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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.


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.

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 bue
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.


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,
Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain ;
Else men are made their deodands.
Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life-blood, which doth part
From thine, and wound me to the heart,
Yet could they not be clean: their stain
Is dy'd in such a purple grain.

There is not such another in
The world to offer for their sin.

Inconstant Sylvio, when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well)
Ty'd 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 huntsman here
'Hath taught a Fawn to hunt his Dear.'
But Sylvio soon had me beguil'd:
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 mine idle life have spent. For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game: it seem'd to bless Itself in me. How could I less Than love it? OI cannot be Unkind t'a beast that loveth me.

Had it liv'd long, I do not know Whether it too might have done so As Sylvio did his gifts might be Perhaps as false, or more, than he. For I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man.


With sweetest milk, and sugar, first I it at mine own fingers nursed And as it grew, so every day It wax'd more white and sweet than they. It had so sweet a breath! And oft

I blush'd to see its foot more soft,
And white, shall I say than my hand?
Nay, any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet.
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And when 't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay.
For it was nimbler much than hinds;
And trod, as if on the four winds.

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 lye;
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 ev'n seemed 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.

O help! O help! I see it faint, And dye as calmly as a saint. See how it weeps! the tears do come, Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. So weeps the wounded balsam; so The holy frankincense doth flow. The brotherless Heliades

Melt in such amber tears as these.
I in a golden vial will

Keep these two crystal tears; and fill
It, till it do o'erflow with mine;
Then place it in Diana's shrine.

Now my sweet Fawn is vanish'd to Whither the swans and turtles go; In fair Elizium to endure,

With milk-white lambs, and ermins pure.
O do not run too fast: for I
Will but bespeak thy grave, and dye.

First my unhappy statue shall
Be cut in marble; and withal,
Let it be weeping too; but there
Th' engraver sure his art may spare,
For I so truly thee bemoan,
That I shall weep though I be stone;
Until my tears, still drooping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there.
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made;
For I would have thine image be
White as I can, though not as thee.


See how the orient dew

Shed from the bosom of the morn,

Into the blowing roses,

Yet careless of its mansion new,

For the clear region where 'twas born, Round in itself incloses :

And in its little globe's extent, Frames, as it can, its native element. How it the purple flow'r does slight,

Scarce touching where it lys;
But gazing back upon the skys,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,

Because so long divided from the sphere,
Restless it rolls, and unsecure,

Trembling, lest it grows impure ;
Till the warm sun pitys its pain,
And to the skys exhales it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray,
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within the human flow'r be seen,

Rememb'ring still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves, and blossoms green;
And, recollecting its own light,
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater heaven in an heaven less..

In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away :
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day.

Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go;
How girt and ready to ascend :
Moving, but on a point below,

It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil,

White and entire, although congeal'd and chill;
Congeal'd on earth; but does, dissolving, run
Into the glorys of th' almighty sun.


How vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays;
And their incessant labours see
Crown'd from some single herb, or tree,
Whose short and narrow verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flow'rs, and trees do close,
To weave the garlands of Repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companys 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 am'rous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cat in these trees their mistress' name.
Little, alas, they know or heed,
How far these beautys her exceed!
Fair trees! where'er your barks 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 reed.

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,
Insnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass.

Mean while the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happyness;

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, till prepar'd for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walk'd 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 skilful gard'ner drew
Of flow'rs, and herbs, this dial new :
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run :
And, as it works, th' industrious bee
Computes his time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs.


Clora, come view my soul, and tell
Whether I have contriv'd it well.
How all its several lodgings lye,
Composed into one gallery;
And the great arras-hangings, made
Of various faces, by are laid;
That, for all furniture, you'll find
Only your picture in my mind.
Here thou art painted in the dress
Of an inhumane murtheress;
Examining upon our hearts,
Thy fertile shop of cruel arts:
Engines more keen than ever yet
Adorn'd a tyrant's cabinet;
Of which the most tormenting are,
Black eyes, red lips, and curled hair,
But, on the other side, th' art drawn,
Like to Aurora in the dawn;
When in the east she slumb'ring lyes,

And stretches out her milky thighs;
While all the morning quire does sing,
And manna falls, and roses spring;
And, at thy feet, the wooing doves
Sit perfecting their harmless loves.
Like an enchantress here thou show'st,
Vexing thy restless lover's ghost;
And, by a light obscure, dost rave
Over his entrails, in the cave;
Divining thence, with horrid care,
How long thou shalt continue fair;
And (when inform'd) them throw'st away,
To be the greedy vulture's prey.
But, against that, thou sitt'st afloat,
Like Venus in her pearly boat;
The halcyons, calming all that's nigh,
Betwixt the air and water fly.
Or, if some rowling wave appears,
A mass of ambergrease it bears.

Nor blows more wind than what may well
Convoy the perfume to the smell.
These pictures, and a thousand more,
Of thee, my gallery do store,
In all the forms thou canst invent,
Either to please me, or torment:
For thou alone, to people me,
Art grown a num'rous colony;
And a collection choicer far

Than or Whitehall's, or Mantua's were.
But of these pictures, and the rest,
That at the entrance likes me best,
Where the same posture, and the look
Remains, with which I first was took ;
A tender shepherdess, whose hair
Hangs loosely playing in the air,
Transplanting flow'rs from the green hill,
To crown her head, and bosom fill.



See how the arched earth does here
Rise in a perfect hemisphere!
The stiffest compass could not strike
A line more circular and like;
Nor softest pencil draw a brow
So equal as this hill does bow.
It seems as for a model laid,

And that the world by it was made.
Here learn, ye mountains more unjust,
Which to abrupter greatness thrust,
Which do, with your hook-shoulder'd height,
The earth deform, and heaven fright,
For whose excressence, ill design'd,
Nature must a new centre find;
Learn here those humble steps to tread,
Which to securer glory lead.
See what a soft access, and wide,
Lies open to its grassy side;
Nor with the rugged path deters

The feet of breathless travellers.
See then how courteous it ascends,
And all the way it rises, bends;
Nor for itself the height does gain,
But only strives to raise the plain.
Yet, thus it all the field commands,
And in unenvy'd greatness stands,
Discerning farther than the cliff
Of heaven-daring Teneriff.
How glad the weary seamen hast,
When they salute it from the mast!
By night, the northern star their way
Directs, and this no less by day.
Upon its crest, this mountain grave,
A plume of aged trees does wave.
No hostile hand does e'er invade,
With impious steel, the sacred shade,
For something always did appear
Of the great Master's terror there;
And men could hear his armour still
Rattling through all the grove and hill.
Fear of the Master, and respect
Of the great nymph, did it protect;
Vera, the nymph, that him inspired,
To whom he often here retired,
And on these oaks engraved her name :
Such wounds alone these woods became.
But e'er he well the barks could part,
"Twas writ already in their heart :
For they, 'tis credible, have sense,
As we, of love and reverence,
And underneath the coarser rind,
The Genius of the house do bind.
Hence they successes seem to know,
And in their Lord's advancement grow;
But in no memory were seen,

As under this, so straight and green.
Yet now no farther strive to shoot,
Contented, if they fix their root:
Nor to the wind's uncertain gust
Their prudent heads too far intrust.
Only sometimes a flutt'ring breeze
Discourses with the breathing trees;
Which, in their modest whispers name

Those acts which swell'd the cheeks of Fame.
Much other groves, say they, than these,
And other hills, him once did please.
Through groves of pikes he thunder'd then,
And mountains raised of dying men.

For all the civic garlands due
To him, our branches are but few.
Nor are our trunks enough to bear
The trophies of one fertile year.
'Tis true, ye trees, nor ever spoke
More certain oracles in oak.
But peace (if you his favour prize)
That courage its own praises flies.
Therefore to your obscurer seats,
From his own brightness, he retreats:
Nor he the hills, without the groves,
Nor height, but with retirement, loves.

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