Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist Part 10

How thou arrests my sense! how with the sight My winter'd blood grows stiff to all delight!

Torpedo to the eye! whose least glance can Freeze our wild l.u.s.ts, and rescue headlong man.

Eloquent silence! able to immure An atheist's thoughts, and blast an epicure.

Were I a Lucian, Nature in this dress Would make me wish a Saviour, and confess.

Where are you, sh.o.r.eless thoughts, vast tenter'd hope, Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope, Whose stretch'd excess runs on a string too high, And on the rack of self-extension die?

Chameleons of state, air-monging band, Whose breath--like gunpowder--blows up a land, Come see your dissolution, and weigh What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day.

As th' elements by circulation pa.s.s From one to th' other, and that which first was I so again, so 'tis with you; the grave And Nature but complot; what the one gave The other takes; think, then, that in this bed There sleep the relics of as proud a head, As stern and subtle as your own, that hath Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath Hath levell'd kings with slaves, and wisely then Calm these high furies, and descend to men.

Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon; a tomb Check'd him, who thought the world too straight a room.

Have I obey'd the powers of face, A beauty able to undo the race Of easy man? I look but here, and straight I am inform'd, the lovely counterfeit Was but a smoother clay. That famish'd slave Beggar'd by wealth, who starves that he may save, Brings. .h.i.ther but his sheet; nay, th' ostrich-man That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff, Is chap-fall'n here: worms without wit or fear Defy him now; Death hath disarm'd the bear.

Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score Of erring men, and having done, meet more, Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents, Fantastic humours, perilous ascents, False, empty honours, traitorous delights, And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites; But these and more which the weak vermins swell, Are couch'd in this acc.u.mulative cell, Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone; Day leaves me in a double night, and I Must bid farewell to my sad library.

Yet with these notes--Henceforth with thought of thee I'll season all succeeding jollity, Yet d.a.m.n not mirth, nor think too much is fit; Excess hath no religion, nor wit; But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain, One check from thee shall channel it again.

IN AMIc.u.m F[OE]NERATOREM.

Thanks, mighty Silver! I rejoice to see How I have spoil'd his thrift, by spending thee.

Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more, His decoy gold, and bribes me to restore.

As lesser lode-stones with the North consent, Naturally moving to their element, As bodies swarm to th' centre, and that fire Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire, So this vast crying sum draws in a less; And hence this bag more Northward laid I guess, For 'tis of pole-star force, and in this sphere Though th' least of many, rules the master-bear.

Prerogative of debts! how he doth dress His messages in c.h.i.n.k! not an express Without a fee for reading; and 'tis fit, For gold's the best restorative of wit.

Oh how he gilds them o'er! with what delight I read those lines, which angels do indite!

But wilt have money, Og? must I dispurse Will nothing serve thee but a poet's curse?

Wilt rob an altar thus? and sweep at once What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones?

'Twill never swell thy bag, nor ring one peal In thy dark chest. Talk not of shreeves, or gaol; I fear them not. I have no land to glut Thy dirty appet.i.te, and make thee strut Nimrod of acres; I'll no speech prepare To court the hopeful cormorant, thine heir.

For there's a kingdom at thy beck if thou But kick this dross: Parna.s.sus' flow'ry brow I'll give thee with my Tempe, and to boot That horse which struck a fountain with his foot.

A bed of roses I'll provide for thee, And crystal springs shall drop thee melody.

The breathing shades we'll haunt, where ev'ry leaf Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deaf.

Those waggish nymphs, too, which none ever yet Durst make love to, we'll teach the loving fit; We'll suck the coral of their lips, and feed Upon their spicy breath, a meal at need: Rove in their amber-tresses, and unfold That glist'ring grove, the curled wood of gold; Then peep for babies, a new puppet play, And riddle what their prattling eyes would say.

But here thou must remember to dispurse, For without money all this is a curse.

Thou must for more bags call, and so restore This iron age to gold, as once before.

This thou must do, and yet this is not all, For thus the poet would be still in thrall, Thou must then--if live thus--my nest of honey Cancel old bonds, and beg to lend more money.

TO HIS FRIEND----

I wonder, James, through the whole history Of ages, such entails of poverty Are laid on poets; lawyers--they say--have found A trick to cut them; would they were but bound To practise on us, though for this thing we Should pay--if possible--their bribes and fee.

Search--as thou canst--the old and modern store Of Rome and ours, in all the witty score Thou shalt not find a rich one; take each clime, And run o'er all the pilgrimage of time, Thou'lt meet them poor, and ev'rywhere descry A threadbare, goldless genealogy.

Nature--it seems--when she meant us for earth Spent so much of her treasure in the birth As ever after n.i.g.g.ards her, and she, Thus stor'd within, beggars us outwardly.

Woful profusion! at how dear a rate Are we made up! all hope of thrift and state Lost for a verse. When I by thoughts look back Into the womb of time, and see the rack Stand useless there, until we are produc'd Unto the torture, and our souls infus'd To learn afflictions, I begin to doubt That as some tyrants use from their chain'd rout Of slaves to pick out one whom for their sport They keep afflicted by some ling'ring art; So we are merely thrown upon the stage The mirth of fools and legend of the age.

When I see in the ruins of a suit Some n.o.bler breast, and his tongue sadly mute Feed on the vocal silence of his eye, And knowing cannot reach the remedy; When souls of baser stamp shine in their store, And he of all the throng is only poor; When French apes for foreign fashions pay, And English legs are dress'd th' outlandish way, So fine too, that they their own shadows woo, While he walks in the sad and pilgrim shoe; I'm mad at Fate, and angry ev'n to sin, To see deserts and learning clad so thin; To think how th' earthly usurer can brood Upon his bags, and weigh the precious food With palsied hands, as if his soul did fear The scales could rob him of what he laid there.

Like devils that on hid treasures sit, or those Whose jealous eyes trust not beyond their nose, They guard the dirt and the bright idol hold Close, and commit adultery with gold.

A curse upon their dross! how have we sued For a few scatter'd chips? how oft pursu'd Pet.i.tions with a blush, in hope to squeeze For their souls' health, more than our wants, a piece?

Their steel-ribb'd chests and purse--rust eat them both!-- Have cost us with much paper many an oath, And protestations of such solemn sense, As if our souls were sureties for the pence.

Should we a full night's learned cares present, They'll scarce return us one short hour's content.

'Las! they're but quibbles, things we poets feign, The short-liv'd squibs and crackers of the brain.

But we'll be wiser, knowing 'tis not they That must redeem the hardship of our way.

Whether a Higher Power, or that star Which, nearest heav'n, is from the earth most far, Oppress us thus, or angell'd from that sphere By our strict guardians are kept luckless here, It matters not, we shall one day obtain Our native and celestial scope again.

TO HIS RETIRED FRIEND, AN INVITATION TO BRECKNOCK.

Since last we met, thou and thy horse--my dear-- Have not so much as drunk, or litter'd here; I wonder, though thyself be thus deceas'd, Thou hast the spite to coffin up thy beast; Or is the palfrey sick, and his rough hide With the penance of one spur mortified?

Or taught by thee--like Pythagoras's ox-- Is then his master grown more orthodox Whatever 'tis, a sober cause't must be That thus long bars us of thy company.

The town believes thee lost, and didst thou see But half her suff'rings, now distress'd for thee, Thou'ldst swear--like Rome--her foul, polluted walls Were sack'd by Brennus and the savage Gauls.

Abominable face of things! here's noise Of banged mortars, blue ap.r.o.ns, and boys, Pigs, dogs, and drums, with the hoa.r.s.e, h.e.l.lish notes Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats, With new fine Worships, and the old cast team Of Justices vex'd with the cough and phlegm.

'Midst these the Cross looks sad, and in the Shire- Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear, With brotherly ruffs and beards, and a strange sight Of high monumental hats, ta'en at the fight Of 'Eighty-eight; while ev'ry burgess foots The mortal pavement in eternal boots.

Hadst thou been bach'lor, I had soon divin'd Thy close retirements, and monastic mind; Perhaps some nymph had been to visit, or The beauteous churl was to be waited for, And like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss, You stay'd, and strok'd the distaff for a kiss.

But in this age, when thy cool, settled blood Is ti'd t'one flesh, and thou almost grown good, I know not how to reach the strange device, Except--Domitian-like--thou murder'st flies.

Or is't thy piety? for who can tell But thou may'st prove devout, and love a cell, And--like a badger--with attentive looks In the dark hole sit rooting up of books.

Quick hermit! what a peaceful change hadst thou, Without the noise of haircloth, whip, or vow!

But there is no redemption? must there be No other penance but of liberty?

Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus, Thy memory will scarce remain with us, The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim They have not seen thee here since Charles, his reign, Or if they mention thee, like some old man, That at each word inserts--"Sir, as I can Remember"--so the cyph'rers puzzle me With a dark, cloudy character of thee.

That--certs!--I fear thou wilt be lost, and we Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee.

Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine And precious wit lie dead for want of thine.

Shall the dull market-landlord with his rout Of sneaking tenants dirtily swill out This harmless liquor? shall they knock and beat For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat?

O let not such prepost'rous tippling be In our metropolis; may I ne'er see Such tavern-sacrilege, nor lend a line To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine!

Here lives that chymic, quick fire which betrays Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays.

I have reserv'd 'gainst thy approach a cup That were thy Muse stark dead, shall raise her up, And teach her yet more charming words and skill Than ever C[oe]lia, Chloris, Astrophil, Or any of the threadbare names inspir'd Poor rhyming lovers with a mistress fir'd.

Come then! and while the slow icicle hangs At the stiff thatch, and Winter's frosty pangs Benumb the year, blithe--as of old--let us 'Midst noise and war of peace and mirth discuss.

This portion thou wert born for: why should we Vex at the time's ridiculous misery?

An age that thus hath fool'd itself, and will --Spite of thy teeth and mine--persist so still.

Let's sit then at this fire, and while we steal A revel in the town, let others seal, Purchase or cheat, and who can, let them pay, Till those black deeds bring on the darksome day.

Innocent spenders we! a better use Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse Rout to their husks; they and their bags at best Have cares in earnest; we care for a jest.

MONSIEUR GOMBAULD.

I've read thy soul's fair nightpiece, and have seen Th' amours and courtship of the silent Queen, Her stoln descents to Earth, and what did move her To juggle first with Heav'n, then with a lover, With Latmos' louder rescue, and--alas!-- To find her out a hue and cry in bra.s.s; Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad Nocturnal pilgrimage, with thy dreams clad In fancies darker than thy cave, thy gla.s.s Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pa.s.s In her calm voyage what discourse she heard Of spirits, what dark groves and ill-shap'd guard Ismena led thee through, with thy proud flight O'er Periardes, and deep, musing night Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green The neighbour shades wear, and what forms are seen In their large bowers, with that sad path and seat Which none but light-heel'd nymphs and fairies beat;[55]

Their solitary life, and how exempt From common frailty, the severe contempt They have of man, their privilege to live A tree, or fountain, and in that reprieve What ages they consume, with the sad vale Of Diophania, and the mournful tale, Of th' bleeding vocal myrtle; these and more Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score To thy rare fancy for, nor dost thou fall From thy first majesty, or ought at all Betray consumption; thy full vig'rous bays Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays Of style, or matter. Just so have I known Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down Deriv'd her birth, in gentle murmurs steal To their next vale, and proudly there reveal Her streams in louder accents, adding still More noise and waters to her channel, till At last swoln with increase she glides along The lawns and meadows in a wanton throng Of frothy billows, and in one great name Swallows the tributary brooks' drown'd fame.

Nor are they mere inventions, for we In th' same piece find scatter'd philosophy And hidden, dispers'd truths that folded lie In the dark shades of deep allegory; So neatly weav'd, like arras, they descry Fables with truth, fancy with history.

So that thou hast in this thy curious mould Cast that commended mixture wish'd of old, Which shall these contemplations render far Less mutable, and lasting as their star, And while there is a people or a sun, Endymion's story with the moon shall run.

FOOTNOTES:

[55] So Grosart, for the _heat_ of the original.