Classic Poem

La Solitude de S t Amant, englished

O! Solitude my sweetest choice,
Places devoted to the Night;
Remote from tumult, & from noise,
How you my restless thoughts delight!
O! heavens! what content is mine!
To see these Trees which have appear'd
From the nativity of Time;
And which all Ages have rever'd,
To look to day as fresh, & green
As when their beauty's first were seen.

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A chearfull wind does court them soe,
And with such amourous breath unfould,
That we by nothing els, can know
But by their height, that they are old.
Hither the Demy:Gods did fly,
To seeke a sanctuary, when
Displeased Jove did peirce the Sky,
To poure a deluge upon Men,
And on these boughs, themselves did save,
Whence they could hardly see a wave

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Sad Philomel upon this Thorn
So curiously by Flora drest,
In melting notes her case forlorn
To entertain me, hath confest
O! how agre e able a sight,
These hanging Mountains doe appear,
Which the unhappy doe envite
To finish all their Sorrows here
When their hard fate makes them endure,
Such woes as only Death can cure.

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What pleasant desolations make
These Torrents vagabond, & fierce,
Who in huge leaps their Springs forsake,
This solitary vale to peirce
Then sliding, Just as Serpents doe,
Under the foot of every Tree,
Themselves are turn'd to Rivers too.
Wherein some stately Nayade,
As in her native bed, is grown
A Queen, upon a Crystall Throne

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This Fen, beset with River Plants,
O! how it does my Sences charm!
Nor Elders, Reeds, nor Willow's wants,
Which the sharp steel did never harm
The Nimphs who here doe take ye Aire,
May with such distaffs furnish'd be,
As Flags & Rushes can prepare
Where you ye nimble Frog may see
Who frighted, to retreat does fly,
If an approaching man he spie.

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Here, water-fowle repose enjoy,
Without the interrupting care,
Least fortune should their bliss destroy,
By the malicious Fowler's Snare
Some ravish'd with so bright a day,
Their feathers finely prune, & deck,
Others their amorous heats allay,
Which yet ye waters could not check,
All take their Innocent content
In this their lovely Element

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Summers nor Winters bold approach
This Stream did never entertain,
Nor ever felt a Boat, or Coach,
Whilst either season did remain
No thirsty Traveller came near
And rudely made his hand his cup,
Nor any hunted Hind hath here
Her hopeless life resigned up
Nor ever did ye treacherous hook
Presume to rifle any Brook

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How pleasant's the declining State
Of these old ruin'd Castle walls!
On whom the utmost rage, and hate,
Of times worst insurrection falls
The Witches keep their Sabboth here,
And wanton Devills here retreat
Who in malicious sport appeare
Our Sence both to afflict, & cheat,
And here within a thousand holes
Are nests of Adders, & of Owles.

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The Raven with his dreadfull crys,
(Those mortall augury's of fate:)
The dismall Goblins gratify's
Who in these gloomy places wait
Here on cursd wood the wind does move,
A Carcass, which did once belong
To one that hang'd himself, for Love
Of a fayr Nimph that did him wrong
Who though she saw his Love, & truth,
With one look, would not save the youth

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But heav'n who Judges equally,
And its own Laws will still maintain,
Rewarded soon her cruelty,
With a deserv'd, & mighty pain:
Her wandring & condemned shade.
About this [squallid heap] of bones,
The destiny her rigour made,
Laments, in long & piercing grones
And the more to augment her fright,
Her crime is ever in her sight.

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Here upon antique Marbles trac'd,
Devices of time past we see,
There age hath almost quite defac'd,
What Lovers carv'd on every Tree
The Cellar, here the highest Room
Receives, when its old rafters faile,
Soyl'd with the venom & the foame,
Of the Spider, & the Snaile
The Ivy in ye Chimny, see
Grow's shaded by the Walnutt Tree

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Below, there does a Cave extend,
Wherein there is so dark a Grott,
That should the Sun himself descend,
I think he could not see a Jot.
Here, Sleep, within a heavy Lid,
In quiet Sadness locks up Sence,
And every care he does forbid,
Whilst in the arms of negligence,
Lazily on his back he's spread,
And sheaves of Poppy are his bed.

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Within this coole, & hollow Cave,
(Where Love it self might turn to Ice)
Poor Eccho ceases not to rave,
On her Narcissus wild, and nice,
Hither I gently steale, as thought,
And by the softning Musick made,
On a sweet Lute, in charms well taught,
Sometimes, I flatter her sad shade,
Whilst of my Chords, I make such choice,
They serve as Body to her Voice.

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When from these ruines I retire,
This lofty Rock I next invade,
Whose Top, I fancy does enquire
Of what materialls mists are made
From thence descending Leasurely,
Under the brow of a steep Hill,
It with great pleasure, I descry
By waters undermin'd, untill
They to Palemons Seat do climb,
Composd of Sponges, & of Slime.

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How highly is my fancy pleas'd
To be upon the Ocean's shore,
When she begins to be appeas'd,
And her fierce billows cease to roare.
And when the hairy Tritons are
Riding upon the roling wave,
With what strange sounds they strike the Aire,
Of their Trumpets hoarse, & brave!
Whose loüd report, does every wind
Unto his due submission bind

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Sometimes the Sea, the Sand dispells,
Trembling, & raging in the Bay,
And rowl's it self upon the Shells,
Which it both brings, & takes away.
Sometimes expose's on ye Strand,
Th'effects of Neptune's pride, & scorn,
Drown'd Men, dead Monsters casts on land,
And ships that were in Tempests torn,
With Diamonds, & Amber:Griece
And many more such things as these.

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Sometimes, so gently she does smile,
A floating mirrour she might be,
And you would fancy all that while,
New heavens in her face to see
The Sun himself is drawn so well,
When there he does his Picture view,
That our Ey can hardly tell,
Which is the false Sun, which the true
And least we give our Sence ye ly,
We think hee's fallen from ye Sky

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Bernieres! (for whose beloved sake,
My thoughts are at a noble strife,)
This Landskip, though fantastick, take,
Which I have coppy'd from the life
I only seek the Desarts rough,
Where all alone I love to walk,
And with discourse, refin'd enough,
My Genius, & the Muses talk
But the converse most truly mine,
Is the deare memory of thine

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Thou mayst in this Poem find,
(So full of liberty, and heat,)
What Illustrious beams have shin'd,
To enlighten my conceipt.
Sometimes pensive, sometimes gay,
Just as the fury does controule,
And as the objects I survey,
The notions grow up in my Soul
And are as unconstrain'd, & free,
As that flame which transported me.
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