The boundless Godhead; she did well-disdain And for a sacred mistress scorned to take But her whom God himself scorned not his spouse to make. A fruitful mother was, and virgin too. How well, blest swan, did fate contrive thy death, That angels led him when from thee he went, When joined with so much piety as his. Ah, mighty God! (with shame I speak 't, and grief), So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Hail, bard triumphant! and some care bestow Opposed by our old en'my, adverse chance, Exposed by tyrant love to savage beasts and fires. Lo, here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove Not that thy spirit might on me doubled be, I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me; And when my muse soars with so strong a wing, 'Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee to sing. 30 40 50 60 70 The spring Though you be absent here, I needs must say As ever they were wont to be; As if they sung to pleasure you; I saw a rosebud ope this morn-I'll swear How could it be so fair and you away? How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay? Could they remember but last year How you did them, they you delight, The sprouting leaves which saw you here Would, looking round for the same sight in vain, Where'er you walked, trees were as reverend made In ancient times sure they much wiser were, How would those learned trees have followed you! But who can blame them now? for since you're gone Wherever you did walk or sit, The thickest boughs could make no shade, The fairest flowers could please no more, near you, 10 20 30 40 Whene'er then you come hither, that shall be The little joys which here are now, 'Tis you the best of seasons with you bring; [Awake, awake, my lyre] Awake, awake, my lyre, And tell thy silent master's humble tale In sounds that may prevail, Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire, And I so lowly be, Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony. Hark how the strings awake, And though the moving hand approach not near, A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy forces try, Now all thy charms apply, Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak lyre! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found To cure but not to wound, And she to wound but not to cure. Too weak, too, wilt thou prove My passion to remove; Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. Sleep, sleep again, my lyre, For thou canst never tell my humble tale In sounds that will prevail, Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; All thy vain mirth lay by, Bid thy strings silent lie; Sleep, sleep again, my lyre, and let thy master die. From Davideis, Book 3 10 20 JOHN CLEVELAND The Introduction and Notes are at page 1031 An elegy on Ben Jonson Who first reformed our stage with justest laws, Could with a noble confidence prefer Who to his fable did his persons fit Who public follies did to covert drive, Here Jonson lies, whom had I named before, FROM Poems, 1653 Epitaph on the Earl of Straf ford Here lies wise and valiant dust FROM Clievelandi Vindiciæ; or 10 One in extremes loved and ab- Riddles lie here, or in a word- Clieveland's Genuine Poems, 1677 Nature's confectioner, the bee Ambitious now to take excise His ravenous kiss had made it Crawl like a bracelet 'bout her Here did he sit and essence quaff Thus when the hovering publiTill her coy pulse had beat him can bends Ravaillac to my Queen of That quivers at her fingers' ends, That runs division on the tree Like a thick-branching pedigree. The King of Bees now jealous grown |