The Works of Mr Abraham Cowley Consisting of Those which were formerly Printed: And Those which he Design'd for the Press, Now Published out of the Authors Original Copies ... The Text Edited by A. R. Waller |
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 | The Works of Mr Abraham Cowley |  |
57
A translation of Verses upon the B. Virgin, written in Latine by the right Worshipfull Dr. A.
Ave Maria.
Once thou rejoycedst, and rejoyce for ever,Whose time of joy shall be expired never:
Who in her wombe the Hive of Comfort beares,
Let her drinke Comforts Honey with her eares.
You brought the word of joy, which did impart
An Haile to all, let us An Haile redart.
From you God save into the World there came;
Our Eccho Haile is but an empty name.
Gratia Plena.
How loaded Hives are with their Honie fill'd,From diverse Flowres by Chimicke Bees distill'd:
How full the Collet with his Jewell is,
Which, that it cannot take, by love doth kisse:
How full the Moone is with her Brothers ray,
When shee drinks up with thirsty orbe the day,
How full of Grace the Graces dances are,
So full doth Mary of Gods light appeare.
It is no wonder if with Graces she
Be full, who was full with the Deitie.
Dominus tecum.
The fall of mankind under deaths extentThe quire of blessed Angels did lament,
And wisht a reparation to see
By him, who manhood joyn'd with Deitie.
How gratefull should Mans safety then appeare
T'himselfe, whose safety can the Angels cheare?
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Benedicta tu in mulieribus.
Death came, and troopes of sad diseases ledTo th'earth, by womans hand solicited.
Life came so too, and troopes of Graces led
To th'earth, by womans faith solicited.
As our lifes spring came from thy blessed wombe,
So from our mouthes springs of thy praise shall come.
Who did lifes blessing give, 'tis fit that she
Above all women should thrice blessed be.
Et benedictus fructus ventris tui.
With mouth divine the Father doth protest,Hee a good word sent from his stored brest,
'Twas Christ: which Mary without carnall thought,
From the unfathom'd depth of goodnesse brought,
The word of blessing a just cause affoords,
To be oft blessed with redoubled words.
Spiritus Sanctus superveniet in te.
As when soft West winds strooke the Garden Rose,A showre of sweeter ayre salutes the Nose.
The breath gives sparing kisses, nor with powre
Unlocks the Virgin bosome of the Flowre.
So th'Holy Spirit upon Mary blow'd,
And from her sacred Box whole rivers flow'd.
Yet loos'd not thine eternall chastity,
Thy Roses folds doe still entangled lye.
Beleeve Christ borne from an unbruised wombe,
So from unbruised Barke the Odors come.
Et virtus altissimi obumbrabit tibi.
God his great Sonne begot ere time begunne,Mary in time brought forth her little Sonne.
Of double substance, one, life hee began,
God without Mother, without Father Man.
Great is this birth, and 'tis a stranger deed,
That shee no man, then God no wife should need.
59
And God himselfe became to her a shade.
O strange descent! who is lights Author, hec
Will to his creature thus a shadow bee.
As unseene light did from the Father flow,
So did seene light from Virgin Marie grow.
When Moses sought God in a shade to see,
The Fathers shade was, Christ the Deitie.
Let's seeke for day we darknesse, whil'st our sight
In light findes darknesse, and in darknesse light.
ODE I. On the praise of Poetry.
'Tis not a Pyramide of Marble stone,Though high as our ambition,
'Tis not a Tombe cut out in Brasse, which can
Give life to th'ashes of a man,
But Verses onely; they shall fresh appeare,
Whil'st there are men to reade, or heare.
When Time shall make the lasting Brasse decay,
And eate the Pyramide away,
Turning that Monument wherein men trust
Their names, to what it keepes, poore dust:
Then shall the Epitaph remaine, and be
New graven in Eternitie.
Poets by death are conquered, but the wit
Of Poets triumph over it.
What cannot Verse? When Thracian Orpheus tooke
His Lyre, and gently on it strooke,
The learned stones came dancing all along,
And kept time to the charming song.
With artificiall pace the Warlike Pine,
Th'Elme, and his Wife the Ivy twine,
With all the better trees, which erst had stood
Unmov'd, forsooke their native Wood.
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Craving the honour of his brow:
And every loving arme embrac'd, and made
With their officious leaves a shade.
The beasts too strove his auditors to be,
Forgetting their old Tyrannie.
The fearefull Hart next to the Lion came,
And Wolfe was Shepheard to the Lambe.
Nightingales, harmlesse Syrens of the ayre,
And Muses of the place, were there.
Who when their little windpipes they had found
Unequall to so strange a sound,
O'recome by art and griefe they did expire,
And fell upon the conquering Lyre.
Happy, ô happy they, whose Tombe might be,
Mausolus, envied by thee!
ODE II. That a pleasant Poverty is to be preferred before discontented Riches.
1
Why ô doth gaudy Tagus ravish thee,Though Neptunes Treasure-house it be?
Why doth Pactolus thee bewitch,
Infected yet with Midas glorious Itch?
2
Their dull and sleepie streames are not at allLike other Flouds, Poeticall,
They have no dance, no wanton sport,
No gentle murmur, the lov'd shore to court.
3
No Fish inhabite the adulterate Floud,Nor can it feed the neighbouring Wood,
No Flower or Herbe is neere it found,
But a perpetuall Winter sterves the ground.
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4
Give me a River which doth scorne to shewAn added beauty, whose cleere brow
May be my looking-glasse, to see
What my face is, and what my mind should be.
5
Here waves call waves, and glide along in ranke,And prattle to the smiling banke.
Here sad King fishers tell their tales,
And fish enrich the Brooke with silver scales.
6
Dasyes the first borne of the teeming Spring,On each side their embrodery bring,
Here Lillies wash, and grow more white,
And Daffadills to see themselves delight.
7
Here a fresh Arbor gives her amorous shade,Which Nature, the best Gard'ner made.
Here I would set, and sing rude layes,
Such as the Nimphs and me my selfe should please.
8
Thus I would waste, thus end my carelesse dayes,And Robin-red-brests whom men praise
For pious birds, should when I dye,
Make both my Monument and Elegie.
ODE III. To his Mistris.
1
Tyrian dye why doe you weareYou whose cheekes best scarlet are?
Why doe you fondly pin
Pure linnens ore your skin,
Your skin that's whiter farre,
Casting a duskie cloud before a Starre?
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2
Why beares your necke a golden chayne?Did Nature make your haire in vaine,
Of Gold most pure and fine?
With gemmes why doe you shine?
They, neighbours to your eyes,
Shew but like Phosphor, when the Sunne doth rise.
3
I would have all my Mistris parts,Owe more to Nature then to Arts,
I would not woe the dresse,
Or one whose nights give lesse
Contentment, then the day.
Shee's faire, whose beauty onely makes her gay.
4
For 'tis not buildings make a CourtOr pompe, but 'tis the Kings resort:
If Jupiter downe powre
Himselfe, and in a showre
Hide such bright Majestie
Lesse then a golden one it cannot be.
ODE IV. On the uncertainty of Fortune. A Translation.
Leave off unfit complaints, and cleere
From sighs your brest, and from black clouds your brow,
When the Sunne shines not with his wonted cheere,
And Fortune throwes an adverse cast for you.
That Sea which vext with Notus is,
The merry Eastwinds will to morrow kisse.
From sighs your brest, and from black clouds your brow,
When the Sunne shines not with his wonted cheere,
And Fortune throwes an adverse cast for you.
That Sea which vext with Notus is,
The merry Eastwinds will to morrow kisse.
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The Sunne to day rides drousily,
To morrow 'twill put on a looke more faire,
Laughter and groaning doe alternately
Returne, and teares sports neerest neighbours are.
'Tis by the Gods appointed so
That good fate should with mingled dangers flow.
To morrow 'twill put on a looke more faire,
Laughter and groaning doe alternately
Returne, and teares sports neerest neighbours are.
'Tis by the Gods appointed so
That good fate should with mingled dangers flow.
Who drave his Oxen yesterday,
Doth now over the Noblest Romanes reigne.
And on the Gabii, and the Cures lay
The yoake which from his Oxen he had tane.
Whom Hesperus saw poore and low,
The mornings eye beholds him greatest now.
Doth now over the Noblest Romanes reigne.
And on the Gabii, and the Cures lay
The yoake which from his Oxen he had tane.
Whom Hesperus saw poore and low,
The mornings eye beholds him greatest now.
If Fortune knit amongst her play
But seriousnesse; he shall againe goe home
To his old Country Farme of yesterday,
To scoffing people no meane jest become.
And with the crowned Axe, which he
Had rul'd the World, goe backe and prune some Tree.
Nay if he want the fuell cold requires,
With his owne Fasces he shall make him fires.
But seriousnesse; he shall againe goe home
To his old Country Farme of yesterday,
To scoffing people no meane jest become.
And with the crowned Axe, which he
Had rul'd the World, goe backe and prune some Tree.
Nay if he want the fuell cold requires,
With his owne Fasces he shall make him fires.
ODE V. In commendation of the time we live under the Reign of our gracious K. Charles.
1
Curst be that wretch (Deaths Factor sure) who broughtDire Swords into the peacefull world, and taught
Smiths, who before could onely make
The Spade, the Plowshare, and the Rake;
Arts, in most cruell wise
Mans life t'epitomize.
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2
Then men (fond men alas) rid post to th'grave,And cut those threads, which yet the Fates would save.
Then Charon sweated at his trade,
And had a bigger Ferry made,
Then, then the silver hayre,
Frequent before, grew rare.
3
Then Revenge married to Ambition,Begat blacke Warre, then Avarice crept on.
Then limits to each field were strain'd,
And Terminus a Godhead gain'd.
To men before was found,
Besides the Sea, no bound.
4
In what Playne or what River hath not beeneWarres story, writ in blood (sad story) seene?
This truth too well our England knowes,
'Twas civill slaughter dy'd her Rose:
Nay then her Lillie too,
With bloods losse paler grew.
5
Such griefes, nay worse than these, we now should feele,Did not just Charles silence the rage of steele;
He to our Land blest peace doth bring,
All Neighbour Countries envying.
Happy who did remaine
Unborne till Charles his reigne!
6
Where dreaming Chimicks is you[r] paine and cost?How is your oyle, how is your labour lost?
Our Charles, blest Alchymist (though strange,
Beleeve it future times) did change
The Iron age of old,
Into an age of Gold.
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ODE VI. Upon the shortnesse of Mans life.
Marke that swift Arrow how it cuts the ayre,How it out-runnes thy hunting eye,
Use all perswasions now, and try
If thou canst call it backe, or stay it there.
That way it went, but thou shalt find
No tract of 't left behind.
Foole 'tis thy life, and the fond Archer, thou,
Of all the time thou'st shot away
Ile bid thee fetch but yesterday,
And it shall be too hard a taske to doe.
Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind?
Our life is carried with too strong a tyde,
A doubtfull Cloud our substance beares,
And is the Horse of all our yeares.
Each day doth on a winged whirle-wind ride.
Wee and our Glasse run out, and must
Both render up our dust.
But his past life who without griefe can see,
Who never thinkes his end too neere,
But sayes to Fame, thou art mine Heire.
That man extends lifes naturall brevity,
This is, this is the onely way
T' out-live Nestor in a day.
| The Works of Mr Abraham Cowley | |