Flow these rich numbers you shed here?
For sure such incantations come
From thence, which strike your readers dumb.
A strain, whose measures gently meet
Like virgin-lovers or Time's feet;
Where language smiles, and accents rise
As quick and pleasing as your eyes;
The poem smooth, and in each line
Soft as yourself, yet masculine;
Where not coarse trifles blot the page
With matter borrow'd from the age,
But thoughts as innocent and high
As angels have, or saints that die.
These raptures when I first did see
New miracles in poetry,
And by a hand their good would miss
His bays and fountains but to kiss,
My weaker genius--cross to fashion--
Slept in a silent admiration:
A rescue, by whose grave disguise
Pretenders oft have pass'd for wise.
And yet as pilgrims humbly touch
Those shrines to which they bow so much,
And clouds in courtship flock, and run
To be the mask unto the sun,
So I concluded it was true
I might at distance worship you,
A Persian votary, and say
It was your light show'd me the way.
So loadstones guide the duller steel,
And high perfections are the wheel
Which moves the less, for gifts divine
Are strung upon a vital line,
Which, touch'd by you, excites in all
Affections epidemical.
And this made me--a truth most fit--
Add my weak echo to your wit;
Which pardon, Lady, for assays
Obscure as these might blast your bays;
As common hands soil flow'rs, and make
That dew they wear weep the mistake.
But I'll wash off the stain, and vow
No laurel grows but for your brow.
AN EPITAPH UPON THE LADY ELIZABETH, SECOND DAUGHTER TO HIS LATE MAJESTY.
Youth, beauty, virtue, innocence,
Heav'n's royal and select expense,
With virgin-tears and sighs divine
Sit here the genii of this shrine;
Where now--thy fair soul wing'd away--
They guard the casket where she lay.
Thou hadst, ere thou the light couldst see,
Sorrows laid up and stor'd for thee;
Thou suck'dst in woes, and the breasts lent
Their milk to thee but to lament;
Thy portion here was grief, thy years
Distill'd no other rain but tears,
Tears without noise, but--understood--
As loud and shrill as any blood.
Thou seem'st a rosebud born in snow,
A flower of purpose sprung to bow
To headless tempests, and the rage
Of an incensed, stormy age.
Others, ere their afflictions grow,
Are tim'd and season'd for the blow,
But thine, as rheums the tend'rest part,
Fell on a young and harmless heart.
And yet, as balm-trees gently spend
Their tears for those that do them rend,
So mild and pious thou wert seen,
Though full of suff'rings; free from spleen,
Thou didst not murmur, nor revile,
But drank'st thy wormwood with a smile.
As envious eyes blast and infect,
And cause misfortunes by aspect,
So thy sad stars dispens'd to thee
No influx but calamity;
They view'd thee with eclipsed rays,
And but the back side of bright days.
* * * * *
These were the comforts she had here,
As by an unseen Hand 'tis clear,
Which now she reads, and, smiling, wears
A crown with Him who wipes off tears.
TO SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT UPON HIS GONDIBERT.
Well, we are rescued! and by thy rare pen
Poets shall live, when princes die like men.
Th' hast clear'd the prospect to our harmless hill,
Of late years clouded with imputed ill,
And the soft, youthful couples there may move,
As chaste as stars converse and smile above.
Th' hast taught their language and their love to flow
Calm as rose-leaves, and cool as virgin-snow,
Which doubly feasts us, being so refin'd,
They both delight and dignify the mind;
Like to the wat'ry music of some spring,
Whose pleasant flowings at once wash and sing.
And where before heroic poems were
Made up of spirits, prodigies, and fear,
And show'd--through all the melancholy flight--
Like some dark region overcast with night,
As if the poet had been quite dismay'd,
While only giants and enchantments sway'd;
Thou like the sun, whose eye brooks no disguise,
Hast chas'd them hence, and with discoveries
So rare and learned fill'd the place, that we
Those fam'd grandezas find outdone by thee,
And underfoot see all those vizards hurl'd
Which bred the wonder of the former world.
'Twas dull to sit, as our forefathers did,
At crumbs and voiders, and because unbid,
Refrain wise appetite. This made thy fire
Break through the ashes of thy aged sire,
To lend the world such a convincing light
As shows his fancy darker than his sight.
Nor was't alone the bars and length of days
--Though those gave strength and stature to his bays--
Encounter'd thee, but what's an old complaint
And kills the fancy, a forlorn restraint.
How couldst thou, mur'd in solitary stones,
Dress Birtha's smiles, though well thou mightst her groans?
And, strangely eloquent, thyself divide
'Twixt sad misfortunes and a bloomy bride?
Through all the tenour of thy ample song,
Spun from thy own rich store, and shar'd among
Those fair adventurers, we plainly see
Th' imputed gifts inherent are in thee.
Then live for ever--and by high desert--
In thy own mirror, matchless Gondibert,
And in bright Birtha leave thy love enshrin'd
Fresh as her em'rald, and fair as her mind,
While all confess thee--as they ought to do--
The prince of poets, and of lovers too.
[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. V. ELEG. III.
TO HIS FELLOW-POETS AT ROME, UPON THE BIRTHDAY OF BACCHUS.
This is the day--blithe god of sack--which we,
If I mistake not, consecrate to thee,
When the soft rose we marry to the bays,
And, warm'd with thy own wine, rehearse thy praise;
'Mongst whom--while to thy poet fate gave way--
I have been held no small part of the day.
But now, dull'd with the cold Bear's frozen seat,
Sarmatia holds me, and the warlike Gete.
My former life, unlike to this my last,
With Rome's best wits of thy full cup did taste,
Who since have seen the savage Pontic band,
And all the choler of the sea and land.
Whether sad chance or Heav'n hath this design'd,
And at my birth some fatal planet shin'd,
Of right thou shouldst the sisters' knots undo,
And free thy votary and poet too;
Or are you gods--like us--in such a state
As cannot alter the decrees of fate?
I know with much ado thou didst obtain
Thy jovial godhead, and on earth thy pain
Was no whit less, for, wand'ring, thou didst run
To the Getes too, and snow-weeping Strymon,
With Persia, Ganges, and whatever streams
The thirsty Moor drinks in the mid-day beams.
But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee
--To make all sure--doubled thy misery.
My sufferings too are many--if it be
Held safe for me to boast adversity--
Nor was't a common blow, but from above,
Like his that died for imitating Jove;
Which, when thou heardst, a ruin so divine
And mother-like should make thee pity mine,
And on this day, which poets unto thee
Crown with full bowls, ask what's become of me?
Help, buxom god, then! so may thy lov'd vine
Swarm with the num'rous grape, and big with wine
Load the kind elm, and so thy orgies be
With priests' loud shouts and satyrs' kept to thee!
So may in death Lycurgus ne'er be blest,
Nor Pentheus' wand'ring ghost find any rest!
And so for ever bright--thy chief desires--
May thy wife's crown outshine the lesser fires!
If but now, mindful of my love to thee,
Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be.
You gods have commerce with yourselves; try then
If Caesar will restore me Rome again.
And you, my trusty friends--the jolly crew
Of careless poets! when, without me, you
Perform this day's glad myst'ries, let it be
Your first appeal unto his deity,
And let one of you--touch'd with my sad name--
Mixing his wine with tears, lay down the same,
And--sighing--to the rest this thought commend,
O! where is Ovid now, our banish'd friend?
This do, if in your breasts I e'er deserv'd
So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd,
Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow
Condemning others, did myself allow.
And may your happier wits grow loud with fame
As you--my best of friends!--preserve my name.
[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. III. [EPIST. VII.].
TO HIS FRIENDS--AFTER HIS MANY SOLICITATIONS--REFUSING TO PETITION CAESAR
FOR HIS RELEASEMENT.
You have consum'd my language, and my pen,
Incens'd with begging, scorns to write again.
You grant, you knew my suit: my Muse and I
Had taught it you in frequent elegy.
That I believe--yet seal'd--you have divin'd
Our repetitions, and forestall'd my mind,
So that my thronging elegies and I
Have made you--more than poets--prophesy.
But I am now awak'd; forgive my dream
Which made me cross the proverb and the stream,
And pardon, friends, that I so long have had
Such good thoughts of you; I am not so mad
As to continue them. You shall no more
Complain of troublesome verse, or write o'er
How I endanger you, and vex my wife
With the sad legends of a banish'd life.
I'll bear these plagues myself: for I have pass'd
Through greater ones, and can as well at last
These petty crosses. 'Tis for some young beast
To kick his bands, or wish his neck releas'd
From the sad yoke. Know then, that as for me
Whom Fate hath us'd to such calamity,
I scorn her spite and yours, and freely dare
The highest ills your malice can prepare.
'Twas Fortune threw me hither, where I now
Rude Getes and Thrace see, with the snowy brow
Of cloudy Aemus, and if she decree
Her sportive pilgrim's last bed here must be,
I am content; nay, more, she cannot do
That act which I would not consent unto.
I can delight in vain hopes, and desire
That state more than her change and smiles; then high'r
I hug a strong despair, and think it brave
To baffle faith, and give those hopes a grave.
Have you not seen cur'd wounds enlarg'd, and he
That with the first wave sinks, yielding to th' free
Waters, without th' expense of arms or breath,
Hath still the easiest and the quickest death.
Why nurse I sorrows then? why these desires
Of changing Scythia for the sun and fires
Of some calm kinder air? what did bewitch
My frantic hopes to fly so vain a pitch,
And thus outrun myself? Madman! could I
Suspect fate had for me a courtesy?
These errors grieve: and now I must forget
Those pleas'd ideas I did frame and set
Unto myself, with many fancied springs
And groves, whose only loss new sorrow brings.
And yet I would the worst of fate endure,
Ere you should be repuls'd, or less secure.
But--base, low souls!--you left me not for this,
But 'cause you durst not. Caesar could not miss
Of such a trifle, for I know that he
Scorns the cheap triumphs of my misery.
Then since--degen'rate friends--not he, but you
Cancel my hopes, and make afflictions new,
You shall confess, and fame shall tell you, I
At Ister dare as well as Tiber die.
[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. IV. EPIST. III.
TO HIS INCONSTANT FRIEND, TRANSLATED FOR THE USE OF ALL THE JUDASES OF
THIS TOUCHSTONE-AGE.
Shall I complain, or not? or shall I mask
Thy hateful name, and in this bitter task
Master my just impatience, and write down
Thy crime alone, and leave the rest unknown?
Or wilt thou the succeeding years should see
And teach thy person to posterity?
No, hope it not; for know, most wretched man,
'Tis not thy base and weak detraction can
Buy thee a poem, nor move me to give
Thy name the honour in my verse to live.
Whilst yet my ship did with no storms dispute,
And temp'rate winds fed with a calm salute
My prosp'rous sails, thou wert the only man
That with me then an equal fortune ran;
But now since angry heav'n with clouds and night
Stifled those sunbeams, thou hast ta'en thy flight;
Thou know'st I want thee, and art merely gone
To shun that rescue I reli'd upon;
Nay, thou dissemblest too, and dost disclaim
Not only my acquaintance, but my name.
Yet know--though deaf to this--that I am he
Whose years and love had the same infancy
With thine, thy deep familiar that did share
Souls with thee, and partake thy joys or care;
Whom the same roof lodg'd, and my Muse those nights
So solemnly endear'd to her delights.
But now, perfidious traitor, I am grown
The abject of thy breast, not to be known
In that false closet more; nay, thou wilt not
So much as let me know I am forgot.
If thou wilt say thou didst not love me, then
Thou didst dissemble: or if love again,
Why now inconstant? Came the crime from me
That wrought this change? Sure, if no justice be
Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide
Thy reasons then? For me, I did so guide
Myself and actions, that I cannot see
What could offend thee, but my misery.
'Las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow
Some rescue to my wants, at least I know
Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two
Reliev'd my famish'd eye, and eas'd me so.
I know not what to think! and yet I hear,
Not pleas'd with this, th'art witty, and dost jeer.
Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back
I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack.
Know'st not that Fortune on a globe doth stand,
Whose upper slipp'ry part without command
Turns lowest still? the sportive leaves and wind
Are but dull emblems of her fickle mind.
In the whole world there's nothing I can see
Will throughly parallel her ways but thee.
All that we hold hangs on a slender twine,
And our best states by sudden chance decline.
Who hath not heard of Cr[oe]sus' proverb'd gold,
Yet knows his foe did him a pris'ner hold?
He that once aw'd Sicilia's proud extent
By a poor art could famine scarce prevent;
And mighty Pompey, ere he made an end,
Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend.
Nay, he that had so oft Rome's consul been,
And forc'd Jugurtha and the Cimbrians in,
Great Marius! with much want and more disgrace,
In a foul marsh was glad to hide his face.
A Divine hand sways all mankind, and we
Of one short hour have not the certainty.
Hadst thou one day told me the time should be
When the Getes' bows, and th' Euxine I should see,
I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought
Th' hadst need of all Anticyra in a draught.
And yet 'tis come to pass! nor, though I might
Some things foresee, could I procure a sight
Of my whole destiny, and free my state
From those eternal, higher ties of fate.
Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high,
Think thou mayst be as poor and low as I.
[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. III. ELEG. III.
TO HIS WIFE AT ROME, WHEN HE WAS SICK.
Dearest! if you those fair eyes--wond'ring--stick
On this strange character, know I am sick;
Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I
Breathe hopeless of all comforts, but to die.
What heart--think'st thou?--have I in this sad seat,
Tormented 'twixt the Sauromate and Gete?
Nor air nor water please: their very sky
Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my eye;
I scarce dare breathe it, and, I know not how,
The earth that bears me shows unpleasant now.
Nor diet here's, nor lodging for my ease,
Nor any one that studies a disease;
No friend to comfort me, none to defray
With smooth discourse the charges of the day.
All tir'd alone I lie, and--thus--whate'er
Is absent, and at Rome, I fancy here.
But when thou com'st, I blot the airy scroll,
And give thee full possession of my soul.
Thee--absent--I embrace, thee only voice.
And night and day belie a husband's joys.
Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make
That I am thought distracted for thy sake.
When my tir'd spirits fail, and my sick heart
Draws in that fire which actuates each part,
If any say, th'art come! I force my pain,
And hope to see thee gives me life again.
Thus I for thee, whilst thou--perhaps--more blest,
Careless of me dost breathe all peace and rest,
Which yet I think not, for--dear soul!--too well
Know I thy grief, since my first woes befell.
But if strict Heav'n my stock of days hath spun,
And with my life my error will be gone,
How easy then--O Caesar!--were't for thee
To pardon one, that now doth cease to be?
That I might yield my native air this breath,
And banish not my ashes after death.
Would thou hadst either spar'd me until dead,
Or with my blood redeem'd my absent head!
Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou
Wouldst have me live to die an exile now.
And must I then from Rome so far meet death,
And double by the place my loss of breath?
Nor in my last of hours on my own bed
--In the sad conflict--rest my dying head?
Nor my soul's whispers--the last pledge of life,--
Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife?
My last words none must treasure, none will rise
And--with a tear--seal up my vanquish'd eyes;
Without these rites I die, distress'd in all
The splendid sorrows of a funeral;
Unpitied, and unmourn'd for, my sad head
In a strange land goes friendless to the dead.
When thou hear'st this, O! how thy faithful soul
Will sink, whilst grief doth ev'ry part control!
How often wilt thou look this way, and cry,
O! where is't yonder that my love doth lie?
Yet spare these tears, and mourn not thou for me,
Long since--dear heart!--have I been dead to thee.
Think then I died, when thee and Rome I lost,
That death to me more grief than this hath cost.
Now, if thou canst--but thou canst not--best wife,
Rejoice, my cares are ended with my life.
At least, yield not to sorrows, frequent use
Should make these miseries to thee no news.
And here I wish my soul died with my breath,
And that no part of me were free from death;
For, if it be immortal, and outlives
The body, as Pythagoras believes,
Betwixt these Sarmates' ghosts, a Roman I
Shall wander, vex'd to all eternity.
But thou--for after death I shall be free--
Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me;
A few flow'rs give them, with some balm, and lay
Them in some suburb grave, hard by the way;
And to inform posterity, who's there,
This sad inscription let my marble wear;
"Here lies the soft-soul'd lecturer of love,
Whose envi'd wit did his own ruin prove.
But thou,--whoe'er thou be'st, that, passing by,
Lend'st to this sudden stone a hasty eye,
If e'er thou knew'st of love the sweet disease,
Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!"
This for my tomb: but in my books they'll see
More strong and lasting monuments of me,
Which I believe--though fatal--will afford
An endless name unto their ruin'd lord.
And now thus gone, it rests, for love of me,
Thou show'st some sorrow to my memory;
Thy funeral off'rings to my ashes bear,
With wreaths of cypress bath'd in many a tear.
Though nothing there but dust of me remain,
Yet shall that dust perceive thy pious pain.
But I have done, and my tir'd, sickly head,
Though I would fain write more, desires the bed;
Take then this word--perhaps my last--to tell,
Which though I want, I wish it thee, farewell!
AUSONII. IDYLL VI.
CUPIDO [CRUCI AFFIXUS].
In those bless'd fields of everlasting air
--Where to a myrtle grove the souls repair
Of deceas'd lovers--the sad, thoughtful ghosts
Of injur'd ladies meet, where each accosts
The other with a sigh, whose very breath
Would break a heart, and--kind souls--love in death.
A thick wood clouds their walks, where day scarce peeps,
And on each hand cypress and poppy sleeps;
The drowsy rivers slumber, and springs there
Blab not, but softly melt into a tear;
A sickly dull air fans them, which can have,
When most in force, scarce breath to build a wave.
On either bank through the still shades appear
A scene of pensive flow'rs, whose bosoms wear
Drops of a lover's blood, the emblem'd truths
Of deep despair, and love-slain kings and youths.
The Hyacinth, and self-enamour'd boy
Narcissus flourish there, with Venus' joy,
The spruce Adonis, and that prince whose flow'r
Hath sorrow languag'd on him to this hour;
All sad with love they hang their heads, and grieve
As if their passions in each leaf did live;
And here--alas!--these soft-soul'd ladies stray,
And--O! too late!--treason in love betray.
Her blasted birth sad Semele repeats,
And with her tears would quench the thund'rer's heats,
Then shakes her bosom, as if fir'd again,
And fears another lightning's flaming train.
The lovely Procris here bleeds, sighs, and swoons,
Then wakes, and kisses him that gave her wounds.
Sad Hero holds a torch forth, and doth light
Her lost Leander through the waves and night,
Her boatman desp'rate Sappho still admires,
And nothing but the sea can quench her fires.
Distracted Phaedra with a restless eye
Her disdain'd letters reads, then casts them by.
Rare, faithful Thisbe--sequest'red from these--
A silent, unseen sorrow doth best please;
For her love's sake and last good-night poor she
Walks in the shadow of a mulberry.
Near her young Canace with Dido sits,
A lovely couple, but of desp'rate wits;
Both di'd alike, both pierc'd their tender breasts,
This with her father's sword, that with her guest's.
Within the thickest textures of the grove
Diana in her silver beams doth rove;
Her crown of stars the pitchy air invades,
And with a faint light gilds the silent shades,
Whilst her sad thoughts, fix'd on her sleepy lover,
To Latmos hill and his retirements move her.
A thousand more through the wide, darksome wood
Feast on their cares, the maudlin lover's food;
For grief and absence do but edge desire,
And death is fuel to a lover's fire.
To see these trophies of his wanton bow,
Cupid comes in, and all in triumph now--
Rash unadvised boy!--disperseth round
The sleepy mists; his wings and quiver wound
With noise the quiet air. This sudden stir
Betrays his godship, and as we from far
A clouded, sickly moon observe, so they
Through the false mists his eclips'd torch betray.
A hot pursuit they make, and, though with care
And a slow wing, he softly stems the air,
Yet they--as subtle now as he--surround
His silenc'd course, and with the thick night bound
Surprise the wag. As in a dream we strive
To voice our thoughts, and vainly would revive
Our entranc'd tongues, but cannot speech enlarge,
'Till the soul wakes and reassumes her charge;
So, joyous of their prize, they flock about
And vainly swell with an imagin'd shout.
Far in these shades and melancholy coasts
A myrtle grows, well known to all the ghosts,
Whose stretch'd top--like a great man rais'd by Fate--
Looks big, and scorns his neighbour's low estate;
His leafy arms into a green cloud twist,
And on each branch doth sit a lazy mist,
A fatal tree, and luckless to the gods,
Where for disdain in life--Love's worst of odds--
The queen of shades, fair Proserpine, did rack
The sad Adonis: hither now they pack
This little god, where, first disarm'd, they bind
His skittish wings, then both his hands behind
His back they tie, and thus secur'd at last,
The peevish wanton to the tree make fast.
Here at adventure, without judge or jury,
He is condemn'd, while with united fury
They all assail him. As a thief at bar
Left to the law, and mercy of his star,
Hath bills heap'd on him, and is question'd there
By all the men that have been robb'd that year;
So now whatever Fate or their own will
Scor'd up in life, Cupid must pay the bill.
Their servant's falsehood, jealousy, disdain,
And all the plagues that abus'd maids can feign,
Are laid on him, and then to heighten spleen,
Their own deaths crown the sum. Press'd thus between
His fair accusers, 'tis at last decreed
He by those weapons, that they died, should bleed.
One grasps an airy sword, a second holds
Illusive fire, and in vain wanton folds
Belies a flame; others, less kind, appear
To let him blood, and from the purple tear
Create a rose. But Sappho all this while
Harvests the air, and from a thicken'd pile
Of clouds like Leucas top spreads underneath
A sea of mists; the peaceful billows breathe
Without all noise, yet so exactly move
They seem to chide, but distant from above
Reach not the ear, and--thus prepar'd--at once
She doth o'erwhelm him with the airy sconce.
Amidst these tumults, and as fierce as they,
Venus steps in, and without thought or stay
Invades her son; her old disgrace is cast
Into the bill, when Mars and she made fast
In their embraces were expos'd to all
The scene of gods, stark naked in their fall.
Nor serves a verbal penance, but with haste
From her fair brow--O happy flow'rs so plac'd!--
She tears a rosy garland, and with this
Whips the untoward boy; they gently kiss
His snowy skin, but she with angry haste
Doubles her strength, until bedew'd at last
With a thin bloody sweat, their innate red,
--As if griev'd with the act--grew pale and dead.
This laid their spleen; and now--kind souls--no more
They'll punish him; the torture that he bore
Seems greater than his crime; with joint consent
Fate is made guilty, and he innocent.
As in a dream with dangers we contest,
And fictious pains seem to afflict our rest,
So, frighted only in these shades of night,
Cupid--got loose--stole to the upper light,
Where ever since--for malice unto these--
The spiteful ape doth either sex displease.
But O! that had these ladies been so wise
To keep his arms, and give him but his eyes!
BOET[HIUS, DE CONSOLATIONE]
LIB. I. METRUM I.
I whose first year flourish'd with youthful verse,
In slow, sad numbers now my grief rehearse.
A broken style my sickly lines afford,
And only tears give weight unto my words.
Yet neither fate nor force my Muse could fright,
The only faithful consort of my flight.
Thus what was once my green years' greatest glory,
Is now my comfort, grown decay'd and hoary;
For killing cares th' effects of age spurr'd on,
That grief might find a fitting mansion;
O'er my young head runs an untimely grey,
And my loose skin shrinks at my blood's decay.
Happy the man, whose death in prosp'rous years
Strikes not, nor shuns him in his age and tears!
But O! how deaf is she to hear the cry
Of th' oppress'd soul, or shut the weeping eye!
While treach'rous Fortune with slight honours fed
My first estate, she almost drown'd my head,
And now since--clouded thus--she hides those rays,
Life adds unwelcom'd length unto my days.
Why then, my friends, judg'd you my state so good?
He that may fall once, never firmly stood.
METRUM II.