The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper

"Why should my storm your life's calm voyage vex? Destroying wholly vertue's race in one; So by the first of my unlucky sex, All in a single ruine were undone. "Make heav'nly Rhodalind your bride! Whilst I Your once lov'd maid, excuse you, since I know That vertuous men forsake so willingly

Long cherish'd life, because to Heav'n they go. "Let me her servant be! A dignity,

Which if your pity in my fall procures;
I still shall value the advancement high,
Not as the crown is hers, but she is yours."
E're this high sorrow up to dying grew,

The duke the casket op'ned, and from thence
(Form'd like a heart) a cheerfull emrauld drew;
Cheerful, as if the lively stone had sence.
The thirti'th carract it had doubled twice;
Not tak'n from the Attick silver mine,
Nor from the brass, though such (of nobler price)
Did on the necks of Parthian ladies shine:
Nor yet of those which make the Ethiop proud;
Nor taken from those rocks where Bactrians

climb;

But from the Scythian, and without a cloud;
Not sick at fire, nor languishing with time.
Then thus he spake! "This (Birtha) from my male
Progenitors, was to the loyal she

On whose kinde heart they did in love prevail,
The nuptial pledge, and this I give to thee!
"Seven centuries have pass'd, since it from bride
To bride did first succeed; and though tis known
From ancient lore, that gemms much vertue hide,
And that the emrauld is the bridal stone;
Though much renown'd because it chastness loves,
And will when worn by the neglected wife,
Shew when her absent lord disloyal proves,
By faintness, and a pale decay of life;
"Though emraulds serve as spies to jealous brides,
Yet each compar'd to this does councel keep;
Like a false stone, the husband's falsehood hides,
Or seems born blinde, or feigns a dying sleep,
"With this take Orgo, as a better spy;
Who may in all your kin ler feares be sent
To watch at court, if I deserve to die

By making this to fade, and you lament."
Had now an artfull pencil Birtha drawn
(With grief all dark, then straight with joy all
He must have fancy'd first, in early dawn, light)

A sudden break of beauty out of night. Or first he must have mark'd what paleness, fear, Like nipping frost, did to her visage bring; Then think he sees, in a cold backward year, A rosy morn begin a sudden spring, Her joys (too vaste to be contain'd in speech) Thus she a little spake! "Why stoop you down, My plighted lord, to lowly Birtha's reach,

Siuce Rhodalind would lift you to a crown? "Or why do I, when I this plight imbrace, Boldly aspire to take what you have given? But that your vertue has with angels place, And 'tis a vertue to aspire to Heav'n.

" And as tow'rds Heav'n all travail on their knees; So I tow'rds you, though love aspire, will move: And were you crown'd, what could you better please Than aw'd obedience led by bolder love?

"If I forget the depth from whence I rise,

Far from your bosome banish'd be my heart; Or claim a right by beauty to your eyes;

Or proudly think, my chastity desert. "But thus ascending from your humble maid To be your plighted bride, and then your wife, Will be a debt that shall be hourly paid,

Till time my duty cancel with my life. "And fruitfully if Heav'n ere make me bring Your image to the world, you then my pride No more shall blame, than you can tax the Spring For boasting of those flowres she cannot hide, Orgo, I so receive as I am taught

By duty to esteem what ere you love; And hope the joy he in this jewel brought, Will luckyer than his former triumphs prove. For though but twice he has approach'd my sight, He twice made haste to drown me in my tears: But now I am above his planet's spite,

And as for sin beg pardon for my fears." Thus spake she; and with fix'd continu'd sight, The duke did all her bashful beauties view; Then they with kisses seal'd their sacred plight; Like flowres still sweeter as they thicker grew. Yet must these pleasures feel, though innocent, The sickness of extreames, and cannot last; For pow'r (love's shun'd impediment) has sent To tell the duke, his monarch is in hast: And calls him to that triumph which he fears

So as a saint forgiven (whose breast does all Heav'n's joys contain) wisely lov'd pomp forbears; Lest tempted nature should from blessings fall. He often takes his leave, with love's delay; And bids her hope, he with the king shall finde, By now appearing forward to obay,

A means to serve him less in Rhodalind. She weeping to her closet-window hies;

Where she with tears does Rhodalind survey; As dying men, who grieve that they have eyes, When they through curtains spy the rising day. The king has now his curious sight suffis'd

With all lost arts, in their revival view'd; Which when restor'd, our pride thinks new devis'd: Fashions of mindes, call'd new when but renew'd!

The busie court prepares to move, on whom
Their sad offended eyes the country caste;
Whe never see enough where monarchs come;
And nothing so uncivil seems as haste.
As men move slow, who know they lose their way,
Even so the duke tow'rds Rhodalind does move;
Yet he does dutious fears, and wonder pay,
Which are the first, and dangerous signes of
love.

All his addresses much by Goltho were

And Ulfinore observ'd; who distant stand; Not daring to approach his presence neer;

But shun his eyes to scape from his command: Least to Verona he should both require;

For by remaining here, both hope to light
Their Hymen's torches at his parting fire;

The king his golden chariot now ascends;
And not despaire to kindle them to night.
Which neer fair Rhodalind the duke containes;
Though to excuse that grace he lowly bends;

But honour so refus'd, more honour gaines.

And now their chariots (ready to take wing)
Are even by weakest breath, a whisper stay'd;
And but such whisper as a page does bring

To Laura's woman from a houshold maid.
But this low voice did raise in Laura's eare
An eccho, which from all redoubled soon;
Proclaiming such a country beauty here,

As makes them look, like ev'ning to her noon. And Laura (of her own high beauty proud,

Yet not to others cruel) softly prays,
She may appear! but Gartha, bold, and loud,
With eyes impatient as for conquest, stays.
Though Astragon now owns her, and excus'd

Her presence, as a maid but rudely taught,
Infirm in health, and not to greatness us'd;

Yet Gartha still calls out, to have her brought! But Rhodalind (in whose relenting breast

Compassion's self might sit at school, and learn) Knew bashful maids with publick view distrest; And in their glass, themselves with fear discern; She stopt this challenge which court-beauty made To country shape; not knowing Nature's hand Had Birtha dress'd, nor that her self obay'd

In vain, whom conqu'ring Birtha did command. The duke (whom vertuous kindness soon subdues) Though him his bonds from Birtha highly please, Yet seems to think, that lucky he, who sues

To wear this royal mayd's, will walk at ease. Of these a brief survey sad Birtha takes;

And Orgo's help directs her eye to all;
Shows her for whom grave Tybalt nightly wakes;
Then at whose feet wise Hermegild does fall.
And when calm Orna with the count she saw,
Hope (who though weak, a willing painter is,
And busily does ev'ry pattern draw)

By that example could not work amiss.
For soon she shap'd her lord and her so kinde,
So all of love; till fancy wrought no more
When she perceiv'd him sit with Rhodalind;
But froward-painter-like the copy tore.

And now they move; and she thus rob'd, believes (Since with such haste they bear her wealth away) That they at best, are but judicious thieves,

And know the noble vallue of their prey. And then she thus complain'd! "Why royal maid! Injurious greatness! did you hither come Where pow'r's strong nets of wyre were never laid? But childish love took cradle as at home. "Where can we safe our harmless blessings keep, Since glorious courts our solitude invade? Bells which ring out, when th' unconcern'd would sleep; [shade!

False lights to scare poor birds in country "Or if our joys their own discov'ry make,

Envy (whose tongue first kills whom she devours)

Calls it our pride; envy, the poys'nous snake, Whose breath blasts maids, as innocent as flowres !

"Forgive me, beautious greatness, if 1 grow Distemper'd with my fears, and rudely 'long To be secure; or praise your beauty so

As to believe, that it may do me wrong;

"And you, my plighted lord, forgive me too,
If, since your worth and my defects I find,
I fear what you in justice ought to do;
And praise your judgment when I doubt you kind."
Now sudden fear o'er all her beauty wrought

The pale appearance of a killing frost;
And carefull Orgo, when she started, thought
She had her pledge, the precious emrauld, lost.
But that kinde heart, as constant as her own,

She did not miss; 'twas from a sudden sence, Least in her lover's heart some change was grown, And it grew pale with that intelligence.

Soon from her bosome she this emrauld took:
"If now" (said she)" my lord my heart deceaves,
This stone will by dead paleness make me look
Pale as the snowy skin of lilly leaves."
But such a cheerful green the gemm did fling
Where she oppos'd the rayes, as if she had
Been dy'de in the complexion of the spring,

Or were by nimphs of Brittain valleys clad. Soon she with earnest passion kist the stone; Which ne'er till then had suffer'd an eclipse; But then the rayes retir'd, as if it shone

In vain, so neer the rubies of her lips, Yet thence remov'd, with publick glory shines! She Orgo blest, who had this relique brought; And kept it like those reliques lock'd in shrines, By which the latest miracles were wrought. For soon respect was up to rev'rence grown; Which fear to superstition would sublime, But that her father took fear's ladder down; Lose steps, by which distress to Heav'n would climbe.

He knew, when fear shapes heav'nly pow'r so just, And terrible, (parts of that shape drawn true) It vailes Heav'n's beauty, love; which when we trust,

Our courage honours him to whom we suc!

GONDIBERT.

CANTO THE FIFTH.

THE ARGUMENT.

The deep designes of Birtha in distress;
Her emrauld's vertue shews her love's success,
Wise Astragon with reason cures despair;.
And the afflicted chides for partial pray'r.
With grief the secret rivals take their leave;
And but dark hope for hidden love receive.

To shew the morn her passage to the east,
Now Birtha's dawn, the lover's day, appears!
So soon love beats revellies in her breast;

And like the dewy morn she rose in tears:
So much she did her jealous dreams dislike.

Her maids straight kindle by her light their eyes; Which when to hers compar'd, poets would strike Such sparks to light their lamps, ere day does

rise.

But O vain jealousie! why dost thou haste
To find those evils which too soon are brought?
Love's frantick valour! which so rashly faste
Seeks dangers, as if none would come unsought.
As often fairest morns soon cover'd be,

So she with dark'ning thoughts is clouded now;
Looks so, as weaker eyes small objects see,

Or studious statesmen who contract the brow.

Or like some thinking Sybill that would finde
The sence of mystick words by angels given!
And this fair politick bred in her minde

(Restless as seas) a deep designe on Heav'n. To pray'r's plain temple she does haste unseen; Which though not grac'd with curious cost for show,

Was nicely kept; and now must be as clean

As tears make those who thence forgiven goe.
For her own hands (by which best painters drew
The hands of innocence) will make it shine;
Pennance which newly from her terrours grew;
And was (alas!) part of her deep designe.
And when this holy huswifry was past,

Her vows she sends to Heav'n, which thither fly
Intire; not broken by unthinking hast;

Like sinners' sparks that in ascending dy.
Thence she departs; but at this temple gate
A needy crowd (call'd by her summons there)
With such assurance for her bounty waite,
As if ne'r failing Heav'n their debtor were.
To these she store of antick treasure gave

(For she no mony knew) medals of gold, Which curious gath'rers did in travail save,

And at high worth were to her mother sold.

Figures of fighting chiefs, born to o'rcome

Those who without their leave would all destroy;
Chiefs, who had brought renown to Athens, Rome,
To Carthage, Tyre, and to lamented Troy.
Such was her wealth, her mother's legacy;

And well she knew it was of special price;
But she has begg'd what Heav'n must not deny ;
So would not make a common sacritice.

To the black temple she her sorrow bears;

Where she outbeg'd the tardy begging thief;
Made weeping Magdaline but poor in tears,
Yet silent as their pictures was her grief.
Her purpos'd penance she did here fulfil:

Those pictures dress'd, and the spent lamp re-
liev'd

With fragrant oyles, dropp'd from her silver still;
And now for those that there sat mourning,
griev'd.

Those penitents, who knew her innocence,
Wonder what parent's sin she did bemoan;
And venture (though they goe unpardon'd thence)
More sighs for her redress than for their own.
Now jealousie no more benights her face,

Her courage beautious grows, and grief decayes;
And with such joy as shipwrack'd men imbrace
The shore, she hastens to the house of praise.
And there the gemm she from her bosome took,
(With which till now she trembled to advise)
So far from pale, that Gondibert would look
Pale if he saw, how it out-shin'd her eyes.

These rayes she to a miracle prefers;
And lustre that such beauty so defies,
Had poets seen (love's partial jewellers, (eyes)
Who count nought precious but their mistress'
They would with grief a miracle confess!
She enters straight to pay her gratitude;
And could not think her beauty in distress,
Whilst to her love, her lord is still subdu'd.
The altar she with imagry array'd;

Where needles boldly, as a pencil wrought,
The story of that humble Syrian maid,
Who pitchers bore, yet kings to Juda brought.
And there she of that precious linnen spreads,
Which in the consecrated month is spun
By Lombard brides; for whom in empty beds
Their bridegrooms sigh till the succeeding moon.
'Tis in that moon bleach'd by her fuller light;
And wash'd in sudds of amber, till it grow
Clean as this spredder's hands: and those were
white

As rising lillies, or as falling snow.
The voluntary qu re of birds she feeds,

[till'd.

Which oft had here the virgin-comfort fill'd;
She diets them with aromatick seeds;
And quench'd their thirst with rainbow-dew dis-
Lord Astragon, whose tender care did waite
Her progress, since her morn so cloudy broke,
Arrests her passage at this temple gate,

And thus, he with a father's license spoke. "Why art thou now, who hast so joyful liv'd

E're love thou knew'st, becoine with love so sad?
If thou hast lost fair vertue, then be griev'd;
Else show, thou know'st her worth by being glad.
"Thy love's high soaring cannot be a crime;
Nor can we if a spinster loves a king,
Say that her love ambitiously does climbe:

Love seeks no honour, but does bonour bring. "Mounts others' value, and her own lets fall!

Kings' honour is but little, till made much
By subjects' tongues! Elixer-love turns all

To pow'rful gold, where it does only touch.
"Thou lov'st a prince above thine own degree:
Degree is monarch's art; love, Nature's law;
In love's free state all pow'rs so levell'd be,

That there, affection governs more than aw.
"But thou dost love where Rhodalind does love;
And thence thy griefs of jealousie begin;
A cause which does thy sorrow vainly move;
Since 'tis thy noble fate, and not thy sin.
"This vain and voluntary loade of grief

(For fate sent love, thy will does sorrow bear) Thou to the temple carry'st for relief;

And so to Heav'n art guided by thy fear. "Wilde fear which has a common-wealth devis'd In Heav'n's old realm, and saints in senates

"This false guide fear, which does thy reason sway, And turns thy valiant vertue to despair, Has brought thee here, to offer, and to pray; But temples were not built for cowards' pray'r. "For when by fear thy noble reason's led

(Reason, not shape gives us so great degree Above our subjects, beasts) then beasts may plead A right in temples' helps as well as we. "And here, with absent reason thou dost weep To beg success in love; that Rhodalind May lose, what she as much does beg to keep; And may at least an equal audience find. "Mark Birtha, this unrighteous war of prayer!

Heav'n;

Like wrangling states, you ask a monarch's aide When you are weak, that you may better dare Lay claim, to what your passion would invade. "Long has th' ambitious world rudely preferr'd Their quarrels, which they call their pray'rs, to [have err'd, And thought that Heav'n would like themselves Depriving some, of what's to others given. "Thence modern faith becomes so weak and blinde, Thinks Heav'n in ruling other worlds imploy'd, And is not mindful of our abject kinde,

Because all sutes are not by all enjoy'd. "How firm was faith, when humbly sutes for need, [despair Not choice were made? then (free from all As mod'rate birds, who sing for daily seed)

Like birds, our songs of praise included prayer. "Thy hopes are by thy tival's vertue aw'd; Thy rival Rhodalind; whose vertue shines On hills, when brightest planets are abroad; Thine privately, like miners' lamps, in mines. "The court (where single patterns are disgrac'd; Where glorious vice, weak eies admire; And vertue's plainness is by art out fac'd) She makes a temple by her vestal fire. "Though there, vice sweetly dress'd docs tempt

like bliss.

Even cautious saints; and single vertue seem Fantastick, where brave vice in fashion is;

Yet she has brought plain vertue in esteem. "Yours is a vertue of inferior rate;

Here in the dark a pattern, where 'tis barr'd From all your sex that should her imitate,

And of that pomp which should her foes reward: "Retyr'd, as weak monasticks fly from care;

Or devout cowards steal to forts, their cells, From pleasures, which the world's chief dangers are: Hers passes yours, as valour fear excels. "This is your rival in your sute to Heav'n: But Heav'n is partial if it give to you What to her bolder vertue should be given; Since yours, pomps, vertue's dangers, never knew:

"Your sute would have your love with love repay'd; To which art's conquests, when all science flowes, Compar'd, are students' dreams; and triumphs made [showes.

By glorious courts and camps but painted "Even art's dictators, who give laws to schools, Are but dead heads; statesmen, who empire

move,

But prosp'rous spys, and victors, fighting fools, When they their trophies rank with those of love.

You shall to court, and there serve RhodaTrie if her vertue's force you can endure

In the same sphear, without eclipse of mind.
Your lord may there your souls compare; for we,
Though souls, like stars, make not their great-
ness known;

May find which greater than the other be;
The stars are measur'd by comparison !
"Your plighted lord shall you ere long preferr
To neer attendance on this royal maid;
Quit then officious fear! The jealous fear

They are not fearful, when to death afraid."
These words he clos'd with kindness, and retir'd ;
In which her quick-ey'd hope three blessings
With joy of being neer her lord, inspir'd, [spy'd;
With seeing courts, and having vertue try'd!
She now with jealous questions, utter'd faste,
Fills Orgo's ear, which there unmark'd are gone,
As throngs through guarded gates, when all make
Not giving warders time t' examine one. [haste,
She ask'd if fame had render'd Rhodalind

With favour, or in truth's impartial shape?
If Orna were to humble vertue kinde,

And beauty could from Gartha's envy scape?
If Laura (whose faire eyes those but invites,
Who to her wit ascribe the victory)
In conquest of a speechless maid delights?
And ere to this prompt Orgo could reply,

She ask'd, in what consist the charms of court?
Whether those pleasures so resistless were

As common country travailers report,

And such as innocence had cause to feare; What kinde of angels' shape young fav'rites take? And being angels, how they can be bad? Or why delight so cruelly to make

Fair country maids return from court so sad? More had she ask'd (for study warm'd her brow, With thinking how her love might pros'prous be) But that young Ulfinore approach'd her now, And Goltho, warmer with designe than she. Thongh Goltho's hope (in Indian feathers clad) Was light, and gay, as if he meant to flie; Yet he no farther than bis rival had

Advanc'd in promise, from her tongue, or eye. When distant, talk'd, as if he plighted were; For hope in love, like cowards in the warr, Talks bravely till the enterprise be ueer;

But then discretion dares not venture farr. He never durst approach her watchfull eye With studious gazing, nor with sighs her eare; But still seem'd frolick, like a statesman's spy; As if his thoughtful bus'ness were not there.

And now (for hope, that formal centry, stands All winds and showrs, though where but vainly plac'd)

They to Verona beg her dear commands;

And look to be with parting kindness grac❜d,

Both daily journies meant, 'twixt this and court:
For taking leave is twice love's sweet repast;
In being sweet, and then in being short;

Like manna, ready still, but cannot last.
Her favours not in lib'ral looks she gave,
But in a kinde respectful lowliness,
Them honour gives, yet did her honour save;
Which gently thus, she did to both express.
"High Heav'n that did direct your eyes the way
To choose so well, when you your friendship
made,

Still keep you joyn'd, that daring envy may Fear such united vertue to invade ! "In your safe brests, the noble Goudibert Does trust the secret treasure of his love; And I (grown conscious of my low desert) Would not, you should that wealth for me improve.

"I am a flow'r that merit not the spring!

And he (the world's warm Sun!) in passing by Should think, when such as I leave flourishing, His beams to cedars haste, which else would die.

"This from his humble maid you may declare
To him, on whom the good of humane kinde
Depends; and as his greatning is your care,
So may your carly love successes finde !

"So may that beautious she, whom either's heart
For vertue and delight of life shall choose,
Quit in your siege the long defence of art,
And Nature's freedom in a treaty lose."
This gave cold Ulfinore in love's long night
Some hope of day; as sca- men that are run
Far northward finde long winters to be light,
And in the cynosure adore the Sun.

It show'd to Goltho, not alone like day,

Put like a wedding noon; who now grows strong Enough to speak; but that her beauties stay

Ilis eyes, whose wonder soon arrests his tongue.

Yet something he at parting scem'd to say,

In pretty flow'rs of love's wild rhetorick; Which mov'd not her, though orators thus sway Assemblies, which since wilde, wilde musick like.

GONDIBERT.

CANTO THE SIXTH.

THE ARGUMENT.

Here Ulfin reads the art to Ulfinore
Of wisely getting, and increasing power.
The rivals to Verona haste, and there
Young Goltho's frailty does too soon appear.
Black Dalga's fatal beauty is reveal'd;
But her descent and story is conceal'd.

OLD Ulfin parting now with Ulfinore,

His study'd thoughts, and of a grave import, Thus utter'd, as well read in ancient lore;

When prudence kept up greatness in the court. "Heav'n guide thee, son, through honour's slipp'ry way;

The hill, which wary painfulness must climbe; And often rest, to take a full survey

Of every path, trod by experienc'd time. "Rise glorious with thy master's hopeful morn! His favour calls thee to his secret breast; Great Gondibert! to spacious empire born;

Whose careful head will in thy bosome rest. "Be good! and then in pitty soon be great! For vertuous men should toile to compass pow'r, Least when the bad possess dominion's seat,

We vainly weep for those whom they devour. "Our vertue without pow'r, but harmless is! The good, who lazily are good at home, And safely rest in doing not amiss,

Fly from the bad, for fear of martyrdome! "Be in thy greatness easie, and thy brow

Still cleer, and comforting as breaking light; The great, with bus'ness troubled, weakly bow; Pow'r should with publick burdens walk upright! "We chearfulness, as innocence commend!

The great, may with benigne and civil eyes The people wrong, yet not the wrong'd offend; Who feel most wrong, from those who them despise!

"Since wrongs must be, complaints must shew the griev'd;

And favorites should walk still open ear'd; For of the suing crond half are reliev'd With the innate delight of being heard. "Thy greatness be in armes! who else are great, Move but like pageants in the people's view; And in foul weather make a scorn'd retreat; The Greeks their painted gods in armour drew! "Yield not in storms of state to that dislike Which from the people does to rulers grow; Pow'r (fortune's sail) should not for threatnings strike;

In boats bestorm'd all check at those that row. "Courts little arts contemn! dark holes to save Retreated pow'r, when fear does friendship [brave,

feigne;

Poor theeves retire to woods! chiefs, great, and Draw out their forces to the open plaine!

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The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper: Including ..., Nide 6