Their wondrous pattern too you take:
Their old and empty pitchers first they brake, 130
And with their hands then lifted up the light.
Iö! sound too the trumpets here!
Already your victorious lights appear;
New scenes of heaven already we espy,
And crowds of golden worlds on high, 135
Which from the spacious plains of earth and sea
Could never yet discovered be
By sailor’s or Chaldean’s watchful eye.
Nature’s great works no distance can obscure,
No smallness her near objects can secure: 140
You’ have taught the curious sight to press
Into the privatest recess
Of her imperceptible littleness:
You’ have learned to read her smallest hand,
And well begun her deepest sense to understand. 145
Mischief and true dishonour fall on those
Who would to laughter or to scorn expose
So virtuous and so noble a design,
So human for its use, for knowledge so divine.
The things which these proud men despise, and call 150
Impertinent, and vain, and small,
Those smallest things of nature let me know,
Rather than all their greatest actions do.
Whoever would deposèd truth advance
Into the throne usurped from it, 155
Must feel at first the blows of ignorance,
And the sharp points of envious wit.
So when, by various turns of the celestial dance,
In many thousand years
A star, so long unknown, appears, 160
Though heaven itself more beauteous by it grow,
It troubles and alarms the world below,
Does to the wise a star, to fools a meteor, show.
With courage and success you the bold work begin;
Your cradle has not idle been; 165
None e’er but Hercules and you would be
At five years’ age worthy a history:
And ne’er did fortune better yet
The historian to the story fit.
As you from all old errors free 170
And purge the body of Philosophy,
So from all modern follies he
Has vindicated eloquence and wit:
His candid style like a clean stream does slide,
And his bright fancy all the way 175
Does, like the sunshine, in it play;
It does like Thames, the best of rivers, glide,
Where the god does not rudely overturn,
But gently pour, the crystal urn,
And with judicious hand does the whole current guide.
’T has all the beauties Nature can impart, 181
And all the comely dress, without the paint, of Art.
_Abraham Cowley._
CVII
_THE DREAM._
No victor that in battle spent,
When he at night asleep doth lie
Rich in a conquered monarch’s tent,
E’er had so vain a dream as I.
Methought I saw the earliest shade 5
And sweetest that the spring can spread,
Of jasmin, briar, and woodbine made;
And there I saw Clorinda dead.
Though dead she lay, yet could I see
No cypress nor no mourning yew; 10
Nor yet the injured lover’s tree;
No willow near her coffin grew.
But all showed unconcerned to be,
As if just Nature there did strive
To be as pitiless as she 15
Was to her lover when alive.
And now, methought, I lost all care,
In losing her; and was as free
As birds let loose into the air,
Or rivers that are got to sea. 20
Methought Love’s monarchy was gone;
And whilst elective numbers sway,
Our choice and change makes power our own,
And those court us whom we obey.
Yet soon, now from my Princess free, 25
I rather frantic grew than glad,
For subjects, getting liberty,
Get but a license to be mad.
Birds that are long in cages awed,
If they get out, awhile will roam; 30
But straight want skill to live abroad,
Then pine and hover near their home.
And to the ocean rivers run
From being pent in banks of flowers;
Not knowing that the exhaling sun 35
Will send them back in weeping showers.
Soon thus for pride of liberty
I low desires of bondage found;
And vanity of being free
Bred the discretion to be bound. 40
But as dull subjects see too late
Their safety in monarchal reign,
Finding their freedom in a State
Is but proud strutting in a chain;
Then growing wiser, when undone, 45
In winter nights sad stories sing
In praise of monarchs long since gone,
To whom their bells they yearly ring;
So now I mourned that she was dead,
Whose single power did govern me; 50
And quickly was by reason led
To find the harm of liberty.
Even so the lovers of this land
(Love’s empire in Clorinda gone)
Thought they were quit from Love’s command, 55
And beauty’s world was all their own.
But lovers, who are Nature’s best
Old subjects, never long revolt;
They soon in passion’s war contest,
Yet in their march soon make a halt. 60
And those, when by my mandates brought
Near dead Clorinda, ceased to boast
Of freedom found, and wept for thought
Of their delightful bondage lost.
And now the day to night was turned, 65
Or sadly night’s close mourning wore;
All maids for one another mourned,
That lovers now could love no more.
All lovers quickly did perceive
They had on earth no more to do 70
Than civilly to take their leave,
As worthies that to dying go.
And now all quires her dirges sing,
In shades of cypress and of yew;
The bells of every temple ring, 75
Where maids their withered garlands strew.
To such extremes did sorrow rise,
That it transcended speech and form,
And was so lost to ears and eyes
As seamen sinking in a storm. 80
My soul, in sleep’s soft fetters bound,
Did now for vital freedom strive;
And straight, by horror waked, I found
The fair Clorinda still alive.
Yet she’s to me but such a light, 85
As are the stars to those who know
We can at most but guess their height,
And hope they mind us here below.
_Sir William Davenant._
CVIII
_THE DIRGE._
What is the existence of man’s life
But open war, or slumbered strife?
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements;
And never feels a perfect peace, 5
Till death’s cold hand signs his release.
It is a storm, where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood;
And each loud passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind, 10
Which bears his bark with many a wave,
Till he casts anchor in the grave.
It is a flower, which buds and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, 15
Like fits of waking before sleep:
Then shrinks into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enrolled.
It is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moralized in age and youth: 20
Where all the comforts he can share
As wandering as his fancies are;
Till in the mist of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.
It is a dial, which points out 25
The sunset, as it moves about:
And shadows out in lines of night
The subtle stages of time’s flight,
Till all-obscuring earth hath laid
The body in perpetual shade. 30
It is a weary interlude,
Which doth short joys, long woes include;
The world the stage, the prologue tears,
The acts vain hope, and varied fears:
The scene shuts up with loss of breath, 35
And leaves no epilogue but death.
_Henry King._
CIX
_PARAPHRASE FROM SENECA._
Let him that will, ascend the tottering seat
Of courtly grandeur, and become as great
As are his mounting wishes: as for me,
Let sweet repose and rest my portion be;
Give me some mean obscure recess, a sphere 5
Out of the road of business, or the fear
Of falling lower; where I sweetly may
Myself and dear retirement still enjoy:
Let not my life or name be known unto
The grandees of the time, tost to and fro 10
By censures or applause; but let my age
Slide gently by; not overthwart the stage
Of public action; unheard, unseen,
And unconcerned, as if I ne’er had been.
And thus, while I shall pass my silent days 15
In shady privacy, free from the noise
And bustles of the mad world, then shall I
A good old innocent plebeian die.
Death is a mere surprise, a very snare
To him, that makes it his life’s greatest care 20
To be a public pageant; known to all,
But unacquainted with himself, doth fall.
_Sir Matthew Hale._
CX
_VANISHED BLESSINGS._
The voice which I did more esteem
Than music in her sweetest key,
Those eyes which unto me did seem
More comfortable than the day--
Those now by me, as they have been, 5
Shall never more be heard or seen;
But what I once enjoyed in them
Shall seem hereafter as a dream.
All earthly comforts vanish thus;
So little hold of them have we, 10
That we from them, or they from us,
May in a moment ravished be.
Yet we are neither just nor wise,
If present mercies we despise;
Or mind not how there may be made 15
A thankful use of what we had.
_George Wither._
CXI
_EPITAPH._
In this marble casket lies
A matchless jewel of rich price;
Whom Nature in the world’s disdain
But showed, and put it up again.
_Anon._
CXII
_THE WORLD’S FALLACIES._
False world, thou liest: thou canst not lend
The least delight:
Thy favours cannot gain a friend,
They are so slight:
Thy morning pleasures make an end 5
To please at night:
Poor are the wants that thou suppliest:
And yet thou vaunt’st, and yet thou viest
With heaven; fond earth, thou boast’st; false world, thou liest.
Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales 10
Of endless treasure:
Thy bounty offers easy sales
Of lasting pleasure:
Thou ask’st the conscience what she ails,
And swear’st to ease her; 15
There’s none can want where thou suppliest,
There’s none can give where thou deniest;
Alas! fond world, thou boast’st; false world, thou liest.
What well-advisèd ear regards
What earth can say? 20
Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay:
Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play:
Thy game at weakest, still thou viest; 25
If seen, and then revied, deniest:
Thou art not what thou seem’st; false world, thou liest.
Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint
Of new-coined treasure;
A paradise, that has no stint, 30
No change, no measure;
A painted cask, but nothing in’t,
Nor wealth, nor pleasure.
Vain earth! that falsely thus compliest
With man; vain man, that thou reliest 35
On earth: vain man, thou doat’st; vain earth, thou liest.
What mean dull souls in this high measure
To haberdash
In earth’s base wares, whose greatest treasure
Is dross and trash; 40
The height of whose enchanting pleasure
Is but a flash?
Are these the goods that thou suppliest
Us mortals with? Are these the highest? 44
Can these bring cordial peace? False world, thou liest.
_Francis Quarles._
CXIII
_TO THE MEMORY OF MR. OLDHAM._
Farewell, too little and too lately known,
Whom I began to think, and call my own;
For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
Cast in the same poetic mould with mine.
One common note on either lyre did strike, 5
And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike.
To the same goal did both our studies drive;
The last set out, the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
Whilst his young friend performed, and won the race. 10
Oh early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing age have added more?
It might (what nature never gives the young)
Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue.
But satire needs not those, and wit will shine 15
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
A noble error, and but seldom made,
When poets are by too much force betrayed;
Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime,
Still showed a quickness; and maturing time 20
But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of rhyme.
Once more, hail, and farewell; farewell, thou young,
But, ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue!
Thy brows with ivy and with laurels bound;
But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around. 25
_John Dryden._
CXIV
_AN EPITAPH ON THE EXCELLENT COUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON._
The chief perfection of both sexes joined,
With neither’s vice nor vanity combined;
Of this our age the wonder, love, and care,
The example of the following, and despair;
Such beauty, that from all hearts love must flow, 5
Such majesty, that none durst tell her so;
A wisdom of so large and potent sway,
Rome’s Senate might have wished, her Conclave may:
Which did to earthly thoughts so seldom bow,
Alive she scarce was less in heaven than now; 10
So void of the least pride, to her alone
These radiant excellencies seemed unknown;
Such once there was; but let thy grief appear,
Reader, there is not: Huntingdon lies here.
_Lord Falkland._
CXV
_A PAGAN EPITAPH._
In this marble buried lies
Beauty may enrich the skies,
And add light to Phœbus’ eyes;
Sweeter than Aurora’s air,
When she paints the lilies fair, 5
And gilds cowslips with her hair;
Chaster than the virgin spring,
Ere her blossoms she doth bring,
Or cause Philomel to sing.
If such goodness live ’mongst men, 10
Tell me it: I [shall] know then
She is come from heaven again.
_Anon._
CXVI
_ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN
FRIEND._
When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never,
Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load
Of death, called life; which us from life doth sever.
Thy works and alms, and all thy good endeavour, 5
Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod,
Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever.
Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best,
Thy handmaids, clad them o’er with purple beams 10
And azure wings, that up they flew so drest,
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes
Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest,
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.
_John Milton._
CXVII
_AN EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND WIFE, WHO DIED AND WERE BURIED TOGETHER._
To these, whom death again did wed,
This grave’s their second marriage-bed;
For though the hand of Fate could force
’Twixt soul and body a divorce,
It could not sunder man and wife, 5
’Cause they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep;
Peace, the lovers are asleep:
They (sweet turtles) folded lie
In the last knot that love could tie. 10
And though they lie as they were dead,
Their pillow stone, their sheets of lead;
(Pillow hard, and sheets not warm)
Love made the bed, they’ll take no harm.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on, 15
Till this stormy night be gone,
And the eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn,
And they wake into that light,
Whose day shall never die in night. 20
_Richard Crashaw._
CXVIII
_EPITAPH._
Here lies a piece of Christ; a star in dust;
A vein of gold; a china dish that must
Be used in heaven, when God shall feast the just.
_Robert Wild._
CXIX
_EPITAPH ON COMPANIONS LEFT BEHIND IN THE NORTHERN SEAS._
I were unkind unless that I did shed,
Before I part, some tears upon our dead:
And when my eyes be dry, I will not cease
In heart to pray their bones may rest in peace:
Their better parts (good souls) I know were given 5
With an intent they should return to heaven:
Their lives they spent to the last drop of blood,
Seeking God’s glory and their country’s good.
And as a valiant soldier rather dies,
Than yields his courage to his enemies; 10
And stops their way with his hewed flesh, when death
Hath quite deprived him of his strength and breath;
So have they spent themselves; and here they lie,
A famous mark of our discovery.
We that survive, perchance may end our days 15
In some employment meriting no praise;
And in a dung-hill rot, when no man names
The memory of us, but to our shames.
They have outlived this fear, and their brave ends
Will ever be an honour to their friends. 20
Why drop you so, mine eyes? Nay rather pour
My sad departure in a solemn shower.
The winter’s cold, that lately froze our blood,
Now were it so extreme, might do this good,
As make these tears bright pearls, which I would lay 25
Tombed safely with you till doom’s fatal day;
That in this solitary place, where none
Will ever come to breathe a sigh or groan,
Some remnant might be extant of the true
And faithful love I ever tendered you. 30
Oh! rest in peace, dear friends, and, let it be
No pride to say, the sometime part of me.
What pain and anguish doth afflict the head,
The heart, and stomach, when the limbs are dead;
So grieved, I kiss your graves, and vow to die, 35
A foster-father to your memory.
_Thomas James._
CXX
_EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS._
The Lady Mary Villiers lies
Under this stone: with weeping eyes
The parents that first gave her birth,
And their sad friends, laid her in earth.
If any of them, reader, were 5
Known unto thee, shed a tear:
Or if thyself possess a gem,
As dear to thee as this to them,
Though a stranger to this place,
Bewail in their’s thine own hard case; 10
For thou perhaps at thy return
Mayst find thy darling in an urn.
_Thomas Carew._
CXXI
_EXEQUY ON HIS WIFE._
Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint,
Instead of dirges this complaint;
And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse,
Receive a strew of weeping verse
From thy grieved friend, whom thou might’st see 5
Quite melted into tears for thee.
Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,
My task hath been to meditate
On thee, on thee: thou art the book,
The library whereon I look, 10
Though almost blind. For thee, loved clay,
I languish out, not live, the day,
Using no other exercise
But what I practise with mine eyes:
By which wet glasses I find out 15
How lazily time creeps about
To one that mourns; this, only this,
My exercise and business is:
So I compute the weary hours
With sighs dissolvèd into showers. 20
Nor wonder if my time go thus
Backward and most preposterous;
Thou hast benighted me; thy set
This eve of blackness did beget,
Who wast my day (though overcast 25
Before thou hadst thy noontide past),
And I remember must in tears,
Thou scarce hadst seen so many years
As day tells hours. By thy clear sun
My love and fortune first did run; 30
But thou wilt never more appear
Folded within my hemisphere,
Since both thy light and motion,
Like a fled star, is fall’n and gone,
And ’twixt me and my soul’s dear wish 35
The earth now interposèd is,
Which such a strange eclipse doth make
As ne’er was read in almanack.
I could allow thee for a time
To darken me and my sad clime; 40
Were it a month, a year, or ten,
I would thy exile live till then;
And all that space my mirth adjourn.
So thou wouldst promise to return;
And putting off thy ashy shroud 45
At length disperse this sorrow’s cloud.
But woe is me! the longest date
Too narrow is to calculate
These empty hopes: never shall I
Be so much blest as to descry 50
A glimpse of thee, till that day come
Which shall the earth to cinders doom,
And a fierce fever must calcine
The body of this world like thine,
My little world! That fit of fire 55
Once off, our bodies shall aspire
To our souls’ bliss: then we shall rise,
And view ourselves with clearer eyes
In that calm region, where no night
Can hide us from each other’s sight. 60
Meantime, thou hast her, earth: much good
May my harm do thee. Since it stood
With Heaven’s will I might not call
Her longer mine, I give thee all
My short-lived right and interest 65
In her, whom living I loved best:
With a most free and bounteous grief,
I give thee what I could not keep.
Be kind to her, and prithee look
Thou write into thy Doomsday book 70
Each parcel of this rarity,
Which in thy casket shrined doth lie:
See that thou make thy reckoning straight,
And yield her back again by weight;
For thou must audit on thy trust 75
Each grain and atom of this dust,
As thou wilt answer him that lent,
Not gave, thee, my dear monument.
So close the ground, and ’bout her shade
Black curtains draw; my bride is laid. 80
Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed
Never to be disquieted!
My last good night! Thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall overtake:
Till age, or grief, or sickness must 85
Marry my body to that dust
It so much loves; and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there; I will not fail
To meet thee in that hallow vale. 90
And think not much of my delay;
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree, 95
And every hour a step towards thee.
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west
Of life, almost by eight hours’ sail,
Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale. 100
Thus from the sun my bottom steers,
And my day’s compass downward bears:
Nor labour I to stem the tide,
Through which to thee I swiftly glide.
’Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, 105
Thou, like the van, first took’st the field,
And gotten hast the victory
In thus adventuring to die
Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave. 110
But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And slow howe’er my marches be,
I shall at last sit down by thee.
The thought of this bids me go on, 115
And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive
The crime) I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet and never part. 120
_Henry King._
CXXII
_EPITAPH._
Our life is only death! time that ensu’th
Is but the death of time that went before;
Youth is the death of childhood, age of youth;
Die once to God, and then thou diest no more.
_Anon._
CXXIII
_SONNET._
As due by many titles, I resign
Myself to Thee, O God. First I was made
By Thee and for Thee; and, when I was decayed,
Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine:
I am thy son, made with Thyself to shine; 5
Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid,
Thy sheep, thine image; and, till I betrayed
Myself, a temple of thy Spirit divine.
Why doth the devil then usurp on me?
Why doth he steal, nay, ravish that’s thy right? 10
Except Thou rise, and for thine own work fight,
Oh! I shall soon despair, when I shall see
That Thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,
And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.
_John Donne._
CXXIV
_SONNET._
Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those, whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, 5
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow:
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; 10
And poppy’ or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally;
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
_John Donne._
CXXV
_LYCIDAS._