Andrew Marvell
¶[1621-1678]
A GardenWritten after the Civil Wars
¶SEE how the flowers, as at parade,Under their colours stand display'd:Each regiment in order grows,That of the tulip, pink, and rose.But when the vigilant patrolOf stars walks round about the pole,Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl'd,Seem to their staves the ensigns furl'd.Then in some flower's beloved hutEach bee, as sentinel, is shut,And sleeps so too; but if once stirr'd,She runs you through, nor asks the word.O thou, that dear and happy Isle,The garden of the world erewhile,Thou Paradise of the four seasWhich Heaven planted us to please,[371]But, to exclude the world, did guardWith wat'ry if not flaming sword;What luckless apple did we tasteTo make us mortal and thee waste!Unhappy ! shall we never moreThat sweet militia restore,When gardens only had their towers,And all the garrisons were flowers;When roses only arms might bear,And men did rosy garlands wear?
The Picture of Little T. C. in a ProspectOf Flowers
¶SEE with what simplicityThis nymph begins her golden days!In the green grass she loves to lie,And there with her fair aspect tamesThe wilder flowers, and gives them names;But only with the roses plays,And them does tellWhat colour best becomes them, and what smell.
¶Who can foretell for what high causeThis darling of the gods was born?Yet this is she whose chaster lawsThe wanton Love shall one day fear,And , under her command severe,See his bow broke and ensigns torn.Happy who canAppease this virtuous enemy of man !
¶O then let me in time compoundAnd parley with those conquering eyes,Ere they have tried their force to wound ;Ere with their glancing wheels they driveIn triumph over hearts that strive,And them that yield but more despise:Let me be laid,Where I may see the glories from some shade.[372]Meantime, whilst every verdant thingItself does at thy beauty charm.Reform the errors of the Spring;Make that the tulips may have shareOf sweetness, seeing they are fair,And roses of their thorns disarm;But most procureThat violets may a longer age endure.
¶But O, young beauty of the woods.Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers.Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;Lest Flora, angry at thy crimeTo kill her infants in their prime.Do quickly make th' example yours;And ere we see,Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee.
¶25^ HoRATiAN Ode upon Cromwell's ReturnFROM IrelandThe forward youth that would appear,Must now forsake his Muses dear,Nor in the shadows singHis numbers languishing.
¶'Tis time to leave the books in dust,And oil the unused armour's rust.Removing from the wallThe corslet of the hall.
¶So restless Cromwell could not ceaseIn the inglorious arts of peace.But through adventurous warUrged his active star:
¶And like the three-fork'd lightning, firstBreaking the clouds where it was nurst,Did thorough his own sideHis fiery way divide:[373]For 'tis all one to courage high.The emulous, or enemy;And with such, to encloseIs more than to oppose;
¶Then burning through the air he wentAnd palaces and temples rent;And Cesar's head at lastDid through his laurels blast.
¶'Tis madness to resist or blameThe face of angry heaven's flame:And if we would speak true,Much to the Man is due
¶Who, from his private gardens, whereHe lived reserved and austere,(As if his highest plotTo plant the bergamot).
¶Could by industrious valour climbTo ruin the great work of time.And cast the Kingdoms oldInto another mould.
¶Though Justice against Fate complain.And plead the ancient Rights in vain—But those do hold or breakAs men are strong or weak,
¶Nature, that hateth emptiness,Allows of penetration less.And therefore must make roomWhere greater spirits come.
¶What field of all the civil warWhere his were not the deepest scar?And Hampton shows what partHe had of wiser art.[374]Where, twining subtle fears with hope,He wove a net of such a scopeThat Charles himself might chaseTo Carisbrook's narrow case,
¶That thence the Royal actor borneThe tragic scaffold might adorn:While round the armed bandsDid clap their bloody hands.
¶He nothing common did or meanUpon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe's edge did try;
¶Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite.To vindicate his helpless rightBut bow'd his comely headDown, as upon a bed.
¶—This was that memorable hourWhich first assured the forced power:So when they did designThe Capitol's first line,
¶A Bleeding Head, where they begun.Did fright the architects to run;And yet in that the StateForesaw its happy fate!
¶And now the Irish are ashamedTo see themselves in one year tamed:So much one man can doThat does both act and know.
¶They can affirm his praises best.And have, though overcome, confestHow good he is, how justAnd fit for highest trust;[375]Nor yet grown stiffer with command,But still in the Republic's hand—How fit he is to swayThat can so well obey!
¶He to the Commons' feet presentsA Kingdom for his first year's rents,And (what he may) forbearsHis fame, to make it theirs:
¶And has his sword and spoils ungirtTo lay them at the Public's skirt.So when the falcon highFalls heavy from the sky.
¶She, having kill'd, no more does searchBut on the next green bough to perch.Where, when he first does lure.The falconer has her sure.
¶—What may not then our Isle presumeWhile victory his crest does plume?What may not others fearIf thus he crowns each year?
¶As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,To Italy an Hannibal,And to all States not freeShall climacteric be.
¶The Pict no shelter now shall findWithin his parti-colour'd mind,But from this valour sad.Shrink underneath the plaid—
¶Happy, if in the tufted brakeThe English hunter him mistake.Nor lay his hounds in nearThe Caledonian deer.[376]But Thou , the War's and Fortune's son,March indefatigably on;And for the last effectStill keep the sword erect:
¶Besides the force it has to frightThe spirits of the shady night,The same arts that did gainA power, must it maintain.
Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda
¶WHERE the remote Bermudas rideIn the ocean's bosom unespied,From a small boat that row'd alongThe listening winds received this song:
¶'What should we do but sing His praiseThat led us through the watery mazeWhere He the huge sea-monsters wracks,That lift the deep upon their backs,Unto an isle so long unknown ,And yet far kinder than our own ?He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:He gave us this eternal springWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air.He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meetAnd throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by his handFrom Lebanon he stores the land;And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergris on shore.[377]He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.Oh ! let our voice His praise exaltTill it arrive at Heaven's vault,Which then perhaps rebounding mayEcho beyond the Me xi que bay!'— Thus sung they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.
Thoughts in a Garden
¶How vainly men themselves amazeTo win the palm, the oak, or bays,And their incessant labours seeCrown ' d from some single herb or tree,Whose short and narrow-verged shadeDoes prudently their toils upbraid;While all the flowers and trees do closeTo weave the garlands of Repose.
¶Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,And Innocence thy sister dear?Mistaken long, I sought you thenIn busy companies of men:Your sacred plants, if here below,Only among the plants will grow :Society is all but rudeTo this delicious solitude.
¶No white nor red was ever seenSo amorous as this lovely green.Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,Cut in these trees their mistress' name:Little, alas, they know or heedHow far these beauties her exceed!Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound ,No name shall but your own be found.[378]When we have run our passions' heatLove hither makes his best retreat:The gods, who mortal beauty chase,Still in a tree did end their race;Apollo hunted Daphne soOnly that she might laurel grow;And Pan did after Syrinx speedNot as a nymph , but for a reed.
¶What wondrous life is this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head;The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine;The nectarine and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach;Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
¶Meanwhile the mind from pleasure lessWithdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds, and other seas;Annihilating all that's madeTo a green thought in a green shade.
¶Here at the fountain's sliding footOr at some fruit-tree's mossy root,Casting the body's vest asideMy soul into the boughs does glide;There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets and claps its silver wings,And , till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light.
¶Such was that happy Garden-stateWhile man there walk'd without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet![379]But 'twas beyond a mortal's shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises 'twere in one,To live in Paradise alone.
¶How well the skilful gardener drewOf flowers and herbs this dial new!Where, from above, the milder sunDoes through a fragrant zodiac run:And, as it works, th' industrious beeComputes its time as well as we.How could such sweet and wholesome hoursBe reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!