Poems, Elegy 6 – Poem 33
Elegie on Prince Henry.
LOoke to mee faith, and looke to my faith, God;
For both my centers feele this period.
Of waight one center, one of greatneſſe is;
And Reaſon is that center, Faith is this;
For into'our reaſon flow, and there do end
All, that this naturall world doth comprehend:
Quotidian things, and equidiſtant hence,
Shut in, for man, in one circumference.
But for th'enormous greatneſſes, which are
So diſproportion'd, and ſo angulare,
As is Gods eſſence, place and providence,
Where, how, when, what ſoules do, departed hence,
Theſe things (eccentrique elſe) on faith do ſtrike;
Yet neither all, nor upon all, alike.
For reaſon, put to'her beſt extenſion,
Almoſt meetes faith, and makes both centers one.
And nothing ever came ſo nere to this,
As contemplation of that Prince, wee miſſe.
For all that faith might credit mankinde could,
Reaſon ſtill ſeconded, that this prince would.
If then leaſt moving of the center, make
More, then if whole hell belch'd, the world to ſhake.
What muſt this do, centers diſtracted ſo,
That wee ſee not what to beleeve or know?
Was it not well beleev'd till now, that hee,
Whoſe reputation was an extaſie,
On neighbour States, which knew not why to wake,
Till hee diſcover'd what wayes he would take;
For whom, what Princes angled, when they tryed,
Met a Torpedo, and were ſtupified;
And others ſtudies, how he would be bent,
Was his great fathers greateſt inſtrument,
And activ'ſt ſpirit, to convey and tie
This ſoule of peace, through Chriſtianity;
Was it not well beleev'd, that hee would make
This generall peace, th'Eternall overtake,
And that his times might have ſtretch'd out ſo farre,
As to touch thoſe, of which they emblems are?
For to confirme this juſt beleefe, that now
The laſt dayes came, wee ſaw heav'n did allow,
That, but from his aſpect and exerciſe,
In peacefull times, Rumors of war did riſe.
But now this faith is hereſie: we muſt
Still ſtay, and vexe our great grand mother, Duſt.
Oh, is God prodigall? hath he ſpent his ſtore
Of plagues, on us, and onelyonly now, when more
Would eaſe us much, doth he grudge miſery;
And will not let's enjoy our curſe; to dy.
As, for the earth throwne loweſt downe of all,
T'were an ambition to deſire to fall,
So God, in our deſire to dye, doth know
Our plot for eaſe, in being wretched ſo.
Therefore we live; though ſuch a life wee have,
As but ſo many mandrakes on his grave.
What had his growth, and generation done,
When, what we are, his putrefaction
Suſtaines in us; Earth, which griefes animate;
Nor hath our world now, other Soule then that.
And could griefe get ſo high as heav'n, that Quire,
Forgetting this their new joy, would deſire
(With griefe to ſee him) hee had ſtaid below,
To rectifie our errours, They foreknow.
Is th'other center, Reaſon, faſter then?
Where ſhould we looke for that, now we'are not men?
For if our Reaſon be'our connexion
Of cauſes, now to us there can be none.
For, as if all the ſubſtances were ſpent,
'Twere madneſſe, to enquire of accident,
So is't to looke for reaſon, hee being gone,
The onelyonly ſubject reaſon wrought upon.
If Fate have ſuch a chaine, whoſe divers links
Induſtrious man diſcerneth, as hee thinks,
When miracle doth come, and ſo ſteale in
A new linke, man knowes not, where to begin▪
At a much deader fault muſt reaſon bee,
Death having broke off ſuch a linke as hee.
But now, for us, with buſie proofe to come,
That we'have no reaſon, would prove wee had ſome.
So would juſt lamentations: Therefore wee
May ſafelyer ſay, that we are dead, then hee.
So, if our griefs wee do not well declare,
We'have double excuſe; he'is not dead; and we are.
Yet I would not dy yet; for though I bee
Too narrow, to thinke him, as hee is hee,
(Our Soules beſt baiting, and midd-period,
In her long journey, of conſidering God)
Yet, (no diſhonour) I can reach him thus,
As he embrac'd the fires of love, with us.
Oh may I, (ſince I live) but ſee, or heare,
That ſhe-Intelligence which mov'd this ſpheare,
I pardon Fate, my life: who ere thou bee,
Which haſt the noble conſcience, thou art ſhee,
I conjure thee by all the charmes he ſpoke,
By th'oathes, which onelyonly you two never broke,
By all the ſoules yee ſigh'd, that if you ſee
Theſe lines, you wiſh, I knew your hiſtory.
So much, as you, two mutuall heav'ns were here,
I were an Angell, ſinging what you were.
Pſalme 137.
I.
BY Euphrates flowry ſide
We did bide,
From deare Juda farre abſented,
Tearing the aire with our cryes,
And our eyes,
With their ſtreames his ſtreame augmented.
II.
When, poore Syons dolefull ſtate,
Deſolate;
Sacked, burned, and inthrall'd,
And the Temple ſpoil'd, which wee
Ne'r ſhould ſee,
To our mirthleſſe mindes wee call'd▪
III.
Our mute harpes, untun'd, unſtrung,
Up wee hung
On greene willowes neere beſide us,
Where, we ſitting all forlorne;
Thus, in ſcorne,
Our proud ſpoylers 'gan deride us.
IV.
Come, ſad Captives, leave your moanes,
And your groanes
Under Syons ruines bury;
Tune your harps, and ſing us layes
In the praiſe
Of your God, and let's be merry,
V.
Can, ah, can we leave our moanes?
And our groanes
Under Syons ruines bury?
Can we in this Land ſing Layes
In the praiſe
Of our God, and here be merry?
VI.
No; deare Syon, if I yet
Do forget
Thine affliction miſerable,
Let my nimble joynts become
Stiffe and numme,
To touch warbling harpe unable.
VII.
Let my tongue loſe ſinging skill,
Let it ſtill
To my parched roofe be glewed,
If in either harpe or voice
I rejoyce,
Till thy joyes ſhall be renewed
VIII.
Lord, curſe Edom's traiterous kinde,
Beare in minde
In our ruines how they revell'd,
Sack, kill, burne, they cry'd out ſtill,
Sack, burne, kill,
Downe with all, let all be levell'd.
IX.
And, thou Babel, when the tide
Of thy pride
Now a flowing, growes to turning;
Victor now, ſhall then be thrall,
And ſhall fall
To as low an ebbe of mourning.
X.
Happy he who ſhall thee waſte,
As thou haſt
Us, without all mercy, waſted,
And ſhall make thee taſte and ſee
What poore wee
By thy meanes have ſeene and taſted.
XI.
Happy, who, thy tender barnes
From the armes
Of their wailing mothers tearing,
'Gainſt the walls ſhall daſh their bones,
Ruthleſſe ſtones
With their braines and blood beſmearing.
Reſurrection, imperfect.
SLeep ſleep old Sun, thou canſt not have repaſt
As yet, the wound thou took'ſt on friday laſt;
Sleepe then, and reſt; The world may beare thy ſtay,
A better Sun roſe before thee to day,
Who, not content to'enlighten all that dwell
On the earths face, as thou, enlightned hell,
And made the darke fires languiſh in that vale,
As, at thy preſence here, our fires grow pale.
Whoſe body having walk'd on earth, and now
Haſting to Heaven, would, that he might allow
Himſelfe unto all ſtations, and fill all,
For theſe three daies become a minerall;
Hee was all gold when he lay downe, but roſe
All tincture, and doth not alone diſpoſe
Leaden and iron wills to good, but is
Of power to make even ſinfull fleſh like his.
Had one of thoſe, whoſe credulous pietie
Thought, that a Soule one might diſcerne and ſee▪
Goe from a body, 'at this ſepulcher been,
And, iſſuing from the ſheet, this body ſeen,
He would have juſtly thought this body a ſoule,
If, not of any man, yet of the whole.
Deſunt caetera.
An hymne to the Saints, and to Marqueſſe Hamylton.
VVHither that ſoule which now comes up to you
Fill any former ranke or make a new,
Whither it take a name nam'd there before,
Or be a name it ſelfe, and order more
Then was in heaven till now; (for may not hee
Bee ſo? if every ſeverall Angell bee
A kind alone;) What ever order grow
Greater by him in heaven, wee doe not ſo;
One of your orders growes by his acceſſe;
But, by his loſſe grow all our orders leſſe;
The name of Father, Maſter, Friend, the name
Of Subject and of Prince, in one are lame;
Faire mirth is dampt, and converſation black,
The houſehold widdow'd, and the garter ſlack;
The Chappell wants an eare, Councell a tongue;
Story, a theame; and Muſicke lacks a ſong;
Bleſt order that hath him, the loſſe of him
Gangred all Orders here; all loſt a limbe.
Never made body ſuch haſt to confeſſe
What a ſoule was; All former comelineſſe▪
Fled, in a minute, when the ſoule was gone,
And, having loſt that beauty, would have none,
So fell our Monaſteries, in one inſtant growne
Not to leſſe houſes, but, to heapes of ſtone;
So ſent this body that faire forme it wore,
Unto the ſpheare of formes, and doth (before
His ſoule ſhall fill up his ſepulchrall ſtone,)
Anticipate a Reſurrection;
For, as in his fame, now, his ſoule is here,
So, in the forme thereof his bodie's there;
And if, faire ſoule, not with firſt Innocents
Thy ſtation be, but with the Paenitents,
(And, who ſhall dare to aske then when I am
Dy'd ſcarlet in the blood of that pure Lambe,
Whether that colour, which is ſcarlet then,
Were black or white before in eyes of men?)
When thou rememb'reſt what ſins thou didſt finde
Amongſt thoſe many friends now left behinde,
And ſeeſt ſuch ſinners as they are, with thee
Got thither by repentance, Let it bee
Thy wiſh to wiſh all there, to wiſh them cleane;
Wiſh him a David, her a Magdalen.
SIR,
I Preſume you rather try what you can doe in me, then what I can doe in verſe, you know my uttermoſt when it was beſt, and even then I did beſt when I had leaſt truth for my ſubjects, In this preſent caſe there is ſo much truth as it defeats all Poetry. Call therefore this paper by what name you will, and, if it bee not worthy of you nor of him, we will ſmother it, and be it your ſacrifice. If you had commanded mee to have waited on his body to Scotland and preached there, I would have embraced your obligation with much alacrity; But, I thanke you that you would command me that which I was loather to doe, for, even that hath given a tincture of merit to the obedience of
Your poore friend and ſervant in Chriſt Jeſus I. D.
An Epitaph upon Shakeſpeare.
REnowned Chaucer lie a thought more nigh
ſo rare Beaumond; and learned Beaumond lie
A little nearer Spencer, to make roome
For Shakeſpeare in your threefold fourefold tombe.
To lie all foure in one bed make a ſhift,
For, untill doomeſday hardly will a fift
Betwixt this day and that be ſlaine,
For whom your curtaines need be drawne againe;
But, if precedency of death doth barre
A fourth place in your ſacred ſepulchre,
Under this curled marble of thine owne
Sleepe rare Tragedian Shakeſpeare, ſleepe alone,
That, unto VsUs and others it may bee
Honor, hereafter to be laid by thee.
Sapho to Philaenis.
VVHere is that holy fire, which Verſe is ſaid
To have, is that inchanting force decai'd?
Verſe that drawes Natures workes, from Natures law,
Thee, her beſt worke, to her worke cannot draw.
Have my teares quench'd my old Poetique fire;
Why quench'd they not as well, that of deſire?
Thoughts, my mindes creatures, often are with thee,
But I, their maker; want their libertie.
OnelyOnly thine image, in my heart, doth ſit,
But that is waxe, and fires environ it.
My fires have driven, thine have drawne it hence;
And I am rob'd of Picture, Heart, and Senſe.
Dwells with me ſtill mine irkſome Memory,
Which, both to keepe, and loſe, grieves equally.
That tells me'how faire thou art: Thou art ſo faire,
As, gods, when gods to thee I doe compare,
Are grac'd thereby; And to make blinde men ſee,
What things gods are, I ſay they'are like to thee.
For, if we juſtly call each ſilly man
A litle world, What ſhall we call thee than?
Thou art not ſoft, and cleare, and ſtrait, and faire,
As Down, as Stars, Cedars, and Lillies are,
But thy right hand, and cheek, and eye, only
Are like thy other hand, and cheek, and eye.
Such was my Phao awhile, but ſhall be never,
As thou, wa…t, art, and, oh, maiſt be ever.
Here lovers ſweare in their Idolatrie,
That I am ſuch; but Griefe diſcolors me.
And yet I grieve the leſſe, leaſt Griefe remove
My beauty, and make me'unworthy of thy love.
Plaies ſome ſoft boy with thee, oh there wants yet
A mutuall feeling which ſhould ſweeten it.
His chinne, a thorny hairy unevenneſſe
Doth threaten, and ſome daily change poſſeſſe.
Thy body is a naturall Paradiſe,
In whoſe ſelfe, unmanur'd, all pleaſure lies,
Nor needs perfection; why ſhouldſt thou than
Admit the tillage of a harſh rough man?
Men leave behinde them that which their ſin ſhowes▪
And are, as theeves trac'd, which rob when it ſnows.
But of our dallyance no more ſignes there are,
Then fiſhes leave in ſtreames, or Birds in aire.
And betweene us all ſweetneſſe may be had;
All, all that Nature yields, or Art can adde.
My two lips, eyes, thighs, differ from thy two,
But ſo, as thine from one another doe;
And, oh, no more; the likeneſſe being ſuch,
Why ſhould they not alike in all parts touch?
Hand to ſtrange hand, lippe to lippe none denies;
Why ſhould they breſt to breſt, or thighs to thighs?
Likeneſſe begets ſuch ſtrange ſelfe flatterie,
That touching my ſelfe, all ſeemes done to thee.
My ſelfe I embrace, and mine owne hands I kiſſe,
And amorouſly thanke my ſelfe for this.
Me, in my glaſſe, I call thee; But alas,
When I would kiſſe, teares dimme mine eyes, and glaſſe.
O cure this loving madneſſe, and reſtore
Me to mee; ſhee, my halfe, my all, my more▪
So may thy cheekes red outweare ſcarlet dye,
And their white, whiteneſſe of the Galaxy,
So may thy mighty amazing beauty move
Envy' in all women, and in all men▪ love,
And ſo be change, and ſickneſſe, farre from thee,
As thou by comming neere, keep'ſt them from me.
The Annuntiation and Paſsion.
TAmely fraile body'abſtaine to day; to day
My ſoule eates twice, Chriſt hither and away.
She ſees him man, ſo like God made in this,
That of them both a circle embleme is,
Whoſe firſt and laſt concurre; this doubtfull day
Of feaſt or faſt, Chriſt came, and went away;
Shee ſees him nothing twice at once, who'is all;
Shee ſees a Cedar plant it ſelfe, and fall,
Her Maker put to making, and the head
Of life, at once, not yet alive, yet dead;
She ſees at once the virgin mother ſtay
Recluſ'd at home, Publique at Golgotha.
Sad and rejoyc'd ſhee's ſeen at once, and ſeen
At almoſt fiftie, and at ſcarce fifteene.
At once a Sonne is promiſ'd her, and gone,
Gabriell gives Chriſt to her, He her to John;
Not fully a mother, Shee's in Orbitie,
At once receiver and the legacie;
All this, and all betweene, this day hath ſhowne,
Th'Abridgement of Chriſts ſtory, which makes one
(As in plaine Maps, the furtheſt Weſt is Eaſt)
Of the'Angels Ave, 'and Conſummatum eſt.
How well the Church, Gods Court of faculties
Deales, in ſome times, and ſeldome joyning theſe;
As by the ſelfe-fix'd Pole wee never doe
Direct our courſe, but the next ſtarre thereto,
Which ſhowes where the'other is, and which we ſay
(Becauſe it ſtrayes not farre) doth never ſtray;
So God by his Church, neereſt to him, wee know,
And ſtand firme, if wee by her motion goe;
His Spirit, as his fiery Pillar doth
Leade, and his Church, as cloud; to one end both:
This Church, by letting thoſe daies joyne, hath ſhown
Death and conception in mankinde is one.
Or 'twas in him the ſame humility,
That he would be a man, and leave to be:
Or as creation he hath made, as God,
With the laſt judgement, but one period,
His imitating Spouſe would joyne in one
Manhoods extremes: He ſhall come, he is gone:
Or as though one blood drop, which thence did fall,
Accepted, would have ſerv'd, he yet ſhed all;
So though the leaſt of his paines, deeds, or words,
Would buſie a life, ſhe all this day affords;
This treaſure then, in groſſe, my Soule uplay,
And in my life retaile it every day.
Goodfriday, 1613. Riding Weſtward.
LEt mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
And as the other Spheares, by being growne
Subject to forraigne motion, loſe their owne,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:
Pleaſure or buſineſſe, ſo, our Soules admit
For their firſt mover, and are whirld by it.
Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the Weſt
This day, whē my Soules forme bends toward the Eaſt.
There I ſhould ſee a Sunne, by riſing ſet,
And by that ſetting endleſſe day beget;
But that Chriſt on this Croſſe, did riſe and fall,
Sinne had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I'almoſt be glad, I do not ſee
That ſpectacle of too much weight for mee.
Who ſees Gods face, that is ſelfe life, muſt dye;
What a death were it then to ſee God dye?
It made his owne Lieutenant Nature ſhrinke,
It made his footſtoole crack, and the Sunne winke.
Could I behold thoſe hands which ſpan the Poles,
And tune all ſpheares at once peirc'd with thoſe holes?
Could I behold that endleſſe height which is
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood which is
The ſeat of all our Soules, if not of his,
Made durt of duſt, or that fleſh which was worne
By God, for his apparell, rag'd, and torne?
If on theſe things I durſt not looke, durſt I
Upon his miſerable mother caſt mine eye,
Who was Gods partner here, and furniſh'd thus
Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ranſom'd us?
Though theſe things, as I ride, be from mine eye,
They'are preſent yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; & thou look'ſt towards mee,
O Saviour, as thou hang'ſt upon the tree;
I turne my backe to thee, but to receive
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
O thinke mee worth thine anger, puniſh mee,
Burne off my ruſts, and my deformity,
Reſtore thine Image, ſo much, by thy grace,
That thou may'ſt know mee, and I'll turne my face.