Read Ebook: Poems of Henry Vaughan Silurist Volume II by Vaughan Henry Beeching H C Henry Charles Commentator Chambers E K Edmund Kerchever Editor

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Isca parens florum, placido qui spumeus ore Lambis lapillos aureos; Qui maestos hyacinthos, et picti tophi Mulces susurris humidis; Dumque novas pergunt menses consumere lunas Clumque mortales terit, Accumulas cum sole dies, aevumque per omne Fidelis induras latex; O quis inaccessos et quali murmure lucos Mutumque solaris nemus! Per te discerpti credo Thracis ire querelas Plectrumque divini senis.

VENERABILI VIRO PRAECEPTORI SUO OLIM ET SEMPER COLENDISSIMO MAGISTRO MATHAEO HERBERT.

Quod vixi, Mathaee, dedit pater, haec tamen olim Vita fluat, nec erit fas meminisse datam. Ultra curasti solers, perituraque mecum Nomina post cineres das resonare meos. Divide discipulum: brevis haec et lubrica nostri Pars vertat patri, posthuma vita tibi.

PRAESTANTISSIMO VIRO THOMAE PO?LLO IN SUUM DE ELEMENTIS OPTICAE LIBELLUM.

Vivaces oculorum ignes et lumina dia Fixit in angusto maximus orbe Deus; Ille explorantes radios dedit, et vaga lustra In quibus intuitus lexque, modusque latent. Hos tacitos jactus, lususque, volubilis orbis Pingis in exiguo, magne Po?lle, libro, Excursusque situsque ut Lynceus opticus, edis, Quotque modis fallunt, quotque adhibenda fides. AEmula Naturae manus! et mens conscia cli. Ilia videre dedit, vestra videre docet.

FOOTNOTES:

AD ECHUM.

O quae frondosae per amna cubilia silvae Nympha volas, lucoque loquax spatiaris in alto, Annosi numen nemoris, saltusque verendi Effatum, cui sola placent postrema relatus! Te per Narcissi morientis verba, precesque Per pueri lassatam animam, et conamina vitae Ultima, palantisque precor suspiria linguae. Da quo secretae haec incaedua devia silvae, Anfractusque loci dubios, et lustra repandam. Sic tibi perpetua--meritoque--haec regna juventa Luxurient, dabiturque tuis, sine fine, viretis Intactas lunae lachrymas, et lambere rorem Virgineum, clique animas haurire tepentis. Nec cedant aevo stellis, sed lucida semper Et satiata sacro aeterni medicamine veris Ostendant longe vegetos, ut sidera, vultus! Sic spiret muscata comas, et cinnama passim! Diffundat levis umbra, in funere qualia spargit Phnicis rogus aut Pancheae nubila flammae!

THALIA REDIVIVA.

TO THE MOST HONOURABLE AND TRULY NOBLE HENRY, LORD MARQUIS AND EARL OF WORCESTER, &c.

My Lord,

Though dedications are now become a kind of tyranny over the peace and repose of great men; yet I have confidence I shall so manage the present address as to entertain your lordship without much disturbance; and because my purposes are governed by deep respect and veneration, I hope to find your Lordship more facile and accessible. And I am already absolved from a great part of that fulsome and designing guilt, being sufficiently removed from the causes of it: for I consider, my Lord, that you are already so well known to the world in your several characters and advantages of honour--it was yours by traduction, and the adjunct of your nativity; you were swaddled and rocked in't, bred up and grew in't, to your now wonderful height and eminence--that for me under pretence of the inscription, to give you the heraldry of your family, or to carry your person through the famed topics of mind, body, or estate, were all one as to persuade the world that fire and light were very bright bodies, or that the luminaries themselves had glory. In point of protection I beg to fall in with the common wont, and to be satisfied by the reasonableness of the thing, and abundant worthy precedents; and although I should have secret prophecy and assurance that the ensuing verse would live eternally, yet would I, as I now do, humbly crave it might be fortified with your patronage; for so the sextile aspects and influences are watched for, and applied to the actions of life, thereby to make the scheme and good auguries of the birth pass into Fate, and a success infallible.

My Lord, by a happy obliging intercession, and your own consequent indulgence, I have now recourse to your Lordship, hoping I shall not much displease by putting these twin poets into your hands. The minion and vertical planet of the Roman lustre and bravery, was never better pleased than when he had a whole constellation about him: not his finishing five several wars to the promoting of his own interest, nor particularly the prodigious success at Actium where he held in chase the wealth, beauty and prowess of the East; not the triumphs and absolute dominions which followed: all this gave him not half that serene pride and satisfaction of spirit as when he retired himself to umpire the different excellencies of his insipid friends, and to distribute laurels among his poetic heroes. If now upon the authority of this and several such examples, I had the ability and opportunity of drawing the value and strange worth of a poet, and withal of applying some of the lineaments to the following pieces, I should then do myself a real service, and atone in a great measure for the present insolence. But best of all will it serve my defence and interest, to appeal to your Lordship's own conceptions and image of genuine verse; with which so just, so regular original, if these copies shall hold proportion and resemblance, then am I advanced very far in your Lordship's pardon: the rest will entirely be supplied me by your Lordship's goodness, and my own awful zeal of being, my Lord,

Your Lordship's most obedient, most humbly devoted servant,

J. W.

TO THE READER.

The Nation of Poets above all Writers has ever challenged perpetuity of name, or as they please by their charter of liberty to call it, Immortality. Nor has the World much disputed their claim, either easily resigning a patrimony in itself not very substantial; or, it may be, out of despair to control the authority of inspiration and oracle. Howsoever the price as now quarrelled for among the poets themselves is no such rich bargain: it is only a vanishing interest in the lees and dregs of Time, in the rear of those Fathers and Worthies in the art, who if they know anything of the heats and fury of their successors, must extremely pity them.

I am to assure, that the Author has no portion of that airy happiness to lose, by any injury or unkindness which may be done to his Verse: his reputation is better built in the sentiment of several judicious persons, who know him very well able to give himself a lasting monument, by undertaking any argument of note in the whole circle of learning.

But even these his Diversions have been valuable with the matchless Orinda; and since they deserved her esteem and commendations, who so thinks them not worth the publishing, will put himself in the opposite scale, where his own arrogance will blow him up.

TO MR. HENRY VAUGHAN THE SILURIST: UPON THESE AND HIS FORMER POEMS.

Had I ador'd the multitude, and thence Got an antipathy to wit and sense, And hugg'd that fate, in hope the world would grant 'Twas good affection to be ignorant; Yet the least ray of thy bright fancy seen, I had converted, or excuseless been. For each birth of thy Muse to after-times Shall expiate for all this Age's crimes. First shines thy Amoret, twice crown'd by thee, Once by thy love, next by thy poetry; Where thou the best of unions dost dispense, Truth cloth'd in wit, and Love in innocence; So that the muddy lover may learn here, No fountains can be sweet that are not clear. There Juvenal, by thee reviv'd, declares How flat man's joys are, and how mean his cares; And wisely doth upbraid the world, that they Should such a value for their ruin pay. But when thy sacred Muse diverts her quil The landscape to design of Sion's hill, As nothing else was worthy her, or thee, So we admire almost t' idolatry. What savage breast would not be rapt to find Such jewels in such cabinets enshrin'd? Thou fill'd with joys--too great to see or count-- Descend'st from thence, like Moses from the Mount, And with a candid, yet unquestion'd awe Restor'st the Golden Age, when Verse was Law. Instructing us, thou so secur'st thy fame, That nothing can disturb it but my name: Nay, I have hopes that standing so near thine 'Twill lose its dross, and by degrees refine. Live! till the disabus?d world consent All truths of use, of strength or ornament, Are with such harmony by thee display'd As the whole world was first by number made, And from the charming rigour thy Muse brings Learn, there's no pleasure but in serious things!

Orinda.

FOOTNOTES:

UPON THE INGENIOUS POEMS OF HIS LEARNED FRIEND, MR. HENRY VAUGHAN, THE SILURIST.

Fairly design'd! to charm our civil rage With verse, and plant bays in an iron age! But hath steel'd Mars so ductible a soul, That love and poesy may it control? Yes! brave Tyrtaeus, as we read of old, The Grecian armies as he pleas'd could mould; They march'd to his high numbers, and did fight With that instinct and rage, which he did write. When he fell lower, they would straight retreat, Grow soft and calm, and temper their bold heat. Such magic is in Virtue! See here a young Tyrtaeus too, whose sweet persuasive song Can lead our spirits any way, and move To all adventures, either war or love. Then veil the bright Etesia, that choice she, Lest Mars--Timander's friend--his rival be. So fair a nymph, dress'd by a Muse so neat, Might warm the North, and thaw the frozen Gete.

Tho. Powell, D.D.

Where reverend bards of old have sate And sung the pleasant interludes of Fate, Thou takest the hereditary shade Which Nature's homely art had made, And thence thou giv'st thy Muse her swing, and she Advances to the galaxy; There with the sparkling Cowley she above Does hand in hand in graceful measures move. We grovelling mortals gaze below, And long in vain to know Her wondrous paths, her wondrous flight: In vain, alas! we grope, In vain we use our earthly telescope, We're blinded by an intermedial night. Thine eagle-Muse can only face The fiery coursers in their race, While with unequal paces we do try To bear her train aloft, and keep her company.

The loud harmonious Mantuan Once charm'd the world; and here's the Uscan swan In his declining years does chime, And challenges the last remains of Time. Ages run on, and soon give o'er, They have their graves as well as we; Time swallows all that's past and more, Yet time is swallow'd in eternity: This is the only profits poets see. There thy triumphant Muse shall ride in state And lead in chains devouring Fate; Claudian's bright Phnix she shall bring Thee an immortal offering; Nor shall my humble tributary Muse Her homage and attendance too refuse; She thrusts herself among the crowd, And joining in th' applause she strives to clap aloud

Tell me no more that Nature is severe, Thou great philosopher! Lo! she has laid her vast exchequer here. Tell me no more that she has sent So much already, she is spent; Here is a vast America behind Which none but the great Silurist could find. Nature her last edition was the best, As big, as rich as all the rest: So will we here admit Another world of wit. No rude or savage fancy here shall stay The travelling reader in his way, But every coast is clear: go where he will, Virtue's the road Thalia leads him still. Long may she live, and wreath thy sacred head For this her happy resurrection from the dead.

N. W., Jes. Coll., Oxon.

FOOTNOTES:

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MR. HENRY VAUGHAN THE SILURIST.

See what thou wert! by what Platonic round Art thou in thy first youth and glories found? Or from thy Muse does this retrieve accrue? Does she which once inspir'd thee, now renew, Bringing thee back those golden years which Time Smooth'd to thy lays, and polish'd with thy rhyme? Nor is't to thee alone she does convey Such happy change, but bountiful as day, On whatsoever reader she does shine, She makes him like thee, and for ever thine.

And first thy manual op'ning gives to see Eclipse and suff'rings burnish majesty, Where thou so artfully the draught hast made That we best read the lustre in the shade, And find our sov'reign greater in that shroud: So lightning dazzles from its night and cloud, So the First Light Himself has for His throne Blackness, and darkness his pavilion.

Nor does thy other softer magic move Us less thy fam'd Etesia to love; Where such a character thou giv'st, that shame Nor envy dare approach the vestal dame: So at bright prime ideas none repine, They safely in th' eternal poet shine.

Gladly th' Assyrian phnix now resumes From thee this last reprisal of his plumes; He seems another more miraculous thing, Brighter of crest, and stronger of his wing, Proof against Fate in spicy urns to come, Immortal past all risk of martyrdom.

Nor be concern'd, nor fancy thou art rude T' adventure from thy Cambrian solitude: Best from those lofty cliffs thy Muse does spring Upwards, and boldly spreads her cherub wing.

So when the sage of Memphis would converse With boding skies, and th' azure universe, He climbs his starry pyramid, and thence Freely sucks clean prophetic influence, And all serene, and rapt and gay he pries Through the ethereal volume's mysteries, Loth to come down, or ever to know more The Nile's luxurious, but dull foggy shore.

CHOICE POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

TO HIS LEARNED FRIEND AND LOYAL FELLOW-PRISONER, THOMAS POWEL OF CANT, DOCTOR OF DIVINITY.

THE KING DISGUISED.

A king and no king! Is he gone from us, And stoln alive into his coffin thus? This was to ravish death, and so prevent The rebels' treason and their punishment. He would not have them damn'd, and therefore he Himself depos?d his own majesty. Wolves did pursue him, and to fly the ill He wanders--royal saint!--in sheepskin still. Poor, obscure shelter, if that shelter be Obscure, which harbours so much majesty. Hence, profane eyes! the mystery's so deep, Like Esdras books, the vulgar must not see't. Thou flying roll, written with tears and woe, Not for thy royal self, but for thy foe! Thy grief is prophecy, and doth portend, Like sad Ezekiel's sighs, the rebel's end. Thy robes forc'd off, like Samuel's when rent, Do figure out another's punishment. Nor grieve thou hast put off thyself awhile, To serve as prophet to this sinful isle; These are our days of Purim, which oppress The Church, and force thee to the wilderness. But all these clouds cannot thy light confine, The sun in storms and after them, will shine. Thy day of life cannot be yet complete, 'Tis early, sure, thy shadow is so great. But I am vex'd, that we at all can guess This change, and trust great Charles to such a dress. When he was first obscur'd with this coarse thing, He grac'd plebeians, but profan'd the king: Like some fair church, which zeal to charcoals burn'd, Or his own court now to an alehouse turn'd. But full as well may we blame night, and chide His wisdom, Who doth light with darkness hide, Or deny curtains to thy royal bed, As take this sacred cov'ring from thy head. Secrets of State are points we must not know; This vizard is thy privy-council now, Thou royal riddle, and in everything The true white prince, our hieroglyphic king! Ride safely in His shade, Who gives thee light, And can with blindness thy pursuers smite. O! may they wander all from thee as far As they from peace are, and thyself from war! And wheresoe'er thou dost design to be With thy--now spotted--spotless majesty, Be sure to look no sanctuary there, Nor hope for safety in a temple, where Buyers and sellers trade: O! strengthen not With too much trust the treason of a Scot!

THE EAGLE.

Tis madness sure; and I am in the fit, To dare an eagle with my unfledg'd wit. For what did ever Rome or Athens sing In all their lines, as lofty as his wing? He that an eagle's powers would rehearse Should with his plumes first feather all his verse. I know not, when into thee I would pry, Which to admire, thy wing first, or thine eye; Or whether Nature at thy birth design'd More of her fire for thee, or of her wind. When thou in the clear heights and upmost air Dost face the sun and his dispers?d hair, Ev'n from that distance thou the sea dost spy And sporting in its deep, wide lap, the fry. Not the least minnow there but thou canst see: Whole seas are narrow spectacles to thee. Nor is this element of water here Below of all thy miracles the sphere. If poets ought may add unto thy store, Thou hast in heav'n of wonders many more. For when just Jove to earth his thunder bends, And from that bright, eternal fortress sends His louder volleys, straight this bird doth fly To AEtna, where his magazine doth lie, And in his active talons brings him more Of ammunition, and recruits his store. Nor is't a low or easy lift. He soars 'Bove wind and fire; gets to the moon, and pores With scorn upon her duller face; for she Gives him but shadows and obscurity. Here much displeas'd, that anything like night Should meet him in his proud and lofty flight, That such dull tinctures should advance so far, And rival in the glories of a star, Resolv'd he is a nobler course to try, And measures out his voyage with his eye. Then with such fury he begins his flight, As if his wings contended with his sight. Leaving the moon, whose humble light doth trade With spots, and deals most in the dark and shade, To the day's royal planet he doth pass With daring eyes, and makes the sun his glass. Here doth he plume and dress himself, the beams Rushing upon him like so many streams; While with direct looks he doth entertain The thronging flames, and shoots them back again. And thus from star to star he doth repair, And wantons in that pure and peaceful air. Sometimes he frights the starry swan, and now Orion's fearful hare, and then the crow. Then with the orb itself he moves, to see Which is more swift, th' intelligence or he. Thus with his wings his body he hath brought Where man can travel only in a thought. I will not seek, rare bird, what spirit 'tis That mounts thee thus; I'll be content with this, To think that Nature made thee to express Our soul's bold heights in a material dress.

TO MR. M. L. UPON HIS REDUCTION OF THE PSALMS INTO METHOD.

Sir,

TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF C W ESQUIRE, WHO FINISHED HIS COURSE HERE, AND MADE HIS ENTRANCE INTO IMMORTALITY UPON THE 13 OF SEPTEMBER, IN THE YEAR OF REDEMPTION, 1653.

Saw not, Lysimachus, last day, when we Took the pure air in its simplicity, And our own too, how the trimm'd gallants went Cringing, and pass'd each step some compliment? What strange, fantastic diagrams they drew With legs and arms; the like we never knew In Euclid, Archimede, nor all of those Whose learn?d lines are neither verse nor prose? What store of lace was there? how did the gold Run in rich traces, but withal made bold To measure the proud things, and so deride The fops with that, which was part of their pride? How did they point at us, and boldly call, As if we had been vassals to them all, Their poor men-mules, sent thither by hard fate To yoke ourselves for their sedans, and state? Of all ambitions, this was not the least, Whose drift translated man into a beast. What blind discourse the heroes did afford! This lady was their friend, and such a lord. How much of blood was in it! one could tell He came from Bevis and his Arundel; Morglay was yet with him, and he could do More feats with it than his old grandsire too. Wonders my friend at this? what is't to thee, Who canst produce a nobler pedigree, And in mere truth affirm thy soul of kin To some bright star, or to a cherubin? When these in their profuse moods spend the night, With the same sins they drive away the light. Thy learn?d thrift puts her to use, while she Reveals her fiery volume unto thee; And looking on the separated skies, And their clear lamps, with careful thoughts and eyes, Thou break'st through Nature's upmost rooms and bars To heav'n, and there conversest with the stars. Well fare such harmless, happy nights, that be Obscur'd with nothing but their privacy, And missing but the false world's glories do Miss all those vices which attend them too! Fret not to hear their ill-got, ill-giv'n praise; Thy darkest nights outshine their brightest days.

Boast not, proud Golgotha, that thou canst show The ruins of mankind, and let us know How frail a thing is flesh! though we see there But empty skulls, the Rabbins still live here. They are not dead, but full of blood again; I mean the sense, and ev'ry line a vein. Triumph not o'er their dust; whoever looks In here, shall find their brains all in their books. Nor is't old Palestine alone survives; Athens lives here, more than in Plutarch's Lives. The stones, which sometimes danc'd unto the strain Of Orpheus, here do lodge his Muse again. And you, the Roman spirits, learning has Made your lives longer than your empire was. Caesar had perish'd from the world of men Had not his sword been rescu'd by his pen. Rare Seneca, how lasting is thy breath! Though Nero did, thou couldst not bleed to death. How dull the expert tyrant was, to look For that in thee which liv?d in thy book! Afflictions turn our blood to ink, and we Commence, when writing, our eternity. Lucilius here I can behold, and see His counsels and his life proceed from thee. But what care I to whom thy Letters be? I change the name, and thou dost write to me; And in this age, as sad almost as thine, Thy stately Consolations are mine. Poor earth! what though thy viler dust enrolls The frail enclosures of these mighty souls? Their graves are all upon record; not one But is as bright and open as the sun. And though some part of them obscurely fell, And perish'd in an unknown, private cell, Yet in their books they found a glorious way To live unto the Resurrection-day! Most noble Bodley! we are bound to thee For no small part of our eternity. Thy treasure was not spent on horse and hound, Nor that new mode which doth old states confound. Thy legacies another way did go: Nor were they left to those would spend them so. Thy safe, discreet expense on us did flow; Walsam is in the midst of Oxford now. Th' hast made us all thine heirs; whatever we Hereafter write, 'tis thy posterity. This is thy monument! here thou shalt stand Till the times fail in their last grain of sand. And wheresoe'er thy silent relics keep, This tomb will never let thine honour sleep, Still we shall think upon thee; all our fame Meets here to speak one letter of thy name. Thou canst not die! here thou art more than safe, Where every book is thy large epitaph.

THE IMPORTUNATE FORTUNE, WRITTEN TO DR. POWEL, OF CANTRE.

So from our cold, rude world, which all things tires, To his warm Indies the bright sun retires. Where, in those provinces of gold and spice, Perfumes his progress, pleasures fill his eyes, Which, so refresh'd, in their return convey Fire into rubies, into crystals, day; And prove, that light in kinder climates can Work more on senseless stones, than here on man. But you, like one ordain'd to shine, take in Both light and heat, can love and wisdom spin Into one thread, and with that firmly tie The same bright blessings on posterity: Which so entail'd, like jewels of the crown, Shall, with your name, descend still to your own. When I am dead, and malice or neglect The worst they can upon my dust reflect; --For poets yet have left no names, but such As men have envied or despis'd too much-- You above both--and what state more excels, Since a just fame like health, nor wants, nor swells?-- To after ages shall remain entire, And shine still spotless, like your planet's fire. No single lustre neither; the access Of your fair love will yours adorn and bless; Till, from that bright conjunction, men may view A constellation circling her and you. So two sweet rose-buds from their virgin-beds First peep and blush, then kiss and couple heads, Till yearly blessings so increase their store, Those two can number two-and-twenty more, And the fair bank--by Heav'n's free bounty crown'd-- With choice of sweets and beauties doth abound, Till Time, which families, like flowers, far spreads, Gives them for garlands to the best of heads. Then late posterity--if chance, or some Weak echo, almost quite expir'd and dumb, Shall tell them who the poet was, and how He liv'd and lov'd thee too, which thou dost know-- Straight to my grave will flowers and spices bring, With lights and hymns, and for an offering There vow this truth, that love--which in old times Was censur'd blind, and will contract worse crimes If hearts mend not--did for thy sake in me Find both his eyes, and all foretell and see.

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