From thence we set forth with more metal and spright,Our horses were empty, our coxcombs were light;O'er Dellamore forest we, tantivy, posted,Till our horses were basted as if they were roasted:In truth, we pursued might have been by our haste,And I think Sir George Booth did not gallop so fast,Till about two o'clock after noon, God be blest,We came, safe and sound, all to Chester i' th' west.
And now in high time 'twas to call for some meat,Though drinking does well, yet some time we must eat:And i' faith we had victuals both plenty and good,Where we all laid about us as if we were wood:Go thy ways, Mistress Anderton, for a good woman,Thy guests shall by thee ne'er be turned to a common;And whoever of thy entertainment complains,Let him lie with a drab, and be poxed for his pains.
And here I must stop the career of my Muse,The poor jade is weary, 'las! how should she choose?And if I should further here spur on my course,I should, questionless, tire both my wits and my horse:To-night let us rest, for 'tis good Sunday's even,To-morrow to church, and ask pardon of Heaven.Thus far we our time spent, as here I have penned it,An odd kind of life, and 'tis well if we mend it:But to-morrow (God willing) we'll have t' other bout,And better or worse be 't, for murder will out,Our future adventures we'll lay down before ye,For my Muse is deep sworn to use truth of the story.
After seven hours' sleep, to commute for pains taken,A man of himself, one would think, might awaken;But riding, and drinking hard, were two such spells,I doubt I'd slept on, but for jangling of bells,Which, ringing to matins all over the town,Made me leap out of bed, and put on my gown.With intent (so God mend me) t' have gone to the choir,When straight I perceived myself all on a fire;For the two forenamed things had so heated my blood,That a little phlebotomy would do me good:I sent for chirurgeon, who came in a trice,And swift to shed blood, needed not be called twice,But tilted stiletto quite thorough the vein,From whence issued out the ill humours amain;When having twelve ounces, he bound up my arm,And I gave him two Georges, which did him no harm:But after my bleeding, I soon understoodIt had cooled my devotion as well as my blood;For I had no more mind to look on my psalter,Than (saving your presence) I had to a halter;But, like a most wicked and obstinate sinner,Then sat in my chamber till folks came to dinner:I dined with good stomach, and very good cheer,With a very fine woman, and good ale and beer;When myself having stuffed than a bagpipe more full,I fell to my smoking until I grew dull;And, therefore, to take a fine nap thought it best,For when belly full is, bones would be at rest:I tumbled me down on my bed like a swad,Where, oh! the delicious dream that I had!Till the bells, that had been my morning molesters,Now waked me again, chiming all in to vespers:With that starting up, for my man I did whistle,And combed out and powdered my locks that were grizzle;Had my clothes neatly brushed, and then put on my sword,Resolved now to go and attend on the word.
Thus tricked, and thus trim, to set forth I begin,Neat and cleanly without, but scarce cleanly within;For why, Heaven knows it, I long time had beenA most humble obedient servant to sin;And now in devotion was even so proud,I scorned forsooth to join prayer with the crowd;For though courted by all the bells as I went,I was deaf, and regarded not the compliment,But to the cathedral still held on my pace,As't were, scorning to kneel but in the best place.I there made myself sure of good music at least,But was something deceived, for 'twas none of the best:But however I stay'd at the church's commandingTill we came to the 'Peace passes all understanding,'Which no sooner was ended, but whir and away,Like boys in a school when they've leave got to play;All save master mayor, who still gravely staysTill the rest had made room for his worship and's mace:Then he and his brethren in order appear,I out of my stall, and fell into his rear;For why, 'tis much safer appearing, no doubt,In authority's tail, than the head of a rout.
In this rev'rend order we marched from prayer;The mace before me borne as well as the mayor;Who looking behind him, and seeing most plainA glorious gold belt in the rear of his train,Made such a low congé, forgetting his place,I was never so honoured before in my days:But then off went my scalp-case, and down went my fist,Till the pavement, too hard, by my knuckles was kissed;By which, though thick-skulled, he must understand this,That I was a most humble servant of his;Which also so wonderful kindly he took,(As I well perceived both b' his gesture and look,)That to have me dogg'd home he straightway appointed,Resolving, it seems, to be better acquainted.I was scarce in my quarters, and set down on crupper,But his man was there too, to invite me to supper:I start up, and after most respective fashionGave his worship much thanks for his kind invitation;But begged his excuse, for my stomach was small,And I never did eat any supper at all;But that after supper I would kiss his hands,And would come to receive his worship's commands.Sure no one will say, but a patron of slander,That this was not pretty well for a Moorlander:And since on such reasons to sup I refused,I nothing did doubt to be holden excused;But my quaint repartee had his worship possess'dWith so wonderful good a conceit of the rest,That with mere impatience he hoped in his breechesTo see the fine fellow that made such fine speeches:'Go, sirrah!' quoth he, 'get you to him again,And will and require, in his Majesty's name,That he come; and tell him, obey he were best, orI'll teach him to know that he's now in West-Chester.'The man, upon this, comes me running again,But yet minced his message, and was not so plain;Saying to me only, 'Good sir, I am sorryTo tell you my master has sent again for you;And has such a longing to have you his guest,That I, with these ears, heard him swear and protest,He would neither say grace, nor sit down on his bum,Nor open his napkin, until you do come.'With that I perceived no excuse would avail,And, seeing there was no defence for a flail,I said I was ready master may'r to obey,And therefore desired him to lead me the way.We went, and ere Malkin could well lick her ear,(For it but the next door was, forsooth) we were there;Where lights being brought me, I mounted the stairs,The worst I e'er saw in my life at a mayor's:But everything else must be highly commended.I there found his worship most nobly attended,Besides such a supper as well did convince,A may'r in his province to be a great prince;As he sat in his chair, he did not much vary,In state nor in face, from our eighth English Harry;But whether his face was swelled up with fat,Or puffed up with glory, I cannot tell that.Being entered the chamber half length of a pike,And cutting of faces exceedingly likeOne of those little gentlemen brought from the Indies,And screwing myself into congés and cringes,By then I was half-way advanced in the room,His worship most rev'rendly rose from his bum,And with the more honour to grace and to greet me,Advanced a whole step and a half for to meet me;Where leisurely doffing a hat worth a tester,He bade me most heartily welcome to Chester.I thanked him in language the best I was able,And so we forthwith sat us all down to table.
Now here you must note, and 'tis worth observation,That as his chair at one end o' th' table had station;So sweet mistress may'ress, in just such another,Like the fair queen of hearts, sat in state at the other;By which I perceived, though it seemed a riddle,The lower end of this must be just in the middle:But perhaps 'tis a rule there, and one that would mind itAmongst the town-statutes 'tis likely might find it.But now into the pottage each deep his spoon claps,As in truth one might safely for burning one's chaps,When straight, with the look and the tone of a scold,Mistress may'ress complained that the pottage was cold;'And all 'long of your fiddle-faddle,' quoth she.'Why, what then, Goody Two-Shoes, what if it be?Hold you, if you can, your tittle-tattle,' quoth he.I was glad she was snapped thus, and guessed by th' discourse,The may'r, not the gray mare, was the better horse,And yet for all that, there is reason to fear,She submitted but out of respect to his year:However 'twas well she had now so much grace,Though not to the man, to submit to his place;For had she proceeded, I verily thoughtMy turn would the next be, for I was in fault:But this brush being past, we fell to our diet,And every one there filled his belly in quiet.Supper being ended, and things away taken,Master mayor's curiosity 'gan to awaken;Wherefore making me draw something nearer his chair,He willed and required me there to declareMy country, my birth, my estate, and my parts,And whether I was not a master of arts;And eke what the business was had brought me thither,With what I was going about now, and whither:Giving me caution, no lie should escape me,For if I should trip, he should certainly trap me.I answered, my country was famed Staffordshire;That in deeds, bills, and bonds, I was ever writ squire;That of land I had both sorts, some good, and some evil,But that a great part on't was pawned to the devil;That as for my parts, they were such as he saw;That, indeed, I had a small smatt'ring of law,Which I lately had got more by practice than reading,By sitting o' th' bench, whilst others were pleading;But that arms I had ever more studied than arts,And was now to a captain raised by my deserts;That the business which led me through Palatine groundInto Ireland was, whither now I was bound;Where his worship's great favour I loud will proclaim,And in all other places wherever I came.He said, as to that, I might do what I list,But that I was welcome, and gave me his fist;When having my fingers made crack with his gripes,He called to his man for some bottles and pipes.
To trouble you here with a longer narrationOf the several parts of our confabulation,Perhaps would be tedious; I'll therefore remit yeEven to the most rev'rend records of the city,Where, doubtless, the acts of the may'rs are recorded,And if not more truly, yet much better worded.
In short, then, we piped and we tippled Canary,Till my watch pointed one in the circle horary;When thinking it now was high time to depart,His worship I thanked with a most grateful heart;And because to great men presents are acceptable,I presented the may'r, ere I rose from the table,With a certain fantastical box and a stopper;And he having kindly accepted my offer,I took my fair leave, such my visage adorning,And to bed, for I was to rise early i' th' morning.
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 storeOf 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 innTo 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 fricasée 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' springIs inclosed with a certain octagonal ring;From each angle of which a pillar does rise,Of strength and of thickness enough to sufficeTo support and uphold from falling to groundA 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-willerTo that whoring and filching trade of a miller,As within a few paces to furnish the wheelsOf 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 waterOf 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 waterThe 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.
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.
1 Whatever man he be that dares to deemTrue poets' skill to spring of earthly race,I must him tell, that he doth mis-esteemTheir strange estate, and eke himself disgraceBy his rude ignorance. For there's no placeFor 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 materialIs low unwieldy earth, base unctuous slime,Whose inward hidden parts etherealLie close upwrapt in that dull sluggish fime,Lie fast asleep, till at some fatal timeGreat 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 untiesHer clogging chains, and doth her sprite unbind,She soars aloft; for she herself doth findWell plumed; so raised upon her spreaden wing,She softly plays, and warbles in the wind,And carols out her inward life and springOf overflowing joy, and of pure love doth sing.
1 Hence, hence, unhallowed ears, arid hearts more hardThan winter clods fast froze with northern wind,But most of all, foul tongue! I thee discard,That blamest all that thy dark straitened mindCannot 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 sightOf the eternal Word, all decked with glory bright.
2 Strange sights do straggle in my restless thoughts,And lively forms with orient colours cladWalk in my boundless mind, as men ybroughtInto some spacious room, who when they've hadA turn or two, go out, although unbade.All these I see and know, but entertainNone to my friend but who's most sober sad;Although, the time my roof doth them containTheir presence doth possess me till they out again.
3 And thus possessed, in silver trump I soundTheir guise, their shape, their gesture, and array;But as in silver trumpet nought is foundWhen 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 quillIn 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 assentTo 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 singOf time, of space; or without leave; I'm brentWith eager rage, my heart for joy doth spring,And all my spirits move with pleasant trembeling.
5 An inward triumph doth my soul upheaveAnd spread abroad through endless 'spersed air.My nimble mind this clammy clod doth leave,And lightly stepping on from star to starSwifter 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 nighGives back, new stars appear, the world's walls 'fore her fly.
1 As the seas,Boiling with swelling waves, aloft did rise,And met with mighty showers and pouring rainFrom 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 ballShall gallup up great flakes of rolling fire,And belch out pitchy flames, till over allHaving 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 returnAs 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 wideOf 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 strewWith fragrant herbs and flowers embellished,Where without fault or shame all living creatures bed.
1 Then the wild fancy from her horrid wombWill senden forth foul shapes. O dreadful sight!Overgrown toads, fierce serpents, thence will come,Red-scaled dragons, with deep burning lightIn 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 tongueOn 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 rocksHer frighted self do straightway terrify;Steel-coloured clouds with rattling thunder knocks,With these she is amazed, and thousand such-like mocks.
1 Like to a light fast locked in lantern dark,Whereby by night our wary steps we guideIn 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 cognoscenceWhate'er in her horizon doth appear:She is one orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear.
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 burstInto 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.
* * The Turks had oughtMade desperate onslaughts on the isle, but broughtNought back but wounds and infamy; but now,Wearied with toil, they are resolved to bowTheir stubborn resolutions with the strengthOf not-to-be-resisted want: the lengthOf the chronical disease extended hadTo some few months, since to oppress the sadBut constant islanders, the army lay,Circling their confines. Whilst this tedious stayFrom battle rusts the soldier's valour inHis tainted cabin, there had often been,With all variety of fortune, foughtBrave single combats, whose success had broughtHonour's unwithered laurels on the browOf either party; but the balance, nowForced by the hand of a brave Turk, inclinedWholly to them. Thrice had his valour shinedIn victory's refulgent rays, thrice heardThe shouts of conquest; thrice on his lance appearedThe heads of noble Rhodians, which had struckA general sorrow 'mongst the knights. All lookWho next the lists should enter; each desiresThe task were his, but honour now requiresA spirit more than vulgar, or she diesThe next attempt, their valour's sacrifice;To prop whose ruins, chosen by the freeConsent of all, Argalia comes to beTheir happy champion. Truce proclaimed, untilThe combat ends, the expecting people fillThe spacious battlements; the Turks forsakeTheir tents, of whom the city ladies takeA dreadful view, till a more noble sightDiverts their looks; each part behold their knightWith various wishes, whilst in blood and sweatThey toil for victory. The conflict's heatRaged in their veins, which honour more inflamedThan burning calentures could do; both blamedThe feeble influence of their stars, that gaveNo speedier conquest; each neglects to saveHimself, to seek advantage to offendHis eager foe * * * ** * * But now so longThe Turks' proud champion had endured the strongAssaults of the stout Christian, till his strengthCooled, on the ground, with his blood—he fell at length,Beneath his conquering sword. The barbarous crewO' the villains that did at a distance viewTheir champion's fall, all bands of truce forgot,Running to succour him, begin a hotAnd desperate combat with those knights that standTo aid Argalia, by whose conquering handWhole squadrons of them fall, but here he spentHis mighty spirit in vain, their cannons rentHis scattered troops.
* * * * *
Argalia lies in chains, ordained to dieA sacrifice unto the crueltyOf the fierce bashaw, whose loved favourite inThe combat late he slew; yet had not beenIn that so much unhappy, had not heThat honoured then his sword with victory,Half-brother to Janusa been, a brightBut cruel lady, whose refined delightHer slave (though husband), Ammurat, durst notRuffle with discontent; wherefore, to cool that hotContention of her blood, which he foresawThat heavy news would from her anger draw,To quench with the brave Christian's death, he sentHim living to her, that her anger, spentIn flaming torments, might not settle inThe dregs of discontent. Staying to winSome Rhodian castles, all the prisoners wereSent with a guard into Sardinia, thereTo meet their wretched thraldom. From the restArgalia severed, soon hopes to be bless'dWith speedy death, though waited on by allThe hell-instructed torments that could fallWithin invention's reach; but he's not yetArrived to his period, his unmoved stars sitThus in their orbs secured. It was the useOf the Turkish pride, which triumphs in the abuseOf suffering Christians, once, before they takeThe ornaments of nature off, to makeTheir prisoners public to the view, that allMight mock their miseries: this sight did callJanusa to her palace-window, where,Whilst she beholds them, love resolved to bearHer ruin on her treacherous eye-beams, tillHer heart infected grew; their orbs did fill,As the most pleasing object, with the sightOf him whose sword opened a way for the flightOf her loved brother's soul.
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 forthTo 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 hourFor 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 menAre 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.
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 weighWhat a loathed nothing you shall be one day.As the elements by circulation passFrom one to the other, and that which first wasIs so again, so 'tis with you. The graveAnd nature but complete: what the one gave,The other takes. Think, then, that in this bedThere sleep the relics of as proud a head,As stern and subtle as your own; that hathPerformed or forced as much; whose tempest-wrathHath levelled kings with slaves; and wisely, then,Calm these high furies, and descend to men.Thus Cyrus tamed the Macedon; a tombChecked him who thought the world too strait a room.Have I obeyed the powers of a face,A beauty, able to undo the raceOf easy man? I look but here, and straightI am informed; the lovely counterfeitWas 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 canOutswear his lordship, and reply as toughTo 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 scoreOf 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 sunCalls home his beams, and warns me to be gone:Day leaves me in a double night, and IMust bid farewell to my sad library,Yet with these notes. Henceforth with thought of theeI'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.
I've read thy soul's fair night-piece, and have seenThe amours and courtship of the silent queen;Her stolen descents to earth, and what did move herTo 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 sadNocturnal pilgrimage; with thy dreams, cladIn fancies darker than thy cave; thy glassOf sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did passIn her calm voyage, what discourse she heardOf spirits; what dark groves and ill-shaped guardIsmena led thee through; with thy proud flightO'er Periardes, and deep-musing nightNear fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn greenThe neighbour shades wear; and what forms are seenIn their large bowers; with that sad path and seatWhich none but light-heeled nymphs and fairies beat,Their solitary life, and how exemptFrom common frailty, the severe contemptThey have of man, their privilege to liveA tree or fountain, and in that reprieveWhat ages they consume: with the sad valeOf Diophania; and the mournful taleOf the bleeding, vocal myrtle:—these and more,Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the scoreTo thy rare fancy for. Nor dost thou fallFrom thy first majesty, or ought at allBetray consumption. Thy full vigorous baysWear the same green, and scorn the lean decaysOf style or matter; just as I have knownSome crystal spring, that from the neighbour downDerived her birth, in gentle murmurs stealTo the next vale, and proudly there revealHer streams in louder accents, adding stillMore noise and waters to her channel, tillAt last, swollen with increase, she glides alongThe lawns and meadows, in a wanton throngOf frothy billows, and in one great nameSwallows the tributary brooks' drowned fame.Nor are they mere inventions, for weIn the same piece find scattered philosophy,And hidden, dispersed truths, that folded lieIn the dark shades of deep allegory,So neatly weaved, like arras, they descryFables 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 farLess mutable, and lasting as their star;And while there is a people, or a sun,Endymion's story with the moon shall run.
I did believe, great Beaumont being dead,Thy widowed muse slept on his flowery bed.But I am richly cozened, and can seeWit 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 witWhich starved the land, since into schisms split,Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guessWit's last edition is now i' the press.For thou hast drained invention, and heThat writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strainAt the designs of such a tragic brain?Will they themselves think safe, when they shall seeThy most abominable policy?Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fitTheir 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 outliveTheir Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieveThe peace of spirits; and when such deeds failOf their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail.But, happy! thou ne'er saw'st these storms our airTeemed with, even in thy time, though seeming fair.Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and easeWithdrew 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 soilSo choice a muse, others are but thy foil;This or that age may write, but never seeA wit that dares run parallel with thee.True Ben must live; but bate him, and thou hastUndone all future wits, and matched the past.
Abominable face of things!—here's noiseOf banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys,Pigs, dogs, and drums; with the hoarse, hellish notesOf politicly-deaf usurers' throats;With new fine worships, and the old cast teamOf 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 sightOf high, monumental hats, ta'en at the fightOf Eighty-eight; while every burgess footsThe mortal pavement in eternal boots.Hadst thou been bachelor, I had soon divinedThy close retirements, and monastic mind;Perhaps some nymph had been to visit; orThe 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 exclaimThey have not seen thee here since Charles' reign;Or, if they mention thee, like some old manThat at each word inserts—Sir, as I canRemember—so the cipherers puzzle meWith a dark, cloudy character of thee;That, certes, I fear thou wilt be lost, and weMust ask the fathers ere't be long for thee.Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wineAnd precious wit lie dead for want of thine.Shall the dull market landlord, with his routOf sneaking tenants, dirtily swill outThis harmless liquor shall they knock and beatFor sack, only to talk of rye and wheat?Oh, let not such preposterous tippling be;In our metropolis, may I ne'er seeSuch tavern sacrilege, nor lend a lineTo weep the rapes and tragedy of wine!Here lives that chemic quick-fire, which betraysFresh 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 inspiredPoor rhyming lovers, with a mistress fired.Come, then, and while the snow-icicle hangsAt the stiff thatch, and winter's frosty fangsBenumb 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 weVex 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 stealA 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 useShall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuseRout to their husks: they and their bags, at best,Have cares in earnest—we care for a jest.
Happy that first white age! when weLived by the earth's mere charity;No soft luxurious diet thenHad effeminated men—No other meat nor wine had anyThan 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 stoodThe youth and glory of the wood.The daring sailor with his slavesThen 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 armAn age of love to public harm,When common justice none withstood,Nor sought rewards for spilling blood?Oh that at length our age would raiseInto the temper of those days!But—worse than Aetna's fires!—debateAnd avarice inflame our state.Alas! who was it that first foundGold hid of purpose under ground—That sought out pearls, and dived to findSuch precious perils for mankind?
1 A ward, and still in bonds, one dayI stole abroad;It was high spring, and all the wayPrimrosed, and hung with shade;Yet was it frost within,And surly windBlasted my infant buds, and sin,Like clouds, eclipsed my mind.
2 Stormed thus, I straight perceived my springMere 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 placedI found a pair of scales;I took them up, and laidIn the one late pains,The other smoke and pleasures weighed,But proved the heavier grains.
4 With that some cried, Away; straight IObeyed, and ledFull east, a fair, fresh field could spy—Some called it Jacob's Bed—A virgin soil, which noRude feet e'er trod,Where, since he stept there, only goProphets and friends of God.
5 Here I reposed, but scarce well set,A grove descriedOf stately height, whose branches metAnd mixed on every side;I entered, and, once in,(Amazed to see 't;)Found all was changed, and a new springDid all my senses greet.
6 The unthrift sun shot vital goldA thousand pieces,And heaven its azure did unfold,Chequered with snowy fleeces.The air was all in spice,And every bushA garland wore; thus fed my eyes,But all the ear lay hush.
7 Only a little fountain lentSome use for ears,And on the dumb shades language spent,The music of her tears;I drew her near, and foundThe cistern fullOf divers stones, some bright and round,Others ill-shaped and dull.
8 The first, (pray mark,) as quick as lightDanced through the flood;But the last, more heavy than the night,Nailed to the centre stood;I wondered much, but tiredAt 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-eyedAnd taking in the ray;Here musing long I heardA rushing wind,Which still increased, but whence it stirred,Nowhere I could not find.
10 I turned me round, and to each shadeDespatched an eye,To see if any leaf had madeLeast motion or reply;But while I, listening, soughtMy mind to easeBy 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.
'By that new and living way, which he hath prepared for us, through the veil, which is his flesh.'—HEB. x. 20.
1 Oft have I seen, when that renewing breathThat binds and loosens deathInspired a quickening power through the deadCreatures abed,Some drowrsy silk-worm creepFrom that long sleep,And in weak, infant hummings chime and knellAbout 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 elementsAs mean, and span-extents.Shall I then think such providence will beLess friend to me,Or that he can endure to be unjustWho keeps his covenant even with our dust?
2 Poor querulous handful! was't for thisI taught thee all that is?Unbowelled nature, showed thee her recruits,And change of suits,And how of death we makeA mere mistake;For no thing can-to nothing fall, but stillIncorporates by skill,And then returns, and from the womb of thingsSuch treasure brings,As pheenix-like renew'thBoth life and youth;For a preserving spirit doth still passUntainted through this mass,Which doth resolve, produce, and ripen allThat to it fall;Nor are those births, which weThus suffering see,Destroyed at all; but when time's restless waveTheir substance doth deprave,And the more noble essence finds his houseSickly and loose,He, ever young, doth wingUnto that springAnd source of spirits, where he takes his lot,Till time no more shall rotHis 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 plainThou only fall'st to be refined again.
3 Then I that here saw darkly in a glassBut mists and shadows pass,And, by their own weak shine, did search the springsAnd course of things,Shall with enlightened raysPierce all their ways;And as thou saw'st, I in a thought could goTo heaven or earth below,To read some star, or mineral, and in stateThere often sate;So shalt thou then with me,Both winged and free,Rove in that mighty and eternal light,Where no rude shade or nightShall dare approach us; we shall there no moreWatch stars, or poreThrough melancholy clouds, and say,'Would it were day!'One everlasting Sabbath there shall runWithout 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.
'Tis now clear day: I see a roseBud in the bright east, and discloseThe pilgrim-sun. All night have ISpent in a roving ecstasyTo find my Saviour. I have beenAs far as Bethlehem, and have seenHis inn and cradle; being thereI met the wise men, asked them whereHe might be found, or what star canNow point him out, grown up a man?To Egypt hence I fled, ran o'erAll her parched bosom to Nile's shore,Her yearly nurse; came back, inquiredAmongst the doctors, and desiredTo see the temple, but was shownA little dust, and for the townA 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, thenceTo Jacob's well, bequeathed sinceUnto his sons, where often they,In those calm, golden evenings, layWatering their flocks, and having spentThose white days, drove home to the tentTheir 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 seeIdeas of his agony,And moving anguishments, that setHis 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 canFind beasts more merciful than man;He lived there safe, 'twas his retreatFrom the fierce Jew, and Herod's heat,And forty days withstood the fellAnd high temptations of hell;With seraphim there talked he,His Father's flaming ministry,He heavened their walks, and with his eyesMade those wild shades a paradise.Thus was the desert sanctifiedTo 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 downWhat 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 headWhere my dear Lord did often tread,Sugaring all dangers with success,Methought I heard one singing thus:
1 Leave, leave thy gadding thoughts;Who poresAnd spiesStill out of doors,DescriesWithin them nought.
2 The skin and shell of things,Though fair,Are notThy wish nor prayer,But gotBy mere despairOf wings.
3 To rack old elements,Or dust,And say,Sure here he mustNeeds 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.
'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 careThough 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 wasHayed into thee like beams into a glass;Where, as thou grew'st, it multiplied, and shinedThe sacred constellation of thy mind.
But being for a bride, prayer was suchA decried course, sure it prevailed not much.Hadst ne'er an oath nor compliment? thou wertAn odd, dull suitor; hadst thou but the artOf these our days, thou couldst have coined thee twentyNew several oaths, and compliments, too, plenty.O sad and wild excess! and happy thoseWhite 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 crowdOf young, gay swearers, with their needless, loudRetinue; all was here smooth as thy bride,And calm like her, or that mild evening-tide.Yet hadst thou nobler guests: angels did windAnd rove about thee, guardians of thy mind;These fetched thee home thy bride, and all the wayAdvised thy servant what to do and say;These taught him at the well, and thither broughtThe chaste and lovely object of thy thought.But here was ne'er a compliment, not oneSpruce, supple cringe, or studied look put on.All was plain, modest truth: nor did she comeIn 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 graceBeyond a curled lock or painted face!A pitcher too she had, nor thought it muchTo carry that, which some would scorn to touch;With, which in mild, chaste language she did wooTo draw him drink, and for his camels too.
And now thou knew'st her coming, it was timeTo get thee wings on, and devoutly climbUnto thy God; for marriage of all statesMakes most unhappy, or most fortunates.This brought thee forth, where now thou didst undressThy soul, and with new pinions refreshHer wearied wings, which, so restored, did flyAbove the stars, a track unknown and high;And in her piercing flight perfumed the air,Scattering the myrrh and incense of thy prayer.So from Lahai-roi[1]'s well some spicy cloud,Wooed by the sun, swells up to be his shroud,And from her moist womb weeps a fragrant shower,Which, scattered in a thousand pearls, each flowerAnd herb partakes; where having stood awhile,And something cooled the parched and thirsty isle,The thankful earth unlocks herself, and blendsA thousand odours, which, all mixed, she sendsUp in one cloud, and so returns the skiesThat dew they lent, a breathing sacrifice.
Thus soared thy soul, who, though young, didst inheritTogether with his blood thy father's spirit,Whose active zeal and tried faith were to theeFamiliar ever since thy infancy.Others were timed and trained up to't, but thouDidst thy swift years in piety outgrow.Age made them reverend and a snowy head,But thou wert so, ere time his snow could shed.Then who would truly limn thee out must paintFirst a young patriarch, then a married saint.
[1] 'Lahai-roi:' a well in the south country where Jacob dwelt, between Kadesh and Bered;Heb.,The well of him that liveth and seeth me.
Farewell, you everlasting hills! I'm castHere under clouds, where storms and tempests blastThis sullied flower,Robbed of your calm; nor can I ever make,Transplanted thus, one leaf of his t'awake;But every hourHe sleeps and droops; and in this drowsy stateLeaves me a slave to passions and my fate.Besides I've lostA train of lights, which in those sunshine daysWere my sure guides; and only with me stays,Unto my cost,One sullen beam, whose charge is to dispenseMore punishment than knowledge to my sense.Two thousand yearsI sojourned thus. At last Jeshurun's kingThose famous tables did from Sinai bring.These swelled my fears,Guilts, trespasses, and all this inward awe;For sin took strength and vigour from the law.Yet have I foundA plenteous way, (thanks to that Holy One!)To cancel all that e'er was writ in stone.His saving woundWept blood that broke this adamant, and gaveTo sinners confidence, life to the grave.This makes me spanMy fathers' journeys, and in one fair stepO'er all their pilgrimage and labours leap.For God, made man,Reduced the extent of works of faith; so madeOf their Red Sea a spring: I wash, they wade.