The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America, Part 7 – Part 8
An Elegie upon that Honourable and renowned Knight, Sir Philip Sidney, who was untimely ſlaine at the Seige of Zutphon, Anno 1586.
By A. B. in the yeare, 1638.
WHen England did injoy her Halſion dayes,
Her noble Sidney wore the Crown of Bayes;
No leſſe an Honour to our Britiſh Land,
Then ſhe that ſway'd the Scepter with her hand:
Mars and Minerva did in one agree,
Of Armes, and Arts, thou ſhould'ſt a patterne be.
Calliope with Terpſecher did ſing,
Of Poeſie, and of Muſick thou wert King;
Thy Rhethorick it ſtruck Polimnia dead,
Thine Eloquence made Mercury wax red;
Thy Logick from Euterpe won the Crown,
More worth was thine, then Clio could ſet down.
Thalia, and Melpomene, ſay th' truth,
(Witneſſe Arcadia, penn'd in his youth)
Are not his Tragick Comedies ſo acted,
As if your nine-fold wit had been compacted;
To ſhew the wo ld, they never ſaw before,
That this one Volumne ſhould exhauſt your ſtore.
I praiſe thee not for this, it is unfit,
This was thy ſhame, O miracle of wit:
Yet doth thy ſhame (with all) purchaſe renown,
What doe thy vertues then? Oh, honours crown!
In all records, thy Name I ever ſee,
Put with an Epithet of dignity;
Which ſhewes, thy worth was great, thine honour ſuch,
The love thy Country ought thee, was as much.
Let then, none diſ-allow of theſe my ſtraines,
Which have the ſelf-ſame blood yet in my veines;
Who honours thee for what was honourable,
But leaves the reſt, as moſt unprofitable:
Thy wiſer dayes, condemn'd thy witty works,
Who knowes the Spels that in thy Rethroick lurks?
But ſome infatuate fooles ſoone caught therein,
Found Cupids Dam, had never ſuch a Gin;
Which makes ſeverer eyes but ſcorn thy Story,
And mode… Maids, and Wives, bluſh at thy glory;
Yet, he's a beetle head, that cann't diſcry
A world of treaſure, in that rubbiſh lye;
And doth thy ſelfe, thy worke, and honour wrong,
(O brave Refiner of our B…iuiſh Tongue;)
That ſees not learning, valour, and morality,
Juſtice, friendſhip, and kind hoſpitality;
Yea, and Divinity within thy Book,
Such were prejudicate, and did not look:
But to ſay truth, thy worth I ſhall but ſtaine,
Thy fame, and praiſe, is farre beyond my ſtraine;
Yet great Auguſtus was content (we know)
To be ſaluted by a ſilly Crow;
Then let ſuch Crowes as I, thy praiſes ſing,
A Crow's a Crow, and Caeſar is a King.
O brave Achilles, I wiſh ſome Homer would
Engrave on Marble, in characters of Gold,
What famous feats thou didſt, on Flanders coaſt,
Of which, this day, faire Belgia doth boaſt.
O Zutphon, Zutphon, that moſt fatall City,
Made famous by thy fall, much more's the pitty;
Ah, in his blooming prime, death pluckt this Roſe,
E're he was ripe; his thred cut Atropos.
Thus man is borne to dye, and dead is he,
Brave Hector by the walls of Troy, we ſee:
Oh, who was neare thee, but did ſore repine;
He reſcued not with life, that life of thine,
But yet impartiall Death this Boone did give,
Though Sidney dy'd, his valiant name ſhould live;
And live it doth, in ſpight of death, through fame,
Thus being over-come, he over-came.
Where is that envious tongue, but can afford,
Of this our noble Scipio ſome good word?
Noble Bartas, this to thy praiſe adds more,
In ſad, ſweet verſe, thou didſt his death deplore;
Illuſtrious Stella, thou didſt thine full well,
If thine aſpect was milde to Aſtrophell;
I feare thou wert a Commet, did portend
Such prince as he, his race ſhould ſhortly end:
If ſuch Stars as theſe, ſad preſages be,
I wiſh no more ſuch Blazers we may ſee;
But thou art gone, ſuch Meteors never laſt,
And as thy beauty, ſo thy name would waſt,
But that it is record by Philips hand,
That ſuch an omen once was in our land,
O Princely Philip, rather Alexander,
Who wert of honours band, the chief Commander.
How could that Stella, ſo confine thy will?
To wait till ſhe, her influence diſtill,
I rather judg'd thee of his mind that wept,
To be within the bounds of one world kept,
But Omphala, ſet Hercules to ſpin,
And Mars himſelf was ta'n by Venus gin;
Then wonder leſſe, if warlike Philip yield,
When ſuch a Hero ſhoots him out o'th' field,
Yet this preheminence thou haſt above,
That thine was true, but theirs adult'rate love.
Fain would I ſhew, how thou fame's path didſt tread,
But now into ſuch Lab'rinths am I led
With end leſſe turnes, the way I find not out,
For to perſiſt, my muſe is more in doubt:
Calls me ambitious fool, that durſt aſpire,
Enough for me to look, and ſo admire.
And makes me now with Sylveſter confeſſe,
But Sydney's Muſe, can ſing his worthineſſe.
Too late my errour ſee, that durſt preſume
To fix my faltring lines upon his tomb:
Which are in worth, as far ſhort of his due,
As Vulcan is, of Venus native hue.
Goodwill, did make my head-long pen to run,
Like unwiſe Phaeton his ill guided ſonne,
Till taught to's coſt, for his too haſty hand,
He left that charge by Phoebus to be man'd:
So proudly fooliſh I, with Phaeton ſtrive,
Fame's flaming Chariot for to drive.
Till terrour-ſtruck for my too weighty charge.
I leave't in brief, Apollo do't at large.
Apollo laught to patch up what's begun,
He bad me drive, and he would hold the Sun,
Better my hap, then was his darlings fate,
For dear regard he had of Sydney's ſtate,
Who in his Deity, had ſo deep ſhare,
That thoſe that name his fame, he needs muſt ſpare,
He Promis'd much, but th' muſes had no will,
To give to their detractor any quill.
With high diſdain, they ſaid they gave no more,
Since Sydney had exhauſted all their ſtore,
That this contempt it did the more perplex,
In being done by one of their own ſex;
They took from me, the ſcribling pen I had,
I to be eas'd of ſuch a task was glad.
For to revenge his wrong, themſelves ingage,
And drave me from Parnaſſus in a rage,
Not becauſe, ſweet Sydney's fame was not dear,
But I had blemiſh'd theirs, to make 't appear:
I penſive for my fault, ſat down, and then,
Errata, through their leave threw me my pen,
For to conclude my poem two lines they daigne,
Which writ, ſhe bad return't to them again.
So Sydney's fame, I leave to England's Rolls,
His bones do lie interr'd in ſtately Pauls.
His Epitaph.
Here lies intomb'd in fame, under this ſtone,
Philip and Alexander both in one.
Heire to the Muſes, the Son of Mars in truth,
Learning, valour, beauty, all in vertuous youth:
His praiſe is much, this ſhall ſuffice my pen,
That Sidney dy'd the quinteſſence of men.
In honour of Du Bartas. 1641.
A. B.
AMongſt the happy wits this Age hath ſhowne,
Great, deare, ſweet Bartas, thou art marchleſſe knowne;
My raviſht eyes, and heart, with faltering tongue,
In humble wiſe have vow'd their ſervice long;
But knowing th' taske ſo great, and ſtrength but ſmall,
Gave o're the work, before begun withall:
My dazled ſight of late, review'd thy lines,
Where Art, and more then Art in Nature ſhines;
Reflection from their beaming altitude,
Did thaw my frozen hearts ingratitude;
Which Rayes, datting upon ſome richer ground,
Had cauſed flowers, and fruits, ſoone to abound,
But barren I, my Day ſey here doe bring,
A homely flower in this my latter ſpring:
If Summer, or my Au…umne age, doe yeeld
…ewers, ſruits, in garden, orchard, or in ſield;
They ſhall be conſecrated in my Verſe,
And proſtrate off'red at great Bartas Herſe.
My Muſe unto a Childe, I fitly may compare,
Who ſees the riches of ſome famous Fayre;
He feeds his eyes, but underſtanding lacks,
To comprehend the worth of all thoſe knacks;
The glittering Plate, and Jewels, he admires,
The Hats, and Fans, the Plumes, and Ladies tires,
And thouſand times his mazed minde doth wiſh
Some part, at leaſt, of that brave wealth was his;
But ſeeing empty wiſhes nought obtaine,
At night turnes to his Mothers cor againe,
And tells her tales; (his full heart over-glad)
Of all the glorious ſights his eyes have had:
But findes too ſoone his want of Eloquence,
The ſilly Pratler ſpeakes no word of ſence;
And ſeeing utterance fayle his great deſires,
Sits down in filence, deeply he admires:
Thus weake brain'd I, reading thy lofty ſtile,
Thy profound Learning; viewing other while
Thy Art, in Naturall Philoſophy:
Thy Saint-like minde in grave Divinity,
Thy peircing skill in high Aſtronomy,
And curious in-ſight in Anatomy;
Thy Phiſick, Muſick, and State policy,
Valour in War, in Peace good Husbandry.
Sure liberall Nature, did with Art not ſmall,
In all the Arts make thee moſt liberall;
A thouſand thouſand times my ſenſleſſe Sences,
Moveleſſe, ſtand charm'd by thy ſweet influences,
More ſenceleſſe then the Stones to Amphions Lute,
Mine eyes are ſightleſſe, and my tongue is mute;
My full aſtoniſh'd heart doth pant to break,
Through grief it wants a faculty to ſpeak,
Vollies of praiſes could I eccho then,
Had I an Angels voice, or Barta's pen,
But wiſhes cann't accompliſh my de ſire,
Pardon, if I adore, when I admire.
O France, in him thou didſt more glory gain,
Then in thy Pippin, M…rtell, Charlemain.
Then in Saint Lewis, or thy laſt Henry great,
Who tam'd his foes, in bloud, in skarres and ſweat,
Thy fame is ſpread as farre, I dare be bold,
In all the Zones, the temp'rate, hot and cold,
Their trophies were but heaps of wounded ſlain,
Thine the quinteſſence of an Heroick brain.
The Oaken garland ought to deck their browes,
Immortall bayes, all men to thee allows.
Who in thy tryumphs (never won by wrongs)
Leadſt millions chaind by eyes, by eares, by tongues,
Oft have I wondred at the hand of heaven,
In giving one, what would have ſerved ſeven.
If e'r this golden gift was ſhow…'d on anv,
Thy double portion would have ſerved many.
Unto each man his riches are aſſign'd,
Of names, of ſtate, of body, or of mind,
Thou haſt thy part of all, but of the laſt,
Oh pregnant brain, Oh comprehenſion vaſt:
Thy haughty ſtile, and rapted wit ſublime,
All ages wondring at, ſhall never clime.
Thy ſacred works are not for imitation,
But monuments for future admiration:
Thus Bartas fame ſhall laſt while ſtarres do ſland,
And whilſt there's aire, or fire, or ſea or land.
But leſt my ignorance ſhould doe thee wrong,
To celebrate thy merits in my Song,
Ile leave thy praiſe, to thoſe ſhall doe thee right,
Good will, not skill, did cauſe me bring my mite.
His Epitaph.
HEre lyes the pearle of France, Parnaſſus glory,
The world rejoyc'd at's birth, at's death was ſorry;
Art and Nature joyn'd, by heavens high decree,
Now ſhew'd what once they ought, Humanity,
And Natures Law; had it been revocable,
To reſcue him from death, Art had been able:
But Nature vanquiſh'd Art, ſo Bartas dy'd,
But Fame, out-living both, he is reviv'd.
In honour of that High and Mighty Princeſs, Queen ELIZABETH, of moſt happy memory.
The Proem.
ALthough great Queen, thou now in ſilence lye,
Yet thy loud Herauld Fame, doth to the sky
Thy wondrous worth proclaime, in every clime,
And ſo has vow'd, whilſt there is world, or time;
So great's thy glory, and thine excellence,
The ſound thereof raps every humane ſence;
That men account it no impiety,
To ſay, thou wert a fleſhly Deity:
Thouſands bring off'rings, (though out of date)
Thy world of honours to accumulate,
Mongſt hundred Hecatombs of roaring Verſe,
'Mine bleating ſtands before thy royall Herſe:
Thou never didſt, nor canſt thou now diſdaine,
T' accept the tribute of a loyall Braine;
Thy clemency did yerſt eſteeme as much
The acclamations of the poore, as rich;
Which makes me deeme, my rudeneſſe is no wrong,
Though I reſound thy greatneſſe 'mongſt the throng.
The Poem.
NO Phoenix Pen, nor Spencers Poetry,
No Speeds, nor Chamdens learned Hiſtory;
Eliza's works, wars, praiſe, can e're compact,
The World's the Theater where ſhe did act;
No memories, nor volumes can containe,
The nine Olimp'ades of her happy reigne;
Who was ſo good, ſo juſt, ſo learn'd, ſo wiſe,
From all the Kings on earth ſhe won the prize;
Nor ſay I more then duly is her due,
Millions will reſtifie that th…s is true;
She hath wip'd off th' aſperſion of her Sex,
That women wiſdome lack to play the R…x;
Spaines Monarch ſa's not ſo; nor yet his H…ſt,
She taught them better manners to their coſt.
The Salique Law had not in force now been,
If France had ever hop'd for ſuch a Queen;
But can you Doctors now this point diſpute,
She's argument enough to make you mute;
Since firſt the Sun did run, his ne'r …unn'd race,
And earth had twice a yeare, a new old face:
Sin…e time was time, and man unmanly man,
Come ſhew me ſuch a Phoenix if you can;
Was ever people better rul'd then hers?
Was ever Land more happy, freed from ſtirs?
Did ever wealth in England ſo abound?
Her Victories in forraigne Coaſts reſound?
Ships more invincible then Spaines, her foe
She ract, ſhe ſackt, ſhe ſunk his Armadoe;
Her ſtately Troops advanc'd to Lisbons wall,
Don Anthony in's right for to inſtall;
She frankly help'd Franks (brave) diſtreſſed King,
The States united now her fame doe ſing;
She their Protectrix was, they well doe know,
Unto our dread Virago, what they owe:
Her Nobles ſacriſic'd their noble blood,
Nor men, nor coyne ſhe ſpa…'d, to doe them good;
The rude untamed Iriſh ſhe did quell,
And Tiron bound, before her picture fell.
Had ever Prince ſuch Counſellors as ſhe?
Her ſelfe Minerva, caus'd them ſo to be;
Such Souldiers, and ſuch Captaines never ſeen,
As were the ſubjects of our (Pallas) Queen:
Her Sea-men through all ſtraights the world did round,
Terra incognitae might know her ſound;
Her Drake came laded home with Spaniſh gold,
Her Eſſex took Cades, their Herculean hold:
But time would faile me, ſo my wit would to,
To tell of halfe she did, or she could doe;
Semiramis to her is but obſcure,
More infamie then fame she did procure;
She plac'd her glory but on Babels walls,
Worlds wonder for a time, but yet it falls;
Feirce Tomris (Cirus Headſ-man, Sythians Queen)
Had put her Harneſſe off, had she but ſeen
Our Amazon …' th' Camp at Tilberry:
(Judging all valour, and all Majeſty)
Within that Princeſſe to have reſidence,
And proſtrate yeelded to her Excellence:
Dido firſt Foundreſſe of proud Carthage walls,
(Who living conſummates her Funerals)
A great Eliza, but compar'd with ours,
How vanisheth her glory, wealth, and powers;
Proud profuſe Cleopalra, whoſe wrong name,
Inſtead of glory prov'd her Countries shame:
Of her what worth in Story's to be ſeen,
But that she was a rich Aegyptian Queen;
Zenobia, potent Empreſſe of the Eaſt,
And of all theſe without compare the beſt;
(Whom none but great Au…clius could quell)
Yet for our Queen is no ſit parallel:
She was a Phoenix Queen, ſo ſhall ſhe be,
Her aſhes not reviv'd more Phoenix ſhe;
Her perſonall perfections, who would tell,
Muſt dip his Pen i'th' Heliconian Well;
Which I may not, my pride doth but aspire,
To read what others write, and then admire.
Now ſay, have women worth, or have they none?
Or had they ſome, but with our Queen iſt gone?
Nay Maſculines, you have thus tax'd us long,
But ſhe though dead, will vindicate our wrong.
Let ſuch, as ſay our ſex is void of reaſon,
Know 'tis a ſlander now, but once was treaſon.
But happy England, which had ſuch a Queen,
O happy, happy, had thoſe dayes ſtill been,
But happineſſe, lies in a higher ſphere,
Then wonder not, Eliza moves not here.
Full fraught with honour, riches, and with dayes:
She ſet, ſhe ſet, like Titan in his rayes,
No more ſhall riſe or ſet ſuch glorious Sun,
Untill the heavens great revolution:
If then new things, their old form muſt retain,
Eliza shall rule Albian once again.
Her Epitaph.
Here ſleeps THE Queen, this is the reyall bed
O'th' Damask Roſe, ſprung from the white and red,
Whoſe ſweet perfume fills the all-filling aire,
This Roſe is withered, once ſo lovely faire,
On neither tree did grow ſuch Roſe before,
The greater was our gain, our loſſe the more.
Another.
Here lies the pride of Queens, pattern of Kings,
So blaze it fame, here's feathers for thy wings,
Here lies the envy'd, yet unparralell'd Prince,
Whoſe living vertues ſpeak (though dead long ſince)
If many worlds, as that fantaſtick framed,
In every one, be ber great glory famed.
Davids Lamentation for Saul, and Jonathan, 2 Sam. 1.19.
ALas, ſlaine is the head of Iſrael,
Illuſtrious Saul, whoſe beauty did excell
Upon thy places, mountan'ous and high,
How did the mighty fall, and falling dye?
In Gath, let not this thing be ſpoken on,
Nor publiſhed in ſtreets of Askelon,
Leſt Daughters of the Philiſtins rejoyce,
Leſt the uncircumcis'd lift up their voyce:
O! Gilbo Mounts, let never pearled dew,
Nor fruitfull ſhowres your barren tops beſtrew,
Nor fields of offerings e're on you grow,
Nor any pleaſant thing e're may you show;
For the mighty ones did ſoone decay,
The Shield of Saul was vilely caſt away;
There had his dignity ſo fore a foyle,
As if his head ne're felt the ſacred Oyle:
Sometimes from crimſon blood of gaſtly ſlaine,
The bow of Jonathan ne're turn'd in vaine,
Nor from the far, and ſpoyles, of mighty men,
Did Saul with bloodleſſe Sword turne back agen:
Pleaſant and lovely were they both in life,
And in their deaths was found no parting ſtrife;
Swifter then ſwifteſt Eagles, ſo were they,
Stronger then Lions, ramping for their prey.
O Iſraels Dames, o're-flow your beauteous eyes,
For valiant Saul, who on Mount Gilbo lyes;
Who cloathed you in cloath of richeſt dye,
And choyſe delights, full of variety.
On your array put ornaments of gold,
Which made you yet more beauteous to behold.
O! how in battell did the mighty fall,
In mid'ſt of ſtrength not ſuccoured at all:
O! lovely Ionathan, how wert thou ſlaine,
In places high, full low thou doſt remaine;
Diſtreſt I am, for thee, deare Ionathan,
Thy love was wonderfull, paſſing a man;
Exceeding all the Love that's Feminine,
So pleaſant haſt thou been, deare brother mine:
How are the mighty falne into decay,
And war-like weapons perished away.
Of the vanity of all worldly creatures.
AS he ſaid vanity, ſo vain ſay I,
O vanity, O vain all under skie,
Where is the man can ſay, lo, I have found
On brittle earth, a conſolation ſound?
What is 't in honour, to be ſet on high?
No, they like beaſts, and ſonnes of men ſhall die,
And whilſt they live, how oft doth turn their State?
He's now a ſlave, that was a Prince of late.
What is't in wealth, great treaſures for to gain?
No, that's but labour anxious, care and pain.
He heaps up riches, and he heaps up ſorrow,
Its his to day, but who 's his heire to morrow?
What then? content in pleaſures canſt thou find?
More vain then all, that's but to graſp the wind.
The ſenſuall ſenſes for a time they pleaſe,
Mean while the conſcience rage, who ſhall appeaſe?
What is't in beauty? no, that's but a ſnare,
They'r foul enough to day, that once was fair,
What, Is't in flowring youth, or manly age?
The firſt is prone to vice, the laſt to rage.
Where is it then? in wiſdome, learning, arts?
Sure if on earth, it muſt be in thoſe parts;
Yet theſe, the wiſeſt man of men did find,
But vanity, vexation of the mind,
And he that knows the moſt doth ſtill bemoan,
He knows not all, that here is to be known,
What is it then? to do as Stoicks tell,
Nor laugh, nor weep, let things go ill or well▪
Such ſtoicks are but ſtocks, ſuch teaching vain:
While man is man, he ſhall have eaſe or pain.
If not in honour, beauty, age, nor treaſure,
Nor yet in learning, wiſdome, youth nor pleaſure?
Where ſhall I climbe, ſound, ſeek, ſearch or find,
That ſummum Bonum which may ſtay my mind?
There is a path, no vultures eye hath ſeen.
Where lions fierce, nor lions whelps hath been,
Which leads unto that living Chriſtall fount,
Who drinks thereof, the world doth naught account.
The depth, and ſea, hath ſaid its not in me,
With pearl and gold it ſhall not valued be:
For Saphyre, Onix, Topas, who will change,
Its hid from eyes of men, they count it ſtrange,
Death and deſtruction, the fame hath heard,
But where, and what it is, from heaven's declar'd,
It brings to honour, which ſhall not decay,
It ſteeres with wealth, which time cann't wear away.
It yeeldeth pleaſures, faire beyond conceit,
And truly beautifies without deceit.
Nor ſtrength nor wiſdome, nor freſh youth ſhall fade,
Nor death ſhall ſee, but are immortall made,
This pearl of price, this tree of life, this ſpring,
Who is poſſeſſed of, ſhall reign a King.
Nor change of ſtate, nor cares ſhall ever ſee,
But wear his Crown unto eternitie,
This ſatiat…s the ſoul, this ſtayes the mind,
The reſt's but vanity, and vain we find.
FINIS.
End of the text · Anne Bradstreet, The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America (1650)