Poetical Works of Edmund Waller and Sir John Denham Part 23

1 Why came I so untimely forth Into a world which, wanting thee, Could entertain us with no worth Or shadow of felicity?

That time should me so far remove From that which I was born to love!

2 Yet, fairest blossom! do not slight That age which you may know so soon; The rosy morn resigns her light And milder glory to the noon; And then what wonders shall you do, Whose dawning beauty warms us so?

3 Hope waits upon the flow'ry prime; And summer, though it be less gay, Yet is not look'd on as a time Of declination or decay; For with a full hand that does bring All that was promised by the spring.

[1] 'Lady Lucy Sidney': the younger sister of Lady Dorothea; afterwards married to Sir John Pelham.

TO AMORET.[1]

Fair! that you may truly know What you unto Thyrsis owe, I will tell you how I do Saccharissa love and you.

Joy salutes me, when I set My bless'd eyes on Amoret; But with wonder I am strook, 7 While I on the other look.

If sweet Amoret complains, I have sense of all her pains; But for Saccharissa I Do not only grieve, but die.

All that of myself is mine, Lovely Amoret! is thine; Saccharissa's captive fain Would untie his iron chain, And, those scorching beams to shun, To thy gentle shadow run.

If the soul had free election To dispose of her affection, 20 I would not thus long have borne Haughty Saccharissa's scorn; But 'tis sure some power above, Which controls our wills in love!

If not love, a strong desire To create and spread that fire In my breast, solicits me, Beauteous Amoret! for thee.

'Tis amazement more than love, Which her radiant eyes do move; 30 If less splendour wait on thine, Yet they so benignly s.h.i.+ne, I would turn my dazzled sight To behold their milder light; But as hard 'tis to destroy That high flame, as to enjoy; Which how eas'ly I may do, Heaven (as eas'ly scaled) does know!

Amoret! as sweet and good As the most delicious food, 40 Which, but tested, does impart Life and gladness to the heart.

Saccharissa's beauty's wine, Which to madness doth incline; Such a liquor as no brain That is mortal can sustain.

Scarce can I to heaven excuse The devotion which I use Unto that adored dame; For 'tis not unlike the same 50 Which I thither ought to send; So that if it could take end, 'Twould to heaven itself be due To succeed her, and not you, Who already have of me All that's not idolatry; Which, though not so fierce a flame, Is longer like to be the same.

Then smile on me, and I will prove Wonder is shorter-liv'd than love. 60

[1] 'Amoret': see 'Life.'

TO MY LORD OF FALKLAND.[1]

Brave Holland leads, and with him Falkland goes: Who hears this told, and does not straight suppose We send the Graces and the Muses forth To civilise and to instruct the north?

Not that these ornaments make swords less sharp; Apollo bears as well his bow as harp;[2]

And though he be the patron of that spring, Where, in calm peace, the sacred virgins sing, He courage had to guard th'invaded throne 9 Of Jove, and cast th'ambitious giants down.

Ah, n.o.ble friend! with what impatience all That know thy worth, and know how prodigal Of thy great soul thou art (longing to twist Bays with that ivy which so early kiss'd Thy youthful temples), with what horror we Think on the blind events of war and thee!

To fate exposing that all-knowing breast Among the throng, as cheaply as the rest; Where oaks and brambles (if the copse be burn'd) Confounded lie, to the same ashes turn'd. 20

Some happy wind over the ocean blow This tempest yet, which frights our island so!

Guarded with s.h.i.+ps, and all the sea our own, From heaven this mischief on our heads is thrown.

In a late dream, the genius of this land, Amazed, I saw, like the fair Hebrew, stand, When first she felt the twins begin to jar,[3]

And found her womb the seat of civil war.

Inclined to whose relief, and with presage Of better fortune for the present age, 30 Heaven sends, quoth I, this discord for our good, To warm, perhaps, but not to waste our blood; To raise our drooping spirits, grown the scorn Of our proud neighbours, who ere long shall mourn (Though now they joy in our expected harms) We had occasion to resume our arms.

A lion so with self-provoking smart (His rebel tail scourging his n.o.bler part) Calls up his courage; then begins to roar, And charge his foes, who thought him mad before. 40

[1] 'Lord of Falkland': referring to the unsuccessful expedition of Charles I. against Scotland in 1639, frustrated by the cowardice or treachery of Lord Holland.

[2] 'Bow as harp': Horace, Ode iv., lib. 3.

[3] 'Twins begin to jar': Gen. xxv. 22.

TO MY LORD NORTHUMBERLAND, UPON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY.[1]

To this great loss a sea of tears is due; But the whole debt not to be paid by you.

Charge not yourself with all, nor render vain Those show'rs the eyes of us your servants rain.

Shall grief contract the largeness of that heart, In which nor fear, nor anger, has a part?

Virtue would blush if time should boast (which dries, Her sole child dead, the tender mother's eyes) Your mind's relief, where reason triumphs so Over all pa.s.sions, that they ne'er could grow 10 Beyond their limits in your n.o.ble breast, To harm another, or impeach your rest.

This we observed, delighting to obey One who did never from his great self stray; Whose mild example seemed to engage Th' obsequious seas, and teach them not to rage.

The brave Aemilius, his great charge laid down (The force of Rome, and fate of Macedon), In his lost sons did feel the cruel stroke Of changing fortune, and thus highly spoke 20 Before Rome's people: 'We did oft implore, That if the heavens had any bad in store For your Aemilius, they would pour that ill On his own house, and let you flourish still.'

You on the barren seas, my lord, have spent Whole springs and summers to the public lent; Suspended all the pleasures of your life, And shorten'd the short joy of such a wife; For which your country's more obliged than 29 For many lives of old less happy men.

You, that have sacrificed so great a part Of youth, and private bliss, ought to impart Your sorrow too, and give your friends a right As well in your affliction as delight.

Then with Aemilian courage bear this cross, Since public persons only public loss Ought to affect. And though her form and youth, Her application to your will, and truth, That n.o.ble sweetness, and that humble state (All s.n.a.t.c.h'd away by such a hasty fate!) 40 Might give excuse to any common breast, With the huge weight of so just grief oppress'd; Yet let no portion of your life be stain'd With pa.s.sion, but your character maintain'd To the last act. It is enough her stone May honour'd be with superscription Of the sole lady who had power to move The great Northumberland to grieve, and love.

[1] 'His lady': the Lady Anne Cecil, daughter of the Earl of Salisbury.

See a previous note.

TO MY LORD ADMIRAL, OF HIS LATE SICKNESS AND RECOVERY.

With joy like ours the Thracian youth invades Orpheus, returning from th'Elysian shades; Embrace the hero, and his stay implore; Make it their public suit he would no more Desert them so, and for his spouse's sake, His vanish'd love, tempt the Lethean lake.

The ladies, too, the brightest of that time (Ambitious all his lofty bed to climb), Their doubtful hopes with expectation feed, 9 Who shall the fair Eurydice succeed: Eurydice! for whom his numerous moan Makes list'ning trees and savage mountains groan; Through all the air his sounding strings dilate Sorrow, like that which touch'd our hearts of late.

Your pining sickness, and your restless pain, At once the land affecting, and the main, When the glad news that you were admiral Scarce through the nation spread,[1] 'twas feared by all That our great Charles, whose wisdom s.h.i.+nes in you, Would be perplexed how to choose anew. 20 So more than private was the joy and grief, That at the worst it gave our souls relief, That in our age such sense of virtue lived, They joy'd so justly, and so justly grieved.

Nature (her fairest light eclipsed) seems Herself to suffer in those sharp extremes; While not from thine alone thy blood retires, But from those cheeks which all the world admires.

The stem thus threaten'd, and the sap in thee, Droop all the branches of that n.o.ble tree! 30 Their beauty they, and we our love suspend; Nought can our wishes, save thy health, intend.

As lilies overcharged with rain, they bend Their beauteous heads, and with high heaven contend; Fold thee within their snowy arms, and cry-- 'He is too faultless, and too young, to die!'

So like immortals round about thee they Sit, that they fright approaching death away.