Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist Part 14

[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, pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sions 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 G.o.dship, 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 rea.s.sumes 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 G.o.ds, 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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.sail 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 G.o.ds, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.e.x 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 rehea.r.s.e.

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 h.o.a.ry; 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.

O in what haste, with clouds and night Eclips'd, and having lost her light, The dull soul whom distraction rends Into outward darkness tends!

How often--by these mists made blind-- Have earthly cares oppress'd the mind!