Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist Part 22

Intelligences shall I leave, and be Familiar only with mortality?

Must I know nought, but thy exchequer? shall My purse and fancy be symmetrical?

Are there no objects left but one? must we In gaining that, lose our variety?

Fortune, this is the reason I refuse Thy wealth; it puts my books all out of use.

'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind Is big with speculation, when I find My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess There is no blessing to an emptiness!

The species of all things to me resort And dwell then in my breast, as in their port.

Then leave to court me with thy hated store; Thou giv'st me that, to rob my soul of more.

TO I. MORGAN OF WHITEHALL, ESQ., UPON HIS SUDDEN JOURNEY AND SUCCEEDING MARRIAGE.

So from our cold, rude world, which all things tires, To his warm Indies the bright sun retires.

Where, in those provinces of gold and spice, Perfumes his progress, pleasures fill his eyes, Which, so refresh'd, in their return convey Fire into rubies, into crystals, day; And prove, that light in kinder climates can Work more on senseless stones, than here on man.

But you, like one ordain'd to s.h.i.+ne, take in Both light and heat, can love and wisdom spin Into one thread, and with that firmly tie The same bright blessings on posterity: Which so entail'd, like jewels of the crown, Shall, with your name, descend still to your own.

When I am dead, and malice or neglect The worst they can upon my dust reflect; --For poets yet have left no names, but such As men have envied or despis'd too much-- You above both--and what state more excels, Since a just fame like health, nor wants, nor swells?-- To after ages shall remain entire, And s.h.i.+ne still spotless, like your planet's fire.

No single l.u.s.tre neither; the access Of your fair love will yours adorn and bless; Till, from that bright conjunction, men may view A constellation circling her and you.

So two sweet rose-buds from their virgin-beds First peep and blush, then kiss and couple heads, Till yearly blessings so increase their store, Those two can number two-and-twenty more, And the fair bank--by Heav'n's free bounty crown'd-- With choice of sweets and beauties doth abound, Till Time, which families, like flowers, far spreads, Gives them for garlands to the best of heads.

Then late posterity--if chance, or some Weak echo, almost quite expir'd and dumb, Shall tell them who the poet was, and how He liv'd and lov'd thee too, which thou dost know-- Straight to my grave will flowers and spices bring, With lights and hymns, and for an offering There vow this truth, that love--which in old times Was censur'd blind, and will contract worse crimes If hearts mend not--did for thy sake in me Find both his eyes, and all foretell and see.

FIDA; OR, THE COUNTRY BEAUTY. TO LYSIMACHUS.

Now I have seen her; and by Cupid The young Medusa made me stupid!

A face, that hath no lovers slain, Wants forces, and is near disdain.

For every fop will freely peep At majesty that is asleep.

But she--fair tyrant!--hates to be Gaz'd on with such impunity.

Whose prudent rigour bravely bears And scorns the trick of whining tears, Or sighs, those false alarms of grief, Which kill not, but afford relief.

Nor is it thy hard fate to be Alone in this calamity, Since I who came but to be gone, Am plagu'd for merely looking on.

Mark from her forehead to her foot What charming sweets are there to do't.

A head adorn'd with all those glories That wit hath shadow'd in quaint stories, Or pencil with rich colours drew In imitation of the true.

Her hair, laid out in curious sets And twists, doth show like silken nets, Where--since he play'd at hit or miss-- The G.o.d of Love her pris'ner is, And fluttering with his skittish wings Puts all her locks in curls and rings.

Like twinkling stars her eyes invite All gazers to so sweet a light, But then two arched clouds of brown Stand o'er, and guard them with a frown.

Beneath these rays of her bright eyes, Beauty's rich bed of blushes lies.

Blushes which lightning-like come on, Yet stay not to be gaz'd upon; But leave the lilies of her skin As fair as ever, and run in, Like swift salutes--which dull paint scorn-- 'Twixt a white noon and crimson morn.

What coral can her lips resemble?

For hers are warm, swell, melt, and tremble: And if you dare contend for red, This is alive, the other dead.

Her equal teeth--above, below-- All of a size and smoothness grow.

Where under close restraint and awe --Which is the maiden tyrant law-- Like a cag'd, sullen linnet, dwells Her tongue, the key to potent spells.

Her skin, like heav'n when calm and bright, Shows a rich azure under white, With touch more soft than heart supposes, And breath as sweet as new-blown roses.

Betwixt this headland and the main, Which is a rich and flow'ry plain, Lies her fair neck, so fine and slender, That gently how you please 'twill bend her.

This leads you to her heart, which ta'en, Pants under sheets of whitest lawn, And at the first seems much distress'd, But, n.o.bly treated, lies at rest.

Here, like two b.a.l.l.s of new fall'n snow, Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Love's native pillows, grow; And out of each a rose-bud peeps, Which infant Beauty sucking sleeps.

Say now, my Stoic, that mak'st sour faces At all the beauties and the graces, That criest, unclean! though known thyself To ev'ry coa.r.s.e and dirty shelf: Couldst thou but see a piece like this, A piece so full of sweets and bliss, In shape so rare, in soul so rich, Wouldst thou not swear she is a witch?

FIDA FORSAKEN.

Fool that I was! to believe blood, While swoll'n with greatness, then most good; And the false thing, forgetful man, To trust more than our true G.o.d, Pan.

Such swellings to a dropsy tend, And meanest things such great ones bend.

Then live deceived! and, Fida, by That life destroy fidelity.

For living wrongs will make some wise, While Death chokes loudest injuries: And screens the faulty, making blinds To hide the most unworthy minds.

And yet do what thou can'st to hide, A bad tree's fruit will be describ'd.

For that foul guilt which first took place In his dark heart, now d.a.m.ns his face; And makes those eyes, where life should dwell, Look like the pits of Death and h.e.l.l.

Blood, whose rich purple shows and seals Their faith in Moors, in him reveals A blackness at the heart, and is Turn'd ink to write his faithlessness.

Only his lips with blood look red, As if asham'd of what they fed.

Then, since he wears in a dark skin The shadows of his h.e.l.l within, Expose him no more to the light, But thine own epitaph thus write "Here burst, and dead and unregarded Lies Fida's heart! O well rewarded!"

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MATCHLESS ORINDA.

Long since great wits have left the stage Unto the drollers of the age, And n.o.ble numbers with good sense Are, like good works, grown an offence.

While much of verse--worse than old story-- Speaks but Jack-Pudding or John-Dory.

Such trash-admirers made us poor, And pies turn'd poets out of door; For the nice spirit of rich verse Which scorns absurd and low commerce, Although a flame from heav'n, if shed On rooks or daws warms no such head.

Or else the poet, like bad priest, Is seldom good, but when oppress'd; And wit as well as piety Doth thrive best in adversity For since the thunder left our air Their laurels look not half so fair.

However 'tis, 'twere worse than rude, Not to profess our grat.i.tude And debts to thee, who at so low An ebb dost make us thus to flow; And when we did a famine fear, Hast bless'd us with a fruitful year.

So while the world his absence mourns, The glorious sun at last returns, And with his kind and vital looks Warms the cold earth and frozen brooks, Puts drowsy Nature into play, And rids impediments away, Till flow'rs and fruits and spices through Her pregnant lap get up and grow.

But if among those sweet things, we A miracle like that could see Which Nature brought but once to pa.s.s, A Muse, such as Orinda was, Ph[oe]bus himself won by these charms Would give her up into thy arms; And recondemn'd to kiss his tree, Yield the young G.o.ddess unto thee.

UPON SUDDEN NEWS OF THE MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF JUDGE TREVERS.

Learning and Law, your day is done, And your work too; you may be gone Trever, that lov'd you, hence is fled: And Right, which long lay sick, is dead.

Trever! whose rare and envied part Was both a wise and winning heart, Whose sweet civilities could move Tartars and Goths to n.o.blest love.

Bold vice and blindness now dare act, And--like the grey groat--pa.s.s, though crack'd; While those sage lips lie dumb and cold, Whose words are well-weigh'd and tried gold.

O, how much to discreet desires Differs pure light from foolish fires!

But nasty dregs outlast the wine, And after sunset glow-worms s.h.i.+ne.

TO ETESIA (FOR TIMANDER); THE FIRST SIGHT.