AFTER
Now we bear the king Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen, Heave him away upon your wingèd thoughts Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouthed sea, Which like a mighty whiffler 'fore the king Seems to prepare his way: so let him land, And solemnly see him set on to London. So swift a pace hath thought that even now You may imagine him upon Blackheath; Where that his lords desire him to have borne His bruisèd helmet and his bended sword Before him through the city: he forbids it, Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride, Giving full trophy, signal and ostent, Quite from himself to God. But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens! The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, Like to the senators of the antique Rome, With the plebeians swarming at their heels, Go forth and fetch their conquering Cæsar in!
Shakespeare.
[II]
LORD OF HIMSELF
How happy is he born or taught Who serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his highest skill;
Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death— Not tied unto the world with care Of prince's ear or vulgar breath;
Who hath his ear from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who envies none whom chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given with praise, Nor rules of state but rules of good;
Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend—
This man is free from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands, And, having nothing, yet hath all.
Wotton.
[III]
TRUE BALM
High-spirited friend, I send nor balms nor corsives to your wound; Your faith hath found A gentler and more agile hand to tend The cure of that which is but corporal, And doubtful days, which were named critical, Have made their fairest flight And now are out of sight. Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind, Wrapped in this paper lie, Which in the taking if you misapply You are unkind.
Your covetous hand, Happy in that fair honour it hath gained, Must now be reined. True valour doth her own renown commend In one full action; nor have you now more To do than be a husband of that store. Think but how dear you bought This same which you have caught— Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth 'Tis wisdom, and that high, For men to use their fortune reverently, Even in youth.
Jonson.
[IV]
HONOUR IN BUD
It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May: Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light.
Jonson.
[V]
THE JOY OF BATTLE
Arm, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in; Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win. Behold from yonder hill the foe appears; Bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears! Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring; O view the wings of horse the meadows scouring! The vanguard marches bravely. Hark, the drums! Dub, dub!
They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes: See how the arrows fly That darken all the sky! Hark how the trumpets sound! Hark how the hills rebound— Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara!
Hark how the horses charge! in, boys! boys, in! The battle totters; now the wounds begin: O how they cry! O how they die! Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder! See how he breaks the ranks asunder! They fly! they fly! Eumenes has the chase, And brave Polybius makes good his place: To the plains, to the woods, To the rocks, to the floods, They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow! Hark how the soldiers hollow! Hey, hey!
Brave Diocles is dead, And all his soldiers fled; The battle's won, and lost, That many a life hath cost.
Fletcher.
[VI]
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY
Mortality, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep beneath this heap of stones! Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands. Here from their pulpits sealed with dust They preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.’ Here is an acre sown indeed With the richest, royall'st seed That the earth did e'er suck in, Since the first man died for sin. Here the bones of birth have cried, ‘Though gods they were, as men they died.’ Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings. Here's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
Beaumont.
[VII]
GOING A-MAYING
Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn: See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air: Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew-bespangled herb and tree! Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east, Above an hour since, yet you not drest, Nay, not so much as out of bed? When all the birds have matins said, And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, Whenas a thousand virgins on this day Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.
Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth like the spring-time fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night, And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park, Made green and trimmed with trees! see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see 't? Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey The proclamation made for May, And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
There's not a budding boy or girl this day, But is got up and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth ere this is come Back and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept and wooed, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given, Many a kiss, both odd and even: Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament: Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked: yet we're not a-Maying.
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time! We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun. And, as a vapour or a drop of rain, Once lost can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight, Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
Herrick.
[VIII]
TO ANTHEAWHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING
Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love and I will give A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free, As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honour thy decree; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep While I have eyes to see; And, having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despair Under that cypress-tree; Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me, And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.
Herrick.
[IX]
MEMENTO MORI
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright— The bridal of the earth and sky— The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul Like seasoned timber never gives, But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.
Herbert.
[X]
THE KING OF KINGS
The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things: There is no armour against fate: Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crookèd scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels when they kill, But their strong nerves at last must yield: They tame but one another still. Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on their brow— Then boast no more your mighty deeds! Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds! All heads must come To the cold tomb: Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
Shirley.
[XI]
LYCIDAS
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin, then, sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string; Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse: So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn, And, as he passes, turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Towards heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute; Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damœtas loved to hear our song. But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes, mourn. The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays, As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white-thorn blows, Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds' ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: Ay me! I fondly dream ‘Had ye been there,’ ... for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrèd shears, And slits the thin-spun life. ‘But not the praise,’ Phœbus replied, and touched my trembling ears: ‘Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.’ O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood! But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea That came in Neptune's plea. He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? And questioned every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beakèd promontory: They knew not of his story, And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed: The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. ‘Ah! who hath reft,’ quoth he, ‘my dearest pledge?’ Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean Lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: ‘How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! Of other care they little reckoning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said: But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.’ Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks; Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine, The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For, so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled; Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth: And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops and sweet societies That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals grey; He touched the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay: At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue; To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
Milton.
[XII]
ARMS AND THE MUSEWHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED ON THE CITY
Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms, Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, If deed of honour did thee ever please, Guard them, and him within protect from harms. He can requite thee; for he knows the charms That call fame on such gentle acts as these, And he can spread thy name o'er land and seas, Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower: The great Emanthian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground; and the repeated air Of sad Electra's poet had the power To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
Milton.
[XIII]
TO THE LORD GENERAL
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crownèd Fortune proud Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath: yet much remains To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renowned than war: new foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.
Milton.
[XIV]
THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
Milton.
[XV]
ON HIS BLINDNESS
When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide; ‘Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?’ I fondly ask: but patience, to prevent That murmur soon replies: ‘God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.’
Milton.
[XVI]
EYELESS AT GAZA
This, this is he; softly a while; Let us not break in upon him. O change beyond report, thought, or belief! See how he lies at random, carelessly diffused With languished head unpropt, As one past hope, abandonèd, And by himself given over, In slavish habit, ill-fitted weeds O'er-worn and soiled. Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he, That heroic, that renowned, Irresistible Samson? whom unarmed No strength of man or fiercest wild beast could withstand; Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid; Ran on embattled armies clad in iron, And, weaponless himself, Made arms ridiculous, useless the forgery Of brazen shield and spear, the hammered cuirass, Chalybean-tempered steel, and frock of mail Adamantéan proof: But safest he who stood aloof, When insupportably his foot advanced, In scorn of their proud arms and warlike tools, Spurned them to death by troops. The bold Ascalonite Fled from his lion ramp; old warriors turned Their plated backs under his heel, Or grovelling soiled their crested helmets in the dust.
Milton.
[XVII]
OUT OF ADVERSITY
O how comely it is, and how reviving To the spirits of just men long oppressed, When God into the hands of their deliverer Puts invincible might To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, The brute and boisterous force of violent men, Hardy and industrious to support Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour truth! He all their ammunition And feats of war defeats, With plain heroic magnitude of mind And celestial vigour armed; Their armouries and magazines contemns, Renders them useless, while With wingèd expedition Swift as the lightning glance he executes His errand on the wicked, who, surprised, Lose their defence, distracted and amazed.
Milton.
[XVIII]
HEROIC LOVE
My dear and only love, I pray That little world of thee Be governed by no other sway But purest monarchy; For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more.
Like Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone: My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all.
But, if thou wilt prove faithful then And constant of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen, And famous by my sword; I'll serve thee in such noble ways Was never heard before; I'll crown and deck thee all with bays And love thee more and more.
Montrose.
[XIX]
GOING TO THE WARS
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field, And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore: I could not love thee, Dear, so much Loved I not Honour more.
Lovelace.
[XX]
FROM PRISON
When Love with unconfinèd wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye, The Gods that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.
When, linnet-like confinèd, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlargèd winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty.
Lovelace.
[XXI]
TWO KINGS
The forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing.
'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unusèd armour's rust, Removing from the wall The corselet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urgèd his active star;
And, like the three-forked lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide;
For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous or enemy, And with such to inclose Is more than to oppose;
Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent; And Cæsar's head at last Did through his laurels blast.
'Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry Heaven's flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due,
Who from his private gardens, where He lived reservèd and austere, As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot,
Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of Time, And cast the kingdoms old Into another mould.
Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain (But those do hold or break, As men are strong or weak),
Nature, that hated emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil war, Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art,
Where, twining subtile fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook's narrow case,
That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the armèd bands, Did clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try;
Nor called the gods with vulgar spite To vindicate his helpless right, But bowed his comely head Down, as upon a bed.
This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcèd power: So, when they did design The Capitol's first line,
A bleeding head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate!
And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed: So much one man can do That doth both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confessed How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust;
Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the Republic's hand (How fit he is to sway, That can so well obey!),
He to the Commons' feet presents A kingdom for his first year's rents, And (what he may) forbears His fame to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the public's skirt. So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky,
She, having killed, no more doth search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure.
What may not then our isle presume While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear If thus he crowns each year?
As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his party-coloured mind, But from this valour sad Shrink underneath the plaid;
Happy if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer.
But thou, the war's and fortune's son, March indefatigably on, And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect:
Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain, A power must it maintain.
Marvell.
[XXII]
IN EXILE
Where the remote Bermudas ride In the Ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that rowed along The listening winds received this song. ‘What should we do but sing his praise That led us through the watery maze, Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks That lift the deep upon their backs, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? He lands us on a grassy 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 ambergrease on shore. 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 sang 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.
Marvell.
[XXIII]
ALEXANDER'S FEAST
'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound (So should desert in arms be crowned); The lovely Thais by his side Sate like a blooming Eastern bride In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair! Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touched the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove Who left his blissful seats above, Such is the power of mighty love! A dragon's fiery form belied the god; Sublime on radiant spires he rode When he to fair Olympia pressed, And while he sought her snowy breast, Then round her slender waist he curled, And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound; A present deity! they shout around: A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound: With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god; Affects to nod And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young: The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums! Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Soothed with the sound the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain! The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he heaven and earth defied Changed his hand, and checked his pride. He chose a mournful Muse Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood; Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth exposed he lies With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of Chance below And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree; 'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sang, is toil and trouble, Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying; If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think, it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause; So love was crowned, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again: At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.
Now strike the golden lyre again: A louder yet, and yet a louder strain! Break his bands of sleep asunder And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark! the horrid sound Has raised up his head; As awaked from the dead, And amazed he stares around. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise! See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain: Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew! Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes And glittering temples of their hostile gods. The princes applaud with a furious joy: And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way To light him to his prey, And like another Helen fired another Troy!
Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit and arts unknown before Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down.
Dryden.
[XXIV]
THE QUIET LIFE
Condemned to Hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blast or slow decline Our social comforts drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year, See Levett to the grave descend: Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; Nor, lettered arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting Nature called for aid, And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy displayed The power of art without the show.
In misery's darkest caverns known, His ready help was ever nigh, Where hopeless anguish poured his groan, And lonely want retired to die.
No summons mocked by chill delay, No petty gains disdained by pride: The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied.
His virtues walked their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure the eternal Master found His single talent well employed.
The busy day, the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then, with no throbs of fiery pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way.
Johnson.