Then that which living gave you room There wants no marble for a tomb, SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT [1606-1668] 132 SONG THE lark now leaves his wat'ry nest, And to implore your light, he sings. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, Who look for day before his mistress wakes. 133 ABRAHAM COWLEY [1618-1667] DRINKING THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain, Drinks up the sea, and when he's done, 1344 THE WISH [From ANACREONTIQUES.] WELL then! I now do plainly see And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endure the stings, Ah, yet, ere I descend to th' grave May I a small house and large garden have; And since love ne'er will from me flee, A Mistress moderately fair, And good as guardian-angels are, Only beloved and loving me. O founts! O when in you shall I Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy? Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood: [Here's wealthy Nature's treasury,]* Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, The Gods, when they descend, hither From heaven did always choose their way: That 'tis the way too thither. How happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die! I should have then this only fear: 133 ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY * It was a dismal and a fearful night,— Scarce could the morn drive on th' unwilling light, My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, And on my soul hung the dull weight Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know! My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, This line, which modern editors print, does not appear in any of the earlier editions of Cowley. Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan? Did not with more reluctance part Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee. Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say, Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade, And into darksome shades combine, Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er High as the place 'twas shortly in heaven to have, So high that all the virtues there did come Conspicuous, and great; So low that for me too it made a room. Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught, Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ, About his eloquent tongue; Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, For the rich help of books he always took, As if wise Nature had made that her book. With as much zeal, devotion, piety, Which still in water sets at night. Unsullied with his journey of the day. [From the poem of the same title.] SIR JOHN DENHAM [1615-1669] 136 THE RIVER THAMES My eye, descending from the hill, surveys Where Thames amongst the wanton valleys strays; Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet Eternity; Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Nor, with a sudden and impetuous wave, No unexpected inundations spoil The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil, First loves to do, then loves the good he does; |