The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper

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And he, with dear regard, her gifts does wear
Of flowers, which she in mistick order ties;
And with the sacrifice of many a teare

Salutes her loyal mother in her eyes.
The just historians Birtha thus express,

And tell how, by her syre's example taught, She serv'd the wounded duke in life's distress, And his fled spirits back by cordials brought. Black melancholy mists, that fed despair

Thro' wounds' long rage, with sprinkled vervin
Strew'd leaves of willow to refresh the air, [cleer'd;
And with rich fumes his sullen sences cheer'd.
He that had serv'd great Love with rev'rend heart,
In these old wounds, worse wounds from him
endures;

For Love makes Birtha shift with Death his dart,
And she kills faster than her father cures.

Her heedless innocence as little knew

[took;

The wounds she gave, as those from Love she And Love lifts high each secret shaft he drew, Which at their stars he first in triumph shook! Love he had lik'd, yet never lodg'd before

;

But findes him now a bold unquiet guest,
Who climbes to windowes, when we shut the dore;
And enter'd, never lets the master rest.
So strange disorder, now he pines for health,

Makes him conceal this reveller with shame;
She not the robber knows, yet feeles the stealth,
And never but in songs had heard his name.
Yet then it was, when she did smile at hearts
Which country lovers wear in bleeding seals,
Ask'd where his pretty godhead found such darts,
As make those wounds that onely Hymen heals.
And this, her ancient maid, with sharp complaints,
Heard, and rebuk'd; shook her experienc'd head;
With teares besought her not to jest at saints,
Nor mock those martyrs Love had captive led.

Nor think the pious poets e're would waste

So many teares in ink, to make maids mourn,
If injur'd lovers had in ages paste
...The lucky mirtle, more than willow, worn.
This grave rebuke officious memory

Presents to Birtha's thought, who now believ'd
Such sighing songs, as tell why lovers dy,

And prais'd their faith, who wept, when poets
griev'd.

She, full of inward questions, walks alone,

To take her heart aside in secret shade;
But knocking at her breast, it seem'd, or gone,
Or by confed'racie was useless made;
Or else some stranger did usurp its room;
One so remote, and new in ev'ry thought,
As his behaviour shows him not at home,
Nor the guide sober that him thither brought.

Yet with his forraign heart she does begin

To treat of love, her most unstudy'd theame;
And like young conscienc'd casuists, thinks that sin,
Which will by talk and practise lawfull seeme.
With open eares, and ever-waking eyes,

And flying feet, love's fire she from the sight
Of all her maids does carry, as from spys; [light.
Jealous, that what burns her, might give them

Beneath a mirtle covert she does spend,

In maid's weak wishes, her whole stock of
(mend,
thought;
Fond maids! who love with minde's fine stuff would
Which Nature purposely of body's wrought.

She fashions him she lov'd of angels kinde ;
Such as in holy story were imploy'd

To the first fathers, from th' Eternal Minde,
And in short vision onely are injoy'd.

As eagles then, when nearest Heaven they flie,
Of wild impossibles soon weary grow;
Feeling their bodies finde no rest so high,
And therefore pearch on earthly things below;
So now she yields; him she an angel deem'd
Shall be a man, the name which virgins fear;
Yet the most harmless to a maid he seem'd,
That ever yet that fatal name did bear.

Soon her opinion of his hurtless heart,
Affection turns to faith; and then love's fire
To Heav'n, though bashfully, she does impart,
And to her mother in the heav'nly quire.

"If I do love," (said she) "that love (O Heav'n!)
Your own disciple, Nature, bred in me!
Or blush to show effects which you decree?
Why should I hide the passion you have given,
"And you, my alter'd mother, (grown above
Great Nature, which you read and revrene'd

here)

Chide not such kindness, as you once call'd love,
When you as mortal as my father were."
This said, her soul into her breast retires!

With love's vain diligence of heart she dreams
Her self into possession of desires,

And trusts unanchor'd hope in fleeting streams
Cur'd, and again from bloody battel brought,
Already thinks the duke, her own spous'd lord,
Where all false lovers perish'd by his sword,
The true to her for his protection sought.
She thinks, how her imagin'd spouse and she,
So much from Heav'n, may by her vertues gain;
That they by Time shall ne'r o'retaken be,

No more than Time himself is overta'ne.
Or should he touch them as he by does pass,
Heav'n's favour may repay their summers gone,
And he so mix their sand in a slow glass,

That they shall live, and not as two, but one.
She thinks of Eden-life; and no rough winde
In their pacifique sea shall wrinkles make;
That still her lowliness shall keep him kinde,
Her eares keep him asleep, her voice awake.
She thinks, if ever anger in him sway,

(The youthful warrior's most excus'd disease) Such chance her teares shall calm, as showres allay The accidental rage of windes and seas.

She thinks, that babes proceed from mingling eyes,
Or Heav'n from neighbourhood increase allows,
As palm, and the mamora fructefies;

Or they are got by closse exchanging vows.

But come they (as she hears) from mother's pain,
(Which by th' unlucky first-maid's longing,
So they be like this heav'nly man she loves.
A lasting curse) yet that she will sustain, [proves

Thus to her self in day-dreams Birtha talkes: The duke, (whose wounds of war are healthful grown) [walks, To cure Love's wounds, seeks Birtha where she Whose wand'ring soul seeks him to cure her own. Yet when her solitude he did invade,

Shame (which in maids is unexperienc'd fear) Taught her to wish night's help to make more shade, That love (which maids think guilt) might not

appear.

And she had fled him now, but that he came
So like an aw'd and conquer'd enemy,
That he did seem offenceless as her shame,
As if he but advanc'd for leave to fly.
First with a longing sea-man's look he gaz'd,
Who would ken land, when seas would him
devour;

Or like a fearfull scout, who stands amaz'd

To view the foe, and multiplies their pow'r. Then all the knowledge which her father had

He dreams in ber, thro' purer organs wrought; Whose soul (since there more delicately clad)

By lesser weight, more active was in thought. And to that soul thus spake, with trembling voice: "The world will be, (O thou, the whole world's maid!)

Since now 'tis old enough to make wise choice, Taught by thy minde, and by thy beauty sway'd.

"And I a needless part of it, unless

You think me for the whole a delegate, To treat for what they want of your excess, Vertue to serve the universal state.

66 Nature, (our first example, and our queen, Whose court this is, and you her minion maid) The world thinks now, is in her sickness seen, And that her noble influence is decay'd. "And the records so worn of her first law, That men, with art's hard shifts, read what is Because your beauty many never saw, [good;

The text by which your minde is understood. "And I with the apostate world should grow, From sov'raigne Nature, a revolted slave, But that my lucky wounds brought me to know, How with their cure my sicker minde to save. "A minde still dwelling idly in mine eyes, Where it from outward pomp could ne'r abstain; But, even in beauty, cost of courts did prise, And Nature, unassisted, thought too plain. "Yet by your beauty now reform'd, I finde All other only currant by false light; Or but vain visions of a feav'rish minde,

Too slight to stand the test of waking sight. "And for my healthfull minde (diseas'd before) My love I pay; a gift you may disdain, Since love to you men give not, but restore, As rivers to the sea pay back the rain. "Yet eastern kings, who all by birth possess, Take gifts, as gifts, from vassals of the crown; So think in love, your property not less,

By my kind giving what was first your own." Lifted with love, thus he with lover's grace, And love's wild wonder, spake; and he was rais'd So much with rev'rence of this learned place, That still be fear'd to injure all he prais'd.

And she, in love unpractis'd and unread, (But for some hints her mistress, Nature, taught) Had it till now, like grief, with silence fed; For love and grief are nourish'd best with thought.

But this closs diet Love endures not long,

He must in sighs, or speech, take ayre abroad; And thus, with his interpreter, her tongue, He ventures forth, though like a stranger aw'd. She said, those vertues now she highly needs, Which he so artfully in her does praise, To check (since vanity on praises feeds) That pride which his authentick words may raise. That if her pray'rs, or care, did aught restore Of absent health, in his hemoan'd distress, She beg'd he would approve her duty more, And so commend her feeble vertue less. That she the payment he of love would make Less understood, than yet the debt she knew ; But coynes unknown, suspitiously we take,

And debts, till manifest, are never due.

With bashfull looks she sought him to retire, Least the sharp ayre should his new health

invade;

And as she spake, she saw her rev'rend syre

Approach, to seek her in her usual shade. To whom with filial homage she does bow:

The duke did first at distant duty stand,
But soon imbrac'd his knees, whilst he more low
Does bend to him, and then reach'd Birtha's
hand.

Her face o'ercast with thought, does soon betray
Th' assembled spirits, which his eyes detect
By her pale look, as by the milkie way
Men first did the assembled stars suspect.
Or as a pris'ner, that in prison pines,

Still at the utmost window grieving lies;
Even so her soule, imprison'd, sadly shines,
At if it watch'd for freedome at her eyes!
This guides him to her pulse, th' alarum bell,
Which waits the insurrections of desire,
And rings so fast, as if the cittadell,

Her newly conquer'd breast, were all on fire! Then on the duke he casts a short survay, Whose veines his temples with deep purple grace; Then Love's despaire gives them a pale allay,

And shifts the whole complexion of his face. Nature's wise spy does onward with them walk, And findes, each in the midst of thinking starts; Breath'd short and swiftly in disorder'd talk,

To cool, beneath Love's torrid zone, their hearts. When all these symptomes he observ'd, he knowes From alga, which is rooted deep in seas, To the high cedar that on mountaines grows, No sov'raign hearb is found for their disease. He would not Nature's eldest law resist,

As if wise Nature's law could be impure; But Birtha with indulgent looks dismist,

And means to counsel, what he cannot cure. With mourning Gondibert he walks apart, To watch his passion's force, who seems to bear, By silent grief, two tyrants o're his heart, Great Love, and his inferior tyrant, Fear.

But Astragon such kind inquiries made,
Of all which to his art's wise cares belong,
As his sick silence he does now disswade,
And, midst Love's fears, gives courage to his
tongue.

Then thus he spake with Love's humility:

"Have pity, father! and since first so kinde, You would not let this worthless body die, Vouchsafe more nobly to preserve my minde! "A minde so lately lucky, as it here

Has vertue's mirrour found, which does reflect Such blemishes as custom made it weare,

But more authentick Nature does detect.
"A minde long sick of monarchs' vain disease,
Not to be fill'd, because with glory fed;
So busie it condemn'd even war of ease,
And for their useless rest despis'd the dead.
"But since it here has vertue quiet found,

It thinks (tho' storms were wish'd by it before)
All sick, at least at sea, that scape undrown'd,
Whom glory serves as winde, to leave the shore.
"All vertue is to yours but fashion now,
Religion, art: internals are all gon,
Or outward turn'd, to satisfie with show,
Not God, but his inferiour eye, the Sun.
"And yet, though vertue be as fashion sought,
And now religion rules by art's prais'd skill;
Fashion is vertue's mimmick, falsely taught;

And art, but Nature's ape, which plays her ill. "To this blest house, (great Nature's court) all

courts

Compar'd, are but dark closets for retreat Of private mindes, battels but children's sports; And onely simple good, is solid great. "Let not the minde, thus freed from errour's night, (Since you repriev'd my body from the grave) Perish for being now in love with light,

But let your vertue, vertue's lover save. "Birtha I love; and who loves wisely so,

Steps far tow'rds all which vertue can attain ;
But if we perish, when tow'rds Heav'n we go,
Then I have learnt that vertue is in vain."
And now his heart (extracted through his eyes
In Love's elixer, tears) does soon subdue
Old Astragon, whose pity, though made wise
With Love's false essences, likes these as true.
The duke he to a secret bowre does lead,

Where he his youth's first story may attend;
To guess, ere he will let his love proceed,

By such a dawning, how his day will end. For vertue, though a rarely planted flowre,

Was in the seed by this wise florist known; Who could foretel, even in her springing houre, What colours she shall wear when fully blown.

GONDIBERT.

CANTO THE EIGHTH.

THE ARGUMENT.

Birtha her first unpractis'd love bewailer,
Whilst Gondibert on Astragon prevailes,
By shewing high ambition is of use,
And glory in the good needs no excuse.
Goltho a grief to Ulfinore reveales,
Whilst he a greater of his own conceales.

BIRTHA her griefs to her apartment brought,
Where all her maids to Heav'n were us'd to raise
Their voices, whilst their busie fingers wrought
To deck the altar of the house of Praise.
But now she findes their musick turn'd to care,
Their looks allay'd, like beauty overworn;
Silent and sad as with'ring fav'rites are,
Who for their sick indulgent monarch mourn.
Thula, (the eldest of this silenc'd quire)
When Birtha at this change astonish'd was,
With hasty whisper begg'd her to retire,

And on her knees thus tells their sorrow's cause:
"Forgive me such experience as, too soon,
Shew'd me unlucky Love, by which I guess
How maids are by their innocence undon,

And trace those sorrows that them first oppress.
"Forgive such passion as to speech perswades,
And to my tongue my observation brought;
And then forgive my tongue, which to your maids
Too rashly carry'd what experience taught.
"For since I saw this wounded stranger here,

Your inward musick still uutun'd has been;
You who could need no hope, have learnt to fear,
And practis'd grief, e're you did know to sin.
"This being Love, to Agatha I told,

Did on her tongue, as on still death, rely;
But winged Love she was too young to hold,

And, wanton-like, let it to others fly.

"Love, who in whisper scap'd, did publick grow, Which makes them now their time in silence

waste;

Makes their neglected needles move so slow,

And thro' their eies their hearts dissolve so faste. "For oft, dire tales of Love has fill'd their heads;

And while they doubt you in that tyrant's pow'r,
The spring (they think) may visit woods and meads,
But scarce shall hear a bird, or see a flow'r."
"Ah! how" (said Birtha) "shall I dare confesse

My griefs to thee, Love's rash, impatient spy?
Thou (Thula) who didst run to tell thy guesse,

With secrets known, wilt to confession flie. "But if I love this prince, and have in Heav'n

Made any friends by rowes, you need not fear He will make good the feature Heav'n has giv'n, And be as harmless as his looks appear.

"Yet I have heard that men, whom maids think
kinde,

Calm as forgiven saints at their last hour,
Oft prove like seas, inrag'd by ev'ry winde,
And all to whom their bosoms trust, devour.

"Howe're, Heav'n knows, (the witness of the

minde)

My heart bears men no malice, nor esteems Young princes of the common cruel kinde,

Nor love so foul as it in story seems.

"Yet if this prince brought love, what e're it be, I must suspect, though I accusé it not; For since he came, my medc'nal huswiffrie,

Confections, and my stills, are all forgot. "Blossoms in windes, berries in frosts, may fall! And flowers sink down in rain! for I no more Shall maids to woods for early gath'rings call,

Nor haste to gardens to prevent a showre." Then she retires; and now a lovely shame,

That she reveal'd so much, possess'd her cheecks; In a dark lanthorn she would bear love's flame,

To hide her self, whilst she her lover seeks,

And to that lover let our song return :

Whose tale so well was to her father told, As the philosopher did seem to mourn That youth had reach'd such worth, and he so old.

Yet Birtha was so precious in his eies,

And her dead mother still so neer his mind, That farther yet he thus his prudence tries, Ere such a pledg he to his trust resign'd. "Whoe're" (said he)" in thy first story looks, Shall praise thy wise conversing with the dead; For with the dead he lives, who is with books, And in the camp, (Death's moving palace) bred. "Wise youth, in books and batails, early findes What thoughtless lazy men perceive too late; Books show the utmost conquests of our minds, Batails, the best of our lov'd bodys' fate.

"Yet this great breeding, joyn'd with kings' high blood,

(Whose blood ambition's feaver over-heats) May spoile digestion, which would else be good, As stomachs are deprav'd with highest meats.

For though books serve as diet of the minde, If knowledge, early got, self value breeds, By false digestion it is turn'd to winde,

And what should nourish, on the eater feeds. "Though war's great shape best educates the sight, And makes small soft'ning objects less our care; Yet war, when urg'd for glory, more than right, Shews victors but authentick murd'rers are.. "And I may fear that your last victories

Were glory's toyles, and you will ill abide (Since with new trophies still you fed your eies) Those little objects which in shades we hide. "Could you, in Fortune's smiles, foretel her frowns,

Our old foes slain, you would not hunt for new ; But victors, after wreaths, pretend to crowns,

And such think Rhodalind their valour's due."

To this the noble Gondibert replies:

"Think not ambition can my duty sway; 1 look on Rhodalind with subject's eies, Whom he that conquers must in right obay. "And though I humanly have heretofore

All beauty lik'd, I never lov'd till now; Nor think a crown can raise his value more, To whom already Heav'n does love allow,

"Though, since I gave the Hunns their last defeat, I have the Lombards' ensignes onward led, Ambition kindled not this victor's heat,

But 'tis a warmth my father's prudence bred. "Who cast on more than wolvish man his eie, Man's necessary hunger judg'd, and saw That caus'd not his devouring maledy;

But, like a wanton whelp, he loves to gnaw. "Man still is sick for pow'r, yet that disease Nature (whose law is temp'rance) ne'r inspires; But 'tis a humour, which fond man does please, A luxury, fruition only tires.

"And as in persons, so in publick states,

The lust of pow'r provokes to cruel warre; For wisest senates it intoxicates,

And makes them vain, as single persons are. "Men into nations it did first divide, [stiles; Whilst place, scarce distant, gives them diff'rent Rivers, whose breadth inhabitants may stride,

Part them as much as continents and isles. "On equal, smooth, and undistinguish'd ground, The lust of pow'r does liberty impair, And limits, by a border and a bound,

What was before as passable as air: "Whilst change of languages oft breeds a warre, (A change which fashion does as oft obtrude, As women's dresse) and oft complexions are, And diff'rent names, no less a cause of feud. "Since men so causelesly themselves devour, (And hast'ning still their else too hasty fates, Act but continu'd massacres for pow'r)

My father ment to chastise kings and states.
"To overcome the world, till but one crown
And universal neighbourhood he saw;
Till all were rich by that allyance grown,

And want no more should be the cause of law. "One family the world was first design'd ;

And tho' some fighting kings so sever'd are, That they must meet by help of seas and winde, Yet when they fight 'tis but a civil warre. "Nor could religion's heat, if one rul'd-all,

To bloody war the unconcern'd'allure; And hasten us from Earth, cre age does call, Who are (alas!) of Heav'n so little sure. "Religion ne'r, till divers monarchys, Taught that almighty Heav'n needs armys' aid; But with.contentious kings she now complies, Who seem, for their own cause, of God's afraid.. "To joyn all sever'd pow'rs (which is to end' The cause of war) my father onward fought; By war the Lombard scepter to extend

Till peace were forc'd, where it was slowly sought. "He lost in this attempt his last dear blood; And I (whom no remoteness can deterr, If what seems difficult be great and good)

Thought his example could not make me err. "No place I merit in the book of Fame! [fill'd; Whose leaves are by the Greeks and Romans Yet I presume to boast, she knows my name, And she has heard to whom the Hunns did yield. "But let not what so needfully was done,

Tho' still pursu'd, make you ambition feare;
For could I force all monarchys to one,
That universal crown I would not weare,

Or that the duke shuns empire for a bride; But that himself must joyn love to despair;

"He who does blindly soar at Rhodalind, [ease; | Now Goltho mourns, yet not that Birtha's fair,
Mounts, like seel'd doves, still higher from his
And in the lust of empire he may finde,
High hope does better than fruition please.
"The victor's solid recompence is rest;

And 'tis unjust that chiefs, who pleasure shunn,
Toyling in youth, should be in age opprest
With greater toyles, by ruling what they wonn.
"Here all reward of conquest I would finde,
Leave shining thrones for Birtha in a shade;
With Nature's quiet wonders fill my minde,
And praise her most, because she Birtha made."
Now Astragon (with joy suffic'd) perceiv'd

How nobly Heav'n for Birtha did provide;
Oft had he for her parted mother griev'd,

But can this joy, less than that sorrow, hide.
With teares bids Gondibert to Heav'n's eie make
All good within, as to the world he seems;
And in gain'd Birtha then from Hymen take
All youth can wish, and all his age esteems.
Straight to his lov'd philosophers he hies,

Who now at Nature's councel busy are
To trace new lights, which some old gazer spies,
Whilst the duke seeks more busily his starre.
But in her search, he is by Goltho stay'd,

Who in a close dark covert foldes his armes;
His eies with thoughts grow darker than that shade,
Such thoughts as yielding breasts with study

warmes.

Fix'd to unheeded object is his eie!

His sences he calls in, as if t' improve, By outward absence, inward extacie,

Such as makes prophets, or is made by love. "Awake!" (said Gondibert) " for now in vain Thou dream'st of sov'raignty and war's success; Hope nought has left, which worth should wish to And all ambition is but hope's excess. [gain; "Bid all our worthys to unarm, and rest!

For they have nought to conquer worth their
I have a father's right in Birtha's breast, [care;
And that's the peace for which the wise make
warre."

At this starts Goltho, like some army's chief,
Whom, unintrench'd, a midnight larum wakes;
By pawse then gave disorder'd sence relief,

And this reply with kindled passion makes:
"What means my prince to make so low a boast,
Whose merit may aspire to Rhodalind?
For who could Birtha miss if she were lost,

That shall by worth the other's treasure find? ̧
"When your high blood and conquests shall submit
To such mean joys, in this unminded shade,
Let courts, without Heav'n's lamp, in darkness sit,
And war become the lowly shepheard's trade.
"Birtha (a harmless country ornament!)

May be his bride, that's born himself to serve; But you must pay that blood your army spent, And wed that empire which our wounds de

serve."

This brought the duke's swift anger to his eies,
Which his consid'rate heart rebuk'd as faste;
He Goltho chid, in that he nought replies,
Leaves him, and Birtha seeks with lover's haste.

Himself who loves her, and his love must hide.
He curs'd that him the wounded hither brought
From Oswald's field, where, though he wounds
did scape

In tempting death, and here no danger sought,
Yet here meet worse than death in beauty's shape.
He was unus'd to love, as bred in warres,

And not till now for beauty leasure had;
Yet bore love's load, as youth bears other cares,
Till new despair makes love's old weight too sad.
But Ulfinore does hither aptly come,

His second breast, in whom his griefs' excesse
He may ebb out, where they o'reflow at home;
Such griefs, as thus in throngs for utt'rance press.
"Forgive me, that so falsly am thy friend!
No more our hearts for kindness shall contest;
Since mine I hourly on another spend,

And now imbrace thee with an empty brest.
"Yet pard'ning me, you cancel Nature's fault,
Who walks with her first force in Birtha's shape;
And when she spreads the net to have us caught,
It were in youth presumption to escape.
"When Birtha's grief so comely did appear,

Whilst she beheld our wounded duke's distresse;
Then first my alter'd heart began to fear, [sesse."
Least too much love should friendship dispos-
But this whilst Ulfinore with sorrow hears,

Him Goltho's busier sorrow little heeds;
And though he could replie in sighs and tears,
Yet governs both, and Goltho thus proceeds:
"To Love's new dangers I have gone unarm'd,
I lack'd experience why to be affraid;
Was too unlearn'd to read whom Love had harm'd,
But have his will, as Nature's law, obay'd.
"Th' obedient and defencelesse, sure, no law

Afflicts, for law is their defence and pow'r;
Yet me, Love's sheep, whom rigour needs not aw,
Wolf-love, because defencelesse, does devour:
"Gives me not time to perish by degrees,

But with despair does me at once destroy;
For none who Gondibert a lover sees,
Thinks he would love, but where he may enjoy.
"Birtha he loves; and I from Birtha fear
Death, that in rougher figure I despise !"
This Ulfinore did with distemper hear,

Yet with dissembled temp'rance thus replies:
"Ah, Goltho! who love's feaver can asswage?
For though familiar seem that old disease,
Yet, like religion's fit, when people rage,
Few cure those evils which the patient please.
"Nature's religion, love, is still perverse,
And no commerce with cold discretion hath;
For if discretion speak when love is fierce,
'Tis wav'd by love, as reason is by faith."
As Gondibert left Goltho when he heard
His saint profan'd, as if some plague were nie;
So Goltho now leaves Ulfinore, and fear'd
To share such veng'ance, if he did not flie.
How each at home o're-rates his miserie,
And thinks that all are musical abroad,
Unfetter'd as the windes, whilst onely he,
Of all the glad and licens'd world, is aw'd.

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