Classic Poem

By this was Philocel returning back,
And in his hand the lady; for whose wrack
Nature had clean foresworn to frame a wight
So wholly pure, so truly exquisite;
But more deform'd and from a rough-hewn mould,
Since what is best lives seldom to be old,
Within their sight was fairest Cælia now;
Who drawing near, the life-priz'd golden bough
Her love beheld. And as a mother kind
What time the new-cloth'd trees by gusts of wind
Unmov'd, stand wistly list'ning to those lays
The feather'd quiristers upon their sprays
Chant to the merry Spring, and in the even
She with her little son for pleasure given,
To tread the fring'd banks of an amorous flood,
That with her music courts a sullen wood,
Where ever talking with her only bliss,
That now before and then behind her is,
She stoops for flow'rs the choicest may be had,
And bringing them to please her pretty lad,
Spies in his hand some baneful flow'r or weed,
Whereon he 'gins to smell, perhaps to feed,
With a more earnest haste she runs unto him,
And pulls that from him which might else undo him,
So to his Cælia hasten'd Philocel,
And raught the bough away: hid it: and fell
To question if she broke it, or if then
An eye beheld her. Of the race of men,
Replied she, when I took it from the tree
Assure yourself was none to testify,
But what hath past since in your hand, behold,
A fellow running yonder o'er the wold
Is well inform'd of. Can there, love, ensue,
Tell me! oh tell me! any wrong to you
By what my hand hath ignorantly done?
(Quoth fearful Cælia) Philocel! be won
By these unfeigned tears, as I by thine,
To make thy greatest sorrows partly mine!
Clear up these showers, my Sun, quoth Philocel,
The ground it needs not. Nought is so from well
But that reward and kind entreaties may
Make smooth the front of wrath, and this allay.
Thus wisely he suppress'd his height of woe,
And did resolve, since none but they did know
Truly who rent it, and the hateful swain
That lately pass'd by them upon the plain
Whom well he knew did bear to him a hate,
Though undeserved, so inveterate
That to his utmost pow'r he would assay
To make his life have ended with that day)
Except in his hand seen it in no hand,
That he against all throes of Fate would stand,
Acknowledge it his deed, and so afford
A passage to his heart for Justice' sword,
Rather than by her loss the world should be
Despis'd and scorn'd for losing such as she.
Now, with a vow of secrecy from both,
Enforcing mirth, he with them homewards go'th;
And by the time the shades of mighty woods
Began to turn them to the eastern floods,
They thither got: where with undaunted heart
He welcomes both, and freely doth impart
Such dainties as a shepherd's cottage yields,
Ta'en from the fruitful woods and fertile fields:
No way distracted nor disturb'd at all.
And to prevent what likely might befall
His truest Cælia, in his apprehending,
Thus to all future care gave final ending:
Into their cup (wherein for such sweet girls
Nature would myriads of richest pearls
Dissolve, and by her pow'rful simples strive
To keep them still on earth, and still alive),
Our swain infus'd a powder which they drank:
And to a pleasant room, set on a bank
Near to his coat, where he did often use
At vacant hours to entertain his Muse,
Brought them and seated on a curious bed,
Till what he gave in operation sped,
And robb'd them of his sight, and him of theirs,
Whose new enlight'ning will be quench'd with tears
The glass of Time had well-nigh spent the sand
It had to run ere with impartial hand
Justice must to her upright balance take him:
Which he (afraid it might too soon forsake him)
Began to use as quickly as perceive,
And of his love thus took his latest leave:
Cælia! thou fairest creature ever eye
Beheld, or yet put on mortality!
Cælia, that hast but just so much of earth,
As makes thee capable of death! Thou birth:
Of every virtue, life of every good!
Whose chastest sports and daily taking food
Is imitation of the highest pow'rs
Who to the earth lend seasonable show'rs,
That it may bear, we to their altars bring,
Things worthy their accept, our offering.
The most wretched creature ever eye
Beheld, or yet put on mortality,
Unhappy Philocel, that have of earth
Too much to give my sorrows endless birth,
The spring of sad misfortunes; in whom lies
No bliss that with thy worth can sympathize,
Clouded with woe that hence will never flit,
Till death's eternal night grow one with it:
Is a dying swan that sadly sings
Her moanful dirge unto the silver springs,
Which careless of her song glide sleeping by
Without one murmur of kind elegy,
Now stand by thee; and as a turtle's mate,
With lamentations inarticulate,
The near departure from her love bemoans,
Spend these my bootless sighs and killing groans.
Here as a man (by Justice' doom) exil'd
To coasts unknown, to deserts rough and wild,
Stand I to take my latest leave of thee:
Whose happy and heaven-making company
Might I enjoy in Libya's continent,
Were blest fruition and not banishment.
First of those eyes that have already ta'en
Their leave of me: lamps fitting for the fane
Of heaven's most pow'r, and which might ne'er expire
But be as sacred as the vestal fire:
Then of those plots, where half-ros'd lilies be,
Not one by Art but Nature's industry,
From which I go as one excluded from
The taintless flow'rs of blest Elysium:
Next from those lips I part, and may there be
No one that shall hereafter second me!
Guiltless of any kisses but their own,
Their sweets but to themselves to all unknown:
For should our swains divulge what sweets there be
Within the sea-clipt bounds of Britany,
We should not from invasions be exempted,
But with that prize would all the world be tempted
Then from her heart: O no! let that be never,
For if I part from thence I die for ever.
Be that the record of my love and name!
Be that to me as is the Phœnix' flame!
Creating still anew what Justice' doom
Must yield to dust and a forgotten tomb.
Let thy chaste love to me (as shadows run
In full extent unto the setting sun)
Meet with my fall; and when that I am gone,
Back to thyself retire, and there grow one.
If to a second light thy shadow be,
Let him still have his ray of love from me;
And if, as I, that likewise do decline,
Be mine or his, or else be his and mine.
But know no other, nor again be sped,
“She dies a virgin that but knows one bed.”