Part 26

DE SALMONE

Ad virum optimum, et sibi familiarius notum: D. Thomam Poellum Cantrevensem: S. S. Theologiæ Doctorem.

Accipe prærapido salmonem in gurgite captum, Ex imo in summas cum penetrasset aquas, Mentitæ culicis quem forma elusit inanis: Picta coloratis plumea musca notis. Dum captat, capitur; vorat inscius, ipse vorandus; Fitque cibi raptor grata rapina mali. Alma quies! miseræ merces ditissima vitæ, Quam tuto in tacitis hic latuisset aquis! Qui dum spumosi fremitus et murmura rivi Quæritat, hamato sit cita præda cibo, Quam grave magnarum specimen dant ludicra rerum? Gurges est mundus: salmo, homo: pluma, dolus.

THE WORLD.

Can any tell me what it is? Can you That wind your thoughts into a clue To guide out others, while yourselves stay in, And hug the sin? I, who so long have in it liv'd, That, if I might, In truth I would not be repriev'd, Have neither sight Nor sense that knows These ebbs and flows: But since of all all may be said, And likeliness doth but upbraid And mock the truth, which still is lost In fine conceits, like streams in a sharp frost; I will not strive, nor the rule break, Which doth give losers leave to speak. Then false and foul world, and unknown Ev'n to thy own, Here I renounce thee, and resign Whatever thou canst say is thine.

Thou art not Truth! for he that tries Shall find thee all deceit and lies, Thou art not Friendship! for in thee 'Tis but the bait of policy; Which like a viper lodg'd in flow'rs, Its venom through that sweetness pours; And when not so, then always 'tis A fading paint, the short-liv'd bliss Of air and humour; out and in, Like colours in a dolphin's skin; But must not live beyond one day, Or convenience; then away. Thou art not Riches! for that trash, Which one age hoards, the next doth wash And so severely sweep away, That few remember where it lay. So rapid streams the wealthy land About them have at their command; And shifting channels here restore, There break down, what they bank'd before. Thou art not Honour! for those gay Feathers will wear and drop away; And princes to some upstart line Gives new ones, that are full as fine. Thou art not Pleasure! for thy rose Upon a thorn doth still repose; Which, if not cropp'd, will quickly shed, But soon as cropp'd, grows dull and dead. Thou art the sand, which fills one glass, And then doth to another pass; And could I put thee to a stay, Thou art but dust! Then go thy way, And leave me clean and bright, though poor; Who stops thee doth but daub his floor; And, swallow-like, when he hath done, To unknown dwellings must be gone! Welcome, pure thoughts, and peaceful hours, Enrich'd with sunshine and with show'rs; Welcome fair hopes, and holy cares, The not to be repented shares Of time and business; the sure road Unto my last and lov'd abode! O supreme Bliss! The Circle, Centre, and Abyss Of blessings, never let me miss Nor leave that path which leads to Thee, Who art alone all things to me! I hear, I see, all the long day The noise and pomp of the broad way. I note their coarse and proud approaches, Their silks, perfumes, and glittering coaches. But in the narrow way to Thee I observe only poverty, And despis'd things; and all along The ragged, mean, and humble throng Are still on foot; and as they go They sigh, and say, their Lord went so. Give me my staff then, as it stood When green and growing in the wood; --Those stones, which for the altar serv'd, Might not be smooth'd, nor finely carv'd-- With this poor stick I'll pass the ford, As Jacob did; and Thy dear word, As Thou hast dress'd it, not as wit And deprav'd tastes have poison'd it, Shall in the passage be my meat, And none else will Thy servant eat. Thus, thus, and in no other sort, Will I set forth, though laugh'd at for't; And leaving the wise world their way, Go through, though judg'd to go astray.

THE BEE.

From fruitful beds and flow'ry borders, Parcell'd to wasteful ranks and orders, Where State grasps more than plain Truth needs, And wholesome herbs are starv'd by weeds, To the wild woods I will be gone, And the coarse meals of great Saint John.

When truth and piety are miss'd Both in the rulers and the priest; When pity is not cold, but dead, And the rich eat the poor like bread; While factious heads with open coil And force, first make, then share, the spoil; To Horeb then Elias goes, And in the desert grows the rose. Hail crystal fountains and fresh shades, Where no proud look invades, No busy worldling hunts away The sad retirer all the day! Hail, happy, harmless solitude! Our sanctuary from the rude And scornful world; the calm recess Of faith, and hope, and holiness! Here something still like Eden looks; Honey in woods, juleps in brooks, And flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled sweets With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets, When the toils of the day are done, And the tir'd world sets with the sun. Here flying winds and flowing wells Are the wise, watchful hermit's bells; Their busy murmurs all the night To praise or prayer do invite, And with an awful sound arrest, And piously employ his breast.

When in the East the dawn doth blush, Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush; Herbs straight get up, flow'rs peep and spread, Trees whisper praise, and bow the head: Birds, from the shades of night releas'd, Look round about, then quit the nest, And with united gladness sing The glory of the morning's King. The hermit hears, and with meek voice Offers his own up, and their joys: Then prays that all the world may be Bless'd with as sweet an unity.

If sudden storms the day invade, They flock about him to the shade: Where wisely they expect the end, Giving the tempest time to spend; And hard by shelters on some bough Hilarion's servant, the sage crow.

O purer years of light and grace! The diff'rence is great as the space 'Twixt you and us, who blindly run After false fires, and leave the sun. Is not fair Nature of herself Much richer than dull paint or pelf? And are not streams at the spring-head More sweet than in carv'd stone or lead? But fancy and some artist's tools Frame a religion for fools.

The truth, which once was plainly taught, With thorns and briars now is fraught. Some part is with bold fables spotted, Some by strange comments wildly blotted; And Discord--old Corruption's crest-- With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest. So snow, which in its first descents A whiteness, like pure Heav'n, presents, When touch'd by man is quickly soil'd, And after, trodden down and spoil'd.

O lead me, where I may be free In truth and spirit to serve Thee! Where undisturb'd I may converse With Thy great Self; and there rehearse Thy gifts with thanks; and from Thy store, Who art all blessings, beg much more. Give me the wisdom of the bee, And her unwearied industry! That from the wild gourds of these days, I may extract health, and Thy praise, Who canst turn darkness into light, And in my weakness show Thy might.

Suffer me not in any want To seek refreshment from a plant Thou didst not set; since all must be Pluck'd up, whose growth is not from Thee. 'Tis not the garden, and the bow'rs, Nor sense and forms, that give to flow'rs Their wholesomeness, but Thy good will, Which truth and pureness purchase still.

Then since corrupt man hath driv'n hence Thy kind and saving influence, And balm is no more to be had In all the coasts of Gilead; Go with me to the shade and cell, Where Thy best servants once did dwell. There let me know Thy will, and see Exil'd Religion own'd by Thee; For Thou canst turn dark grots to halls, And make hills blossom like the vales; Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs, And fresh delights for all sad hours; Till from them, like a laden bee, I may fly home, and hive with Thee

TO CHRISTIAN RELIGION.

Farewell, thou true and tried reflection Of the still poor, and meek election: Farewell, soul's joy, the quick'ning health Of spirits, and their secret wealth! Farewell, my morning-star, the bright And dawning looks of the True Light! O blessed shiner, tell me whither Thou wilt be gone, when night comes hither! A seër that observ'd thee in Thy course, and watch'd the growth of sin, Hath giv'n his judgment, and foretold, That westward hence thy course will hold; And when the day with us is done, There fix, and shine a glorious sun. O hated shades and darkness! when You have got here the sway again, And like unwholesome fogs withstood The light, and blasted all that's good, Who shall the happy shepherds be, To watch the next nativity Of truth and brightness, and make way For the returning, rising day? O what year will bring back our bliss? Or who shall live, when God doth this? Thou Rock of Ages! and the Rest Of all, that for Thee are oppress'd! Send down the Spirit of Thy truth, That Spirit, which the tender youth, And first growths of Thy Spouse did spread Through all the world, from one small head! Then if to blood we must resist, Let Thy mild Dove, and our High-Priest, Help us, when man proves false or frowns, To bear the Cross, and save our crowns. O honour those that honour Thee! Make babes to still the enemy! And teach an infant of few days To perfect by his death Thy praise! Let none defile what Thou didst wed, Nor tear the garland from her head! But chaste and cheerful let her die, And precious in the Bridegroom's eye So to Thy glory and her praise, These last shall be her brightest days.

Revel[ation] chap. last, vers. 17. "The Spirit and the Bride say, Come."

DAPHNIS.

An Elegiac Eclogue. The Interlocutors, Damon, Menalcas.

Damon.

What clouds, Menalcas, do oppress thy brow, Flow'rs in a sunshine never look so low? Is Nisa still cold flint? or have thy lambs Met with the fox by straying from their dams?

Menalcas.

Ah, Damon, no! my lambs are safe; and she Is kind, and much more white than they can be. But what doth life when most serene afford Without a worm which gnaws her fairest gourd? Our days of gladness are but short reliefs, Giv'n to reserve us for enduring griefs: So smiling calms close tempests breed, which break Like spoilers out, and kill our flocks when weak. I heard last May--and May is still high Spring-- The pleasant Philomel her vespers sing. The green wood glitter'd with the golden sun. And all the west like silver shin'd; not one Black cloud; no rags, nor spots did stain The welkin's beauty; nothing frown'd like rain. But ere night came, that scene of fine sights turn'd To fierce dark show'rs; the air with lightnings burn'd; The wood's sweet syren, rudely thus oppress'd, Gave to the storm her weak and weary breast. I saw her next day on her last cold bed: And Daphnis so, just so is Daphnis, dead!

Damon.

So violets, so doth the primrose, fall, At once the Spring's pride, and its funeral. Such easy sweets get off still in their prime, And stay not here to wear the soil of time; While coarser flow'rs, which none would miss, if past, To scorching Summers and cold Autumns last.

Menalcas.