Poetical Works of Edmund Waller and Sir John Denham Part 8

THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE,[1] APPLIED.

Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train, Fair Saccharissa loved, but loved in vain; Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous boy; Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy!

With numbers he the flying nymph pursues, With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use!

Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads, O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads; Invoked to testify the lover's care, Or form some image of his cruel fair. 10 Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer, O'er these he fled; and now approaching near, Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay, Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.

Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain; All, but the nymph that should redress his wrong, Attend his pa.s.sion, and approve his song.

Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise, He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.[1] 20

[1] 'Daphne': Ovid's _Metamorphoses_, b. i.

ON THE FRIENDSHIP BETWIXT SACCHARISSA AND AMORET.

1 Tell me, lovely, loving pair!

Why so kind, and so severe?

Why so careless of our care, Only to yourselves so dear?

2 By this cunning change of hearts, You the power of Love control; While the boy's deluded darts Can arrive at neither soul.

3 For in vain to either breast Still beguiled Love does come, Where he finds a foreign guest, Neither of your hearts at home.

4 Debtors thus with like design, When they never mean to pay, That they may the law decline, To some friend make all away.

5 Not the silver doves that fly, Yoked in Cytherea's car; Not the wings that lift so high, And convey her son so far;

6 Are so lovely, sweet, and fair, Or do more enn.o.ble love; Are so choicely match'd a pair, Or with more consent do move.

AT PENSHURST.[1]

While in this park I sing, the list'ning deer Attend my pa.s.sion, and forget to fear; When to the beeches I report my flame, They bow their heads, as if they felt the same.

To G.o.ds appealing, when I reach their bowers With loud complaints, they answer me in showers.

To thee a wild and cruel soul is given, More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heaven!

Love's foe profess'd! why dost thou falsely feign Thyself a Sidney? from which n.o.ble strain 10 He sprung,[2] that could so far exalt the name Of love, and warm our nation with his flame; That all we can of love, or high desire, Seems but the smoke of am'rous Sidney's fire.

Nor call her mother, who so well does prove One breast may hold both chast.i.ty and love.

Never can she, that so exceeds the spring In joy and bounty, be supposed to bring One so destructive. To no human stock We owe this fierce unkindness, but the rock, 20 That cloven rock produced thee, by whose side Nature, to recompense the fatal pride Of such stern beauty, placed those healing springs,[3]

Which not more help, than that destruction, brings.

Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stone, I might, like Orpheus, with my num'rous moan Melt to compa.s.sion; now, my trait'rous song With thee conspires to do the singer wrong; While thus I suffer not myself to lose 29 The memory of what augments my woes; But with my own breath still foment the fire, Which flames as high as fancy can aspire!

This last complaint th'indulgent ears did pierce Of just Apollo, president of verse; Highly concerned that the Muse should bring Damage to one whom he had taught to sing, Thus he advised me: 'On yon aged tree Hang up thy lute, and hie thee to the sea, That there with wonders thy diverted mind Some truce, at least, may with this pa.s.sion find.' 40 Ah, cruel nymph! from whom her humble swain Flies for relief unto the raging main, And from the winds and tempests does expect A milder fate than from her cold neglect!

Yet there he'll pray that the unkind may prove Bless'd in her choice; and vows this endless love Springs from no hope of what she can confer, But from those gifts which Heaven has heap'd on her.

[1] 'Penshurst': his farewell verses to Dorothy.

[2] 'Sprung': Sir Philip Sidney.

[3] 'Springs': Tunbridge Wells.

THE BATTLE OF THE SUMMER ISLANDS.[1]

CANTO I.

What fruits they have, and how Heaven smiles Upon these late-discovered isles.

Aid me, Bellona! while the dreadful fight Betwixt a nation and two whales I write.

Seas stain'd with gore I sing, advent'rous toil!

And how these monsters did disarm an isle.

Bermuda, wall'd with rocks, who does not know?

That happy island where huge lemons grow, And orange-trees, which golden fruit do bear, Th' Hesperian garden boasts of none so fair; Where shining pearl, coral, and many a pound, On the rich sh.o.r.e, of ambergris is found. 10 The lofty cedar, which to heaven aspires, The prince of trees! is fuel to their fires; The smoke by which their loaded spits do turn, For incense might on sacred altars burn; Their private roofs on od'rous timber borne, Such as might palaces for kings adorn.

The sweet palmettos a new Bacchus yield,[2]

With leaves as ample as the broadest shield, Under the shadow of whose friendly boughs They sit, carousing where their liquor grows. 20 Figs there unplanted through the fields do grow, Such as fierce Cato did the Romans show, With the rare fruit inviting them to spoil Carthage, the mistress of so rich a soil.

The naked rocks are not unfruitful there, But, at some constant seasons, every year, Their barren tops with luscious food abound, And with the eggs of various fowls are crown'd.

Tobacco is the worst of things, which they To English landlords, as their tribute, pay. 30 Such is the mould, that the bless'd tenant feeds On precious fruits, and pays his rent in weeds.

With candied plantains, and the juicy pine, On choicest melons, and sweet grapes, they dine, And with potatoes fat their wanton swine.

Nature these cates with such a lavish hand Pours out among them, that our coa.r.s.er land Tastes of that bounty, and does cloth return, Which not for warmth, but ornament, is worn; For the kind spring, which but salutes us here, 40 Inhabits there, and courts them all the year.

Ripe fruits and blossoms on the same trees live; At once they promise what at once they give.

So sweet the air, so moderate the clime, None sickly lives, or dies before his time.

Heaven sure has kept this spot of earth uncursed, To show how all things were created first.

The tardy plants in our cold orchards placed, Reserve their fruit for the next age's taste; There a small grain in some few months will be 50 A firm, a lofty, and a s.p.a.cious tree.

The palma-christi, and the fair papa, Now but a seed (preventing nature's law), In half the circle of the hasty year Project a shade, and lovely fruits do wear.

And as their trees in our dull region set, But faintly grow, and no perfection get, So, in this northern tract, our hoa.r.s.er throats Utter unripe and ill-constrained notes, While the supporter of the poets' style, 60 Phoebus, on them eternally does smile.

Oh! how I long my careless limbs to lay Under the plantain's shade, and all the day With am'rous airs my fancy entertain, Invoke the Muses, and improve my vein!

No pa.s.sion there in my free breast should move, None but the sweet and best of pa.s.sions, love.

There while I sing, if gentle love be by, 68 That tunes my lute, and winds the string so high, With the sweet sound of Saccharissa's name I'll make the list'ning savages grow tame.-- But while I do these pleasing dreams indite, I am diverted from the promised fight.

[1] 'Summer Islands': the Bermudas, which received the name of the Summer Islands, or more properly, Somers' Islands, from Sir George Somers, who was cast away on the coast early in the seventeenth century, and established a colony there.

[2] 'Bacchus yield': from the palmetto, a species of palm in the West Indies, is extracted an intoxicating drink.

CANTO II.

Of their alarm, and how their foes Discover'd were, this Canto shows.