And 'twould be found, could we his thoughts have cast, Their griefs struck deepest, if Eliza's last.
What prudence more than human did he need,
To keep so dear, so differing minds agreed ?
The worser sort, so conscious of their ill,
Lie weak and easy to the ruler's will;
But to the good (too many or too few)
All law is useless, all reward is due.
Oh! ill-advised, if not for love, for shame,
Spare yet your own, if you neglect his fame;
Lest others dare to think your zeal a mask,
And you to govern only Heaven's task.
Valour, Religion, Friendship, Prudence died
At once with him, and all that's good beside;
And we, Death's refuge, Nature's dregs, confined
To loathsome life, alas! are left behind.
Where we (so once we used) shall now no more
To fetch day, press about his chamber-door,
From which he issued with that awful state,
It seemed Mars broke through Janus' double gate;
Yet always tempered with an air so mild,
No April suns that ere so gentle smiled;
No more shall hear that powerful language charm,
Whose force oft spared the labour of his arm;
No more shall follow where he spent the days
In war, in counsel, or in prayer and praise,
Whose meanest acts he would himself advance,
As ungirt David to the ark did dance.
All, all is gone of ours or his delight
In horses fierce, wild deer, or armour bright;
Francisca fair can nothing now but weep,
Nor with soft notes shall sing his cares asleep.
I saw him dead: a leaden slumber lies,
And mortal sleep over those wakeful eyes;
Those gentle rays under the lids were fled,
Which through his looks that piercing sweetness shed;
That port which so majestic was and strong,
Loose and deprived of vigour, stretched along;
All withered, all discoloured, pale and wan,
How much another thing, no more that man!
O, human glory vain! O, Death! O, wings!
O, worthless world! O, transitory things!
Yet dwelt that greatness in his shape decayed,
That still though dead, greater than Death he laid,
And in his altered face you something feign
That threatens Death, he yet will live again.
Not much unlike the sacred oak, which shoots
To Heaven its branches, and through earth its roots;
Whose spacious boughs are hung with trophies round,
And honoured wreaths have oft the victor crowned;
When angry Jove darts lightning through the air
At mortal sins, nor his own plant will spare,
It groans and bruises all below, that stood
So many years the shelter of the wood;
The tree, erewhile foreshortened to our view,
When fallen shows taller yet than as it grew;
So shall his praise to after times increase,
When truth shall be allowed, and faction cease;
And his own shadows with him fall; the eye
Detracts from objects than itself more high;
But when Death takes them from that envied state,
Seeing how little, we confess how great.
Thee, many ages hence, in martial verse
Shall the English soldier, ere he charge, rehearse ;
Singing of thee, inflame himself to fight,
And, with the name of Cromwell, armies fright.
As long as rivers to the seas shall run,
As long as Cynthia shall relieve the sun,
While stags shall fly unto the forests thick,
While sheep delight the grassy downs to pick,
As long as future time succeeds the past,
Always thy honour, praise and name, shall last!
Thou in a pitch how far beyond the sphere
Of human glory tower'st, and reigning there,
Despoiled of mortal robes, in seas of bliss,
Plunging, dost bathe, and tread the bright abyss !
There thy great soul yet once a world doth see,
Spacious enough and pure enough for thee.
How soon thou Moses hast, and Joshua found,
And David, for the sword and harp renowned;
How straight canst to each happy mansion go,
(Far better known above than here below),
And in those joys dost spend the endless day,
Which in expressing, we ourselves betray!
For we, since thou art gone, with heavy doom,
Wander like ghosts about thy loved tomb,
And lost in tears, have neither sight nor mind
To guide us upward through this region blind;
Since thou art gone, who best that way could teach,
Only our sighs, perhaps, may thither reach.
And Richard yet, where his great parent led,
Beats on the rugged track: he virtue dead
Revives, and by his milder beams assures;
And yet how much of them his grief obscures !
He, as his father, long was kept from sight
In private, to be viewed by better light;
But opened once, what splendour does he throw!
A Cromwell in an hour a prince will grow.
How he becomes that seat, how strongly strains,
How gently winds at once the ruling reins!
Heaven to this choice prepared a diadem,
Richer than any Eastern silk, or gem,
A pearly rainbow, where the sun inchased,
His brows, like an imperial jewel graced.
We find already what those omens mean,
Earth ne'er more glad, nor Heaven more serene.
Cease now our griefs, calm peace succeeds a war,
Rainbows to storms, Richard to Oliver.
Tempt not his clemency to try his power,
He threats no deluge, yet foretells a shower.
Andrew Marvell,
1621-1678.
[Printed with "Colin Clouts Come Home Again," 1595.]
Upon the Death of the most Noble and Valorous Knight, Sir Philip Sidney.
Dedicated to the most Beautiful and Virtuous Lady, The Countess of Essex.
Shepherds, that wont, on pipes of oaten reed,
Oft times to plaine your loves concealed smart ;
And with your piteous lays have learned to breed
Compassion in a country lass's heart.
Hearken, ye gentle shepherds, to my song,
And place my doleful plaint your plaints among.
To you alone I sing this mournful verse,
The mournfulst verse that ever man heard tell :
To you whose softened hearts it may empierce
With dolour's dart for death of Astrophel.
To you I sing and to none other wight,
For well I wot my rhymes been rudely dight.
Yet as they been, if any nicer wit
Shall hap to hear, or covet them to read:
Think he, that such are for such ones most fit,
Made not to please the living but the dead.
And if in him found pity ever place,
Let him be moved to pity such a case.
A Gentle Shepherd born in Arcady,
Of gentlest race that ever shepherd bore,
About the grassy banks of Hæmony
Did keep his sheep, his little stock and store :
Full carefully he kept them day and night,
In fairest fields; and Astrophel he hight.
Young Astrophel, the pride of shepherd's praise,
Young Astrophel, the rustic lasses' love:
Far passing all the pastors of his days,
In all that seemly shepherd might behove.
In one thing only failing of the best,
That he was not so happy as the rest.
For from the time that first the Nymph his mother
Him forth did bring, and taught her lambs to feed ;
A slender swain, excelling far each other,
In comely shape, like her that did him breed,
He grew up fast in goodness and in grace,
And doubly fair wox both in mind and face.
Which daily more and more he did augment,
With gentle usage and demeanour mild:
That all men's hearts with secret ravishment
He stole away, and weetingly beguiled.
Ne spite itself, that all good things doth spill,
Found aught in him, that she could say was ill.
His sports were fair, his joyance innocent,
Sweet without sour, and honey without gall:
And he himself seemed made for merriment,
Merrily masking both in bower and hall.
There was no pleasure nor delightful play,
When Astrophel so ever was away.
For he could pipe, and dance and carol sweet,
Amongst the shepherds in their shearing feast;
As summer's lark that with her song doth greet
The dawning day forth coming from the east.
And lays of love he also could compose:
Thrice happy she, whom he to praise did choose.
Full many maidens often did him woo,
Them to vouchsafe amongst his rhymes to name,
Or make for them as he was wont to do
For her that did his heart with love inflame.
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