The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Complete Works of Richard Crashaw, Volume I (of 2), by Richard Crashaw

Nowe had greate Sol y^e middle orbe forsooke
When as a fidler by a slidinge brooke
With shadie bowers was guarded from y^e aire
And on his fidle plaid away his care.
A nightingale hid in the leaues there stood
The muse and harmeles Syren of the wood;
Shee snatcht y^e soundes and with an echo prates:
What his hand playde her voice reiterates.
Perceavinge how y^e listninge bird did sit
Y^e fidler faine would make some sport with it,
And neately stroke y^e lute; then she began
And through those notes ran glib division;
Then with quicke hand he strikes y^e tremblinge strings,
Now with a skilfull negligence he flings
His carelesse armes, then softly playes his part:
Then shee begins and answers art with art,
And now as if vncertaine how to singe
Lengthens her notes and choisest art doth bringe,
And interminglinge softer notes with shrill
Daintily quavers through her trembling bill.
Y^e fidler wonders such melodious notes
Shold haue proceedinges from soe slender throats;
Tryes her againe, then loudly spoke y^e....
Sometimes graue were y^e tones, sometimes....
Then high, then lowe againe, yⁿ sweetly iarrs
Just like a trumpet callinge men to warrs.
Thus did y^e dainty Philomela doe
And with hoarse voice sange an alarme too.
The fidler blusht, and al in ragg [i.e. rage] he went
About to breake his conquerèd instrument,
But yet suspectinge lest ambitious shee
Shold to the woods warble her victory;
Strikes with inimitable blowes
And flies through all the strings, now these, now those,
Then tryes the notes, labours in each strayne
And then expects if shee replyed agayne.
The poore harmonious bird now almost dombe,
But impatient, to be overcome
Calls her sweet strength together all in vayne,
For while shee thinkes to imitate each strayne
In pure and natiue language, in this strife
And dayntie musicke warre shee left her life,
And yeldinge to the gladsome conquerour
Falls in his fidle: a fit sepulchere.

(b) From 'Characters and Elegies.' By Francis Wortley, knight and baronet: 1646 (p. 66). A Paraphrase upon the Verses which Famianus Strada made of the Lutanist and Philomell in Contestation.

'When past the middle orbe the parching sun
Had downward nearer our horizon run
A Lutenist neare Tiber's streames had found
Where the eccho did resound.
Under a holme a shady bower he made
To ease his cares, his severall phancies play'd;
The philomell no sooner did the musicke hear
But straight-wayes she drew neare.
The harmlesse Syren, musicke of the wood,
Hid in a leavy-bush, she hearking stood,
She ruminates upon the ayers he plaid,
And to him answers made.
With her shirl voyce doth all his paines requite
Lost not one note, but to his play sung right;
Well pleased to heare her skil, and envy, he
Tryes his variety.
And dares her with his severall notes, runs throw
Even all the strains his skill could reach unto:
A thousand wayes he tryes: she answers all,
And for new straynes dares call.
He could not touch a string in such a straine,
To which she warble and not sung it plaine;
His fingers could not reach to greater choice,
Then she did with her voyce.
The Lutenist admired her narrow throat
Could reach so high or fall to any note:
But that which he did thinke in her most strange,
She instantly could change.
Or sharpe or flat, or meane, or quicke, or slow,
What ere he plaid, she the like skill would show:
And if he inward did his notes recall,
She answer made to all.
Th' inraged Lutenist, he blusht for shame
That he could not this weake corrivall tame:
If thou canst answer this I'le breake my lute,
And yeild in the dispute.
He said no more, but aimes at such a height
Of skill, he thought she could not imitate:
He shows the utmost cunning of his hand
And all he could command.
He tryes his strength, his active fingers flye
To every string and stop, now low, now high,
And higher yet he multiplyes his skill,
Then doth his chorus fill.
Then he expecting stands to try if she
His envy late would yeeld the victory:
She would not yeeld, but summons all her force
Though tyrèd out and hoarse.
She strives with various strings the lute's bast chest
The spirit of man, one narrow throat and chest:
Unequal matches, yet she's pleased that she
Concludes victoriously.
Her spirit was such she would not live to heare
The Lutenist bestow on her a jeere,
But broken-hearted fall upon the tombe
She choose the sweet lute's wombe.
The warbling lutes doe yet their triumphs tell
(With mournfull accents) of the philomell,
And have usurpt the title ever since,
Of harmony the prince.
The morall this, by emulation wee
May much improve both art and industry,
Though she deserve the name of Philomell
Yet men must her excell.'

A third (anonymous) translation, with the Latin on the opposite pages, I came on in Lansdowne mss. 3910, Pl. lxvi. from which extracts will be found in our Essay.

In the Sancroft ms. the heading is 'Fidicinis et Philomelæ Bellum Musicum. R. Cr.' It reads in line 79 'whence' for 'where;' adopted: line 125, 'pathes' for 'parts;' adopted: other variations only orthographic, as is the case with the different editions. I note these: in 1670, line 83 reads 'might you:' line 99, 1646 misprints 'grave:' line 156, our text misprints 'full-mouth,' and so 1646; I adopt 'full-mouth'd' from 1670 and Sancroft ms. G.

THE PRAISE OF THE SPRING:

All trees, all leavy groves confesse the Spring1
Their gentlest friend; then, then the lands begin
To swell with forward pride, and feed desire
To generation; Heaven's Almighty Sire
Melts on the bosome of His love, and powres5
Himselfe into her lap in fruitfull showers.
And by a soft insinuation, mixt
With Earth's large masse, doth cherish and assist
Her weake conceptions. No lone shade but rings
With chatring birds' delicious murmurings;10
Then Venus' mild instinct (at set times) yields
The herds to kindly meetings, then the fields
(Quick with warme Zephyre's lively breath) lay forth
Their pregnant bosomes in a fragrant birth.
Each body's plump and jucy, all things full15
Of supple moisture: no coy twig but will
Trust his beloved blossome to the sun
(Growne lusty now): no vine so weake and young
That feares the foule-mouth'd Auster or those stormes
That the Southwest-wind hurries in his armes,20
But hasts her forward blossomes, and layes out
Freely layes out her leaves: nor doe I doubt
But when the world first out of chaos sprang
So smil'd the dayes, and so the tenor ran
Of their felicity. A Spring was there,25
An everlasting Spring, the jolly yeare
Led round in his great circle; no wind's breath
As then did smell of Winter or of Death.
When Life's sweet light first shone on beasts, and when
From their hard mother Earth, sprang hardy men,30
When beasts tooke up their lodging in the Wood,
Starres in their higher chambers: never cou'd
The tender growth of things endure the sence
Of such a change, but that the Heav'ns indulgence
Kindly supplyes sick Nature, and doth mold35
A sweetly-temper'd meane, nor hot nor cold.

WITH A PICTURE SENT TO A FRIEND.[63]

I paint so ill, my peece had need to be1
Painted againe by some good poesie.
I write so ill, my slender line is scarce
So much as th' picture of a well-lim'd verse:
Yet may the love I send be true, though I5
Send not true picture, nor true poesie.
Both which away, I should not need to feare,
My love, or feign'd or painted should appeare.

IN PRAISE OF LESSIUS'S RULE OF HEALTH.[64]

Goe now, with some dareing drugg,1
Baite thy disease, and while they tugg,
Thou, to maintaine their cruell strife
Spend the deare treasure of thy life:
Goe take physicke, doat upon5
Some big-nam'd composition,—
The oraculous doctors' mistick bills,
Certain hard words made into pills;
And what at length shalt get by these?
Onely a costlyer disease.10
Goe poore man, thinke what shall bee
Remedie 'gainst thy remedie.
That which makes us have no need
Of phisick, that's phisick indeed.
Heark hither, Reader: would'st thou see15
Nature her own physician be?
Would'st see a man all his own wealth,
His own musick, his own health?
A man, whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well?20
Her garments, that upon her sit,
(As garments should do) close and fit?
A well-clothed soul, that's not opprest
Nor choked with what she should be drest?
Whose soul's sheath'd in a crystall shrine,25
Through which all her bright features shine?
As when a piece of wanton lawn,
A thin aërial vail is drawn,
O're Beauty's face; seeming to hide,
More sweetly shows the blushing bride:30
A soul, whose intellectuall beams
No mists do mask, no lazie steams?
A happie soul, that all the way
To Heav'n, hath a Summer's day?
Would'st see a man whose well-warm'd bloud35
Bathes him in a genuine floud?
A man, whose tunèd humours be
A set of rarest harmonie?
Would'st see blithe looks, fresh cheeks beguile
Age? Would'st see December smile?40
Would'st see a nest of roses grow
In a bed of reverend snow?
Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering
Winter's self into a Spring?
In summe, would'st see a man that can45
Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest, and most leaden houres,
Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowres;
And when Life's sweet fable ends,
His soul and bodie part like friends:50
No quarrels, murmures, no delay:
A kisse, a sigh, and so away?
This rare one, Reader, would'st thou see,
Heark hither: and thyself be he.

Besides the reprint of 1646 as supra, this poem appeared in 1648 (pp. 8, 9), 1652 (pp. 126-8), where it is entitled 'Temperance. Of the Cheap Physitian, vpon the Translation of Lessivs (pp. 126-8):' and 1670 (pp. 108-9 and pp. 207-8, being inadvertently printed twice). These variations are noticeable:

Line 1, in 1648 and 1652, 'Goe now and with....'
" 2, in 1670, 'the' for 'thy;' and Turnbull, as usual, repeats the error.
Line 3, in 1648 'pretious' for 'cruel:' so 1670 in 2d copy.
" 9, ib. 'last' for 'length,' and 1670 'gaine' for 'get' in 2d copy.
Lines 11, 12, this couplet is inadvertently dropped in 1648. I adopt ''gainst' for 'against' from Sancroft ms. in line 12.
Line 15, ib. 'wilt' for 'wouldst.'
" 18, 'physick' in 1646, 1648 and 1670 (1st copy); but 'musick' is assuredly the finer reading, as in Hygiasticon and 1670 (in 2d copy). Cf. lines 19, 20, onward, which show that 'music' was intended.
Line 25, in all the three editions 'a' for 'whose:' in 1670 (2d copy) 'A soul sheath'd....'
Line 34, in 1646 'hath' for 'rides in,' and so in 1670 (1st copy): 'hath' seems the simpler and better.
Line 35, 1646 and 1670 misinsert 'thou' before 'see.'
" 38, 'set' for 'seat' in the three editions (1670, 1st copy); adopted.
Line 41, in 1648 'Would'st see nests of new roses grow:' so 1670 (2d copy).
Line 46, 1646 and 1670 end here.

Leonard Lessius was a learned Jesuit, born 1st October 1554, and died 15th January 1623-4. He was professor of theology in the University of Louvaine. His 'Hygiasticon, seu vera ratio valetudinis bonæ et vitæ' is still readable and quick. G.

THE BEGINNING OF HELIODORUS.[65]

The smiling Morne had newly wak't the Day,1
And tipt the mountaines with a tender ray:
When on a hill (whose high imperious brow
Lookes downe, and sees the humble Nile below
Licke his proud feet, and haste into the seas5
Through the great mouth that's nam'd from Hercules)
A band of men, rough as the armes they wore
Look't round, first to the sea, then to the shore.
The shore that shewed them, what the sea deny'd,
Hope of a prey. There to the maine-land ty'd10
A ship they saw; no men she had, yet prest
Appear'd with other lading, for her brest
Deep in the groaning waters wallowed
Vp to the third ring: o're the shore was spread
Death's purple triumph; on the blushing ground15
Life's late forsaken houses all lay drown'd
In their owne blood's deare deluge: some new dead;
Some panting in their yet warme ruines bled,
While their affrighted soules, now wing'd for flight
Lent them the last flash of her glimmering light.20
Those yet fresh streames which crawlèd every where
Shew'd that sterne Warre had newly bath'd him there.
Nor did the face of this disaster show
Markes of a fight alone, but feasting too:
A miserable and a monstruous feast,25
Where hungry Warre had made himself a guest:
And comming late had eat up guests and all,
Who prov'd the feast to their owne funerall &c.

CUPID'S CRYER:

Love is lost, nor can his mother1
Her little fugitive discover:
She seekes, she sighes, but no where spyes him;
Love is lost: and thus shee cryes him.
O yes! if any happy eye,5
This roaving wanton shall descry;
Let the finder surely know
Mine is the wagge; 'tis I that owe
The wingèd wand'rer; and that none
May thinke his labour vainely gone,10
The glad descryer shall not misse,
To tast the nectar of a kisse
From Venus lipps. But as for him
That brings him to me, he shall swim
In riper joyes: more shall be his15
(Venus assures him) than a kisse.
But lest your eye discerning slide,
These markes may be your judgement's guide;
His skin as with a fiery blushing
High-colour'd is; his eyes still flushing20
With nimble flames; and though his mind
Be ne're so curst, his tongue is kind:
For never were his words in ought
Found the pure issue of his thought.
The working bees' soft melting gold,25
That which their waxen mines enfold,
Flow not so sweet as doe the tones
Of his tun'd accents; but if once
His anger kindle, presently
It boyles out into cruelty,30
And fraud: he makes poor mortalls' hurts
The objects of his cruell sports.
With dainty curles his froward face
Is crown'd about: But O what place,
What farthest nooke of lowest Hell35
Feeles not the strength, the reaching spell
Of his small hand? Yet not so small
As 'tis powerfull therewithall.
Though bare his skin, his mind he covers,
And like a saucy bird he hovers40
With wanton wing, now here, now there,
'Bout men and women, nor will spare
Till at length he perching rest,
In the closet of their brest.
His weapon is a little bow,45
Yet such a one as—Jove knows how—
Ne're suffred, yet his little arrow,
Of Heaven's high'st arches to fall narrow.
The gold that on his quiver smiles,
Deceives men's feares with flattering wiles.50
But O—too well my wounds can tell—
With bitter shafts 'tis sauc't too well.
He is all cruell, cruell all,
His torch imperious though but small
Makes the sunne—of flames the sire—55
Worse than sun-burnt in his fire.
Wheresoe're you chance to find him
Ceaze him, bring him—but first bind him—
Pitty not him, but feare thy selfe
Though thou see the crafty elfe,60
Tell down his silver-drops unto thee:
They'r counterfeit, and will undoe thee.
With baited smiles if he display
His fawning cheeks, looke not that way.
If he offer sugred kisses,65
Start, and say, the serpent hisses.
Draw him, drag him, though he pray
Wooe, intreat, and crying say
Prethee, sweet, now let me go,
Here's my quiver, shafts and bow,70
I'le give thee all, take all; take heed
Lest his kindnesse make thee bleed.
What e're it be Loue offers, still presume
That though it shines, 'tis fire and will consume.

VPON BISHOP ANDREWS' PICTURE BEFORE HIS SERMONS.[67]

This reverend shadow cast that setting sun,1
Whose glorious course through our horrizon run,
Left the dimme face of this dull hemispheare,
All one great eye, all drown'd in one great teare.
Whose faire, illustrious soule, led his free thought5
Through Learning's vniverse, and (vainly) sought
Room for her spatious selfe, untill at length
Shee found the way home, with an holy strength;
Snatch't her self hence to Heaven: fill'd a bright place,
'Mongst those immortall fires, and on the face10
Of her great Maker fixt her flaming eye,
There still to read true, pure divinity.
And now that grave aspect hath deign'd to shrinke
Into this lesse appearance: If you thinke
'Tis but a dead face, Art doth here bequeath:15
Looke on the following leaves, and see him breath.

VPON THE DEATH OF A GENTLEMAN.[68]

Faithlesse and fond Mortality!1
Who will ever credit thee?
Fond, and faithlesse thing! that thus,
In our best hopes beguilest us.
What a reckoning hast thou made,5
Of the hopes in him we laid!
For life by volumes lengthenèd,
A line or two to speake him dead.
For the laurell in his verse,
crape The sullen cypresse o're his herse10
For soe many hopèd yeares
Of fruit, soe many fruitles teares:
For a silver-crownèd head
A durty pillow in Death's bed.
For so deare, so deep a trust,15
Sad requitall, thus much dust!
Now though the blow that snatch him hence,
Stopt the mouth of Eloquence:
Though shee be dumbe e're since his death,
Not us'd to speake but in his breath;20
Leaving his death vngarnishèd
Therefore, because hee is dead
Yet if at least shee not denyes,
The sad language of our eyes,
Wee are contented: for then this25
Language none more fluent is.
Nothing speakes our griefe so well
As to speak nothing. Come then tell
Thy mind in teares who e're thou be,
That ow'st a name to misery.30
Eyes are vocall, teares have tongues,
And there be words not made with lungs;
Sententious showres: O let them fall,
Their cadence is rhetoricall.
Here's a theame will drinke th' expence,35
Of all thy watry eloquence.
Weepe then! onely be exprest
Thus much, 'he's dead:' and weep the rest.

VPON THE DEATH OF MR. HERRYS.[69]

A plant of noble stemme, forward and faire,1
As ever whisper'd to the morning aire,
Thriv'd in these happie grounds; the Earth's just pride;
Whose rising glories made such haste to hide
His head in cloudes, as if in him alone5
Impatient Nature had taught motion
To start from Time, and cheerfully to fly
Before, and seize upon Maturity.
Thus grew this gratious tree, in whose sweet shade
The sunne himselfe oft wisht to sit, and made10
The morning Muses perch like birds, and sing
Among his branches: yea, and vow'd to bring
His owne delicious phœnix from the blest
Arabia, there to build her virgin nest,
To hatch her selfe in; 'mongst his leaves, the Day15
Fresh from the rosie East, rejoyc't to play;
To them shee gave the first and fairest beame
That waited on her birth: she gave to them
The purest pearles, that wept her evening death;
The balmy Zephirus got so sweet a breath20
By often kissing them. And now begun
Glad Time to ripen Expectation:
The timorous maiden-blossomes on each bough
Peept forth from their first blushes; so that now
A thousand ruddy hopes smil'd in each bud,25
And flatter'd every greedy eye that stood
Fixt in delight, as if already there
Those rare fruits dangled, whence the golden Yeare
His crowne expected: when, (O Fate! O Time!
That seldome lett'st a blushing youthfull prime30
Hide his hot beames in shade of silver age,
So rare is hoary Vertue) the dire rage
Of a mad storme these bloomy joyes all tore,
Ravisht the maiden blossoms, and downe bore
The trunke. Yet in this ground his pretious root35
Still lives, which when weake Time shall be pour'd out
Into Eternity, and circular joyes
Dance in an endlesse round, again shall rise
The faire son of an ever-youthfull Spring,
To be a shade for angels while they sing;40
Meane while who e're thou art that passest here,
O doe thou water it with one kind teare.

VPON THE DEATH OF THE MOST DESIRED MR. HERRYS.[70]

Death, what dost? O, hold thy blow,1
What thou dost thou dost not know.
Death, thou must not here be cruell,
This is Nature's choycest iewell:
This is hee, in whose rare frame5
Nature labour'd for a name:
And meant to leave his pretious feature
The patterne of a perfect creature.
Ioy of Goodnesse, love of Art,
Vertue weares him next her heart.10
Him the Muses love to follow,
Him they call their vice-Apollo.
Apollo, golden though thou bee,
Th' art not fairer than is hee,
Nor more lovely lift'st thy head15
(Blushing) from thine Easterne bed.
The glories of thy youth ne're knew
Brighter hopes than his can shew.
Why then should it e're be seen
That his should fade, while thine is green?20
And wilt thou (O, cruell boast!)
Put poore Nature to such cost?
O, twill undoe our common mother,
To be at charge of such another.
What? thinke me to no other end25
Gracious heavens do use to send
Earth her best perfection,
But to vanish, and be gone?
Therefore onely given to day
To-morrow to be snatch't away?30
I've seen indeed the hopefull bud
Of a ruddy rose that stood
Blushing, to behold the ray
Of the new-saluted Day:
(His tender toppe not fully spread)35
The sweet dash of a shower new shead,
Invited him, no more to hide
Within himselfe the purple pride
Of his forward flower; when lo,
While he sweetly 'gan to show
His swelling gloryes, Auster spide him,40
Cruell Auster thither hy'd him,
And with the rush of one rude blast,
Sham'd not, spitefully to wast
All his leaves, so fresh, so sweet,
And lay them trembling at his feet.45
I've seen the Morning's lovely ray
Hover o're the new-borne Day,
With rosie wings so richly bright,
As if she scorn'd to thinke of Night;
When a rugged storme, whose scowle50
Made heaven's radiant face looke foule
Call'd for an untimely night,
To blot the newly-blossom'd light.
But were the rose's blush so rare,
Were the Morning's smile so faire,55
As is he, nor cloud, nor wind,
But would be courteous, would be kind.
Spare him Death, ah! spare him then,
Spare the sweetest among men:
And let not Pitty, with her teares60
Keepe such distance from thine eares.
But O, thou wilt not, can'st not spare,
Haste hath never time to heare.
Therefore if he needs must go,
And the Fates will have it so;65
Softly may he be possest
Of his monumentall rest.
Safe, thou darke home of the dead,
Safe, O hide his lovèd head:
Keepe him close, close in thine armes,70
Seal'd vpp with a thousand charmes.
For Pittie's sake, O, hide him quite
From his mother Nature's sight;
Lest for griefe his losse may move
All her births abortive proue.75

See our Essay for notice of 'Mr. Herrys.' In the Sancroft ms. the heading is 'An Elegie on Mr. Herris. R. Cr.' It offers these variations: lines 1 and 2, 'doest:' line 18, 'his' for 'he;' adopted: line 29, 'given' for 'give;' adopted: line 36, 'new' for 'now;' adopted from 1648: line 50, the ms. reads 'rugged' for 'ruddy;' adopted: line 58, 'ah' for 'O;' adopted: line 60, 'And let:' lines 70-71 added from the ms., where in the margin is written 'not printed.' G.

ANOTHER.[71]

If ever Pitty were acquainted1
With sterne Death; if e're he fainted,
Or forgot the cruell vigour
Of an adamantine rigour;
Here, O, here we should have knowne it,5
Here, or no where, hee'd have showne it.
For hee, whose pretious memory
Bathes in teares of every eye;
Hee, to whom our Sorrow brings
All the streames of all her springs;10
Was so rich in grace, and nature,
In all the gifts that blesse a creature;
The fresh hopes of his lovely youth
Flourish't in so faire a growth;
So sweet the temple was, that shrin'd15
The sacred sweetnesse of his mind;
That could the Fates know to relent,
Could they know what mercy meant,
Or had ever learnt to beare
The soft tincture of a teare;20
Teares would now have flow'd so deepe,
As might have taught Griefe how to weepe.
Now all their steely operation
Would quite have lost the cruell fashion.
Sicknesse would have gladly been25
Sick himselfe to have sav'd him;
And his feaver wish'd to prove,
Burning onely in his love.
Him when Wrath it selfe had seen,
Wrath it selfe had lost his spleen.30
Grim Destruction here amaz'd,
In stead of striking, would have gaz'd.
Even the iron-pointed pen,
That notes the tragick doomes of men,
Wet with teares, 'still'd from the eyes35
Of the flinty Destinies,
Would have learn't a softer style,
And have been asham'd to spoyle
His live's sweet story, by the hast
Of a cruell stop, ill plac't.40
In the darke volume of our fate,
Whence each lease of life hath date,
Where in sad particulars
The totall summe of man appeares,
And the short clause of mortall breath,45
Bound in the period of Death:
In all the booke if any where
Such a tearme as this, 'Spare here,'
Could been found, 'twould have been read,
Writ in white letters o're his head:50
Or close unto his name annext,
The faire glosse of a fairer text.
In briefe, if any one were free
Hee was that one, and onely hee.
But he, alas! even hee is dead,55
And our hope's faire harvest spread
In the dust. Pitty, now spend
All the teares that Griefe can lend.
Sad Mortality may hide
In his ashes all her pride;60
With this inscription o're his head,
'All hope of never dying here is dead.'

The Sancroft ms. furnishes these variations: line 1, 'was:' line 26, 't' have:' line 34, 'quotes' for 'notes:' l. 42, 'lease' for 'leafe;' adopted: line 49 omits rightly the first 'have' and spells 'bin;' the former adopted: line 50, 'wrote:' line 62, 'is' for 'lyes;' adopted: line 23, 'steely' = hard as steel, or, as we say, iron-hearted. The Sancroft ms. writes the two poems as one. G.