« PreviousContinue »
Consumed with that which it was nour
ish'd by. Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor bound
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love
more strong, But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, To love that well which thou must leave How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
ere long. Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
CVII 0, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Of the wide world dreaming on things to Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time come, decays?
Can yet the lease of my true love control, O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured lie hid?
And the sad augurs mock their own presage; Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot Incertainties now crown themselves assured back?
And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ? Now with the drops of this most balmy time
0, ncne, unless this miracle have might, | My love looks fresh, and Death to me subThat in black ink my love may still shine scribes, bright.
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor
While he insults o'er dull and speechless Tired with all these, for restful death I
tribes : cry,
And thou in this shalt find thy monument, As, to behold desert a beggar born,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
Let me not to the marriage of true minds And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds, And strength by limping sway disabled,
Or bends with the remover to remove: And art made tongue-tied by authority,
0, no! it is an ever-fixed mark And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken; And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
It is the star to every wandering bark, And captive good attending captain ill:
Whose worth's unknown, although his height Tired with all these, from these would I be
be taken. gone,
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and
weeks, That time of year thou mayst in me behold
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do If this be error and upon me proved, hang
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. Upon those boughs which shake against the
cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet
Poor soul, the center of my
sinful earth, In me thou see'st the twilight of such day [Amidst] these rebel powers that thee array, As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Which by and by black night doth take Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? away,
Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, :That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end! As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
I laugh not at another's loss;
I grudge not at another's pain; No worldly waves my mind can toss;
My state at one doth still remain: I fear no foe, I fawn no friend; I loathe not life, nor dread my end.
Death, be not proud, though some have
called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost over
Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
Their wisdom by their rage of will;
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou
From Rest and Sleep, which but thy
picture be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more
must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do goRest of their bones and souls' delivery! Thou’rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and
desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness
dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as
well And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st
thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more: Death, thou
The Epode, or Stand
Not by the act ?
Above his fact?
And told forth fourscore years:
Troubled both foes and friends;
But ever to no ends: What did this stirrer but die late? How well at twenty had he fallen or stood! For three of his four score he did no good.
A PINDARIC ODE
The Strophe, or Turn
Got up, and thrived with honest arts,
then, And had his noble name advanced with men;
But weary of that flight,
He stooped in all men's sight
And sunk in that dead sea of life,
To the immortal memory and friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary
and Sir H. Morison
The Strophe, or Turn Brave infant of Saguntum, clear
Thy coming forth in that great year, When the prodigious Hannibal did crown His rage with razing your immortal town.
Thou looking then about,
Ere thou wert half got out, Wise child, didst hastily return,
And mad'st thy mother's womb thine urn. How summ'd a circle didst thou leave man
kind Of deepest lore, could we the center find!
The Antistrophe, or Counter-Turn Alas! but Morison fell young!
He never fell,—thou fall'st, my tongue. He stood a soldier to the last right end, A perfect patriot and a noble friend;
But most, a virtuous son.
All offices were done
In weight, in measure, number, sound,
The Antistrophe, or Counter-Turn Did wiser nature draw thee back,
From out the horror of that sack; Where shame, faith, honor, and regard of
right, Lay trampled on? the deeds of death and
l'pon the affrighted world; Fire, famine, and fell fury met,
And all on utmost ruin set: As, could they but life's miseries foresee, No doubt all infants would return like thee.
The Epode, or Stand Go now, and tell our days summed up with
And make them years;
To swell thine age;
To show thou hast been long,
In season, and so brought
Each syllable answered, and was formed, | Made, or indenture, or leased out l' advance how fair;
The profits for a time. These make the lines of life, and that's her No pleasures vain did chime, air!
Of rhymes, or riots, at your feasts,
Orgies of drink, or feigned protests; III
But simple love of greatness and of good, The Strophe, or Turn
That knits brave minds and manners more
than blood. It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make men better be;
The Antistrophe, or Counter-Turn Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
This made you first to know the why To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear: You liked, then after, to apply A lily of a day,
That liking; and approach so
one the Is fairer far, in May,
t'other, Although it fall and die that night; Till either grew a portion of the other; It was the plant and flower of light.
Each styled by his end,
The copy of his friend.
And titles by which all made claims
Unto the Virtue: nothing perfect done,
But as a Cary or a Morison.
The Epode, or Stand
As they that saw
The good and durst not practice it, were glad Possest with holy rage,
That such a law To see that bright eternal day;
Was left yet to mankind; Of which we priests and poets say
Where they might read and find Such truths as we expect for happy men; Friendship, indeed, was written not in And there he lives with memory and Ben
And with the heart, not pen,
Of two so early men,
Whose lines her rolls were, and records ; Jonson, who sung this of him, ere he went,
Who, ere the first down bloomèd on the Himself, to rest,
chin, Or taste a part of that full joy he meant
Had sowed these fruits, and got the harTo have exprest,
vest in. In this bright asterism ;
Where it were friendship's schism, Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon, Whilst tbat in heaven, this light on earth
My scrip of joy, immortal diet, must shine,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gagé;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body's balmer;
No other balm will there be given; Two names of friendship, but one star: Whilst my soul, like a quiet palmer, Of hearts the union, and those not by Traveleth towards the lands of heaven, chance
Over the silver mountains,
THE LAST PAGES OF "THE HISTORY OF THE
Where spring the nectar fountains.
There will I kiss
The bowl of bliss; And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before; But, after, it will thirst no more.
Then by that happy blissful day
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk apparelled fresh like me.
I'll take them first,
To quench their thirst And taste of nectar suckets,
At those clear wells
Where sweetness dwells, Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
And when our bottles and all we Are filled with immortality, Then the blessèd paths we'll travel, Strowed with rubies thick as gravel; Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.
From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall, Where no corrupted voices brawl; No conscience molten into gold; No forged accuser bought or sold; No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, For there Christ is the King's Attorney, Who pleads for all, without degrees, And he hath angels but no fees.
And when the grand twelve million jury Of our sins, with direful fury, Against our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads his death; and then we live.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH For the rest, if we seek a reason of the succession and continuance of this boundless ambition in mortal men, we may add to that which hath been already said, that the kings and princes of the world have always laid before them the actions, but not the ends, of those great ones which preceded them. They are always transported with the glory of the one, but they never mind the misery of the other, till they find the experience in themselves. They neglect the advice of God, while they enjoy life, or hope it; but they follow the counsel of Death upon his first approach. It is he that puts into man all the wisdom of the world, without speaking a word, which God, with all the words of his law, promises, or threats, doth not infuse. Death, which hateth and destroyeth man, is believed; God, which hath made him and loves him, is always deferred; I have considered, saith Solomon, all the works that are under the sun, and, behold, all is vanity and veration of spirit; but who believes it, till Death tells it us? It was Death, which opening the conscience of Charles the Fifth, made him enjoin his son Philip to restore Navarre; and king Francis the First of France, to command that justice should be done upon the murderers of the protestants in Merindol and Cabrieres, which till then he neglected. It is therefore Death alone that can suddenly make man to know himself. He tells the proud and insolent, that they are but abjects, and humbles them at the instant, makes them cry, complain, and repent, yea, even to hate their forepast happiness. He takes the account of the rich, and proves him a beggar, a naked beggar, which hath interest in nothing but in the gravel that fills his mouth. He holds a glass before the eyes of the most beautiful, and makes them see therein their deformity and rottenness, and they acknowledge it. -O eloquent, just, and mighty Death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised; thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hic jacet !
Be Thou my speaker, taintless Pleader! Unblotted Lawyer! true Proceeder! Thou giv'st salvation, even for alms, Not with a bribèd lawyer's palms.
And this is mine eternal plea To Him that made heaven and earth and
sea: That, since my flesh must die so soon, And want a head to dine next noon, Just at the stroke, when my veins start and
spread, Set on my soul an everlasting head!
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,