Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist Part 8

The world and Nature yield to give him way.

And now pa.s.s'd o'er the Alps, that mighty bar 'Twixt France and Rome, fear of the future war Strikes Italy; success and hope doth fire His lofty spirits with a fresh desire.

All is undone as yet--saith he--unless Our Paenish forces we advance, and press Upon Rome's self; break down her gates and wall, And plant our colours in Suburra's vale.

O the rare sight! if this great soldier we Arm'd on his Getick elephant might see!

But what's the event? O glory, how the itch Of thy short wonders doth mankind bewitch!

He that but now all Italy and Spain Had conquer'd o'er, is beaten out again; And in the heart of Afric, and the sight Of his own Carthage, forc'd to open flight.

Banish'd from thence, a fugitive he posts To Syria first, then to Bithynia's coasts, Both places by his sword secur'd, though he In this distress must not acknowledg'd be; Where once a general he triumphed, now To show what Fortune can, he begs as low.

And thus that soul which through all nations hurl'd Conquest and war, and did amaze the world, Of all those glories robb'd, at his last breath, Fortune would not vouchsafe a soldier's death.

For all that blood the field of Cannae boasts, And sad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghosts, No other end--freed from the pile and sword-- Than a poor ring would Fortune him afford.

Go now, ambitious man! new plots design, March o'er the snowy Alps and Apennine; That, after all, at best thou may'st but be A pleasing story to posterity!

The Macedon one world could not contain, We hear him of the narrow earth complain, And sweat for room, as if Seriphus Isle Or Gyara had held him in exile; But Babylon this madness can allay, And give the great man but his length of clay.

The highest thoughts and actions under heaven Death only with the lowest dust lays even.

It is believed--if what Greece writes be true-- That Xerxes with his Persian fleet did hew Their ways through mountains, that their sails full blown Like clouds hung over Athos and did drown The s.p.a.cious continent, and by plain force Betwixt the mount and it, made a divorce; That seas exhausted were, and made firm land, And Sestos joined unto Abydos strand; That on their march his Medes but pa.s.sing by Drank thee, Scamander, and Melenus dry; With whatsoe'er incredible design Sostratus sings, inspir'd with pregnant wine.

But what's the end? He that the other day Divided h.e.l.lespont, and forc'd his way Through all her angry billows, that a.s.sign'd New punishments unto the waves, and wind, No sooner saw the Salaminian seas But he was driven out by Themistocles, And of that fleet--supposed to be so great, That all mankind shar'd in the sad defeat-- Not one sail sav'd, in a poor fisher's boat, Chas'd o'er the working surge, was glad to float, Cutting his desp'rate course through the tir'd flood, And fought again with carcases, and blood.

O foolish mad Ambition! these are still The famous dangers that attend thy will.

Give store of days, good Jove, give length of years, Are the next vows; these with religious fears And constancy we pay; but what's so bad As a long, sinful age? what cross more sad Than misery of years? how great an ill Is that which doth but nurse more sorrow still?

It blacks the face, corrupt and dulls the blood, Benights the quickest eye, distastes the food, And such deep furrows cuts i' th' checker'd skin As in th' old oaks of Tabraca are seen.

Youth varies in most things; strength, beauty, wit, Are several graces; but where age doth hit It makes no difference; the same weak voice, And trembling ague in each member lies: A general hateful baldness, with a curs'd Perpetual pettishness; and, which is worst, A foul, strong flux of humours, and more pain To feed, than if he were to nurse again; So tedious to himself, his wife, and friends, That his own sons, and servants, wish his end.

His taste and feeling dies; and of that fire The am'rous lover burns in, no desire: Or if there were, what pleasure could it be, Where l.u.s.t doth reign without ability?

Nor is this all: what matters it, where he Sits in the s.p.a.cious stage? who can nor see, Nor hear what's acted, whom the stiller voice Of spirited, wanton airs, or the loud noise Of trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder can But scarce inform who enters, or what man He personates, what 'tis they act, or say?

How many scenes are done? what time of day?

Besides that little blood his carcase holds Hath lost[53] its native warmth, and fraught with colds Catarrhs, and rheums, to thick black jelly turns, And never but in fits and fevers burns.

Such vast infirmities, so huge a stock Of sickness and diseases to him flock, That Hyppia ne'er so many lovers knew, Nor wanton Maura; physic never slew So many patients, nor rich lawyers spoil More wards and widows; it were lesser toil To number out what manors and domains Licinius' razor purchas'd: one complains Of weakness in the back, another pants For lack of breath, the third his eyesight wants; Nay, some so feeble are, and full of pain, That infant-like they must be fed again.

These faint too at their meals; their wine they spill, And like young birds, that wait the mother's bill, They gape for meat; but sadder far than this Their senseless ignorance and dotage is; For neither they, their friends, nor servants know, Nay, those themselves begot, and bred up too, No longer now they'll own; for madly they Proscribe them all, and what, on the last day, The misers cannot carry to the grave For their past sins, their prost.i.tutes must have.

But grant age lack'd these plagues: yet must they see As great, as many: frail mortality, In such a length of years, hath many falls, And deads a life with frequent funerals.

The nimblest hour in all the span can steal A friend, or brother from's; there's no repeal In death, or time; this day a wife we mourn, To-morrow's tears a son; and the next urn A sister fills. Long-livers have a.s.sign'd These curses still, that with a restless mind, An age of fresh renewing cares they buy, And in a tide of tears grow old and die.

Nestor,--if we great Homer may believe-- In his full strength three hundred years did live: Happy--thou'lt say--that for so long a time Enjoy'd free nature, with the grape and wine Of many autumns; but, I prithee thee, hear What Nestor says himself, when he his dear Antilochus had lost; how he complains Of life's too large extent, and copious pains?

Of all he meets, he asks what is the cause He liv'd thus long; for what breach of their laws The G.o.ds thus punish'd him? what sin had he Done worthy of a long life's misery.

Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and he Thus wept that his Ulysses lost at sea.

Had Priam died before Phereclus' fleet Was built, or Paris stole the fatal Greek, Troy had yet stood, and he perhaps had gone In peace unto the lower shades; his son Sav'd with his plenteous offspring, and the rest In solemn pomp bearing his fun'ral chest.

But long life hinder'd this: unhappy he, Kept for a public ruin, liv'd to see All Asia lost, and ere he could aspire, In his own house saw both the sword and fire; All white with age and cares, his feeble arm Had now forgot the war; but this alarm Gathers his dying spirits; and as we An aged ox worn out with labour see By his ungrateful master, after all His years of toil, a thankless victim fall: So he by Jove's own altar; which shows we Are nowhere safe from heaven, and destiny: Yet died a man; but his surviving queen, Freed from the Greekish sword, was barking seen.

I haste to Rome, and Pontus' king let pa.s.s, With Lydian Cr[oe]sus, whom in vain--alas!-- Just Solon's grave advice bad to attend, That happiness came not before the end.

What man more bless'd in any age to come Or past, could Nature show the world, or Rome, Than Marius was? if amidst the pomp of war, And triumphs fetch'd with Roman blood from far, His soul had fled; exile and fetters then He ne'er had seen, nor known Minturna's fen; Nor had it, after Carthage got, been said A Roman general had begg'd his bread.

Thus Pompey th' envious G.o.ds, and Rome's ill stars --Freed from Campania's fevers, and the wars-- Doom'd to Achilles' sword: our public vows Made Caesar guiltless; but sent him to lose His head at Nile: this curse Cethegus miss'd: This Lentulus, and this made him resist That mangled by no lictor's axe, fell dead Entirely Catiline, and sav'd his head.

The anxious matrons, with their foolish zeal, Are the last votaries, and their appeal Is all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow, They pray for sons, but with a louder vow Commend a female feature: all that can Make woman pleasing now they s.h.i.+ft, and scan And when[54] reprov'd, they say, Latona's pair The mother never thinks can be too fair.

But sad Lucretia warns to wish no face Like hers: Virginia would bequeath her grace To crook-back Rutila in exchange; for still The fairest children do their parents fill With greatest cares; so seldom chast.i.ty Is found with beauty; though some few there be That with a strict, religious care contend Th' old, modest, Sabine customs to defend: Besides, wise Nature to some faces grants An easy blush, and where she freely plants A less instruction serves: but both these join'd, At Rome would both be forc'd or else purloin'd.

So steel'd a forehead Vice hath, that dares win, And bribe the father to the children's sin; But whom have gifts defiled not? what good face Did ever want these tempters? pleasing grace Betrays itself; what time did Nero mind A coa.r.s.e, maim'd shape? what blemish'd youth confin'd His goatish pathic? whence then flow these joys Of a fair issue? whom these sad annoys Wait, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt see Public adulterers, and must be Subject to all the curses, plagues, and awe Of jealous madmen, and the Julian law; Nor canst thou hope they'll find a milder star, Or more escapes than did the G.o.d of war.

But worse than all, a jealous brain confines His fury to no law; what rage a.s.signs Is present justice: thus the rash sword spills This lecher's blood; the scourge another kills.

But thy spruce boy must touch no other face Than a patrician? is of any race So they be rich; Servilia is as good, With wealth, as she that boasts Iulus' blood.

To please a servant all is cheap; what thing In all their stock to the last suit, and king, But l.u.s.t exacts? the poorest wh.o.r.e in this As generous as the patrician is.

But thou wilt say what hurt's a beauteous skin With a chaste soul? Ask Theseus' son, and him That Sten.o.b[oe]a murder'd; for both these Can tell how fatal 'twas in them to please.

A woman's spleen then carries most of fate, When shame and sorrow aggravate her hate.

Resolve me now, had Silius been thy son, In such a hazard what should he have done?

Of all Rome's youth, this was the only best, In whom alone beauty and worth did rest.

This Messalina saw, and needs he must Be ruin'd by the emp'ror, or her l.u.s.t.

All in the face of Rome, and the world's eye Though Caesar's wife, a public bigamy She dares attempt; and that the act might bear More prodigy, the notaries appear, And augurs to't; and to complete the sin In solemn form, a dowry is brought in.

All this--thou'lt say--in private might have pa.s.s'd But she'll not have it so; what course at last?

What should he do? If Messaline be cross'd, Without redress thy Silius will be lost; If not, some two days' length is all he can Keep from the grave; just so much as will span This news to Hostia, to whose fate he owes That Claudius last his own dishonour knows.

But he obeys, and for a few hours' l.u.s.t Forfeits that glory should outlive his dust; Nor was it much a fault; for whether he Obey'd or not, 'twas equal destiny.

So fatal beauty is, and full of waste.

That neither wanton can be safe, nor chaste.

What then should man pray for? what is't that he Can beg of Heaven, without impiety?

Take my advice: first to the G.o.ds commit All cares; for they things competent and fit For us foresee; besides, man is more dear To them than to himself; we blindly here, Led by the world and l.u.s.t, in vain a.s.say To get us portions, wives and sons; but they Already know all that we can intend, And of our children's children see the end.

Yet that thou may'st have something to commend With thanks unto the G.o.ds for what they send; Pray for a wise and knowing soul; a sad, Discreet, true valour, that will scorn to add A needless horror to thy death; that knows 'Tis but a debt which man to nature owes; That starts not at misfortunes, that can sway And keep all pa.s.sions under lock and key; That covets nothing, wrongs none, and prefers An honest want, before rich injurers.

All this thou hast within thyself, and may Be made thy own, if thou wilt take the way; What boots the world's wild, loose applause? what [can]

Frail, perilous honours add unto a man?

What length of years, wealth, or a rich fair wife?

Virtue alone can make a happy life.

To a wise man nought comes amiss: but we Fortune adore, and make our deity.

FOOTNOTES:

[52] The original has _framed_.

[53] The original has _low_.

[54] The original has _why_

OLOR ISCa.n.u.s.

1651.

----O quis me gelidis in vallibus Iscae Sistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra!

AD POSTEROS.

Diminuat ne sera dies praesentis honorem Quis, qualisque fui, percipe Posteritas.

Cambria me genuit, patulis ubi vallibus errans Subjacet aeriis montibus Isca pater.

Inde sinu placido suscepit maximus arte Herbertus, Latiae gloria prima scholae.

Bis ternos, illo me conducente, per annos Profeci, et geminam contulit unus opem; Ars et amor, mens atque ma.n.u.s certare solebant, Nec la.s.sata illi mensue, ma.n.u.sue fuit.

Hinc qualem cernis crevisse: sed ut mea certus Tempora cognoscas, dura mere, scias.

Vixi, divisos c.u.m fregerat haeresis Anglos Inter Tysiphonas presbyteri et populi.

His primum miseris per am[oe]na furentibus arva Prostravit sanctam vilis avena rosam, Turbarunt fontes, et fusis pax perit undis, Moestaque coelestes obruit umbra dies.

Duret ut integritas tamen, et pia gloria, partem Me nullam in tanta strage fuisse, scias; Credidimus nempe insonti vocem esse cruori, Et vires quae post funera flere docent.

Hinc castae, fidaeque pati me more parentis Commonui, et lachrymis fata levare meis; Hinc nusquam horrendis violavi sacra procellis, Nec mihi mens unquam, nec ma.n.u.s atra fuit.

Si pius es, ne plura petas; satur ille recedat Qui sapit et nos non scripsimus insipidis.

TO THE TRULY n.o.bLE AND MOST EXCELLENTLY ACCOMPLISHED, THE LORD KILDARE DIGBY.