The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper

LVII. SONNET.

Or death some tell, some of the cruel pain
Which that bad craftsman in his work did try,
When (a new monster) flames once did constrain
A human corpse to yield a bellowing cry.
Some tell of those in burning beds who lie,
Because they durst in the Phlegrean plain
The mighty ruler of the skies defy,

And siege those crystal tow'rs which all contain.
Another counts of Phlegethon's hot floods,
The souls which drink Ixion's endless smart,
And his who feeds a vulture with his heart.
One tells of spectres in enchanted woods:
Of all those pains th' extremest who would prove,
Let him be absent and but burn in love.

ARE these the flow'ry banks? Is this the mead
Where she was wont to pass the pleasant hours?
Was 't here her eyes exhal'd mine eyes' salt show'rs,
And on her lap did lay my wearied head?
Is this the goodly elm did us o'erspread,
Whose tender rind, cut forth in curious flow'rs
By that white hand, contains those flames of ours?
Is this the murmuring spring us musick made?
Deflourish'd mead, where is your heavenly hue?
And bank, that Arras did you late adorn?
How look'st thou, elm, all wither'd and forlorn'
Only, sweet spring, nought alter'd seems in you.
But while here chang'd each other thing appears,
To salt your streams take of mine eyes these tears.

LX. SONNET.

ALEXIS, here she stay'd, among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did all alone repair;
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian
mines:

Here sate she by these musked eglantines;
The happy flow'rs seem yet the print to bear;
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines,
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear.

FAME, who with golden wings abroad doth range
Where Phoebus leaves the night or brings the day;
Fame, in one place who restless dost not stay
Till thou hast flow'd from Atlas unto Gange:
Fame, enemy to Time, that still doth change,
And in his changing course would make decay
What here below he findeth in his way,
Even making Virtue to herself look strange:
Daughter of Heaven! now all thy trumpets sound,
Raise up thy head unto the highest sky,
With wonder blaze the gifts in her are found;
And when she from this mortal globe shall fly,
In thy wide mouth keep long, keep long her

name;

So thou by her, she by thee live shall, Fame.

THE SECOND PART.

I. SONNET.

Or mortal glory O soon darken'd ray!
Owinged joys of man, more swift than wind!
O fond desires, which in our fancies stray!
O trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments blind!
Lo, in a flash that light is gone away,
Which dazzle did each eye, delight each mind,
And with that Sun, from whence it came, combin'd,
Now makes more radiant Heaven's eternal day.
Let Beauty now bedew her cheeks with tears,
Let widow'd Music only roar and groan,
Poor Virtue, get thee wings and mount the spheres,
For dwelling place on Earth for thee is none:
Death hath thy temple raz'd, Love's empire foil'd,
The world of honour, worth, and sweetness spoil'd.

IV. SONNET.

O WOFUL life! life? no, but living death,
Frail boat of crystal in a rocky sea,
A gem expos'd to fortune's stormy breath,
Which kept with pain, with terrour doth decay:
The false delights, true woes thou dost bequeath
My all-appalled mind so do affray,
That I those envy which are laid in earth,
And pity those who run thy dreadful way.
When did mine eyes behold one cheerful morn?
When had my tossed soul one night of rest?
When did not angry stars my designs scorn?
O! now I find what is for mortals best:
Even, since our voyage shameful is, and short,
Soon to strike sail, and perish in the port.

II. SONNET.

THOSE eyes, those sparkling sapphires of delight,
Which thousand thousand hearts did set on fire,
Of which that eye of Heaven which brings the light
Oft jealous, staid amaz'd them to admire :
That living snow, those crimson roses bright,
Those pearls, those rubies which inflaın'd desire,
Those locks of gold, that purple fair of Tyre,
Are wrapt (ah me!) up in eternal night.
What hast thou more to vaunt of, wretched world,
Sith she who caused all thy bliss is gone?
Thy ever-burning lamps, rounds ever whorl'd,
Cannot unto thee model such a one:

Or if they would such beauty bring on Earth,
They should be forc'd again to give her birth.

DISSOLVE, my eyes, your globes in briny streams,
And with a cloud of sorrow dim your sight,
The Sun's bright sun is set, of late whose beams
Gave lustre to your day, day to your night.
My voice, now cleave the earth with anathems,
Roar forth a challenge in the world's despite,
Till that disguised grief is her delight,
That life a slumber is of fearful dreams;
And, woful mind, abhor to think of joy;
My senses all, from comforts all you hide,
Accept no object but of black annoy,
[wide:
Tears, plaints, sighs, mourning weeds, graves gaping
I have nought left to wish; my hopes are dead,
And all with her beneath a marble laid.

III. SONNET.

O FATE, Conjur'd to pour your worst on me!
O rigorous rigour which doth all confound!
With cruel hands ye have cut down the tree,
And fruit with leaves have scatter'd on the ground.
A little space of earth my love doth bound;
That beauty, which did raise it to the sky,
Turn'd in disdained dust, now low doth lie,
Deaf to my plaints, and senseless of my wound.
Ah! did I live for this? ah! did I love?
And was 't for this (fierce powers) she did excel,
That ere she well the sweets of life did prove,
She should (too dear a guest) with darkness dwell?
Weak influence of Heaven! what fair is wrought,
Falls in the prime, and passeth like a thought.

VI. SONNET.

SWEET Soul, which in the April of thy years,
For to enrich the Heaven mad'st poor this round,
And now, with flaming rays of glory crown'd,
Most blest abides above the sphere of spheres;
If heavenly laws, alas! have not thee bound
From looking to this globe that all up-bears,
If ruth and pity there-above be found,
O deign to lend a look unto these tears:
Do not disdain (dear ghost) this sacrifice;
And though I raise not pillars to thy praise,
My off'rings take, let this for me suffice,
My heart a living pyramid I'll raise:
And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green,
Thine shall with myrtles and these flow'rs be seen.

VII. SONNET.

SWEET Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs,
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs.
Sweet Spring, thou com'st-but, ah! my pleasant
hours,

And happy days, with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wert before

Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;

XI. SONNET.

AH! handkerchief, sad present of my dear,
Gift miserable, which doth now remain
The only guerdon of my helpless pain;
When I thee got thou showd'st my state too clear.
I never since have ceased to complain;
I since the badge of grief did ever wear;
Joy in my face durst never since appear;
Care was the food which did me entertain.
But since that thou art mine, O do not grieve,
That I this tribute pay thee for mine eine,
And that I (this short time I am to live)

But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air Launder thy silken figures in this brine;

Is gone; nor gold, nor gems can her restore.

Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

No, I must yet ev'n beg of thee the grace,
That in my grave thou deign to shroud my face.

VIII. SONNET.

WHAT doth it serve to see the Sun's bright face,
And skies enamell'd with the Indian gold?
Or the Moon in a fierce chariot roll'd,
And all the glory of that starry place?
What doth it serve Earth's beauty to behold,
The mountain's pride, the meadow's flow'ry grace,
The stately comeliness of forests old,
The sport of floods which would themselves embrace?
What doth it serve to hear the sylvans' songs,
The cheerful thrush, the nightingale's sad strains,
Which in dark shades seems to deplore my wrongs?
For what doth serve all that this world contains,
Since she, for whom those once to me were dear,
Can have no part of them now with me here?

THIS life, which seems so fair,

Is like a bubble blown up in the air,

By sporting children's breath,

Who chase it every where,

And strive who can most motion it bequeath.

And though it sometimes seem of its own might
Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,
And firm to hover in that empty height,
That only is because it is so light.

But in that pomp it doth not long appear;
For when 't is most admired, in a thought,
Because it erst was nought, it turns to noaght.

X. SONNET.

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear,
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear,
For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.

"Who would have thought to me

The place were thou didst lie could grievous be?
And that (dear body) long thee having sought,
(O me!) who would have thought

Thee once to find it should my soul confound,
And give my heart than death a deeper wound?
Thou didst disdain my tears,

But grieve not that this ruthful stone them bears;
Mine eyes for nothing serve, but thee to weep,
And let that course them keep;

Although thou never wouldst them comfort show,
Do not repine, they have part of thy woe.

"Ah wretch! too late I find

How virtue's glorious titles prove but wind;
For if that virtue could release from death,
Thou yet enjoy'd hadst breath:
For if she ere appear'd to mortal eine,
It was in thy fair shape that she was seen.
But O! if I was made

For thee, with thee why too am I not dead?

U u

Why do outrageous Fates, which dimm'd thy sight,
Let me see hateful light?

They without me made death thee surprise,
Tyrants (no doubt) that they might kill me twice.

"O grief! and could one day

Have force such excellence to take away?
Could a swift-flying moment, ah! deface
Those matchless gifts, that grace,

Which art and nature had in thee combin'd
To make thy body paragon thy mind?
Hath all pass'd like a cloud,

And doth eternal silence now them shroud?
Is that, so much admir'd, now nought but dust,
Of which a stone hath trust?

O change! O cruel change! thou to our sight
Show'st the Fates' rigour equal to their might!

"When thou from Earth didst pass,
Sweet nymph, perfection's mirror broken was,
And this of late so glorious world of ours,
Like the meadows without flowers,
Or ring of a rich gem which blind appear'd,
Or starless night, or Cynthia nothing clear'd.
Love when he saw thee die

Entomb'd him in the lid of either eye,
And left his torch within thy sacred urn,
There for a lamp to burn:

Worth, honour, pleasure, with thy life expir'd,
Death, since grown sweet, begins to be desir'd.

"Whilst thou to us wert given,

The Earth her Venus had as well as Heaven:
Nay, and her suns, which burnt as many hearts,
As he the eastern parts;

"That Zephyr every year

So soon was heard to sigh in forests here,
It was for her, that, wrapt in gowns of green,
Meads were so early seen:

That in the saddest months oft sang the mearls,
It was for her: for her trees dropt forth pearls.
That proud and stately courts

Did envy these our shades and calm resorts,
It was for her and she is gone, O woe!
Woods cut again do grow,

Bud doth the rose, and daisy, winter doue,
But we once dead do no more see the Sun.

"Whose name shall now make ring

The echoes? of whom shall the nymphets sing?
Whose heavenly voice, whose soul-invading strains,
Shall fill with joy the plains?

What hair, what eyes, can make the morn in east
Weep that a fairer riseth in the west?
Fair Sun, post still away,

No musick here is left thy course to stay.
Sweet Hybla swarms, with wormwood fill your bow'rs,
Gone is the flower of flow'rs:

Blush no more rose, nor lily pale remain,
Dead is that beauty which yours late did stain.

"Ah me! to wail my plight

Why have not I as many eyes as night;

Or as that shepherd which Jove's love did keep,
That I still, still may weep?

But though I had, my tears unto my cross
Were not yet equal, nor grief to my loss.
Yet of you briny show'rs

Which I here pour, may spring as many flow'rs,
As come of those which fell from Helen's eyes;
And when ye do arise,

Bright suns, which, forc'd to leave these hemispheres, May every leaf in sable letters bear
Benighted set into a sea of tears.

Ah! Death, who shall thee flee,

Since the most mighty are o'rethrown by thee?
Thou spar'st the crow, the nightingale dost kill,
And triumph'st at thy will:

But give thou cannot such another blow,
Because Earth cannot such another show.

"O bitter sweets of love!

How better is 't at all you not to prove,
Than when we do your pleasures most possess
To find them thus made less!

O! that the cause which doth consume our joy
Would the remembrance of it too destroy!
What doth this life bestow,

But flow'rs on thorns which grow?

Which though they sometimes blandish soft delight,
Yet afterwards us smite;

And if the rising Sun them fair doth see,
That planet setting doth behold them die.

"This world is made a Hell,
Depriv'd of all that in it did excel.

O Pan! O Pan! winter is fall'n in May,
Turn'd is to night our day.

Forsake thy pipe, a sceptre take to thee,
Thy locks disgarland, thou black Jove shalt be.
The flocks do leave the meads,

And, loathing three-leav'd grass, hold up their heads;
The streams not glide now with a gentle roar,
Nor birds sing as before;

Hills stand with clouds like mourners veil'd in black,
And owls upon our roofs foretel our wreck.

The doleful cause for which ye spring up here."

XIV. MADRIGAL.

THE beauty and the life

Of life's and beauty's fairest paragon,
O tears! O grief! hung at a feeble thread,
To which pale Atropos had set her knife.
The soul with many a groan

Had left each outward part,

And now did take his last leave of the heart;
Nought else did want save death for to be dead:
When the sad company about her bed
Seeing death invade her lips, her cheeks, her eyes,
Cried" Ah! and can death enter paradise?"

XV. SONNET.

O! rr is not to me, bright lamp of day,
That in the east thou show'st thy golden face;
O! it is not to me thou leav'st that sea,
And in those azure lists beginn'st thy race.
Thou shin'st not to the dead in any place;
And I dead from this world am past away,
Or if I seem (a shadow) yet to stay,
It is a while but to bewail my case.
My mirth is lost, my comforts are dismay'd,
And unto sad mishaps their place do yield;
My knowledge represents a bloody field,
Where I my hopes and helps see prostrate laid.
So plaintful is life's course which I have run,
That I do wish it never had begun.

XVI. MADRIGAL

DEAR Night, the ease of care, Untroubled seat of peace,

Time's eldest child, which oft the blind do see, On this our hemisphere

What makes thee now so sadly dark to be? Com'st thou in funeral pomp her grave to grace? Or do those stars which should thy horrour clear, In Jove's high hall advise,

In what part of the skies,

With them, or Cynthia she shall appear?
Or, ah, alas! because those matchless eyes,
Which shone so fair, below thou dost not find,
Striv'st thou to make all others' eyes look blind?

SINCE it hath pleas'd that first and supreme Fair
To take that beauty to himself again,
Which in this world of sense not to remain,
But to amaze was sent, and home repair;
The love which to that beauty I did bear,
Made pure of mortal spots which did it stain,
And endless, which even death cannot impair,
I place on him who will it not disdain.
No shining eyes, no locks of curling gold,
No blushing roses on a virgin face,
No outward show, no, nor no inward grace,
Shall power have my thoughts henceforth to hold:
Love here on Earth huge storms of care doth toss,
But plac'd above exempted is from loss.

XVIII. SONG.

Ir autumn was, and on our hemisphere
Fair Ericine began bright to appear,
Night westward did her gemmy world decline,
And hide her lights, that greater light might shine:
The crested bird had given alarum twice
To lazy mortals to unlock their eyes,

The owl had left to 'plain, and from each thorn
The wing'd musicians did salute the morn,
Who (while she dress'd her locks in Ganges' streams)
Set open wide the crystal port of dreams:
When I, whose eyes no drowsy night could close,
In sleep's soft arms did quietly repose,
And, for that Heavens to die did me deny,
Death's image kissed, and as dead did lie.

I lay as dead, but scarce charm'd were my cares,
And slaked scarce my sighs, scarce dried my tears,
Sleep scarce the ugly figures of the day
Had with his sable pencil put away,
And left me in a still and calmy mood,
When by my bed methought a virgin stood,
A virgin in the blooming of her prime,
If such rare beauty measur'd be by time.
Her head a garland wore of opals bright,
About her flow'd a gown like purest light;
Pure amber locks gave umbrage to her face,
Where modesty high majesty did grace;
Her eyes such beams sent forth, that but with pain
My weaker sight their sparklings could sustain.
No feigned deity which haunts the woods
Is like to ber, nor syren of the floods:
Such is the golden planet of the year,
When blushing in the east he doth appear.

Her grace did beauty, voice yet grace did pass, Which thus through pearls and rubies broken was. "How long wilt thou," said she," estrang'd from Paint shadows to thyself of false annoy; [joy, How long thy mind with horrid shapes affright, And in imaginary evils delight;

Esteem that loss which (well when view'd) is gain,
Or if a loss, yet not a loss to plain?

O leave thy plaintful soul more to molest,
And think that woe when shortest then is best.
If she for whom thou thus dost deaf the sky
Be dead, what then? was she not born to die?
Was she not mortal born? If thou dost grieve
That times should be in which she should not live,
Ere e'er she was weep that day's wheel was roll'd,
Weep that she liv'd not in the age of gold.
For that she was not then thou may'st deplore,
As well as that she now can be no more.
If only she had died, thou sure hadst cause
To blame the Fates, and their too iron laws.
But look how many millions her advance,
What numbers with her enter in this dance, [stay,
With those which are to come: shall Heavens them
And th' universe dissolve thee to obey?

As birth, death, which so much thee doth appal,
A piece is of the life of this great all.
Strong cities die, die do high palmy reigns,
And fondling thou thus to be us'd complains!

"If she be dead, then she of loathsome days
Hath pass'd the line whose length but loss bewrays,
Then she hath left this filthy stage of care,
Where pleasure seldom, woe doth still repair.
For all the pleasures which it doth contain
Not countervail the smallest minute's pain.
And tell me, thou who dost so much admire
This little vapour, this poor spark of fire,
Which life is call'd, what doth it thee bequeath
But some few years which birth draws out to death?
Which if thou parallel with lustres run,

Or those whose courses are but now begun,
In days' great numbers they shall less appear,
Than with the sea when matched is a tear.
But why should'st thou here longer wish to be?
One year doth serve all Nature's pomp to see.
Nay, even one day, and night: this Moon, that Sun,
Those lesser fires about this round which run,
Be but the same which under Saturn's reign
Did the serpenting seasons interchain.
How oft doth life grow less by living long?
And what excelleth but what dieth young?
For age, which all abhor, yet would embrace,
Doth make the mind as wrinkled as the face.
Then leave laments, and think thou didst not live
Laws to that first eternal Cause to give;
But to obey those laws which he hath given,
And bow unto the just decrees of Heaven,
Which cannot err, whatever foggy mists
Do blind men in these subluuary lists.
But what if she for whom thou spread'st those groans,
And wastes thy life's dear torch in ruthful moans,
She for whose sake thou hat'st the joyful light,
Courts solitary shades and irksome night,
Doth live? Ah! (if thou canst) through tears, a
Lift thy dimm'd lights, and look upon this face;
Look if those eyes which, fool! thou didst adore,
Shine not more bright than they were wont before.
Look if those roses death could aught impair,
Those roses which thou once saidst were so fair;
And if these locks have lost aught of that gold,
Which once they had when thou them didst behold.

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The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper: Including ..., Band 5