Easter

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright!The bridal of the earth and sky—The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;For thou must die.Sweet rose, whose hue angry and braveBids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like season’d timber, never gives;But though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright!The bridal of the earth and sky—The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and braveBids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like season’d timber, never gives;But though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.

282.

IGOT me flowers to straw Thy way,I got me boughs off many a tree;But Thou wast up by break of day,And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee.Yet though my flowers be lost, they sayA heart can never come too late;Teach it to sing Thy praise this day.And then this day my life shall date.

IGOT me flowers to straw Thy way,I got me boughs off many a tree;But Thou wast up by break of day,And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee.

Yet though my flowers be lost, they sayA heart can never come too late;Teach it to sing Thy praise this day.And then this day my life shall date.

283.

THROW away Thy rod,Throw away Thy wrath;O my God,Take the gentle path!For my heart’s desireUnto Thine is bent:I aspireTo a full consent.Not a word or lookI affect to own,But by book,And Thy Book alone.Though I fail, I weep;Though I halt in pace,Yet I creepTo the throne of grace.Then let wrath remove;Love will do the deed:For with loveStony hearts will bleed.Love is swift of foot;Love’s a man of war,And can shoot,And can hit from far.Who can ’scape his bow?That which wrought on Thee,Brought Thee low,Needs must work on me.Throw away Thy rod;Though man frailties hath,Thou art God:Throw away Thy wrath!

THROW away Thy rod,Throw away Thy wrath;O my God,Take the gentle path!

For my heart’s desireUnto Thine is bent:I aspireTo a full consent.

Not a word or lookI affect to own,But by book,And Thy Book alone.

Though I fail, I weep;Though I halt in pace,Yet I creepTo the throne of grace.

Then let wrath remove;Love will do the deed:For with loveStony hearts will bleed.

Love is swift of foot;Love’s a man of war,And can shoot,And can hit from far.

Who can ’scape his bow?That which wrought on Thee,Brought Thee low,Needs must work on me.

Throw away Thy rod;Though man frailties hath,Thou art God:Throw away Thy wrath!

284.

Man.Sweetest Saviour, if my soulWere but worth the having,Quickly should I then controlAny thought of waving.But when all my care and painsCannot give the name of gainsTo Thy wretch so full of stains,What delight or hope remains?Saviour.What, child, is the balance thine,Thine the poise and measure?If I say, ‘Thou shalt be Mine,’Finger not My treasure.What the gains in having theeDo amount to, only HeWho for man was sold can seeThat transferr’d th’ accounts to Me.Man.But as I can see no meritLeading to this favour,So the way to fit me for itIs beyond my savour.As the reason, then, is Thine,So the way is none of mine;I disclaim the whole design;Sin disclaims and I resign.Saviour.That is all: if that I couldGet without repining;And My clay, My creature, wouldFollow My resigning;

savour] savoir, knowing.

That as I did freely partWith My glory and desert,Left all joys to feel all smart——Man.Ah, no more! Thou break’st my heart!

285.

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 dispersèd 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.

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 dispersèd 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.

286.

LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,Guilty of dust and sin.But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slackFrom my first entrance in,Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioningIf I lack’d anything.‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’Love said, ‘You shall be he.’‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,I cannot look on Thee.’Love took my hand and smiling did reply,‘Who made the eyes but I?’‘Truth, Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shameGo where it doth deserve.’‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’‘My dear, then I will serve.’‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’So I did sit and eat.

LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,Guilty of dust and sin.But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slackFrom my first entrance in,Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioningIf I lack’d anything.

‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’Love said, ‘You shall be he.’‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,I cannot look on Thee.’Love took my hand and smiling did reply,‘Who made the eyes but I?’

‘Truth, Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shameGo where it doth deserve.’‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’‘My dear, then I will serve.’‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’So I did sit and eat.

1596-1666

287.

FLY, my Soul! What hangs uponThy drooping wings,And weighs them downWith love of gaudy mortal things?The Sun is now i’ the east: each shadeAs he doth riseIs shorter made,That earth may lessen to our eyes.O be not careless then and playUntil the Star of PeaceHide all his beams in dark recess!Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way,When all the shadows do increase.

FLY, my Soul! What hangs uponThy drooping wings,And weighs them downWith love of gaudy mortal things?

The Sun is now i’ the east: each shadeAs he doth riseIs shorter made,That earth may lessen to our eyes.

O be not careless then and playUntil the Star of PeaceHide all his beams in dark recess!Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way,When all the shadows do increase.

288.

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 crookèd 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.

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.

1595?-1639?

289.

ASK me no more where Jove bestows,When June is past, the fading rose;For in your beauty’s orient deepThese flowers, as in their causes, sleep.Ask me no more whither do strayThe golden atoms of the day;For in pure love heaven did prepareThose powders to enrich your hair.Ask me no more whither doth hasteThe nightingale when May is past;For in your sweet dividing throatShe winters and keeps warm her note.Ask me no more where those stars ’lightThat downwards fall in dead of nightFor in your eyes they sit, and thereFixèd become as in their sphere.Ask me no more if east or westThe Phœnix builds her spicy nest;For unto you at last she flies,And in your fragrant bosom dies.

ASK me no more where Jove bestows,When June is past, the fading rose;For in your beauty’s orient deepThese flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do strayThe golden atoms of the day;For in pure love heaven did prepareThose powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth hasteThe nightingale when May is past;For in your sweet dividing throatShe winters and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars ’lightThat downwards fall in dead of nightFor in your eyes they sit, and thereFixèd become as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or westThe Phœnix builds her spicy nest;For unto you at last she flies,And in your fragrant bosom dies.

290.

IF the quick spirits in your eyeNow languish and anon must die;If every sweet and every graceMust fly from that forsaken face;Then, Celia, let us reap our joysEre Time such goodly fruit destroys.Or if that golden fleece must grow.For ever free from agèd snow;If those bright suns must know no shade,Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;Then fear not, Celia, to bestowWhat, still being gather’d, still must grow.Thus either Time his sickle bringsIn vain, or else in vain his wings.

IF the quick spirits in your eyeNow languish and anon must die;If every sweet and every graceMust fly from that forsaken face;Then, Celia, let us reap our joysEre Time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or if that golden fleece must grow.For ever free from agèd snow;If those bright suns must know no shade,Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;Then fear not, Celia, to bestowWhat, still being gather’d, still must grow.

Thus either Time his sickle bringsIn vain, or else in vain his wings.

291.

WHEN thou, poor ExcommunicateFrom all the joys of Love, shalt seeThe full reward and glorious fateWhich my strong faith shall purchase me,Then curse thine own inconstancy!A fairer hand than thine shall cureThat heart which thy false oaths did wound;And to my soul a soul more pureThan thine shall by Love’s hand be bound,And both with equal glory crown’d.Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complainTo Love, as I did once to thee;When all thy tears shall be as vainAs mine were then: for thou shalt beDamn’d for thy false apostasy.

WHEN thou, poor ExcommunicateFrom all the joys of Love, shalt seeThe full reward and glorious fateWhich my strong faith shall purchase me,Then curse thine own inconstancy!

A fairer hand than thine shall cureThat heart which thy false oaths did wound;And to my soul a soul more pureThan thine shall by Love’s hand be bound,And both with equal glory crown’d.

Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complainTo Love, as I did once to thee;When all thy tears shall be as vainAs mine were then: for thou shalt beDamn’d for thy false apostasy.

292.

HE that loves a rosy cheek,Or a coral lip admires,Or from star-like eyes doth seekFuel to maintain his fires:As old Time makes these decay,So his flames must waste away.But a smooth and steadfast mind,Gentle thoughts and calm desires,Hearts with equal love combined,Kindle never-dying fires.Where these are not, I despiseLovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

HE that loves a rosy cheek,Or a coral lip admires,Or from star-like eyes doth seekFuel to maintain his fires:As old Time makes these decay,So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,Gentle thoughts and calm desires,Hearts with equal love combined,Kindle never-dying fires.Where these are not, I despiseLovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

293.

KNOW, Celia, since thou art so proud,’Twas I that gave thee thy renown.Thou hadst in the forgotten crowdOf common beauties lived unknown,Had not my verse extoll’d thy name,And with it imp’d the wings of Fame.That killing power is none of thine;I gave it to thy voice and eyes;Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies;Then dart not from thy borrow’d sphereLightning on him that fix’d thee there.

That killing power is none of thine;I gave it to thy voice and eyes;Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies;Then dart not from thy borrow’d sphereLightning on him that fix’d thee there.

293.imp’d] grafted with new feathers.

TEMPT me with such affrights no more,Lest what I made I uncreate;Let fools thy mystic form adore,I know thee in thy mortal state.Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales,Knew her themselves through all her veils.

294.

On the Lady Mary Villiers

THE Lady Mary Villiers liesUnder this stone; with weeping eyesThe parents that first gave her birth,And their sad friends, laid her in earth.If any of them, Reader, wereKnown unto thee, shed a tear;Or if thyself possess a gemAs dear to thee, as this to them,Though a stranger to this place,Bewail in theirs thine own hard case:For thou perhaps at thy returnMay’st find thy Darling in an urn.

295.

THIS little vault, this narrow room,Of Love and Beauty is the tomb;The dawning beam, that ’gan to clearOur clouded sky, lies darkened here,For ever set to us: by DeathSent to enflame the World Beneath,’Twas but a bud, yet did containMore sweetness than shall spring again;A budding Star, that might have grownInto a Sun when it had blown.This hopeful Beauty did createNew life in Love’s declining state;But now his empire ends, and weFrom fire and wounding darts are free;His brand, his bow, let no man fear:The flames, the arrows, all lie here.

1604-1672

296.

TIME is the feather’d thing,And, whilst I praiseThe sparklings of thy looks and call them rays,Takes wing,Leaving behind him as he fliesAn unperceivèd dimness in thine eyes.His minutes, whilst they’re told,Do make us old;And every sand of his fleet glass,Increasing age as it doth pass,Insensibly sows wrinkles thereWhere flowers and roses do appear.Whilst we do speak, our fireDoth into ice expire,Flames turn to frost;And ere we canKnow how our crow turns swan,Or how a silver snowSprings there where jet did grow,Our fading spring is in dull winter lost.Since then the Night hath hurl’dDarkness, Love’s shade,Over its enemy the Day, and madeThe worldJust such a blind and shapeless thingAs ’twas before light did from darkness spring,Let us employ its treasureAnd make shade pleasure:Let’s number out the hours by blisses,And count the minutes by our kisses;Let the heavens new motions feelAnd by our embraces wheel;And whilst we try the wayBy which Love doth conveySoul unto soul,And mingling soMakes them such raptures knowAs makes them entrancèd lieIn mutual ecstasy,Let the harmonious spheres in music roll!

1605-1654

297.

YE blushing virgins happy areIn the chaste nunnery of her breasts—For he’d profane so chaste a fair,Whoe’er should call them Cupid’s nests.Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!How rich a perfume do ye yield!In some close garden cowslips soAre sweeter than i’ th’ open field.In those white cloisters live secureFrom the rude blasts of wanton breath!—Each hour more innocent and pure,Till you shall wither into death.Then that which living gave you room,Your glorious sepulchre shall be.There wants no marble for a tombWhose breast hath marble been to me.

YE blushing virgins happy areIn the chaste nunnery of her breasts—For he’d profane so chaste a fair,Whoe’er should call them Cupid’s nests.

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!How rich a perfume do ye yield!In some close garden cowslips soAre sweeter than i’ th’ open field.

In those white cloisters live secureFrom the rude blasts of wanton breath!—Each hour more innocent and pure,Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room,Your glorious sepulchre shall be.There wants no marble for a tombWhose breast hath marble been to me.

298.

WHEN I survey the brightCelestial sphere;So rich with jewels hung, that NightDoth like an Ethiop bride appear:My soul her wings doth spreadAnd heavenward flies,Th’ Almighty’s mysteries to readIn the large volumes of the skies.For the bright firmamentShoots forth no flameSo silent, but is eloquentIn speaking the Creator’s name.No unregarded starContracts its lightInto so small a character,Removed far from our human sight,But if we steadfast lookWe shall discernIn it, as in some holy book,How man may heavenly knowledge learn.It tells the conquerorThat far-stretch’d power,Which his proud dangers traffic for,Is but the triumph of an hour:That from the farthest North,Some nation may,Yet undiscover’d, issue forth,And o’er his new-got conquest sway:Some nation yet shut inWith hills of iceMay be let out to scourge his sin,Till they shall equal him in vice.And then they likewise shallTheir ruin have;For as yourselves your empires fall,And every kingdom hath a grave.Thus those celestial fires,Though seeming mute,The fallacy of our desiresAnd all the pride of life confute:—For they have watch’d since firstThe World had birth:And found sin in itself accurst,And nothing permanent on Earth.

WHEN I survey the brightCelestial sphere;So rich with jewels hung, that NightDoth like an Ethiop bride appear:

My soul her wings doth spreadAnd heavenward flies,Th’ Almighty’s mysteries to readIn the large volumes of the skies.

For the bright firmamentShoots forth no flameSo silent, but is eloquentIn speaking the Creator’s name.

No unregarded starContracts its lightInto so small a character,Removed far from our human sight,

But if we steadfast lookWe shall discernIn it, as in some holy book,How man may heavenly knowledge learn.

It tells the conquerorThat far-stretch’d power,Which his proud dangers traffic for,Is but the triumph of an hour:

That from the farthest North,Some nation may,Yet undiscover’d, issue forth,And o’er his new-got conquest sway:

Some nation yet shut inWith hills of iceMay be let out to scourge his sin,Till they shall equal him in vice.

And then they likewise shallTheir ruin have;For as yourselves your empires fall,And every kingdom hath a grave.

Thus those celestial fires,Though seeming mute,The fallacy of our desiresAnd all the pride of life confute:—

For they have watch’d since firstThe World had birth:And found sin in itself accurst,And nothing permanent on Earth.

1605-1635

299.

IHAVE a mistress, for perfections rareIn every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice;And wheresoever my fancy would begin,Still her perfection lets religion in.We sit and talk, and kiss away the hoursAs chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers:I touch her, like my beads, with devout care,And come unto my courtship as my prayer.

300.

to hasten Him into the Country

COME, spur away,I have no patience for a longer stay,But must go downAnd leave the chargeable noise of this great town:I will the country see,Where old simplicity,Though hid in gray,Doth look more gayThan foppery in plush and scarlet clad.Farewell, you city wits, that areAlmost at civil war—’Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.More of my daysI will not spend to gain an idiot’s praise;Or to make sportFor some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court.Then, worthy Stafford, say,How shall we spend the day?With what delightsShorten the nights?When from this tumult we are got secure,Where mirth with all her freedom goes,Yet shall no finger lose;Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure?There from the treeWe’ll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry;And every dayGo see the wholesome country girls make hay,Whose brown hath lovelier graceThan any painted faceThat I do knowHyde Park can show:Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet(Though some of them in greater stateMight court my love with plate)The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.But think uponSome other pleasures: these to me are none.Why do I prateOf women, that are things against my fate!I never mean to wedThat torture to my bed:My Muse is sheMy love shall be.Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am goneAnd that great bugbear, grisly Death,Shall take this idle breath,If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.Of this no more!We’ll rather taste the bright Pomona’s store.No fruit shall ’scapeOur palates, from the damson to the grape.Then, full, we’ll seek a shade,And hear what music’s made;How PhilomelHer tale doth tell,And how the other birds do fill the quire;The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,Warbling melodious notes;We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.Ours is the sky,Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly:Nor will we spareTo hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare;But let our hounds run looseIn any ground they’ll choose;The buck shall fall,The stag, and all.Our pleasures must from their own warrants be,For to my Muse, if not to me,I’m sure all game is free:Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.And when we meanTo taste of Bacchus’ blessings now and then,And drink by stealthA cup or two to noble Barkley’s health,I’ll take my pipe and tryThe Phrygian melody;Which he that hears,Lets through his earsA madness to distemper all the brain:Then I another pipe will takeAnd Doric music make,To civilize with graver notes our wits again.

More of my daysI will not spend to gain an idiot’s praise;Or to make sportFor some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court.Then, worthy Stafford, say,How shall we spend the day?With what delightsShorten the nights?When from this tumult we are got secure,Where mirth with all her freedom goes,Yet shall no finger lose;Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure?

There from the treeWe’ll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry;And every dayGo see the wholesome country girls make hay,Whose brown hath lovelier graceThan any painted faceThat I do knowHyde Park can show:Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet(Though some of them in greater stateMight court my love with plate)The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

But think uponSome other pleasures: these to me are none.Why do I prateOf women, that are things against my fate!I never mean to wedThat torture to my bed:My Muse is sheMy love shall be.Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am goneAnd that great bugbear, grisly Death,Shall take this idle breath,If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

Of this no more!We’ll rather taste the bright Pomona’s store.No fruit shall ’scapeOur palates, from the damson to the grape.Then, full, we’ll seek a shade,And hear what music’s made;How PhilomelHer tale doth tell,And how the other birds do fill the quire;The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,Warbling melodious notes;We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.

Ours is the sky,Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly:Nor will we spareTo hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare;But let our hounds run looseIn any ground they’ll choose;The buck shall fall,The stag, and all.Our pleasures must from their own warrants be,For to my Muse, if not to me,I’m sure all game is free:Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

And when we meanTo taste of Bacchus’ blessings now and then,And drink by stealthA cup or two to noble Barkley’s health,I’ll take my pipe and tryThe Phrygian melody;Which he that hears,Lets through his earsA madness to distemper all the brain:Then I another pipe will takeAnd Doric music make,To civilize with graver notes our wits again.

1606-1668

301.

THE lark now leaves his wat’ry nest,And climbing shakes his dewy wings.He takes this window for the East,And to implore your light he sings—Awake, awake! the morn will never riseTill she can dress her beauty at your eyes.The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star,The ploughman from the sun his season takes;But still the lover wonders what they areWho look for day before his mistress wakes.Awake, awake! break thro’ your veils of lawn!Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn!

The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star,The ploughman from the sun his season takes;But still the lover wonders what they areWho look for day before his mistress wakes.Awake, awake! break thro’ your veils of lawn!Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn!

302.

Lover.Your beauty, ripe and calm and freshAs eastern summers are,Must now, forsaking time and flesh,Add light to some small star.Philosopher.Whilst she yet lives, were stars decay’d,Their light by hers relief might find;But Death will lead her to a shadeWhere Love is cold and Beauty blind.Lover.Lovers, whose priests all poets are,Think every mistress, when she dies,Is changed at least into a star:And who dares doubt the poets wise?Philosopher.But ask not bodies doom’d to dieTo what abode they go;Since Knowledge is but Sorrow’s spy,It is not safe to know.

303.

PRAISE is devotion fit for mighty minds,The diff’ring world’s agreeing sacrifice;Where Heaven divided faiths united finds:But Prayer in various discord upward flies.For Prayer the ocean is where diverselyMen steer their course, each to a sev’ral coast;Where all our interests so discordant beThat half beg winds by which the rest are lost.By Penitence when we ourselves forsake,’Tis but in wise design on piteous Heaven;In Praise we nobly give what God may take,And are, without a beggar’s blush, forgiven.

PRAISE is devotion fit for mighty minds,The diff’ring world’s agreeing sacrifice;Where Heaven divided faiths united finds:But Prayer in various discord upward flies.

For Prayer the ocean is where diverselyMen steer their course, each to a sev’ral coast;Where all our interests so discordant beThat half beg winds by which the rest are lost.

By Penitence when we ourselves forsake,’Tis but in wise design on piteous Heaven;In Praise we nobly give what God may take,And are, without a beggar’s blush, forgiven.

1606-1687

304.

THAT which her slender waist confinedShall now my joyful temples bind;No monarch but would give his crownHis arms might do what this has done.It was my Heaven’s extremest sphere,The pale which held that lovely deer:My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,Did all within this circle move.A narrow compass! and yet thereDwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair!Give me but what this ribband bound,Take all the rest the sun goes round!

THAT which her slender waist confinedShall now my joyful temples bind;No monarch but would give his crownHis arms might do what this has done.

It was my Heaven’s extremest sphere,The pale which held that lovely deer:My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! and yet thereDwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair!Give me but what this ribband bound,Take all the rest the sun goes round!

305.

GO, lovely Rose—Tell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.Tell her that’s young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired:Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.Then die—that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee;How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair!

GO, lovely Rose—Tell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that’s young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired:Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.

Then die—that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee;How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair!

306.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o’er;So calm are we when passions are no more.For then we know how vain it was to boastOf fleeting things, so certain to be lost.Clouds of affection from our younger eyesConceal that emptiness which age descries.The soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d,Lets in new light through chinks that Time hath made:Stronger by weakness, wiser men becomeAs they draw near to their eternal home.Leaving the old, both worlds at once they viewThat stand upon the threshold of the new.

The soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d,Lets in new light through chinks that Time hath made:Stronger by weakness, wiser men becomeAs they draw near to their eternal home.Leaving the old, both worlds at once they viewThat stand upon the threshold of the new.

1608-1674

307.

IT was the Winter wilde,While the Heav’n-born-childe,All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;Nature in aw to himHad doff’t her gawdy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize:It was no season then for herTo wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour.Only with speeches fairShe woo’s the gentle AirTo hide her guilty front with innocent Snow,And on her naked shame,Pollute with sinfull blame,The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw,Confounded, that her Makers eyesShould look so neer upon her foul deformities.But he her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-eyd Peace,She crown’d with Olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphearHis ready Harbinger,With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing,And waving wide her mirtle wand,She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land.No War, or Battails soundWas heard the World around,The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hookèd Chariot stoodUnstain’d with hostile blood,The Trumpet spake not to the armèd throng,And Kings sate still with awfull eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.But peacefull was the nightWherin the Prince of lightHis raign of peace upon the earth began:The Windes with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kist,Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean,Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.The Stars with deep amazeStand fixt in stedfast gaze,Bending one way their pretious influence,And will not take their flight,For all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warn’d them thence;But in their glimmering Orbs did glow,Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.And though the shady gloomHad given day her room,The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed,And hid his head for shame,As his inferiour flame,The new enlightn’d world no more should need;He saw a greater Sun appearThen his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear.The Shepherds on the Lawn,Or ere the point of dawn,Sate simply chatting in a rustick row;Full little thought they than,That the mighty PanWas kindly com to live with them below;Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep,Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep.When such musick sweetTheir hearts and ears did greet,As never was by mortall finger strook,Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringèd noise,As all their souls in blisfull rapture tookThe Air such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echo’s still prolongs each heav’nly close.Nature that heard such soundBeneath the hollow roundOf Cynthia’s seat, the Airy region thrilling,Now was almost wonTo think her part was don,And that her raign had here its last fulfilling;She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all Heav’n and Earth in happier union.At last surrounds their sightA Globe of circular light,That with long beams the shame-fac’t night array’d,The helmèd CherubimAnd sworded Seraphim,Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid,Harping in loud and solemn quire,With unexpressive notes to Heav’ns new-born Heir.Such musick (as ’tis said)Before was never made,But when of old the sons of morning sung,While the Creator GreatHis constellations set,And the well-ballanc’t world on hinges hung,And cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep.Ring out ye Crystall sphears,Once bless our human ears,(If ye have power to touch our senses so)And let your silver chimeMove in melodious time;And let the Base of Heav’ns deep Organ blowAnd with your ninefold harmonyMake up full consort to th’Angelike symphony.For if such holy SongEnwrap our fancy long,Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold,And speckl’d vanityWill sicken soon and die,And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould,And Hell it self will pass away,And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.Yea Truth, and Justice thenWill down return to men,Th’enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing,And Mercy set between,Thron’d in Celestiall sheen,With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing,And Heav’n as at som festivall,Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall.But wisest Fate sayes no,This must not yet be so,The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy,That on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both himself and us to glorifie:Yet first to those ychain’d in sleep,The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep,With such a horrid clangAs on mount Sinai rangWhile the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake:The agèd Earth agastWith terrour of that blast,Shall from the surface to the center shake;When at the worlds last session,The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne.And then at last our blissFull and perfect is,But now begins; for from this happy dayTh’old Dragon under groundIn straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway,And wrath to see his Kingdom fail,Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail.The Oracles are dumm,No voice or hideous hummRuns through the archèd roof in words deceiving.Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving.No nightly trance, or breathèd spell,Inspire’s the pale-ey’d Priest from the prophetic cell.The lonely mountains o’re,And the resounding shore,A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring, and daleEdg’d with poplar pale,The parting Genius is with sighing sent,With flowre-inwov’n tresses tornThe Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.In consecrated Earth,And on the holy Hearth,The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint,In Urns, and Altars round,A drear, and dying soundAffrights the Flamins at their service quaint;And the chill Marble seems to sweat,While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.Peor, and Baalim,Forsake their Temples dim,With that twise-batter’d god of Palestine,And moonèd Ashtaroth,Heav’ns Queen and Mother both,Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine,The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn,In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn.And sullen Moloch fled,Hath left in shadows dred,His burning Idol all of blackest hue,In vain with Cymbals ring,They call the grisly king,In dismall dance about the furnace blue;The brutish gods of Nile as fast,Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast.Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian Grove, or Green,Trampling the unshowr’d Grasse with lowings loud:Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest,Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud,In vain with Timbrel’d Anthems darkThe sable-stolèd Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark.He feels from Juda’s LandThe dredded Infants hand,The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;Nor all the gods beside,Longer dare abide,Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:Our Babe to shew his Godhead true,Can in his swadling bands controul the damnèd crew,So when the Sun in bed,Curtain’d with cloudy red,Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave,The flocking shadows pale,Troop to th’infernall jail,Each fetter’d Ghost slips to his severall grave,And the yellow-skirted Fayes,Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov’d maze.But see the Virgin blest,Hath laid her Babe to rest.Time is our tedious Song should here have ending,Heav’ns youngest teemèd Star,Hath fixt her polisht Car,Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending:And all about the Courtly Stable,Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable.

Only with speeches fairShe woo’s the gentle AirTo hide her guilty front with innocent Snow,And on her naked shame,Pollute with sinfull blame,The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw,Confounded, that her Makers eyesShould look so neer upon her foul deformities.

But he her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-eyd Peace,She crown’d with Olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphearHis ready Harbinger,With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing,And waving wide her mirtle wand,She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land.

No War, or Battails soundWas heard the World around,The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hookèd Chariot stoodUnstain’d with hostile blood,The Trumpet spake not to the armèd throng,And Kings sate still with awfull eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

But peacefull was the nightWherin the Prince of lightHis raign of peace upon the earth began:The Windes with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kist,Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean,Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.

The Stars with deep amazeStand fixt in stedfast gaze,Bending one way their pretious influence,And will not take their flight,For all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warn’d them thence;But in their glimmering Orbs did glow,Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And though the shady gloomHad given day her room,The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed,And hid his head for shame,As his inferiour flame,The new enlightn’d world no more should need;He saw a greater Sun appearThen his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear.

The Shepherds on the Lawn,Or ere the point of dawn,Sate simply chatting in a rustick row;Full little thought they than,That the mighty PanWas kindly com to live with them below;Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep,Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep.

When such musick sweetTheir hearts and ears did greet,As never was by mortall finger strook,Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringèd noise,As all their souls in blisfull rapture tookThe Air such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echo’s still prolongs each heav’nly close.

Nature that heard such soundBeneath the hollow roundOf Cynthia’s seat, the Airy region thrilling,Now was almost wonTo think her part was don,And that her raign had here its last fulfilling;She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all Heav’n and Earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sightA Globe of circular light,That with long beams the shame-fac’t night array’d,The helmèd CherubimAnd sworded Seraphim,Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid,Harping in loud and solemn quire,With unexpressive notes to Heav’ns new-born Heir.

Such musick (as ’tis said)Before was never made,But when of old the sons of morning sung,While the Creator GreatHis constellations set,And the well-ballanc’t world on hinges hung,And cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep.

Ring out ye Crystall sphears,Once bless our human ears,(If ye have power to touch our senses so)And let your silver chimeMove in melodious time;And let the Base of Heav’ns deep Organ blowAnd with your ninefold harmonyMake up full consort to th’Angelike symphony.

For if such holy SongEnwrap our fancy long,Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold,And speckl’d vanityWill sicken soon and die,And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould,And Hell it self will pass away,And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

Yea Truth, and Justice thenWill down return to men,Th’enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing,And Mercy set between,Thron’d in Celestiall sheen,With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing,And Heav’n as at som festivall,Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall.

But wisest Fate sayes no,This must not yet be so,The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy,That on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both himself and us to glorifie:Yet first to those ychain’d in sleep,The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep,

With such a horrid clangAs on mount Sinai rangWhile the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake:The agèd Earth agastWith terrour of that blast,Shall from the surface to the center shake;When at the worlds last session,The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne.

And then at last our blissFull and perfect is,But now begins; for from this happy dayTh’old Dragon under groundIn straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway,And wrath to see his Kingdom fail,Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail.

The Oracles are dumm,No voice or hideous hummRuns through the archèd roof in words deceiving.Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving.No nightly trance, or breathèd spell,Inspire’s the pale-ey’d Priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains o’re,And the resounding shore,A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring, and daleEdg’d with poplar pale,The parting Genius is with sighing sent,With flowre-inwov’n tresses tornThe Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated Earth,And on the holy Hearth,The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint,In Urns, and Altars round,A drear, and dying soundAffrights the Flamins at their service quaint;And the chill Marble seems to sweat,While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.

Peor, and Baalim,Forsake their Temples dim,With that twise-batter’d god of Palestine,And moonèd Ashtaroth,Heav’ns Queen and Mother both,Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine,The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn,In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch fled,Hath left in shadows dred,His burning Idol all of blackest hue,In vain with Cymbals ring,They call the grisly king,In dismall dance about the furnace blue;The brutish gods of Nile as fast,Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast.

Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian Grove, or Green,Trampling the unshowr’d Grasse with lowings loud:Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest,Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud,In vain with Timbrel’d Anthems darkThe sable-stolèd Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark.

He feels from Juda’s LandThe dredded Infants hand,The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;Nor all the gods beside,Longer dare abide,Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:Our Babe to shew his Godhead true,Can in his swadling bands controul the damnèd crew,So when the Sun in bed,Curtain’d with cloudy red,Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave,The flocking shadows pale,Troop to th’infernall jail,Each fetter’d Ghost slips to his severall grave,And the yellow-skirted Fayes,Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov’d maze.

But see the Virgin blest,Hath laid her Babe to rest.Time is our tedious Song should here have ending,Heav’ns youngest teemèd Star,Hath fixt her polisht Car,Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending:And all about the Courtly Stable,Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable.

308.

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