DAUGHTER to that good Earl, once PresidentOf Englands Counsel, and her Treasury,Who liv’d in both, unstain’d with gold or fee,And left them both, more in himself content,Till the sad breaking of that ParlamentBroke him, as that dishonest victoryAt Chæronèa, fatal to libertyKil’d with report that Old man eloquent,Though later born, then to have known the dayesWherin your Father flourisht, yet by youMadam, me thinks I see him living yet;So well your words his noble vertues praise,That all both judge you to relate them true,And to possess them, Honour’d Margaret.
DAUGHTER to that good Earl, once PresidentOf Englands Counsel, and her Treasury,Who liv’d in both, unstain’d with gold or fee,And left them both, more in himself content,Till the sad breaking of that ParlamentBroke him, as that dishonest victoryAt Chæronèa, fatal to libertyKil’d with report that Old man eloquent,Though later born, then to have known the dayesWherin your Father flourisht, yet by youMadam, me thinks I see him living yet;So well your words his noble vertues praise,That all both judge you to relate them true,And to possess them, Honour’d Margaret.
DAUGHTER to that good Earl, once PresidentOf Englands Counsel, and her Treasury,Who liv’d in both, unstain’d with gold or fee,And left them both, more in himself content,Till the sad breaking of that ParlamentBroke him, as that dishonest victoryAt Chæronèa, fatal to libertyKil’d with report that Old man eloquent,Though later born, then to have known the dayesWherin your Father flourisht, yet by youMadam, me thinks I see him living yet;So well your words his noble vertues praise,That all both judge you to relate them true,And to possess them, Honour’d Margaret.
318.
WHEN I consider how my light is spent,E’re half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one Talent which is death to hide,Lodg’d with me useless, though my Soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, least he returning chide,Doth God exact day-labour, light deny’d,I fondly ask; But patience to preventThat murmur, soon replies, God doth not needEither man’s work or his own gifts, who bestBear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his StateIs Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speedAnd post o’re Land and Ocean without rest:They also serve who only stand and waite.
WHEN I consider how my light is spent,E’re half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one Talent which is death to hide,Lodg’d with me useless, though my Soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, least he returning chide,Doth God exact day-labour, light deny’d,I fondly ask; But patience to preventThat murmur, soon replies, God doth not needEither man’s work or his own gifts, who bestBear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his StateIs Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speedAnd post o’re Land and Ocean without rest:They also serve who only stand and waite.
WHEN I consider how my light is spent,E’re half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one Talent which is death to hide,Lodg’d with me useless, though my Soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, least he returning chide,Doth God exact day-labour, light deny’d,I fondly ask; But patience to preventThat murmur, soon replies, God doth not needEither man’s work or his own gifts, who bestBear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his StateIs Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speedAnd post o’re Land and Ocean without rest:They also serve who only stand and waite.
319.
LAWRENCE of vertuous Father vertuous Son,Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire,Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fireHelp wast 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 Lillie and Rose, that neither sow’d nor spun.What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may riseTo hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voiceWarble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre?He who of those delights can judge, and spareTo interpose them oft, is not unwise.
LAWRENCE of vertuous Father vertuous Son,Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire,Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fireHelp wast 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 Lillie and Rose, that neither sow’d nor spun.What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may riseTo hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voiceWarble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre?He who of those delights can judge, and spareTo interpose them oft, is not unwise.
LAWRENCE of vertuous Father vertuous Son,Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire,Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fireHelp wast 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 Lillie and Rose, that neither sow’d nor spun.What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may riseTo hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voiceWarble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre?He who of those delights can judge, and spareTo interpose them oft, is not unwise.
320.
CYRIACK, whose Grandsire on the Royal BenchOf Brittish Themis, with no mean applausePronounc’t and in his volumes taught our Lawes,Which others at their Barr so often wrench:To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drenchIn mirth, that after no repenting drawes;Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,And what the Swede intend, and what the French.To measure life, learn thou betimes, and knowToward solid good what leads the nearest way;For other things mild Heav’n 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.
CYRIACK, whose Grandsire on the Royal BenchOf Brittish Themis, with no mean applausePronounc’t and in his volumes taught our Lawes,Which others at their Barr so often wrench:To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drenchIn mirth, that after no repenting drawes;Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,And what the Swede intend, and what the French.To measure life, learn thou betimes, and knowToward solid good what leads the nearest way;For other things mild Heav’n 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.
CYRIACK, whose Grandsire on the Royal BenchOf Brittish Themis, with no mean applausePronounc’t and in his volumes taught our Lawes,Which others at their Barr so often wrench:To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drenchIn mirth, that after no repenting drawes;Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,And what the Swede intend, and what the French.To measure life, learn thou betimes, and knowToward solid good what leads the nearest way;For other things mild Heav’n 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.
321.
METHOUGHT I saw my late espousèd SaintBrought to me like Alcestis from the grave,Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,Rescu’d from death by force though pale and faint.Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,Purification in the old Law did save,And such, as yet once more I trust to haveFull sight of her in Heaven without restraint,Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:Her face was vail’d, yet to my fancied sight,Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’dSo clear, as in no face with more delight.But O as to embrace me she enclin’dI wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.
METHOUGHT I saw my late espousèd SaintBrought to me like Alcestis from the grave,Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,Rescu’d from death by force though pale and faint.Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,Purification in the old Law did save,And such, as yet once more I trust to haveFull sight of her in Heaven without restraint,Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:Her face was vail’d, yet to my fancied sight,Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’dSo clear, as in no face with more delight.But O as to embrace me she enclin’dI wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.
METHOUGHT I saw my late espousèd SaintBrought to me like Alcestis from the grave,Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,Rescu’d from death by force though pale and faint.Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,Purification in the old Law did save,And such, as yet once more I trust to haveFull sight of her in Heaven without restraint,Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:Her face was vail’d, yet to my fancied sight,Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’dSo clear, as in no face with more delight.But O as to embrace me she enclin’dI wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.
322.
HAIL holy light, ofspring of Heav’n first-born,Or of th’ Eternal Coeternal beamMay I express thee unblam’d? since God is light,And never but in unapproachèd lightDwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee,Bright effluence of bright essence increate.Or hear’st thou rather pure Ethereal stream,Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun,Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voiceOf God, as with a Mantle didst investThe rising world of waters dark and deep,Won from the void and formless infinite.Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing,Escap’t the Stygian Pool, though long detain’dIn that obscure sojourn, while in my flightThrough utter and through middle darkness borneWith other notes then to th’ Orphean LyreI sung of Chaos and Eternal Night,Taught by the heav’nly Muse to venture downThe dark descent, and up to reascend,Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe,And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thouRevisit’st not these eyes, that rowle in vainTo find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs,Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the moreCease I to wander where the Muses hauntCleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill,Smit with the love of sacred song; but chiefTheeSionand the flowrie Brooks beneathThat wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow,Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forgetThose other two equal’d with me in Fate,So were I equal’d with them in renown.Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides,And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old.Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie moveHarmonious numbers; as the wakeful BirdSings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hidTunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the YearSeasons return, but not to me returnsDay, or the sweet approach of Ev’n or Morn,Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose,Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;But cloud in stead, and ever-during darkSurrounds me, from the chearful waies of menCut off, and for the Book of knowledg fairPresented with a Universal blancOf Natures works to mee expung’d and ras’d,And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out.So much the rather thou Celestial lightShine inward, and the mind through all her powersIrradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thencePurge and disperse, that I may see and tellOf things invisible to mortal sight.
HAIL holy light, ofspring of Heav’n first-born,Or of th’ Eternal Coeternal beamMay I express thee unblam’d? since God is light,And never but in unapproachèd lightDwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee,Bright effluence of bright essence increate.Or hear’st thou rather pure Ethereal stream,Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun,Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voiceOf God, as with a Mantle didst investThe rising world of waters dark and deep,Won from the void and formless infinite.Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing,Escap’t the Stygian Pool, though long detain’dIn that obscure sojourn, while in my flightThrough utter and through middle darkness borneWith other notes then to th’ Orphean LyreI sung of Chaos and Eternal Night,Taught by the heav’nly Muse to venture downThe dark descent, and up to reascend,Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe,And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thouRevisit’st not these eyes, that rowle in vainTo find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs,Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the moreCease I to wander where the Muses hauntCleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill,Smit with the love of sacred song; but chiefTheeSionand the flowrie Brooks beneathThat wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow,Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forgetThose other two equal’d with me in Fate,So were I equal’d with them in renown.Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides,And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old.Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie moveHarmonious numbers; as the wakeful BirdSings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hidTunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the YearSeasons return, but not to me returnsDay, or the sweet approach of Ev’n or Morn,Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose,Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;But cloud in stead, and ever-during darkSurrounds me, from the chearful waies of menCut off, and for the Book of knowledg fairPresented with a Universal blancOf Natures works to mee expung’d and ras’d,And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out.So much the rather thou Celestial lightShine inward, and the mind through all her powersIrradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thencePurge and disperse, that I may see and tellOf things invisible to mortal sight.
HAIL holy light, ofspring of Heav’n first-born,Or of th’ Eternal Coeternal beamMay I express thee unblam’d? since God is light,And never but in unapproachèd lightDwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee,Bright effluence of bright essence increate.Or hear’st thou rather pure Ethereal stream,Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun,Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voiceOf God, as with a Mantle didst investThe rising world of waters dark and deep,Won from the void and formless infinite.Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing,Escap’t the Stygian Pool, though long detain’dIn that obscure sojourn, while in my flightThrough utter and through middle darkness borneWith other notes then to th’ Orphean LyreI sung of Chaos and Eternal Night,Taught by the heav’nly Muse to venture downThe dark descent, and up to reascend,Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe,And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thouRevisit’st not these eyes, that rowle in vainTo find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs,Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the moreCease I to wander where the Muses hauntCleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill,Smit with the love of sacred song; but chiefTheeSionand the flowrie Brooks beneathThat wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow,Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forgetThose other two equal’d with me in Fate,So were I equal’d with them in renown.Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides,And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old.Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie moveHarmonious numbers; as the wakeful BirdSings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hidTunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the YearSeasons return, but not to me returnsDay, or the sweet approach of Ev’n or Morn,Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose,Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;But cloud in stead, and ever-during darkSurrounds me, from the chearful waies of menCut off, and for the Book of knowledg fairPresented with a Universal blancOf Natures works to mee expung’d and ras’d,And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out.So much the rather thou Celestial lightShine inward, and the mind through all her powersIrradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thencePurge and disperse, that I may see and tellOf things invisible to mortal sight.
From ‘Samson Agonistes’
323.
OH how comely it is and how revivingTo the Spirits of just men long opprest!When God into the hands of thir delivererPuts invincible mightTo quell the mighty of the Earth, th’ oppressour,The brute and boist’rous force of violent menHardy and industrious to supportTyrannic power, but raging to pursueThe righteous and all such as honour Truth;He all thir AmmunitionAnd feats of War defeatsWith plain Heroic magnitude of mindAnd celestial vigour arm’d,Thir Armories and Magazins contemns,Renders them useless, whileWith wingèd expeditionSwift as the lightning glance he executesHis errand on the wicked, who surpris’dLose thir defence distracted and amaz’d.
OH how comely it is and how revivingTo the Spirits of just men long opprest!When God into the hands of thir delivererPuts invincible mightTo quell the mighty of the Earth, th’ oppressour,The brute and boist’rous force of violent menHardy and industrious to supportTyrannic power, but raging to pursueThe righteous and all such as honour Truth;He all thir AmmunitionAnd feats of War defeatsWith plain Heroic magnitude of mindAnd celestial vigour arm’d,Thir Armories and Magazins contemns,Renders them useless, whileWith wingèd expeditionSwift as the lightning glance he executesHis errand on the wicked, who surpris’dLose thir defence distracted and amaz’d.
OH how comely it is and how revivingTo the Spirits of just men long opprest!When God into the hands of thir delivererPuts invincible mightTo quell the mighty of the Earth, th’ oppressour,The brute and boist’rous force of violent menHardy and industrious to supportTyrannic power, but raging to pursueThe righteous and all such as honour Truth;He all thir AmmunitionAnd feats of War defeatsWith plain Heroic magnitude of mindAnd celestial vigour arm’d,Thir Armories and Magazins contemns,Renders them useless, whileWith wingèd expeditionSwift as the lightning glance he executesHis errand on the wicked, who surpris’dLose thir defence distracted and amaz’d.
324.
ALL is best, though we oft doubt,What th’ unsearchable disposeOf highest wisdom brings about,And ever best found in the close.Oft he seems to hide his face,But unexpectedly returnsAnd to his faithful Champion hath in placeBore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mournsAnd all that band them to resistHis uncontroulable intent.His servants he with new acquistOf true experience from this great eventWith peace and consolation hath dismist,And calm of mind all passion spent.
ALL is best, though we oft doubt,What th’ unsearchable disposeOf highest wisdom brings about,And ever best found in the close.Oft he seems to hide his face,But unexpectedly returnsAnd to his faithful Champion hath in placeBore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mournsAnd all that band them to resistHis uncontroulable intent.His servants he with new acquistOf true experience from this great eventWith peace and consolation hath dismist,And calm of mind all passion spent.
ALL is best, though we oft doubt,What th’ unsearchable disposeOf highest wisdom brings about,And ever best found in the close.Oft he seems to hide his face,But unexpectedly returnsAnd to his faithful Champion hath in placeBore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mournsAnd all that band them to resistHis uncontroulable intent.His servants he with new acquistOf true experience from this great eventWith peace and consolation hath dismist,And calm of mind all passion spent.
1609-1642
325.
OFOR some honest lover’s ghost,Some kind unbodied postSent from the shades below!I strangely long to knowWhether the noble chaplets wearThose that their mistress’ scorn did bearOr those that were used kindly.For whatsoe’er they tell us hereTo make those sufferings dear,’Twill there, I fear, be foundThat to the being crown’dT’ have loved alone will not suffice,Unless we also have been wiseAnd have our loves enjoy’d.What posture can we think him inThat, here unloved, againDeparts, and ’s thither goneWhere each sits by his own?Or how can that Elysium beWhere I my mistress still must seeCircled in other’s arms?For there the judges all are just,And Sophonisba mustBe his whom she held dear,Not his who loved her here.The sweet Philoclea, since she died,Lies by her Pirocles his side,Not by Amphialus.Some bays, perchance, or myrtle boughFor difference crowns the browOf those kind souls that wereThe noble martyrs here:And if that be the only odds(As who can tell?), ye kinder gods,Give me the woman here!
OFOR some honest lover’s ghost,Some kind unbodied postSent from the shades below!I strangely long to knowWhether the noble chaplets wearThose that their mistress’ scorn did bearOr those that were used kindly.For whatsoe’er they tell us hereTo make those sufferings dear,’Twill there, I fear, be foundThat to the being crown’dT’ have loved alone will not suffice,Unless we also have been wiseAnd have our loves enjoy’d.What posture can we think him inThat, here unloved, againDeparts, and ’s thither goneWhere each sits by his own?Or how can that Elysium beWhere I my mistress still must seeCircled in other’s arms?For there the judges all are just,And Sophonisba mustBe his whom she held dear,Not his who loved her here.The sweet Philoclea, since she died,Lies by her Pirocles his side,Not by Amphialus.Some bays, perchance, or myrtle boughFor difference crowns the browOf those kind souls that wereThe noble martyrs here:And if that be the only odds(As who can tell?), ye kinder gods,Give me the woman here!
OFOR some honest lover’s ghost,Some kind unbodied postSent from the shades below!I strangely long to knowWhether the noble chaplets wearThose that their mistress’ scorn did bearOr those that were used kindly.
For whatsoe’er they tell us hereTo make those sufferings dear,’Twill there, I fear, be foundThat to the being crown’dT’ have loved alone will not suffice,Unless we also have been wiseAnd have our loves enjoy’d.
What posture can we think him inThat, here unloved, againDeparts, and ’s thither goneWhere each sits by his own?Or how can that Elysium beWhere I my mistress still must seeCircled in other’s arms?
For there the judges all are just,And Sophonisba mustBe his whom she held dear,Not his who loved her here.The sweet Philoclea, since she died,Lies by her Pirocles his side,Not by Amphialus.
Some bays, perchance, or myrtle boughFor difference crowns the browOf those kind souls that wereThe noble martyrs here:And if that be the only odds(As who can tell?), ye kinder gods,Give me the woman here!
326.
OUT upon it, I have lovedThree whole days together!And am like to love three more,If it prove fair weather.Time shall moult away his wingsEre he shall discoverIn the whole wide world againSuch a constant lover.But the spite on ’t is, no praiseIs due at all to me:Love with me had made no stays,Had it any been but she.Had it any been but she,And that very face,There had been at least ere thisA dozen dozen in her place.
OUT upon it, I have lovedThree whole days together!And am like to love three more,If it prove fair weather.Time shall moult away his wingsEre he shall discoverIn the whole wide world againSuch a constant lover.But the spite on ’t is, no praiseIs due at all to me:Love with me had made no stays,Had it any been but she.Had it any been but she,And that very face,There had been at least ere thisA dozen dozen in her place.
OUT upon it, I have lovedThree whole days together!And am like to love three more,If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wingsEre he shall discoverIn the whole wide world againSuch a constant lover.
But the spite on ’t is, no praiseIs due at all to me:Love with me had made no stays,Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she,And that very face,There had been at least ere thisA dozen dozen in her place.
327.
WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?Prithee, why so pale?Will, when looking well can’t move her,Looking ill prevail?Prithee, why so pale?Why so dull and mute, young sinner?Prithee, why so mute?Will, when speaking well can’t win her,Saying nothing do’t?Prithee, why so mute?Quit, quit for shame! This will not move;This cannot take her.If of herself she will not love,Nothing can make her:The devil take her!
WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?Prithee, why so pale?Will, when looking well can’t move her,Looking ill prevail?Prithee, why so pale?Why so dull and mute, young sinner?Prithee, why so mute?Will, when speaking well can’t win her,Saying nothing do’t?Prithee, why so mute?Quit, quit for shame! This will not move;This cannot take her.If of herself she will not love,Nothing can make her:The devil take her!
WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?Prithee, why so pale?Will, when looking well can’t move her,Looking ill prevail?Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?Prithee, why so mute?Will, when speaking well can’t win her,Saying nothing do’t?Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame! This will not move;This cannot take her.If of herself she will not love,Nothing can make her:The devil take her!
328.
WHEN, dearest, I but think of thee,Methinks all things that lovely beAre present, and my soul delighted:For beauties that from worth ariseAre like the grace of deities,Still present with us, tho’ unsighted.Thus while I sit and sigh the dayWith all his borrow’d lights away,Till night’s black wings do overtake me,Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,As sudden lights do sleepy men,So they by their bright rays awake me.Thus absence dies, and dying provesNo absence can subsist with lovesThat do partake of fair perfection:Since in the darkest night they mayBy love’s quick motion find a wayTo see each other by reflection.The waving sea can with each floodBathe some high promont that hath stoodFar from the main up in the river:O think not then but love can doAs much! for that’s an ocean too,Which flows not every day, but ever!
WHEN, dearest, I but think of thee,Methinks all things that lovely beAre present, and my soul delighted:For beauties that from worth ariseAre like the grace of deities,Still present with us, tho’ unsighted.Thus while I sit and sigh the dayWith all his borrow’d lights away,Till night’s black wings do overtake me,Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,As sudden lights do sleepy men,So they by their bright rays awake me.Thus absence dies, and dying provesNo absence can subsist with lovesThat do partake of fair perfection:Since in the darkest night they mayBy love’s quick motion find a wayTo see each other by reflection.The waving sea can with each floodBathe some high promont that hath stoodFar from the main up in the river:O think not then but love can doAs much! for that’s an ocean too,Which flows not every day, but ever!
WHEN, dearest, I but think of thee,Methinks all things that lovely beAre present, and my soul delighted:For beauties that from worth ariseAre like the grace of deities,Still present with us, tho’ unsighted.
Thus while I sit and sigh the dayWith all his borrow’d lights away,Till night’s black wings do overtake me,Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,As sudden lights do sleepy men,So they by their bright rays awake me.
Thus absence dies, and dying provesNo absence can subsist with lovesThat do partake of fair perfection:Since in the darkest night they mayBy love’s quick motion find a wayTo see each other by reflection.
The waving sea can with each floodBathe some high promont that hath stoodFar from the main up in the river:O think not then but love can doAs much! for that’s an ocean too,Which flows not every day, but ever!
1608-1666
329.
BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon.What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?Thou’rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,And passing proud a little colour makes thee.If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane;For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves,The sentence of thy early death contain.Some clown’s coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower,If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn;And many Herods lie in wait each hourTo murder thee as soon as thou art born—Nay, force thy bud to blow—their tyrant breathAnticipating life, to hasten death!
BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon.What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?Thou’rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,And passing proud a little colour makes thee.If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane;For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves,The sentence of thy early death contain.Some clown’s coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower,If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn;And many Herods lie in wait each hourTo murder thee as soon as thou art born—Nay, force thy bud to blow—their tyrant breathAnticipating life, to hasten death!
BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon.What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?Thou’rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,And passing proud a little colour makes thee.If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane;For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves,The sentence of thy early death contain.Some clown’s coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower,If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn;And many Herods lie in wait each hourTo murder thee as soon as thou art born—Nay, force thy bud to blow—their tyrant breathAnticipating life, to hasten death!
1611-1643
330.
Who for his sake wished herself younger
THERE are two births; the one when lightFirst strikes the new awaken’d sense;The other when two souls unite,And we must count our life from thence:When you loved me and I loved youThen both of us were born anew.Love then to us new souls did giveAnd in those souls did plant new powers;Since when another life we live,The breath we breathe is his, not ours:Love makes those young whom age doth chill,And whom he finds young keeps young still.
THERE are two births; the one when lightFirst strikes the new awaken’d sense;The other when two souls unite,And we must count our life from thence:When you loved me and I loved youThen both of us were born anew.Love then to us new souls did giveAnd in those souls did plant new powers;Since when another life we live,The breath we breathe is his, not ours:Love makes those young whom age doth chill,And whom he finds young keeps young still.
THERE are two births; the one when lightFirst strikes the new awaken’d sense;The other when two souls unite,And we must count our life from thence:When you loved me and I loved youThen both of us were born anew.
Love then to us new souls did giveAnd in those souls did plant new powers;Since when another life we live,The breath we breathe is his, not ours:Love makes those young whom age doth chill,And whom he finds young keeps young still.
331.
STILL do the stars impart their lightTo those that travel in the night;Still time runs on, nor doth the handOr shadow on the dial stand;The streams still glide and constant are:Only thy mindUntrue I find,Which carelesslyNeglects to beLike stream or shadow, hand or star.Fool that I am! I do recallMy words, and swear thou’rt like them all,Thou seem’st like stars to nourish fire,But O how cold is thy desire!And like the hand upon the brassThou point’st at meIn mockery;If I come nighShade-like thou’lt fly,And as the stream with murmur pass.
STILL do the stars impart their lightTo those that travel in the night;Still time runs on, nor doth the handOr shadow on the dial stand;The streams still glide and constant are:Only thy mindUntrue I find,Which carelesslyNeglects to beLike stream or shadow, hand or star.Fool that I am! I do recallMy words, and swear thou’rt like them all,Thou seem’st like stars to nourish fire,But O how cold is thy desire!And like the hand upon the brassThou point’st at meIn mockery;If I come nighShade-like thou’lt fly,And as the stream with murmur pass.
STILL do the stars impart their lightTo those that travel in the night;Still time runs on, nor doth the handOr shadow on the dial stand;The streams still glide and constant are:Only thy mindUntrue I find,Which carelesslyNeglects to beLike stream or shadow, hand or star.
Fool that I am! I do recallMy words, and swear thou’rt like them all,Thou seem’st like stars to nourish fire,But O how cold is thy desire!And like the hand upon the brassThou point’st at meIn mockery;If I come nighShade-like thou’lt fly,And as the stream with murmur pass.
332.
HALLOW the threshold, crown the posts anew!The day shall have its due.Twist all our victories into one bright wreath,On which let honour breathe;Then throw it round the temples of our Queen!’Tis she that must preserve those glories green.When greater tempests than on sea beforeReceived her on the shore;When she was shot at ‘for the King’s own good’By legions hired to blood;How bravely did she do, how bravely bear!And show’d, though they durst rage, she durst not fear.Courage was cast about her like a dressOf solemn comeliness:A gathered mind and an untroubled faceDid give her dangers grace:Thus, arm’d with innocence, secure they moveWhose highest ‘treason’ is but highest love.
HALLOW the threshold, crown the posts anew!The day shall have its due.Twist all our victories into one bright wreath,On which let honour breathe;Then throw it round the temples of our Queen!’Tis she that must preserve those glories green.When greater tempests than on sea beforeReceived her on the shore;When she was shot at ‘for the King’s own good’By legions hired to blood;How bravely did she do, how bravely bear!And show’d, though they durst rage, she durst not fear.Courage was cast about her like a dressOf solemn comeliness:A gathered mind and an untroubled faceDid give her dangers grace:Thus, arm’d with innocence, secure they moveWhose highest ‘treason’ is but highest love.
HALLOW the threshold, crown the posts anew!The day shall have its due.Twist all our victories into one bright wreath,On which let honour breathe;Then throw it round the temples of our Queen!’Tis she that must preserve those glories green.
When greater tempests than on sea beforeReceived her on the shore;When she was shot at ‘for the King’s own good’By legions hired to blood;How bravely did she do, how bravely bear!And show’d, though they durst rage, she durst not fear.
Courage was cast about her like a dressOf solemn comeliness:A gathered mind and an untroubled faceDid give her dangers grace:Thus, arm’d with innocence, secure they moveWhose highest ‘treason’ is but highest love.
333.
SHE who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex,Whose lowest thought was above all our sex,Accounted nothing death but t’ be reprieved,And died as free from sickness as she lived.Others are dragg’d away, or must be driven,She only saw her time and stept to Heaven;Where seraphims view all her glories o’er,As one return’d that had been there before.For while she did this lower world adorn,Her body seem’d rather assumed than born;So rarified, advanced, so pure and whole,That body might have been another’s soul;And equally a miracle it wereThat she could die, or that she could live here.
SHE who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex,Whose lowest thought was above all our sex,Accounted nothing death but t’ be reprieved,And died as free from sickness as she lived.Others are dragg’d away, or must be driven,She only saw her time and stept to Heaven;Where seraphims view all her glories o’er,As one return’d that had been there before.For while she did this lower world adorn,Her body seem’d rather assumed than born;So rarified, advanced, so pure and whole,That body might have been another’s soul;And equally a miracle it wereThat she could die, or that she could live here.
SHE who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex,Whose lowest thought was above all our sex,Accounted nothing death but t’ be reprieved,And died as free from sickness as she lived.Others are dragg’d away, or must be driven,She only saw her time and stept to Heaven;Where seraphims view all her glories o’er,As one return’d that had been there before.For while she did this lower world adorn,Her body seem’d rather assumed than born;So rarified, advanced, so pure and whole,That body might have been another’s soul;And equally a miracle it wereThat she could die, or that she could live here.
1612-1650
334.
MY dear and only Love, I prayThat little world of theeBe govern’d by no other swayThan purest monarchy;For if confusion have a part(Which virtuous souls abhor),And hold a synod in thine heart,I’ll never love thee more.Like Alexander I will reign,And I will reign alone;My thoughts did evermore disdainA rival on my throne.He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,That dares not put it to the touch,To gain or lose it all.And in the empire of thine heart,Where I should solely be,If others do pretend a partOr dare to vie with me,Or ifCommitteesthou erect,And go on such a score,I’ll laugh and sing at thy neglect,And never love thee more.But if thou wilt prove faithful then,And constant of thy word,I’ll make thee glorious by my penAnd famous by my sword;I’ll serve thee in such noble waysWas never heard before;I’ll crown and deck thee all with bays,And love thee more and more.
MY dear and only Love, I prayThat little world of theeBe govern’d by no other swayThan purest monarchy;For if confusion have a part(Which virtuous souls abhor),And hold a synod in thine heart,I’ll never love thee more.Like Alexander I will reign,And I will reign alone;My thoughts did evermore disdainA rival on my throne.He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,That dares not put it to the touch,To gain or lose it all.And in the empire of thine heart,Where I should solely be,If others do pretend a partOr dare to vie with me,Or ifCommitteesthou erect,And go on such a score,I’ll laugh and sing at thy neglect,And never love thee more.But if thou wilt prove faithful then,And constant of thy word,I’ll make thee glorious by my penAnd famous by my sword;I’ll serve thee in such noble waysWas never heard before;I’ll crown and deck thee all with bays,And love thee more and more.
MY dear and only Love, I prayThat little world of theeBe govern’d by no other swayThan purest monarchy;For if confusion have a part(Which virtuous souls abhor),And hold a synod in thine heart,I’ll never love thee more.
Like Alexander I will reign,And I will reign alone;My thoughts did evermore disdainA rival on my throne.He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,That dares not put it to the touch,To gain or lose it all.
And in the empire of thine heart,Where I should solely be,If others do pretend a partOr dare to vie with me,Or ifCommitteesthou erect,And go on such a score,I’ll laugh and sing at thy neglect,And never love thee more.
But if thou wilt prove faithful then,And constant of thy word,I’ll make thee glorious by my penAnd famous by my sword;I’ll serve thee in such noble waysWas never heard before;I’ll crown and deck thee all with bays,And love thee more and more.
1612?-1685
335.
LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice,With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice!The changeable world to our joy is unjust,All treasure’s uncertain,Then down with your dust!In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence,For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.We’ll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly,Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy:Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea,Dame Venus, love’s lady,Was born of the sea;With her and with Bacchus we’ll tickle the sense,For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown’dAnd kills with each glance as she treads on the ground,Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendourThat none but the starsAre thought fit to attend her,Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense,Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears,Turn all our tranquill’ty to sighs and to tears?Let’s eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us,’Tis certain,Post mortemNulla voluptas.For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense,Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.
LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice,With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice!The changeable world to our joy is unjust,All treasure’s uncertain,Then down with your dust!In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence,For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.We’ll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly,Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy:Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea,Dame Venus, love’s lady,Was born of the sea;With her and with Bacchus we’ll tickle the sense,For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown’dAnd kills with each glance as she treads on the ground,Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendourThat none but the starsAre thought fit to attend her,Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense,Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears,Turn all our tranquill’ty to sighs and to tears?Let’s eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us,’Tis certain,Post mortemNulla voluptas.For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense,Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.
LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice,With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice!The changeable world to our joy is unjust,All treasure’s uncertain,Then down with your dust!In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence,For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.
We’ll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly,Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy:Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea,Dame Venus, love’s lady,Was born of the sea;With her and with Bacchus we’ll tickle the sense,For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.
Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown’dAnd kills with each glance as she treads on the ground,Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendourThat none but the starsAre thought fit to attend her,Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense,Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.
Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears,Turn all our tranquill’ty to sighs and to tears?Let’s eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us,’Tis certain,Post mortemNulla voluptas.For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense,Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.
1613?-1649
336.
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 thanTaffeta or tissue can,Or rampant feather, or rich fan.A Face, that’s bestBy its own beauty drest,And can alone commend the rest.A Face, made upOut of no other shopThan what Nature’s white hand sets ope.A Cheek, where youthAnd blood, with pen of truth,Write what the reader sweetly ru’th.A Cheek, where growsMore than a morning rose,Which to no box his being owes.Lips, where all dayA lover’s kiss may play,Yet carry nothing thence away.Looks, that oppressTheir richest tires, but dressAnd clothe their simplest nakedness.Eyes, that displaceThe neighbour diamond, and outfaceThat sunshine by their own sweet grace.Tresses, that wearJewels but to declareHow much themselves more precious are:Whose native rayCan tame the wanton dayOf gems that in their bright shades play.Each ruby there,Or pearl that dare appear,Be its own blush, be its own tear.A well-tamed Heart,For whose more noble smartLove may be long choosing a dart.Eyes, that bestowFull quivers on love’s bow,Yet pay less arrows than they owe.Smiles, that can warmThe blood, yet teach a charm,That chastity shall take no harm.Blushes, that binThe burnish of no sin,Nor flames of aught too hot within.Joys, that confessVirtue their mistress,And have no other head to dress.Fears, fond and slightAs the coy bride’s, when nightFirst does the longing lover right.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.Nights, sweet as they,Made short by lovers’ play,Yet long by th’ absence of the day.Life, that dares sendA challenge to his end,And when it comes, say, ‘Welcome, friend!’Sydneian showersOf sweet discourse, whose powersCan crown old Winter’s head with flowers.Soft silken hours,Open suns, shady bowers;’Bove all, nothing within that lowers.Whate’er delightCan make Day’s forehead bright,Or give down to the wings of Night.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, whose just baysMy future hopes can raise,A trophy to her present praise;Her, that dares beWhat these lines wish to see;I seek no further, it is She.’Tis She, and here,Lo! I unclothe and clearMy Wishes’ cloudy character.May she enjoy itWhose merit dare apply it,But modesty dares still deny it!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.
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 thanTaffeta or tissue can,Or rampant feather, or rich fan.A Face, that’s bestBy its own beauty drest,And can alone commend the rest.A Face, made upOut of no other shopThan what Nature’s white hand sets ope.A Cheek, where youthAnd blood, with pen of truth,Write what the reader sweetly ru’th.A Cheek, where growsMore than a morning rose,Which to no box his being owes.Lips, where all dayA lover’s kiss may play,Yet carry nothing thence away.Looks, that oppressTheir richest tires, but dressAnd clothe their simplest nakedness.Eyes, that displaceThe neighbour diamond, and outfaceThat sunshine by their own sweet grace.Tresses, that wearJewels but to declareHow much themselves more precious are:Whose native rayCan tame the wanton dayOf gems that in their bright shades play.Each ruby there,Or pearl that dare appear,Be its own blush, be its own tear.A well-tamed Heart,For whose more noble smartLove may be long choosing a dart.Eyes, that bestowFull quivers on love’s bow,Yet pay less arrows than they owe.Smiles, that can warmThe blood, yet teach a charm,That chastity shall take no harm.Blushes, that binThe burnish of no sin,Nor flames of aught too hot within.Joys, that confessVirtue their mistress,And have no other head to dress.Fears, fond and slightAs the coy bride’s, when nightFirst does the longing lover right.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.Nights, sweet as they,Made short by lovers’ play,Yet long by th’ absence of the day.Life, that dares sendA challenge to his end,And when it comes, say, ‘Welcome, friend!’Sydneian showersOf sweet discourse, whose powersCan crown old Winter’s head with flowers.Soft silken hours,Open suns, shady bowers;’Bove all, nothing within that lowers.Whate’er delightCan make Day’s forehead bright,Or give down to the wings of Night.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, whose just baysMy future hopes can raise,A trophy to her present praise;Her, that dares beWhat these lines wish to see;I seek no further, it is She.’Tis She, and here,Lo! I unclothe and clearMy Wishes’ cloudy character.May she enjoy itWhose merit dare apply it,But modesty dares still deny it!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.
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 thanTaffeta or tissue can,Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
A Face, that’s bestBy its own beauty drest,And can alone commend the rest.
A Face, made upOut of no other shopThan what Nature’s white hand sets ope.
A Cheek, where youthAnd blood, with pen of truth,Write what the reader sweetly ru’th.
A Cheek, where growsMore than a morning rose,Which to no box his being owes.
Lips, where all dayA lover’s kiss may play,Yet carry nothing thence away.
Looks, that oppressTheir richest tires, but dressAnd clothe their simplest nakedness.
Eyes, that displaceThe neighbour diamond, and outfaceThat sunshine by their own sweet grace.
Tresses, that wearJewels but to declareHow much themselves more precious are:
Whose native rayCan tame the wanton dayOf gems that in their bright shades play.
Each ruby there,Or pearl that dare appear,Be its own blush, be its own tear.
A well-tamed Heart,For whose more noble smartLove may be long choosing a dart.
Eyes, that bestowFull quivers on love’s bow,Yet pay less arrows than they owe.
Smiles, that can warmThe blood, yet teach a charm,That chastity shall take no harm.
Blushes, that binThe burnish of no sin,Nor flames of aught too hot within.
Joys, that confessVirtue their mistress,And have no other head to dress.
Fears, fond and slightAs the coy bride’s, when nightFirst does the longing lover right.
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.
Nights, sweet as they,Made short by lovers’ play,Yet long by th’ absence of the day.
Life, that dares sendA challenge to his end,And when it comes, say, ‘Welcome, friend!’
Sydneian showersOf sweet discourse, whose powersCan crown old Winter’s head with flowers.
Soft silken hours,Open suns, shady bowers;’Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Whate’er delightCan make Day’s forehead bright,Or give down to the wings of Night.
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, whose just baysMy future hopes can raise,A trophy to her present praise;
Her, that dares beWhat these lines wish to see;I seek no further, it is She.
’Tis She, and here,Lo! I unclothe and clearMy Wishes’ cloudy character.
May she enjoy itWhose merit dare apply it,But modesty dares still deny it!
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.
337.
HAIL, sister springs,Parents of silver-footed rills!Ever bubbling things,Thawing crystal, snowy hills!Still spending, never spent; I meanThy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.Heavens thy fair eyes be;Heavens of ever-falling stars;’Tis seed-time still with thee,And stars thou sow’st whose harvest daresPromise the earth to countershineWhatever makes Heaven’s forehead fine.Every morn from henceA brisk cherub something sipsWhose soft influenceAdds sweetness to his sweetest lips;Then to his music: and his songTastes of this breakfast all day long.When some new bright guestTakes up among the stars a room,And Heaven will make a feast,Angels with their bottles come,And draw from these full eyes of thineTheir Master’s water, their own wine.The dew no more will weepThe primrose’s pale cheek to deck;The dew no more will sleepNuzzled in the lily’s neck:Much rather would it tremble here,And leave them both to be thy tear.When sorrow would be seenIn her brightest majesty,—For she is a Queen—Then is she drest by none but thee:Then and only then she wearsHer richest pearls—I mean thy tears.Not in the evening’s eyes,When they red with weeping areFor the Sun that dies,Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.Nowhere but here did ever meetSweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.Does the night arise?Still thy tears do fall and fall.Does night lose her eyes?Still the fountain weeps for all.Let day and night do what they will,Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.NotSo long she livedWill thy tomb report of thee;ButSo long she grieved:Thus must we date thy memory.Others by days, by months, by years,Measure their ages, thou by tears.Say, ye bright brothers,The fugitive sons of those fair eyesYour fruitful mothers,What make you here? What hopes can ’ticeYou to be born? What cause can borrowYou from those nests of noble sorrow?Whither away so fastFor sure the sordid earthYour sweetness cannot taste,Nor does the dust deserve your birth.Sweet, whither haste you then? O say,Why you trip so fast away?We go not to seekThe darlings of Aurora’s bed,The rose’s modest cheek,Nor the violet’s humble head.No such thing: we go to meetA worthier object—our Lord’s feet.
HAIL, sister springs,Parents of silver-footed rills!Ever bubbling things,Thawing crystal, snowy hills!Still spending, never spent; I meanThy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.Heavens thy fair eyes be;Heavens of ever-falling stars;’Tis seed-time still with thee,And stars thou sow’st whose harvest daresPromise the earth to countershineWhatever makes Heaven’s forehead fine.Every morn from henceA brisk cherub something sipsWhose soft influenceAdds sweetness to his sweetest lips;Then to his music: and his songTastes of this breakfast all day long.When some new bright guestTakes up among the stars a room,And Heaven will make a feast,Angels with their bottles come,And draw from these full eyes of thineTheir Master’s water, their own wine.The dew no more will weepThe primrose’s pale cheek to deck;The dew no more will sleepNuzzled in the lily’s neck:Much rather would it tremble here,And leave them both to be thy tear.When sorrow would be seenIn her brightest majesty,—For she is a Queen—Then is she drest by none but thee:Then and only then she wearsHer richest pearls—I mean thy tears.Not in the evening’s eyes,When they red with weeping areFor the Sun that dies,Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.Nowhere but here did ever meetSweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.Does the night arise?Still thy tears do fall and fall.Does night lose her eyes?Still the fountain weeps for all.Let day and night do what they will,Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.NotSo long she livedWill thy tomb report of thee;ButSo long she grieved:Thus must we date thy memory.Others by days, by months, by years,Measure their ages, thou by tears.Say, ye bright brothers,The fugitive sons of those fair eyesYour fruitful mothers,What make you here? What hopes can ’ticeYou to be born? What cause can borrowYou from those nests of noble sorrow?Whither away so fastFor sure the sordid earthYour sweetness cannot taste,Nor does the dust deserve your birth.Sweet, whither haste you then? O say,Why you trip so fast away?We go not to seekThe darlings of Aurora’s bed,The rose’s modest cheek,Nor the violet’s humble head.No such thing: we go to meetA worthier object—our Lord’s feet.
HAIL, sister springs,Parents of silver-footed rills!Ever bubbling things,Thawing crystal, snowy hills!Still spending, never spent; I meanThy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.
Heavens thy fair eyes be;Heavens of ever-falling stars;’Tis seed-time still with thee,And stars thou sow’st whose harvest daresPromise the earth to countershineWhatever makes Heaven’s forehead fine.
Every morn from henceA brisk cherub something sipsWhose soft influenceAdds sweetness to his sweetest lips;Then to his music: and his songTastes of this breakfast all day long.
When some new bright guestTakes up among the stars a room,And Heaven will make a feast,Angels with their bottles come,And draw from these full eyes of thineTheir Master’s water, their own wine.
The dew no more will weepThe primrose’s pale cheek to deck;The dew no more will sleepNuzzled in the lily’s neck:Much rather would it tremble here,And leave them both to be thy tear.
When sorrow would be seenIn her brightest majesty,—For she is a Queen—Then is she drest by none but thee:Then and only then she wearsHer richest pearls—I mean thy tears.
Not in the evening’s eyes,When they red with weeping areFor the Sun that dies,Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.Nowhere but here did ever meetSweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.
Does the night arise?Still thy tears do fall and fall.Does night lose her eyes?Still the fountain weeps for all.Let day and night do what they will,Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.
NotSo long she livedWill thy tomb report of thee;ButSo long she grieved:Thus must we date thy memory.Others by days, by months, by years,Measure their ages, thou by tears.
Say, ye bright brothers,The fugitive sons of those fair eyesYour fruitful mothers,What make you here? What hopes can ’ticeYou to be born? What cause can borrowYou from those nests of noble sorrow?
Whither away so fastFor sure the sordid earthYour sweetness cannot taste,Nor does the dust deserve your birth.Sweet, whither haste you then? O say,Why you trip so fast away?
We go not to seekThe darlings of Aurora’s bed,The rose’s modest cheek,Nor the violet’s humble head.No such thing: we go to meetA worthier object—our Lord’s feet.
338.
LOVE, thou art absolute, sole LordOf life and death. To prove the word,We’ll now appeal to none of allThose thy old soldiers, great and tall,Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach downWith strong arms their triumphant crown:Such as could with lusty breathSpeak loud, unto the face of death,Their great Lord’s glorious name; to noneOf those whose spacious bosoms spread a throneFor love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat:We’ll see Him take a private seat,And make His mansion in the mildAnd milky soul of a soft child.Scarce has she learnt to lisp a nameOf martyr, yet she thinks it shameLife should so long play with that breathWhich spent can buy so brave a death.She never undertook to knowWhat death with love should have to do.Nor has she e’er yet understoodWhy, to show love, she should shed blood;Yet, though she cannot tell you why,She can love, and she can die.Scarce has she blood enough to makeA guilty sword blush for her sake;Yet has a heart dares hope to proveHow much less strong is death than love....Since ’tis not to be had at home,She’ll travel for a martyrdom.No home for her, confesses she,But where she may a martyr be.She’ll to the Moors, and trade with themFor this unvalued diadem;She offers them her dearest breath,With Christ’s name in ’t, in change for death:She’ll bargain with them, and will giveThem God, and teach them how to liveIn Him; or, if they this deny,For Him she’ll teach them how to die.So shall she leave amongst them sownHer Lord’s blood, or at least her own.Farewell then, all the world, adieu!Teresa is no more for you.Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys,Never till now esteemèd toys!Farewell whatever dear may be—Mother’s arms, or father’s knee!Farewell house, and farewell home!She’s for the Moors and Martyrdom.Sweet, not so fast; lo! thy fair spouse,Whom thou seek’st with so swift vows,Calls thee back, and bids thee comeT’ embrace a milder martyrdom....O how oft shalt thou complainOf a sweet and subtle pain!Of intolerable joys!Of a death, in which who diesLoves his death, and dies again,And would for ever so be slain;And lives and dies, and knows not whyTo live, but that he still may die!How kindly will thy gentle heartKiss the sweetly-killing dart!And close in his embraces keepThose delicious wounds, that weepBalsam, to heal themselves with thus,When these thy deaths, so numerous,Shall all at once die into one,And melt thy soul’s sweet mansion;Like a soft lump of incense, hastedBy too hot a fire, and wastedInto perfuming clouds, so fastShalt thou exhale to heaven at lastIn a resolving sigh, and then,—O what? Ask not the tongues of men.Angels cannot tell; suffice,Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys,And hold them fast for ever there.So soon as thou shalt first appear,The moon of maiden stars, thy whiteMistress, attended by such brightSouls as thy shining self, shall come,And in her first ranks make thee room;Where, ’mongst her snowy family,Immortal welcomes wait for thee.O what delight, when she shall standAnd teach thy lips heaven, with her hand,On which thou now may’st to thy wishesHeap up thy consecrated kisses!What joy shall seize thy soul, when she,Bending her blessèd eyes on thee,Those second smiles of heaven, shall dartHer mild rays through thy melting heart!Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee.Glad at their own home now to meet thee.All thy good works which went before,And waited for thee at the door,Shall own thee there; and all in oneWeave a constellationOf crowns, with which the King, thy spouse,Shall build up thy triumphant brows.All thy old woes shall now smile on thee,And thy pains sit bright upon thee:All thy sorrows here shall shine,And thy sufferings be divine.Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems,And wrongs repent to diadems.Even thy deaths shall live, and newDress the soul which late they slew.Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scarsAs keep account of the Lamb’s wars.Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writLove’s noble history, with witTaught thee by none but Him, while hereThey feed our souls, shall clothe thine there.Each heavenly word by whose hid flameOur hard hearts shall strike fire, the sameShall flourish on thy brows, and beBoth fire to us and flame to thee;Whose light shall live bright in thy faceBy glory, in our hearts by grace.Thou shalt look round about, and seeThousands of crown’d souls throng to beThemselves thy crown, sons of thy vows,The virgin-births with which thy spouseMade fruitful thy fair soul; go now,And with them all about thee bowTo Him; put on, He’ll say, put on,My rosy Love, that thy rich zone,Sparkling with the sacred flamesOf thousand souls, whose happy namesHeaven keeps upon thy score: thy brightLife brought them first to kiss the lightThat kindled them to stars; and soThou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go.And, wheresoever He sets His whiteSteps, walk with Him those ways of light,Which who in death would live to see,Must learn in life to die like thee.
LOVE, thou art absolute, sole LordOf life and death. To prove the word,We’ll now appeal to none of allThose thy old soldiers, great and tall,Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach downWith strong arms their triumphant crown:Such as could with lusty breathSpeak loud, unto the face of death,Their great Lord’s glorious name; to noneOf those whose spacious bosoms spread a throneFor love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat:We’ll see Him take a private seat,And make His mansion in the mildAnd milky soul of a soft child.Scarce has she learnt to lisp a nameOf martyr, yet she thinks it shameLife should so long play with that breathWhich spent can buy so brave a death.She never undertook to knowWhat death with love should have to do.Nor has she e’er yet understoodWhy, to show love, she should shed blood;Yet, though she cannot tell you why,She can love, and she can die.Scarce has she blood enough to makeA guilty sword blush for her sake;Yet has a heart dares hope to proveHow much less strong is death than love....Since ’tis not to be had at home,She’ll travel for a martyrdom.No home for her, confesses she,But where she may a martyr be.She’ll to the Moors, and trade with themFor this unvalued diadem;She offers them her dearest breath,With Christ’s name in ’t, in change for death:She’ll bargain with them, and will giveThem God, and teach them how to liveIn Him; or, if they this deny,For Him she’ll teach them how to die.So shall she leave amongst them sownHer Lord’s blood, or at least her own.Farewell then, all the world, adieu!Teresa is no more for you.Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys,Never till now esteemèd toys!Farewell whatever dear may be—Mother’s arms, or father’s knee!Farewell house, and farewell home!She’s for the Moors and Martyrdom.Sweet, not so fast; lo! thy fair spouse,Whom thou seek’st with so swift vows,Calls thee back, and bids thee comeT’ embrace a milder martyrdom....O how oft shalt thou complainOf a sweet and subtle pain!Of intolerable joys!Of a death, in which who diesLoves his death, and dies again,And would for ever so be slain;And lives and dies, and knows not whyTo live, but that he still may die!How kindly will thy gentle heartKiss the sweetly-killing dart!And close in his embraces keepThose delicious wounds, that weepBalsam, to heal themselves with thus,When these thy deaths, so numerous,Shall all at once die into one,And melt thy soul’s sweet mansion;Like a soft lump of incense, hastedBy too hot a fire, and wastedInto perfuming clouds, so fastShalt thou exhale to heaven at lastIn a resolving sigh, and then,—O what? Ask not the tongues of men.Angels cannot tell; suffice,Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys,And hold them fast for ever there.So soon as thou shalt first appear,The moon of maiden stars, thy whiteMistress, attended by such brightSouls as thy shining self, shall come,And in her first ranks make thee room;Where, ’mongst her snowy family,Immortal welcomes wait for thee.O what delight, when she shall standAnd teach thy lips heaven, with her hand,On which thou now may’st to thy wishesHeap up thy consecrated kisses!What joy shall seize thy soul, when she,Bending her blessèd eyes on thee,Those second smiles of heaven, shall dartHer mild rays through thy melting heart!Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee.Glad at their own home now to meet thee.All thy good works which went before,And waited for thee at the door,Shall own thee there; and all in oneWeave a constellationOf crowns, with which the King, thy spouse,Shall build up thy triumphant brows.All thy old woes shall now smile on thee,And thy pains sit bright upon thee:All thy sorrows here shall shine,And thy sufferings be divine.Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems,And wrongs repent to diadems.Even thy deaths shall live, and newDress the soul which late they slew.Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scarsAs keep account of the Lamb’s wars.Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writLove’s noble history, with witTaught thee by none but Him, while hereThey feed our souls, shall clothe thine there.Each heavenly word by whose hid flameOur hard hearts shall strike fire, the sameShall flourish on thy brows, and beBoth fire to us and flame to thee;Whose light shall live bright in thy faceBy glory, in our hearts by grace.Thou shalt look round about, and seeThousands of crown’d souls throng to beThemselves thy crown, sons of thy vows,The virgin-births with which thy spouseMade fruitful thy fair soul; go now,And with them all about thee bowTo Him; put on, He’ll say, put on,My rosy Love, that thy rich zone,Sparkling with the sacred flamesOf thousand souls, whose happy namesHeaven keeps upon thy score: thy brightLife brought them first to kiss the lightThat kindled them to stars; and soThou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go.And, wheresoever He sets His whiteSteps, walk with Him those ways of light,Which who in death would live to see,Must learn in life to die like thee.
LOVE, thou art absolute, sole LordOf life and death. To prove the word,We’ll now appeal to none of allThose thy old soldiers, great and tall,Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach downWith strong arms their triumphant crown:Such as could with lusty breathSpeak loud, unto the face of death,Their great Lord’s glorious name; to noneOf those whose spacious bosoms spread a throneFor love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat:We’ll see Him take a private seat,And make His mansion in the mildAnd milky soul of a soft child.
Scarce has she learnt to lisp a nameOf martyr, yet she thinks it shameLife should so long play with that breathWhich spent can buy so brave a death.She never undertook to knowWhat death with love should have to do.Nor has she e’er yet understoodWhy, to show love, she should shed blood;Yet, though she cannot tell you why,She can love, and she can die.Scarce has she blood enough to makeA guilty sword blush for her sake;Yet has a heart dares hope to proveHow much less strong is death than love....
Since ’tis not to be had at home,She’ll travel for a martyrdom.No home for her, confesses she,But where she may a martyr be.She’ll to the Moors, and trade with themFor this unvalued diadem;She offers them her dearest breath,With Christ’s name in ’t, in change for death:She’ll bargain with them, and will giveThem God, and teach them how to liveIn Him; or, if they this deny,For Him she’ll teach them how to die.So shall she leave amongst them sownHer Lord’s blood, or at least her own.
Farewell then, all the world, adieu!Teresa is no more for you.Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys,Never till now esteemèd toys!
Farewell whatever dear may be—Mother’s arms, or father’s knee!Farewell house, and farewell home!She’s for the Moors and Martyrdom.
Sweet, not so fast; lo! thy fair spouse,Whom thou seek’st with so swift vows,Calls thee back, and bids thee comeT’ embrace a milder martyrdom....
O how oft shalt thou complainOf a sweet and subtle pain!Of intolerable joys!Of a death, in which who diesLoves his death, and dies again,And would for ever so be slain;And lives and dies, and knows not whyTo live, but that he still may die!How kindly will thy gentle heartKiss the sweetly-killing dart!And close in his embraces keepThose delicious wounds, that weepBalsam, to heal themselves with thus,When these thy deaths, so numerous,Shall all at once die into one,And melt thy soul’s sweet mansion;Like a soft lump of incense, hastedBy too hot a fire, and wastedInto perfuming clouds, so fastShalt thou exhale to heaven at lastIn a resolving sigh, and then,—O what? Ask not the tongues of men.
Angels cannot tell; suffice,Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys,And hold them fast for ever there.So soon as thou shalt first appear,The moon of maiden stars, thy whiteMistress, attended by such brightSouls as thy shining self, shall come,And in her first ranks make thee room;Where, ’mongst her snowy family,Immortal welcomes wait for thee.O what delight, when she shall standAnd teach thy lips heaven, with her hand,On which thou now may’st to thy wishesHeap up thy consecrated kisses!What joy shall seize thy soul, when she,Bending her blessèd eyes on thee,Those second smiles of heaven, shall dartHer mild rays through thy melting heart!
Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee.Glad at their own home now to meet thee.All thy good works which went before,And waited for thee at the door,Shall own thee there; and all in oneWeave a constellationOf crowns, with which the King, thy spouse,Shall build up thy triumphant brows.All thy old woes shall now smile on thee,And thy pains sit bright upon thee:All thy sorrows here shall shine,And thy sufferings be divine.Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems,And wrongs repent to diadems.Even thy deaths shall live, and newDress the soul which late they slew.Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scarsAs keep account of the Lamb’s wars.
Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writLove’s noble history, with witTaught thee by none but Him, while hereThey feed our souls, shall clothe thine there.Each heavenly word by whose hid flameOur hard hearts shall strike fire, the sameShall flourish on thy brows, and beBoth fire to us and flame to thee;Whose light shall live bright in thy faceBy glory, in our hearts by grace.Thou shalt look round about, and seeThousands of crown’d souls throng to beThemselves thy crown, sons of thy vows,The virgin-births with which thy spouseMade fruitful thy fair soul; go now,And with them all about thee bowTo Him; put on, He’ll say, put on,My rosy Love, that thy rich zone,Sparkling with the sacred flamesOf thousand souls, whose happy namesHeaven keeps upon thy score: thy brightLife brought them first to kiss the lightThat kindled them to stars; and soThou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go.And, wheresoever He sets His whiteSteps, walk with Him those ways of light,Which who in death would live to see,Must learn in life to die like thee.
339.