Oh let our voice His praise exalt Till it shall reach to Heaven's vault, Which thence, perhaps, rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique bay!
Thus sung they in the English boat, A holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime With falling oars they kept the time.
How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak or bays; And their incessant labors see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow vergèd shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close, To weave the garland 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 her exceed! Fair trees! where'er your backs I wound, No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, who 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 seed.
What wondrous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine, the curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers I fall on grass.
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 claps its silver wings; And, still prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walked without a mate; After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there; Two Paradises are in one, To live in Paradise alone!
How well the skillful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new: Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant Zodiac run: And as it works the industrious bee Computes his time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours, Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers?
Wicked person! I was over charitable in forgiving his conceits. It is not in woman to pardon his want of gallantry. One can only suppose that the unhappy man was an old bachelor. If the last stanza but one be provoking to female vanity, the last of all excites another feminine quality, called curiosity. What
Is there really nothing new under the sun? And had they in the middle of the seventeenth century discovered the horologe of Flora?
THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN.
The wanton troopers riding by
Have shot my fawn and it will die. Ungentle men! they can not thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive Them any harm. Alas! nor could Thy death to them do any good. I'm sure I never wished them ill; Nor do I for all this; nor will: But if my simple prayer may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But oh, my fears! It can not die so. Heaven's King Keeps register of every thing, And nothing may we use in vain: Even beasts must be with justice slain.
Inconstant Silvio, when yet
I had not found him counterfeit, One morning, (I remember well) Tied in this silver chain and bell, Gave it to me: nay, and I know What he said then: I'm sure I do. Said he, "Look how your huntsmen here Hath brought a fawn to hunt his deer."
But Silvio soon had me beguiled. This waxed tame, while he grew wild,
And, quite regardless of my smart, Left me his fawn but took his heart. Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away
With this, and very well content Could so my idle life have spent; For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart; and did invite Me to its game; it seemed to bless Itself in me. How could I less Than love it? Oh! I can not be Unkind to a beast that loveth me. Had it 'ived long, I do not know Whether it too might have done so
I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness,
And all the spring-time of the year It only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft where it should lie, Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For in the flaxen lilies' shade It like a bank of lilies laid; Upon the roses it would feed, Until its lips e'en seemèd to bleed; And then to me 'twould boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.
Nothing can exceed the grace, the delicate prettiness of this little poem. There is a trippingness in the measure, now stop
ping short, now bounding on, which could not have been exceeded by the playful motions of the poor fawn itself. We must forgive his want of gallantry. It must have been all pretense. No true woman-hater could so have embodied a feeling peculiar to the sex, the innocent love of a young girl for her innocent pet.
I must find room for a few stanzas of Marvell's Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's return from Ireland. Fine as the praise of Cromwell is, it yields in grandeur and beauty to the tribute paid by the poet to the demeanor of the King upon the scaffold; by far the noblest of the many panegyrics upon the martyred King.
'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armor's rust;
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not cease, In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urgèd his active star:
And if we would speak true Much to the man is due,
Who from his private gardens, where He lived reservèd and austere, (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot,)
Could by industrious valor climb To win the great work of Time, And cast the kingdoms old Into another mold!
Though justice against fate complain And plead the ancient rights in vain, But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak.
Nature that hateth emptiness Allows of penetration less.
And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come.
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