The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper

Her streets, instead of stones, the stars did pave, And little pearls, for dust, it seem'd to have, On which soft-streaming manna, like pure snow, did wave.

In mid'st of this city celestial,

Where the eternal temple should have rose,
Light'ned th' idea beatifical:

End, and beginning of each thing that grows,
Whose self no end, nor yet beginning knows,
That hath no eyes to see, nor ears to hear;
Yet sees, and hears, and is all eye, all ear,
That nowhere is contain'd, and yet is every where.
Changer of all things, yet immutable;
Before, and after all, the first, and last:
That moving all is yet immoveable;
Great without quantity, in whose forecast,
Things past are present, things to come are past;
Swift without motion, to whose open eye
The hearts of wicked men unbreasted lie;

At once absent, and present to them, far, and nigh.

It is no flaming lustre, made of light;
No sweet consent; or well-tim'd harmony;
Ambrosia, for to feast the appetite;
Or flow'ry odour, mixt with spicery;
No soft embrace, or pleasure bodily:

And yet it is a kind of inward feast;

A harmony, that sounds within the breast; An odour, light, embrace, in which the soul doth

rest.

And things unseen do see, and things unheard do Ye blessed souls, grown richer by your spoil, Whose loss, though great, is cause of greater gains, Here may your weary spirits rest from toil, Spending your endless evening that remains, Amongst those white flocks, and celestial trains, That feed upon their Shepherd's eyes, and frame

That heav'nly music of so wond'rous fame,
Psalming aloud the holy honours of his name!

Had I a voice of steel to tune my song;
Were every verse as smooth as smoothest glass;
And every member turned to a tongue,
And every tongue were made of sounding brass;
Yet all that skill, and all this strength, alas!

Should it presume t' adorn (were misadvis'd) The place, where David hath new songs devis'd, As in his burning throne he sits emparadis'd.

Most happy prince, whose eyes those stars behold, Treading ours under feet, now may'st thou pour That overflowing skill, wherewith of old

Thou wont'st to smooth rough speech; now mayst

thou show'r

Fresh streams of praise upon that holy bow'r,

Ah foolish shepherds! who were wont t' esteem
Your God all rough, and shaggy-hair'd to be!
And yet far wiser shepherds than ye deem,
For who so poor (though who so rich) as he,
When sojourning with us in low degree,

He wash'd his flocks in Jordan's spotless tide; And that his dear remembrance might abide, Did to us come, and with us l.v'd, and for us died.

But now such lively colours did embeam
His sparkling forehead; and such shining rays
Kindled his flaming locks, that down did stream
In curls along his neck, where sweetly plays
(Singing his wounds of love in sacred lays)

His dearest Spouse, Spouse of the dearest Lover,
Knitting a thousand knots over and over,
And dying still for love, but they her still recover.
Fairest of Fairs, that at his eyes doth dress
Her glorious face; those eyes, from whence are
Attractions infinite; where to express
[shed
His love. High God! all Heav'n as captive leads,
And all the banners of his grace dispreads,

And in those windows doth his arms englaze, And on those eyes, the angels, all do gaze, And from those eyes, the lights of Heav'n obtain their blaze.

But let the Kentish lad *, that lately taught
His oaten reed the trumpet's silver sound,
Young Thyrsilis; and for his music brought
The willing spheres from Heav'n, to lead around
The dancing nymphs and swains, that sung, and
crown'd

Eclecta's Hymen with ten thousand flow'rs Of choicest praise, and hung her heav'nly bow'rs [mours. With saffron garlands, dress'd for nuptial para

Let his shrill trumpet, with her silver blast
Of fair Eclecta, and her spousal bed,
Be the sweet pipe, and smooth encomiast:
But my green Muse, hiding her younger head,
Under old Camus' flaggy banks, that spread

Their willow locks abroad, and all the day With their own wat'ry shadows wanton play: Dares not those high amours, and love-sick songs assay,

Impotent words, weak lines, that strive in vain :
In vain. alas, to tell so heav'nly sight!
To heav'nly sight as none can greater feign,
Feign what he can, that seems of greatest might:
Could any yet compare with Infinite?
Infinite sure those joys; my words but light;
Light is the palace where she dwells.-O then,
how bright!

*The author of the Purple Island.

DEDICATION.

TO MY MOST WORTHY AND LEARNED FRIEND,

EDIVARD BENLOWES, ESQ.

SIR,

As some optic glasses, if we look one way, increase the object; if the other, lessen the quantity: such is an eye that looks through affection; it doubles any good, and extenuates what is amiss. Pardon me, sir, for speaking plain truth; such is that eye whereby you have viewed these raw essays of my very unripe years, and almost childhood. How unseasonable are blossoms in autumn! (unless perhaps in this age, where are more flowers than fruit). I am entering upon my winter, and yet these blooms of my first spring, must now show themselves to our ripe wits, which certainly will give them no other entertainment, but derision. For myself, I cannot account that worthy of your patronage, which comes forth so short of my desires, thereby meriting no other light than the fire. But since you please to have them see more day, than th credit can well endure, marvel not if they fly under your shadow, to cover them from the piercing eye of this very curious (yet more censorious) age. In letting them abroad, I desire only to testify how much I prefer your desires before mine own, and how much I owe to you more than any other. This if they witness for me, it is all the service I require. Sir, I leave them to your tuition, and entreat you to love him, who will contend with you in nothing but to outlove you, and would be known to the world by no other name, than

TO THE LEARNED AUTHOR,

EON AND BROTHER TO TWO JUDICIOUS POETS, HIM-
SELF THE THIRD, NOT SECOND TO EITHER.

GRAVE father of this Muse, thou deem'st too light
To wear thy naine, 'cause of thy youthful brain
It seems a sportful child; resembling right

Thy witty childhood, not thy graver strain,
Which now esteems these works of fancy vain :
Let not thy child, thee living, orphan be;
Who, when thou'rt dead, will give a life to thee.
How many barren wits would gladly own,

How few o' th' pregnantest own such another!
Thou father art, yet blushest to be known;
And though 't may call the best of Muses mother,
Yet thy severer judgment would it smother.
O judge not thou, let readers judge thy book:
Such cates should rather please the guest, than
cook.

O! but thou fear'st 'twill stain the reverend gown
Thou wearest now; nay then fear not to show it:
For were't a stain, 'twere Nature's, not thine own:
For thou art poet-born; who know thee know it:
Thy brother, sire, thy very name's a poet.
Thy very name will make these poems take,
These very poems else thy name will make.

W. BENLOWES.

TO THE INGENIOUS COMPOSER OF THIS PASTORAL,
THE SPENSER OF THIS AGE.
Vow (sweet stranger) if my lazy quill
Had not been disobedient to fulfil
My quick desires, this glory, which is thine,
Had but the Muses pleased, had been mine.
My genius jumpt with thine; the very same
Was our foundation: in the very frame
Thy genius jumpt with mine; it got the start
In nothing, but priority and art.

If (my ingenious rival) these doll times [rhymes,
Should want the present strength to prize thy

The time-instructed children of the next
Shall fill thy margin, and admire the text:
Whose well-read lines will teach them how to be
The happy knowers of themselves, and thee.

FRAN. QUARLES.

MAN's body's like a house: his greater bones Are the main timber; and the lesser ones Are smaller splints: his ribs are laths, daub'd o'er, Plaster'd with flesh and blood: his mouth's the

door,

His throat's the narrow entry; and his heart
Is the great chamber, full of curious art:
His midriff is a large partition wall
'Twixt the great chamber and the spacious hall:
His stomach is the kitchen, where the meat
Is often but half sod, for want of heat:
His spleen's a vessel nature does allot
To take the scum that rises from the pot:
In ev'ry office, quick'ning ev'ry fire:
His lungs are like the bellows that respire
His nose the chimney is, whereby are vented
Such fumes as with the bellows are augmented:
His bowels are the sink, whose part's to drain
All noisome filth, and keep the kitchen clean:
His eyes are crystal windows, clear and bright;
Let in the object, and let out the sight.
And as the timber is, or great, or small,
Or strong, or weak. 'tis apt to stand, or fall:
Yet is the likeliest building sometimes known
To fall by obvious chances; overthrown
Ofttimes by tempests, by the full-mouth'd blasts
Of Heav'n: sometimes by fire; sometimes it wastes
Through unadvis'd neglect: put case, the stuff
Were ruin-proof, by nature strong enough
To conquer time and age; put case, it should
Ne'er know an end, alas! our leases would.
What hast thou then, proud flesh and blood, to
boast?

Thy days are evil, at best; but few, at most:
But sad, at merriest; and but weak, at strongest ;
Unsure, at surest; and but short, at longest.

FRAN. QUARLES.

POEMS

PHINEAS FLETCHER.

THE PURPLE ISLAND;

OR, THE ISLE OF MAN.

CANTO I.

THE warmer Sun the golden Bull outran,
And with the Twins made haste to inn and play:
Scatt'ring ten thousand flow'rs, he new began
To paint the world, and piece the length'ning day:
(The world more aged by new youth's accruing)
Ah, wretched man! this wicked world pursuing,
Which still grows worse by age, and older by re-
newing.

The shepherd-boys, who with the Muses dwell,

Met in the plain their May-lords new to choose, (For two they yearly choose) to order well Their rural sports, and year that next ensues:

Now were they sat, where by the orchard walls The learned Chame with stealing water crawls, And lowly down before that royal temple falls.

Among the rout they take two gentle swains,

Whose sprouting youth did now but greenly bud: Well could they pipe and sing, but yet their strains Were only known unto the silent wood:

Their nearest blood from self-same fountains flow,

Their souls self-same in nearer love did grow:
So seem'd two join'd in one, or one disjoin'd in two.
Now when the shepherd lads, with common voice,
Their first consent had firmly ratify'd,
A gentle boy thus 'gan to wave their choice:
"Thirsil," said he, "tho' yet thy Muse untry'd
Hath only learn'd in private shades to feign
Soft sighs of love unto a looser strain,
Or thy poor Thelgon's wrong in mournful verse to
'plain :

"Yet since the shepherd swains do all consent
To make thee lord of them, and of their art;
And that choice lad (to give a full content)
Hath join'd with thee in office as in heart:

Wake, wake thy long, thy too long, sleeping
Muse,

And thank them with a song, as is the use: Such honour, thus conferr'd, thou may'st not well

refuse.

"Sing what thou list, be it of Cupid's spite,
(Ah, lovely spite, and spiteful loveliness!)
Or Gemma's grief, if sadder be thy spite :
Begin, thou loved swain, with good success."

"Ah!" said the bashful boy, "such wanton A better mind and sacred vow destroys, [toys, Since in a higher love I settled all my joys.. "New light, new love, new love new life hath bred; A life that lives by love, and loves by light: A love to him, to whom all loves are wed; A light, to whom the Sun is darkest night:

Eye's light, heart's love, soul's only life he is: Life, soul, love, heart, light, eye, and all are his: He eye, light, beart, love, soul; he all my joy and bliss.

"But if you deign my ruder pipe to hear,

(Rude pipe, unus'd, untun'd, unworthy hearing) These infantine beginnings gently bear, Whose best desert and hope must be your bearing. But you, O Muses! by soft Chamus sitting, Your dainty songs unto his murmurs fitting. Which bears the under-song unto your cheerful dittying.

"Tell me, ye Muses, what our father-ages

Have left succeeding times to play upon: What now remains unthought on by those sages, Where a new Muse may try her pinion?

What lightning heroes, like great Peleus' heir, (Darting his beams thro' our hard frozen air) May stir up gentle heat, and virtue's wäne repair? "Who knows not Jason? or bold Tiphys' hand,

That durst unite what Nature's self would part? He makes isles continent, and all one land; O'er seas, as earth, he march'd with dangerous art: He rides the white-mouth'd waves, and scorneth a'l

Those thousand deaths wide gaping for his fall: He death defies, fenc'd with a thin, low, wooden wall.

« Anterior Continuar »

Libros

The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper: Including ..., Volumen6