Part 9

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: 5 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 10 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, 15 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; 20 And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 25 Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright, 30 Toward 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; 35 And old Damœtas loved to hear our song. But, oh 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, 40 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, 45 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 50 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: 55 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, 60 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, 65 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-- 70 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, 75 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; 80 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, 85 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. 90 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; 95 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, 100 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 105 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, 110 (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! 115 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 learned aught else the least 120 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, 125 But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Beside what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said: But that two-handed engine at the door 130 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. 135 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 honied showers, 140 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, 145 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 daffodillies fill their cups with tears, 150 To strew the laureat 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, 155 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, 160 Where the great Vision of the guarded Mount Looks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold. Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth: And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more; 165 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 170 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, 175 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, 180 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. 185 Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still Morn went out with sandals gray; 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, 190 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. _John Milton._

CXXVI

_THE CHRISTIAN’S REPLY TO THE PHILOSOPHER._

The good in graves as heavenly seed are sown; And at the saints’ first spring, the general doom, Will rise, not by degrees, but fully blown; When all the angels to their harvest come.

Cannot Almighty Heaven (since flowers which pass 5 Thawed through a still, and there melt mingled too, Are raised distinct in a poor chymist’s glass) Do more in graves than men in limbecs do?

God bred the arts, to make us more believe (By seeking nature’s covered mysteries,) 10 His darker works, that faith may thence conceive He can do more than what our reason sees.

O coward faith! religion’s trembling guide! Whom ev’n the dim-eyed arts must lead to see What nature only from our sloth does hide, 15 Causes remote, which faith’s dark dangers be.

Religion, ere imposed, should first be taught; Not seem to dull obedience ready laid, Then swallowed straight for ease, but long be sought; And be by reason counselled, though not swayed. 20

God has enough to human kind disclosed; Our fleshly garments He a while received, And walked as if the Godhead were deposed, Yet could be then but by a few believed.

The faithless Jews will this at doom confess, 25 Who did suspect Him for his low disguise: But, if He could have made his virtue less, He had been more familiar to their eyes.

Frail life! in which, through mists of human breath We grope for truth, and make our progress slow, 30 Because by passion blinded; till, by death Our passions ending, we begin to know.

O reverend death! whose looks can soon advise Even scornful youth, whilst priests their doctrine waste; Yet mocks us too; for he does make us wise, 35 When by his coming our affairs are past.

O harmless death! whom still the valiant brave, The wise expect, the sorrowful invite, And all the good embrace, who know the grave A short dark passage to eternal light. _Sir William Davenant._

CXXVII

_MORTIFICATION._

How soon doth man decay! When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets To swaddle infants, whose young breath Scarce knows the way; Those clouts are little winding-sheets, 5 Which do consign and send them unto death.

When boys go first to bed, They step into their voluntary graves; Sleep binds them fast; only their breath Makes them not dead. 10 Successive nights, like rolling waves, Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.

When youth is frank and free, And calls for music, while his veins do swell, All day exchanging mirth and breath 15 In company; That music summons to the knell, Which shall befriend him at the house of death.

When man grows staid and wise, Getting a house and home, where he may move 20 Within the circle of his breath, Schooling his eyes; That dumb inclosure maketh love Unto the coffin, that attends his death.

When age grows low and weak, 25 Marking his grave, and thawing every year, Till all do melt, and drown his breath, When he would speak; A chair or litter shows the bier Which shall convey him to the house of death. 30

Man, ere he is aware, Hath put together a solemnity, And dressed his hearse, while he has breath As yet to spare. Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die, 35 That all these dyings may be life in death. _George Herbert._

CXXVIII

_THE RETREAT._

Happy those early days, when I Shined in my angel-infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught 5 But a white celestial thought; When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back, at that short space, Could see a glimpse of his bright face; 10 When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound 15 My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. 20 Oh 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 the enlightened spirit sees 25 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; 30 And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came return. _Henry Vaughan._

CXXIX

_A DROP OF DEW._

See, how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where ’twas born, 5 Round in itself incloses, And in its little globe’s extent, Frames, as it can, its native element. How it the purple flower does slight, Scarce touching where it lies; 10 But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light, Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere; Restless it rolls, and unsecure, 15 Trembling, lest it grow impure; Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day, 20 Could it within the human flower be seen, Remembering still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves, the blossoms green; And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express 25 The greater heaven in a heaven less. In how coy a figure wound, Every way it turns away: So the world excluding round, Yet receiving in the day; 30 Dark beneath, but bright above; Here disdaining, there in love. How loose and easy hence to go; How girt and ready to ascend; Moving but on a point below, 35 It all about does upward bend. Such did the manna’s sacred dew distil, White and entire, although congealed and chill; Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of the almighty Sun. 40 _Andrew Marvell._

CXXX

_PEACE._

My soul, there is a country, Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a wingèd sentry, All skilful in the wars. There, above noise and danger, 5 Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious friend, And (O my soul, awake!) 10 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, 15 Thy fortress, and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure, But One who never changes, Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure. 20 _Henry Vaughan._

CXXXI

_EVENING HYMN._

The night is come, like to the day; Depart not Thou, great God, away. Let not my sins, black as the night, Eclipse the lustre of thy light. Keep still in my horizon; for to me 5 The sun makes not the day, but Thee. Thou whose nature cannot sleep, On my temples sentry keep! Guard me ’gainst those watchful foes, Whose eyes are open while mine close; 10 Let no dreams my head infest, But such as Jacob’s temples blest. While I do rest, my soul advance; Make me to sleep a holy trance. That I may, my rest being wrought, 15 Awake into some holy thought; And with as active vigour run My course as doth the nimble sun. Sleep is a death; oh! make me try, By sleeping, what it is to die: 20 And as gently lay my head On my grave, as now my bed. Howe’er I rest, great God, let me Awake again at last with Thee. And thus assured, behold I lie 25 Securely, or to wake or die. These are my drowsy days; in vain I do now wake to sleep again: Oh! come that hour, when I shall never Sleep again, but wake for ever. 30 _Sir Thomas Browne._

CXXXII

_THE VALEDICTION._

Vain world, what is in thee? What do poor mortals see, Which should esteemèd be Worthy their pleasure? Is it the mother’s womb, 5 Or sorrows which soon come, Or a dark grave and tomb, Which is their treasure? How dost thou man deceive By thy vain glory? 10 Why do they still believe Thy false history?

Is it children’s book and rod, The labourer’s heavy load, Poverty undertrod, 15 The world desireth? Is it distracting cares, Or heart-tormenting fears, Or pining grief and tears, Which man requireth? 20 Or is it youthful rage, Or childish toying; Or is decrepit age Worth man’s enjoying?

Is it deceitful wealth, 25 Got by care, fraud, or stealth, Or short uncertain health, Which thus befool men? Or do the serpent’s lies, By the world’s flatteries 30 And tempting vanities, Still overrule them? Or do they in a dream Sleep out their season? Or borne down by lust’s stream, 35 Which conquers reason?

The silly lambs to-day Pleasantly skip and play, Whom butchers mean to slay Perhaps to-morrow; 40 In a more brutish sort Do careless sinners sport, Or in dead sleep still snort, As near to sorrow; Till life, not well begun, 45 Be sadly ended, And the web they have spun Can ne’er be mended.

What is the time that’s gone, And what is that to come? 50 Is it not now as none? The present stays not. Time posteth, oh how fast! Unwelcome death makes haste; None can call back what’s past-- 55 Judgment delays not. Though God bring in the light, Sinners awake not; Because hell’s out of sight They sin forsake not. 60

Man walks in a vain show; They know, yet will not know; Sit still, when they should go; But run for shadows; While they might taste and know 65 The living streams that flow, And crop the flowers that grow, In Christ’s sweet meadows. Life’s better slept away Than as they use it; 70 In sin and drunken play Vain men abuse it.

Malignant world, adieu! Where no foul vice is new-- Only to Satan true, 75 God still offended; Though taught and warned by God, And his chastising rod, Keeps still the way that’s broad, Never amended. 80 Baptismal vows some make, But ne’er perform them; If angels from heaven spake, ’Twould not reform them.

They dig for hell beneath, 85 They labour hard for death, Run themselves out of breath To overtake it. Hell is not had for naught, Damnation’s dearly bought, 90 And with great labour sought; They’ll not forsake it. Their souls are Satan’s fee-- He’ll not abate it; Grace is refused that’s free, 95 Mad sinners hate it.

Is this the world men choose, For which they heaven refuse, And Christ and grace abuse, And not receive it? 100 Shall I not guilty be Of this in some degree, If hence God would me free, And I’d not leave it; My soul, from Sodom fly, 105 Lest wrath there find thee; Thy refuge-rest is nigh; Look not behind thee!

There’s none of this ado, 110 None of the hellish crew; God’s promise is most true, Boldly believe it. My friends are gone before, And I am near the shore; 115 My soul stands at the door, O Lord, receive it! It trusts Christ and his merits, The dead He raises; Join it with blessed spirits, 120 Who sing thy praises. _Richard Baxter._

CXXXIII

_HYMN FOR ADVENT; OR CHRIST’S COMING TO JERUSALEM IN TRIUMPH._

Lord, come away, Why dost Thou stay? Thy road is ready: and thy paths, made strait, With longing expectation wait The consecration of thy beauteous feet. 5 Ride on triumphantly; behold we lay Our lusts and proud wills in thy way. Hosanna! welcome to our hearts. Lord, here Thou hast a temple too, and full as dear As that of Sion; and as full of sin; 10 Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein, Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor; Crucify them, that they may never more Profane that holy place, Where Thou hast chose to set thy face. 15 And then if our stiff tongues shall be Mute in the praises of thy Deity, The stones out of the temple wall Shall cry aloud, and call Hosanna! and thy glorious footsteps greet. 20 _Jeremy Taylor._

CXXXIV

_BEYOND THE VEIL._

They are all gone into the world of light, And I alone sit lingering here; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 5 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; 10 My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility! High as the heavens above! 15 These are your walks, and you have showed them me To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death; the jewel of the just, Shining nowhere but in the dark; What mysteries do, lie beyond thy dust, 20 Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. 25

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 confined into a tomb, 30 Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that locked her up gives room, She’ll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee, 35 Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My pérspective still as they pass; Or else remove me hence unto that hill, 40 Where I shall need no glass. _Henry Vaughan._

PART THE THIRD.

CXXXV

_ODE ON SOLITUDE._

Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 5 Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, 10 In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mixed; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please 15 With meditation.