The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist, Volume II, by Henry Vaughan, et al

Fool that I was! to believe blood,
While swoll'n with greatness, then most good;
And the false thing, forgetful man,
To trust more than our true god, Pan.
Such swellings to a dropsy tend,
And meanest things such great ones bend.

Then live deceived! and, Fida, by
That life destroy fidelity.
For living wrongs will make some wise,
While Death chokes loudest injuries:
And screens the faulty, making blinds
To hide the most unworthy minds.

And yet do what thou can'st to hide,
A bad tree's fruit will be describ'd.
For that foul guilt which first took place
In his dark heart, now damns his face;
And makes those eyes, where life should dwell,
Look like the pits of Death and Hell.

Blood, whose rich purple shows and seals
Their faith in Moors, in him reveals
A blackness at the heart, and is
Turn'd ink to write his faithlessness.
Only his lips with blood look red,
As if asham'd of what they fed.

Then, since he wears in a dark skin
The shadows of his hell within,
Expose him no more to the light,
But thine own epitaph thus write
"Here burst, and dead and unregarded
Lies Fida's heart! O well rewarded!"

Long since great wits have left the stage
Unto the drollers of the age,
And noble numbers with good sense
Are, like good works, grown an offence.
While much of verse—worse than old story—
Speaks but Jack-Pudding or John-Dory.
Such trash-admirers made us poor,
And pies turn'd poets out of door;
For the nice spirit of rich verse
Which scorns absurd and low commerce,
Although a flame from heav'n, if shed
On rooks or daws warms no such head.
Or else the poet, like bad priest,
Is seldom good, but when oppress'd;
And wit as well as piety
Doth thrive best in adversity
For since the thunder left our air
Their laurels look not half so fair.
However 'tis, 'twere worse than rude,
Not to profess our gratitude
And debts to thee, who at so low
An ebb dost make us thus to flow;
And when we did a famine fear,
Hast bless'd us with a fruitful year.
So while the world his absence mourns,
The glorious sun at last returns,
And with his kind and vital looks
Warms the cold earth and frozen brooks,
Puts drowsy Nature into play,
And rids impediments away,
Till flow'rs and fruits and spices through
Her pregnant lap get up and grow.
But if among those sweet things, we
A miracle like that could see
Which Nature brought but once to pass,
A Muse, such as Orinda was,
Phœbus himself won by these charms
Would give her up into thy arms;
And recondemn'd to kiss his tree,
Yield the young goddess unto thee.

What smiling star in that fair night
Which gave you birth gave me this sight,
And with a kind aspect tho' keen
Made me the subject, you the queen?
That sparkling planet is got now
Into your eyes, and shines below,
Where nearer force and more acute
It doth dispense, without dispute;
For I who yesterday did know
Love's fire no more than doth cool snow,
With one bright look am since undone,
Yet must adore and seek my sun.
Before I walk'd free as the wind
And if but stay'd—like it—unkind;
I could like daring eagles gaze
And not be blinded by a face;
For what I saw till I saw thee,
Was only not deformity.
Such shapes appear—compar'd with thine—
In arras, or a tavern-sign,
And do but mind me to explore
A fairer piece, that is in store.
So some hang ivy to their wine,
To signify there is a vine.
Those princely flow'rs—by no storms vex'd—
Which smile one day, and droop the next,
The gallant tulip and the rose,
Emblems which some use to disclose
Bodied ideas—their weak grace
Is mere imposture to thy face.
For Nature in all things, but thee,
Did practise only sophistry;
Or else she made them to express
How she could vary in her dress:
But thou wert form'd, that we might see
Perfection, not variety.
Have you observ'd how the day-star
Sparkles and smiles and shines from far;
Then to the gazer doth convey
A silent but a piercing ray?
So wounds my love, but that her eyes
Are in effects the better skies.
A brisk bright agent from them streams
Arm'd with no arrows, but their beams,
And with such stillness smites our hearts,
No noise betrays him, nor his darts.
He, working on my easy soul,
Did soon persuade, and then control;
And now he flies—and I conspire—
Through all my blood with wings of fire,
And when I would—which will be never—
With cold despair allay the fever,
The spiteful thing Etesia names,
And that new-fuels all my flames.

Go catch the phœnix, and then bring
A quill drawn for me from his wing.
Give me a maiden beauty's blood,
A pure, rich crimson, without mud,
In whose sweet blushes that may live,
Which a dull verse can never give.
Now for an untouch'd, spotless white,
For blackest things on paper write,
Etesia, at thine own expense
Give me the robes of innocence.
Could we but see a spring to run
Pure milk, as sometimes springs have done,
And in the snow-white streams it sheds,
Carnations wash their bloody heads,
While ev'ry eddy that came down
Did—as thou dost—both smile and frown.
Such objects, and so fresh would be
But dull resemblances of thee.
Thou art the dark world's morning-star,
Seen only, and seen but from far;
Where, like astronomers, we gaze
Upon the glories of thy face,
But no acquaintance more can have,
Though all our lives we watch and crave.
Thou art a world thyself alone,
Yea, three great worlds refin'd to one;
Which shows all those, and in thine eyes
The shining East and Paradise.
Thy soul—a spark of the first fire—
Is like the sun, the world's desire;
And with a nobler influence
Works upon all, that claim to sense;
But in summers hath no fever,
And in frosts is cheerful ever.
As flow'rs besides their curious dress
Rich odours have, and sweetnesses,
Which tacitly infuse desire,
And ev'n oblige us to admire:
Such, and so full of innocence
Are all the charms, thou dost dispense;
And like fair Nature without arts
At once they seize, and please our hearts.
O, thou art such, that I could be
A lover to idolatry!
I could, and should from heav'n stray,
But that thy life shows mine the way,
And leave a while the Deity
To serve His image here in thee.

See you that beauteous queen, which no age tames?
Her train is azure, set with golden flames:
My brighter fair, fix on the East your eyes,
And view that bed of clouds, whence she doth rise.
Above all others in that one short hour
Which most concern'd me,[64] she had greatest pow'r.
This made my fortunes humorous as wind,
But fix'd affections to my constant mind.
She fed me with the tears of stars, and thence
I suck'd in sorrows with their influence.
To some in smiles, and store of light she broke,
To me in sad eclipses still she spoke.
She bent me with the motion of her sphere,
And made me feel what first I did but fear.
But when I came to age, and had o'ergrown
Her rules, and saw my freedom was my own,
I did reply unto the laws of Fate,
And made my reason my great advocate:
I labour'd to inherit my just right;
But then—O, hear Etesia!—lest I might
Redeem myself, my unkind starry mother
Took my poor heart, and gave it to another.

O Dulcis Iuctus, risuque potentior omni!
Quem decorant lachrimis sidera tanta suis.
Quam tacitæ spirant auræ! vultusque nitentes
Contristant veneres, collachrimantque suæ!
Ornat gutta genas, oculisque simillima gemma:
Et tepido vivas irrigat imbre rosas.
Dicite Chaldæi! quæ me fortuna fatigat,
?um formosa dies et sine nube perit [65]?

Happy is he, that with fix'd eyes
The fountain of all goodness spies!
Happy is he that can break through
Those bonds which tie him here below!
The Thracian poet long ago,
Kind Orpheus, full of tears and woe,
Did for his lov'd Eurydice
In such sad numbers mourn, that he
Made the trees run in to his moan,
And streams stand still to hear him groan.
The does came fearless in one throng
With lions to his mournful song,
And charmed by the harmonious sound,
The hare stay'd by the quiet hound.
But when Love height'n'd by despair
And deep reflections on his fair
Had swell'd his heart, and made it rise
And run in tears out at his eyes,
And those sweet airs, which did appease
Wild beasts, could give their lord no ease;
Then, vex'd that so much grief and love
Mov'd not at all the gods above,
With desperate thoughts and bold intent,
Towards the shades below he went;
For thither his fair love was fled,
And he must have her from the dead.
There in such lines, as did well suit
With sad airs and a lover's lute,
And in the richest language dress'd
That could be thought on or express'd,
Did he complain; whatever grief
Or art or love—which is the chief,
And all ennobles—could lay out,
In well-tun'd woes he dealt about.
And humbly bowing to the prince
Of ghosts begg'd some intelligence
Of his Eurydice, and where
His beauteous saint resided there.
Then to his lute's instructed groans
He sigh'd out new melodious moans;
And in a melting, charming strain
Begg'd his dear love to life again.
The music flowing through the shade
And darkness did with ease invade
The silent and attentive ghosts;
And Cerberus, which guards those coasts
With his loud barkings, overcome
By the sweet notes, was now struck dumb.
The Furies, us'd to rave and howl
And prosecute each guilty soul,
Had lost their rage, and in a deep
Transport, did most profusely weep.
Ixion's wheel stopp'd, and the curs'd
Tantalus, almost kill'd with thirst,
Though the streams now did make no haste,
But wait'd for him, none would taste.
That vulture, which fed still upon
Tityus his liver, now was gone
To feed on air, and would not stay,
Though almost famish'd, with her prey.
Won with these wonders, their fierce prince
At last cried out, "We yield! and since
Thy merits claim no less, take hence
Thy consort for thy recompense:
But Orpheus, to this law we bind
Our grant: you must not look behind,
Nor of your fair love have one sight,
Till out of our dominions quite."
Alas! what laws can lovers awe?
Love is itself the greatest law!
Or who can such hard bondage brook
To be in love, and not to look?
Poor Orpheus almost in the light
Lost his dear love for one short sight;
And by those eyes, which Love did guide,
What he most lov'd unkindly died!
This tale of Orpheus and his love
Was meant for you, who ever move
Upwards, and tend into that light,
Which is not seen by mortal sight.
For if, while you strive to ascend,
You droop, and towards Earth once bend
Your seduc'd eyes, down you will fall
Ev'n while you look, and forfeit all.

What fix'd affections, and lov'd laws
—Which are the hid, magnetic cause—
Wise Nature governs with, and by
What fast, inviolable tie
The whole creation to her ends
For ever provident she bends:
All this I purpose to rehearse
In the sweet airs of solemn verse.
Although the Libyan lions should
Be bound in chains of purest gold,
And duly fed were taught to know
Their keeper's voice, and fear his blow:
Yet, if they chance to taste of blood,
Their rage which slept, stirr'd by that food
In furious roaring will awake,
And fiercely for their freedom make.
No chains nor bars their fury brooks,
But with enrag'd and bloody looks
They will break through, and dull'd with fear
Their keeper all to pieces tear.
The bird, which on the wood's tall boughs
Sings sweetly, if you cage or house,
And out of kindest care should think
To give her honey with her drink,
And get her store of pleasant meat,
Ev'n such as she delights to eat:
Yet, if from her close prison she
The shady groves doth chance to see,
Straightway she loathes her pleasant food,
And with sad looks longs for the wood.
The wood, the wood alone she loves!
And towards it she looks and moves:
And in sweet notes—though distant from—
Sings to her first and happy home!
That plant, which of itself doth grow
Upwards, if forc'd, will downwards bow;
But give it freedom, and it will
Get up, and grow erectly still.
The sun, which by his prone descent
Seems westward in the evening bent,
Doth nightly by an unseen way
Haste to the East, and bring up day.
Thus all things long for their first state,
And gladly to't return, though late.
Nor is there here to anything
A course allow'd, but in a ring:
Which, where it first began, must end,
And to that point directly tend.

Who would unclouded see the laws
Of the supreme, eternal Cause,
Let him with careful thoughts and eyes
Observe the high and spacious skies.
There in one league of love the stars
Keep their old peace, and show our wars.
The sun, though flaming still and hot,
The cold, pale moon annoyeth not.
Arcturus with his sons—though they
See other stars go a far way,
And out of sight—yet still are found
Near the North Pole, their noted bound.
Bright Hesper—at set times—delights
To usher in the dusky nights:
And in the East again attends
To warn us, when the day ascends.
So alternate Love supplies
Eternal courses still, and vies
Mutual kindness; that no jars
Nor discord can disturb the stars.

The same sweet concord here below
Makes the fierce elements to flow
And circle without quarrel still,
Though temper'd diversely; thus will
The hot assist the cold; the dry
Is a friend to humidity:
And by the law of kindness they
The like relief to them repay.
The fire, which active is and bright,
Tends upward, and from thence gives light.
The earth allows it all that space
And makes choice of the lower place;
For things of weight haste to the centre,
A fall to them is no adventure.

From these kind turns and circulation
Seasons proceed, and generation.
This makes the Spring to yield us flow'rs,
And melts the clouds to gentle show'rs.
The Summer thus matures all seeds
And ripens both the corn and weeds.
This brings on Autumn, which recruits
Our old, spent store, with new fresh fruits.
And the cold Winter's blust'ring season
Hath snow and storms for the same reason.
This temper and wise mixture breed
And bring forth ev'ry living seed.
And when their strength and substance spend
—For while they live, they drive and tend
Still to a change—it takes them hence
And shifts their dress! and to our sense
Their course is over, as their birth:
And hid from us they turn to earth.

But all this while the Prince of life
Sits without loss, or change, or strife:
Holding the reins, by which all move
—And those His wisdom, power, love
And justice are—and still what He
The first life bids, that needs must be,
And live on for a time; that done
He calls it back, merely to shun
The mischief, which His creature might
Run into by a further flight.
For if this dear and tender sense
Of His preventing providence,
Did not restrain and call things back,
Both heav'n and earth would go to rack,
And from their great Preserver part;
As blood let out forsakes the heart
And perisheth, but what returns
With fresh and brighter spirits burns.

This is the cause why ev'ry living
Creature affects an endless being.
A grain of this bright love each thing
Had giv'n at first by their great King;
And still they creep—drawn on by this—
And look back towards their first bliss.
For, otherwise, it is most sure,
Nothing that liveth could endure:
Unless its love turn'd retrograde
Sought that First Life, which all things made.

If old tradition hath not fail'd,
Ulysses, when from Troy he sail'd
Was by a tempest forc'd to land
Where beauteous Circe did command.
Circe, the daughter of the sun,
Which had with charms and herbs undone
Many poor strangers, and could then
Turn into beasts the bravest men.
Such magic in her potions lay,
That whosoever passed that way
And drank, his shape was quickly lost.
Some into swine she turn'd, but most
To lions arm'd with teeth and claws;
Others like wolves with open jaws
Did howl; but some—more savage—took
The tiger's dreadful shape and look.
But wise Ulysses, by the aid
Of Hermes, had to him convey'd
A flow'r, whose virtue did suppress
The force of charms, and their success:
While his mates drank so deep, that they
Were turn'd to swine, which fed all day
On mast, and human food had left,
Of shape and voice at once bereft;
Only the mind—above all charms—
Unchang'd did mourn those monstrous harms.
O, worthless herbs, and weaker arts,
To change their limbs, but not their hearts!
Man's life and vigour keep within,
Lodg'd in the centre, not the skin.
Those piercing charms and poisons, which
His inward parts taint and bewitch,
More fatal are, than such, which can
Outwardly only spoil the man.
Those change his shape and make it foul,
But these deform and kill his soul.

All sorts of men, that live on Earth,
Have one beginning and one birth.
For all things there is one Father,
Who lays out all, and all doth gather.
He the warm sun with rays adorns,
And fills with brightness the moon's horns.
The azur'd heav'ns with stars He burnish'd,
And the round world with creatures furnish'd.
But men—made to inherit all—
His own sons He was pleas'd to call,
And that they might be so indeed,
He gave them souls of divine seed.
A noble offspring surely then
Without distinction are all men.
O, why so vainly do some boast
Their birth and blood and a great host
Of ancestors, whose coats and crests
Are some rav'nous birds or beasts!
If extraction they look for,
And God, the great Progenitor,
No man, though of the meanest state,
Is base, or can degenerate,
Unless, to vice and lewdness bent,
He leaves and taints his true descent.

Most happy man! who in his own sweet fields
Spent all his time; to whom one cottage yields
In age and youth a lodging; who, grown old,
Walks with his staff on the same soil and mould
Where he did creep an infant, and can tell
Many fair years spent in one quiet cell!
No toils of fate made him from home far known,
Nor foreign waters drank, driv'n from his own.
No loss by sea, no wild land's wasteful war
Vex'd him, not the brib'd coil of gowns at bar.
Exempt from cares, in cities never seen,
The fresh field-air he loves, and rural green.
The year's set turns by fruits, not consuls, knows;
Autumn by apples, May by blossom'd boughs.
Within one hedge his sun doth set and rise,
The world's wide day his short demesnes comprise;
Where he observes some known, concrescent twig
Now grown an oak, and old, like him, and big.
Verona he doth for the Indies take,
And as the Red Sea counts Benacus' Lake.
Yet are his limbs and strength untir'd, and he,
A lusty grandsire, three descents doth see.
Travel and sail who will, search sea or shore;
This man hath liv'd, and that hath wander'd more.

A grove there grows, round with the sea confin'd,
Beyond the Indies and the Eastern wind,
Which, as the sun breaks forth in his first beam,
Salutes his steeds, and hears him whip his team;
When with his dewy coach the Eastern bay
Crackles, whence blusheth the approaching Day,
And blasted with his burnish'd wheels the Night
In a pale dress doth vanish from the light.
This the bless'd Phœnix' empire is, here he,
Alone exempted from mortality,
Enjoys a land, where no diseases reign,
And ne'er afflicted like our world with pain.
A bird most equal to the gods, which vies
For length of life and durance with the skies,
And with renew'd limbs tires ev'ry age
His appetite he never doth assuage
With common food. Nor doth he use to drink
When thirsty on some river's muddy brink.
A purer, vital heat shot from the sun
Doth nourish him, and airy sweets that come
From Tethys lap he tasteth at his need;
On such abstracted diet doth he feed.
A secret light there streams from both his eyes,
A fiery hue about his cheeks doth rise.
His crest grows up into a glorious star
Giv'n t' adorn his head, and shines so far,
That piercing through the bosom of the night
It rends the darkness with a gladsome light.
His thighs like Tyrian scarlet, and his wings
—More swift than winds are—have sky-colour'd rings
Flow'ry and rich: and round about enroll'd
Their utmost borders glister all with gold.
He's not conceiv'd, nor springs he from the Earth,
But is himself the parent, and the birth.
None him begets; his fruitful death reprieves
Old age, and by his funerals he lives.
For when the tedious Summer's gone about
A thousand times: so many Winters out,
So many Springs: and May doth still restore
Those leaves, which Autumn had blown off before;
Then press'd with years his vigour doth decline,
Foil'd with the number; as a stately pine
Tir'd out with storms bends from the top and height
Of Caucasus, and falls with its own weight,
Whose part is torn with daily blasts, with rain
Part is consum'd, and part with age again;
So now his eyes grown dusky, fail to see
Far off, and drops of colder rheums there be
Fall'n slow and dreggy from them; such in sight
The cloudy moon is, having spent her light.
And now his wings, which usèd to contend
With tempests, scarce from the low earth ascend.
He knows his time is out! and doth provide
New principles of life; herbs he brings dried
From the hot hills, and with rich spices frames
A pile, shall burn, and hatch him with its flames.
On this the weakling sits; salutes the sun
With pleasant noise, and prays and begs for some
Of his own fire, that quickly may restore
The youth and vigour, which he had before.
Whom, soon as Phœbus spies, stopping his reins,
He makes a stand and thus allays his pains.
O thou that buriest old age in thy grave,
And art by seeming funerals to have
A new return of life, whose custom 'tis
To rise by ruin, and by death to miss
Ev'n death itself, a new beginning take,
And that thy wither'd body now forsake!
Better thyself by this thy change! This said
He shakes his locks, and from his golden head
Shoots one bright beam, which smites with vital fire
The willing bird; to burn is his desire,
That he may live again: he's proud in death,
And goes in haste to gain a better breath.
The spicy heap fir'd with celestial rays
Doth burn the aged Phœnix, when straight stays
The chariot of th' amazèd moon; the pole
Resists the wheeling swift orbs, and the whole
Fabric of Nature at a stand remains,
Till the old bird a new young being gains.
All stop and charge the faithful flames, that they
Suffer not Nature's glory to decay.
By this time, life which in the ashes lurks
Hath fram'd the heart, and taught new blood new works;
The whole heap stirs, and ev'ry part assumes
Due vigour; th' embers too are turn'd to plumes;
The parent in the issue now revives,
But young and brisk; the bounds of both these lives,
With very little space between the same,
Were parted only by the middle flame.
To Nilus straight he goes to consecrate
His parent's ghost; his mind is to translate
His dust to Egypt. Now he hastes away
Into a distant land, and doth convey
The ashes in a turf. Birds do attend
His journey without number, and defend
His pious flight, like to a guard; the sky
Is clouded with the army, as they fly.
Nor is there one of all those thousands dares
Affront his leader: they with solemn cares
Attend the progress of their youthful king;
Not the rude hawk, nor th' eagle that doth bring
Arms up to Jove, fight now, lest they displease;
The miracle enacts a common peace.
So doth the Parthian lead from Tigris' side
His barbarous troops, full of a lavish pride
In pearls and habit; he adorns his head
With royal tires: his steed with gold is led;
His robes, for which the scarlet fish is sought,
With rare Assyrian needle-work are wrought;
And proudly reigning o'er his rascal bands,
He raves and triumphs in his large commands.
A city of Egypt, famous in all lands
For rites, adores the sun; his temple stands
There on a hundred pillars by account,
Digg'd from the quarries of the Theban mount.
Here, as the custom did require—they say—
His happy parent's dust down he doth lay;
Then to the image of his lord he bends
And to the flames his burden straight commends.
Unto the altars thus he destinates
His own remains; the light doth gild the gates;
Perfumes divine the censers up do send:
While th' Indian odour doth itself extend
To the Pelusian fens, and filleth all
The men it meets with the sweet storm. A gale,
To which compar'd nectar itself is vile,
Fills the sev'n channels of the misty Nile.
O happy bird! sole heir to thy own dust!
Death, to whose force all other creatures must
Submit, saves thee. Thy ashes make thee rise;
'Tis not thy nature, but thy age that dies.
Thou hast seen all! and to the times that run
Thou art as great a witness as the sun.
Thou saw'st the deluge, when the sea outvied
The land, and drown'd the mountains with the tide.
What year the straggling Phæton did fire
The world, thou know'st. And no plagues can conspire
Against thy life; alone thou dost arise
Above mortality; the destinies
Spin not thy days out with their fatal clue;
They have no law, to which thy life is due.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MATCHLESS ORINDA.

UPON SUDDEN NEWS OF THE MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF JUDGE TREVERS.

TO ETESIA (FOR TIMANDER); THE FIRST SIGHT.

THE CHARACTER, TO ETESIA.

TO ETESIA LOOKING FROM HER CASEMENT AT THE FULL MOON.

FOOTNOTES:

TO ETESIA PARTED FROM HIM, AND LOOKING BACK.

IN ETESIAM LACHRYMANTEM.

FOOTNOTES:

TO ETESIA GOING BEYOND SEA.

ETESIA ABSENT.

TRANSLATIONS.

SOME ODES OF THE EXCELLENT AND KNOWING [ANICIUS MANLIUS] SEVERINUS [BOETHIUS], ENGLISHED.

[DE CONSOLATIONE] LIB. III. METRUM XII.

LIB. III. METRUM II.

LIB. IV. METRUM VI.

LIB. IV. METRUM III.

LIB. III. METRUM VI.

THE OLD MAN OF VERONA OUT OF CLAUDIAN, [EPIGRAMMA II.]

THE SPHERE OF ARCHIMEDES OUT OF CLAUDIAN, [EPIGRAMMA XVIII.]

THE PHŒNIX OUT OF CLAUDIAN, [IDYLL I.]

PIOUS THOUGHTS AND EJACULATIONS.

TO HIS BOOKS.