Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 78

Thus Cyrus tamed the Macedon; a tomb Checked him who thought the world too strait a room.

Have I obeyed the powers of a face, A beauty, able to undo the race Of easy man? I look but here, and straight I am informed; the lovely counterfeit Was but a smoother clay. That famished slave, Beggared by wealth, who starves that he may save, Brings. .h.i.ther but his sheet. Nay, the 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 chapfallen here: worms, without wit or fear, Defy him now; death has disarmed 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 couched 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.

[1] Vast-tentered: extended.

[2] Air-mongering: dealing in air or unsubstantial visions.

ON GOMBAULD'S ENDYMION.

I've read thy soul's fair night-piece, and have seen The amours and courtship of the silent queen; Her stolen descents to earth, and what did move her To juggle first with heaven, 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-shaped 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-heeled nymphs and fairies beat, 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 the 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 vigorous bays Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays Of style or matter; just as I have known Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down Derived her birth, in gentle murmurs steal To the next vale, and proudly there reveal Her streams in louder accents, adding still More noise and waters to her channel, till At last, swollen 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' drowned fame.

Nor are they mere inventions, for we In the same piece find scattered philosophy, And hidden, dispersed truths, that folded lie In the dark shades of deep allegory, So neatly weaved, like arras, they descry Fables with truth, fancy with history.

So that thou hast, in this thy curious mould, Cast that commended mixture wished 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.

APOSTROPHE TO FLETCHER THE DRAMATIST.

I did believe, great Beaumont being dead, Thy widowed muse slept on his flowery bed.

But I am richly cozened, and can see Wit transmigrates--his spirit stayed with thee; Which, doubly advantaged by thy single pen, In life and death now treads the stage again.

And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit Which starved the land, since into schisms split, Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess Wit's last edition is now i' the press.

For thou hast drained invention, and he That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.

But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain At the designs of such a tragic brain?

Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see Thy most abominable policy?

Will not the Ears a.s.semble, and think't fit Their synod fast and pray against thy wit?

But they'll not tire in such an idle quest-- Thou dost but kill and circ.u.mvent in jest; And when thy angered muse swells to a blow, Tis but for Field's or Swansteed's overthrow.

Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve The peace of spirits; and when such deeds fail Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail.

But, happy! thou ne'er saw'st these storms our air Teemed with, even in thy time, though seeming fair.

Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease Withdrew betimes into the land of peace.

So, nested in some hospitable sh.o.r.e, The hermit-angler, when the mid seas roar, Packs up his lines, and ere the tempest raves, Retires, and leaves his station to the waves.

Thus thou diedst almost with our peace; and we, This breathing time, thy last fair issue see, Which I think such, if needless ink not soil So choice a muse, others are but thy foil; This or that age may write, but never see A wit that dares run parallel with thee.

True Ben must live; but bate him, and thou hast Undone all future wits, and matched the past.

PICTURE OF THE TOWN.

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, vexed 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 rufts and beards, and a strange sight Of high, monumental hats, ta'en at the fight Of Eighty-eight; while every burgess foots The mortal pavement in eternal boots.

Hadst thou been bachelor, I had soon divined 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 stayed and stroked the distaff for a kiss.

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' reign; Or, if they mention thee, like some old man That at each word inserts--Sir, as I can Remember--so the cipherers puzzle me With a dark, cloudy character of thee; That, certes, 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?

Oh, let not such preposterous 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 chemic quick-fire, which betrays Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays; I have reserved, 'gainst thy approach, a cup, That, were thy muse stark dead, should raise her up, And teach her yet more charming words and skill, Than ever Coelia, Chloris, Astrophil, Or any of the threadbare names inspired Poor rhyming lovers, with a mistress fired.

Come, then, and while the snow-icicle hangs At the stiff thatch, and winter's frosty fangs 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 times' ridiculous misery?

An age that thus hath fooled 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 a 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.

THE GOLDEN AGE.

Happy that first white age! when we Lived by the earth's mere charity; No soft luxurious diet then Had effeminated men-- No other meat nor wine had any Than the coa.r.s.e mast, or simple honey; And, by the parents' care laid up, Cheap berries did the children sup.

No pompous wear was in those days, Of gummy silks, or scarlet baize.

Their beds were on some flowery brink, And clear spring water was their drink.

The shady pine, in the sun's heat, Was their cool and known retreat; For then 'twas not cut down, but stood The youth and glory of the wood.

The daring sailor with his slaves Then had not cut the swelling waves, Nor, for desire of foreign store, Seen any but his native sh.o.r.e.

No stirring drum had scared that age, Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage; No wounds, by bitter hatred made, With warm blood soiled the shining blade; For how could hostile madness arm An age of love to public harm, When common justice none withstood, Nor sought rewards for spilling blood?

Oh that at length our age would raise Into the temper of those days!

But--worse than Aetna's fires!--debate And avarice inflame our state.

Alas! who was it that first found Gold hid of purpose under ground-- That sought out pearls, and dived to find Such precious perils for mankind?

REGENERATION.

1 A ward, and still in bonds, one day I stole abroad; It was high spring, and all the way Primrosed, and hung with shade; Yet was it frost within, And surly wind Blasted my infant buds, and sin, Like clouds, eclipsed my mind.

2 Stormed thus, I straight perceived my spring Mere stage and show, My walk a monstrous, mountained thing, Rough-cast with rocks and snow; And as a pilgrim's eye, Far from relief, Measures the melancholy sky, Then drops, and rains for grief,

3 So sighed I upwards still; at last, 'Twixt steps and falls, I reached the pinnacle, where placed I found a pair of scales; I took them up, and laid In the one late pains, The other smoke and pleasures weighed, But proved the heavier grains.

4 With that some cried, Away; straight I Obeyed, and led Full east, a fair, fresh field could spy-- Some called it Jacob's Bed-- A virgin soil, which no Rude feet e'er trod, Where, since he stept there, only go Prophets and friends of G.o.d.

5 Here I reposed, but scarce well set, A grove descried Of stately height, whose branches met And mixed on every side; I entered, and, once in, (Amazed to see 't;) Found all was changed, and a new spring Did all my senses greet.

6 The unthrift sun shot vital gold A thousand pieces, And heaven its azure did unfold, Chequered with snowy fleeces.

The air was all in spice, And every bush A garland wore; thus fed my eyes, But all the ear lay hush.

7 Only a little fountain lent Some use for ears, And on the dumb shades language spent, The music of her tears; I drew her near, and found The cistern full Of divers stones, some bright and round, Others ill-shaped and dull.

8 The first, (pray mark,) as quick as light Danced through the flood; But the last, more heavy than the night, Nailed to the centre stood; I wondered much, but tired At last with thought, My restless eye, that still desired, As strange an object brought.

9 It was a bank of flowers, where I descried (Though 'twas mid-day) Some fast asleep, others broad-eyed And taking in the ray; Here musing long I heard A rushing wind, Which still increased, but whence it stirred, Nowhere I could not find.

10 I turned me round, and to each shade Despatched an eye, To see if any leaf had made Least motion or reply; But while I, listening, sought My mind to ease By knowing where 'twas, or where not, It whispered, 'Where I please.'

'Lord,' then said I, 'on me one breath, And let me die before my death!'

'Arise, O north, and come, thou south wind; and blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.'--CANT. iv. 16.

RESURRECTION AND IMMORTALITY.

'By that new and living way, which he hath prepared for us, through the veil, which is his flesh.'--HEB. x. 20.