Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 50

Look, how the flower which ling'ringly doth fade, The morning's darling late, the summer's queen, Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green, As high as it did raise, bows low the head: Right so the pleasures of my life being dead, Or in their contraries but only seen, With swifter speed declines than erst it spread, And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.

As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the night By darkness would imprison on his way, Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright, Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day; Thy sun posts westward, pa.s.sed is thy morn, And twice it is not given thee to be born.

II.

The weary mariner so fast not flies A howling tempest, harbour to attain; Nor shepherd hastes, when frays of wolves arise, So fast to fold, to save his bleating train, As I, wing'd with contempt and just disdain, Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize, And sanctuary seek, free to remain From wounds of abject times, and Envy's eyes.

To me this world did once seem sweet and fair, While senses' light mind's prospective kept blind, Now, like imagined landscape in the air, And weeping rainbows, her best joys I find: Or if aught here is had that praise should have, It is a life obscure, and silent grave.

III.

The last and greatest herald of heaven's King, Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he more harmless found than man, and mild; His food was locusts, and what there doth spring, With honey that from virgin hives distill'd; Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear, long since from earth exiled; There burst he forth; 'All ye whose hopes rely On G.o.d, with me amidst these deserts mourn; Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!'

Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?

Only the echoes, which he made relent, Rung from their flinty caves, 'Repent, repent!'

IV.

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past or coming, void of care, Well-pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers: To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.

What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs, Attired in sweetness, sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?

Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

V.

As when it happ'neth that some lovely town Unto a barbarous besieger falls, Who both by sword and flame himself installs, And, shameless, it in tears and blood doth drown Her beauty spoil'd, her citizens made thralls, His spite yet cannot so her all throw down, But that some statue, pillar of renown, Yet lurks unmaim'd within her weeping walls: So, after all the spoil, disgrace, and wreck, That time, the world, and death, could bring combined, Amidst that ma.s.s of ruins they did make, Safe and all scarless yet remains my mind: From this so high transcending rapture springs, That I, all else defaced, not envy kings.

PHINEAS FLETCHER

We have already spoken of Giles Fletcher, the brother of Phineas. Of Phineas we know nothing except that he was born in 1584, educated at Eton and Cambridge, became Rector at Hilgay, in Norfolk, where he remained for twenty-nine years, surviving his brother; that he wrote an account of the founders and learned men of his university; that in 1633, he published 'The Purple Island;' and that in 1650 he died.

His 'Purple Island' (with which we first became acquainted in the writings of James Hervey, author of the 'Meditations,' who was its fervent admirer) is a curious, complex, and highly ingenious allegory, forming an elaborate picture of _Man_, in his body and soul; and for subtlety and infinite flexibility, both of fancy and verse, deserves great praise, although it cannot, for a moment, be compared with his brother's 'Christ's Victory and Triumph,' either in interest of subject or in splendour of genius.

DESCRIPTION OF PARTHENIA.

With her, her sister went, a warlike maid, Parthenia, all in steel and gilded arms; In needle's stead, a mighty spear she sway'd, With which in b.l.o.o.d.y fields and fierce alarms, The boldest champion she down would bear, And like a thunderbolt wide pa.s.sage tear, Flinging all to the earth with her enchanted spear.

Her goodly armour seem'd a garden green, Where thousand spotless lilies freshly blew; And on her s.h.i.+eld the lone bird might be seen, The Arabian bird, s.h.i.+ning in colours new; Itself unto itself was only mate; Ever the same, but new in newer date: And underneath was writ, 'Such is chaste single state.'

Thus hid in arms she seem'd a goodly knight, And fit for any warlike exercise: But when she list lay down her armour bright, And back resume her peaceful maiden's guise; The fairest maid she was, that ever yet Prison'd her locks within a golden net, Or let them waving hang, with roses fair beset.

Choice nymph! the crown of chaste Diana's train, Thou beauty's lily, set in heavenly earth; Thy fairs, unpattern'd, all perfection stain: Sure heaven with curious pencil at thy birth In thy rare face her own full picture drew: It is a strong verse here to write, but true, Hyperboles in others are but half thy due.

Upon her forehead Love his trophies fits, A thousand spoils in silver arch displaying: And in the midst himself full proudly sits, Himself in awful majesty arraying: Upon her brows lies his bent ebon bow, And ready shafts; deadly those weapons show; Yet sweet the death appear'd, lovely that deadly blow.

A bed of lilies flower upon her cheek, And in the midst was set a circling rose; Whose sweet aspect would force Narcissus seek New liveries, and fresher colours choose To deck his beauteous head in snowy 'tire; But all in vain: for who can hope t' aspire To such a fair, which none attain, but all admire?

Her ruby lips lock up from gazing sight A troop of pearls, which march in goodly row: But when she deigns those precious bones undight, Soon heavenly notes from those divisions flow, And with rare music charm the ravish'd ears, Daunting bold thoughts, but cheering modest fears: The spheres so only sing, so only charm the spheres.

Yet all these stars which deck this beauteous sky By force of th'inward sun both s.h.i.+ne and move; Throned in her heart sits love's high majesty; In highest majesty the highest love.

As when a taper s.h.i.+nes in gla.s.sy frame, The sparkling crystal burns in glittering flame, So does that brightest love brighten this lovely dame.

INSTABILITY OF HUMAN GREATNESS.

Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness, And here long seeks what here is never found!

For all our good we hold from Heaven by lease, With many forfeits and conditions bound; Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due: Though now but writ and seal'd, and given anew, Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew.

Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good, At every loss against Heaven's face repining?

Do but behold where glorious cities stood, With gilded tops, and silver turrets s.h.i.+ning; Where now the hart fearless of greyhound feeds, And loving pelican in safety breeds; Where screeching satyrs fill the people's empty steads.

Where is the a.s.syrian lion's golden hide, That all the East once grasp'd in lordly paw?

Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride The lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw?

Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard, Through all the world with nimble pinions fared, And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms shared?

Hardly the place of such antiquity, Or note of these great monarchies we find: Only a fading verbal memory, An empty name in writ is left behind: But when this second life and glory fades, And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, A second fall succeeds, and double death invades.

That monstrous Beast, which nursed in Tiber's fen, Did all the world with hideous shape affray; That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping den, And trod down all the rest to dust and clay: His battering horns pull'd out by civil hands, And iron teeth lie scatter'd on the sands; Backed, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked stands.

And that black Vulture,[1] which with deathful wing O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight Frighten'd the Muses from their native spring, Already stoops, and flags with weary flight: Who then shall look for happiness beneath?

Where each new day proclaims chance, change, and death, And life itself's as fleet as is the air we breathe.

[1] 'Black Vulture:' the Turk.

HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

Thrice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!

When courts are happiness, unhappy p.a.w.ns!

His cottage low and safely humble gate Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep: Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep; Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride: His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need, Not in that proud Sidonian tineture dyed: No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright, Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite; But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music, and base flattering tongues, Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise, The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes: In country plays is all the strife he uses, Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses, And but in music's sports all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him, Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content; The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him With coolest shades, till noontide rage is spent; His life is neither toss'd in boisterous seas Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease; Pleased, and full blest he lives, when he his G.o.d can please.

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, While by his side his faithful spouse hath place; His little son into his bosom creeps, The lively picture of his father's face: Never his humble house nor state torment him; Less he could like, if less his G.o.d had sent him; And when he dies, green turfs, with gra.s.sy tomb, content him.

MARRIAGE OF CHRIST AND THE CHURCH.

'Ah, dearest Lord! does my rapt soul behold thee?

Am I awake, and sure I do not dream?

Do these thrice-blessed arms again enfold thee?

Too much delight makes true things feigned seem.