Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist Part 23

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.

THE CHARACTER, TO ETESIA.

Go catch the ph[oe]nix, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 n.o.bler 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.

TO ETESIA LOOKING FROM HER CAs.e.m.e.nT AT THE FULL MOON.

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[64] The original has _concerned in_.

TO ETESIA PARTED FROM HIM, AND LOOKING BACK.

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. .h.i.t 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.

IN ETESIAM LACHRYMANTEM.

O Dulcis Iuctus, risuque potentior omni!

Quem decorant lachrimis sidera tanta suis.

Quam tacitae spirant aurae! vultusque nitentes Contristant veneres, collachrimantque suae!

Ornat gutta genas, oculisque simillima gemma: Et tepido vivas irrigat imbre rosas.

Dicite Chaldaei! quae me fortuna fatigat, [C?D?]um formosa dies et sine nube perit[65]?

FOOTNOTES:

[65] The original has _peruit_.

TO ETESIA GOING BEYOND SEA.

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.

ETESIA ABSENT.