories of your ladies beBut metaphors of things,And but resemble what we seeEach common object brings.Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,Lilies their whiteness stain;What fool is he that shadows seeksAnd may the substance gain?Then if thou'lt have me love a lass,Let it be one that 's kind:Else I'm a servant to the glassThat 's with Canary lined.
Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678
355. An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland
THE forward youth that would appearMust now forsake his Muses dear,Nor in the shadows singHis numbers languishing.
'Tis time to leave the books in dust,And oil the unused armour's rust,Removing from the wallThe corslet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not ceaseIn the inglorious arts of peace,But through adventurous warUrged his active star:
And like the three-fork'd lightning, firstBreaking the clouds where it was nurst,Did thorough his own sideHis fiery way divide:
For 'tis all one to courage high,The emulous, or enemy;And with such, to encloseIs more than to oppose.
Then burning through the air he wentAnd palaces and temples rent;And Caesar's head at lastDid through his laurels blast.
'Tis madness to resist or blameThe face of angry Heaven's flame;And if we would speak true,Much to the man is due,
Who, from his private gardens, whereHe lived reserved and austere(As if his highest plotTo plant the bergamot),
Could by industrious valour climbTo ruin the great work of time,And cast the Kingdoms oldInto another mould;
Though Justice against Fate complain,And plead the ancient rights in vain—But those do hold or breakAs men are strong or weak—
Nature, that hateth emptiness,Allows of penetration less,And therefore must make roomWhere greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil warWhere his were not the deepest scar?And Hampton shows what partHe had of wiser art;
Where, twining subtle fears with hope,He wove a net of such a scopeThat Charles himself might chaseTo Caresbrooke's narrow case;
That thence the Royal actor borneThe tragic scaffold might adorn:While round the armed bandsDid clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or meanUpon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe's edge did try;
Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite,To vindicate his helpless right;But bow'd his comely headDown, as upon a bed.
This was that memorable hourWhich first assured the forced power:So when they did designThe Capitol's first line,
A Bleeding Head, where they begun,Did fright the architects to run;And yet in that the StateForesaw its happy fate!
And now the Irish are ashamedTo see themselves in one year tamed:So much one man can doThat does both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best,And have, though overcome, confestHow good he is, how justAnd fit for highest trust.
Nor yet grown stiffer with command,But still in the republic's hand—How fit he is to swayThat can so well obey!
He to the Commons' feet presentsA Kingdom for his first year's rents,And, what he may, forbearsHis fame, to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirtTo lay them at the public's skirt.So when the falcon highFalls heavy from the sky,
She, having kill'd, no more doth searchBut on the next green bough to perch;Where, when he first does lure,The falconer has her sure.
What may not then our Isle presumeWhile victory his crest does plume?What may not others fear,If thus he crowns each year?
As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,To Italy an Hannibal,And to all States not freeShall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall findWithin his particolour'd mind,But, from this valour, sadShrink underneath the plaid;
Happy, if in the tufted brakeThe English hunter him mistake,Nor lay his hounds in nearThe Caledonian deer.
But thou, the war's and fortune's son,March indefatigably on;And for the last effect,Still keep the sword erect:
Besides the force it has to frightThe spirits of the shady night,The same arts that did gainA power, must it maintain.
Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678
356. A Garden Written after the Civil Wars
SEE how the flowers, as at parade,Under their colours stand display'd:Each regiment in order grows,That of the tulip, pink, and rose.But when the vigilant patrolOf stars walks round about the pole,Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl'd,Seem to their staves the ensigns furl'd.Then in some flower's beloved hutEach bee, as sentinel, is shut,And sleeps so too; but if once stirr'd,She runs you through, nor asks the word.O thou, that dear and happy Isle,The garden of the world erewhile,Thou Paradise of the four seasWhich Heaven planted us to please,But, to exclude the world, did guardWith wat'ry if not flaming sword;What luckless apple did we tasteTo make us mortal and thee waste!Unhappy! shall we never moreThat sweet militia restore,When gardens only had their towers,And all the garrisons were flowers;When roses only arms might bear,And men did rosy garlands wear?
Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678
357. To His Coy Mistress
HAD we but world enough, and time,This coyness, Lady, were no crimeWe would sit down and think which wayTo walk and pass our long love's day.Thou by the Indian Ganges' sideShouldst rubies find: I by the tideOf Humber would complain. I wouldLove you ten years before the Flood,And you should, if you please, refuseTill the conversion of the Jews.My vegetable love should growVaster than empires, and more slow;An hundred years should go to praiseThine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;Two hundred to adore each breast,But thirty thousand to the rest;An age at least to every part,And the last age should show your heart.For, Lady, you deserve this state,Nor would I love at lower rate.But at my back I always hearTime's winged chariot hurrying near;And yonder all before us lieDeserts of vast eternity.Thy beauty shall no more be found,Nor, in thy marble vault, shall soundMy echoing song: then worms shall tryThat long preserved virginity,And your quaint honour turn to dust,And into ashes all my lust:The grave 's a fine and private place,But none, I think, do there embrace.Now therefore, while the youthful hueSits on thy skin like morning dew,And while thy willing soul transpiresAt every pore with instant fires,Now let us sport us while we may,And now, like amorous birds of prey,Rather at once our time devourThan languish in his slow-chapt power.Let us roll all our strength and allOur sweetness up into one ball,And tear our pleasures with rough strifeThorough the iron gates of life:Thus, though we cannot make our sunStand still, yet we will make him run.
slow-chapt] slow-jawed, slowly devouring.
Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678
358. The Picture of Little T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers
SEE with what simplicityThis nymph begins her golden days!In the green grass she loves to lie,And there with her fair aspect tamesThe wilder flowers, and gives them names;But only with the roses plays,And them does tellWhat colour best becomes them, and what smell.
Who can foretell for what high causeThis darling of the gods was born?Yet this is she whose chaster lawsThe wanton Love shall one day fear,And, under her command severe,See his bow broke and ensigns torn.Happy who canAppease this virtuous enemy of man!
O then let me in time compoundAnd parley with those conquering eyes,Ere they have tried their force to wound;Ere with their glancing wheels they driveIn triumph over hearts that strive,And them that yield but more despise:Let me be laid,Where I may see the glories from some shade.
Meantime, whilst every verdant thingItself does at thy beauty charm,Reform the errors of the Spring;Make that the tulips may have shareOf sweetness, seeing they are fair,And roses of their thorns disarm;But most procureThat violets may a longer age endure.
But O, young beauty of the woods,Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;Lest Flora, angry at thy crimeTo kill her infants in their prime,Do quickly make th' example yours;And ere we see,Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee.
Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678
359. Thoughts in a Garden
HOW vainly men themselves amazeTo win the palm, the oak, or bays,And their uncessant labours seeCrown'd from some single herb or tree,Whose short and narrow-verged shadeDoes prudently their toils upbraid;While all the flowers and trees do closeTo weave the garlands of repose!
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,And Innocence thy sister dear?Mistaken long, I sought you thenIn busy companies of men:Your sacred plants, if here below,Only among the plants will grow:Society is all but rudeTo this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seenSo amorous as this lovely green.Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,Cut in these trees their mistress' name:Little, alas! they know or heedHow far these beauties hers exceed!Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound,No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passions' heat,Love hither makes his best retreat:The gods, that mortal beauty chase,Still in a tree did end their race;Apollo hunted Daphne soOnly that she might laurel grow;And Pan did after Syrinx speedNot as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life in this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head;The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine;The nectarine and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach;Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure lessWithdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds, and other seas;Annihilating all that 's madeTo a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot,Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,Casting the body's vest aside,My soul into the boughs does glide;There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets and combs its silver wings,And, till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy Garden-stateWhile man there walk'd without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet!But 'twas beyond a mortal's shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises 'twere in one,To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skilful gard'ner drewOf flowers and herbs this dial new!Where, from above, the milder sunDoes through a fragrant zodiac run:And, as it works, th' industrious beeComputes its time as well as we.How could such sweet and wholesome hoursBe reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!
Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678
360. Bermudas
WHERE the remote Bermudas rideIn the ocean's bosom unespied,From a small boat that row'd alongThe listening woods received this song:
'What should we do but sing His praiseThat led us through the watery mazeUnto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,That lift the deep upon their backs,He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms' and prelates' rage:He gave us this eternal SpringWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air:He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meetAnd throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by His handFrom Lebanon He stores the land;And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergris on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.O, let our voice His praise exaltTill it arrive at Heaven's vault,Which thence (perhaps) rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique bay!'
Thus sung they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.
Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678
361. An Epitaph
ENOUGH; and leave the rest to Fame!'Tis to commend her, but to name.Courtship which, living, she declined,When dead, to offer were unkind:Nor can the truest wit, or friend,Without detracting, her commend.
To say—she lived a virgin chasteIn this age loose and all unlaced;Nor was, when vice is so allowed,Of virtue or ashamed or proud;That her soul was on Heaven so bent,No minute but it came and went;That, ready her last debt to pay,She summ'd her life up every day;Modest as morn, as mid-day bright,Gentle as evening, cool as night:—'Tis true; but all too weakly said.'Twas more significant, she's dead.
Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695
362. The Retreat
HAPPY those early days, when IShin'd in my Angel-infancy!Before I understood this placeAppointed for my second race,Or taught my soul to fancy aughtBut a white celestial thought:When yet I had not walk'd aboveA mile or two from my first Love,And looking back—at that short space—Could see a glimpse of His bright face:When on some gilded cloud, or flow'r,My gazing soul would dwell an hour,And in those weaker glories spySome shadows of eternity:Before I taught my tongue to woundMy Conscience with a sinful sound,Or had the black art to dispenseA several sin to ev'ry sense,But felt through all this fleshly dressBright shoots of everlastingness.
O how I long to travel back,And tread again that ancient track!That I might once more reach that plainWhere first I left my glorious train;From whence th' enlightned spirit seesThat shady City of Palm-trees.But ah! my soul with too much stayIs drunk, and staggers in the way!Some men a forward motion love,But I by backward steps would move;And when this dust falls to the urn,In that state I came, return.
Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695
363. Peace
MY soul, there is a countryFar beyond the stars,Where stands a winged sentryAll skilful in the wars:There, above noise and danger,Sweet Peace sits crown'd with smiles,And One born in a mangerCommands the beauteous files.He is thy gracious Friend,And—O my soul, awake!—Did in pure love descendTo die here for thy sake.If thou canst get but thither,There grows the flower of Peace,The Rose that cannot wither,Thy fortress, and thy ease.Leave then thy foolish ranges;For none can thee secureBut One who never changes—Thy God, thy life, thy cure.
Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695
364. The Timber
SURE thou didst flourish once! and many springs,Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers,Pass'd o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings,Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers.
And still a new succession sings and flies;Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shootTowards the old and still enduring skies,While the low violet thrives at their root.
But thou beneath the sad and heavy lineOf death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;Where not so much as dreams of light may shine,Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.
And yet—as if some deep hate and dissent,Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee,Were still alive—thou dost great storms resentBefore they come, and know'st how near they be.
Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breathOf tempests can no more disturb thy ease;But this thy strange resentment after deathMeans only those who broke—in life—thy peace.
Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695
365. Friends Departed
THEY are all gone into the world of light!And I alone sit ling'ring here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,Like stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drestAfter the sun's remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days:My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.
O holy Hope! and high Humility,High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have show'd them me,To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just,Shining nowhere, but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest may know,At first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair well or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.
And yet as Angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul, when man doth sleep:So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.
If a star were confin'd into a tomb,Her captive flames must needs burn there;But when the hand that lock'd her up gives room,She'll shine through all the sphere.
O Father of eternal life, and allCreated glories under Thee!Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrallInto true liberty.
Either disperse these mists, which blot and fillMy perspective still as they pass:Or else remove me hence unto that hill,Where I shall need no glass.
John Bunyan. 1628-1688
366. The Shepherd Boy sings in the Valley of Humiliation
HE that is down needs fear no fall,He that is low, no pride;He that is humble ever shallHave God to be his guide.
I am content with what I have,Little be it or much:And, Lord, contentment still I crave,Because Thou savest such.
Fullness to such a burden isThat go on pilgrimage:Here little, and hereafter bliss,Is best from age to age.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
367. Thomas the Rhymer
TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e;And there he saw a ladye brightCome riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk,Her mantle o' the velvet fyne;At ilka tett o' her horse's mane,Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap,And louted low down on his knee'Hail to thee Mary, Queen of Heaven!For thy peer on earth could never be.'
'O no, O no, Thomas' she said,'That name does not belang to me;I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland,That am hither come to visit thee.
'Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said;'Harp and carp along wi' me;And if ye dare to kiss my lips,Sure of your bodie I will be.'
'Betide me weal; betide me woe,That weird shall never daunten me.'Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips,All underneath the Eildon Tree.
'Now ye maun go wi' me,' she said,'True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me;And ye maun serve me seven years,Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be.'
She 's mounted on her milk-white steed,She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind;And aye, whene'er her bridle rang,The steed gaed swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on,The steed gaed swifter than the wind;Until they reach'd a desert wide,And living land was left behind.
'Light down, light down now, true Thomas,And lean your head upon my knee;Abide ye there a little space,And I will show you ferlies three.
'O see ye not yon narrow road,So thick beset wi' thorns and briers?That is the Path of Righteousness,Though after it but few inquires.
'And see ye not yon braid, braid road,That lies across the lily leven?That is the Path of Wickedness,Though some call it the Road to Heaven.
'And see ye not yon bonny roadThat winds about the fernie brae?That is the Road to fair Elfland,Where thou and I this night maun gae.
'But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue,Whatever ye may hear or see;For speak ye word in Elfyn-land,Ye'll ne'er win back to your ain countrie.'
O they rade on, and farther on,And they waded rivers abune the knee;And they saw neither sun nor moon,But they heard the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,They waded thro' red blude to the knee;For a' the blude that 's shed on the earthRins through the springs o' that countrie.
Syne they came to a garden green,And she pu'd an apple frae a tree:'Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.'
'My tongue is my ain,' true Thomas he said;'A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!I neither dought to buy or sellAt fair or tryst where I might be.
'I dought neither speak to prince or peer,Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!'—'Now haud thy peace, Thomas,' she said,'For as I say, so must it be.'
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,And a pair o' shoon of the velvet green;And till seven years were gane and past,True Thomas on earth was never seen.
ferlie] marvel. tett] tuft, lock. harp and carp] play and recite (as a minstrel). leven] ?lawn. dought] could.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
368. Sir Patrick Spens
I. The Sailing
THE king sits in Dunfermline townDrinking the blude-red wine;'O whare will I get a skeely skipperTo sail this new ship o' mine?'
O up and spak an eldern knight,Sat at the king's right knee;'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever sail'd the sea.'
Our king has written a braid letter,And seal'd it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.
'To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o'er the faem;The king's daughter o' Noroway,'Tis thou must bring her hame.'
The first word that Sir Patrick readSo loud, loud laugh'd he;The neist word that Sir Patrick readThe tear blinded his e'e.
'O wha is this has done this deedAnd tauld the king o' me,To send us out, at this time o' year,To sail upon the sea?
'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king's daughter o' Noroway,'Tis we must fetch her hame.'
They hoysed their sails on Monenday mornWi' a' the speed they may;They hae landed in NorowayUpon a Wodensday.
II. The Return
'Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'!Our gude ship sails the morn.''Now ever alack, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm.
'I saw the new moon late yestreenWi' the auld moon in her arm;And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll come to harm.'
They hadna sail'd a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the topmast lap,It was sic a deadly storm:And the waves cam owre the broken shipTill a' her sides were torn.
'Go fetch a web o' the silken claith,Another o' the twine,And wap them into our ship's side,And let nae the sea come in.'
They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith,Another o' the twine,And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side,But still the sea came in.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo wet their cork-heel'd shoon;But lang or a' the play was play'dThey wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather bedThat flatter'd on the faem;And mony was the gude lord's sonThat never mair cam hame.
O lang, lang may the ladies sit,Wi' their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sitWi' their gowd kames in their hair,A-waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they'll see nae mair.
Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,'Tis fifty fathoms deep;And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi' the Scots lords at his feet!
skeely] skilful. lift] sky. lap] sprang. flatter'd] tossed afloat. kames] combs.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
369. The Lass of Lochroyan
'O WHA will shoe my bonny foot?And wha will glove my hand?And wha will bind my middle jimpWi' a lang, lang linen band?
'O wha will kame my yellow hair,With a haw bayberry kame?And wha will be my babe's fatherTill Gregory come hame?'
'They father, he will shoe thy foot,Thy brother will glove thy hand,Thy mither will bind thy middle jimpWi' a lang, lang linen band.
'Thy sister will kame thy yellow hair,Wi' a haw bayberry kame;The Almighty will be thy babe's fatherTill Gregory come hame.'
'And wha will build a bonny ship,And set it on the sea?For I will go to seek my love,My ain love Gregory.'
Up then spak her father dear,A wafu' man was he;'And I will build a bonny ship,And set her on the sea.
'And I will build a bonny ship,And set her on the sea,And ye sal gae and seek your love,Your ain love Gregory.'
Then he 's gart build a bonny ship,And set it on the sea,Wi' four-and-twenty mariners,To bear her company.
O he 's gart build a bonny ship,To sail on the salt sea;The mast was o' the beaten gold,The sails o' cramoisie.
The sides were o' the gude stout aik,The deck o' mountain pine,The anchor o' the silver shene,The ropes o' silken twine.
She hadna sail'd but twenty leagues,But twenty leagues and three,When she met wi' a rank reiver,And a' his companie.
'Now are ye Queen of Heaven hie,Come to pardon a' our sin?Or are ye Mary Magdalane,Was born at Bethlam?'
'I'm no the Queen of Heaven hie,Come to pardon ye your sin,Nor am I Mary Magdalane,Was born in Bethlam.
'But I'm the lass of Lochroyan,That 's sailing on the seaTo see if I can find my love,My ain love Gregory.'
'O see na ye yon bonny bower?It 's a' covered owre wi' tin;When thou hast sail'd it round about,Lord Gregory is within.'
And when she saw the stately tower,Shining both clear and bright,Whilk stood aboon the jawing wave,Built on a rock of height,
Says, 'Row the boat, my mariners,And bring me to the land,For yonder I see my love's castle,Close by the salt sea strand.'
She sail'd it round, and sail'd it round,And loud and loud cried she,'Now break, now break your fairy charms,And set my true-love free.'
She 's ta'en her young son in her arms,And to the door she 's gane,And long she knock'd, and sair she ca'd.But answer got she nane.
'O open, open, Gregory!O open! if ye be within;For here 's the lass of Lochroyan,Come far fra kith and kin.
'O open the door, Lord Gregory!O open and let me in!The wind blows loud and cauld, Gregory,The rain drops fra my chin.
'The shoe is frozen to my foot,The glove unto my hand,The wet drops fra my yellow hair,Na langer dow I stand.'
O up then spak his ill mither,—An ill death may she die!'Ye're no the lass of Lochroyan,She 's far out-owre the sea.
'Awa', awa', ye ill woman,Ye're no come here for gude;Ye're but some witch or wil' warlock,Or mermaid o' the flood.'
'I am neither witch nor wil' warlock,Nor mermaid o' the sea,But I am Annie of Lochroyan,O open the door to me!'
'Gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan,As I trow thou binna she,Now tell me of some love-tokensThat pass'd 'tween thee and me.'
'O dinna ye mind, love Gregory,As we sat at the wine,We changed the rings frae our fingers?And I can shew thee thine.
'O yours was gude, and gude enough,But ay the best was mine,For yours was o' the gude red gowd,But mine o' the diamond fine.
'Yours was o' the gude red gowd,Mine o' the diamond fine;Mine was o' the purest troth,But thine was false within.'
'If ye be the lass of Lochroyan,As I kenna thou be,Tell me some mair o' the love-tokensPass'd between thee and me.'
'And dinna ye mind, love Gregory!As we sat on the hill,Thou twin'd me o' my maidenheid,Right sair against my will?
'Now open the door, love Gregory!Open the door! I pray;For thy young son is in my arms,And will be dead ere day.'
'Ye lie, ye lie, ye ill woman,So loud I hear ye lie;For Annie of the LochroyanIs far out-owre the sea.'
Fair Annie turn'd her round about:'Weel, sine that it be sae,May ne'er woman that has borne a sonHae a heart sae fu' o' wae!
'Tak down, tak down that mast o' gowd,Set up a mast of tree;It disna become a forsaken ladyTo sail sae royallie.'
When the cock has crawn, and the day did dawn,And the sun began to peep,Up than raise Lord Gregory,And sair, sair did he weep.
'O I hae dream'd a dream, mither,I wish it may bring good!That the bonny lass of LochroyanAt my bower window stood.
'O I hae dream'd a dream, mither,The thought o't gars me greet!That fair Annie of LochroyanLay dead at my bed-feet.'
'Gin it be for Annie of LochroyanThat ye mak a' this mane,She stood last night at your bower-door,But I hae sent her hame.'
'O wae betide ye, ill woman,An ill death may ye die!That wadna open the door yoursellNor yet wad waken me.'
O he 's gane down to yon shore-side,As fast as he could dree,And there he saw fair Annie's barkA rowing owre the sea.
'O Annie, Annie,' loud he cried,'O Annie, O Annie, bide!'But ay the mair he cried 'Annie,'The braider grew the tide.
'O Annie, Annie, dear Annie,Dear Annie, speak to me!'But ay the louder he gan call,The louder roar'd the sea.
The wind blew loud, the waves rose hieAnd dash'd the boat on shore;Fair Annie's corpse was in the faem,The babe rose never more.
Lord Gregory tore his gowden locksAnd made a wafu' moan;Fair Annie's corpse lay at his feet,His bonny son was gone.
'O cherry, cherry was her cheek,And gowden was her hair,And coral, coral was her lips,Nane might with her compare.'
Then first he kiss'd her pale, pale cheek,And syne he kiss'd her chin,And syne he kiss'd her wane, wane lips,There was na breath within.
'O wae betide my ill mither,An ill death may she die!She turn'd my true-love frae my door,Who cam so far to me.
'O wae betide my ill mither,An ill death may she die!She has no been the deid o' ane,But she 's been the deid of three.'