Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist Part 6

If, Amoret, that glorious eye, In the first birth of light, And death of Night, Had with those elder fires you spy Scatter'd so high, Received form and sight;

We might suspect in the vast ring, Amidst these golden glories, And fiery stories;[49]

Whether the sun had been the king And guide of day, Or your brighter eye should sway.

But, Amoret, such is my fate, That if thy face a star Had s.h.i.+n'd from far, I am persuaded in that state, 'Twixt thee and me, Of some predestin'd sympathy.[50]

For sure such two conspiring minds, Which no accident, or sight, Did thus unite; Whom no distance can confine, Start, or decline, One for another were design'd.

FOOTNOTES:

[49] MS.

MS. _We may suspect in the vast ring_, _Which rolls those fiery spheres_ _Thro' years and years._

[50] MS. _There would be perfect sympathy._

TO AMORET GONE FROM HIM.

Fancy and I, last evening, walk'd, And Amoret, of thee we talk'd; The West just then had stolen the sun, And his last blushes were begun: We sate, and mark'd how everything Did mourn his absence: how the spring That smil'd and curl'd about his beams, Whilst he was here, now check'd her streams: The wanton eddies of her face Were taught less noise, and smoother grace; And in a slow, sad channel went, Whisp'ring the banks their discontent: The careless ranks of flowers that spread Their perfum'd bosoms to his head.

And with an open, free embrace, Did entertain his beamy face, Like absent friends point to the West, And on that weak reflection feast.

If creatures then that have no sense, But the loose tie of influence, Though fate and time each day remove Those things that element their love, At such vast distance can agree, Why, Amoret, why should not we?

A SONG TO AMORET.

If I were dead, and in my place Some fresher youth design'd To warm thee with new fires, and grace Those arms I left behind;

Were he as faithful as the sun, That's wedded to the sphere; His blood as chaste and temp'rate run, As April's mildest tear;

Or were he rich, and with his heaps And s.p.a.cious share of earth, Could make divine affection cheap, And court his golden birth:

For all these arts I'd not believe, --No, though he should be thine-- The mighty amorist could give So rich a heart as mine.

Fortune and beauty thou might'st find, And greater men than I: But my true resolved mind They never shall come nigh.[51]

For I not for an hour did love, Or for a day desire, But with my soul had from above This endless, holy fire.

FOOTNOTES:

[51]

MS. _But with my true steadfast minde_ _None can pretend to vie._

AN ELEGY.

'Tis true, I am undone: yet, ere I die, I'll leave these sighs and tears a legacy To after-lovers: that, rememb'ring me, Those sickly flames which now benighted be, Fann'd by their warmer sighs, may love; and prove In them the metempsychosis of love.

'Twas I--when others scorn'd--vow'd you were fair, And sware that breath enrich'd the coa.r.s.er air, Lent roses to your cheeks, made Flora bring Her nymphs with all the glories of the spring To wait upon thy face, and gave my heart A pledge to Cupid for a quicker dart, To arm those eyes against myself; to me Thou ow'st that tongue's bewitching harmony.

I courted angels from those upper joys, And made them leave their spheres to hear thy voice.

I made the Indian curse the hours he spent To seek his pearls, and wisely to repent His former folly, and confess a sin, Charm'd by the brighter l.u.s.tre of thy skin.

I borrow'd from the winds the gentler wing Of Zephyrus, and soft souls of the spring; And made--to air those cheeks with fresher grace-- The warm inspirers dwell upon thy face.

_Oh! jam satis_ ...

A RHAPSODIS:

_Occasionally written upon a meeting with some of his friends at the Globe Tavern, in a chamber painted overhead with a cloudy sky and some few dispersed stars, and on the sides with landscapes, hills, shepherds and sheep._

Darkness, and stars i' th' mid-day! They invite Our active fancies to believe it night: For taverns need no sun, but for a sign, Where rich tobacco and quick tapers s.h.i.+ne; And royal, witty sack, the poet's soul, With brighter suns than he doth gild the bowl; As though the pot and poet did agree, Sack should to both illuminator be.

That artificial cloud, with its curl'd brow, Tells us 'tis late; and that blue s.p.a.ce below Is fir'd with many stars: mark! how they break In silent glances o'er the hills, and speak The evening to the plains, where, shot from far, They meet in dumb salutes, as one great star.

The room, methinks, grows darker; and the air Contracts a sadder colour, and less fair.

Or is't the drawer's skill? hath he no arts To blind us so we can't know pints from quarts?

No, no, 'tis night: look where the jolly clown Musters his bleating herd and quits the down.

Hark! how his rude pipe frets the quiet air, Whilst ev'ry hill proclaims Lycoris fair.

Rich, happy man! that canst thus watch and sleep, Free from all cares, but thy wench, pipe and sheep!

But see, the moon is up; view, where she stands Sentinel o'er the door, drawn by the hands Of some base painter, that for gain hath made Her face the landmark to the tippling trade.

This cup to her, that to Endymion give; 'Twas wit at first, and wine that made them live.

Choke may the painter! and his box disclose No other colours than his fiery nose; And may we no more of his pencil see Than two churchwardens, and mortality.

Should we go now a-wand'ring, we should meet With catchpoles, wh.o.r.es and carts in ev'ry street: Now when each narrow lane, each nook and cave, Sign-posts and shop-doors, pimp for ev'ry knave, When riotous sinful plush, and tell-tale spurs Walk Fleet Street and the Strand, when the soft stirs Of bawdy, ruffled silks, turn night to day; And the loud whip and coach scolds all the way; When l.u.s.t of all sorts, and each itchy blood From the Tower-wharf to Cymbeline, and Lud, Hunts for a mate, and the tir'd footman reels 'Twixt chairmen, torches, and the hackney wheels.

Come, take the other dish; it is to him That made his horse a senator: each brim Look big as mine: the gallant, jolly beast Of all the herd--you'll say--was not the least.

Now crown the second bowl, rich as his worth I'll drink it to; he, that like fire broke forth Into the Senate's face, cross'd Rubicon, And the State's pillars, with their laws thereon, And made the dull grey beards and furr'd gowns fly Into Brundusium to consult, and lie.

This, to brave Sylla! why should it be said We drink more to the living than the dead?

Flatt'rers and fools do use it: let us laugh At our own honest mirth; for they that quaff To honour others, do like those that sent Their gold and plate to strangers to be spent.

Drink deep; this cup be pregnant, and the wine Spirit of wit, to make us all divine, That big with sack and mirth we may retire Possessors of more souls, and n.o.bler fire; And by the influx of this painted sky, And labour'd forms, to higher matters fly; So, if a nap shall take us, we shall all, After full cups, have dreams poetical.

Let's laugh now, and the press'd grape drink, Till the drowsy day-star wink; And in our merry, mad mirth run Faster, and further than the sun; And let none his cup forsake, Till that star again doth wake; So we men below shall move Equally with the G.o.ds above.