ABRAHAM COWLEY 1618–1667

Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given The two most sacred names of earth and heaven; The hard and rarest union which can be, Next that of Godhead with humanity. Long did the muses banished slaves abide, And built vain pyramids to mortal pride; Like Moses, thou (though spells and charms withstand) Hast brought them nobly back home to their Holy Land. Ah, wretched we, poets of earth! but thou Wert living the same poet which thou’rt now. Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine, And join in an applause so great as thine, Equal society with them to hold, Thou need’st not make new songs, but say the old. And they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see How little less than they exalted man may be. Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell, The heavenliest thing on earth still keeps up hell. Nor have we yet quite purged the Christian land; Still idols here, like calves at Bethel, stand. And though Pan’s death long since all oracles broke, Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke: Nay, with the worst of heathen dotage we (Vain men!) the monster woman deify; Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face, And paradise in them, by whom we lost it, place. What different faults corrupt our muses thus! Wanton as girls, as old wives fabulous! Thy spotless muse, like Mary, did contain The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain That her eternal verse employed should be On a less subject than eternity; And for a sacred mistress scorned to take But her whom God Himself scorned not His spouse to make. It (in a kind) her miracle did do; A fruitful mother was and virgin too. How well, blest swan, did Fate contrive thy death, And make thee render up thy tuneful breath In thy great Mistress’ arms, thou most divine And richest offering of Loretto’s shrine! Where, like some holy sacrifice to expire, A fever burns thee, and love lights the fire. Angels (they say) brought the famed chapel there, And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air. ’Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they And thou, their charge, went singing all the way.

Hail, bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the poets militant below. Opposed by our old enemy, adverse chance, Attacked by envy and by ignorance, Enchained by beauty, tortured by desires, Exposed by tyrant love to savage beasts and fires. Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise, And, like Elijah, mount alive the skies. Elisha-like (but with a wish much less, More fit thy greatness and my littleness), Lo, here I beg (I, whom thou once didst prove So humble to esteem, so good to love) Not that thy spirit might on me doubled be— I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me; And when my muse soars with so strong a wing, ’Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee, to sing.

First-born of chaos, who so fair didst come From the old Negro’s darksome womb! Which, when it saw the lovely child, The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smiled!

Thou tide of glory which no rest dost know, But ever ebb and ever flow! Thou golden shower of a true Jove Who does in thee descend, and Heaven to Earth make love!

Hail, active Nature’s watchful life and health! Her joy, her ornament, and wealth! Hail to thy husband, Heat, and thee! Thou the world’s beauteous Bride, the lusty Bridegroom he.

Say from what golden quivers of the sky Do all thy winged arrows fly? Swiftness and power by birth are thine: From thy great Sire they came, thy Sire the Word Divine.

’Tis, I believe, this archery to show, That so much cost in colours thou And skill in painting dost bestow Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heavenly bow.

Swift as light thoughts their empty career run, Thy race is finished when begun. Let a post-angel start with thee, And thou the goal of earth shalt reach as soon as he.

Thou, in the moon’s bright chariot proud and gay, Dost thy bright wood of stars survey; And all the year dost with thee bring Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal spring.

Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above The sun’s gilt tent for ever move; And still as thou in pomp dost go, The shining pageants of the world attend thy show.

Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn The humble glow-worms to adorn, And with those living spangles gild (O, greatness without pride!) the lilies of the field.

Night and her ugly subjects thou dost fright, And sleep, the lazy owl of night; Ashamed and fearful to appear, They screen their horrid shapes with the black hemisphere.

With them there hastes, and wildly takes the alarm Of painted dreams a busy swarm. At the first opening of thine eye The various clusters break, the antic atoms fly.

The guilty serpents and obscener beasts Creep, conscious, to their secret rests; Nature to thee does reverence pay, Ill omens and ill sights remove out of thy way.

At thy appearance, Grief itself is said To shake his wings and rouse his head: And cloudy Care has often took A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look.

At thy appearance, Fear itself grows bold; Thy sunshine melts away his cold. Encouraged at the sight of thee, To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee.

Even Lust, the master of a hardened face, Blushes, if thou be’st in the place, To darkness’ curtain he retires, In sympathising night he rolls his smoky fires.

When, goddess, thou lift’st up thy wakened head Out of the morning’s purple bed, Thy quire of birds about thee play, And all thy joyful world salutes the rising day.

The ghosts and monster-spirits that did presume A body’s privilege to assume, Vanish again invisibly, And bodies gain again their visibility.

All the world’s bravery that delights our eyes, Is but thy several liveries: Thou the rich dye on them bestow’st, Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go’st.

A crimson garment in the rose thou wear’st, A crown of studded gold thou bear’st. The virgin lilies in their white Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light.

The violet, Spring’s little infant, stands Girt in the purple swaddling-bands; On the fair tulip thou dost dote, Thou cloth’st it in a gay and parti-coloured coat.

With flames condensed thou dost thy jewels fix, And solid colours in it mix: Flora herself envies to see Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she.

Ah goddess! would thou couldst thy hand withhold And be less liberal to gold; Didst thou less value to it give, Of how much care (alas!) might’st thou poor man relieve.

To me the sun is more delightful far, And all fair days much fairer are. But few, ah, wondrous few there be Who do not gold prefer, O goddess, even to thee!

Through the soft ways of heaven, and air, and sea, Which open all their pores to thee; Like a clear river thou dost glide, And with thy living streams through the close channels slide.

But where firm bodies thy free course oppose, Gently thy source the land o’erflows; Takes there possession, and does make, Of colours mingled, Light, a thick and standing lake.

But the vast ocean of unbounded Day In the Empyrean Heaven does stay. Thy rivers, lakes, and springs below From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow.