Classic Poem

It Autumne was, and on our hemispheare
Faire Ericyne began bright to appeare,
Night West-ward did her gemmie World decline,
And hide her Lights, that greater Light might shine:
The crested Bird had given Alarum twice
To lazie Mortalls, to unlocke their Eyes,
The Owle had left to plaine, and from each Thorne
The wing'd Musicians did salute the Morne ,
Who (while shee glass'd her Lockes in Ganges Streames)
Set open wide the christall Port of Dreames:
When I, whose Eyes no drowsie Night could close,
In Sleepes soft Armes did quietly repose,
And, for that Heavens to die mee did denie,
Deaths Image kissed, and as dead did lie.
I lay as dead, but scarce charm'd were my Cares,
And slaked scarce my Sighes, scarce dried my Teares,
Sleepe scarce the uglie Figures of the Day
Had with his sable Pincell put away,
And left mee in a still and calmie Mood,
When by my Bed (me thought) a Virgine stood,
A Virgine in the blooming of her Prime,
If such rare Beautie measur'd bee by Time?
Her Head a Garland ware of Opalls bright,
About her flow'd a Gowne as pure as Light,
Deare amber Lockes gave Umbrage to her Face,
Where Modestie high Majestie did grace,
Her Eyes such Beames sent forth, that but with Paine
Here weaker Sights their sparkling could sustaine:
No Deitie faign'd which haunts the silent Woods
Is like to Her, nor Syrene of the Floods:
Such is the golden Planet of the Yeare,
When blushing in the East hee doth appeare.
Her Grace did Beautie, Voyce yet Grace did passe,
Which thus through Pearles and Rubies broken was.
How long wilt thou (said shee) estrang'd from Joy,
Paint Shadowes to thy selfe of false Annoy?
How long thy Minde with horride Shapes affrighte,
And in imaginarie Evills delighte?
Esteeme that Losse which (well when view'd) is Gaine,
Or if a Losse, yet not a Losse to plaine?
O Leave thy tired Soule more to molest,
And thinke that Woe when shortest then is best.
If shee for whom thou deafnest thus the Skie
Bee dead? what then? was shee not borne to die?
Was shee not mortall borne? if thou dost grieve
That Times should bee, in which shee should not live,
Ere e'er shee was, weepe that Dayes Wheele was roll'd,
Weepe that shee liv'd not in the Age of Gold:
For that shee was not then, thou may'st deplore
As duely as that now shee is no more.
If onely shee had died, thou sure hadst Cause
To blame the Destines and Heavens iron Lawes:
But looke how many Millions Her advance,
What numbers with Her enter in this Dance,
With those which are to come: shall Heavens them stay,
And Alls faire Order breake, thee to obay?
Even as thy Birth, Death which thee doth appall,
A Piece is of the Life of this great All .
Strong Cities die, die doe high palmie Raignes,
And (weakling) thou thus to bee handled plaines.
If she bee dead? then shee of lothsome Dayes
Hath past the Line, whose Length but Losse bewrayes;
Then shee hath left this filthie Stage of Care,
Where Pleasure seldome, Woe doth still repaire:
For all the Pleasures which it doth containe,
Not contervaile the smallest Minutes Paine.
And tell mee, Thou who dost so much admire
This little Vapour, Smoake, this Sparke, or Fire,
Which Life is call'd, what doth it thee bequeath,
But some few Yeeres which Birth drawes out to Death?
Which if thou paragone, with Lusters runne,
And them whose Carriere is but now begunne,
In Dayes great Vaste they shall farre lesse appeare,
Than with the Sea when matched is a Teare.
But why wouldst thou Here longer wish to bee?
One Yeere doth serve all Natures Pompe to see,
Nay, even one Day, and Night: This Moone, that Sunne,
Those lesser Fires about this Round which runne,
Bee but the same which under Saturnes Raigne
Did the serpenting Seasons enterchaine.
How oft doth Life grow lesse by living long?
And what excelleth but what dieth yong?
For Age which all abhorre (yet would embrace)
Whiles makes the Minde as wrinkled as the Face:
And when that Destinies conspire with Worth,
That Yeeres not glorie Wrong, Life soone goes forth.
Leave then Laments, and thinke thou didst not live,
Lawes to that first eternall Cause to give,
But to obey those Lawes which hee hath given,
And bow unto the just Decrees of Heaven,
Which can not erre, what ever foggie Mists
Doe blinde Men in these sublunarie Lists.
But what if shee for whom thou spend'st those Grones,
And wastest Lifes deare Torch in ruthfull Mones,
Shee for whose sake thou hat'st the joyfull Light,
Court'st solitarie Shades, and irksome Night,
Doth live? O! (if thou canst) through Teares a Space
Lift thy dimm'd Lights, and looke upon this Face,
Looke if those Eyes which (foole) thou didst adore,
Shine not more bright than they were wont before?
Looke if those Roses Death could aught impaire,
Those Roses to thee once which seem'd so faire?
And if these Lockes have lost aught of that Gold,
Which erst they had when thou them didst behold?
I live, and happie live, but thou art dead,
And still shalt bee, till thou be like mee made.
Alas! whilst wee are wrapt in Gownes of Earth,
And blinde, heere sucke the Aire of Woe beneath,
Each thing in Senses Ballances wee wie,
And but with Toyle, and Paine the Trueth descrie.
Above this vaste and admirable Frame,
This Temple visible, which World wee name,
Within whose Walles so many Lamps doe burne,
So many Arches opposite doe turne,
Where Elementall Brethren nurse their Strife,
And by intestine Warres maintaine their Life,
There is a World, a World of perfect Blisse,
Pure, immateriall, bright, more farre from this,
Than that high Circle which the rest enspheares
Is from this dull ignoble Vale of Teares,
A World, where all is found, that heere is found,
But further discrepant than Heaven and Ground:
It hath an Earth, as hath this World of yours,
With Creatures peopled, stor'd with Trees, and Flowrs,
It hath a Sea, like Saphire Girdle cast,
Which decketh of harmonious Shores the Waste,
It hath pure Fire, it hath delicious Aire,
Moone, Sunne, and Starres, Heavens wonderfully faire:
But there Flowres doe not fade, Trees grow not olde,
The Creatures doe not die through Heat nor Colde,
Sea there not tossed is, nor Aire made blacke,
Fire doth not nurse it selfe on others Wracke;
There Heavens bee not constrain'd about to range,
For this World hath no neede of any Change,
The Minutes grow not Houres, Houres rise not Dayes,
Dayes make no Months, but ever-blooming Mayes.
Heere I remaine, and hitherward doe tend
All who their Spanne of Dayes in Vertue spend:
What ever Pleasure this low Place containes,
It is a Glance but of what high remaines.
Those who (perchance) thinke there can nothing bee
Without this wide Expansion which they see,
And that nought else mounts Starres Circumference,
For that nought else is subject to their Sense,
Feele such a Case, as one whom some Abisme
Of the Deepe Ocean kept had all his Time:
Who borne and nourish'd there, can scarcely dreame
That ought can live without that brinie Streame,
Can not beleeve that there be Temples, Towres,
Which goe beyond his Caves and dampish Bowres,
Or there bee other People, Manners, Lawes,
Than them hee finds within the roaring Waves,
That sweeter Flowrs doe spring than grow on Rockes,
Or Beasts bee which excell the scalie Flockes,
That other Elements be to be found,
Than is the Water, and this Ball of Ground.
But thinke that Man from those Abismes were brought,
And saw what curious Nature here hath wrought,
Did see the Meads, the tall and shadie Woods,
The Hilles did see, the cleare and ambling Floods,
The diverse Shapes of Beasts which Kinds forth bring,
The feathred Troupes, that flie and sweetly sing:
Did see the Palaces, the Cities faire,
The Forme of humane Life, the Fire, the Aire,
The brightnesse of the Sunne that dimmes his Sight,
The Moone, the ghastly Splendors of the Night:
What uncouth Rapture would his Minde surprise?
How would hee his (late-deare) Resort despise?
How would hee muse how foolish hee had beene
To thinke nought bee, but what hee there had seene?
Why did wee get this high and vaste Desire,
Unto immortall things still to aspire?
Why doth our Minde extend it beyond Time ,
And to that highest Happinesse even clime?
If wee be nought but what to Sense wee seeme,
And Dust, as most of Worldlings us esteeme?
Wee bee not made for Earth, though here wee come,
More than the Embryon for the Mothers Wombe:
It weepes to bee made free, and wee complaine
To leave this loathsome Jayle of Care and Paine.
But thou who vulgare Foot-steps dost not trace,
Learne to raise up thy Minde unto this Place,
And what Earth-creeping Mortalles most affect,
If not at all to scorne, yet to neglect:
O chase not Shadowes vaine, which when obtain'd,
Were better lost, than with such Travell gain'd.
Thinke that, on Earth which Humanes Greatnesse call,
Is but a glorious Title to live thrall:
That Scepters, Diadems, and Chaires of State,
Not in themselves, but to small Mindes are great:
How those who loftiest mount, doe hardest light,
And deepest Falls bee from the highest Hight;
How Fame an Eccho is, how all Renowne
Like to a blasted Rose, ere Night falles downe:
And though it something were, thinke how this Round
Is but a little Point, which doth it bound.
O leave that Love which reacheth but to Dust,
And in that Love eternall only trust,
And Beautie , which when once it is possest,
Can only fill the Soule, and make it blest.
Pale Envie, jealous Emulations, Feares,
Sighs, Plaints, Remorse, here have no Place, nor Teares,
False Joyes, vaine Hopes, here bee not, Hate nor Wrath,
What ends all Love, here most augments it, Death .
If such Force had the dimme Glance of an Eye,
Which some few Dayes thereafter was to die,
That it could make thee leave all other things,
And like the Taper-flie there burne thy Wings?
And if a Voyce, of late which could but waile,
Such Power had, as through Eares thy Soule to steale?
If once thou on that only Faire couldst gaze,
What Flames of Love would hee within thee raise?
In what a mazing Maze would it thee bring,
To heare but once that Quire celestiall sing?
The fairest Shapes on which thy Love did sease,
Which erst did breede Delight, then would displease,
Then Discords hoarse were Earth's enticing Sounds,
All Musicke but a Noyse which Sense confounds.
This great and burning Glasse that cleares all Eyes,
And musters with such Glorie in the Skies,
That silver Starre which with its sober Light,
Makes Day oft envie the eye-pleasing Night,
Those golden Letters which so brightly shine
In Heavens great Volume gorgeously divine,
The Wonders all in Sea, in Earth, in Aire,
Bee but darke Pictures of that Soveraigne Faire ,
Bee Tongues, which still thus crie into your Eare,
(Could yee amidst Worlds Cataracts them heare)
From fading things (fond Wights) lift your Desire,
And in our Beautie, his us made admire,
If wee seeme faire? O thinke how faire is Hee,
Of whose faire Fairnesse, Shadowes, Steps, we bee.
No Shadow can compare it with the Face,
No Step with that deare Foot which did it trace;
Your Soules immortall are, then place them hence,
And doe not drowne them in the Must of Sense:
Doe not, O doe not by false Pleasures Might
Deprive them of that true, and sole Delight.
That Happinesse yee seeke is not below,
Earths sweetest Joy is but disguised Woe.
Heere did shee pause, and with a milde Aspect
Did towards mee those lamping Twinnes direct:
The wonted Rayes I knew, and thrice essay'd
To answere make, thrice faultring Tongue it stay'd.
And while upon that Face I fed my Sight,
Mee thought shee vanish'd up in Titans Light,
Who gilding with his Rayes each Hill and Plaine,
Seem'd to have brought the Gold-smiths World againe.