Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist Part 9

My Lord,

It is a position anciently known, and modern experience hath allowed it for a sad truth, that absence and time,--like cold weather, and an unnatural dormition--will blast and wear out of memory the most endearing obligations; and hence it was that some politicians in love have looked upon the former of these two as a main remedy against the fondness of that pa.s.sion. But for my own part, my Lord, I shall deny this aphorism of the people, and beg leave to a.s.sure your Lords.h.i.+p, that, though these reputed obstacles have lain long in my way, yet neither of them could work upon me: for I am now--without adulation--as warm and sensible of those numerous favours and kind influences received sometimes from your Lords.h.i.+p, as I really was at the instant of fruition. I have no plot by preambling thus to set any rate upon this present address, as if I should presume to value a return of this nature equal with your Lords.h.i.+p's deserts, but the design is to let you see that this habit I have got of being troublesome flows from two excusable principles, grat.i.tude and love. These inward counsellors--I know not how discreetly--persuaded me to this attempt and intrusion upon your name, which if your Lords.h.i.+p will vouchsafe to own as the genius to these papers, you will perfect my hopes, and place me at my full height.

This was the aim, my Lord, and is the end of this work, which though but a _pazzarello_ to the _voluminose insani_, yet as jessamine and the violet find room in the bank as well as roses and lilies, so happily may this, and--if s.h.i.+ned upon by your Lords.h.i.+p--please as much. To whose protection, sacred as your name and those eminent honours which have always attended upon it through so many generations, I humbly offer it, and remain in all numbers of grat.i.tude,

My honoured Lord, Your most affectionate, humblest Servant, Vaughan.

Newton by Usk this 17 of Decemb. 1647.

THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER.

It was the glorious Maro that referred his legacies to the fire, and though princes are seldom executors, yet there came a Caesar to his testament, as if the act of a poet could not be repealed but by a king.

I am not, Reader, _Augustus vindex_: here is no royal rescue, but here is a Muse that deserves it. The Author had long ago condemned these poems to obscurity, and the consumption of that further fate which attends it. This censure gave them a gust of death, and they have partly known that oblivion which our best labours must come to at last. I present thee then not only with a book, but with a prey, and in this kind the first recoveries from corruption. Here is a flame hath been sometimes extinguished, thoughts that have been lost and forgot, but now they break out again like the Platonic reminiscency. I have not the Author's approbation to the fact, but I have law on my side, though never a sword. I hold it no man's prerogative to fire his own house.

Thou seest how saucy I am grown, and it thou dost expect I should commend what is published, I must tell thee, I cry no Seville oranges. I will not say, Here is fine or cheap: that were an injury to the verse itself, and to the effects it can produce. Read on, and thou wilt find thy spirit engaged: not by the deserts of what we call tolerable, but by the commands of a pen that is above it.

UPON THE MOST INGENIOUS PAIR OF TWINS, EUGENIUS PHILALETHES, AND THE AUTHOR OF THESE POEMS.

What planet rul'd your birth? what witty star?

That you so like in souls as bodies are!

So like in both, that you seem born to free The starry art from vulgar calumny.

My doubts are solv'd, from hence my faith begins, Not only your faces but your wits are twins.

When this bright Gemini shall from Earth ascend, They will new light to dull-ey'd mankind lend, Teach the star-gazers, and delight their eyes, Being fix'd a constellation in the skies.

T. Powell, Oxoniensis.

TO MY FRIEND THE AUTHOR UPON THESE HIS POEMS.

I call'd it once my sloth: in such an age So many volumes deep, I not a page?

But I recant, and vow 'twas thrifty care That kept my pen from spending on slight ware, And breath'd it for a prize, whose pow'rful s.h.i.+ne Doth both reward the striver, and refine.

Such are thy poems, friend: for since th' hast writ, I can't reply to any name, but wit; And lest amidst the throng that make us groan, Mine prove a groundless heresy alone, Thus I dispute, Hath there not rev'rence been Paid to the beard at door, for Lord within?

Who notes the spindle-leg or hollow eye Of the thin usher, the fair lady by?

Thus I sin freely, neighbour to a hand Which, while I aim to strengthen, gives command For my protection; and thou art to me At once my subject and security.

I. Rowlandson, Oxoniensis.

UPON THE FOLLOWING POEMS.

I write not here, as if thy last in store Of learned friends; 'tis known that thou hast more; Who, were they told of this, would find a way To raise a guard of poets without pay, And bring as many hands to thy edition, As th' City should unto their May'r's pet.i.tion.

But thou wouldst none of this, lest it should be Thy muster rather than our courtesy; Thou wouldst not beg as knights do, and appear Poet by voice and suffrage of the s.h.i.+re; That were enough to make my Muse advance Amongst the crutches; nay, it might enhance Our charity, and we should think it fit The State should build an hospital for wit.

But here needs no relief: thy richer verse Creates all poets, that can but rehea.r.s.e, And they, like tenants better'd by their land, Should pay thee rent for what they understand.

Thou art not of that lamentable nation Who make a blessed alms of approbation, Whose fardel-notes are briefs in ev'rything, But, that they are not _Licens'd by the king_.

Without such sc.r.a.pe-requests thou dost come forth Arm'd--though I speak it--with thy proper worth, And needest not this noise of friends, for we Write out of love, not thy necessity.

And though this sullen age possessed be With some strange desamour to poetry, Yet I suspect--thy fancy so delights-- The Puritans will turn thy proselytes, And that thy flame, when once abroad it s.h.i.+nes, Will bring thee as many friends as thou hast lines.

Eugenius Philalethes, Oxoniensis.

OLOR ISCa.n.u.s.

TO THE RIVER ISCA.

When Daphne's lover here first wore the bays, Eurotas' secret streams heard all his lays, And holy Orpheus, Nature's busy child, By headlong Hebrus his deep hymns compil'd; Soft Petrarch--thaw'd by Laura's flames--did weep On Tiber's banks, when she--proud fair!--could sleep; Mosella boasts Ausonius, and the Thames Doth murmur Sidney's Stella to her streams; While Severn, swoln with joy and sorrow, wears Castara's smiles mix'd with fair Sabrin's tears.

Thus poets--like the nymphs, their pleasing themes-- Haunted the bubbling springs and gliding streams; And happy banks! whence such fair flow'rs have sprung, But happier those where they have sat and sung!

Poets--like angels--where they once appear Hallow the place, and each succeeding year Adds rev'rence to't, such as at length doth give This aged faith, that there their genii live.

Hence th' ancients say, that from this sickly air They pa.s.s to regions more refin'd and fair, To meadows strew'd with lilies and the rose, And shades whose youthful green no old age knows; Where all in white they walk, discourse, and sing Like bees' soft murmurs, or a chiding spring.

But Isca, whensoe'er those shades I see, And thy lov'd arbours must no more know me, When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams, And my sun sets, where first it sprang in beams, I'll leave behind me such a large, kind light, As shall redeem thee from oblivious night, And in these vows which--living yet--I pay, Shed such a previous and enduring ray, As shall from age to age thy fair name lead, 'Till rivers leave to run, and men to read.

First, may all bards born after me --When I am ashes--sing of thee!

May thy green banks or streams,--or none-- Be both their hill and Helicon!

May vocal groves grow there, and all The shades in them prophetical, Where laid men shall more fair truths see Than fictions were of Thessaly!

May thy gentle swains--like flow'rs-- Sweetly spend their youthful hours, And thy beauteous nymphs--like doves-- Be kind and faithful to their loves!

Garlands, and songs, and roundelays, Mild, dewy nights, and suns.h.i.+ne days, The turtle's voice, joy without fear, Dwell on thy bosom all the year!

May the evet and the toad Within thy banks have no abode, Nor the wily, winding snake Her voyage through thy waters make!

In all thy journey to the main No nitrous clay, nor brimstone-vein Mix with thy streams, but may they pa.s.s Fresh on the air, and clear as gla.s.s, And where the wand'ring crystal treads Roses shall kiss, and couple heads!

The factor-wind from far shall bring The odours of the scatter'd Spring, And loaden with the rich arrear, Spend it in spicy whispers there.

No sullen heats, nor flames that are Offensive, and canicular, s.h.i.+ne on thy sands, nor pry to see Thy scaly, shading family, But noons as mild as Hesper's rays, Or the first blushes of fair days!

What gifts more Heav'n or Earth can add, With all those blessings be thou clad!

Honour, Beauty, Faith and Duty, Delight and Truth, With Love and Youth, Crown all about thee! and whatever Fate Impose elsewhere, whether the graver state Or some toy else, may those loud, anxious cares For dead and dying things--the common wares And shows of Time--ne'er break thy peace, nor make Thy repos'd arms to a new war awake!

But freedom, safety, joy and bliss, United in one loving kiss, Surround thee quite, and style thy borders The land redeem'd from all disorders!

THE CHARNEL-HOUSE.

Bless me! what damps are here! how stiff an air!

Kelder of mists, a second fiat's care, Front'spiece o' th' grave and darkness, a display Of ruin'd man, and the disease of day, Lean, bloodless shamble, where I can descry Fragments of men, rags of anatomy, Corruption's wardrobe, the transplantive bed Of mankind, and th' exchequer of the dead!