Decoration B
Decoration F
Dilectus meus mihi, et ego illi, qui pascitur inter lilia.Cant.ii.
Dilectus meus mihi, et ego illi, qui pascitur inter lilia.Cant.ii.
Hail, most high, most humble one!1Aboue the world, below thy Son;Whose blush the moon beauteously marresAnd staines the timerous light of stares.He that made all things, had not done5Till He had made Himself thy Son:The whole World's host would be thy guestAnd board Himself at thy rich brest.O boundles hospitality!The Feast of all things feeds on thee.10The first Eue, mother of our Fall,E're she bore any one, slew all.Of her vnkind gift might we haueTh' inheritance of a hasty grave:Quick-burye'd in the wanton tomb15Of one forbidden bitt;Had not a better frvit forbidden it.Had not thy healthfull wombThe World's new eastern window bin,And giuen vs heau'n again, in giuing Him.20Thine was the rosy dawn, that spring the DayWhich renders all the starres she stole away.Let then the agèd World be wise, and allProue nobly here vnnaturall;'Tis gratitude to forgett that other25And call the maiden Eue their mother.Yee redeem'd nations farr and near,Applaud your happy selues in her;(All you to whom this loue belongs)And keep't aliue with lasting songs.30Let hearts and lippes speak lowd; and sayHail, door of life: and sourse of Day!The door was shut, the fountain seal'd;Yet Light was seen and Life reueal'd.The door was shut, yet let in day,35The fountain seal'd, yet life found way.Glory to Thee, great virgin's SonIn bosom of Thy Father's blisse.The same to Thee, sweet Spirit be done;As euer shall be, was, and is. Amen.40
Hail, most high, most humble one!1Aboue the world, below thy Son;Whose blush the moon beauteously marresAnd staines the timerous light of stares.He that made all things, had not done5Till He had made Himself thy Son:The whole World's host would be thy guestAnd board Himself at thy rich brest.O boundles hospitality!The Feast of all things feeds on thee.10The first Eue, mother of our Fall,E're she bore any one, slew all.Of her vnkind gift might we haueTh' inheritance of a hasty grave:Quick-burye'd in the wanton tomb15Of one forbidden bitt;Had not a better frvit forbidden it.Had not thy healthfull wombThe World's new eastern window bin,And giuen vs heau'n again, in giuing Him.20Thine was the rosy dawn, that spring the DayWhich renders all the starres she stole away.Let then the agèd World be wise, and allProue nobly here vnnaturall;'Tis gratitude to forgett that other25And call the maiden Eue their mother.Yee redeem'd nations farr and near,Applaud your happy selues in her;(All you to whom this loue belongs)And keep't aliue with lasting songs.30Let hearts and lippes speak lowd; and sayHail, door of life: and sourse of Day!The door was shut, the fountain seal'd;Yet Light was seen and Life reueal'd.The door was shut, yet let in day,35The fountain seal'd, yet life found way.Glory to Thee, great virgin's SonIn bosom of Thy Father's blisse.The same to Thee, sweet Spirit be done;As euer shall be, was, and is. Amen.40
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS.
The heading in 1648 is simply 'The Virgin-Mother:' in 1670 it is 'The Hymn, O Gloriosa Domina.'
Line 2, 1648 reads 'the Son.'" 10, our text (1652) misprints 'the' for 'thee.'Line 21, I follow here the text of 1648. 1652 reads
'Thine was the rosy dawn that sprung the day.'
'Thine was the rosy dawn that sprung the day.'
and this is repeated in 1670 and, of course, byTurnbull.Line 26, 1648 has 'your' for 'their.'" 35 is inadvertently dropped in our text (1652), though the succeeding line (with which it rhymes) appears. I restore it. 1670 also drops it; and so againTurnbull!Lines 43-44, 'Because some foolish fly.' This metaphorical allusion to the Fall and its results (as described byMiltonand others) is founded on the dying of various insects after begetting their kind. G.
Hope, whose weak beeing ruin'd is1Alike if it succeed or if it misse!Whom ill and good doth equally confound,And both the hornes of Fate's dilemma wound.Vain shadow; that dost vanish quite5Both at full noon and perfect night!The starres haue not a possibilityOf blessing thee.If thinges then from their end we happy call,'Tis Hope is the most hopelesse thing of all.10Hope, thou bold taster of delight!Who in stead of doing so, deuourst it quite.Thou bringst vs an estate, yet leau'st vs poorBy clogging it with legacyes before.The ioyes which we intire should wed15Come deflour'd-virgins to our bed.Good fortunes without gain imported beSuch mighty custom's paid to theeFor ioy, like wine kep't close, doth better tast;If it take air before, his spirits wast.20Hope, Fortun's cheating lottery,Where for one prize, an hundred blankes there be.Fond anchor, Hope! who tak'st thine aime so farrThat still or short or wide thine arrows are;Thinne empty cloud which th' ey deceiues25With shapes that our own fancy giues.A cloud which gilt and painted now appearesBut must drop presently in teares:When thy false beames o're reason's light preuail,Byignes fatvifor North starres we sail.30Brother of Fear, more gaily clad,The merryer fool o' th' two, yet quite as mad.Sire of Repentance, child of fond desireThat blow'st the chymick's and the louer's fire.Still leading them insensibly on35With the strong witchcraft of 'anon.'By thee the one does changing nature, throughHer endlesse labyrinths pursue;And th' other chases woman; while she goesMore wayes and turnes then hunted Nature knowes.40
Hope, whose weak beeing ruin'd is1Alike if it succeed or if it misse!Whom ill and good doth equally confound,And both the hornes of Fate's dilemma wound.Vain shadow; that dost vanish quite5Both at full noon and perfect night!The starres haue not a possibilityOf blessing thee.If thinges then from their end we happy call,'Tis Hope is the most hopelesse thing of all.10
Hope, thou bold taster of delight!Who in stead of doing so, deuourst it quite.Thou bringst vs an estate, yet leau'st vs poorBy clogging it with legacyes before.The ioyes which we intire should wed15Come deflour'd-virgins to our bed.Good fortunes without gain imported beSuch mighty custom's paid to theeFor ioy, like wine kep't close, doth better tast;If it take air before, his spirits wast.20
Hope, Fortun's cheating lottery,Where for one prize, an hundred blankes there be.Fond anchor, Hope! who tak'st thine aime so farrThat still or short or wide thine arrows are;Thinne empty cloud which th' ey deceiues25With shapes that our own fancy giues.A cloud which gilt and painted now appearesBut must drop presently in teares:When thy false beames o're reason's light preuail,Byignes fatvifor North starres we sail.30
Brother of Fear, more gaily clad,The merryer fool o' th' two, yet quite as mad.Sire of Repentance, child of fond desireThat blow'st the chymick's and the louer's fire.Still leading them insensibly on35With the strong witchcraft of 'anon.'By thee the one does changing nature, throughHer endlesse labyrinths pursue;And th' other chases woman; while she goesMore wayes and turnes then hunted Nature knowes.40
M. Cowley.
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS.
In all the editions save that of 1652 the respective portions ofCowleyandCrashaware alternated as Question and Answer, after a fashion of the day exemplified byPembrokeandRudyardand others. The heading in 1646, 1648 and 1670 accordingly is 'On Hope, by way of Question and Answer, betweenA. CowleyandR. Crashaw.'
Various readings from 1646 edition.
Line 3, 'and' for 'or,' and 'doth' for 'does.'" 7, 'Fates' for 'starres:' but as Fate occurs in line 4, 'starres' seems preferable.Line 9, 'ends' for 'end.'" 18, 'so' for 'such.'" 19, 'doth' for 'does;' adopted." 20, 'its' for 'his;' the personification warrants 'his.'" 25. All the other editions misread
'Thine empty cloud, the eye it selfe deceives.'
'Thine empty cloud, the eye it selfe deceives.'
There can be no question that 'thinne' not 'thine' was the poet's word. Cf.Crashaw'sreference in his Answer.Turnbullperpetuates the error.Line 30, 'not' for 'for.'" 33, 'shield' in all the editions save 1652 by mistake." 34, 'blows' and 'chymicks' for 'chymick;' the latter adopted.Line 37, as in line 19." 38, spelled 'laborinths.'
In our Essay see critical remarks showing thatCowleyandCrashawrevised their respective portions. It seems to have escaped notice thatCowleyhimself wrote another poem 'ForHope,' as his former was 'AgainstHope.' See it in our Study of Crashaw's Life and Poetry. G.
Decoration I
Dear Hope! Earth's dowry, and Heaun's debt!1The entity of things that are not yet.Subtlest, but surest beeing! thou by whomOur nothing has a definition!Substantiall shade! whose sweet allay5Blends both the noones of Night and Day:Fates cannot find out a capacityOf hurting thee.From thee their lean dilemma, with blunt horn,Shrinkes, as the sick moon from the wholsome morn.10Rich hope! Loue's legacy, vnder lockOf Faith! still spending, and still growing stock!Our crown-land lyes aboue, yet each meal bringsA seemly portion for the sonnes of kings.Nor will the virgin ioyes we wed15Come lesse vnbroken to our bed,Because that from the bridall cheek of BlisseThou steal'st vs down a distant kisse.Hope's chast stealth harmes no more Ioye's maidenheadThen spousal rites preiudge the marriage bed.20Fair hope! Our earlyer Heau'n! by theeYoung Time is taster to Eternity:Thy generous wine with age growes strong, not sowre,Nor does it kill thy fruit, to smell thy flowre.Thy golden, growing head neuer hangs down25Till in the lappe of Loue's full nooneIt falls; and dyes! O no, it melts awayAs doth the dawn into the Day:As lumpes of sugar loose themselues, and twineTheir subtile essence with the soul of wine.30Fortune? alas, aboue the World's low warresHope walks; and kickes the curld heads of conspiring starres.Her keel cutts not the waues where these winds stirr,Fortune's whole lottery is one blank to her.Her shafts and shee, fly farre above,35And forage in the fields of light and love.Sweet Hope! kind cheat! fair fallacy! by theeWe are not where nor what we be,But what and where we would be. Thus art thouOur absent presence, and our future now.40Faith's sister! nurse of fair desire!Fear's antidote! a wise and well-stay'd fire!Temper 'twixt chill Despair, and torrid Ioy!Queen regent in yonge Loue's minority!Though the vext chymick vainly chases45His fugitiue gold through all her faces;Though Loue's more feirce, more fruitlesse, fires assay:One face more fugitiue then all they;True Hope's a glorious huntresse, and her chase,The God of Nature in the feilds of grace.50
Dear Hope! Earth's dowry, and Heaun's debt!1The entity of things that are not yet.Subtlest, but surest beeing! thou by whomOur nothing has a definition!Substantiall shade! whose sweet allay5Blends both the noones of Night and Day:Fates cannot find out a capacityOf hurting thee.From thee their lean dilemma, with blunt horn,Shrinkes, as the sick moon from the wholsome morn.10
Rich hope! Loue's legacy, vnder lockOf Faith! still spending, and still growing stock!Our crown-land lyes aboue, yet each meal bringsA seemly portion for the sonnes of kings.Nor will the virgin ioyes we wed15Come lesse vnbroken to our bed,Because that from the bridall cheek of BlisseThou steal'st vs down a distant kisse.Hope's chast stealth harmes no more Ioye's maidenheadThen spousal rites preiudge the marriage bed.20
Fair hope! Our earlyer Heau'n! by theeYoung Time is taster to Eternity:Thy generous wine with age growes strong, not sowre,Nor does it kill thy fruit, to smell thy flowre.Thy golden, growing head neuer hangs down25Till in the lappe of Loue's full nooneIt falls; and dyes! O no, it melts awayAs doth the dawn into the Day:As lumpes of sugar loose themselues, and twineTheir subtile essence with the soul of wine.30
Fortune? alas, aboue the World's low warresHope walks; and kickes the curld heads of conspiring starres.Her keel cutts not the waues where these winds stirr,Fortune's whole lottery is one blank to her.Her shafts and shee, fly farre above,35And forage in the fields of light and love.Sweet Hope! kind cheat! fair fallacy! by theeWe are not where nor what we be,But what and where we would be. Thus art thouOur absent presence, and our future now.40
Faith's sister! nurse of fair desire!Fear's antidote! a wise and well-stay'd fire!Temper 'twixt chill Despair, and torrid Ioy!Queen regent in yonge Loue's minority!Though the vext chymick vainly chases45His fugitiue gold through all her faces;Though Loue's more feirce, more fruitlesse, fires assay:One face more fugitiue then all they;True Hope's a glorious huntresse, and her chase,The God of Nature in the feilds of grace.50
NOTES.
Various readings from 1646 edition.
Line 2, 'things' for 'those;' adopted. But inHarleian ms.6917-18, it is 'those.' As thisms.supplies in poems onward various excellent readings (e.g.'Wishes'), it may be noted that the Collection came from Lord Somers' Library ofmss., and is accordingly authoritative.
Lines 5-6 read
'Faire cloud of fire, both shade and lightOur life in death, our day in night.'
'Faire cloud of fire, both shade and lightOur life in death, our day in night.'
Our text (1652) seems finer and deeper, and to put the thought with more concinnity.
Line 9, 'thinne' for 'lean.'" 10, 'like' for 'as.'" 11, 'Rich hope' dropped in all the other editions; but as it is parallel with the 'dear Hope' and 'fair Hope' of the preceding and succeeding stanzas, I have restored the words. The line reads elsewhere,
'Thou art Love's Legacie under lock'
'Thou art Love's Legacie under lock'
and the next,
'Of Faith: the steward of our growing stock.'
'Of Faith: the steward of our growing stock.'
Line 13, 'crown-lands lye.'" 18, ' a distant kisse.'" 19, 'Hope's chaste kisse wrongs.'..." 24, 'Nor need wee.'..." 25, 'growing' is dropped." 28, 'doth' for 'does;' adopted." 30, 'subtile' for 'supple;' adopted: but inHarleian ms.as before, it is 'supple.'Lines 31-32. This couplet is oddly misprinted in all the other editions,
'Fortune, alas, above the world's law warres,Hope kicks the curld'....
'Fortune, alas, above the world's law warres,Hope kicks the curld'....
In 1670 there is a capital L to Law: but 'low' yields the evidentmeaning intended. Alas is = exclamation simply, not in our present limitation of it to sorrow. See Epitaph ofHerrysonward, lines 49-52.
Line 33, 'our' for 'these;' the latter necessary in its relation to 'low' not 'law,' the 'winds' being those of the 'warres' of our world.
Line 34, 'And Fate's' for 'Fortune's.'" 35-36 dropped by our text (1652) inadvertently." 36, 'or' for 'nor.'" 45, 'And' for 'Though.'" 47, 'huntresse' for 'hunter;' adopted." 48, 'field' for 'fields.'" 49. I prefer 'huntresse' of 1646, 1648 and 1670, to'hunter' of our text (1652). G.
Decoration J
FROM UNPUBLISHED MSS.
NOTE.
See our Preface for explanation of the title. 'Airelles' to these and other hitherto unprinted and unpublished Poems from theTanner mss.of Archbishop Sancroft: and our Essay for the biographic interest of the poems on the Gunpowder-Plot. I adhere strictly throughout to the orthography of thems.G.
Decoration G
St. Luke ii. 41-52:Quærit Jesum suum Maria, &c. (v. 44.)
And is He gone, Whom these armes held but now?Their hope, their vow!Did euer greife and joy in one poore heartSoe soone change part?Hee's gone! The fair'st flower that e're bosome drest;My soule's sweet rest.My wombe's chast pride is gone, my heauen-borne boy;And where is joy?Hee's gone! and His lou'd steppes to wait vpon,My joy, is gone.My joyes, and Hee are gone; my greife, and IAlone must ly.Hee's gone! not leaving with me, till He come,One smile at home.Oh come then, bring Thy mother her lost joy:Oh come, sweet boy!Make hast, and come, or e're my greife and IMake hast, and dy.Peace, heart! The heauens are angry, all their spheresRivall thy teares.I was mistaken, some faire sphere or otherWas Thy blest mother.What but the fairest heauen, could owne the birthOf soe faire earth?Yet sure Thou did'st lodge heere: this wombe of mineWas once call'd Thine!Oft haue these armes Thy cradle envied,Beguil'd Thy bed.Oft to Thy easy eares hath this shrill tongueTrembled, and sung.Oft haue I wrapt Thy slumbers in soft aires,And stroak't Thy cares.Oft hath this hand those silken casements kept,While their sunnes slept.Oft haue my hungry kisses made Thine eyesToo early rise.Oft haue I spoild my kisses' daintiest diet,To spare Thy quiet.Oft from this breast to Thine, my loue-tost heartHath leapt, to part.Oft my lost soule haue I bin glad to seekeOn Thy soft cheeke.Oft haue these armes—alas!—show'd to these eyesTheir now lost joyes.Dawne then to me, Thou morne of mine owne day,And lett heauen stay.Oh, would'st Thou heere still fixe Thy faire abode,My bosome God:What hinders, but my bosome still might beThy heauen to Thee?
And is He gone, Whom these armes held but now?Their hope, their vow!Did euer greife and joy in one poore heartSoe soone change part?Hee's gone! The fair'st flower that e're bosome drest;My soule's sweet rest.My wombe's chast pride is gone, my heauen-borne boy;And where is joy?Hee's gone! and His lou'd steppes to wait vpon,My joy, is gone.My joyes, and Hee are gone; my greife, and IAlone must ly.Hee's gone! not leaving with me, till He come,One smile at home.Oh come then, bring Thy mother her lost joy:Oh come, sweet boy!Make hast, and come, or e're my greife and IMake hast, and dy.Peace, heart! The heauens are angry, all their spheresRivall thy teares.I was mistaken, some faire sphere or otherWas Thy blest mother.What but the fairest heauen, could owne the birthOf soe faire earth?Yet sure Thou did'st lodge heere: this wombe of mineWas once call'd Thine!Oft haue these armes Thy cradle envied,Beguil'd Thy bed.Oft to Thy easy eares hath this shrill tongueTrembled, and sung.Oft haue I wrapt Thy slumbers in soft aires,And stroak't Thy cares.Oft hath this hand those silken casements kept,While their sunnes slept.Oft haue my hungry kisses made Thine eyesToo early rise.Oft haue I spoild my kisses' daintiest diet,To spare Thy quiet.Oft from this breast to Thine, my loue-tost heartHath leapt, to part.Oft my lost soule haue I bin glad to seekeOn Thy soft cheeke.Oft haue these armes—alas!—show'd to these eyesTheir now lost joyes.Dawne then to me, Thou morne of mine owne day,And lett heauen stay.Oh, would'st Thou heere still fixe Thy faire abode,My bosome God:What hinders, but my bosome still might beThy heauen to Thee?
Decoration I
IN CICATRICES DOMINI JESU.
Come braue soldjers, come and seeMighty Loue's artillery.This was the conquering dart; and loeThere shines His quiuer, there His bow.These the passiue weapons are,That made great Loue, a man of warre.The quiver that He bore, did bideSoe neare, it prov'd His very side:In it there sate but one sole dart,A peircing one—His peirced heart.His weapons were nor steele, nor brasse,The weapon that He wore, He was.For bow His vnbent hand did serue,Well strung with many a broken nerue.Strange the quiver, bow and dart!A bloody side, and hand, and heart!But now the feild is wonne; and they(The dust of Warre cleane wip'd away)The weapons now of triumph be,That were before of Victorie.
Come braue soldjers, come and seeMighty Loue's artillery.This was the conquering dart; and loeThere shines His quiuer, there His bow.These the passiue weapons are,That made great Loue, a man of warre.The quiver that He bore, did bideSoe neare, it prov'd His very side:In it there sate but one sole dart,A peircing one—His peirced heart.His weapons were nor steele, nor brasse,The weapon that He wore, He was.For bow His vnbent hand did serue,Well strung with many a broken nerue.Strange the quiver, bow and dart!A bloody side, and hand, and heart!But now the feild is wonne; and they(The dust of Warre cleane wip'd away)The weapons now of triumph be,That were before of Victorie.
Decoration F
I sing Impiety beyond a name:Who stiles it any thinge, knowes not the same.Dull, sluggish Ile! what more than lethargyGripes thy cold limbes soe fast, thou canst not fly,And start from of[f] thy center? hath Heauen's loueStuft thee soe full with blisse, thou can'st not moue?If soe, oh Neptune, may she farre be throwneBy thy kind armes to a kind world vnknowne:Lett her surviue this day, once mock her fate,And shee's an island truely fortunate.Lett not my suppliant breath raise a rude stormeTo wrack my suite: O keepe Pitty warmeIn thy cold breast, and yearely on this dayMine eyes a tributary streame shall pay.Dos't thou not see an exhalationBelch'd from the sulph'ry lungs of Phlegeton?A living comet, whose pestiferous breathAdulterates the virgin aire? with deathIt laboures: stif'led Nature's in a swound,Ready to dropp into a chaos, roundAbout horror's displai'd; It doth portend,That earth a shoure of stones to heauen shall send,And crack the christall globe; the milkly streameShall in a siluer raine runne out, whose creameShall choake the gaping earth, wchthen shall fryIn flames, & of a burning feuer dy.That wonders may in fashion be, not rare,A Winter's thunder with a groane shall scare,And rouze the sleepy ashes of the dead,Making them skip out of their dusty bed.Those twinckling eyes of heauen, wcheu'n now shin'd,Shall with one flash of lightning be struck blind.The sea shall change his youthfull greene, & slideAlong the shore in a graue purple tide.It does præsage, that a great Prince shall climbe,And gett a starry throne before his time.To vsher in this shoale of prodigies,Thy infants, Æolus, will not suffice.Noe, noe, a giant wind, that will not spareTo tosse poore men like dust into the aire;Justle downe mountaines: Kings courts shall be sent,Like bandied balles, into the firmament.Atlas shall be tript vpp, Ioue's gate shall feeleThe weighty rudenes of his boysterous heele.All this it threats, & more: Horror, that fliesTo th' empyræum of all miseries.Most tall hyperbole's cannot descry it;Mischeife, that scornes expression should come nigh it.All this it only threats: the meteor ly'd;It was exhal'd, a while it hung, & dy'd.Heauen kickt the monster downe: downe it was throwne,The fall of all things it præsag'd, its ouneIt quite forgott: the fearfull earth gaue way,And durst not touch it, heere it made noe stay.At last it stopt at Pluto's gloomy porch;He streightway lighted vpp his pitchy torch.Now to those toiling soules it giues its light,Wchhad the happines to worke ith' night.They banne the blaze, & curse its curtesy,For lighting them vnto their misery.Till now Hell was imperfect; it did needSome rare choice torture; now 'tis Hell indeed.Then glutt thy dire lampe with the warmest blood,That runnes in violett pipes: none other foodIt can digest, then watch the wildfire well,Least it breake forth, & burne thy sooty cell.
I sing Impiety beyond a name:Who stiles it any thinge, knowes not the same.Dull, sluggish Ile! what more than lethargyGripes thy cold limbes soe fast, thou canst not fly,And start from of[f] thy center? hath Heauen's loueStuft thee soe full with blisse, thou can'st not moue?If soe, oh Neptune, may she farre be throwneBy thy kind armes to a kind world vnknowne:Lett her surviue this day, once mock her fate,And shee's an island truely fortunate.Lett not my suppliant breath raise a rude stormeTo wrack my suite: O keepe Pitty warmeIn thy cold breast, and yearely on this dayMine eyes a tributary streame shall pay.Dos't thou not see an exhalationBelch'd from the sulph'ry lungs of Phlegeton?A living comet, whose pestiferous breathAdulterates the virgin aire? with deathIt laboures: stif'led Nature's in a swound,Ready to dropp into a chaos, roundAbout horror's displai'd; It doth portend,That earth a shoure of stones to heauen shall send,And crack the christall globe; the milkly streameShall in a siluer raine runne out, whose creameShall choake the gaping earth, wchthen shall fryIn flames, & of a burning feuer dy.That wonders may in fashion be, not rare,A Winter's thunder with a groane shall scare,And rouze the sleepy ashes of the dead,Making them skip out of their dusty bed.Those twinckling eyes of heauen, wcheu'n now shin'd,Shall with one flash of lightning be struck blind.The sea shall change his youthfull greene, & slideAlong the shore in a graue purple tide.It does præsage, that a great Prince shall climbe,And gett a starry throne before his time.To vsher in this shoale of prodigies,Thy infants, Æolus, will not suffice.Noe, noe, a giant wind, that will not spareTo tosse poore men like dust into the aire;Justle downe mountaines: Kings courts shall be sent,Like bandied balles, into the firmament.Atlas shall be tript vpp, Ioue's gate shall feeleThe weighty rudenes of his boysterous heele.All this it threats, & more: Horror, that fliesTo th' empyræum of all miseries.Most tall hyperbole's cannot descry it;Mischeife, that scornes expression should come nigh it.All this it only threats: the meteor ly'd;It was exhal'd, a while it hung, & dy'd.Heauen kickt the monster downe: downe it was throwne,The fall of all things it præsag'd, its ouneIt quite forgott: the fearfull earth gaue way,And durst not touch it, heere it made noe stay.At last it stopt at Pluto's gloomy porch;He streightway lighted vpp his pitchy torch.Now to those toiling soules it giues its light,Wchhad the happines to worke ith' night.They banne the blaze, & curse its curtesy,For lighting them vnto their misery.Till now Hell was imperfect; it did needSome rare choice torture; now 'tis Hell indeed.Then glutt thy dire lampe with the warmest blood,That runnes in violett pipes: none other foodIt can digest, then watch the wildfire well,Least it breake forth, & burne thy sooty cell.
Reach me a quill, pluckt from the flaming wingOf Pluto's Mercury, that I may singDeath to the life. My inke shall be the bloodOf Cerberus, or Alecto's viperous brood.Vnmated malice! Oh vnpeer'd despight!Such as the sable pinions of the nightNeuer durst hatch before: extracted seeThe very quintessence of villanie:I feare to name it; least that he, wchheares,Should haue his soule frighted beyond the spheres.Heauen was asham'd, to see our mother EarthEngender with the Night, & teeme a birthSoe foule, one minute's light had it but seene,The fresh face of the morne had blasted beene.Her rosy cheekes you should haue seene noe moreDy'd in vermilion blushes, as before:But in a vaile of clouds mufling her headA solitary life she would haue led.Affrighted Phœbus would haue lost his way,Giving his wanton palfreys leaue to playOlympick games in the' Olympian plaines,His trembling hands loosing the golden raines.The Queene of night gott the greene sicknes then,Sitting soe long at ease in her darke denne,Not daring to peepe forth, least that a stoneShould beate her headlong from her jetty throne.Ioue's twinckling tapers, that doe light the world,Had beene puft out, and from their stations hurl'd:Æol kept in his wrangling sonnes, least theyWith this grand blast should haue bin blowne away.Amazèd Triton, with his shrill alarmesBad sporting Neptune to pluck in his armes,And leaue embracing of the Isles, least heeMight be an actor in this Tragedy.Nor should wee need thy crispèd waues, for weeAn Ocean could haue made t' haue drownèd thee.Torrents of salt teares from our eyes should runne,And raise a deluge, where the flaming sunneShould coole his fiery wheeles, & neuer sinkeSoe low to giue his thirsty stallions drinke;Each soule in sighes had spent its dearest breath,As glad to waite vpon their King in death.Each wingèd chorister would swan-like singA mournfull dirge to their deceasèd king.The painted meddowes would haue laught no moreFor ioye of their neate coates; but would haue toreTheir shaggy locks, their flowry mantles turn'dInto dire sable weeds, & sate, & mourn'd.Each stone had streight a Niobe become,And wept amaine; then rear'd a costly tombe,T' entombe the lab'ring earth. For surely sheeHad died just in her deliuery.But when Ioue's wingèd heralds this espied,Vpp to th' Almighty thunderer they hied,Relating this sad story. Streight way heeThe monster crusht, maugre their midwiferie.And may such Pythons neuer liue to seeThe Light's faire face, but still abortiue bee.
Reach me a quill, pluckt from the flaming wingOf Pluto's Mercury, that I may singDeath to the life. My inke shall be the bloodOf Cerberus, or Alecto's viperous brood.Vnmated malice! Oh vnpeer'd despight!Such as the sable pinions of the nightNeuer durst hatch before: extracted seeThe very quintessence of villanie:I feare to name it; least that he, wchheares,Should haue his soule frighted beyond the spheres.Heauen was asham'd, to see our mother EarthEngender with the Night, & teeme a birthSoe foule, one minute's light had it but seene,The fresh face of the morne had blasted beene.Her rosy cheekes you should haue seene noe moreDy'd in vermilion blushes, as before:But in a vaile of clouds mufling her headA solitary life she would haue led.Affrighted Phœbus would haue lost his way,Giving his wanton palfreys leaue to playOlympick games in the' Olympian plaines,His trembling hands loosing the golden raines.The Queene of night gott the greene sicknes then,Sitting soe long at ease in her darke denne,Not daring to peepe forth, least that a stoneShould beate her headlong from her jetty throne.Ioue's twinckling tapers, that doe light the world,Had beene puft out, and from their stations hurl'd:Æol kept in his wrangling sonnes, least theyWith this grand blast should haue bin blowne away.Amazèd Triton, with his shrill alarmesBad sporting Neptune to pluck in his armes,And leaue embracing of the Isles, least heeMight be an actor in this Tragedy.Nor should wee need thy crispèd waues, for weeAn Ocean could haue made t' haue drownèd thee.Torrents of salt teares from our eyes should runne,And raise a deluge, where the flaming sunneShould coole his fiery wheeles, & neuer sinkeSoe low to giue his thirsty stallions drinke;Each soule in sighes had spent its dearest breath,As glad to waite vpon their King in death.Each wingèd chorister would swan-like singA mournfull dirge to their deceasèd king.The painted meddowes would haue laught no moreFor ioye of their neate coates; but would haue toreTheir shaggy locks, their flowry mantles turn'dInto dire sable weeds, & sate, & mourn'd.Each stone had streight a Niobe become,And wept amaine; then rear'd a costly tombe,T' entombe the lab'ring earth. For surely sheeHad died just in her deliuery.But when Ioue's wingèd heralds this espied,Vpp to th' Almighty thunderer they hied,Relating this sad story. Streight way heeThe monster crusht, maugre their midwiferie.And may such Pythons neuer liue to seeThe Light's faire face, but still abortiue bee.
Grow plumpe, leane Death; his Holinesse a feastHath now præpar'd, & you maist be his guest.Come grimme Destruction, & in purple goreDye seu'n times deeper than they were beforeThy scarlet robes: for heere you must not shareA com̄on banquett: noe, heere's princely fare.And least thy blood-shott eyes should lead asideThis masse of cruelty, to be thy guideThree coleblack sisters, (whose long sutty haire,And greisly visages doe fright the aire;When Night beheld them, shame did almost turneHer sable cheekes into a blushing morne,To see some fowler than herselfe) these stand,Each holding forth to light the aery brand,Whose purer flames tremble to be soe nigh,And in fell hatred burning, angry dy.Sly, lurking treason is his bosome freind,Whom faint, & palefac't Feare doth still attend.These need noe invitation, onely thouBlack dismall Horror, come; make perfect nowTh' epitome of Hell: oh lett thy pinionsBe a gloomy canopy to Pluto's minions.In this infernall Majesty close shrowdYour selues, you Stygian states; a pitchy clowdShall hang the roome, & for your tapers bright,Sulphureous flames, snatch'd from æternall night.But rest, affrighted Muse; thy siluer wingsMay not row neerer to these dusky rings.[60]Cast back some amorous glances on the cates,That heere are dressing by the hasty Fates,Nay stopp thy clowdy eyes, it is not good,To drowne thy selfe in this pure pearly flood.But since they are for fire-workes, rather proueA phenix, & in chastest flames of loueOffer thy selfe a virgin sacrificeTo quench the rage of hellish deities.But dares Destruction eate these candid breasts,The Muses, & the Graces sugred neasts?Dares hungry Death snatch of one cherry lipp?Or thirsty Treason offer once to sippeOne dropp of this pure nectar, wchdoth flowIn azure channells warme through mounts of snow?The roses fresh, conseruèd from the rage,And cruell ravishing of frosty age,Feare is afraid to tast of: only this,He humbly crau'd to banquett on a kisse.Poore meagre horrorstreightwaies was amaz'd,And in the stead of feeding stood, & gaz'd.Their appetites were gone at th' uery sight;But yet theire eyes surfett with sweet delight.Only the Pope a stomack still could find;But yett they were not powder'd to his mind.Forth-with each god stept from his starry throne,And snatch'd away the banquett; euery oneConvey'd his sweet delicious treasuryTo the close closet of æternity:Where they will safely keepe it, from the rude,And rugged touch of Pluto's multitude.
Grow plumpe, leane Death; his Holinesse a feastHath now præpar'd, & you maist be his guest.Come grimme Destruction, & in purple goreDye seu'n times deeper than they were beforeThy scarlet robes: for heere you must not shareA com̄on banquett: noe, heere's princely fare.And least thy blood-shott eyes should lead asideThis masse of cruelty, to be thy guideThree coleblack sisters, (whose long sutty haire,And greisly visages doe fright the aire;When Night beheld them, shame did almost turneHer sable cheekes into a blushing morne,To see some fowler than herselfe) these stand,Each holding forth to light the aery brand,Whose purer flames tremble to be soe nigh,And in fell hatred burning, angry dy.Sly, lurking treason is his bosome freind,Whom faint, & palefac't Feare doth still attend.These need noe invitation, onely thouBlack dismall Horror, come; make perfect nowTh' epitome of Hell: oh lett thy pinionsBe a gloomy canopy to Pluto's minions.In this infernall Majesty close shrowdYour selues, you Stygian states; a pitchy clowdShall hang the roome, & for your tapers bright,Sulphureous flames, snatch'd from æternall night.But rest, affrighted Muse; thy siluer wingsMay not row neerer to these dusky rings.[60]Cast back some amorous glances on the cates,That heere are dressing by the hasty Fates,Nay stopp thy clowdy eyes, it is not good,To drowne thy selfe in this pure pearly flood.But since they are for fire-workes, rather proueA phenix, & in chastest flames of loueOffer thy selfe a virgin sacrificeTo quench the rage of hellish deities.But dares Destruction eate these candid breasts,The Muses, & the Graces sugred neasts?Dares hungry Death snatch of one cherry lipp?Or thirsty Treason offer once to sippeOne dropp of this pure nectar, wchdoth flowIn azure channells warme through mounts of snow?The roses fresh, conseruèd from the rage,And cruell ravishing of frosty age,Feare is afraid to tast of: only this,He humbly crau'd to banquett on a kisse.Poore meagre horrorstreightwaies was amaz'd,And in the stead of feeding stood, & gaz'd.Their appetites were gone at th' uery sight;But yet theire eyes surfett with sweet delight.Only the Pope a stomack still could find;But yett they were not powder'd to his mind.Forth-with each god stept from his starry throne,And snatch'd away the banquett; euery oneConvey'd his sweet delicious treasuryTo the close closet of æternity:Where they will safely keepe it, from the rude,And rugged touch of Pluto's multitude.
(1646).
NOTE.
For the title-page of 'The Delights of the Muses' see Note immediately before the original Preface, and our Preface on the classification of the several poems. G.
Decoration C
Now Westward Sol had spent the richest beams1Of Noon's high glory, when hard by the streamsOf Tiber, on the sceane of a greene plat,Vnder protection of an oake, there sateA sweet Lute's-master; in whose gentle aires5He lost the daye's heat, and his owne hot cares.Close in the covert of the leaves there stoodA Nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood:(The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree,Their Muse, their Syren—harmlesse Syren she!)10There stood she listning, and did entertaineThe musick's soft report, and mold the sameIn her owne murmures, that what ever moodHis curious fingers lent, her voyce made good:The man perceiv'd his rivall, and her art;15Dispos'd to give the light-foot lady sport,Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to comeInformes it in a sweet præludiumOf closer straines, and ere the warre begin,He lightly skirmishes on every string,20Charg'd with a flying touch: and streightway sheCarves out her dainty voyce as readily,Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones,And reckons up in soft divisions,Quicke volumes of wild notes; to let him know25By that shrill taste, she could do something too.His nimble hands' instinct then taught each stringA capring cheerefullnesse; and made them singTo their owne dance; now negligently rashHe throwes his arme, and with a long drawne dash30Blends all together; then distinctly trippsFrom this to that; then quicke returning skippsAnd snatches this again, and pauses there.Shee measures every measure, every whereMeets art with art; sometimes as if in doubt35Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out,Trayles her plaine ditty in one long-spun note,Through the sleeke passage of her open throat,A cleare unwrinckled song; then doth shee point itWith tender accents, and severely joynt it40By short diminutives, that being rear'dIn controverting warbles evenly shar'd,With her sweet selfe shee wrangles. Hee amazedThat from so small a channell should be rais'dThe torrent of a voyce, whose melody45Could melt into such sweet variety,Straines higher yet; that tickled with rare artThe tatling strings (each breathing in his part)Most kindly doe fall out; the grumbling baseIn surly groans disdaines the treble's grace;50The high-perch't treble chirps at this, and chides,Vntill his finger (Moderatour) hidesAnd closes the sweet quarrell, rowsing all,Hoarce, shrill at once; as when the trumpets callHot Mars to th' harvest of Death's field, and woo55Men's hearts into their hands: this lesson tooShee gives him back, her supple brest thrills outSharpe aires, and staggers in a warbling doubtOf dallying sweetnesse, hovers o're her skill,And folds in wav'd notes with a trembling bill60The plyant series of her slippery song;Then starts shee suddenly into a throngOf short, thicke sobs, whose thundring volleyes floatAnd roule themselves over her lubrick throatIn panting murmurs, 'still'd out of her breast,65That ever-bubling spring; the sugred nestOf her delicious soule, that there does lyeBathing in streames of liquid melodie;Musick's best seed-plot, whence in ripen'd airesA golden-headed harvest fairely reares70His honey-dropping tops, plow'd by her breath,Which there reciprocally labourethIn that sweet soyle; it seemes a holy quireFounded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre,Whose silver-roofe rings with the sprightly notes75Of sweet-lipp'd angel-imps, that swill their throatsIn creame of morning Helicon, and thenPreferre soft-anthems to the eares of men,To woo them from their beds, still murmuringThat men can sleepe while they their mattens sing:80(Most divine service) whose so early lay,Prevents the eye-lidds of the blushing Day!There you might heare her kindle her soft voyce,In the close murmur of a sparkling noyse,And lay the ground-worke of her hopefull song,85Still keeping in the forward streame, so long,Till a sweet whirle-wind (striving to get out)Heaves her soft bosome, wanders round about,And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast,Till the fledg'd notes at length forsake their nest,90Fluttering in wanton shoales, and to the skyWing'd with their owne wild ecchos, pratling fly.Shee opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tideOf streaming sweetnesse, which in state doth rideOn the wav'd backe of every swelling straine,95Rising and falling in a pompous traine.And while she thus discharges a shrill pealeOf flashing aires; she qualifies their zealeWith the coole epode of a graver noat,Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat100Would reach the brazen voyce of War's hoarce bird;Her little soule is ravisht: and so pour'dInto loose extasies, that she is plac'tAbove her selfe, Musick's Enthusiast.Shame now and anger mixt a double staine105In the Musitian's face; yet once againe(Mistresse) I come; now reach a straine my luteAbove her mocke, or be for ever mute;Or tune a song of victory to me,Or to thy selfe, sing thine own obsequie:110So said, his hands sprightly as fire, he flingsAnd with a quavering coynesse tasts the strings.The sweet-lip't sisters, musically frighted,Singing their feares, are fearefully delighted,Trembling as when Appolo's golden haires115Are fan'd and frizled, in the wanton ayresOf his own breath: which marryed to his lyreDoth tune the spheares, and make Heaven's selfe looke higher.From this to that, from that to this he flyes.Feeles Musick's pulse in all her arteryes;120Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads,His fingers struggle with the vocall threads.Following those little rills, he sinkes intoA sea of Helicon; his hand does goeThose pathes of sweetnesse which with nectar drop,125Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup.The humourous strings expound his learnèd touch,By various glosses; now they seeme to grutch,And murmur in a buzzing dinne, then gingleIn shrill-tongu'd accents: striving to be single.130Every smooth turne, every delicious stroakeGives life to some new grace; thus doth h' invokeSweetnesse by all her names; thus, bravely thus(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)The lute's light genius now does proudly rise,135Heav'd on the surges of swolne rapsodyes,Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curle the aireWith flash of high-borne fancyes: here and thereDancing in lofty measures, and anonCreeps on the soft touch of a tender tone;140Whose trembling murmurs melting in wild airesRuns to and fro, complaining his sweet cares,Because those pretious mysteryes that dwellIn Musick's ravish't soule, he dares not tell,But whisper to the world: thus doe they vary145Each string his note, as if they meant to carryTheir Master's blest soule (snatcht out at his earesBy a strong extasy) through all the sphearesOf Musick's heaven; and seat it there on highIn th' empyræum of pure harmony.150At length (after so long, so loud a strifeOf all the strings, still breathing the best lifeOf blest variety, attending onHis fingers fairest revolutionIn many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall)155A full-mouth'd diapason swallowes all.This done, he lists what she would say to this,And she, (although her breath's late exerciseHad dealt too roughly with her tender throate,)Yet summons all her sweet powers for a noate.160Alas! in vaine! for while (sweet soule!) she tryesTo measure all those wild diversitiesOf chatt'ring strings, by the small size of onePoore simple voyce, rais'd in a naturall tone;She failes, and failing grieves, and grieving dyes.165She dyes: and leaves her life the Victor's prise,Falling upon his lute: O, fit to have(That liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave!
Now Westward Sol had spent the richest beams1Of Noon's high glory, when hard by the streamsOf Tiber, on the sceane of a greene plat,Vnder protection of an oake, there sateA sweet Lute's-master; in whose gentle aires5He lost the daye's heat, and his owne hot cares.Close in the covert of the leaves there stoodA Nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood:(The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree,Their Muse, their Syren—harmlesse Syren she!)10There stood she listning, and did entertaineThe musick's soft report, and mold the sameIn her owne murmures, that what ever moodHis curious fingers lent, her voyce made good:The man perceiv'd his rivall, and her art;15Dispos'd to give the light-foot lady sport,Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to comeInformes it in a sweet præludiumOf closer straines, and ere the warre begin,He lightly skirmishes on every string,20Charg'd with a flying touch: and streightway sheCarves out her dainty voyce as readily,Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones,And reckons up in soft divisions,Quicke volumes of wild notes; to let him know25By that shrill taste, she could do something too.His nimble hands' instinct then taught each stringA capring cheerefullnesse; and made them singTo their owne dance; now negligently rashHe throwes his arme, and with a long drawne dash30Blends all together; then distinctly trippsFrom this to that; then quicke returning skippsAnd snatches this again, and pauses there.Shee measures every measure, every whereMeets art with art; sometimes as if in doubt35Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out,Trayles her plaine ditty in one long-spun note,Through the sleeke passage of her open throat,A cleare unwrinckled song; then doth shee point itWith tender accents, and severely joynt it40By short diminutives, that being rear'dIn controverting warbles evenly shar'd,With her sweet selfe shee wrangles. Hee amazedThat from so small a channell should be rais'dThe torrent of a voyce, whose melody45Could melt into such sweet variety,Straines higher yet; that tickled with rare artThe tatling strings (each breathing in his part)Most kindly doe fall out; the grumbling baseIn surly groans disdaines the treble's grace;50The high-perch't treble chirps at this, and chides,Vntill his finger (Moderatour) hidesAnd closes the sweet quarrell, rowsing all,Hoarce, shrill at once; as when the trumpets callHot Mars to th' harvest of Death's field, and woo55Men's hearts into their hands: this lesson tooShee gives him back, her supple brest thrills outSharpe aires, and staggers in a warbling doubtOf dallying sweetnesse, hovers o're her skill,And folds in wav'd notes with a trembling bill60The plyant series of her slippery song;Then starts shee suddenly into a throngOf short, thicke sobs, whose thundring volleyes floatAnd roule themselves over her lubrick throatIn panting murmurs, 'still'd out of her breast,65That ever-bubling spring; the sugred nestOf her delicious soule, that there does lyeBathing in streames of liquid melodie;Musick's best seed-plot, whence in ripen'd airesA golden-headed harvest fairely reares70His honey-dropping tops, plow'd by her breath,Which there reciprocally labourethIn that sweet soyle; it seemes a holy quireFounded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre,Whose silver-roofe rings with the sprightly notes75Of sweet-lipp'd angel-imps, that swill their throatsIn creame of morning Helicon, and thenPreferre soft-anthems to the eares of men,To woo them from their beds, still murmuringThat men can sleepe while they their mattens sing:80(Most divine service) whose so early lay,Prevents the eye-lidds of the blushing Day!There you might heare her kindle her soft voyce,In the close murmur of a sparkling noyse,And lay the ground-worke of her hopefull song,85Still keeping in the forward streame, so long,Till a sweet whirle-wind (striving to get out)Heaves her soft bosome, wanders round about,And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast,Till the fledg'd notes at length forsake their nest,90Fluttering in wanton shoales, and to the skyWing'd with their owne wild ecchos, pratling fly.Shee opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tideOf streaming sweetnesse, which in state doth rideOn the wav'd backe of every swelling straine,95Rising and falling in a pompous traine.And while she thus discharges a shrill pealeOf flashing aires; she qualifies their zealeWith the coole epode of a graver noat,Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat100Would reach the brazen voyce of War's hoarce bird;Her little soule is ravisht: and so pour'dInto loose extasies, that she is plac'tAbove her selfe, Musick's Enthusiast.Shame now and anger mixt a double staine105In the Musitian's face; yet once againe(Mistresse) I come; now reach a straine my luteAbove her mocke, or be for ever mute;Or tune a song of victory to me,Or to thy selfe, sing thine own obsequie:110So said, his hands sprightly as fire, he flingsAnd with a quavering coynesse tasts the strings.The sweet-lip't sisters, musically frighted,Singing their feares, are fearefully delighted,Trembling as when Appolo's golden haires115Are fan'd and frizled, in the wanton ayresOf his own breath: which marryed to his lyreDoth tune the spheares, and make Heaven's selfe looke higher.From this to that, from that to this he flyes.Feeles Musick's pulse in all her arteryes;120Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads,His fingers struggle with the vocall threads.Following those little rills, he sinkes intoA sea of Helicon; his hand does goeThose pathes of sweetnesse which with nectar drop,125Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup.The humourous strings expound his learnèd touch,By various glosses; now they seeme to grutch,And murmur in a buzzing dinne, then gingleIn shrill-tongu'd accents: striving to be single.130Every smooth turne, every delicious stroakeGives life to some new grace; thus doth h' invokeSweetnesse by all her names; thus, bravely thus(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)The lute's light genius now does proudly rise,135Heav'd on the surges of swolne rapsodyes,Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curle the aireWith flash of high-borne fancyes: here and thereDancing in lofty measures, and anonCreeps on the soft touch of a tender tone;140Whose trembling murmurs melting in wild airesRuns to and fro, complaining his sweet cares,Because those pretious mysteryes that dwellIn Musick's ravish't soule, he dares not tell,But whisper to the world: thus doe they vary145Each string his note, as if they meant to carryTheir Master's blest soule (snatcht out at his earesBy a strong extasy) through all the sphearesOf Musick's heaven; and seat it there on highIn th' empyræum of pure harmony.150At length (after so long, so loud a strifeOf all the strings, still breathing the best lifeOf blest variety, attending onHis fingers fairest revolutionIn many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall)155A full-mouth'd diapason swallowes all.This done, he lists what she would say to this,And she, (although her breath's late exerciseHad dealt too roughly with her tender throate,)Yet summons all her sweet powers for a noate.160Alas! in vaine! for while (sweet soule!) she tryesTo measure all those wild diversitiesOf chatt'ring strings, by the small size of onePoore simple voyce, rais'd in a naturall tone;She failes, and failing grieves, and grieving dyes.165She dyes: and leaves her life the Victor's prise,Falling upon his lute: O, fit to have(That liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave!
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS.
In our Essay we give the original Latin of this very remarkable poem, that the student may see howCrashawhas ennobled and transfiguredStrada. Still further to show how much we owe to our Poet, I print here (a) An anonymous translation, which I discovered at the British Museum in Additionalmss.19.268; never before printed. (b) SirFrancis Wortley'stranslation from his 'Characters and Elegies' (1646). In the former I have been obliged to leave one or two words unfilled-in as illegible in thems.
(a)The Musicke Warre between yeFidler and the Nightingale.