Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 71

Lovers will doubt thou canst entice No other for thy fuel, And if thou burn one victim twice, Both think thee poor and cruel.

Thomas D'Urfey. 1653-1723

395. Chloe Divine

CHLOE 's a Nymph in flowery groves, A Nereid in the streams; Saint-like she in the temple moves, A woman in my dreams.

Love steals artillery from her eyes, The Graces point her charms; Orpheus is rivall'd in her voice, And Venus in her arms.

Never so happily in one Did heaven and earth combine: And yet 'tis flesh and blood alone That makes her so divine.

Charles Cotton. 1630-1687

396. To Coelia

WHEN, Coelia, must my old day set, And my young morning rise In beams of joy so bright as yet Ne'er bless'd a lover's eyes?

My state is more advanced than when I first attempted thee: I sued to be a servant then, But now to be made free.

I've served my time faithful and true, Expecting to be placed In happy freedom, as my due, To all the joys thou hast: Ill husbandry in love is such A scandal to love's power, We ought not to misspend so much As one poor short-lived hour.

Yet think not, sweet! I'm weary grown, That I pretend such haste; Since none to surfeit e'er was known Before he had a taste: My infant love could humbly wait When, young, it scarce knew how To plead; but grown to man's estate, He is impatient now.

Katherine Philips ('Orinda'). 1631-1664

397. To One persuading a Lady to Marriage

FORBEAR, bold youth; all 's heaven here, And what you do aver To others courts.h.i.+p may appear, 'Tis sacrilege to her.

She is a public deity; And were 't not very odd She should dispose herself to be A petty household G.o.d?

First make the sun in private s.h.i.+ne And bid the world adieu, That so he may his beams confine In compliment to you: But if of that you do despair, Think how you did amiss To strive to fix her beams which are More bright and large than his.

John Dryden. 1631-1700

398. Ode To the Pious Memory of the accomplished young lady, Mrs. Anne Killigrew, excellent in the two sister arts of Poesy and Painting

THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the blest; Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green above the rest: Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star, Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race, Or, in procession fixt and regular, Mov'd with the heaven's majestic pace; Or, call'd to more superior bliss, Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss: Whatever happy region is thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little s.p.a.ce; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehea.r.s.e, In no ign.o.ble verse; But such as thy own voice did practise here, When thy first-fruits of Poesy were given, To make thyself a welcome inmate there; While yet a young probationer, And candidate of heaven.

If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less, to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood: So wert thou born into the tuneful strain, An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.

But if thy pre-existing soul Was form'd at first with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.

If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!

Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.

May we presume to say, that, at thy birth, New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth?

For sure the milder planets did combine On thy auspicious horoscope to s.h.i.+ne, And even the most malicious were in trine.

Thy brother-angels at thy birth Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high, That all the people of the sky Might know a poetess was born on earth; And then, if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres.

And if no cl.u.s.t'ring swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, 'Twas that such vulgar miracles Heaven had not leisure to renew: For all the blest fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.

O gracious G.o.d! how far have we Profan'd thy heavenly gift of Poesy!

Made prost.i.tute and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordain'd above, For tongues of angels and for hymns of love!

O wretched we! why were we hurried down This lubrique and adulterate age (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own), To increase the streaming ordures of the stage?

What can we say to excuse our second fall?

Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all!

Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, Unmixt with foreign filth, and undefil'd; Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

Art she had none, yet wanted none, For Nature did that want supply: So rich in treasures of her own, She might our boasted stores defy: Such n.o.ble vigour did her verse adorn, That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born.

Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred, By great examples daily fed, What in the best of books, her father's life, she read.

And to be read herself she need not fear; Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear, Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.

Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest) Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast, Light as the vapours of a morning dream; So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream....

Now all those charms, that blooming grace, The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; In earth the much-lamented virgin lies.

Not wit, nor piety could fate prevent; Nor was the cruel destiny content To finish all the murder at a blow, To sweep at once her life and beauty too; But, like a harden'd felon, took a pride To work more mischievously slow, And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd.

O double sacrilege on things divine, To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!

But thus Orinda died: Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate; As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.

Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas His waving streamers to the winds displays, And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.

Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear, The winds too soon will waft thee here!

Slack all thy sails, and fear to come, Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home!

No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, Thou hast already had her last embrace.

But look aloft, and if thou kenn'st from far, Among the Pleiads a new kindl'd star, If any sparkles than the rest more bright, 'Tis she that s.h.i.+nes in that propitious light.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations under ground; When, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, The judging G.o.d shall close the book of Fate, And there the last a.s.sizes keep For those who wake and those who sleep; When rattling bones together fly From the four corners of the sky; When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead; The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing, Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.

There thou, sweet Saint, before the quire shalt go, As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learn'd below.

John Dryden. 1631-1700

399. A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began: When nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay, And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, 'Arise, ye more than dead!'

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began: From harmony to harmony Through all the compa.s.s of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man.

What pa.s.sion cannot Music raise and quell?

When Jubal struck the chorded sh.e.l.l, His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell To wors.h.i.+p that celestial sound: Less than a G.o.d they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that sh.e.l.l, That spoke so sweetly, and so well.

What pa.s.sion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangour Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger, And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!

The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of pa.s.sion, For the fair, disdainful dame.