Now, if Time knows
That her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows;
Her, whose just bays
My future hopes can raise,
A trophy to her present praise;
Her, that dares be
What these lines wish to see:
I seek no further, it is she.
THE RETREATE
(From Silex Scintillans, Part I., 1650)
Happy those early dayes, when I Shin'd in my Angell-infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy ought1 But a white, celestiall thought; When yet I had not walkt above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back, at that short space, Could see a glimpse of his bright face; When on some gilded Cloud or Flowre My gazing soul would dwell an houre, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinfull sound, Or had the black art to dispence A sev'rall sinne to ev'ry sense,
But felt through all this fleshly dresse Bright Shootes of everlastingnesse.
O how I long to travell back,
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plaine, Where first I left my glorious traine;
From whence th' inlightened spirit sees
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest After the Sun's remove.
Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
ON THE FOREGOING DIVINE POEMS
When we for age could neither read nor write, The subject made us able to indite. The soul, with nobler resolutions deckt, The body stooping, does herself erect: No mortal parts are requisite to raise Her, that unbody'd can her Maker praise. The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er: So, calm are we, when passions are no more: For, then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness, which age descries,
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
Lets in new light, thro' chinks that time has made:
Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty; And, if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free; To hear the lark begin his flight, And, singing, startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine; While the cock, with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin; And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before: Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill: Some time walking, not unseen, By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate Where the great Sun begins his state Robed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
1 Uncouth means here unknown, strange, remote. • Named.
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eyes by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting soul may pierce,
And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tanned haycock in the mead. Sometimes, with secure delight,
The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks' sound
To many a youth and many a maid
Dancing in the checkered shade,
And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holyday,
In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony;
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