Poems By the most deservedly Admired Mrs Katherine Philips: The matchless Orinda. To which is added Monsieur Corneille's Pompey & Horace Tragedies. With several other Translations out of French |
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La Solitude de St. Amant. |
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170
La Solitude de St. Amant.
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1
O! solitude my sweetest choice,Places devoted to the night,
Remote from tumult, and from noise,
How you my restless thoughts delight!
O Heavens! what content is mine
To see those Trees which have appear'd
From the nativity of Time,
And which all Ages have rever'd,
To look to day as fresh and green
As when their beauties first were seen!
2
A chearful wind does court them so,And with such amorous breath enfold,
That we by nothing else can know,
But by their height that they are old.
Hither the demy-gods did flie
To seek a Sanctuary, when
Displeased Jove once pierc'd the skie,
To pour a deluge upon men,
And on these boughs themselves did save,
Whence they could hardly see a wave.
3
Sad Philomel upon this Thorn,So curiously by Flora drest,
In melting notes, her case forlorn,
To entertain me, hath confess'd.
O! how agreeable a sight
These hanging Mountains do appear,
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To finish all their sorrows here,
When their hard fate makes them endure
Such woes, as only death can cure.
4
What pretty desolations makeThese torrents vagabond and fierce,
Who in vast leaps their springs forsake,
This solitary vale to pierce.
Then sliding just as Serpents do
Under the foot of every Tree,
Themselves are chang'd to Rivers too,
Wherein some stately Nayade,
As in her native bed, is grown
A Queen upon a Cristal throne.
5
This Fen beset with River-Plants,(O! how it does my senses charm!)
Nor Elders, Reeds, nor Willows want,
Which the sharp Steel did never harm.
Here Nymphs which come to take the air,
May with such Distasts furnish'd be,
As Flags and Rushes can prepare,
Where we the nimble Frogs may see.
Who frighted to retreat do flie,
If an approaching man they spie.
6
Here Water-fowl repose enjoy,Without the interrupting care,
Lest Fortune should their bliss destroy
By the malicious Fowlers Snare.
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their Feathers finely prune and deck,
Others their amorous heats allay,
Which yet the waters could not check,
All take their innocent content
In this their lovely Element.
7
Summer's, nor Winter's bold approach,This Stream did never entertain,
Nor ever felt a Boat or Coach
Whilst either season did remain.
No thirsty Traveller came neer,
And rudely made his hand his cup,
Nor any hunted Hind hath here
Her hopeless life resigned up,
Nor ever did the treacherous Hook
Intrude to empty any Brook.
8
What beauty is there in the sightOf these old ruin'd Castle walls,
On which the utmost rage and spight
Of times worst insurrection falls.
The Witches keep their Sabbath here,
And wanton Devils make retreat,
Who in malicious sport appear,
Our sence both to afflict and cheat,
And here within a thousand holes
Are nests of Adders and of Owles.
9
The Raven with his dismal cries,That mortal augury of Fate,
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Which in these gloomy places wait.
On a curs'd Tree the wind does move
A Carcase which did once belong
To one that hang'd himself for love
Of a fair Nymph that did him wrong,
Who though she saw his love and truth,
With one look would not save the Youth.
10
But Heaven which judges equally,And its own Laws will still maintain,
Rewarded soon her cruelty
With a deserv'd and mighty pain:
About this squallid heap of bones,
Her wandring & condemned shade,
Laments in long and piercing grones
The destiny her rigour made,
And the more to augment her fright
Her crime is ever in her sight.
11
There upon Antique Marbles trac'd,Devices of past times we see,
Here age hath almost quite defac'd
What Lovers carv'd on every Tree.
The Cellar, here, the highest Room,
Receives when its old rafters fail,
Soil'd with the venom and the foam
Of the Spider and the Snail:
And th' Ivy in the Chimney we
Find shaded by a Wall-nut Tree.
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12
Below there does a Cave extend,Wherein there is so dark a Grot,
That should the Sun himself descend,
I think he could not see a jot.
Here sleep within a heavy lid
In quiet sadness locks up sense,
And every care he does forbid,
Whilst in the arms of negligence,
Lazily on his back he's spread,
And sheaves of Poppy are his Bed.
13
Within this cool and hollow Cave,Where Love it self might turn to Ice,
Poor Eccho ceases not to rave
On her Narcissus wild and nice:
Hither I softly steal a thought,
And by the softer Musick made
With a sweet Lute in charms well taught,
Sometimes I flatter her fad shade,
Whilst of my Chords I make such choice,
They serve as body to her voice.
14
When from these ruines I retire,This horrid Rock I do invade,
Whose lofty brow seems to enquire
Of what materials mists are made:
From thence descending leisurely
Under the brow of this steep hill,
It with great pleasure I descry
By Waters undermin'd, until
They to Palæmon's seat did climb,
Compos'd of Spunges and of Slime.
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15
How highly is the fancy pleas'dTo be upon the Oceans shore,
When she begins to be appeas'd,
And her fierce billows cease to roar!
And when the hairy Tritons are
Riding upon the shaken wave,
With what strange sounds they strike the air
Of their Trumpets hoarse and brave,
Whose shrill report, does every wind
Unto his due submission bind!
16
Sometimes the Sea dispels the Sand,Trembling and murmuring in the Bay,
And rowles it self upon the shells
Which it both brings and takes away.
Sometimes exposes on the strand,
Th' effects of Neptune's rage and scorn,
Drown'd Men, dead Monsters cast on Land,
And Ships that were in Tempests torn,
With Diamonds and Ambergreece,
And many more such things as these.
17
Sometimes so sweetly she does smile,A floating mirrour she might be,
And you would fancy all that while
New Heavens in her face to see:
The Sun himself is drawn so well,
When there he would his Picture view,
That our eye can hardly tell
Which is the false Sun, which the true;
And lest we give our sense the lye,
We think he's fallen from the skye.
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18
Bernieres! for whose beloved sakeMy thoughts are at a noble strife,
This my fantastick Landskip take,
Which I have copied from the Life.
I only seek the Desarts rough,
Where all alone I love to walk,
And with discourse refin'd enough,
My Genius and the Muses talk;
But the converse most truly mine,
Is the dear memory of thine.
19
Thou may'st in this Poem find,So full of liberty and heat,
What illustrious rays have shin'd
To enlighten my conceit:
Sometimes pensive, sometimes gay,
Just as that fury does controul,
And as the object I survey,
The notions grow up in my Soul,
And are as unconcern'd and free
As the flame which transported me.
20
O! how I Solitude adore,That Element of noblest wit,
Where I have learnt Apollo's lore,
Without the pains to study it:
For thy sake I in love am grown
With what thy fancy does pursue;
But when I think upon my own,
I hate it for that reason too,
Because it needs must hinder me
From seeing, and from serving thee.
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