I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you 'would it guess
To be a little wilderness;
And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes.
For in the flaxen lily's shade,
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips ev'n seem'd to bleed;
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill ;
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it liv'd long, it would have been
Lilies without-roses within.
O help! O help! I see it faint,
And die as calmly as a saint.
See how it weeps! The tears do come
Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.
So weeps the wounded balsam, so
The holy frankincense doth flow.
The brotherless Heliades
Melt in such amber tears as these.
I in a golden phial will
Keep these two crystal tears, and fill
It, till it doth o'erflow with mine-
Then place it in Diana's shrine.
Now my sweet fawn is vanish'd to
Whither the swans and turtles go;
In fair Elysium to endure,
With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure.
O do not run too fast; for I
Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.
First, my unhappy statue shall
Be cut in marble; and withal,
Let it be weeping too; but there
Th' engraver sure his art may spare;
For I so truly thee bemoan,
That I shall weep though I be stone,
Until my tears, still dropping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there.
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made;
For I would have thine image be
White as I can, though not as thee.
The following stanzas are supposed to be sung by a party of those voluntary exiles for conscience' sake, who, in a profligate age, left their country, to enjoy religious freedom in regions beyond the Atlantic. The scene is laid near the Bermudas, or Summer Islands, as they are now called:
THE EMIGRANTS.
Where the remote Bermudas ride,
In th' ocean's bosom unespy'd;
From a small boat that row'd along,
The list'ning winds receiv'd this song.
"What should we do but sing his praise,
That led us through the wat'ry maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own.
Where He the huge sea-monsters racks,
That lift the deep upon their backs;
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelates' rage.
He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing;
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close,
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And 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 hand,
From Lebanon, He stores the land.
And makes the hollow seas,
that roar,
Proclaim the ambergrease on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple, where to sound his name.
Oh! let our voice his praise exalt,
'Till it arrive at heav'ns vault;
Which thence, perhaps, rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique bay."
Thus sung they in the English boat,
An holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
When with the thorns with which I long, too long, With many a piercing wound,
My Saviour's head have crown'd,
I seek with garlands to redress that wrong;
Through every garden, every mead,
I gather flow'rs (my fruits are only flow'rs)
Dismantling all the fragrant towers
That once adorn'd my shepherdess's head.
And now, when I have summ'd up all my store,
Thinking (so I myself deceive)
So rich a chaplet thence to weave
As never yet the King of glory wore;
Alas! I find the Serpent old,
Twining in his speckled breast,
About the flow'rs disguis'd does fold,
With wreaths of fame and interest.
Ah, foolish man, that would'st debase with them,
And mortal glory, Heav'ns diadem!
But thou who only could'st the Serpent tame,
Either his slipp'ry knots at once untie,
And disentangle all his winding snare;
Or shatter too with him my curious frame;
And let these wither so that he may die,
Though set with skill, and chosen out with care.
That they, while thou on both their spoils dost tread,
May crown thy feet, that could not crown thy head.
The following fanciful and ingenious "Dialogue between Soul and Body," is well known as the original of several quaint and witty imitations:
O who shall from this dungeon raise
A soul enslav'd so many ways?
With bolts and bones, that fetter'd stands
In feet, and manacled in hands.
Here blinded with an eye, and there
Deaf with the drumming of an ear,
A soul hung up, as 'twere, in chains
Of nerves, and arteries, and veins.
Tortur'd, besides each other part,
In a vain head, and double heart.
O who shall me deliver whole,
From bonds of this tyrannic soul?
Which stretch'd upright, impales me so,
That mine own precipice I go;
And warms and moves this needless frame;
(A fever could but do the same.)
And, wanting where its spight to try,
Has made me live to let me die.
A body that could never rest,
Since this ill spirit it possess'd.
What magic could me thus confine
Within another's grief to pine?
Where, whatsoever it complain,
I feel, that cannot feel, the pain.
And all my care itself employs,
That to preserve which me destroys;
Constrain'd not only to endure
Diseases, but what's worse, the cure;
And ready oft the port to gain,
And shipwreck'd into health again.
But physic yet could never reach
The maladies thou me dost teach;
Whom first the cramp of hope does tear;
And then the palsy shakes, of fear.
The pestilence of love does heat,
Or hatred's hidden ulcer eat.
Joys chearful madness does perplex;
Or sorrow's other madness vex;
Which knowledge forces me to know;
And memory will not forego.
What but a soul could have the wit
To build me up for sin so fit?
So architects do square and hew
Green trees that in the forest grew.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE RESOLVED SOUL,
AND CREATED PLEASURE.
Courage, my soul, now learn to wield
The weight of thine immortal shield.
Close on thy head thy helmet bright;
Balance thy sword against the fight.
See where an army, strong as fair,
With silken banners spread the air.
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