Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 70

Peace brought forth plenty, plenty bred content, And that crowned all their plans with merriment.

They had no foe, secure they lived in tents, All was their own they had, they paid no rents; Their sheep found clothing, earth provided food, And labour dressed them as their wills thought good; On unbought delicates their hunger fed, And for their drink the swelling cl.u.s.ters bled; The valleys rang with their delicious strains, And pleasure revelled on those happy plains; Content and labour gave them length of days, And peace served in delight a thousand ways.

THEALMA, A DESERTED SHEPHERDESS.

Scarce had the ploughman yoked his horned team, And locked their traces to the crooked beam, When fair Thealma, with a maiden scorn, That day before her rise, outblushed the morn; Scarce had the sun gilded the mountain-tops, When forth she leads her tender ewes.

Down in a valley, 'twixt two rising hills, From whence the dew in silver drops distils To enrich the lowly plain, a river ran, Hight Cygnus, (as some think, from Leda's swan That there frequented;) gently on it glides, And makes indentures in her crooked sides, And with her silent murmurs rocks asleep Her watery inmates; 'twas not very deep, But clear as that Narcissus looked in, when His self-love made him cease to live with men.

Close by the river was a thick-leafed grove, Where swains of old sang stories of their love, But unfrequented now since Colin died-- Colin, that king of shepherds, and the pride Of all Arcadia;--here Thealma used To feed her milky droves; and as they browsed, Under the friendly shadow of a beech She sat her down; grief had tongue-tied her speech, Her words were sighs and tears--dumb eloquence-- Heard only by the sobs, and not the sense.

With folded arms she sat, as if she meant To hug those woes which in her breast were pent; Her looks were nailed to earth, that drank Her tears with greediness, and seemed to thank Her for those briny showers, and in lieu Returns her flowery sweetness for her dew.

'O my Clearchus!' said she, and with tears Embalms his name: 'oh, if the ghosts have ears, Or souls departed condescend so low, To sympathise with mortals in their woe, Vouchsafe to lend a gentle ear to me, Whose life is worse than death, since not with thee.

What privilege have they that are born great Move than the meanest swain? The proud waves beat With more impetuousness upon high lands, Than on the flat and less-resisting strands: The lofty cedar, and the knotty oak, Are subject more unto the thunder-stroke, Than the low shrubs that no such shocks endure; Even their contempt doth make them live secure.

Had I been born the child of some poor swain, Whose thoughts aspire no higher than the plain, I had been happy then; t'have kept these sheep, Had been a princely pleasure; quiet sleep Had drowned my cares, or sweetened them with dreams: Love and content had been my music's themes; Or had Clearchus lived the life I lead, I had been blest!'

PRIESTESS OF DIANA.

Within a little silent grove hard by, Upon a small ascent, he might espy A stately chapel, richly gilt without, Beset with shady sycamores about: And ever and anon he might well hear A sound of music steal in at his ear As the wind gave it being; so sweet an air Would strike a syren mute.--

A hundred virgins there he might espy Prostrate before a marble deity, Which, by its portraiture, appeared to be The image of Diana; on their knee They tendered their devotions, with sweet airs, Offering the incense of their praise and prayers.

Their garments all alike; beneath their paps Buckled together with a silver claps, And 'cross their snowy silken robes, they wore An azure scarf, with stars embroidered o'er.

Their hair in curious tresses was knit up, Crowned with a silver crescent on the top.

A silver bow their left hand held, their right, For their defence, held a sharp-headed flight Drawn from their broidered quiver, neatly tied In silken cords, and fastened to their side.

Under their vestments, something short before, White buskins, laced with ribanding, they wore.

It was a catching sight for a young eye, That love had fired before. He might espy One, whom the rest had sphere-like circled round, Whose head was with a golden chaplet crowned.

He could not see her face, only his ear Was blessed with the sweet sounds that came from her.

THEALMA IN FULL DRESS.

----Tricked herself in all her best attire, As if she meant this day to invite desire To fall in love with her; her loose hair Hung on her shoulders, sporting with the air; Her brow a coronet of rosebuds crowned, With loving woodbines' sweet embraces bound.

Two globe-like pearls were pendant to her ears, And on her breast a costly gem she wears, An adamant, in fashion like a heart, Whereon Love sat, a-plucking out a dart, With this same motto graven round about, On a gold border, 'Sooner in than out.'

This gem Clearchus gave her, when, unknown, At tilt his valour won her for his own.

Instead of bracelets on her wrists, she wore A pair of golden shackles, chained before Unto a silver ring, enamelled blue, Whereon in golden letters to the view This motto was presented, 'Bound, yet free,'

And in a true-love's knot, a T and C Buckled it fast together; her silk gown Of gra.s.sy green, in equal plaits hung down Unto the earth; and as she went, the flowers, Which she had broidered on it at spare hours, Were wrought so to the life, they seemed to grow In a green field; and as the wind did blow, Sometimes a lily, then a rose, takes place, And blushing seems to hide it in the gra.s.s: And here and there good oats 'mong pearls she strew, That seemed like spinning glow-worms in the dew.

Her sleeves were tinsel, wrought with leaves of green In equal distance spangeled between, And shadowed over with a thin lawn cloud, Through which her workmanship more graceful showed.

DWELLING OF THE WITCH ORANDRA.

Down in a gloomy valley, thick with shade, Which two aspiring hanging rocks had made, That shut out day, and barred the glorious sun From prying into the actions there done; Set full of box and cypress, poplar, yew, And hateful elder that in thickets grew, Among whose boughs the screech-owl and night-crow Sadly recount their prophecies of woe, Where leather-winged bats, that hate the light, Fan the thick air, more sooty than the night.

The ground o'ergrown with weeds and bushy shrubs, Where milky hedgehogs nurse their p.r.i.c.kly cubs: And here and there a mandrake grows, that strikes The hearers dead with their loud fatal shrieks; Under whose spreading leaves the ugly toad, The adder, and the snake, make their abode.

Here dwelt Orandra; so the witch was hight, And hither had she toiled him by a sleight: She knew Anaxus was to go to court, And, envying virtue, she made it her sport To hinder him, sending her airy spies Forth with delusion to entrap his eyes, As would have fired a hermit's chill desires Into a flame; his greedy eye admires The more than human beauty of her face, And much ado he had to shun the grace; Conceit had shaped her out so like his love, That he was once about in vain to prove Whether 'twas his Clarinda, yea or no, But he bethought him of his herb, and so The shadow vanished; many a weary step It led the prince, that pace with it still kept, Until it brought him by a h.e.l.lish power Unto the entrance of Orandra's bower, Where underneath an elder-tree he spied His man Pandevius, pale and hollow-eyed; Inquiring of the cunning witch what fate Betid his master; they were newly sate When his approach disturbed them; up she rose, And toward Anaxus (envious hag) she goes; Pandevius she had charmed into a maze, And struck him mute, all he could do was gaze.

He called him by his name, but all in vain, Echo returns 'Pandevius' back again; Which made him wonder, when a sudden fear Shook all his joints: she, cunning hag, drew near, And smelling to his herb, he recollects His wandering spirits, and with anger checks His coward fears; resolved now to outdare The worst of dangers, whatsoe'er they were; He eyed her o'er and o'er, and still his eye Found some addition to deformity.

An old decrepit hag she was, grown white With frosty age, and withered with despite And self-consuming hate; in furs yclad, And on her head a thrummy cap she had.

Her knotty locks, like to Alecto's snakes,

Hang down about her shoulders, which she shakes Into disorder; on her furrowed brow One might perceive Time had been long at plough.

Her eyes, like candle-snuffs, by age sunk quite Into their sockets, yet like cats' eyes bright: And in the darkest night like fire they shined, The ever-open windows of her mind.

Her swarthy cheeks, Time, that all things consumes, Had hollowed flat into her toothless gums.

Her hairy brows did meet above her nose, That like an eagle's beak so crooked grows, It well-nigh kissed her chin; thick bristled hair Grew on her upper lip, and here and there A rugged wart with grisly hairs behung; Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s shrunk up, her nails and fingers long; Her left leant on a staff, in her right hand She always carried her enchanting wand.

Splay-footed, beyond nature, every part So patternless deformed, 'twould puzzle art To make her counterfeit; only her tongue, Nature had that most exquisitely strung, Her oily language came so smoothly from her, And her quaint action did so well become her, Her winning rhetoric met with no trips, But chained the dull'st attention to her lips.

With greediness he heard, and though he strove To shake her off, the more her words did move.

She wooed him to her cell, called him her son, And with fair promises she quickly won Him to her beck; or rather he, to try What she could do, did willingly comply, With her request. * * *

Her cell was hewn out of the marble rock By more than human art; she did not knock, The door stood always open, large and wide, Grown o'er with woolly moss on either side, And interwove with ivy's nattering twines, Through which the carbuncle and diamond shines.

Not set by Art, but there by Nature sown At the world's birth, so star-like bright they shone.

They served instead of tapers to give light To the dark entry, where perpetual Night, Friend to black deeds, and sire of Ignorance, Shuts out all knowledge, lest her eye by chance Might bring to light her follies: in they went, The ground was strewed with flowers, whose sweet scent, Mixed with the choice perfumes from India brought, Intoxicates his brain, and quickly caught His credulous sense; the walls were gilt, and set With precious stones, and all the roof was fret With a gold vine, whose straggling branches spread All o'er the arch; the swelling grapes were red; This Art had made of rubies, cl.u.s.tered so, To the quick'st eye they more than seemed to grow; About the wall lascivious pictures hung, Such as were of loose Ovid sometimes sung.

On either side a crew of dwarfish elves Held waxen tapers, taller than themselves: Yet so well shaped unto their little stature, So angel-like in face, so sweet in feature; Their rich attire so differing; yet so well Becoming her that wore it, none could tell Which was the fairest, which the handsomest decked, Or which of them desire would soon'st affect.

After a low salute they all 'gan sing, And circle in the stranger in a ring.

Orandra to her charms was stepped aside, Leaving her guest half won and wanton-eyed.

He had forgot his herb: cunning delight Had so bewitched his ears, and bleared his sight, And captivated all his senses so, That he was not himself; nor did he know What place he was in, or how he came there, But greedily he feeds his eye and ear With what would ruin him;-- * * * * *

Next unto his view She represents a banquet, ushered in By such a shape as she was sure would win His appet.i.te to taste; so like she was To his Clarinda, both in shape and face; So voiced, so habited, of the same gait And comely gesture; on her brow in state Sat such a princely majesty, as he Had noted in Clarinda; save that she Had a more wanton eye, that here and there Rolled up and down, not settling any where.

Down on the ground she falls his hand to kiss, And with her tears bedews it; cold as ice He felt her lips, that yet inflamed him so, That he was all on fire the truth to know, Whether she was the same she did appear, Or whether some fantastic form it were, Fashioned in his imagination By his still working thoughts, so fixed upon His loved Clarinda, that his fancy strove, Even with her shadow, to express his love.

CATHARINE PHILLIPS.

Very little is known of the life of this lady-poet. She was born in 1631. Her maiden name was Fowler. She married James Phillips, Esq., of the Priory of Cardigan. Her poems, published under the name of "Orinda,"

were very popular in her lifetime, although it was said they were published without her consent. She translated two of the tragedies of Corneille, and left a volume of letters to Sir Charles Cotterell. These, however, did not appear till after her death. She died of small-pox --then a deadly disease--in 1664. She seems to have been a favourite alike with the wits and the divines of her age. Jeremy Taylor addressed to her his "Measures and Offices of Friendship;" Dryden praised her; and Flatman and Cowley, besides imitating her poems while she was living, paid rhymed tributes to her memory when dead. Her verses are never commonplace, and always sensible, if they hardly attain to the measure and the stature of lofty poetry,

THE INQUIRY.

1 If we no old historian's name Authentic will admit, But think all said of friendship's fame But poetry or wit; Yet what's revered by minds so pure Must be a bright idea sure.

2 But as our immortality By inward sense we find, Judging that if it could not be, It would not be designed: So here how could such copies fall, If there were no original?

3 But if truth be in ancient song, Or story we believe; If the inspired and greater throng Have scorned to deceive; There have been hearts whose friendship gave Them thoughts at once both soft and grave.

4 Among that consecrated crew Some more seraphic shade Lend me a favourable clew, Now mists my eyes invade.

Why, having filled the world with fame, Left you so little of your flame?

5 Why is't so difficult to see Two bodies and one mind?

And why are those who else agree So difficultly kind?

Hath Nature such fantastic art, That she can vary every heart?

6 Why are the bands of friendship tied With so remiss a knot, That by the most it is defied, And by the most forgot?

Why do we step with so light sense From friendship to indifference?