RICHARD CRASHAW. 1615 (?)-1650. ["Steps to the Temple," etc. 1646.] OUT OF THE ITALIAN. A SONG. To thy lover, Dear, discover That sweet blush of thine that shameth It discloses) All the flowers that Nature nameth. In free air Flow thy hair; That no more Summer's best dresses Be beholden For their golden Locks to Phoebus' flaming tresses. O deliver Love his quiver, From thy eyes he shoots his arrows, Where Apollo Cannot follow, Feathered with his mother's sparrows. O envy not (That we die not) Those dear lips whose door encloses All the Graces In their places, Brother pearls, and sister roses. From these treasures Of ripe pleasures One bright smile to clear the weather. Earth and heaven Thus made even, Both will be good friends together. The air does woo thee, Winds cling to thee; Might a word once fly from out thee, Storm and thunder Would sit under, And keep silence round about thee. But if Nature's Common creatures So dear glories dare not borrow: Owes a duty To my loving lingering sorrow. When to end me Death shall send me All his terrors to affright me: Thine eyes' Graces Gild their faces, And those terrors shall delight me. When my dying Life is flying, Those sweet airs that often slew me Shall revive me, Or reprieve me, And to many deaths renew me. THE DEW NO MORE SHALL WEEP. The dew no more shall weep, The primrose's pale cheek to deck; The dew no more shall sleep, Nuzzled in the lily's neck: Much rather would it tremble here, Not the soft gold which Steals from the amber-weeping tree, Makes sorrow half so rich, As the drops distilled from thee: Sorrow's best jewels be in these Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys. When sorrow would be seen In her bright majesty, (For she is a queen) Then is she dressed by none but thee; Then, and only then, she wears Her richest pearls ;-I mean thy tears. Not in the evening's eyes When they red with weeping are, For the sun that dies, Sits sorrow with a face so fair: No where but here doth meet Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. ABRAHAM COWLEY. 1618-1667. IN 1647 "the melancholy Cowley" published a volume of poems, entitled, "THE MISTRESSE, OR SEVERALL COPIES OF LOVE VERSES." "Poets," he says in his preface (I quote from the folio edition of 1656), "Poets are scarce thought freemen of their company, without paying some duties, and obliging themselves to be true to love. Sooner, or later, they must all pass through that trial, like some Mohammedan monks, that are bound by their order, once at least in their life, to make a pilgrimage to Mecca." That Cowley himself passed through that trial, or, to parody his own expression, made a pilgrimage to the Mecca of Love, is admitted by most of his biographers, but they tell us nothing of the route which he took, and through what dangers or delights it led him. We only know that he wandered astray in the desert, misled perhaps by some glittering mirage, and never reached the shrine. "In the latter part of his life,” says Pope, or Spence for him, "he showed a sort of aversion for women; and would leave the room when they came in: 't was probably from a disappointment in love. He was much in love with his Leonora; who is mentioned at the end of that good ballad on his different mistresses. She was married to Dean Sprat's brother; and Cowley never was in love with anybody after." THE SPRING. Though you be absent here, I needs must say Nay, the birds' rural music too Is as melodious and free, As if they sung to pleasure you: I saw a rose-bud ope this morn, I'll swear The blushing morning opened not more fair. How could it be so fair, and you away? How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay? Could they remember but last year, How you did them, they you delight, The sprouting leaves which saw you here, Would, looking round for the same sight in vain, Where'er you walked, trees were as reverend made, As when of old gods dwelt in every shade. Is 't possible they should not know What loss of honour they sustain, That thus they smile and flourish now, Dull creatures! 't is not without cause that she, In ancient times sure they much wiser were, When Orpheus had his song begun, They called their wondering roots away, How would those learnéd trees have followed you! But who can blame them now, for, since you're gone, They're here the only fair, and shine alone. You did their natural right invade; Wherever you did walk or sit, The thickest boughs could make no shade, Although the sun had granted it: The fairest flowers could please no more, near you, Than painted flowers, set next to them, could do. Whene'er then you come hither, that shall be |