And with warm whispers call thee out;
The frosts are past, the storms are gone,
And backward life at last comes on.
The lofty groves in express joys
Reply unto the turtle's voice;
And here in dust and dirt, O here
The lilies of His love appear!
THE DAY SPRING.
Early, while yet the dark was gay
And gilt with stars, more trim than day,
Heav'n's Lily, and the Earth's chaste Rose,
The green immortal Branch arose; }
And in a solitary place } S. Mark,
Bow'd to His Father His blest face. } c. 1, v. 35-
If this calm season pleased my Prince,
Whose fulness no need could evince,
Why should not I, poor silly sheep,
His hours, as well as practice, keep?
Not that His hand is tied to these,
From whom Time holds his transient lease
But mornings new creations are,
When men, all night sav'd by His care,
Are still reviv'd; and well He may
Expect them grateful with the day.
So for that first draught of His hand, }
Which finish'd heav'n, and sea, and land, } Job, c. 38,
The sons of God their thanks did bring, } v. 7-
And all the morning stars did sing. }
Besides, as His part heretofore
The firstlings were of all that bore
So now each day from all He saves
Their soul's first thoughts and fruits He craves.
This makes Him daily shed and show'r
His graces at this early hour;
Which both His care and kindness show,
Cheering the good, quickening the slow.
As holy friends mourn at delay,
And think each minute an hour's stay,
So His Divine and loving Dove
With longing throes[67] doth heave and move,
And soar about us while we sleep;
Sometimes quite through that lock doth peep,
And shine, but always without fail,
Before the slow sun can unveil,
In new compassions breaks, like light,
And morning-looks, which scatter night.
And wilt Thou let Thy creature be,
When Thou hast watch'd, asleep to Thee?
Why to unwelcome loath'd surprises
Dost leave him, having left his vices?
Since these, if suffer'd, may again
Lead back the living to the slain.
O, change this scourge; or, if as yet
None less will my transgressions fit,
Dissolve, dissolve! Death cannot do
What I would not submit unto.
FOOTNOTES:
[67] The original has _throws_.
THE RECOVERY.
I.
Fair vessel of our daily light, whose proud
And previous glories gild that blushing cloud;
Whose lively fires in swift projections glance
From hill to hill, and by refracted chance
Burnish some neighbour-rock, or tree, and then
Fly off in coy and winged flames again:
If thou this day
Hold on thy way,
Know, I have got a greater light than thine;
A light, whose shade and back-parts make thee shine.
Then get thee down! then get thee down!
I have a Sun now of my own.
II.
Those nicer livers, who without thy rays
Stir not abroad, those may thy lustre praise;
And wanting light--light, which no wants doth know--
To thee--weak shiner!--like blind Persians bow.
But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head,
From His own bright eternal eye doth shed
One living ray,
There thy dead day
Is needless, and man to a light made free,
Which shows that thou canst neither show nor see.
Then get thee down! then get thee down!
I have a Sun now of my own.
THE NATIVITY.
Written in the year 1656.
Peace? and to all the world? Sure One,
And He the Prince of Peace, hath none!
He travels to be born, and then
Is born to travel more again.
Poor Galilee! thou canst not be
The place for His Nativity.
His restless mother's call'd away,
And not deliver'd till she pay.
A tax? 'tis so still! we can see
The Church thrive in her misery,
And, like her Head at Beth'lem, rise,
When she, oppress'd with troubles, lies.
Rise?--should all fall, we cannot be
In more extremities than He.
Great Type of passions! Come what will,
Thy grief exceeds all copies still.
Thou cam'st from Heav'n to Earth, that we
Might go from Earth to Heav'n with Thee:
And though Thou found'st no welcome here,
Thou didst provide us mansions there.
A stable was Thy Court, and when
Men turn'd to beasts, beasts would be men:
They were Thy courtiers; others none;
And their poor manger was Thy throne.
No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold,
Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold.
No rockers waited on Thy birth,
No cradles stirr'd, nor songs of mirth;
But her chaste lap and sacred breast,
Which lodg'd Thee first, did give Thee rest.
But stay: what light is that doth stream
And drop here in a gilded beam?
It is Thy star runs page, and brings
Thy tributary Eastern kings.
Lord! grant some light to us, that we
May with them find the way to Thee!
Behold what mists eclipse the day!
How dark it is! Shed down one ray,
To guide us out of this dark night,
And say once more, "Let there be light!"
THE TRUE CHRISTMAS.
So, stick up ivy and the bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.
Green will remind you of the spring,
Though this great day denies the thing;
And mortifies the earth, and all
But your wild revels, and loose hall.
Could you wear flow'rs, and roses strow
Blushing upon your breasts' warm snow,
That very dress your lightness will
Rebuke, and wither at the ill.
The brightness of this day we owe
Not unto music, masque, nor show,
Nor gallant furniture, nor plate,
But to the manger's mean estate.
His life while here, as well as birth,
Was but a check to pomp and mirth;
And all man's greatness you may see
Condemned by His humility.
Then leave your open house and noise,
To welcome Him with holy joys,
And the poor shepherds' watchfulness,
Whom light and hymns from Heav'n did bless.
What you abound with, cast abroad
To those that want, and ease your load.
Who empties thus, will bring more in;
But riot is both loss and sin.
Dress finely what comes not in sight,
And then you keep your Christmas right.
THE REQUEST.
O thou who didst deny to me
This world's ador'd felicity,
And ev'ry big imperious lust,
Which fools admire in sinful dust,
With those fine subtle twists, that tie
Their bundles of foul gallantry--
Keep still my weak eyes from the shine
Of those gay things which are not Thine!
And shut my ears against the noise
Of wicked, though applauded, joys!
For Thou in any land hast store
Of shades and coverts for Thy poor;
Where from the busy dust and heat,
As well as storms, they may retreat.
A rock or bush are downy beds,
When Thou art there, crowning their heads
With secret blessings, or a tire
Made of the Comforter's live fire.
And when Thy goodness in the dress
Of anger will not seem to bless,
Yet dost Thou give them that rich rain,
Which, as it drops, clears all again.
O what kind visits daily pass
'Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass:
With what sweet looks doth Thy love shine
On those low violets of Thine,
While the tall tulip is accurst,
And crowns imperial die with thirst!
O give me still those secret meals,
Those rare repasts which Thy love deals!
Give me that joy, which none can grieve,
And which in all griefs doth relieve!
This is the portion Thy child begs;
Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs.
JORDANIS.
Quid celebras auratam undam, et combusta pyropis
Flumina, vel medio quae serit aethra salo?
Aeternum refluis si pernoctaret in undis
Ph[oe]bus, et incertam sidera suda Tethyn
Si colerent, tantae gemmae! nil caerula librem:
Sorderet rubro in littore dives Eos.
Pactoli mea lympha macras ditabit arenas,
Atque universum gutta minuta Tagum.
O caram caput! O cincinnos unda beatos
Libata! O Domini balnea sancta mei!
Quod fortunatum voluit spectare canalem,
Hoc erat in laudes area parva tuas.
Jordanis in medio perfusus flumine lavit,
Divinoque tuas ore beavit aquas.
Ah! Solyma infelix rivis obsessa prophanis!
Amisit genium porta Bethesda suum.
Hic Orientis aquae currunt, et apostata Parphar,
Atque Abana immundo turbidus amne fluit,
Ethnica te totam cum f[oe]davere fluenta,
Mansit Christicola Jordanis unus aqua.
SERVILII FATUM, SIVE VINDICTA DIVINA.
Et sic in cithara, sic in dulcedine vitae
Et facti et luctus regnat amarities.
Quam subito in fastum extensos atque esseda[68] vultus
Ultrici oppressit vilis arena sinu!
Si violae, spiransque crocus: si lilium [Greek: aeinon]
Non nisi justorum nascitur e cinere:
Spinarum, tribulique atque infelicis avenae
Quantus in hoc tumulo et qualis acervus erit?
Dii superi! damnosa piis sub sidera longum
Mansuris stabilem conciliate fidem!
Sic olim in c[oe]lum post nimbos clarius ibunt,
Supremo occidui tot velut astra die.
Quippe ruunt horae, qualisque in corpore vixit,
Talis it in tenebras bis moriturus homo.
FOOTNOTES:
[68] The original edition misprints _essera_.
DE SALMONE
_Ad virum optimum, et sibi familiarius notum: D. Thomam Poellum
Cantrevensem: S. S. Theologiae Doctorem._
Accipe praerapido salmonem in gurgite captum,
Ex imo in summas cum penetrasset aquas,
Mentitae culicis quem forma elusit inanis:
Picta coloratis plumea musca notis.
Dum captat, capitur; vorat inscius, ipse vorandus;
Fitque cibi raptor grata rapina mali.
Alma quies! miserae merces ditissima vitae,
Quam tuto in tacitis hic latuisset aquis!
Qui dum spumosi fremitus et murmura rivi
Quaeritat, hamato sit cita praeda cibo,
Quam grave magnarum specimen dant ludicra rerum?
Gurges est mundus: salmo, homo: pluma, dolus.
THE WORLD.
Can any tell me what it is? Can you
That wind your thoughts into a clue
To guide out others, while yourselves stay in,
And hug the sin?
I, who so long have in it liv'd,
That, if I might,
In truth I would not be repriev'd,
Have neither sight
Nor sense that knows
These ebbs and flows:
But since of all all may be said,
And likeliness doth but upbraid
And mock the truth, which still is lost
In fine conceits, like streams in a sharp frost;
I will not strive, nor the rule break,
Which doth give losers leave to speak.
Then false and foul world, and unknown
Ev'n to thy own,
Here I renounce thee, and resign
Whatever thou canst say is thine.
Thou art not Truth! for he that tries
Shall find thee all deceit and lies,
Thou art not Friendship! for in thee
'Tis but the bait of policy;
Which like a viper lodg'd in flow'rs,
Its venom through that sweetness pours;
And when not so, then always 'tis
A fading paint, the short-liv'd bliss
Of air and humour; out and in,
Like colours in a dolphin's skin;
But must not live beyond one day,
Or convenience; then away.
Thou art not Riches! for that trash,
Which one age hoards, the next doth wash
And so severely sweep away,
That few remember where it lay.
So rapid streams the wealthy land
About them have at their command;
And shifting channels here restore,
There break down, what they bank'd before.
Thou art not Honour! for those gay
Feathers will wear and drop away;
And princes to some upstart line
Gives new ones, that are full as fine.
Thou art not Pleasure! for thy rose
Upon a thorn doth still repose;
Which, if not cropp'd, will quickly shed,
But soon as cropp'd, grows dull and dead.
Thou art the sand, which fills one glass,
And then doth to another pass;
And could I put thee to a stay,
Thou art but dust! Then go thy way,
And leave me clean and bright, though poor;
Who stops thee doth but daub his floor;
And, swallow-like, when he hath done,
To unknown dwellings must be gone!
Welcome, pure thoughts, and peaceful hours,
Enrich'd with sunshine and with show'rs;
Welcome fair hopes, and holy cares,
The not to be repented shares
Of time and business; the sure road
Unto my last and lov'd abode!
O supreme Bliss!
The Circle, Centre, and Abyss
Of blessings, never let me miss
Nor leave that path which leads to Thee,
Who art alone all things to me!
I hear, I see, all the long day
The noise and pomp of the broad way.
I note their coarse and proud approaches,
Their silks, perfumes, and glittering coaches.
But in the narrow way to Thee
I observe only poverty,
And despis'd things; and all along
The ragged, mean, and humble throng
Are still on foot; and as they go
They sigh, and say, their Lord went so.
Give me my staff then, as it stood
When green and growing in the wood;
--Those stones, which for the altar serv'd,
Might not be smooth'd, nor finely carv'd--
With this poor stick I'll pass the ford,
As Jacob did; and Thy dear word,
As Thou hast dress'd it, not as wit
And deprav'd tastes have poison'd it,
Shall in the passage be my meat,
And none else will Thy servant eat.
Thus, thus, and in no other sort,
Will I set forth, though laugh'd at for't;
And leaving the wise world their way,
Go through, though judg'd to go astray.
THE BEE.
From fruitful beds and flow'ry borders,
Parcell'd to wasteful ranks and orders,
Where State grasps more than plain Truth needs,
And wholesome herbs are starv'd by weeds,
To the wild woods I will be gone,
And the coarse meals of great Saint John.
When truth and piety are miss'd
Both in the rulers and the priest;
When pity is not cold, but dead,
And the rich eat the poor like bread;
While factious heads with open coil
And force, first make, then share, the spoil;
To Horeb then Elias goes,
And in the desert grows the rose.
Hail crystal fountains and fresh shades,
Where no proud look invades,
No busy worldling hunts away
The sad retirer all the day!
Hail, happy, harmless solitude!
Our sanctuary from the rude
And scornful world; the calm recess
Of faith, and hope, and holiness!
Here something still like Eden looks;
Honey in woods, juleps in brooks,
And flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled sweets
With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets,
When the toils of the day are done,
And the tir'd world sets with the sun.
Here flying winds and flowing wells
Are the wise, watchful hermit's bells;
Their busy murmurs all the night
To praise or prayer do invite,
And with an awful sound arrest,
And piously employ his breast.
When in the East the dawn doth blush,
Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush;
Herbs straight get up, flow'rs peep and spread,
Trees whisper praise, and bow the head:
Birds, from the shades of night releas'd,
Look round about, then quit the nest,
And with united gladness sing
The glory of the morning's King.
The hermit hears, and with meek voice
Offers his own up, and their joys:
Then prays that all the world may be
Bless'd with as sweet an unity.
If sudden storms the day invade,
They flock about him to the shade:
Where wisely they expect the end,
Giving the tempest time to spend;
And hard by shelters on some bough
Hilarion's servant, the sage crow.
O purer years of light and grace!
The diff'rence is great as the space
'Twixt you and us, who blindly run
After false fires, and leave the sun.
Is not fair Nature of herself
Much richer than dull paint or pelf?
And are not streams at the spring-head
More sweet than in carv'd stone or lead?
But fancy and some artist's tools
Frame a religion for fools.
The truth, which once was plainly taught,
With thorns and briars now is fraught.
Some part is with bold fables spotted,
Some by strange comments wildly blotted;
And Discord--old Corruption's crest--
With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest.
So snow, which in its first descents
A whiteness, like pure Heav'n, presents,
When touch'd by man is quickly soil'd,
And after, trodden down and spoil'd.
O lead me, where I may be free
In truth and spirit to serve Thee!
Where undisturb'd I may converse
With Thy great Self; and there rehearse
Thy gifts with thanks; and from Thy store,
Who art all blessings, beg much more.
Give me the wisdom of the bee,
And her unwearied industry!
That from the wild gourds of these days,
I may extract health, and Thy praise,
Who canst turn darkness into light,
And in my weakness show Thy might.
Suffer me not in any want
To seek refreshment from a plant
Thou didst not set; since all must be
Pluck'd up, whose growth is not from Thee.
'Tis not the garden, and the bow'rs,
Nor sense and forms, that give to flow'rs
Their wholesomeness, but Thy good will,
Which truth and pureness purchase still.
Then since corrupt man hath driv'n hence
Thy kind and saving influence,
And balm is no more to be had
In all the coasts of Gilead;
Go with me to the shade and cell,
Where Thy best servants once did dwell.
There let me know Thy will, and see
Exil'd Religion own'd by Thee;
For Thou canst turn dark grots to halls,
And make hills blossom like the vales;
Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs,
And fresh delights for all sad hours;
Till from them, like a laden bee,
I may fly home, and hive with Thee
TO CHRISTIAN RELIGION.
Farewell, thou true and tried reflection
Of the still poor, and meek election:
Farewell, soul's joy, the quick'ning health
Of spirits, and their secret wealth!
Farewell, my morning-star, the bright
And dawning looks of the True Light!
O blessed shiner, tell me whither
Thou wilt be gone, when night comes hither!
A seer that observ'd thee in
Thy course, and watch'd the growth of sin,
Hath giv'n his judgment, and foretold,
That westward hence thy course will hold;
And when the day with us is done,
There fix, and shine a glorious sun.
O hated shades and darkness! when
You have got here the sway again,
And like unwholesome fogs withstood
The light, and blasted all that's good,
Who shall the happy shepherds be,
To watch the next nativity
Of truth and brightness, and make way
For the returning, rising day?
O what year will bring back our bliss?
Or who shall live, when God doth this?
Thou Rock of Ages! and the Rest
Of all, that for Thee are oppress'd!
Send down the Spirit of Thy truth,
That Spirit, which the tender youth,
And first growths of Thy Spouse did spread
Through all the world, from one small head!
Then if to blood we must resist,
Let Thy mild Dove, and our High-Priest,
Help us, when man proves false or frowns,
To bear the Cross, and save our crowns.
O honour those that honour Thee!
Make babes to still the enemy!
And teach an infant of few days
To perfect by his death Thy praise!
Let none defile what Thou didst wed,
Nor tear the garland from her head!
But chaste and cheerful let her die,
And precious in the Bridegroom's eye
So to Thy glory and her praise,
These last shall be her brightest days.
Revel[ation] chap. last, vers. 17.
"_The Spirit and the Bride say, Come._"
DAPHNIS.
_An Elegiac Eclogue. The Interlocutors, Damon, Menalcas._
_Damon._
What clouds, Menalcas, do oppress thy brow,
Flow'rs in a sunshine never look so low?
Is Nisa still cold flint? or have thy lambs
Met with the fox by straying from their dams?
_Menalcas._
Ah, Damon, no! my lambs are safe; and she
Is kind, and much more white than they can be.
But what doth life when most serene afford
Without a worm which gnaws her fairest gourd?
Our days of gladness are but short reliefs,
Giv'n to reserve us for enduring griefs:
So smiling calms close tempests breed, which break
Like spoilers out, and kill our flocks when weak.
I heard last May--and May is still high Spring--
The pleasant Philomel her vespers sing.
The green wood glitter'd with the golden sun.
And all the west like silver shin'd; not one
Black cloud; no rags, nor spots did stain
The welkin's beauty; nothing frown'd like rain.
But ere night came, that scene of fine sights turn'd
To fierce dark show'rs; the air with lightnings burn'd;
The wood's sweet syren, rudely thus oppress'd,
Gave to the storm her weak and weary breast.
I saw her next day on her last cold bed:
And Daphnis so, just so is Daphnis, dead!
_Damon._
So violets, so doth the primrose, fall,
At once the Spring's pride, and its funeral.
Such easy sweets get off still in their prime,
And stay not here to wear the soil of time;
While coarser flow'rs, which none would miss, if past,
To scorching Summers and cold Autumns last.
_Menalcas._
Souls need not time. The early forward things
Are always fledg'd, and gladly use their wings.
Or else great parts, when injur'd, quit the crowd,
To shine above still, not behind, the cloud.
And is't not just to leave those to the night
That madly hate and persecute the light?
Who, doubly dark, all negroes do exceed,
And inwardly are true black Moors indeed?
_Damon._
The punishment still manifests the sin,
As outward signs show the disease within.
While worth oppress'd mounts to a nobler height,
And palm-like bravely overtops the weight.
So where swift Isca from our lofty hills
With loud farewells descends, and foaming fills
A wider channel, like some great port-vein
With large rich streams to fill the humble plain:
I saw an oak, whose stately height and shade,
Projected far, a goodly shelter made;
And from the top with thick diffused boughs
In distant rounds grew like a wood-nymph's house.
Here many garlands won at roundel-lays
Old shepherds hung up in those happy days
With knots and girdles, the dear spoils and dress
Of such bright maids as did true lovers bless.
And many times had old Amphion made
His beauteous flock acquainted with this shade:
His flock, whose fleeces were as smooth and white
As those the welkin shows in moonshine night.
Here, when the careless world did sleep, have I
In dark records and numbers nobly high,
The visions of our black, but brightest bard
From old Amphion's mouth full often heard;
With all those plagues poor shepherds since have known,
And riddles more, which future time must own:
While on his pipe young Hylas play'd, and made
Music as solemn as the song and shade.
But the curs'd owner from the trembling top
To the firm brink did all those branches lop;
And in one hour what many years had bred,
The pride and beauty of the plain, lay dead.
The undone swains in sad songs mourn'd their loss,
While storms and cold winds did improve the cross;
But nature, which--like virtue--scorns to yield,
Brought new recruits and succours to the field;
For by next spring the check'd sap wak'd from sleep,
And upwards still to feel the sun did creep;
Till at those wounds, the hated hewer made,
There sprang a thicker and a fresher shade.
_Menalcas._
So thrives afflicted Truth, and so the light
When put out gains a value from the night.
How glad are we, when but one twinkling star
Peeps betwixt clouds more black than is our tar:
And Providence was kind, that order'd this
To the brave suff'rer should be solid bliss:
Nor is it so till this short life be done,
But goes hence with him, and is still his sun.
_Damon._
Come, shepherds, then, and with your greenest bays
Refresh his dust, who lov'd your learned lays.
Bring here the florid glories of the spring,
And, as you strew them, pious anthems sing,
Which to your children and the years to come
May speak of Daphnis, and be never dumb.
While prostrate I drop on his quiet urn
My tears, not gifts; and like the poor that mourn
With green but humble turfs, write o'er his hearse
For false, foul prose-men this fair truth in verse.
"Here Daphnis sleeps, and while the great watch goes
Of loud and restless Time, takes his repose.
Fame is but noise; all Learning but a thought;
Which one admires, another sets at nought,
Nature mocks both, and Wit still keeps ado:
But Death brings knowledge and assurance too."
_Menalcas._
Cast in your garlands! strew on all the flow'rs,
Which May with smiles or April feeds with show'rs,
Let this day's rites as steadfast as the sun
Keep pace with Time and through all ages run;
The public character and famous test
Of our long sorrows and his lasting rest.
And when we make procession on the plains,
Or yearly keep the holiday of swains,
Let Daphnis still be the recorded name,
And solemn honour of our feasts and fame.
For though the Isis and the prouder Thames
Can show his relics lodg'd hard by their streams:
And must for ever to the honour'd name
Of noble Murrey chiefly owe that fame:
Yet here his stars first saw him, and when Fate
Beckon'd him hence, it knew no other date.
Nor will these vocal woods and valleys fail,
Nor Isca's louder streams, this to bewail;
But while swains hope, and seasons change, will glide
With moving murmurs because Daphnis died.
_Damon._
A fatal sadness, such as still foregoes,
Then runs along with public plagues and woes,
Lies heavy on us; and the very light,
Turn'd mourner too, hath the dull looks of night.
Our vales, like those of death, a darkness show
More sad than cypress or the gloomy yew;
And on our hills, where health with height complied,
Thick drowsy mists hang round, and there reside.
Not one short parcel of the tedious year
In its old dress and beauty doth appear.
Flow'rs hate the spring, and with a sullen bend
Thrust down their heads, which to the root still tend.
And though the sun, like a cold lover, peeps
A little at them, still the day's-eye sleeps.
But when the Crab and Lion with acute
And active fires their sluggish heat recruit,
Our grass straight russets, and each scorching day
Drinks up our brooks as fast as dew in May;
Till the sad herdsman with his cattle faints,
And empty channels ring with loud complaints.
_Menalcas._