Classic Poem

Bright soul, of whom if any country known
Had worthy been, thou had'st not lost thine own,
No earth can be thy jointure, for the sun
And stars alone unto thy pitch do run
And pace of thy sweet virtues; only they
Are thy dominions. Those that rule in clay
Stick fast therein; but thy transcendent soul
Doth for two clods of earth ten spheres control.
And though stars shot from Heaven lose their light,
Yet thy brave beams, excluded from their right,
Maintain their lustre still, and shining clear,
Turn wat'rish Holland to a crystal sphere.
Methinks in that Dutch optic I do see
Thy curious virtues much more visibly.
There is thy best throne, for afflictions are
A foil to set off worth, and make it rare.
Through that black tiffany, thy virtues shine
Fairer and richer, now we know what's thine
And what is fortune's. Thou hast singled out
Sorrows and griefs, to fight with them a bout
At their own weapons, without pomp or state
To second thee against their cunning hate.

O, what a poor thing 'tis to be a queen
When sceptres, state, attendants are the screen
Betwixt us and the people; whenas glory
Lies round about us, to help out the story;
When all things pull and hale, that they may bring
A slow behaviour to the style of king;
When sense is made by comments! But that face,
Whose native beauty needs not dress or lace
To set it forth, and being stripped of all,
Is self-sufficient to be the self-thrall
Of thousand hearts; that face doth figure thee
And show thy undivided majesty,
Which misery cannot untwist, but rather
Adds to the union, as lights, to gather
Splendours from darkness. So close sits the crown
About thy temples that the furious frown
Of opposition cannot place thee where
Thou should'st not be a queen, and conquer there.
Yet hast thou more dominions: God doth give
Children for kingdoms to thee. They shall live
To conquer new ones, and shall share the frame
Of th' universe, like as the winds, and name
The world anew. The sun shall never rise
But it shall spy some of thy victories.
Their hands shall clip the eagle's wings and chase
Those ravening harpies, which peck at their face,
At once to Hell, without a baiting-while
At Purgatory, their Enchanted Isle
And Paris Garden. Then let their perfume
And Spanish saints, wisely laid up, presume
To deal with brimstone, that untimed stench
Whose fire, like their malice, nought can quench.

But joys are stored for thee, thou shalt return
Laden with comfort thence, where now to mourn
Is thy chief government, to manage woe,
To curb some rebel tears, which fain would flow,
Making a head and spring against thy reason.
This is thy empire yet, till better season
Call thee from out of that surrounded land,
That habitable sea and brinish strand,
Thy tears not needing. For that hand divine,
Which mingles water with thy Rhenish wine,
Will pour full joys to thee, but dregs to those
(And meet their taste) who are thy bitter foes.