Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 59

Such was that happy Garden-state While man there walk'd without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet!

But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one, To live in Paradise alone.

How well the skilful gard'ner drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new!

Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run: And, as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

360. Bermudas

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride In the ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that row'd along The listening woods received this song:

'What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own?

Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs, He lands us on a gra.s.sy stage, Safe from the storms' and prelates' rage: He gave us this eternal Spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care On daily visits through the air: He hangs in shades the orange bright Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: He makes the figs our mouths to meet And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice.

With cedars chosen by His hand From Lebanon He stores the land; And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergris on sh.o.r.e.

He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound His name.

O, let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique bay!'

Thus sung they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note: And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

361. An Epitaph

ENOUGH; and leave the rest to Fame!

'Tis to commend her, but to name.

Courts.h.i.+p which, living, she declined, When dead, to offer were unkind: Nor can the truest wit, or friend, Without detracting, her commend.

To say--she lived a virgin chaste In this age loose and all unlaced; Nor was, when vice is so allowed, Of virtue or ashamed or proud; That her soul was on Heaven so bent, No minute but it came and went; That, ready her last debt to pay, She summ'd her life up every day; Modest as morn, as mid-day bright, Gentle as evening, cool as night: --'Tis true; but all too weakly said.

'Twas more significant, she's dead.

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695

362. The Retreat

HAPPY those early days, when I s.h.i.+n'd in my Angel-infancy!

Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white celestial thought: When yet I had not walk'd above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back--at that short s.p.a.ce-- Could see a glimpse of His bright face: When on some gilded cloud, or flow'r, My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity: Before I taught my tongue to wound My Conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to ev'ry sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness.

O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track!

That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train; From whence th' enlightned spirit sees That shady City of Palm-trees.

But ah! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way!

Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move; And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return.

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695

363. Peace

MY soul, there is a country Far beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry All skilful in the wars: There, above noise and danger, Sweet Peace sits crown'd with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious Friend, And--O my soul, awake!-- Did in pure love descend To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flower of Peace, The Rose that cannot wither, Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave then thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure But One who never changes-- Thy G.o.d, thy life, thy cure.

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695

364. The Timber

SURE thou didst flourish once! and many springs, Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers, Pa.s.s'd o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers.

And still a new succession sings and flies; Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring skies, While the low violet thrives at their root.

But thou beneath the sad and heavy line Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark; Where not so much as dreams of light may s.h.i.+ne, Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.

And yet--as if some deep hate and dissent, Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, Were still alive--thou dost great storms resent Before they come, and know'st how near they be.

Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; But this thy strange resentment after death Means only those who broke--in life--thy peace.

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695

365. Friends Departed

THEY are all gone into the world of light!

And I alone sit ling'ring here; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days: My days, which are at best but dull and h.o.a.ry, Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility, High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have show'd them me, To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just, s.h.i.+ning nowhere, but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.

And yet as Angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul, when man doth sleep: So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep.

If a star were confin'd into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that lock'd her up gives room, She'll s.h.i.+ne through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee!

Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pa.s.s: Or else remove me hence unto that hill, Where I shall need no gla.s.s.