Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 53

HALLOW the threshold, crown the posts anew!

The day shall have its due.

Twist all our victories into one bright wreath, On which let honour breathe; Then throw it round the temples of our Queen!

'Tis she that must preserve those glories green.

When greater tempests than on sea before Received her on the sh.o.r.e; When she was shot at 'for the King's own good'

By legions hired to blood; How bravely did she do, how bravely bear!

And show'd, though they durst rage, she durst not fear.

Courage was cast about her like a dress Of solemn comeliness: A gather'd mind and an untroubled face Did give her dangers grace: Thus, arm'd with innocence, secure they move Whose highest 'treason' is but highest love.

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

333. On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman that died suddenly

SHE who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex, Whose lowest thought was above all our s.e.x, Accounted nothing death but t' be reprieved, And died as free from sickness as she lived.

Others are dragg'd away, or must be driven, She only saw her time and stept to Heaven; Where seraphims view all her glories o'er, As one return'd that had been there before.

For while she did this lower world adorn, Her body seem'd rather a.s.sumed than born; So rarified, advanced, so pure and whole, That body might have been another's soul; And equally a miracle it were That she could die, or that she could live here.

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. 1612-1650

334. I'll never love Thee more

MY dear and only Love, I pray That little world of thee Be govern'd by no other sway Than purest monarchy; For if confusion have a part (Which virtuous souls abhor), And hold a synod in thine 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, That dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all.

And in the empire of thine heart, Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part Or dare to vie with me, Or if Committees thou erect, And go on such a score, I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect, And never love thee more.

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 n.o.ble ways Was never heard before; I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee more and more.

Thomas Jordan. 1612?-1685

335. Coronemus nos Rosis antequam marcescant

LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice, With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice!

The changeable world to our joy is unjust, All treasure 's uncertain, Then down with your dust!

In frolics dispose your pounds, s.h.i.+llings, and pence, For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.

We'll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly, Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy: Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea, Dame Venus, love's lady, Was born of the sea; With her and with Bacchus we'll tickle the sense, For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.

Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown'd And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground, Whose lightness and brightness doth s.h.i.+ne in such splendour That none but the stars Are thought fit to attend her, Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense, Will be d.a.m.nable mouldy a hundred years hence.

Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears, Turn all our tranquill'ty to sighs and to tears?

Let 's eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us, 'Tis certain, Post mortem Nulla voluptas.

For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense, Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

336. Wishes to His Supposed Mistress

WHOE'ER she be-- That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me:

Where'er she lie, Lock'd up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps to our earth:

Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to s.h.i.+ne:

Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye call'd my absent kisses.

I wish her Beauty, That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:

Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

A Face, that 's best By its own beauty drest, And can alone commend the rest.

A Face, made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.

A Cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.

A Cheek, where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being owes.

Lips, where all day A lover's kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away.

Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness.

Eyes, that displace The neighbour diamond, and outface That suns.h.i.+ne by their own sweet grace.

Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are:

Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play.

Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear.

A well-tamed Heart, For whose more n.o.ble smart Love may be long choosing a dart.

Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe.

Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chast.i.ty shall take no harm.

Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within.

Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress.