Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 58

Nor call'd the G.o.ds, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right; But bow'd his comely head Down, as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour Which first a.s.sured the forced power: So when they did design The Capitol's first line,

A Bleeding Head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate!

And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed: So much one man can do That does both act and know.

They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confest How good he is, how just And fit for highest trust.

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the republic's hand-- How fit he is to sway That can so well obey!

He to the Commons' feet presents A Kingdom for his first year's rents, And, what he may, forbears His fame, to make it theirs:

And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the public's skirt.

So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky,

She, having kill'd, no more doth search But on the next green bough to perch; Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure.

What may not then our Isle presume While victory his crest does plume?

What may not others fear, If thus he crowns each year?

As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all States not free Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his particolour'd mind, But, from this valour, sad Shrink underneath the plaid;

Happy, if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war's and fortune's son, March indefatigably on; And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect:

Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

356. A Garden Written after the Civil Wars

SEE how the flowers, as at parade, Under their colours stand display'd: Each regiment in order grows, That of the tulip, pink, and rose.

But when the vigilant patrol Of stars walks round about the pole, Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl'd, Seem to their staves the ensigns furl'd.

Then in some flower's beloved hut Each bee, as sentinel, is shut, And sleeps so too; but if once stirr'd, She runs you through, nor asks the word.

O thou, that dear and happy Isle, The garden of the world erewhile, Thou Paradise of the four seas Which Heaven planted us to please, But, to exclude the world, did guard With wat'ry if not flaming sword; What luckless apple did we taste To make us mortal and thee waste!

Unhappy! shall we never more That sweet militia restore, When gardens only had their towers, And all the garrisons were flowers; When roses only arms might bear, And men did rosy garlands wear?

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

357. To His Coy Mistress

HAD we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime We would sit down and think which way To walk and pa.s.s our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart.

For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my l.u.s.t: The grave 's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power.

Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

slow-chapt] slow-jawed, slowly devouring.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

358. The Picture of Little T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers

SEE with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days!

In the green gra.s.s she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names; But only with the roses plays, And them does tell What colour best becomes them, and what smell.

Who can foretell for what high cause This darling of the G.o.ds was born?

Yet this is she whose chaster laws The wanton Love shall one day fear, And, under her command severe, See his bow broke and ensigns torn.

Happy who can Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compound And parley with those conquering eyes, Ere they have tried their force to wound; Ere with their glancing wheels they drive In triumph over hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise: Let me be laid, Where I may see the glories from some shade.

Meantime, whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the Spring; Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair, And roses of their thorns disarm; But most procure That violets may a longer age endure.

But O, young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora, angry at thy crime To kill her infants in their prime, Do quickly make th' example yours; And ere we see, Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

359. Thoughts in a Garden

HOW vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose!

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence thy sister dear?

Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men: Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow: Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green.

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name: Little, alas! they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed!

Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our pa.s.sions' heat, Love hither makes his best retreat: The G.o.ds, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race; Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life in this I lead!

Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious cl.u.s.ters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pa.s.s, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on gra.s.s.

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that 's made To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and combs its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.