A paraphrase upon the canticles and some select hymns of the New and Old Testament, with other occasional compositions in English verse. By Samuel Woodford |
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| The Metamorphosis
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 | A paraphrase upon the canticles |  |
The Metamorphosis
CLELIA [chang'd into] A BAIE.
To the Memory of Mrs. A. W. who died in Childbed,
14 January, 1663–4.
Down in a Vale, between two shady Groves,
Whose Trees in sighs bewail'd their distant Loves,
And o're a Stream, which gently glid below;
Stretcht their long Arms, and leafy Heads did bow,
As if each others Necks they would embrace,
And murmuring chid the interrupting space;
Sylvius the wretched Shepherd chose to lay,
Clelias remains, and his own Vows to pay.
The Tomb nor Marble was, nor glitterant Brass,
No weighty Pile, but Bank of Turfy Grass,
Which he himself cast up, and all around,
With Winter Roses strewd the sacred Ground.
Close by a mournful Tablet hung, whose Verse
Was thus engrav'd—
Kind Earth, where I securely trust
My Dearest half, in Peace to sleep;
Be sure thou safely guard her Dust,
And undisturb'd the still lov'd Ashes keep:
But look thou lightly on them fall,
And as in thine own Center have no weight at all!
My Dearest half, in Peace to sleep;
157
And undisturb'd the still lov'd Ashes keep:
But look thou lightly on them fall,
And as in thine own Center have no weight at all!
So shalt thou be with Roses Crown'd,
And all those Flowers, which now I strow,
Again, as in their Native Ground,
Only more fair, shall in thy Bosom grow;
Maintain'd by an Eternal Spring,
Which with my constant Tears, I to these Banks will bring.
And all those Flowers, which now I strow,
Again, as in their Native Ground,
Only more fair, shall in thy Bosom grow;
Maintain'd by an Eternal Spring,
Which with my constant Tears, I to these Banks will bring.
Witness ye Floods, which deeper run,
By them encreast than heretofore;
And as you purling roll along,
Those ancient bounds you seldom toucht, run o're;
At my request yet higher swell,
And what's their power, tho in your broken numbers, tell.
By them encreast than heretofore;
And as you purling roll along,
Those ancient bounds you seldom toucht, run o're;
At my request yet higher swell,
And what's their power, tho in your broken numbers, tell.
With you my Tears, but here's my Fire,
Preserv'd alive in Clelias Urn;
Never to Languish, or Expire,
But in the next Age to break forth and burn:
When it to Verse a Theam shall give,
And by the Flames it shall inspire, be known to live.
Preserv'd alive in Clelias Urn;
Never to Languish, or Expire,
But in the next Age to break forth and burn:
When it to Verse a Theam shall give,
And by the Flames it shall inspire, be known to live.
Retir'd the Valley was from common View,
By none frequented, known but to a few,
Sylvio's best Friends, who thither us'd to go,
Sometimes with him, and there joynt-Tears bestow.
Belisa, and her Swain, who claim'd a share,
By Love, and Friendship in the Pious Care,
Were all his Company, and who alone,
Best knew, and judg'd his Sorrow by their own.
Yet for their own, tho they some ease could find,
In vain they sought it for his troubled Mind.
For still more restless that, and stubborn grew,
And with the Day his Griefs did still renew.
Clelia was all his thought, and with her Name,
He so stirr'd up the yet encreasing Flame,
That the thick Sighs, which from his Brest did go,
Were but as Wind the glowing Coals to blow;
And his exhausted Tears too late did prove,
That Love alone, not they, could quench his love.
By none frequented, known but to a few,
Sylvio's best Friends, who thither us'd to go,
Sometimes with him, and there joynt-Tears bestow.
Belisa, and her Swain, who claim'd a share,
By Love, and Friendship in the Pious Care,
Were all his Company, and who alone,
Best knew, and judg'd his Sorrow by their own.
Yet for their own, tho they some ease could find,
In vain they sought it for his troubled Mind.
158
And with the Day his Griefs did still renew.
Clelia was all his thought, and with her Name,
He so stirr'd up the yet encreasing Flame,
That the thick Sighs, which from his Brest did go,
Were but as Wind the glowing Coals to blow;
And his exhausted Tears too late did prove,
That Love alone, not they, could quench his love.
And so he liv'd (if one a Life may call
What was indeed but a long Funeral)
Till as one Morning to the Grove he went,
And to conclude the Ceremony meant,
The Grove he found by a new Tree encreast,
Whose sleeping Root seem'd laid in Clelias Brest.
The sight amaz'd him, but when he drew near,
And saw the Plant, how gay it did appear,
His Clelia in the Plant the Shepherd spi'd,
Nor could the strange disguise her Beauties hide.
What was indeed but a long Funeral)
Till as one Morning to the Grove he went,
And to conclude the Ceremony meant,
The Grove he found by a new Tree encreast,
Whose sleeping Root seem'd laid in Clelias Brest.
The sight amaz'd him, but when he drew near,
And saw the Plant, how gay it did appear,
His Clelia in the Plant the Shepherd spi'd,
Nor could the strange disguise her Beauties hide.
'Twas a fair Bay, but so exactly shap'd,
That it the perfect Form of Woman kept.
Not as Philosophers feign'd Man to be,
In their wild Resve'rys, an inverted Tree,
But standing on its Root, and whose strait bole,
Shew'd how great once, and gentile was her Soul.
For if Souls can by th' Bodies frame be ghest,
Of great the greatest she' had, of good the best.
The beauties of her Bosom did appear,
In swelling Knots that balmy perfumes bear.
To Leaves her Hair was chang'd, to Boughs her Arms,
Yet both retain'd their ancient Force and Charms.
A jollier Tree than ever Daphne was,
And much more worthy bright Apollos grace.
For whatsoe're in Woman is admir'd,
When in a Lovers chaste embrace retir'd,
Was found in her, who did nor coyly flee,
Nor court that Love, t'other was proud of when a Tree.
Laura the Thuscan Poets brightest Flame,
Laura, whom Verse has given a lasting Name,
Which all but her own Vertues shall survive,
Laura to be her Emblem does in Numbers live.
That it the perfect Form of Woman kept.
Not as Philosophers feign'd Man to be,
In their wild Resve'rys, an inverted Tree,
But standing on its Root, and whose strait bole,
Shew'd how great once, and gentile was her Soul.
For if Souls can by th' Bodies frame be ghest,
Of great the greatest she' had, of good the best.
The beauties of her Bosom did appear,
In swelling Knots that balmy perfumes bear.
To Leaves her Hair was chang'd, to Boughs her Arms,
Yet both retain'd their ancient Force and Charms.
A jollier Tree than ever Daphne was,
And much more worthy bright Apollos grace.
For whatsoe're in Woman is admir'd,
When in a Lovers chaste embrace retir'd,
Was found in her, who did nor coyly flee,
Nor court that Love, t'other was proud of when a Tree.
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Laura, whom Verse has given a lasting Name,
Which all but her own Vertues shall survive,
Laura to be her Emblem does in Numbers live.
Which as the mournful Sylvius view'd, he said,
(Gathering some Leaves to bind about his Head,
The Leaves to bind his Head bow'd gently down,
And form'd themselves into a Laurel Crown)
“Daphne, Apollos, Clelia was my Love,
“Tho both turn'd Trees, with Fates unequal strove.
“Unlike in Life, alike in Change they were,
“A Mother this, a Virgin that severe:
“O're whom till Plant, Phebus could not prevail,
(Python He did with more Success assail.)
“Yet as to her he did his Harp resign,
“Clelia with no less Passion shall have mine.
“Grow sacred Plant, the better Daphne be,
“Iärmas and my Consecrated Tree!
(Gathering some Leaves to bind about his Head,
The Leaves to bind his Head bow'd gently down,
And form'd themselves into a Laurel Crown)
“Daphne, Apollos, Clelia was my Love,
“Tho both turn'd Trees, with Fates unequal strove.
“Unlike in Life, alike in Change they were,
“A Mother this, a Virgin that severe:
“O're whom till Plant, Phebus could not prevail,
(Python He did with more Success assail.)
“Yet as to her he did his Harp resign,
“Clelia with no less Passion shall have mine.
“Grow sacred Plant, the better Daphne be,
“Iärmas and my Consecrated Tree!
L'Envoy.
Poor Pastoral, for simple Shepherd fit,Without or much of Art contriv'd, or Wit;
Do as Thou mayst, the Curious City flie;
Or if Thou thither chance to come,
Conceal'd as the' Ashes, which Thou herriest lie,
For whose dear sake alone, Thou dost thy Fortune try;
Tho, like thy Master, Thou might'st safer be at Home.
| A paraphrase upon the canticles | |