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MARVELL-A.D. 1620-1678.

Where the remote Bermudas ride,
In the ocean's bosom unespied;
From a small boat, that row'd along,
The list'ning winds receiv'd this song.

What should we do but sing his praise,
That led us thro' the wat’ry maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs.
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage.
He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing;
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits thro' the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night.
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.
He makes the figs our mouths to meet ;
And throws the melons at our feet.
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars, chosen by his hand,
From Lebanon, he stores the land.
And makes the hollow seas, that roar,
Proclaim the ambergrease on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The gospel's pearl upon our coast.
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple, where to sound his name.
Oh! let our voice his praise exalt,
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault:
Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may,
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay.

Thus sung they, in the English boat,
An holy and a cheerful note ;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

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 shew 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 lye
Desarts 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 lust.
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 am'rous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chap'd pow'r. 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.

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 pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges” side Should'st 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.


The wanton troopers riding by,
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive
Who kill'd thee. Thou ne'er didst alive
Them any harm: alas! nor cou'd
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wish'd them ill;
Nor do I for all this; nor will:
But, if my simple pray’rs may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But, O my fears!
It cannot die so. Heaven's King
Keeps register of every thing:

And nothing may we use in vain,

Among the beds of lilies I Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain ;

Have sought it oft, where it should lye ; Else men are made their deodands.

Yet could not, till itself would rise, Though they should wash their guilty hands Find it, although before mine eyes; In this warm life-blood, which doth part

For, in the flaxen lilies' shade, From thine, and wound me to the heart,

It like a bank of lilies laid. Yet could they not be clean : their stain

Upon the roses it would feed, Is dy'd in such a purple grain.

Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed ; There is not such another in

And then to me 'twould boldly trip, The world to offer for their sin.

And print those roses on my lip. Inconstant Sylvio, when yet

But all its chief delight was still I had not found him counterfeit,

On roses thus itself to fill; One morning (I remember well)

And its pure virgin limbs to fold Ty'd in this silver chain and bell,

In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Gave it to me: nay, and I know

Had it lived long, it would have been What he said then- I'm sure I do.

Lilies without, roses within. Said he, · Look how your huntsman here

O help! O help! I see it faint, • Hath taught a Fawn to hunt his Dear.'

And dye as calmly as a saint. But Sylvio soon had me beguild:

See how it weeps ! the tears do come, This waxed tame, while he grew wild,

Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. And quite regardless of my smart,

So weeps the wounded balsam; so Left me his Fawn, but took his Heart.

The holy frankincense doth flow. Thenceforth I set myself to play

The brotherless Heliades My solitary time away,

Melt in such amber tears as these, With this : and, very well content,

I in a golden vial will Could so mine idle life have spent.

Keep these two crystal tears; and fill For it was full of sport, and light

It, till it do o'erflow with mine; Of foot and heart, and did invite

Then place it in Diana's shrine. Me to its game : it seem'd to bless

Now my sweet Fawn is vanish'd to Itself in me. How could I less

Whither the swans and turtles go ; Than love it? O I cannot be

In fair Elizium to endure, Unkind t'a beast that loveth me.

With milk-white lambs, and ermins pure. Had it liv'd long, I do not know

O do not run too fast: for I Whether it too might have done so

Will but bespeak thy grave, and dye. As Sylvio did : his gifts might be

First my unhappy statue shall Perhaps as false, or more, than he.

Be cut in marble ; and withal, For I am sure, for aught that I

Let it be weeping too ; but there Could in so short a time espy,

Th'engraver sure his art may spare, Thy love was far more better than

For I so truly thee bemoan, The love of false and cruel man.

That I shall weep though I be stone; With sweetest milk, and sugar, first

Until my tears, still drooping, wear I it at mine own fingers nursed ;

My breast, themselves engraving there. And as it grew, so every day

There at my feet shalt thou be laid, It wax'd more white and sweet than they.

Of purest alabaster made; It had so sweet a breath! And oft

For I would have thine image be
I blush'd to see its foot more soft,

White as I can, though not as thee.
And white, shall I say than my hand ?
Nay, any lady's of the land.

THE DROP OF DEW. It is a wondrous thing how fleet 'Twas on those little silver feet.

See how the orient dew With what a pretty skipping grace

Shed from the bosom of the morn, It oft would challenge me the race;

Into the blowing roses, And when 't had left me far away,

Yet careless of its mansion new, 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay.

For the clear region where 'twas born, For it was nimbler much than hinds;

Round in itself incloses : And trod, as if on the four winds.

And in its little globe's extent, I have a garden of my own,

Frames, as it can, its native element. But so with roses overgrown,

How it the purple flow'r does slight, And lilies, that you would it guess

Scarce touching where it lys ; To be a little wilderness,

But gazing back upon the skys, And all the spring-time of the year

Shines with a mournful light, It only loved to be there.

Like its own tear,


Because so long divided from the sphere,

What wondrous life in this I lead! Restless it rolls, and unsecure,

Ripe apples drop about my head. Trembling, lest it grows impure ;

The luscious clusters of the vine Till the warm sun pitys its pain,

Upon my mouth do crush their wine. And to the skys exhales it back again.

The nectarine, the curious peach, So the soul, that drop, that ray,

Into my hands themselves do reach. Of the clear fountain of eternal day,

Stumbling on melons, as I

pass, Could it within the human flow'r be seen,

Insnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass. Rememb’ring still its former height,

Mean while the mind, from pleasure less, Shuns the sweet leaves, and blossoms green; Withdraws into its happyness ; And, recollecting its own light,

The mind, that ocean where each kind Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express Does straight its own resemblance find; The greater heaven in an heaven less..

Yet it creates, transcending these, In how coy a figure wound,

Far other worlds, and other seas; Every way it turns away :

Annihilating all that’s made So the world excluding round,

To a green thought in a green shade. Yet receiving in the day.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Dark beneath, but bright above ;

Or at some fruit tree's mossy root, Here disdaining, there in love.

Casting the body's vest aside, How loose and easy hence to go ;

My soul into the boughs does glide : How girt and ready to ascend :

There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Moving, but on a point below,

Then whets, and claps its silver wings; It all about does upwards bend.

And, till prepar'd for longer flight, Such did the manna's sacred dew distil,

Waves in its plumes the various light. White and entire, although congeal'd and chill; Such was that happy garden-state, Congeald on earth ; but does, dissolving, run While man there walk'd without a mate : Into the glorys of th'almighty sun.

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 :
How rainly men themselves amaze,

Two Paradises are in one, To win the palm, the oak, or bays;

To live in Paradise alone. And their incessant labours see

How well the skilful gard'ner drew Crown'd from some single herb, or tree,

Of flow'rs, and herbs, this dial new : Whose short and narrow verged shade

Where, from above, the milder sun Des prudently their toils upbraid ;

Does through a fragrant zodiac run : While all the flow'rs, and trees do close,

And, as it works, th’industrious bee To weave the garlands of Repose.

Computes his time as well as we. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,

How could such sweet and wholesome hours And Innocence, thy sister dear!

Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs. Mistaken long, I sought you then la busy companys of men.

Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.

Clora, come view my soul, and tell
Society is all but rude

Whether I have contriv'd it well. To this delicious solitude.

How all its several lodgings lye, No white, nor red was ever seen

Composed into one gallery; So am'rous as this lovely green.

And the great arras-hangings, made Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,

Of various faces, by are laid ; Cut in these trees their mistress' name.

That, for all furniture, you'll find Little, alas, they know or heed,

Only your picture in my mind. How far these beautys her exceed !

Here thou art painted in the dress Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound,

Of an inhumane murtheress; No name shall but your own be found.

Examining upon our hearts, When we have run our passion's heat,

Thy fertile shop of cruel arts : Love hither makes his best retreat.

Engines more keen than ever yet The Gods, who mortal beauty chase,

Adorn'd a tyrant's cabinet ; Sull in a tree did end their race.

Of which the most tormenting are, Apollo hunted Daphne so,

Black eyes, red lips, and curled hair, Only that she might laurel grow :

But, on the other side, th' art drawn, And Pan did after Syrinx speed,

Like to Aurora in the dawn; Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

When in the east she slumb'ring lyes,

And stretches out her milky thighs ;

The feet of breathless travellers. While all the morning quire does sing,

See then how courteous it ascends, And manna falls, and roses spring ;

And all the way it rises, bends ; And, at thy feet, the wooing doves

Nor for itself the height does gain, Sit perfecting their harmless loves.

But only strives to raise the plain. Like an enchantress here thou show'st,

Yet, thus it all the field commands, Vexing thy restless lover's ghost;

And in unenvy'd greatness stands, And, by a light obscure, dost rave

Discerning farther than the cliff Over his entrails, in the cave;

Of heaven-daring Teneriff. Divining thence, with horrid care,

How glad the weary seamen hast, How long thou shalt continue fair;

When they salute it from the mast! And (when inform’d) them throw'st away,

By night, the northern star their way To be the greedy vulture's prey.

Directs, and this no less by day. But, against that, thou sitt'st afloat,

Upon its crest, this mountain grave, Like Venus in her pearly boat ;

A plume of aged trees does wave. The halcyons, calming all that's nigh,

No hostile hand does e'er invade, Betwixt the air and water fly.

With impious steel, the sacred shade, Or, if some rowling wave appears,

For something always did appear A mass of ambergrease it bears.

Of the great Master's terror there ; Nor blows more wind than what may well

And men could hear his armour still Convoy the perfume to the smell.

Rattling through all the grove and hill. These pictures, and a thousand more,

Fear of the Master, and respect Of thee, my gallery do store,

Of the great nymph, did it protect ; In all the forms thou canst invent,

Vera, the nymph, that him inspired, Either to please me, or torment:

To whom he often here retired, For thou alone, to people me,

And on these oaks engraved her name : Art grown a num'rous colony;

Such wounds alone these woods became. And a collection choicer far

But e'er he well the barks could part, Than or Whitehall's, or Mantua's were.

'Twas writ already in their heart : But of these pictures, and the rest,

For they, 'tis credible, have sense, That at the entrance likes me best,

As we, of love and reverence, Where the same posture, and the look

And underneath the coarser rind, Remains, with which I first was took ;

The Genius of the house do bind. A tender shepherdess, whose hair

Hence they successes seem to know, Hangs loosely playing in the air,

And in their Lord's advancement grow ; Transplanting flow'rs from the green hill,

But in no memory were seen,
To crown her head, and bosom fill.

As under this, so straight and green.
Yet now no farther strive to shoot,

Contented, if they fix their root :
UPON THE HILL AND GROVE AT Nor to the wind's uncertain gust

Their prudent heads too far intrust.
Only sometimes a flutt'ring breeze

Discourses with the breathing trees;
See how the arched earth does here

Which, in their modest whispers name Rise in a perfect hemisphere !

Those acts which swell'd the cheeks of Fame. The stiffest compass could not strike

Much other groves, say they, than these, A line more circular and like ;

And other hills, him once did please. Nor softest pencil draw a brow

Through groves of pikes he thunder'd then, So equal as this hill does bow.

And mountains raised of dying men. It seems as for a model laid,

For all the civic garlands due And that the world by it was made.

To him, our branches are but few, Here learn, ye mountains more unjust,

Nor are our trunks enough to bear Which to abrupter greatness thrust,

The trophies of one fertile year. Which do, with your hook-shoulder'd height, 'Tis true, ye trees, nor ever spoke The earth deform, and heaven fright,

More certain oracles in oak. For whose excressence, ill design'd,

But peace (if you his favour prize) Nature must a new centre find;

That courage its own praises flies. Learn here those humble steps to tread,

Therefore to your obscurer seats, Which to securer glory lead.

From his own brightness, he retreats : See what a soft access, and wide,

Nor he the hills, without the groves, Lies open to its grassy side ;

Nor height, but with retirement, loves. Nor with the rugged path deters




That Charles himself might chase HORATIAN ODE, UPON CROMWELL'S

To Carisbrook's narrow case; RETURN FROM IRELAND.

That thence the royal actor borne, The forward youth that would appear,

The tragic scaffold might adorn. Must now forsake his Muses dear ;

While round the armed bands Nor in the shadows sing

Did clap their bloody hands, His numbers languishing.

He nothing common did or mean "Tis time to leave the books in dust,

Upon that memorable scene, And oil the unused armour's rust;

But with his keener eye Removing from the wall

The axe's edge did try : The corslet of the hall.

Nor called the Gods, with vulgar spite, So restless Cromwell could not cease

To vindicate his helpless right; In the inglorious arts of peace,

But bowed his comely head But through adventurous war

Down, as upon a bed. Urged his active star;

This was that memorable hour, And like the three-fork'd lightning, first,

Which first assured the forced power ; Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,

So when they did design Did thorough his own side

The Capitol's first line, His fiery way divide :

A bleeding head, where they begun, For 'tis all one to courage high,

Did fright the architects to run; The emulous, or enemy ;

And yet in that the State And, with such, to enclose

Foresaw its happy fate. Is more than to oppose.

And now the Irish are ashamed Then burning through the air he went,

To see themselves in one year tamed ; And palaces and temples rent;

So much one man can do, And Cæsar's head at last

That does both act and know. Did through his laurels blast.

They can affirm his praises best, 'Tis madness to resist or blame

And have, though overcome, confest The face of angry heaven's flame;

How good he is, how just, And, if we would speak true,

And fit for highest trust : Much to the man is due,

Nor yet grown stiffer by command, Who from his private gardens, where

But still in the Republic's hand, He lived reserved and austere,

How fit he is to sway (As if his highest plot

That can so well obey. To plant the bergamot),

He to the Commons' feet presents

A kingdom for his first year's rents ; Could by industrious valour climb

And, what he may, forbears
To ruin the great work of time,

His fame to make it theirs ;
And cast the kingdoms old
Into another mould !

And has his sword and spoils ungirt,

To lay them at the Public's skirt. Though justice against fate complain,

So when the falcon high
And plead the ancient rights in vain-

Falls heavy from the sky,
But those do hold or break,
As men are strong or weak.

She, having killed, no more does search

But on the next green bough to perch; Nature, that hateth emptiness,

Where, when he first does lure, Allows of penetration less,

The falconer has her sure. And therefore must make room

What may not then our isle presume, Where greater spirits come.

While victory his crest does plume? What field of all the civil war,

What may not others fear, Where his were not the deepest scar?"

If thus he crowns each year? And Hampton shews what part

As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul; He had of wiser art :

To Italy an Hannibal ; Where, twining subtle fears with hope,

And to all States not free He wove a net of such a scope,

Shall climacteric be.

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