63. SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY,1687.From Harmony, from heavenly HarmonyThis universal frame began:When nature underneath a heapOf jarring atoms layAnd could not heave her head,The tuneful voice was heard from highArise, ye more than dead!Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dryIn order to their stations leap,And Music's power obey.From harmony, from heavenly harmonyThis universal frame began:From harmony to harmonyThrough all the compass of the notes it ran,The diapason closing full in Man.What passion cannot Music raise and quell?When Jubal struck the chorded shellHis listening brethren stood around,And, wondering, on their faces fellTo worship that celestial sound.Less than a God they thought there could not dwellWithin the hollow of that shell,That spoke so sweetly and so well.What passion cannot Music raise and quell?The trumpet's loud clangorExcites us to arms,With shrill notes of anger,And mortal alarms.The double double double beatOf the thundering drumCries "Hark! the foes come;Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!"The soft complaining fluteIn dying notes discoversThe woes of hopeless lovers,Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.Sharp violins proclaimTheir jealous pangs and desperation,Fury, frantic indignation,Depth of pains, and height of passionFor the fair, disdainful dame.But oh! what art can teach,What human voice can reachThe sacred organ's praise?Notes inspiring holy love,Notes that wing their heavenly waysTo mend the choirs above.Orpheus could lead the savage race,And trees uprooted left their placeSequacious of the lyre:But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:When to her Organ vocal breath was givenAn angel heard, and straight appear'd—Mistaking Earth for Heaven!Grand Chorus:As from the power of sacred laysThe spheres began to move,And sung the great Creator's praiseTo all the blest above;So when the last and dreadful hourThis crumbling pageant shall devour,The trumpet shall be heard on high,The dead shall live, the living die,And Music shall untune the sky.J. DRYDEN.
64. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bonesLie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of oldWhen all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones.Forget not: In Thy book record their groansWho were Thy sheep, and in their ancient foldSlain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'dMother with infant down the rocks. Their moansThe vales redoubled to the hills, and theyTo Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sowO'er all the Italian field, where still doth swayThe triple tyrant, that from these may growA hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,Early may fly the Babylonian woe.J. MILTON.
65. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND.The forward youth that would appear,Must now forsake his Muses dear,Nor in the shadows singHis numbers languishing.'Tis time to leave the books in dust,And oil the unused armour's rust,Removing from the wallThe corslet of the hall.So restless Cromwell could not ceaseIn the inglorious arts of peace,But through adventurous warUrgéd his active star:And like the three-fork'd lightning firstBreaking the clouds where it was nurst,Did thorough his own sideHis fiery way divide:For 'tis all one to courage highThe emulous, or enemy;And with such, to encloseIs more than to oppose;Then burning through the air he wentAnd palaces and temples rent;And Caesar's head at lastDid through his laurels blast.'Tis madness to resist or blameThe face of angry heaven's flame;And if we would speak true,Much to the Man is dueWho, from his private gardens, whereHe lived reservéd and austere(As if he his highest plotTo plant the bergamot)Could by industrious valour climbTo ruin the great work of time,And cast the Kingdoms oldInto another mould.Though Justice against Fate complain,And plead the ancient Rights in vain—But those do hold or breakAs men are strong or weak;Nature, that hateth emptiness,Allows of penetration less,And therefore must make roomWhere greater spirits come.What field of all the civil warWhere his were not the deepest scar?And Hampton shows what partHe had of wiser art,Where, twining subtle fears with hope,He wove a net of such a scopeThat Charles himself might chaseTo Carisbrook's narrow case;That thence the Royal actor borneThe tragic scaffold might adorn:While round the arméd bandsDid clap their bloody hands;He nothing common did or meanUpon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe's edge did try;Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,To vindicate his helpless right;But bow'd his comely headDown, as upon a bed.—This was that memorable hourWhich first assured the forcéd power:So when they did designThe Capitol's first line,A Bleeding Head, where they begun,Did fright the architects to run;And yet in that the StateForesaw its happy fate!And now the Irish are ashamedTo see themselves in one year tamed:So much one man can doThat does both act and know.They can affirm his praises best,And have, though overcome, confestHow good he is, how justAnd fit for highest trust;Nor yet grown stiffer with command,But still in the Republic's hand—How fit he is to swayThat can so well obey!He to the Commons' feet presentsA Kingdom for his first year's rents,And (what he may) forbearsHis fame, to make it theirs:And has his sword and spoils ungirtTo lay them at the Public's skirt.So when the falcon highFalls heavy from the sky,She, having kill'd, no more doth searchBut on the next green bough to perch,Where, when he first does lure,The falconer has her sure.—What may not then our Isle presumeWhile victory his crest does plume?What may not others fearIf thus he crowns each year!As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,To Italy an Hannibal,And to all states not freeShall climacteric be.The Pict no shelter now shall findWithin his parti-colour'd mind,But, from this valour, sadShrink underneath the plaid—Happy, if in the tufted brakeThe English hunter him mistake,Nor lay his hounds in nearThe Caledonian deer.But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son,March indefatigably on;And for the last effectStill keep the sword erect:Besides the force it has to frightThe spirits of the shady night,The same arts that did gainA power, must it maintain.A. MARVELL.
66. LYCIDASElegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel.Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once moreYe myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,And with forced fingers rudeShatter your leaves before the mellowing year.Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dearCompels me to disturb your season due:For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred wellThat from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string;Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:So may some gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destined urn:And as he passes, turnAnd bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill:Together both, ere the high lawns appear'dUnder the opening eye-lids of the morn,We drove a-field, and both together heardWhat time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose at evening brightToward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute;Temper'd to the oaten flute,Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad sound would not be absent long;And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone,Now thou art gone and never must return!Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves,With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,And all their echoes, mourn.The willows and the hazel copses greenShall now no more be seenFanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:—As killing as the canker to the rose,Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,When first the white-thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deepClosed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steepWhere your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.Ay me! I fondly dream—Had ye been there—for what could that have done?What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,Whom universal nature did lament,When by the rout that made the hideous roarHis gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?Alas! what boots it with incessant careTo tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's tradeAnd strictly meditate the thankless Muse?Were it not better done, as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of noble mind)To scorn delights and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with the abhorréd shearsAnd slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyesAnd perfect witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floodSmooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds!That strain I heard was of a higher mood:But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the herald of the seaThat came in Neptune's plea;He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?And question'd every gust of rugged wingsThat blows from off each beakéd promontory:They knew not of his story;And sage Hippotadés their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panopé with all her sisters play'd.It was that fatal and perfidious barkBuilt in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedgeInwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe:"Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge!"Last came, and last did goThe pilot of the Galilean Lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:"How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Enow of such, as for their bellies' sakeCreep and intrude and climb into the fold!Of other care they little reckoning makeThan how to scramble at the shearers' feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest;Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the leastThat to the faithful herdman's art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;And, when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they drawRot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Besides what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said:—But that two-handed engine at the doorStands ready to smite once, and smite no more."Return, Alphéus; the dread voice is pastThat shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooksOn whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyesThat on the green turf suck the honey'd showersAnd purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears:Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,And daffodillies fill their cups with tearsTo strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.For so to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise;Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seasWash far away,—where'er thy bones are hurl'd;Whether beyond the stormy HebridesWhere thou perhaps, under the whelming tideVisitest the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great Vision of the guarded mountLooks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold,—Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:—And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping headAnd tricks his beams, and with new-spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted highThrough the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves;Where, other groves and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptial songIn the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the saints aboveIn solemn troops, and sweet societies,That sing, and singing, in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,While the still morn went out with sandals gray;He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,And now was dropt into the western bay:At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.J. MILTON.
67. THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.Mortality, behold and fearWhat a change of flesh is here!Think how many royal bonesSleep within these heaps of stones;Here they lie, had realms and lands,Who now want strength to stir their hands,Where from their pulpits seal'd with dustThey preach, "In greatness is no trust."Here's an acre sown indeedWith the richest royallest seedThat the earth did e'er suck inSince the first man died for sin:Here the bones of birth have cried"Though gods they were, as men they died!"Here are sands, ignoble things,Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kingsHere's a world of pomp and stateBuried in dust, once dead by fate.F. BEAUMONT.
68. THE LAST CONQUEROR.Victorious men of earth, no moreProclaim how wide your empires are;Though you bind-in every shoreAnd your triumphs reach as farAs night and day,Yet you, proud monarchs, must obeyAnd mingle with forgotten ashes, whenDeath calls ye to the crowd of common men.Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,Each able to undo mankind,Death's servile emissaries are;Nor to these alone confined,He hath at willMore quaint and subtle ways to kill;A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.J. SHIRLEY.
69. DEATH THE LEVELLER.The glories of our blood and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armour against fate;Death lays his icy hand on kings:Sceptre and CrownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crooked scythe and spade.Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill:But their strong nerves at last must yield;They tame but one another still:Early or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breathWhen they, pale captives, creep to death.The garlands wither on your brow;Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon Death's purple altar nowSee where the victor-victim bleeds:Your heads must comeTo the cold tomb;Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in their dust.J. SHIRLEY.
70. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms,Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,If deed of honour did thee ever please;Guard them, and him within protect from harms.He can requite thee; for he knows the charmsThat call fame on such gentle acts as these.And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:The great Emathian conqueror bid spareThe house of Pindarus, when temple and towerWent to the ground: and the repeated airOf sad Electra's poet had the powerTo save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.J. MILTON.
71. ON HIS BLINDNESS.When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one talent which is death to hideLodged with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest He returning chide,—Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?I fondly ask:—But Patience, to preventThat murmur, soon replies; God doth not needEither man's work, or His own gifts: who bestBear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His stateIs kingly; thousands at His bidding speedAnd post o'er land and ocean without rest:—They also serve who only stand and wait.J. MILTON.
72. CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armour is his honest thoughtAnd simple truth his utmost skill!Whose passions not his masters are,Whose soul is still prepared for death,Not tied unto the world by careOf public fame, or private breath;Who envies none that chance doth raiseOr vice; Who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given by praise;Nor rules of state, but rules of good:Who hath his life from rumours freed,Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,Nor ruin make accusers great;Who God doth late and early prayMore of His grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a well-chosen book or friend;—This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise, or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands,And having nothing, yet hath all.SIR H. WOTTON.
73. THE NOBLE NATURE.It is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make Man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night—It was the plant and flower of Light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures life may perfect be.B. JONSON
74. THE GIFTS OF GOD.When God at first made Man,Having a glass of blessings standing by;Let us (said he) pour on him all we can:Let the world's riches, which disperséd lie,Contract into a span.So strength first made a way;Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:When almost all was out, God made a stay,Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,Rest in the bottom lay.For if I should (said he)Bestow this jewel also on my creature,He would adore My gifts instead of Me,And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:So both should losers be.Yet let him keep the rest,But keep them with repining restlessness:Let him be rich and weary, that at least,If goodness lead him not, yet wearinessMay toss him to my breast.G. HERBERT.
75. THE RETREAT.Happy those early days, when IShined in my Angel-infancy!Before I understood this placeAppointed for my second race,Or taught my soul to fancy aughtBut a white, celestial thought;When yet I had not walk'd aboveA mile or two from my first Love,And looking back, at that short spaceCould see a glimpse of his bright face;When on some gilded cloud or flowerMy gazing soul would dwell an hour,And in those weaker glories spySome shadows of eternity;Before I taught my tongue to woundMy conscience with a sinful sound,Or had the black art to dispenseA several sin to every sense,But felt through all this fleshly dressBright shoots of everlastingness.O how I long to travel back,And tread again that ancient track!That I might once more reach that plain,Where first I left my glorious train;From whence th' enlighten'd spirit seesThat shady City of Palm trees!But ah! my soul with too much stayIs drunk, and staggers in the way:—Some men a forward motion love,But I by backward steps would move;And when this dust falls to the urn,In that state I came, return.H. VAUGHAN.
76. TO MR. LAWRENCE.Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fireHelp waste a sullen day, what may be wonFrom the hard season gaining? Time will runOn smoother, till Favonius re-inspireThe frozen earth, and cloth in fresh attireThe lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may riseTo hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voiceWarble immortal notes and Tuscan air?He who of those delights can judge, and spareTo interpose them oft, is not unwise.J. MILTON.
77. TO CYRIACK SKINNER.Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal benchOf British Themis, with no mean applausePronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,Which others at their bar so often wrench;To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drenchIn mirth, that after no repenting draws;Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,And what the Swede intends, and what the French.To measure life learn thou betimes, and knowToward solid good what leads the nearest way;For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,And disapproves that care, though wise in show,That with superfluous burden loads the day,And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.J. MILTON.
78. HYMN TO DIANA.Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chairState in wonted manner keep:Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear when day did close;Bless us then with wishéd sight,Goddess excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apartAnd thy crystal-shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever;Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess excellently bright.B. JONSON.
79. WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS.Whoe'er she be,That not impossible SheThat shall command my heart and me;Where'er she lie,Lock'd up from mortal eyeIn shady leaves of destiny:Till that ripe birthOf studied Fate stand forth,And teach her fair steps to our earth;Till that divineIdea take a shrineOf crystal flesh, through which to shine:—Meet you her, my Wishes,Bespeak her to my blisses,And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.I wish her beauty,That owes not all its dutyTo gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:Something more thanTaffata or tissue can,Or rampant feather, or rich fan.A face that's bestBy its own beauty drest,And can alone command the rest:A face made upOut of no other shopThan what Nature's white hand sets ope.Sydneian showersOf sweet discourse, whose powersCan crown old Winter's head with flowers.Whate'er delightCan make day's forehead brightOr give down to the wings of night.Soft silken hours,Open suns, shady bowers;'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.Days, that need borrowNo part of their good morrowFrom a fore-spent night of sorrow:Days, that in spiteOf darkness, by the lightOf a clear mind are day all night.Life, that dares sendA challenge to his end,And when it comes, say, "Welcome friend."I wish her storeOf worth may leave her poorOf wishes; and I wish—no more.—Now, if Time knowsThat Her, whose radiant browsWeave them a garland of my vows;Her that dares beWhat these lines wish to see;I seek no further, it is She.'Tis She, and hereLo! I unclothe and clearMy wishes' cloudy character.Such worth as this isShall fix my flying wishes,And determine them to kisses.Let her full glory,My fancies, fly before ye;Be ye my fictions:—but her story.R. CRASHAW.
80. THE GREAT ADVENTURER.Over the mountainsAnd over the waves,Under the fountainsAnd under the graves;Under floods that are deepest,Which Neptune obey;Over rocks that are steepestLove will find out the way.When there is no placeFor the glow-worm to lie;When there is no spaceFor receipt of a fly;When the midge dares not ventureLest herself fast she lay;If Love come, he will enterAnd will find out his way.You may esteem himA child for his might;Or you may deem himA coward from his flight;But if she whom love doth honourBe conceal'd from the day,Set a thousand guards upon her,Love will find out the way.Some think to lose himBy having him confined;And some do suppose him,Poor thing, to be blind;But if ne'er so close ye wall him,Do the best that you may,Blind love, if so ye call him,Will find out his way.You may train the eagleTo stoop to your fist;Or you may inveigleThe phoenix of the east;The lioness, ye may move herTo give o'er her prey;But you'll ne'er stop a lover:He will find out his way.ANON.
81. CHILD AND MAIDEN.Ah, Chloris! could I now but sitAs unconcern'd as whenYour infant beauty could begetNo happiness or pain!When I the dawn used to admire,And praised the coming day,I little thought the rising fireWould take my rest away.Your charms in harmless childhood layLike metals in a mine;Age from no face takes more awayThan youth conceal'd in thine.But as your charms insensiblyTo their perfection prest,So love as unperceived did fly,And center'd in my breast.My passion with your beauty grew,While Cupid at my heartStill as his mother favour'd you,Threw a new flaming dart:Each gloried in their wanton part;To make a lover, heEmploy'd the utmost of his art—To make a beauty, she.SIR C. SEDLEY.
82. COUNSEL TO GIRLS.Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying:And this same flower that smiles to-day,To-morrow will be dying.The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,The higher he's a-gettingThe sooner will his race be run,And nearer he's to setting.That age is best which is the first,When youth and blood are warmer,But being spent, the worse, and worstTimes, still succeed the former.Then be not coy, but use your time;And while ye may, go marry:For having lost but once your prime,You may for ever tarry.R. HERRICK.
83. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkindThat from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mind,To war and arms I fly.True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you too shalt adore;I could not love thee, Dear, so much,Loved I not Honour more.COLONEL LOVELACE.
84. ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.You meaner beauties of the night,Which poorly satisfy our eyesMore by your number than your light,You common people of the skies,What are you, when the Moon shall rise?Ye violets that first appear,By your pure purple mantles knownLike the proud virgins of the yearAs if the spring were all your own,—What are you, when the Rose is blown?You curious chanters of the woodThat warble forth dame Nature's lays,Thinking your passions understoodBy your weak accents; what's your praiseWhen Philomel her voice doth raise?So, when my Mistress shall be seenIn sweetness of her looks and mind,By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,Tell me, if she were not design'dTh' eclipse and glory of her kind?SIR H. WOTTON.
85. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.Daughter to that good earl, once PresidentOf England's council and her treasury,Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,And left them both, more in himself content.Till the sad breaking of that parliamentBroke him, as that dishonest victoryAt Chaeronia, fatal to liberty,Kill'd with report that old man eloquent;—Though later born than to have known the daysWherein your father flourish'd, yet by you,Madam, methinks I see him living yet;So well your words his noble virtues praise,That all both judge you to relate them true,And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.J. MILTON.
86. THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE.It is not Beauty I demand,A crystal brow, the moon's despair,Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:Tell me not of your starry eyes,Your lips that seem on roses fed,Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:—A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeksLike Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,A breath that softer music speaksThan summer winds a-wooing flowers,These are but gauds: nay what are lips?Coral beneath the ocean-stream,Whose brink when your adventurer slipsFull oft he perisheth on them.And what are cheeks, but ensigns oftThat wave hot youth to fields of blood?Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,Do Greece or Ilium any good?Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed;There's many a white hand holds an urnWith lovers hearts to dust consumed.For crystal brows there's nought within;They are but empty cells for pride;He who the Syren's hair would winIs mostly strangled in the tide.Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,A tender heart, a loyal mindWhich with temptation I would trust,Yet never link'd with error find,—One in whose gentle bosom ICould pour my secret heart of woes,Like the care-burthen'd honey-flyThat hides his murmurs in the rose,—My earthly Comforter! whose loveSo indefeasible might beThat, when my spirit wonn'd above,Hers could not stay, for sympathy.ANON.