Abraham Cowley
¶[1618-1667}
A Supplication
¶AWAKE, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master's humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gende thoughts inspire:Though so exalted sheAnd Is o lowly beTell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
¶Hark, how the strings awake:And , though the moving hand approach not near,Themselves with awful fearA 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 sureIs useless here, since thou art only foundTo cure, but not to wound,And she to wound, but not to cure.[366]Too weak too wilt thou proveMy passion to remove;Physic to other ills, thou rt nourishment to love.
¶Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre !For thou canst never tell my humble taleIn 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.
248 Cheer Up, My Mates
¶(Sitting and drinking in the chair made out of the relics of Sir
Francis Drake's ship.)
¶CHEER up, my mates, the wind does fairly blow;Clap on more sail, and never spare;Farewell, all lands, for now we areIn the wide sea of drink, and merrily we go.Bless me, 'tis hot! another bowl of wine,And we shall cut the burning Line:He y , boys! she scuds away, and by my head I knowWe round the world are sailing now.What dull men are those who tarry at home,When abroad they might wantonly roam,And gain such experience, and spy, too,Such countries and wonders, as I do!But pr'ythee, good pilot, take heed what you do,And fail not to touch at Peru!With gold there the vessel we'll store,And never, and never be poor,No , never be poor any more.
249 Drinking
¶THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,And drinks and gapes for drink again;The plants suck in the earth, and areWith constant drinking fresh and fair;The sea itself (which one would think[367]Should have but little need of drink)Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.The busy Sun (and one would guessBy ' s drunken fiery face no less)Drinks up the sea, and when he's done,The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:They drink and dance by their own light,They drink and revel all the night:Nothing in Nature's sober found,But an eternal health goes round.Fill up tfie bowl, then, fill it high,Fill all the glasses there—for whyShould every creature drink but I ?Why , man of morals, tell me why ?
On the Death of Mr. William Hervey
¶IT was a dismal and a fearful night:Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling Light ,When Sleep, Death's image, left my troubled breastBy something liker Death possest.My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,And on my soul hung the dull weightOf 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,Thy end for ever and my life to moan?O , thou hast left me all alone!Thy soul and body, when death's agonyBesieged around thy noble heart,Did not with more reluctance partThan I, my dearest Friend, do part from thee.
¶My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee!Life and this world henceforth will tedious be:Nor shall I know hereafter what to doIf once my griefs prove tedious too.Silent and sad I walk about all day,[368]As sullen ghosts stalk speechless byWhere their hid treasures lie;Alas! my treasure's gone; why do I stay?
¶Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,How oft unwearied have we spent the nights,Till the Ledaean stars, so famed for love,Wonder'd at us from above!We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine;But search of deep Philosophy,Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry—Arts which I loved, for they, my Friend, were thine.
¶Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, sayHave ye not seen us walking every day?Was there a tree about which did not knowThe love betwixt us two?Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade;Or your sad branches thicker joinAnd into darksome shades combine,Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid!
¶Large was his soul: as large a soul as e'erSubmitted to inform a body here;High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have.But low and humble as his grave.So high that all the virtues there did come,As to their chiefest seatConspicuous and great;So low, that for me too it made a room.
¶Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caughtAs if for him Knowledge had rather sought;Nor did more learning ever crowded lieIn such a short mortality.Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ.Still did the notions throngAbout his eloquent tongue;Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.[369]His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,Yet never did his God or friends forget;And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,Retired, and gave to them their due.For the rich help of books he always took,Though his own searching mind beforeWas so with notions written o'er,As if wise Nature had made that her book.
¶With as much zeal, devotion, piety,He always lived, as other saints do die.Still with his soul severe account he kept,Weeping all debts out ere he slept.Then down in peace and innocence he lay,Like the Sun's laborious light,Which still in water sets at night,Unsullied with his journey of the day.
¶But happy Thou , ta'en from this frantic age,Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage!A fitter time for Heaven no soul e'er chose—The place now only free from those.There 'mong the blest thou dost for ever shine;And whereso'er thou casts thy viewUpon that white and radiant crew,See'st not a soul clothed with more light than thine.