Olor Iscanus A Collection of some Select Poems, and Translations, Formerly written by Mr. Henry Vaughan Silurist. Published by a Friend |
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The Charnel-house. |
 | Olor Iscanus |  |
The Charnel-house.
Blesse me! what damps are here? how stisse an aire?
Relder of mists, a second Fiats care,
Frontspeece o'th' grave and darkness, a Display
Of ruin'd man, and the disease of day;
Leane, bloudless shamble, where I can descrie
Fragments of men, Rags of Anatomie;
Corruptions ward-robe, the transplantive bed
Of mankind, and th'Exchequer of the dead.
How thou arrests my sense? how with the sight
My Winter'd bloud growes stiffe to all delight?
Torpedo to the Eye! whose least glance can
Freeze our wild lusts, and rescue head-long man;
Eloquent silence! able to Immure
An Atheists thoughts, and blast an Epicure.
Were I a Lucian, Nature in this dresse
Would make me wish a Saviour, and Confesse.
Relder of mists, a second Fiats care,
Frontspeece o'th' grave and darkness, a Display
Of ruin'd man, and the disease of day;
Leane, bloudless shamble, where I can descrie
Fragments of men, Rags of Anatomie;
Corruptions ward-robe, the transplantive bed
Of mankind, and th'Exchequer of the dead.
How thou arrests my sense? how with the sight
My Winter'd bloud growes stiffe to all delight?
Torpedo to the Eye! whose least glance can
Freeze our wild lusts, and rescue head-long man;
Eloquent silence! able to Immure
An Atheists thoughts, and blast an Epicure.
4
Would make me wish a Saviour, and Confesse.
Where are you shoreless thoughts, vast tenter'd hope,
Ambitious dreams, Aymes of an Endless scope,
Whose stretch'd Excesse runs on a string too high
And on the rack of self-extension dye?
Chameleons of state, Aire-monging band,
Whose breath (like Gun-powder) blowes up a land,
Come see your dissolution, and weigh
What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day,
As th'Elements by Circulation passe
From one to th'other, and that which first was
Is so again, so 'tis with you; The grave
And Nature but Complott, what the one gave,
The other takes; Think then, that in this bed
There sleep the Reliques of as proud a head
As stern and subtill as your own, that hath
Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath
Hath levell'd Kings with slaves, and wisely then
Calme these high furies, and descend to men;
Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon, a tombe
Checkt him, who thought the world too straight a Room.
Ambitious dreams, Aymes of an Endless scope,
Whose stretch'd Excesse runs on a string too high
And on the rack of self-extension dye?
Chameleons of state, Aire-monging band,
Whose breath (like Gun-powder) blowes up a land,
Come see your dissolution, and weigh
What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day,
As th'Elements by Circulation passe
From one to th'other, and that which first was
Is so again, so 'tis with you; The grave
And Nature but Complott, what the one gave,
The other takes; Think then, that in this bed
There sleep the Reliques of as proud a head
As stern and subtill as your own, that hath
Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath
Hath levell'd Kings with slaves, and wisely then
Calme these high furies, and descend to men;
Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon, a tombe
Checkt him, who thought the world too straight a Room.
Have I obey'd the Powers of face,
A beauty able to undoe the Race
Of easie man? I look but here, and strait
I am Inform'd, the lovely Counterfeit
Was but a smoother Clay. That famish'd slave
Begger'd by wealth, who starves that he may save,
Brings hither but his sheet; Nay, th'Ostrich-man
That feeds on steele and bullet, he that can
Outswea his Lordship, and reply as tough
To a kind word, as if his tongue were Buffe,
Is Chap-faln here, wormes without wit, or fear
Defie him now, death hath disarm'd the Bear.
Thus could I run o'r all the pitteous score
Of erring men, and having done meet more,
Their shuffled Wills, abortive, vain Intents,
Phautastick humours, perillous Ascents,
False, empty honours, traiterous delights,
And whatsoe'r a blind Conceit Invites;
But these and more which the weak vermins swell,
Are Couch'd in this Accumulative Cell
Which I could scatter; But the grudging Sun
Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone,
Day leaves me in a double night, and I
Must bid farewell to my sad library.
Yet with these notes. Henceforth with thought of thee
I'le season all succeeding Jollitie,
Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit,
Excesse hath no Religion, nor Wit,
But should wild bloud swell to a lawless strain
On Check from thee shall Channel it again.
A beauty able to undoe the Race
Of easie man? I look but here, and strait
I am Inform'd, the lovely Counterfeit
Was but a smoother Clay. That famish'd slave
Begger'd by wealth, who starves that he may save,
Brings hither but his sheet; Nay, th'Ostrich-man
That feeds on steele and bullet, he that can
Outswea his Lordship, and reply as tough
To a kind word, as if his tongue were Buffe,
Is Chap-faln here, wormes without wit, or fear
Defie him now, death hath disarm'd the Bear.
Thus could I run o'r all the pitteous score
Of erring men, and having done meet more,
Their shuffled Wills, abortive, vain Intents,
Phautastick humours, perillous Ascents,
5
And whatsoe'r a blind Conceit Invites;
But these and more which the weak vermins swell,
Are Couch'd in this Accumulative Cell
Which I could scatter; But the grudging Sun
Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone,
Day leaves me in a double night, and I
Must bid farewell to my sad library.
Yet with these notes. Henceforth with thought of thee
I'le season all succeeding Jollitie,
Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit,
Excesse hath no Religion, nor Wit,
But should wild bloud swell to a lawless strain
On Check from thee shall Channel it again.
| Olor Iscanus | |