1 If this world's friends might see but onceWhat some poor man may often feel,Glory and gold and crowns and thronesThey would soon quit, and learn to kneel.
2 My dew, my dew! my early love,My soul's bright food, thy absence kills!Hover not long, eternal Dove!Life without thee is loose and spills.
3 Something I had, which long agoDid learn to suck and sip and taste;But now grown sickly, sad, and slow,Doth fret and wrangle, pine and waste.
4 Oh, spread thy sacred wings, and shakeOne living drop! one drop life keeps!If pious griefs heaven's joys awake,Oh, fill his bottle! thy child weeps!
5 Slowly and sadly doth he grow,And soon as left shrinks back to ill;Oh, feed that life, which makes him blowAnd spread and open to thy will!
6 For thy eternal, living wellsNone stained or withered shall come near:A fresh, immortal green there dwells,And spotless white is all the wear.
7 Dear, secret greenness! nursed belowTempests and winds and winter nights!Vex not that but One sees thee grow,That One made all these lesser lights.
8 If those bright joys he singly shedsOn thee, were all met in one crown,Both sun and stars would hide their heads;And moons, though full, would get them down.
9 Let glory be their bait whose mindsAre all too high for a low cell:Though hawks can prey through storms and winds,The poor bee in her hive must dwell.
10 Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, stillTo what most takes them is a drudge;And they too oft take good for ill,And thriving vice for virtue judge.
11 What needs a conscience calm and brightWithin itself an outward test?Who breaks his glass to take more light,Makes way for storms into his rest.
12 Then bless thy secret growth, nor catchAt noise, but thrive unseen and dumb;Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch,Till the white-winged reapers come!
I cannot reach it; and my striving eyeDazzles at it, as at eternity.Were now that chronicle alive,Those white designs which children drive,And the thoughts of each harmless hour,With their content too in my power,Quickly would I make my path even,And by mere playing go to heaven.
Why should men loveA wolf more than a lamb or dove?Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streamsBefore bright stars and God's own beams?Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face,But flowers do both refresh and grace;And sweetly living (fie on men!)Are, when dead, medicinal then.If seeing much should make staid eyes,And long experience should make wise,Since all that age doth teach is ill,Why should I not love childhood still?Why, if I see a rock or shelf,Shall I from thence cast down myself,Or by complying with the world,From the same precipice be hurled?Those observations are but foul,Which make me wise to lose my soul.
And yet the practice worldlings callBusiness and weighty action all,Checking the poor child for his play,But gravely cast themselves away.
Dear, harmless age! the short, swift spanWhere weeping virtue parts with man;Where love without lust dwells, and bendsWhat way we please without self-ends.
An age of mysteries! which heMust live twice that would God's face see;Which angels guard, and with it play,Angels! which foul men drive away.
How do I study now, and scanThee more than ere I studied man,And only see through a long nightThy edges and thy bordering light!Oh for thy centre and mid-day!For sure that is the narrow way!
Sad, purple well! whose bubbling eyeDid first against a murderer cry;Whose streams, still vocal, still complainOf bloody Cain;And now at evening are as redAs in the morning when first shed.If single thou,Though single voices are but low,Couldst such a shrill and long cry rearAs speaks still in thy Maker's ear,What thunders shall those men arraignWho cannot count those they have slain,Who bathe not in a shallow flood,But in a deep, wide sea of blood—A sea whose loud waves cannot sleep,But deep still calleth upon deep;Whose urgent sound, like unto thatOf many waters, beateth atThe everlasting doors above,Where souls behind the altar move,And with one strong, incessant cryInquire 'How long?' of the Most High?Almighty Judge!At whose just laws no just men grudge;Whose blessed, sweet commands do pourComforts and joys and hopes each hourOn those that keep them; oh, acceptOf his vowed heart, whom thou hast keptFrom bloody men! and grant I mayThat sworn memorial duly payTo thy bright arm, which was my lightAnd leader through thick death and night!Aye may that flood,That proudly spilt and despised blood,Speechless and calm as infants sleep!Or if it watch, forgive and weepFor those that spilt it! May no criesFrom the low earth to high heaven rise,But what, like his whose blood peace brings,Shall, when they rise, speak better thingsThan Abel's doth! May Abel beStill single heard, while these agreeWith his mild blood in voice and will,Who prayed for those that did him kill!
1 Fair, solitary path! whose blessed shadesThe old, white prophets planted first and dressed;Leaving for us, whose goodness quickly fades,A shelter all the way, and bowers to rest;
2 Who is the man that walks in thee? who lovesHeaven's secret solitude, those fair abodes,Where turtles build, and careless sparrows move,Without to-morrow's evils and future loads?
3 Who hath the upright heart, the single eye,The clean, pure hand, which never meddled pitch?Who sees invisibles, and doth complyWith hidden treasures that make truly rich?
4 He that doth seek and loveThe things above,Whose spirit ever poor is, meek, and low;Who simple still and wise,Still homeward flies,Quick to advance, and to retreat most slow.
5 Whose acts, words, and pretenceHave all one sense,One aim and end; who walks not by his sight;Whose eyes are both put out,And goes aboutGuided by faith, not by exterior light.
6 Who spills no blood, nor spreadsThorns in the bedsOf the distressed, hasting their overthrow;Making the time they hadBitter and sad,Like chronic pains, which surely kill, though slow.
7 Who knows earth nothing hathWorth love or wrath,But in his Hope and Rock is ever glad.Who seeks and follows peace,When with the easeAnd health of conscience it is to be had.
8 Who bears his cross with joy,And doth employHis heart and tongue in prayers for his foes;Who lends not to be paid,And gives full aidWithout that bribe which usurers impose.
9 Who never looks on manFearful and wan,But firmly trusts in God; the great man's measure,Though high and haughty, mustBe ta'en in dust;But the good man is God's peculiar treasure.
10 Who doth thus, and doth notThese good deeds blotWith bad, or with neglect; and heaps not wrathBy secret filth, nor feedsSome snake, or weeds,Cheating himself—That man walks in this path.
I see the temple in thy pillar reared,And that dread glory which thy children feared,In mild, clear visions, without a frown,Unto thy solitary self is shown.'Tis number makes a schism: throngs are rude,And God himself died by the multitude.This made him put on clouds, and fire, and smoke;Hence he in thunder to thy offspring spoke.The small, still voice at some low cottage knocks,But a strong wind must break thy lofty rocks.
The first true worship of the world's great KingFrom private and selected hearts did spring;But he most willing to save all mankind,Enlarged that light, and to the bad was kind.Hence catholic or universal cameA most fair notion, but a very name.For this rich pearl, like some more common stone,When once made public, is esteemed by none.Man slights his Maker when familiar grown,And sets up laws to pull his honour down.This God foresaw: and when slain by the crowd,Under that stately and mysterious cloudWhich his death scattered, he foretold the placeAnd form to serve him in should be true grace,And the meek heart; not in a mount, nor atJerusalem, with blood of beasts and fat.A heart is that dread place, that awful cell,That secret ark, where the mild Dove doth dwell,When the proud waters rage: when heathens ruleBy God's permission, and man turns a mule,This little Goshen, in the midst of nightAnd Satan's seat, in all her coasts hath light;Yea, Bethel shall have tithes, saith Israel's stone,And vows and visions, though her foes cry, None.Thus is the solemn temple sunk againInto a pillar, and concealed from men.And glory be to his eternal name,Who is contented that this holy flameShall lodge in such a narrow pit, till heWith his strong arm turns our captivity!
But blessed Jacob, though thy sad distressWas just the same with ours, and nothing less;For thou a brother, and bloodthirsty too,
Didst fly,[1] whose children wrought thy children's woe:Yet thou in all thy solitude and grief,On stones didst sleep, and found'st but cold relief;Thou from the Day-star a long way didst stand,And all that distance was law and command.But we a healing Sun, by day and night,Have our sure guardian and our leading light.What thou didst hope for and believe we findAnd feel, a Friend most ready, sure, and kind.Thy pillow was but type and shade at best,But we the substance have, and on him rest.
[1] Obadiah 10; Amos i, 11.
1 Oh, come away,Make no delay,Come while my heart is clean and steady!While faith and graceAdorn the place,Making dust and ashes ready!
2 No bliss here lentIs permanent,Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit;Short sips and sightsEndear delights:Who seeks for more he would inherit.
3 Come then, true bread,Quickening the dead,Whose eater shall not, cannot die!Come, antedateOn me that state,Which brings poor dust the victory.
4 Aye victory,Which from thine eyeBreaks as the day doth from the east,When the spilt dewLike tears doth shewThe sad world wept to be released.
5 Spring up, O wine,And springing shineWith some glad message from his heart,Who did, when slain,These means ordainFor me to have in him a part!
6 Such a sure partIn his blest heart,The well where living waters spring,That, with it fed,Poor dust, though dead,Shall rise again, and live, and sing.
7 O drink and bread,Which strikes death dead,The food of man's immortal being!Under veils hereThou art my cheer,Present and sure without my seeing.
8 How dost thou flyAnd search and pryThrough all my parts, and, like a quickAnd knowing lamp,Hunt out each damp,Whose shadow makes me sad or sick!
9 O what high joys!The turtle's voiceAnd songs I hear! O quickening showersOf my Lord's blood,You make rocks bud,And crown dry hills with wells and flowers!
10 For this true ease,This healing peace,For this [brief] taste of living glory,My soul and all,Kneel down and fall,And sing his sad victorious story!
11 O thorny crown,More soft than down!O painful cross, my bed of rest!O spear, the keyOpening the way!O thy worst state, my only best!
12 O all thy griefsAre my reliefs,As all my sins thy sorrows were!And what can I,To this reply?What, O God! but a silent tear?
13 Some toil and sowThat wealth may flow,And dress this earth for next year's meat:But let me heedWhy thou didst bleed,And what in the next world to eat.
'Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of theLamb.'—Rev. xix. 9.
With what deep murmurs, through time's silent stealth,Does thy transparent, cool, and watery wealthHere flowing fall,And chide and call,As if his liquid, loose retinue staidLingering, and were of this steep place afraid;The common pass,Where, clear as glass,All must descend,Not to an end,But quickened by this deep and rocky grave,Rise to a longer course more bright and brave.
Dear stream! dear bank! where often IHave sat, and pleased my pensive eye;Why, since each drop of thy quick storeRuns thither whence it flowed before,Should poor souls fear a shade or night,Who came (sure) from a sea of light?Or, since those drops are all sent backSo sure to thee that none doth lack,Why should frail flesh doubt any moreThat what God takes he'll not restore?
O useful element and clear!My sacred wash and cleanser here;My first consigner unto thoseFountains of life, where the Lamb goes!What sublime truths and wholesome themesLodge in thy mystical, deep streams!Such as dull man can never find,Unless that Spirit lead his mind,Which first upon thy face did moveAnd hatched all with his quickening love.As this loud brook's incessant fallIn streaming rings re-stagnates all,Which reach by course the bank, and thenAre no more seen: just so pass men.O my invisible estate,My glorious liberty, still late!Thou art the channel my soul seeks,Not this with cataracts and creeks.
This writer, though little known, appears to us to stand as high almost as any name in the present volume, and we are proud to reprint here some considerable specimens of his magnificent poetry.
Joseph Beaumont was sprung from a collateral branch of the ancient family of the Beaumonts, that family from which sprung Sir John Beaumont, the author of 'Bosworth Field,' and Francis Beaumont, the celebrated dramatist. He was born at Hadleigh, in Suffolk. Of his early life nothing is known. He received his education at Cambridge, where, during the Civil War, he was fellow and tutor of Peterhouse. Ejected by the Republicans from his offices, he retired to Hadleigh, and spent his time in the com- position of hismagnum opus, 'Psyche.' This poem appeared in 1648; and in 1702, three years after the author's death, his son published a second edition, with numerous corrections, and the addition of four cantos by the author. Beaumont also wrote several minor pieces in English and Latin, a controversial tract in reply to Henry More's 'Mystery of Godliness,' and several theological works which are still in MS., according to a provision in his will to that effect. Peace and perpetuity to their slumbers!
After the Restoration, our author was not only reinstated in his former situations, but received from his patron, Bishop Wren, several valuable pieces of preferment besides. Afterwards, he exercised successively the offices of Master of Jesus and of Peterhouse, and was King's Professor of Divinity from 1670 to 1699. In the latter year he died.
While praising the genius of Beaumont, we are far from commending his 'Psyche,' either as an artistic whole, or as a readable book. It is, sooth to say, a dull allegory, in twenty-four immense cantos, studded with the rarest beauties. It is considerably longer than the 'Faery Queen,' nearly four times the length of the 'Paradise Lost,' and five or six times as long as the 'Excursion.' To read it through now-a-days were to perform a purgatorial penance. But the imagination and fancy are Spenserian, his colouring is often Titianesque in gorgeousness, and his pictures of shadows, abstractions, and all fantastic forms, are so forcible as to seem to start from the canvas. In painting the beautiful, his verse becomes careless and flowing as a loosened zone; in painting the frightful and the infernal, his language, like his feeling, seems to curdle and stiffen in horror, as where, speaking of Satan, he says—
'His tawny teethWere ragged grown, by endlessgnashing atThe dismal riddle of his living death.'
The 'Psyche' may be compared to a palace of Fairyland, where successive doors fly open to the visitor—one revealing a banqueting-room filled with the materials of exuberant mirth; another, an enchanted garden, with streams stealing from grottos, and nymphs gliding through groves; a third conducting you to a dungeon full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness; a fourth, to a pit which seems the mouth of hell, and whence cries of torture come up, shaking the smoke that ascendeth up for ever and ever; and a fifth, to the open roof, over which the stars are seen bending, and the far-off heavens are opening in glory; and of these doors there is no end. We saw, when lately in Copenhagen, the famous tower of the Trinity Church, remarkable for the grand view commanded from the summit, and for the broad spiral ascent winding within it almost to the top, up which it is said Peter the Great, in 1716, used to drive himself and his Empress in a coach-and-four. It was curious to feel ourselves ascending on a path nearly level, and without the slightest perspiration or fatigue; and here, we thought, is the desiderated 'royal road' to difficulties fairly found. Large poems should be constructed on the same principle; their quiet, broad interest should beguile their readers alike to their length and their loftiness. It is exactly the reverse with 'Psyche.' But if any reader is wearied of some of the extracts we have given, such as his verses on 'Eve,' on 'Paradise,' on 'End,' on 'The Death of his Wife,' and on 'Imperial Rome,' we shall be very much disposed to question his capacity for appreciating true poetry.
1 Hell's court is built deep in a gloomy vale,High walled with strong damnation, moated roundWith flaming brimstone: full against the hallRoars a burnt bridge of brass: the yards aboundWith all envenomed herbs and trees, more rankAnd fruitless than on Asphaltite's bank.
2 The gate, where Fire and Smoke the porters be,Stands always ope with gaping greedy jaws.Hither flocked all the states of misery;As younger snakes, when their old serpent drawsThem by a summoning hiss, haste down her throatOf patent poison their awed selves to shoot.
3 The hall was roofed with everlasting pride,Deep paved with despair, checkered with spite,And hanged round with torments far and wide:The front displayed a goodly-dreadful sight,Great Satan's arms stamped on an iron shield,A crowned dragon, gules, in sable field.
4 There on's immortal throne of death they seeTheir mounted lord; whose left hand proudly heldHis globe, (for all the world he claims to beHis proper realm,) whose bloody right did wieldHis mace, on which ten thousand serpents knit,With restless madness gnawed themselves and it.
5 His awful horns above his crown did rise,And force his fiends to shrink in theirs: his faceWas triply-plated impudence: his eyesWere hell reflected in a double glass,Two comets staring in their bloody stream,Two beacons boiling in their pitch and flame.
6 His mouth in breadth vied with his palace gateAnd conquered it in soot: his tawny teethWere ragged grown, by endless gnashing atThe dismal riddle of his living death:His grizzly beard a singed confession madeWhat fiery breath through his black lips did trade.
7 Which as he oped, the centre, on whose backHis chair of ever-fretting pain was set,Frighted beside itself, began to quake:Throughout all hell the barking hydras shutTheir awed mouths: the silent peers, in fear,Hung down their tails, and on their lord did stare.
1 When this last night had sealed up mine eyes,And opened heaven's, whose countenance now was clear,And trimmed with every star; on his soft wingA nimble vision me did thither bring.
2 Quite through the storehouse of the air I passedWhere choice of every weather treasured lies:Here, rain is bottled up; there, hail is castIn candied heaps: here, banks of snow do rise;There, furnaces of lightning burn, and thoseLong-bearded stars which light us to our woes.
3 Hence towered I to a dainty world: the airWas sweet and calm, and in my memoryWaked my serener mother's looks: this fairCanaan now fled from my discerning eye;The earth was shrunk so small, methought I read,By that due prospect, what it was indeed.
4 But then, arriving at an orb whose flames,Like an unbounded ocean, flowed about,Fool as I was, I quaked; till its kind beamsGave me a harmless kiss. I little thoughtFire could have been so mild; but surely hereIt rageth, 'cause we keep it from its sphere.
5 There, reverend sire, it flamed, but with as sweetAn ardency as in your noble heartThat heavenly zeal doth burn, whose fostering heatMakes you Heaven's living holocaust: no partOf my dream's tender wing felt any harm;Our journey, not the fire, did keep us warm.
6 But here my guide, his wings' soft oars to spare,On the moon's lower horn clasped hold, and whirledMe up into a region as far,In splendid worth, surmounting this low worldAs in its place: for liquid crystal hereWas the tralucid matter of each sphere.
7 The moon was kind, and, as we scoured by,Showed us the deed whereby the great CreatorInstated her in that large monarchyShe holdeth over all the ocean's water:To which a schedule was annexed, which o'erAll other humid bodies gives her power.
8 Now complimental Mercury was comeTo the quaint margin of his courtly sphere,And bid us eloquent welcome to his home.Scarce could we pass, so great a crowd was thereOf points and lines; and nimble Wit besideUpon the back of thousand shapes did ride.
9 Next Venus' face, heaven's joy and sweetest pride,(Which brought again my mother to my mind,)Into her region lured my ravished guide.This strewed with youth, and smiles, and love we find;And those all chaste: 'tis this foul world belowAdulterates what from thence doth spotless flow.
10 Then rapt to Phoebus' orb, all paved with gold,The rich reflection of his own aspect:Most gladly there I would have stayed, and toldHow many crowns and thorns his dwelling decked,What life, what verdure, what heroic might,What pearly spirits, what sons of active light.
11 But I was hurried into Mars his sphere,Where Envy, (oh, how cursed was its grim face!)And Jealousy, and Fear, and Wrath, and WarQuarrelled, although in heaven, about their place.Yea, engines there to vomit fire I saw,Whose flame and thunder earth at length must know.
12 Nay, in a corner, 'twas my hap to spySomething which looked but frowardly on me:And sure my watchful guide read in mine eyeMy musing troubled sense; for straightway he,Lest I should start and wake upon the fright,Speeded from thence his seasonable flight.
13 Welcome was Jupiter's dominion, whereIllustrious Mildness round about did flow;Religion had built her temple there,And sacred honours on its walks did grow:No mitre ever priest's grave head shall crown,Which in those mystic gardens was not sown.
14 At length, we found old Saturn in his bed;And much I wondered how, and he so dull,Could climb thus high: his house was lumpish lead,Of dark and solitary comers full;Where Discontent and Sickness dwellers be,Damned Melancholy and dead Lethargy.
15 Hasting from hence into a boundless field,Innumerable stars we marshalled foundIn fair array: this earth did never yieldSuch choice of flowery pride, when she had crownedThe plains of Shechem, where the gaudy SpringSmiles on the beauties of each verdant thing.
1 Within, rose hills of spice and frankincense,Which smiled upon the flowery vales below,Where living crystal found a sweet pretenceWith musical impatience to flow,And delicately chide the gems beneathBecause no smoother they had paved its path.
2 The nymphs which sported on this current's sideWere milky Thoughts, tralucid, pure Desires,Soft turtles' Kisses, Looks of virgin brides,Sweet Coolness which nor needs nor feareth fires,Snowy Embraces, cheerly-sober Eyes,Gentleness, Mildness, Ingenuities.
3 The early gales knocked gently at the doorOf every flower, to bid the odours wake;Which, catching in their softest arms, they boreFrom bed to bed, and so returned them backTo their own lodgings, doubled by the blissesThey sipped from their delicious brethren's kisses.
4 Upon the wings of those enamouring breathsRefreshment, vigour, nimbleness attended;Which, wheresoe'er they flew, cheered up their paths,And with fresh airs of life all things befriended:For Heaven's sweet Spirit deigned his breath to joinAnd make the powers of these blasts divine.
5 The goodly trees' bent arms their nobler loadOf fruit which blest oppression overbore:That orchard where the dragon warder stood,For all its golden boughs, to this was poor,To this, in which the greater serpent lay,Though not to guard the trees, but to betray.
6 Of fortitude there rose a stately row;Here, of munificence a thickset grove;There, of wise industry a quickset grew;Here, flourished a dainty copse of love;There, sprang up pleasant twigs of ready wit;Here, larger trees of gravity were set,
7 Here, temperance; and wide-spread justice there,Under whose sheltering shadow piety,Devotion, mildness, friendship planted were;Next stood renown with head exalted high;Then twined together plenty, fatness, peace.O blessed place, where grew such things as these!
1 Her spacious, polished forehead was the fairAnd lovely plain where gentle majestyWalked in delicious state: her temples clearPomegranate fragments, which rejoiced to lieIn dainty ambush, and peep through their coverOf amber-locks whose volume curled over.
2 The fuller stream of her luxuriant hairPoured down itself upon her ivory back:In which soft flood ten thousand graces wereSporting and dallying with every lock;The rival winds for kisses fell to fight,And raised a ruffling tempest of delight.
3 Two princely arches, of most equal measures,Held up the canopy above her eyes,And opened to the heavens far richer treasures,Than with their stars or sun e'er learn'd to rise:Those beams can ravish but the body's sight,These dazzle stoutest souls with mystic light.
4 Two garrisons were these of conquering love;Two founts of life, of spirit, of joy, of grace;Two easts in one fair heaven, no more above,But in the hemisphere of her own face;Two thrones of gallantry; two shops of miracles;Two shrines of deities; two silent oracles.
5 For silence here could eloquently plead;Here might the unseen soul be clearly read:Though gentle humours their mild mixture made,They proved a double burning-glass which shedThose living flames which, with enlivening darts,Shoot deaths of love into spectators' hearts.
6 'Twixt these, an alabaster promontorySloped gently down to part each cheek from other;Where white and red strove for the fairer glory,Blending in sweet confusion together.The rose and lily never joined wereIn so divine a marriage as there.
7 Couchant upon these precious cushionetsWere thousand beauties, and as many smiles,Chaste blandishments, and modest cooling heats,Harmless temptations, and honest guiles.For heaven, though up betimes the maid to deck,Ne'er made Aurora's cheeks so fair and sleek.
8 Enamouring neatness, softness, pleasure, atHer gracious mouth in full retinue stood;For, next the eyes' bright glass, the soul at thatTakes most delight to look and walk abroad.But at her lips two threads of scarlet lay,Or two warm corals, to adorn the way,—
9 The precious way whereby her breath and tongue,Her odours and her honey, travelled,Which nicest critics would have judged amongArabian or Hyblaean mountains bred.Indeed, the richer Araby in herDear mouth and sweeter Hybla dwelling were.
10 More gracefully its golden chapiterNo column of white marble e'er sustainedThan her round polished neck supported herIllustrious head, which there in triumph reigned.Yet neither would this pillar hardness know,Nor suffer cold to dwell amongst its snow.
11 Her blessed bosom moderately roseWith two soft mounts of lilies, whose fair topA pair of pretty sister cherries chose,And there their living crimson lifted up.The milky countenance of the hills confessedWhat kind of springs within had made their nest.
12 So leggiadrous were her snowy handsThat pleasure moved as any finger stirred:Her virgin waxen arms were precious bandsAnd chains of love: her waist itself did girdWith its own graceful slenderness, and tieUp delicacy's best epitome.
13 Fair politure walked all her body over,And symmetry rejoiced in every part;Soft and white sweetness was her native cover,From every member beauty shot a dart:From heaven to earth, from head to foot I mean,No blemish could by envy's self be seen.
14 This was the first-born queen of gallantry;All gems compounded into one rich stone,All sweets knit into one conspiracy;A constellation of all stars in one;Who, when she was presented to their view,Both paradise and nature dazzled grew.
15 Phoebus, who rode in glorious scorn's careerAbout the world, no sooner spied her face,But fain he would have lingered, from his sphereOn this, though less, yet sweeter, heaven, to gazeTill shame enforced him to lash on again,And clearer wash him in the western main.
16 The smiling air was tickled with his highPrerogative of uncontrolled bliss,Embracing with entirest libertyA body soft, and sweet, and chaste as his.All odorous gales that had but strength to stirCame flocking in to beg perfumes of her.
17 The marigold her garish love forgot,And turned her homage to these fairer eyes;All flowers looked up, and dutifully shotTheir wonder hither, whence they saw ariseUnparching courteous lustre, which insteadOf fire, soft joy's irradiations spread.
18 The sturdiest trees, affected by her dearDelightful presence, could not choose but meltAt their hard pith; whilst all the birds whose clearPipes tossed mirth about the branches, feltThe influence of her looks; for having letTheir song fall down, their eyes on her they set.
1 Sweet soul, how goodly was the temple whichHeaven pleased to make thy earthly habitation!Built all of graceful delicacy, richIn symmetry, and of a dangerous fashionFor youthful eyes, had not the saint withinGoverned the charms of her enamouring shrine.
2 How happily compendious didst thou makeMy study when I was the lines to drawOf genuine beauty! never put to takeLong journeys was my fancy; still I sawAt home my copy, and I knew 'twould beBut beauty's wrong further to seek than thee.
3 Full little knew the world (for I as yetIn studied silence hugged my secret bliss)How facile was my Muse's task, when setVirtue's and grace's features to express!For whilst accomplished thou wert in my sightI nothing had to do, but look and write.
4 How sadly parted are those words; since IMust now be writing, but no more can look!Yet in my heart thy precious memory,So deep is graved, that from this faithful book,Truly transcribed, thy character shall shine;Nor shall thy death devour what was divine.
5 Hear then, O all soft-hearted turtles, hearWhat you alone profoundly will resent:A bird of your pure feather 'tis whom hereHer desolate mate remaineth to lament,Whilst she is flown to meet her dearer love,And sing among the winged choir above.
6 Twelve times the glorious sovereign of dayHad made his progress, and in every innWhose golden signs through all his radiant waySo high are hung, as often lodged been,Since in the sacred knot this noble sheDeigned to be tied to (then how happy) me.
7 Tied, tied we were so intimately, thatWe straight were sweetly lost in one another.Thus when two notes in music's wedlock knit,They in one concord blended are together:For nothing now our life but music was;Her soul the treble made, and mine the base.
8 How at the needless question would she smile,When asked what she desired or counted fit?Still bidding me examine mine own will,And read the surest answer ready writ.So centred was her heart in mine, that sheWould own no wish, if first not wished by me.
9 Delight was no such thing to her, if IRelished it not: the palate of her pleasureCarefully watched what mine could taste, and byThat standard her content resolved to measure.By this rare art of sweetness did she proveThat though she joyed, yet all her joy was love.
10 So was her grief: for wronged herself she heldIf I were sad alone; her share, alas!And more than so, in all my sorrows' fieldShe duly reaped: and here alone she wasUnjust to me. Ah! dear injustice, whichMak'st me complain that I was loved too much!
* * * * *
11 She ne'er took post to keep an equal paceStill with the newest modes, which swiftly run:She never was perplexed to hear her laceAccused for six months' old, when first put on:She laid no watchful leaguers, costly vain,Intelligence with fashions to maintain.
12 On a pin's point she ne'er held consultation,Nor at her glass's strict tribunal broughtEach plait to scrupulous examination:Ashamed she was that Titan's coach aboutHalf heaven should sooner wheel, than she could passThrough all the petty stages of her dress.
13 No gadding itch e'er spurred her to delightIn needless sallies; none but civil careOf friendly correspondence could inviteHer out of doors; unless she 'pointed wereBy visitations from Heaven's hand, where sheMight make her own in tender sympathy.
14 Abroad, she counted but her prison: home,Home was the region of her liberty.Abroad diverson thronged, and left no roomFor zeal's set task, and virtue's business free:Home was her less encumbered scene, though thereAngels and gods she knew spectators were.
* * * * *
15 This weaned her heart from things below,And kindled it with strong desire to gainHer hope's high aim. Life could no longer nowFlatter her love, or make her prayers refrainFrom begging, yet with humble resignation,To be dismissed from her mortal station.
16 Oh, how she welcomed her courteous pain,And languished with most serene content!No paroxysms could make her once complain,Nor suffered she her patience to be spentBefore her life; contriving thus to yieldTo her disease, and yet not lose the field.
17 This trying furnace wasted day by day(What she herself had always counted dross)Her mortal mansion, which so ruined lay,That of the goodly fabric nothing wasRemaining now, but skin and bone; refinedTogether were her body and her mind.
18 At length the fatal hour—sad hour to me!—Released the longing soul: no ejulationTolled her knell; no dying agonyFrowned in her death; but in that lamb-like fashionIn which she lived ('O righteous heaven!' said I,Who closed her dear eyes,) she had leave to die.
19 O ever-precious soul! yet shall that flightOf thine not snatch thee from thy wonted nest:Here shalt thou dwell, here shalt thou live in spiteOf any death—here in this faithful breast.Unworthy 'tis, I know, by being mine;Yet nothing less, since long it has been thine.
20 Accept thy dearer portraiture, which IHave on my other Psyche fixed here;Since her ideal beauties signifyThe truth of thine: as for her spots, they areThy useful foil, and shall inservient beBut to enhance and more illustrate thee.
1 Thus came the monster to his dearest placeOn earth, a palace wondrous large and high,Which on seven mountains' heads enthroned was;Thus, by its sevenfold tumour, copyingThe number of the horns which crowned its king.
2 Of dead men's bones were all the exterior walls,Raised to a fair but formidable height;In answer to which strange materials,A graff of dreadful depth and breadthUpon the works, filled with a piteous floodOf innocently-pure and holy blood.
3 Those awful birds, whose joy is ravenous war,Strong-taloned eagles, perched upon the headOf every turret, took their prospect farAnd wide about the world; and questionedEach wind that travelled by, to know if theyCould tell them news of any bloody prey.
4 The inner bulwarks, raised of shining brass,With firmitude and pride were buttressed.The gate of polished steel wide opened wasTo entertain those throngs, who offeredTheir slavish necks to take the yoke, and whichThat city's tyrant did the world bewitch.
5 For she had wisely ordered it to beGilded with Liberty's enchanting name;Whence cheated nations, who before were free,Into her flattering chains for freedom came.Thus her strange conquests overtook the sunWho rose and set in her dominion.
6 But thick within the line erected wereInnumerable prisons, plated roundWith massy iron and with jealous fear:And in those forts of barbarism, profoundAnd miry dungeons, where contagious stink,Cold, anguish, horror, had their dismal sink.
7 In these, pressed down with chains of fretting brass,Ten thousand innocent lambs did bleating lie;Whose groans, reported by the hollow place,Summoned compassion from the passers by;Whom they, alas! no less relentless found,Than was the brass which them to sorrow bound.
8 For they designed for the shambles wereTo feast the tyrant's greedy cruelty,Who could be gratified with no fareBut such delight of savage luxury.
1 Sweet End, thou sea of satisfaction, whichThe weary streams unto thy bosom tak'st;The springs unto the spring thou first doth reach,And, by thine inexhausted kindness, mak'stThem fall so deep in love with thee, that throughAll rocks and mountains to thy arms they flow.
2 Thou art the centre, in whose close embrace,From all the wild circumference, each lineDirectly runs to find its resting-place:Upon their swiftest wings, to perch on thineEnnobling breast, which is their only butt,The arrows of all high desires are shot.
3 All labours pant and languish after thee,Stretching their longest arms to catch their bliss;Which in the way, how sweet soe'er it be,They never find; and therefore on they pressFurther and further, till desired thou,Their only crown, meet'st their ambition's brow.
4 With smiles the ploughman to the smiling springReturns not answer, but is jealous tillHis patient hopes thy happy season bringUnto their ripeness with his corn, and fillHis barns with plenteous sheaves, with joy his heart;For thou, and none but thou, his harvest art.
5 The no less sweating and industrious loverLays not his panting heart to rest uponKind looks and gracious promises, which hoverOn love's outside, and may as soon be goneAs easily they came; but strives to seeHis hopes and nuptials ratified by thee.
6 The traveller suspecteth every way,Though they thick traced and fairly beaten be;Nor is secure but that his leader mayStep into some mistake as well as he;Or that his strength may fail him; till he winPossession of thee, his wished inn.
7 Nobly besmeared with Olympic dust,The hardy runner prosecutes his raceWith obstinate celerity, in trustThat thou wilt wipe and glorify his face:His prize's soul art thou, whose precious sakeMakes him those mighty pains with pleasure take.
8 The mariner will trust no winds, althoughUpon his sails they blow fair flattery;No tides which, with all fawning smoothness, flowCan charm his fears into security;He credits none but thee, who art his bay,To which, through calms and storms, he hunts his way.
9 And so have I, cheered up with hopes at lastTo double thee, endured a tedious sea;Through public foaming tempests have I passed;Through flattering calms of private suavity;Through interrupting company's thick press;And through the lake of mine own laziness:
10 Through many sirens' charms, which me invitedTo dance to ease's tunes, the tunes in fashion;Through many cross, misgiving thoughts, which frightedMy jealous pen; and through the conjurationOf ignorant and envious censures, whichImplacably against all poems itch:
11 But chiefly those which venture in a wayThat yet no Muse's feet have chose to trace;Which trust that Psyche and her Jesus mayAdorn a verse with as becoming graceAs Venus and her son; that truth may beA nobler theme than lies and vanity.
12 Which broach no Aganippe's streams, but thoseWhere virgin souls without a blush may bathe;Which dare the boisterous multitude opposeWith gentle numbers; which despise the wrathOf galled sin; which think not fit to traceOr Greek or Roman song with slavish pace.
13 And seeing now I am in ken of thee,The harbour which inflamed my desire,And with this steady patience ballas'd[1] meIn my uneven road; I am on fire,Till into thy embrace myself I throw,And on the shore hang up my finished vow.
[1] 'Ballas'd:' ballasted.
1 Tis a child of fancy's getting,Brought up between hope and fear,Fed with smiles, grown by unitingStrong, and so kept by desire:'Tis a perpetual vestal fireNever dying,Whose smoke like incense doth aspire,Upwards flying.
2 It is a soft magnetic stone,Attracting hearts by sympathy,Binding up close two souls in one,Both discoursing secretly:'Tis the true Gordian knot, that tiesYet ne'er unbinds,Fixing thus two lovers' eyes,As well as minds.
3 Tis the spheres' heavenly harmony,Where two skilful hands do strike;And every sound expressivelyMarries sweetly with the like:'Tis the world's everlasting chainThat all things tied,And bid them, like the fixed wain,Unmoved to bide.
When I thee all o'er do viewI all o'er must love thee too.By that smooth forehead, where's expressedThe candour of thy peaceful breast,By those fair twin-like stars that shine,And by those apples of thine eyne:By the lambkins and the kidsPlaying 'bout thy fair eyelids:By each peachy-blossomed cheek,And thy satin skin, more sleekAnd white than Flora's whitest lilies,Or the maiden daffodillies:By that ivory porch, thy nose:By those double-blanched rowsOf teeth, as in pure coral set:By each azure rivulet,Running in thy temples, andThose flowery meadows 'twixt them stand:By each pearl-tipt ear by nature, asOn each a jewel pendent was:By those lips all dewed with bliss,Made happy in each other's kiss.
Oh, those smooth, soft, and ruby lips,* * * * *Whose rosy and vermilion hueBetrays the blushing thoughts in you:Whose fragrant, aromatic breathWould revive dying saints from death,Whose siren-like, harmonious airSpeaks music and enchants the ear;Who would not hang, and fixed thereWish he might know no other sphere?Oh for a charm to make the sunDrunk, and forget his motion!Oh that some palsy or lame goutWould cramp old Time's diseased foot!Or that I might or mould or clipHis speedy wings, whilst on her lipI quench my thirsty appetiteWith the life-honey dwells on it!* * * * *Then on his holy altar, IWould sacrifice eternally,Offering one long-continued mineOf golden pleasures to thy shrine.
1 My mind to me a kingdom is,Such perfect joy therein I find,That it excels all other blissThat God or nature hath assigned:Though much I want that most would have,Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
2 No princely port, nor wealthy store,Nor force to win a victory;No wily wit to salve a sore,No shape to win a loving eye;To none of these I yield as thrall,For why, my mind despise them all.
3 I see that plenty surfeits oft,And hasty climbers soonest fall;I see that such as are aloft,Mishap doth threaten most of all;These get with toil, and keep with fear:Such cares my mind can never bear.
4 I press to bear no haughty sway;I wish no more than may suffice;I do no more than well I may.Look what I want, my mind supplies;Lo, thus I triumph like a king,My mind's content with anything.
5 I laugh not at another's loss,Nor grudge not at another's gain;No worldly waves my mind can toss;I brook that is another's bane;I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend;I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.
6 My wealth is health and perfect ease,And conscience clear my chief defence;I never seek by bribes to please,Nor by desert to give offence;Thus do I live, thus will I die;Would all do so as well as I!
1 An old song made by an aged old pate,Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate,That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate:Like an old courtier of the queen's,And the queen's old courtier.
2 With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages;They every quarter paid their old servants their wages,And never knew what belonged to coachmen, footmen, nor pages,But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges:Like an old courtier, &c.
3 With an old study filled full of learned old books,With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks,With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,And an old kitchen, that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks:Like an old courtier, &c.
4 With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows,With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows,And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk-hose,And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose:Like an old courtier, &c.
5 With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come,To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum,With good cheer enough to furnish every old room,And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb:Like an old courtier, &c.
6 With an old falconer, huntsmen, and a kennel of hounds,That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds;Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds,And when he died, gave every child a thousand good pounds:Like an old courtier, &c.
7 But to his eldest son his house and lands he assigned,Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful mind,To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind:But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclined:Like a young courtier of the king's,And the king's young courtier.
8 Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land,Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command,And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's land,And gets drunk in a tavern till he can neither go nor stand:Like a young courtier, &c.
9 With a newfangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare,Who never knew what belonged to good housekeeping or care,Who buys gaudy-coloured fans to play with wanton air,And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair:Like a young courtier, &c.
10 With a new-fashioned hall, built where the old one stood,Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good,With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood,And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victual ne'er stood:Like a young courtier, &c.
11 With a new study, stuffed full of pamphlets and plays,And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays,With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days,And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys:Like a young courtier, &c.
12 With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on,On a new journey to London straight we all must begone,And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John,Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone:Like a young courtier, &c.
13 With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is complete,With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat,With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat,Who, when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat:Like a young courtier, &c.
14 With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold,For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold;And this is the course most of our new gallants hold,Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so coldAmong the young courtiers of the king,Or the king's young courtiers.
1 There is a garden in her face,Where roses and white lilies grow;A heavenly paradise is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;There cherries grow that none may buy,Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
2 Those cherries fairly do encloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rose-buds filled with snow:Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
3 Her eyes like angels watch them still;Her brows like bended bows do stand,Threatening with piercing frowns to killAll that approach with eye or handThese sacred cherries to come nigh,Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
1 In melancholic fancy,Out of myself,In the vulcan dancy,All the world surveying,Nowhere staying,Just like a fairy elf;Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping,Out o'er the hills, the trees, and valleys tripping,Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping.Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
2 Amidst the misty vapours,Fain would I knowWhat doth cause the tapers;Why the clouds benight usAnd affright us,While we travel here below.Fain would I know what makes the roaring thunder,And what these lightnings be that rend the clouds asunder,And what these comets are on which we gaze and wonder.Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
3 Fain would I know the reasonWhy the little ant,All the summer season,Layeth up provisionOn conditionTo know no winter's want;And how housewives, that are so good and painful,Do unto their husbands prove so good and gainful;And why the lazy drones to them do prove disdainful.Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go 1
4 Ships, ships, I will descry youAmidst the main;I will come and try youWhat you are protecting,And projecting,What's your end and aim.One goes abroad for merchandise and trading,Another stays to keep his country from invading,A third is coming home with rich wealth of lading.Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
5 When I look before me,There I do beholdThere's none that sees or knows me;All the world's a-gadding,Running madding;None doth his station hold.He that is below envieth him that riseth,And he that is above, him that's below despiseth,So every man his plot and counter-plot deviseth.Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
6 Look, look, what bustlingHere I do espy;Each another jostling,Every one turmoiling,The other spoiling,As I did pass them by.One sitteth musing in a dumpish passion,Another hangs his head, because he's out of fashion,A third is fully bent on sport and recreation.Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
7 Amidst the foamy ocean,Fain would I knowWhat doth cause the motion,And returningIn its journeying,And doth so seldom swerve!And how these little fishes that swim beneath salt water,Do never blind their eye; methinks it is a matterAn inch above the reach of old Erra Pater!Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
8 Fain would I be resolvedHow things are done;And where the bull was calvedOf bloody Phalaris,And where the tailor isThat works to the man i' the moon!Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly;And how these little fairies do dance and leap so lightly;And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly.Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go!
9 In conceit like Phaeton,I'll mount Phoebus' chair;Having ne'er a hat on,All my hair a-burningIn my journeying,Hurrying through the air.Fain would I hear his fiery horses neighing,And see how they on foamy bits are playing;All the stars and planets I will be surveying!Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
10 Oh, from what ground of natureDoth the pelican,That self-devouring creature,Prove so frowardAnd untoward,Her vitals for to strain?And why the subtle fox, while in death's wounds is lying,Doth not lament his pangs by howling and by crying;And why the milk-white swan doth sing when she's a-dying.Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou got
11 Fain would I conclude this,At least make essay,What similitude is;Why fowls of a featherFlock and fly together,And lambs know beasts of prey:How Nature's alchemists, these small laborious creatures,Acknowledge still a prince in ordering their matters,And suffer none to live, who slothing lose their features.Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
12 I'm rapt with admiration,When I do ruminate,Men of an occupation,How each one calls him brother,Yet each envieth other,And yet still intimate!Yea, I admire to see some natures further sundered,Than antipodes to us. Is it not to be wondered,In myriads ye'll find, of one mind scarce a hundred!Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
13 What multitude of notionsDoth perturb my pate,Considering the motions,How the heavens are preserved,And this world served,In moisture, light, and heat!If one spirit sits the outmost circle turning,Or one turns another continuing in journeying,If rapid circles' motion be that which they call burning!Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
14 Fain also would I prove this,By consideringWhat that which you call love is:Whether it be a follyOr a melancholy,Or some heroic thing!Fain I'd have it proved, by one whom love hath wounded,And fully upon one his desire hath founded,Whom nothing else could please though the world were rounded.Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
15 To know this world's centre,Height, depth, breadth, and length,Fain would I adventureTo search the hid attractionsOf magnetic actions,And adamantic strength.Fain would I know, if in some lofty mountain,Where the moon sojourns, if there be trees or fountain;If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields to hunt in.Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?