The Flower of the Mind

Farewell, dear flowers; sweetly your time ye spent,
Fit while ye lived for smell or ornament,
   And after death for cures.
I follow straight, without complaints or grief,
Since if my scent be good, I care not if
   It be as short as yours.

MISERY

Lord, let the angels praise Thy name:
   Man is a foolish thing, a foolish thing;
Folly and sin play all his game;
   His house still burns, and yet he still doth sing—
            Man is but grass,
         He knows it—‘Fill the glass.’

How canst Thou brook his foolishness?
   Why, he’ll not lose a cup of drink for Thee:
Bid him but temper his excess,
   Not he: he knows where he can better be—
            As he will swear—
         Than to serve Thee in fear.

The best of men, turn but Thy hand
   For one poor minute, stumble at a pin;
They would not have their actions scanned,
   Nor any sorrow tell them that they sin,
            Though it be small,
         And measure not the fall.

They quarrel Thee, and would give over
   The bargain made to serve Thee; but Thy love
Holds them unto it, and doth cover
   Their follies with the wings of Thy mild Dove,
            Not suffering those
         Who would, to be Thy foes.

My God, man cannot praise Thy name:
   Thou art all brightness, perfect purity;
The sun holds down his head for shame,
   Dead with eclipses, when we speak of Thee:
            How shall infection
         Presume on Thy perfection?

As dirty hands foul all they touch,
   And those things most which are most pure and fine,
So our clay-hearts, even when we crouch
   To sing Thy praises, make them less divine:
            Yet either this
         Or none Thy portion is.

O foolish man! where are thine eyes?
   How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares!
Thou pull’st the rug, and wilt not rise,
   No, not to purchase the whole pack of stars:
            ‘There let them shine;
         Thou must go sleep or dine.’

The bird that sees a dainty bower
   Made in the tree, where she was wont to sit,
Wonders and sings, but not His power
   Who made the arbour; this exceeds her wit.
            But man doth know
         The Spring whence all things flow:

And yet, as though he knew it not,
   His knowledge winks, and lets his humours reign;
They make his life a constant blot,
   And all the blood of God to run in vain.
            Ah, wretch! what verse
         Can thy strange ways rehearse?

Indeed, at first man was a treasure,
   A box of jewels, shop of rarities,
A ring whose posy was ‘my pleasure’;
   He was a garden in a Paradise;
            Glory and grace
         Did crown his heart and face.

JAMES SHIRLEY
1596–1666

EQUALITY

The glories of our blood and state
   Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
   Death lays his icy hand on kings:
         Sceptre and Crown
         Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
   And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
   They tame but one another still:
         Early or late
         They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

ANONYMOUS
Circa 1603

LULLABY

Weep you no more, sad fountains;
      What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
      Heaven’s sun doth gently waste.
   But my sun’s heavenly eyes
         View not your weeping,
         That now lies sleeping
   Softly, now softly lies
               Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,
      A rest that peace begets;
Doth not the sun rise smiling
      When fair at eve he sets?
   Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes,
         Melt not in weeping,
         While she lies sleeping
   Softly, now softly lies
               Sleeping.

MORNING

The lark now leaves his watery nest,
   And climbing shakes his dewy wings,
He takes your window for the east,
   And to implore your light, he sings;
Awake, awake, the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star,
   The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are,
   Who look for day before his mistress wakes;
Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn!
Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.

EDMUND WALLER
1605–1687

THE ROSE

      Go, lovely rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
      That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

      Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
      Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

      Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
      May read in thee:
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

THOMAS RANDOLPH
1606–1634?

HIS MISTRESS

I have a mistress, for perfections rare
In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.
Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;
Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice;
And wheresoe’er my fancy would begin,
Still her perfection lets religion in.
We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours
As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers.
I touch her, like my beads, with devout care,
And come unto my courtship as my prayer.

A SONNET OF THE MOON

Look how the pale Queen of the silent night
   Doth cause the ocean to attend upon her,
And he, as long as she is in his sight,
   With his full tide is ready her to honour:

But when the silver waggon of the Moon
   Is mounted up so high he cannot follow,
The sea calls home his crystal waves to moan,
   And with low ebb doth manifest his sorrow.

So you that are the sovereign of my heart,
   Have all my joys attending on your will,
My joys low ebbing when you do depart,
   When you return, their tide my heart doth fill.

So as you come, and as you do depart,
Joys ebb and flow within my tender heart.

JOHN MILTON
1608–1674

HYMN ON CHRIST’S NATIVITY

         Only with speeches fair
         She woos the gentle air
   To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;
         And on her naked shame,
         Pollute with sinful blame,
   The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
Confounded, that her Maker’s eyes
Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

         But He, her fears to cease,
         Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;
   She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding
         Down through the turning sphere,
         His ready harbinger,
   With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
And waving wide her myrtle wand,
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

         No war, or battle’s sound
         Was heard the world around:
   The idle spear and shield were high uphung;
         The hooked chariot stood
         Unstained with hostile blood;
   The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;
And kings sat still with awful eye,
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

         The stars, with deep amaze,
         Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,
   Bending one way their precious influence;
         And will not take their flight
         For all the morning light,
   Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;
But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.

         And though the shady gloom
         Had given day her room,
   The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
         And hid his head for shame,
         As his inferior flame
   The new-enlightened world no more should need;
He saw a greater Sun appear
Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.

         The shepherds on the lawn,
         Or ere the point of dawn,
   Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;
         Full little thought they than
         That the mighty Pan
   Was kindly come to live with them below;
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

         Nature, that heard such sound
         Beneath the hollow round
   Of Cynthia’s seat the airy region thrilling,
         Now was almost won
         To think her part was done,
   And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;
She knew such harmony alone
Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.

         At last surrounds their sight
         A globe of circular light,
   That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed;
         The helmed Cherubim
         And sworded Seraphim
   Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed,
Harping in loud and solemn quire,
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven’s new-born Heir.

         Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
         Once bless our human ears,
   If ye have power to touch our senses so;
         And let your silver chime
         Move in melodious time;
   And let the bass of heaven’s deep organ blow;
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.

         For if such holy song
         Enwrap our fancy long,
   Time will run back and fetch the age of gold;
         And speckled Vanity
         Will sicken soon and die,
   And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;
And Hell itself will pass away,
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

         Yea, Truth and Justice then
         Will down return to men,
   Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
         Mercy will sit between
         Throned in celestial sheen,
   With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
And Heaven, as at some festival,
Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.

         With such a horrid clang
         As on Mount Sinai rang,
   While the red fire and smouldering clouds out-brake:
         The aged Earth aghast
         With terror of that blast
   Shall from the surface to the centre shake,
When, at the world’s last session,
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.

         And then at last our bliss
         Full and perfect is,
   But now begins; for from this happy day
         The old Dragon under ground,
         In straiter limits bound,
   Not half so far casts his usurped sway;
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

         The Oracles are dumb;
         No voice or hideous hum
   Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
         Apollo from his shrine
         Can no more divine,
   With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:
No nightly trance or breathed spell
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

         In consecrated earth
         And on the holy hearth
   The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;
         In urns, and altars round,
         A drear and dying sound
   Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
And the chill marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.

         Peor and Baalim
         Forsake their temples dim,
   With that twice-battered god of Palestine;
         And mooned Ashtaroth,
         Heaven’s queen and mother both,
   Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy shine;
The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn:
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

         Nor is Osiris seen
         In Memphian grove or green,
   Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud:
         Nor can he be at rest
         Within his sacred chest;
   Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;
In vain with timbrelled anthems dark
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.

         He feels from Juda’s land
         The dreaded Infant’s hand;
   The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
         Nor all the gods beside
         Longer dare abide,
   Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
Our Babe, to show His Godhead true,
Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew.

         So, when the sun in bed,
         Curtained with cloudy red,
   Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
         The flocking shadows pale
         Troop to the infernal jail,
   Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave;
And the yellow-skirted fays
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

L’ALLEGRO

Hence, loathed Melancholy,
   Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born
In Stygian cave forlorn,
   ’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!
Find out some uncouth cell
   Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings
And the night-raven sings;
   There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks
As ragged as thy locks,
   In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

IL PENSEROSO

LYCIDAS

Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel, 1637

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

   Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence withdenial vain and coy excuse:
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destined urn;
And, as he passes, turn
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

   But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown,
And all their echoes, mourn:
The willows and the hazel copses green
Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear
When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s ear.

   Alas! what boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd’s trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life.  ‘But not the praise,’
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;
‘Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.’

   Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals grey;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay:
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

ON HIS BLINDNESS

When I consider how my light is spent
   Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
   And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
   My true account, lest He returning chide,—
   Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
I fondly ask:—But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: God doth not need
   Either man’s work, or His own gifts; who best
      Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed
   And post o’er land and ocean without rest:
      They also serve who only stand and wait.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint
   Brought to me like Alkestis from the grave,
   Whom Jove’s great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint
   Purification in the Old Law did save,
   And such as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind;
   Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shined
   So clear as in no face with more delight.
But oh! as to embrace me she inclined,
   I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.

ON SHAKESPEARE

What needs my Shakespeare, for his honoured bones,
The labour of an age in piled stones?
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
Under a star-y-pointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a live-long monument.
For whilst, to shame of slow-endeavouring art
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And so sepulchered in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
   Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
   Mirth and youth and young desire!
   Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
   Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
   And welcome thee and wish thee long.

INVOCATION TO SABRINA, FROM COMUS

INVOCATION TO ECHO, FROM COMUS

Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph, that liv’st unseen
         Within thine airy shell
         By slow Meander’s margent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale,
         Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a single pair
         That likest thy Narcissus are?
         O, if thou have
         Hid them in some flowery cave,
         Tell me but where,
Sweet Queen of Parley, daughter of the Sphere!
So mayest thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heaven’s harmonies.

But now my task is smoothly done:
I can fly or I can run
Quickly to the green earth’s end,
Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend,
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the moon.
Mortals that would follow me,
Love Virtue; she alone is free,
She can teach ye how to climb
Higher than the sphery chime;
Or if feeble Virtue were,
Heaven itself would stoop to her.

JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE
1612–1650

THE VIGIL OF DEATH

Let them bestow on every airth a limb,
Then open all my veins, that I may swim
To thee, my Maker! in that crimson lake.
Then place my parboiled head upon a stake—
Scatter my ashes—strew them in the air:
Lord! since thou know’st where all these atoms are,
I’m hopeful thou’lt recover once my dust,
And confident thou’lt raise me with the just.

ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R.

Lo, here a little volume, but great book!
A nest of new-born sweets,
Whose native pages, ’sdaining
To be thus folded, and complaining
Of these ignoble sheets,
Affect more comely bands,
Fair one, from thy kind hands,
And confidently look
To find the rest
Of a rich binding in your breast!

It is in one choice handful, heaven; and all
Heaven’s royal hosts encamped, thus small
To prove that true schools use to tell,
A thousand angels in one point can dwell.

It is love’s great artillery,
Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie
Close couched in your white bosom; and from thence,
As from a snowy fortress of defence,
Against your ghostly foe to take your part,
And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.

It is an armoury of light;
Let constant use but keep it bright,
   You’ll find it yields
To holy hands and humble hearts
   More swords and shields
Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.

But, O! the heart
That studies this high art
Must be a sure housekeeper,
And yet no sleeper.
Dear soul, be strong;
Mercy will come ere long,
And bring her bosom full of blessings,
Flowers of never-fading graces,
To make immortal dressings
For worthy souls, whose wise embraces
Store up themselves for Him who is alone
The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin’s Son.

Doubtless some other heart
         Will get the start
Meanwhile, and, stepping in before,
Will take possession of that sacred store
   Of hidden sweets, and holy joys,
Words which are not heard with ears—
   These tumultuous shops of noise—
   Effectual whispers, whose still voice
The soul itself more feels than hears;

Amorous languishments, luminous trances,
   Sights which are not seen with eyes,
Spiritual and soul-piercing glances
   Whose pure and subtle lightning flies
Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire
And melts it down in sweet desire,
      Yet does not stay
To ask the window’s leave to pass that way;

Delicious deaths, soft exhalations
Of soul; dear and divine annihilations;
   A thousand unknown rites
   Of joys, and rarefied delights;

A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces,
   And many a mystic thing,
   Which the divine embraces
Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring
   For which it is no shame
That dull mortality must not know a name.

O fair!  O fortunate!  O rich!  O dear!
   O happy, and thrice happy she,
   Dear silver-breasted dove,
   Whoe’er she be,
   Whose early love
   With winged vows
Makes haste to meet her morning Spouse,
And close with His immortal kisses!
   Happy, indeed, who never misses
   To improve that precious hour,
      And every day
      Seize her sweet prey,
   All fresh and fragrant as He rises,
   Dropping, with a balmy shower,
   A delicious dew of spices.

TO THE MORNING

Satisfaction for Sleep

Love, brave Virtue’s younger brother,
Erst hath made my heart a mother.
She consults the anxious spheres,
To calculate her young son’s years;
She asks if sad or saving powers
Gave omen to his infant hours;
She asks each star that then stood by
If poor Love shall live or die.

Ah, my heart, is that the way?
Are these the beams that rule thy day?
Thou know’st a face in whose each look
Beauty lays ope Love’s fortune-book,
On whose fair revolutions wait
The obsequious motions of Love’s fate.
Ah, my heart! her eyes and she
Have taught thee new astrology.
Howe’er Love’s native hours were set,
Whatever starry synod met,
’Tis in the mercy of her eye,
If poor Love shall live or die.

But if her milder influence move,
And gild the hopes of humble Love;—
Though heaven’s inauspicious eye
Lay black on Love’s nativity;
Though every diamond in Jove’s crown
Fixed his forehead to a frown;—
Her eye a strong appeal can give,
Beauty smiles, and Love shall live.

O, if Love shall live, O where,
But in her eye, or in her ear,
In her breast, or in her breath,
Shall I hide poor Love from death?
For in the life aught else can give,
Love shall die, although he live.

Or, if Love shall die, O where,
But in her eye, or in her ear,
In her breath, or in her breast,
Shall I build his funeral nest?
While Love shall thus entombed lie,
Love shall live, although he die!

ON MR. G. HERBERT’S BOOK

Entitled, ‘The Temple of Sacred Poems,’ sent to a Gentlewoman

WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS

Whoe’er she be,
That not impossible She
   That shall command my heart and me:

Where’er she he,
Locked up from mortal eye
In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth
Of studied Fate stand forth,
And teach her fair steps tread our earth:

Till that divine
Idea take a shrine
Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

I wish her beauty
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-tie.

Something more than
Taffata or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

More than the spoil
Of shop, or silkworm’s toil,
Or a bought blush, or a set smile.

A face that’s best
By its own beauty drest,
And can alone commend the rest.

A cheek where youth
And blood, with pen of truth,
Write what the reader sweetly rueth.

A cheek where grows
More than a morning rose,
Which to no box his being owes.

Lips where all day
A lover’s kiss may play,
Yet carry nothing thence away.

Eyes that displace
Their neighbour diamond, and out-face
That sunshine by their own sweet grace.

Tresses that wear
Jewels, but to declare
How much themselves more precious are;

Whose native ray
Can tame the wanton day
Of gems that in their bright shades play.

Each ruby there,
Or pearl that dare appear,
Be its own blush, be its own tear.

A well-tamed heart,
For whose more noble smart
Love may be long choosing a dart.

Eyes that bestow
Full quivers on love’s bow,
Yet pay less arrows than they owe.

Smiles that can warm
The blood, yet teach a charm,
That chastity shall take no harm.

Joys that confess,
Virtue their mistress,
And have no other head to dress.

Fears fond and slight
As the coy bride’s, when night
First does the longing lover right.

Tears quickly fled,
And vain, as those are shed
For a dying maidenhead.

Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers;
’Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

Days that need borrow
No part of their good-morrow
From a fore-spent night of sorrow.

Days that in spite
Of darkness, by the light
Of a clear mind, are day all night.

Nights, sweet as they,
Made short by lovers’ play,
Yet long by the absence of the day.

Sydneian showers
Of sweet discourse, whose powers
Can crown old winter’s head with flowers.

Whate’er delight
Can make day’s forehead bright,
Or give down to the wings of night.

In her whole frame,
Have Nature all the name,
Art and ornament the shame.

Her flattery,
Picture and poesy,
Her counsel her own virtue be.

I wish her store
Of worth may leave her poor
Of wishes; and I wish—no more.

Now, if Time knows
That Her, whose radiant brows
Weave them a garland of my vows;

Her whose just bays
My future hopes can raise,
A trophy to her present praise;

’Tis She, and here,
Lo! I unclothe and clear
My wishes’ cloudy character.

May she enjoy it
Whose merit dare apply it,
But modesty dares still deny it!

Such worth as this is
Shall fix my flying wishes,
And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory,
My fancies, fly before ye;
Be ye my fictions:—but her story.