Volume 2 — CHOICE POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

If sever'd friends by sympathy can join, And absent kings be honour'd in their coin; May they do both, who are so curb'd? but we Whom no such abstracts torture, that can see And pay each other a full self-return, May laugh, though all such metaphysics burn. 'Tis a kind soul in magnets, that atones Such two hard things as iron are and stones, And in their dumb compliance we learn more Of love, than ever books could speak before. For though attraction hath got all the name, As if that power but from one side came, Which both unites; yet, where there is no sense There is no passion, nor intelligence: And so by consequence we cannot state A commerce, unless both we animate. For senseless things, though ne'er so called upon, Are deaf, and feel no invitation, But such as at the last day shall be shed By the great Lord of life into the dead. 'Tis then no heresy to end the strife With such rare doctrine as gives iron life. For were it otherwise—which cannot be, And do thou judge my bold philosophy— Then it would follow that if I were dead, Thy love, as now in life, would in that bed Of earth and darkness warm me, and dispense Effectual informing influence. Since then 'tis clear, that friendship is nought else But a joint, kind propension, and excess In none, but such whose equal, easy hearts Comply and meet both in their whole and parts, And when they cannot meet, do not forget To mingle souls, but secretly reflect And some third place their centre make, where they Silently mix, and make an unseen stay: Let me not say—though poets may be bold— Thou art more hard than steel, than stones more cold, But as the marigold in feasts of dew And early sunbeams, though but thin and few, Unfolds itself, then from the Earth's cold breast Heaves gently, and salutes the hopeful East: So from thy quiet cell, the retir'd throne Of thy fair thoughts, which silently bemoan Our sad distractions, come! and richly dress'd With reverend mirth and manners, check the rest Of loose, loath'd men! Why should I longer be Rack'd 'twixt two evils? I see and cannot see.

A king and no king! Is he gone from us, And stoln alive into his coffin thus? This was to ravish death, and so prevent The rebels' treason and their punishment. He would not have them damn'd, and therefore he Himself deposèd his own majesty. Wolves did pursue him, and to fly the ill He wanders—royal saint!—in sheepskin still. Poor, obscure shelter, if that shelter be Obscure, which harbours so much majesty. Hence, profane eyes! the mystery's so deep, Like Esdras books, the vulgar must not see't. Thou flying roll, written with tears and woe, Not for thy royal self, but for thy foe! Thy grief is prophecy, and doth portend, Like sad Ezekiel's sighs, the rebel's end. Thy robes forc'd off, like Samuel's when rent, Do figure out another's punishment. Nor grieve thou hast put off thyself awhile, To serve as prophet to this sinful isle; These are our days of Purim, which oppress The Church, and force thee to the wilderness. But all these clouds cannot thy light confine, The sun in storms and after them, will shine. Thy day of life cannot be yet complete, 'Tis early, sure, thy shadow is so great. But I am vex'd, that we at all can guess This change, and trust great Charles to such a dress. When he was first obscur'd with this coarse thing, He grac'd plebeians, but profan'd the king: Like some fair church, which zeal to charcoals burn'd, Or his own court now to an alehouse turn'd. But full as well may we blame night, and chide His wisdom, Who doth light with darkness hide, Or deny curtains to thy royal bed, As take this sacred cov'ring from thy head. Secrets of State are points we must not know; This vizard is thy privy-council now, Thou royal riddle, and in everything The true white prince, our hieroglyphic king! Ride safely in His shade, Who gives thee light, And can with blindness thy pursuers smite. O! may they wander all from thee as far As they from peace are, and thyself from war! And wheresoe'er thou dost design to be With thy—now spotted—spotless majesty, Be sure to look no sanctuary there, Nor hope for safety in a temple, where Buyers and sellers trade: O! strengthen not With too much trust the treason of a Scot!

Tis madness sure; and I am in the fit, To dare an eagle with my unfledg'd wit. For what did ever Rome or Athens sing In all their lines, as lofty as his wing? He that an eagle's powers would rehearse Should with his plumes first feather all his verse. I know not, when into thee I would pry, Which to admire, thy wing first, or thine eye; Or whether Nature at thy birth design'd More of her fire for thee, or of her wind. When thou in the clear heights and upmost air Dost face the sun and his dispersèd hair, Ev'n from that distance thou the sea dost spy And sporting in its deep, wide lap, the fry. Not the least minnow there but thou canst see: Whole seas are narrow spectacles to thee. Nor is this element of water here Below of all thy miracles the sphere. If poets ought may add unto thy store, Thou hast in heav'n of wonders many more. For when just Jove to earth his thunder bends, And from that bright, eternal fortress sends His louder volleys, straight this bird doth fly To Ætna, where his magazine doth lie, And in his active talons brings him more Of ammunition, and recruits his store. Nor is't a low or easy lift. He soars 'Bove wind and fire; gets to the moon, and pores With scorn upon her duller face; for she Gives him but shadows and obscurity. Here much displeas'd, that anything like night Should meet him in his proud and lofty flight, That such dull tinctures should advance so far, And rival in the glories of a star, Resolv'd he is a nobler course to try, And measures out his voyage with his eye. Then with such fury he begins his flight, As if his wings contended with his sight. Leaving the moon, whose humble light doth trade With spots, and deals most in the dark and shade, To the day's royal planet he doth pass With daring eyes, and makes the sun his glass. Here doth he plume and dress himself, the beams Rushing upon him like so many streams; While with direct looks he doth entertain The thronging flames, and shoots them back again. And thus from star to star he doth repair, And wantons in that pure and peaceful air. Sometimes he frights the starry swan, and now Orion's fearful hare, and then the crow. Then with the orb itself he moves, to see Which is more swift, th' intelligence or he. Thus with his wings his body he hath brought Where man can travel only in a thought. I will not seek, rare bird, what spirit 'tis That mounts thee thus; I'll be content with this, To think that Nature made thee to express Our soul's bold heights in a material dress.

Sir, You have oblig'd the patriarch, and 'tis known He is your debtor now, though for his own. What he wrote is a medley: we can see Confusion trespass on his piety. Misfortunes did not only strike at him, They chargèd further, and oppress'd his pen; For he wrote as his crosses came, and went By no safe rule, but by his punishment. His quill mov'd by the rod; his wits and he Did know no method, but their misery. You brought his Psalms now into tune. Nay all His measures thus are more than musical; Your method and his airs are justly sweet, And—what's church music right—like anthems meet. You did so much in this, that I believe He gave the matter, you the form did give. And yet I wish you were not understood, For now 'tis a misfortune to be good! Why then you'll say, all I would have, is this: None must be good, because the time's amiss. For since wise Nature did ordain the night, I would not have the sun to give us light. Whereas this doth not take the use away, But urgeth the necessity of day. Proceed to make your pious work as free, Stop not your seasonable charity. Good works despis'd or censur'd by bad times Should be sent out to aggravate their crimes. They should first share and then reject our store, Abuse our good, to make their guilt the more. 'Tis war strikes at our sins, but it must be A persecution wounds our piety.

Now that the public sorrow doth subside, And those slight tears which custom springs are dried; While all the rich and outside mourners pass Home from thy dust, to empty their own glass; I—who the throng affect not, nor their state— Steal to thy grave undress'd, to meditate On our sad loss, accompanied by none, An obscure mourner that would weep alone. So, when the world's great luminary sets, Some scarce known star into the zenith gets, Twinkles and curls, a weak but willing spark, As glow-worms here do glitter in the dark. Yet, since the dimmest flame that kindles there An humble love unto the light doth bear, And true devotion from an hermit's cell Will Heav'n's kind King as soon reach and as well, As that which from rich shrines and altars flies, Led by ascending incense to the skies: 'Tis no malicious rudeness, if the might Of love makes dark things wait upon the bright, And from my sad retirements calls me forth, The just recorder of thy death and worth. Long didst thou live—if length be measured by The tedious reign of our calamity— And counter to all storms and changes still Kept'st the same temper, and the selfsame will. Though trials came as duly as the day, And in such mists, that none could see his way, Yet thee I found still virtuous, and saw The sun give clouds, and Charles give both the law. When private interest did all hearts bend, And wild dissents the public peace did rend, Thou, neither won, nor worn, wert still thyself, Not aw'd by force, nor basely brib'd with pelf. What the insuperable stream of times Did dash thee with, those suff'rings were, not crimes. So the bright sun eclipses bears; and we, Because then passive, blame him not. Should he For enforc'd shades, and the moon's ruder veil Much nearer us than him, be judg'd to fail? Who traduce thee, so err. As poisons by Correction are made antidotes, so thy Just soul did turn ev'n hurtful things to good, Us'd bad laws so they drew not tears, nor blood. Heav'n was thy aim, and thy great, rare design Was not to lord it here, but there to shine. Earth nothing had, could tempt thee. All that e'er Thou pray'd'st for here was peace, and glory there. For though thy course in Time's long progress fell On a sad age, when war and open'd hell Licens'd all arts and sects, and made it free To thrive by fraud, and blood, and blasphemy: Yet thou thy just inheritance didst by No sacrilege, nor pillage multiply. No rapine swell'd thy state, no bribes, nor fees, Our new oppressors' best annuities. Such clean pure hands hadst thou! and for thy heart, Man's secret region, and his noblest part; Since I was privy to't, and had the key Of that fair room, where thy bright spirit lay, I must affirm it did as much surpass Most I have known, as the clear sky doth glass. Constant and kind, and plain, and meek, and mild It was, and with no new conceits defil'd. Busy, but sacred thoughts—like bees—did still Within it stir, and strive unto that hill Where redeem'd spirits, evermore alive, After their work is done, ascend and hive. No outward tumults reach'd this inward place: 'Twas holy ground, where peace, and love, and grace Kept house, where the immortal restless life, In a most dutiful and pious strife, Like a fix'd watch, mov'd all in order still; The will serv'd God, and ev'ry sense the will! In this safe state Death met thee, Death, which is But a kind usher of the good to bliss, Therefore to weep because thy course is run, Or droop like flow'rs, which lately lost the sun, I cannot yield, since Faith will not permit A tenure got by conquest to the pit. For the great Victor fought for us, and He Counts ev'ry dust that is laid up of thee. Besides, Death now grows decrepit, and hath Spent the most part both of its time and wrath. That thick, black night, which mankind fear'd, is torn By troops of stars, and the bright day's forlorn. The next glad news—most glad unto the just!— Will be the trumpet's summons from the dust. Then I'll not grieve; nay, more, I'll not allow My soul should think thee absent from me now. Some bid their dead "Good night!" but I will say "Good morrow to dear Charles!" for it is day.

It is perform'd! and thy great name doth run Through ev'ry sign, an everlasting sun, Not planet-like, but fixed; and we can see Thy genius stand still in his apogee. For how canst thou an aux eternal miss, Where ev'ry house thy exaltation is? Here's no ecliptic threatens thee with night, Although the wiser few take in thy light. They are not at that glorious pitch, to be In a conjunction with divinity. Could we partake some oblique ray of thine, Salute thee in a sextile, or a trine, It were enough; but thou art flown so high, The telescope is turn'd a common eye. Had the grave Chaldee liv'd thy book to see, He had known no astrology but thee; Nay, more—for I believe't—thou shouldst have been Tutor to all his planets, and to him. Thus, whosoever reads thee, his charm'd sense Proves captive to thy zodiac's influence. Were it not foul to err so, I should look Here for the Rabbins' universal book: And say, their fancies did but dream of thee, When first they doted on that mystery. Each line's a _via lactea_, where we may See thy fair steps, and tread that happy way Thy genius led thee in. Still I will be Lodg'd in some sign, some face, and some degree Of thy bright zodiac; thus I'll teach my sense To move by that, and thee th' intelligence.

Saw not, Lysimachus, last day, when we Took the pure air in its simplicity, And our own too, how the trimm'd gallants went Cringing, and pass'd each step some compliment? What strange, fantastic diagrams they drew With legs and arms; the like we never knew In Euclid, Archimede, nor all of those Whose learnèd lines are neither verse nor prose? What store of lace was there? how did the gold Run in rich traces, but withal made bold To measure the proud things, and so deride The fops with that, which was part of their pride? How did they point at us, and boldly call, As if we had been vassals to them all, Their poor men-mules, sent thither by hard fate To yoke ourselves for their sedans, and state? Of all ambitions, this was not the least, Whose drift translated man into a beast. What blind discourse the heroes did afford! This lady was their friend, and such a lord. How much of blood was in it! one could tell He came from Bevis and his Arundel; Morglay was yet with him, and he could do More feats with it than his old grandsire too. Wonders my friend at this? what is't to thee, Who canst produce a nobler pedigree, And in mere truth affirm thy soul of kin To some bright star, or to a cherubin? When these in their profuse moods spend the night, With the same sins they drive away the light. Thy learnèd thrift puts her to use, while she Reveals her fiery volume unto thee; And looking on the separated skies, And their clear lamps, with careful thoughts and eyes, Thou break'st through Nature's upmost rooms and bars To heav'n, and there conversest with the stars. Well fare such harmless, happy nights, that be Obscur'd with nothing but their privacy, And missing but the false world's glories do Miss all those vices which attend them too! Fret not to hear their ill-got, ill-giv'n praise; Thy darkest nights outshine their brightest days.

Boast not, proud Golgotha, that thou canst show The ruins of mankind, and let us know How frail a thing is flesh! though we see there But empty skulls, the Rabbins still live here. They are not dead, but full of blood again; I mean the sense, and ev'ry line a vein. Triumph not o'er their dust; whoever looks In here, shall find their brains all in their books. Nor is't old Palestine alone survives; Athens lives here, more than in Plutarch's Lives. The stones, which sometimes danc'd unto the strain Of Orpheus, here do lodge his Muse again. And you, the Roman spirits, learning has Made your lives longer than your empire was. Cæsar had perish'd from the world of men Had not his sword been rescu'd by his pen. Rare Seneca, how lasting is thy breath! Though Nero did, thou couldst not bleed to death. How dull the expert tyrant was, to look For that in thee which livèd in thy book! Afflictions turn our blood to ink, and we Commence, when writing, our eternity. Lucilius here I can behold, and see His counsels and his life proceed from thee. But what care I to whom thy Letters be? I change the name, and thou dost write to me; And in this age, as sad almost as thine, Thy stately Consolations are mine. Poor earth! what though thy viler dust enrolls The frail enclosures of these mighty souls? Their graves are all upon record; not one But is as bright and open as the sun. And though some part of them obscurely fell, And perish'd in an unknown, private cell, Yet in their books they found a glorious way To live unto the Resurrection-day! Most noble Bodley! we are bound to thee For no small part of our eternity. Thy treasure was not spent on horse and hound, Nor that new mode which doth old states confound. Thy legacies another way did go: Nor were they left to those would spend them so. Thy safe, discreet expense on us did flow; Walsam is in the midst of Oxford now. Th' hast made us all thine heirs; whatever we Hereafter write, 'tis thy posterity. This is thy monument! here thou shalt stand Till the times fail in their last grain of sand. And wheresoe'er thy silent relics keep, This tomb will never let thine honour sleep, Still we shall think upon thee; all our fame Meets here to speak one letter of thy name. Thou canst not die! here thou art more than safe, Where every book is thy large epitaph.

For shame desist, why shouldst thou seek my fall? It cannot make thee more monarchical. Leave off; thy empire is already built; To ruin me were to enlarge thy guilt, Not thy prerogative. I am not he Must be the measure to thy victory. The Fates hatch more for thee; 'twere a disgrace If in thy annals I should make a clause. The future ages will disclose such men Shall be the glory, and the end of them. Nor do I flatter. So long as there be Descents in Nature, or posterity, There must be fortunes; whether they be good, As swimming in thy tide and plenteous flood, Or stuck fast in the shallow ebb, when we Miss to deserve thy gorgeous charity. Thus, Fortune, the great world thy period is; Nature and you are parallels in this. But thou wilt urge me still. Away, be gone, I am resolv'd, I will not be undone. I scorn thy trash, and thee: nay, more, I do Despise myself, because thy subject too. Name me heir to thy malice, and I'll be; Thy hate's the best inheritance for me. I care not for your wondrous hat and purse, Make me a Fortunatus with thy curse. How careful of myself then should I be, Were I neglected by the world and thee? Why dost thou tempt me with thy dirty ore, And with thy riches make my soul so poor? My fancy's pris'ner to thy gold and thee, Thy favours rob me of my liberty. I'll to my speculations. Is't best To be confin'd to some dark, narrow chest And idolize thy stamps, when I may be Lord of all Nature, and not slave to thee? The world's my palace. I'll contemplate there, And make my progress into ev'ry sphere. The chambers of the air are mine; those three Well-furnish'd stories my possession be. I hold them all in capite, and stand Propp'd by my fancy there. I scorn your land, It lies so far below me. Here I see How all the sacred stars do circle me. Thou to the great giv'st rich food, and I do Want no content; I feed on manna too. They have their tapers; I gaze without fear On flying lamps and flaming comets here. Their wanton flesh in silks and purple shrouds, And fancy wraps me in a robe of clouds. There some delicious beauty they may woo, And I have Nature for my mistress too. But these are mean; the archetype I can see, And humbly touch the hem of majesty. The power of my soul is such, I can Expire, and so analyze all that's man. First my dull clay I give unto the Earth, Our common mother, which gives all their birth. My growing faculties I send as soon, Whence first I took them, to the humid moon. All subtleties and every cunning art To witty Mercury I do impart. Those fond affections which made me a slave To handsome faces, Venus, thou shalt have. And saucy pride—if there was aught in me— Sol, I return it to thy royalty. My daring rashness and presumptions be To Mars himself an equal legacy. My ill-plac'd avarice—sure 'tis but small— Jove, to thy flames I do bequeath it all. And my false magic, which I did believe, And mystic lies, to Saturn I do give. My dark imaginations rest you there, This is your grave and superstitious sphere. Get up, my disentangled soul, thy fire Is now refin'd, and nothing left to tire Or clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flight Hath brought me to the empyrean light. I am a sep'rate essence, and can see The emanations of the Deity, And how they pass the seraphims, and run Through ev'ry throne and domination. So rushing through the guard the sacred streams Flow to the neighbour stars, and in their beams —A glorious cataract!—descend to earth, And give impressions unto ev'ry birth. With angels now and spirits I do dwell, And here it is my nature to do well. Thus, though my body you confinèd see, My boundless thoughts have their ubiquity. And shall I then forsake the stars and signs, To dote upon thy dark and cursèd mines? Unhappy, sad exchange! what, must I buy Guiana with the loss of all the sky? Intelligences shall I leave, and be Familiar only with mortality? Must I know nought, but thy exchequer? shall My purse and fancy be symmetrical? Are there no objects left but one? must we In gaining that, lose our variety? Fortune, this is the reason I refuse Thy wealth; it puts my books all out of use. 'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind Is big with speculation, when I find My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess There is no blessing to an emptiness! The species of all things to me resort And dwell then in my breast, as in their port. Then leave to court me with thy hated store; Thou giv'st me that, to rob my soul of more.

So from our cold, rude world, which all things tires, To his warm Indies the bright sun retires. Where, in those provinces of gold and spice, Perfumes his progress, pleasures fill his eyes, Which, so refresh'd, in their return convey Fire into rubies, into crystals, day; And prove, that light in kinder climates can Work more on senseless stones, than here on man. But you, like one ordain'd to shine, take in Both light and heat, can love and wisdom spin Into one thread, and with that firmly tie The same bright blessings on posterity: Which so entail'd, like jewels of the crown, Shall, with your name, descend still to your own. When I am dead, and malice or neglect The worst they can upon my dust reflect; —For poets yet have left no names, but such As men have envied or despis'd too much— You above both—and what state more excels, Since a just fame like health, nor wants, nor swells?— To after ages shall remain entire, And shine still spotless, like your planet's fire. No single lustre neither; the access Of your fair love will yours adorn and bless; Till, from that bright conjunction, men may view A constellation circling her and you. So two sweet rose-buds from their virgin-beds First peep and blush, then kiss and couple heads, Till yearly blessings so increase their store, Those two can number two-and-twenty more, And the fair bank—by Heav'n's free bounty crown'd— With choice of sweets and beauties doth abound, Till Time, which families, like flowers, far spreads, Gives them for garlands to the best of heads. Then late posterity—if chance, or some Weak echo, almost quite expir'd and dumb, Shall tell them who the poet was, and how He liv'd and lov'd thee too, which thou dost know— Straight to my grave will flowers and spices bring, With lights and hymns, and for an offering There vow this truth, that love—which in old times Was censur'd blind, and will contract worse crimes If hearts mend not—did for thy sake in me Find both his eyes, and all foretell and see.

Now I have seen her; and by Cupid The young Medusa made me stupid! A face, that hath no lovers slain, Wants forces, and is near disdain. For every fop will freely peep At majesty that is asleep. But she—fair tyrant!—hates to be Gaz'd on with such impunity. Whose prudent rigour bravely bears And scorns the trick of whining tears, Or sighs, those false alarms of grief, Which kill not, but afford relief. Nor is it thy hard fate to be Alone in this calamity, Since I who came but to be gone, Am plagu'd for merely looking on. Mark from her forehead to her foot What charming sweets are there to do't. A head adorn'd with all those glories That wit hath shadow'd in quaint stories, Or pencil with rich colours drew In imitation of the true. Her hair, laid out in curious sets And twists, doth show like silken nets, Where—since he play'd at hit or miss— The god of Love her pris'ner is, And fluttering with his skittish wings Puts all her locks in curls and rings. Like twinkling stars her eyes invite All gazers to so sweet a light, But then two archèd clouds of brown Stand o'er, and guard them with a frown. Beneath these rays of her bright eyes, Beauty's rich bed of blushes lies. Blushes which lightning-like come on, Yet stay not to be gaz'd upon; But leave the lilies of her skin As fair as ever, and run in, Like swift salutes—which dull paint scorn— 'Twixt a white noon and crimson morn. What coral can her lips resemble? For hers are warm, swell, melt, and tremble: And if you dare contend for red, This is alive, the other dead. Her equal teeth—above, below— All of a size and smoothness grow. Where under close restraint and awe —Which is the maiden tyrant law— Like a cag'd, sullen linnet, dwells Her tongue, the key to potent spells. Her skin, like heav'n when calm and bright, Shows a rich azure under white, With touch more soft than heart supposes, And breath as sweet as new-blown roses. Betwixt this headland and the main, Which is a rich and flow'ry plain, Lies her fair neck, so fine and slender, That gently how you please 'twill bend her. This leads you to her heart, which ta'en, Pants under sheets of whitest lawn, And at the first seems much distress'd, But, nobly treated, lies at rest. Here, like two balls of new fall'n snow, Her breasts, Love's native pillows, grow; And out of each a rose-bud peeps, Which infant Beauty sucking sleeps. Say now, my Stoic, that mak'st sour faces At all the beauties and the graces, That criest, unclean! though known thyself To ev'ry coarse and dirty shelf: Couldst thou but see a piece like this, A piece so full of sweets and bliss, In shape so rare, in soul so rich, Wouldst thou not swear she is a witch?

Fool that I was! to believe blood, While swoll'n with greatness, then most good; And the false thing, forgetful man, To trust more than our true god, Pan. Such swellings to a dropsy tend, And meanest things such great ones bend. Then live deceived! and, Fida, by That life destroy fidelity. For living wrongs will make some wise, While Death chokes loudest injuries: And screens the faulty, making blinds To hide the most unworthy minds. And yet do what thou can'st to hide, A bad tree's fruit will be describ'd. For that foul guilt which first took place In his dark heart, now damns his face; And makes those eyes, where life should dwell, Look like the pits of Death and Hell. Blood, whose rich purple shows and seals Their faith in Moors, in him reveals A blackness at the heart, and is Turn'd ink to write his faithlessness. Only his lips with blood look red, As if asham'd of what they fed. Then, since he wears in a dark skin The shadows of his hell within, Expose him no more to the light, But thine own epitaph thus write "Here burst, and dead and unregarded Lies Fida's heart! O well rewarded!"

Long since great wits have left the stage Unto the drollers of the age, And noble numbers with good sense Are, like good works, grown an offence. While much of verse—worse than old story— Speaks but Jack-Pudding or John-Dory. Such trash-admirers made us poor, And pies turn'd poets out of door; For the nice spirit of rich verse Which scorns absurd and low commerce, Although a flame from heav'n, if shed On rooks or daws warms no such head. Or else the poet, like bad priest, Is seldom good, but when oppress'd; And wit as well as piety Doth thrive best in adversity For since the thunder left our air Their laurels look not half so fair. However 'tis, 'twere worse than rude, Not to profess our gratitude And debts to thee, who at so low An ebb dost make us thus to flow; And when we did a famine fear, Hast bless'd us with a fruitful year. So while the world his absence mourns, The glorious sun at last returns, And with his kind and vital looks Warms the cold earth and frozen brooks, Puts drowsy Nature into play, And rids impediments away, Till flow'rs and fruits and spices through Her pregnant lap get up and grow. But if among those sweet things, we A miracle like that could see Which Nature brought but once to pass, A Muse, such as Orinda was, Phœbus himself won by these charms Would give her up into thy arms; And recondemn'd to kiss his tree, Yield the young goddess unto thee.

Learning and Law, your day is done, And your work too; you may be gone Trever, that lov'd you, hence is fled: And Right, which long lay sick, is dead. Trever! whose rare and envied part Was both a wise and winning heart, Whose sweet civilities could move Tartars and Goths to noblest love. Bold vice and blindness now dare act, And—like the grey groat—pass, though crack'd; While those sage lips lie dumb and cold, Whose words are well-weigh'd and tried gold. O, how much to discreet desires Differs pure light from foolish fires! But nasty dregs outlast the wine, And after sunset glow-worms shine.

What smiling star in that fair night Which gave you birth gave me this sight, And with a kind aspect tho' keen Made me the subject, you the queen? That sparkling planet is got now Into your eyes, and shines below, Where nearer force and more acute It doth dispense, without dispute; For I who yesterday did know Love's fire no more than doth cool snow, With one bright look am since undone, Yet must adore and seek my sun. Before I walk'd free as the wind And if but stay'd—like it—unkind; I could like daring eagles gaze And not be blinded by a face; For what I saw till I saw thee, Was only not deformity. Such shapes appear—compar'd with thine— In arras, or a tavern-sign, And do but mind me to explore A fairer piece, that is in store. So some hang ivy to their wine, To signify there is a vine. Those princely flow'rs—by no storms vex'd— Which smile one day, and droop the next, The gallant tulip and the rose, Emblems which some use to disclose Bodied ideas—their weak grace Is mere imposture to thy face. For Nature in all things, but thee, Did practise only sophistry; Or else she made them to express How she could vary in her dress: But thou wert form'd, that we might see Perfection, not variety. Have you observ'd how the day-star Sparkles and smiles and shines from far; Then to the gazer doth convey A silent but a piercing ray? So wounds my love, but that her eyes Are in effects the better skies. A brisk bright agent from them streams Arm'd with no arrows, but their beams, And with such stillness smites our hearts, No noise betrays him, nor his darts. He, working on my easy soul, Did soon persuade, and then control; And now he flies—and I conspire— Through all my blood with wings of fire, And when I would—which will be never— With cold despair allay the fever, The spiteful thing Etesia names, And that new-fuels all my flames.

Go catch the phœnix, and then bring A quill drawn for me from his wing. Give me a maiden beauty's blood, A pure, rich crimson, without mud, In whose sweet blushes that may live, Which a dull verse can never give. Now for an untouch'd, spotless white, For blackest things on paper write, Etesia, at thine own expense Give me the robes of innocence. Could we but see a spring to run Pure milk, as sometimes springs have done, And in the snow-white streams it sheds, Carnations wash their bloody heads, While ev'ry eddy that came down Did—as thou dost—both smile and frown. Such objects, and so fresh would be But dull resemblances of thee. Thou art the dark world's morning-star, Seen only, and seen but from far; Where, like astronomers, we gaze Upon the glories of thy face, But no acquaintance more can have, Though all our lives we watch and crave. Thou art a world thyself alone, Yea, three great worlds refin'd to one; Which shows all those, and in thine eyes The shining East and Paradise. Thy soul—a spark of the first fire— Is like the sun, the world's desire; And with a nobler influence Works upon all, that claim to sense; But in summers hath no fever, And in frosts is cheerful ever. As flow'rs besides their curious dress Rich odours have, and sweetnesses, Which tacitly infuse desire, And ev'n oblige us to admire: Such, and so full of innocence Are all the charms, thou dost dispense; And like fair Nature without arts At once they seize, and please our hearts. O, thou art such, that I could be A lover to idolatry! I could, and should from heav'n stray, But that thy life shows mine the way, And leave a while the Deity To serve His image here in thee.

See you that beauteous queen, which no age tames? Her train is azure, set with golden flames: My brighter fair, fix on the East your eyes, And view that bed of clouds, whence she doth rise. Above all others in that one short hour Which most concern'd me,[64] she had greatest pow'r. This made my fortunes humorous as wind, But fix'd affections to my constant mind. She fed me with the tears of stars, and thence I suck'd in sorrows with their influence. To some in smiles, and store of light she broke, To me in sad eclipses still she spoke. She bent me with the motion of her sphere, And made me feel what first I did but fear. But when I came to age, and had o'ergrown Her rules, and saw my freedom was my own, I did reply unto the laws of Fate, And made my reason my great advocate: I labour'd to inherit my just right; But then—O, hear Etesia!—lest I might Redeem myself, my unkind starry mother Took my poor heart, and gave it to another.

O, subtle Love! thy peace is war, It wounds and kills without a scar, It works unknown to any sense, Like the decrees of Providence, And with strange silence shoots me through, The fire of Love doth fell like snow. Hath she no quiver, but my heart? Must all her arrows hit that part? Beauties like heav'n their gifts should deal Not to destroy us, but to heal. Strange art of Love! that can make sound, And yet exasperates the wound: That look she lent to ease my heart, Hath pierc'd it, and improv'd the smart.

O Dulcis Iuctus, risuque potentior omni! Quem decorant lachrimis sidera tanta suis. Quam tacitæ spirant auræ! vultusque nitentes Contristant veneres, collachrimantque suæ! Ornat gutta genas, oculisque simillima gemma: Et tepido vivas irrigat imbre rosas. Dicite Chaldæi! quæ me fortuna fatigat, ?um formosa dies et sine nube perit[65]?

Go, if you must! but stay—and know And mind before you go, my vow. To ev'ry thing, but heav'n and you, With all my heart I bid adieu! Now to those happy shades I'll go Where first I saw my beauteous foe! I'll seek each silent path where we Did walk; and where you sat with me I'll sit again, and never rest Till I can find some flow'r you press'd. That near my dying heart I'll keep, And when it wants dew I will weep: Sadly I will repeat past joys And words, which you did sometimes voice I'll listen to the woods, and hear The echo answer for you there. But famish'd with long absence I, Like infants left, at last shall cry, And tears—as they do milk—will sup Until you come, and take me up.

Love, the world's life! what a sad death Thy absence is! to lose our breath At once and die, is but to live Enlarg'd, without the scant reprieve Of pulse and air; whose dull returns And narrow circles the soul mourns. But to be dead alive, and still To wish, but never have our will, To be possess'd, and yet to miss, To wed a true but absent bliss, Are ling'ring tortures, and their smart Dissects and racks and grinds the heart! As soul and body in that state Which unto us, seems separate, Cannot be said to live, until Reunion; which days fulfil And slow-pac'd seasons; so in vain Through hours and minutes—Time's long train— I look for thee, and from thy sight, As from my soul, for life and light. For till thine eyes shine so on me, Mine are fast-clos'd and will not see.