Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

By this the Sun had overpast his height,
And 'gan decline into the Western wave,
Wherein he means to dip his Chariot bright,
And loosen from the yoke his coursers brave;
That all the day, in glitt'ring harness dight,
With his sweet skill the Godly Shepherd drave,
With his sweet skill, till in the sparkling foam,
Fair Tethys' silver bowers, he gently guided home.

207

2

But, ere he pass'd, his glorious face he turn'd,
With sweet regard, upon the beauteous World,
That all the mountains, and the valleys burn'd
With love and adoration; so he hurl'd
Bright beams of glist'ring fire, that Nature mourn'd,
When his pure ample forehead, golden-curl'd,
He turn'd away, and to his purpose bent:
O look of wond'rous love, and sweetest ravishment!

3

His golden wain had hardly disappear'd,
The light yet glowing on the mountain tops,
When by a forest side, hight Ardenne, near'd
A lovely-looking Knight, that often stops,
And often gazes, as a man endear'd
To that fair prospect: then his reins he drops,
And, with his mighty hands to Heav'n uplift,
In pity-moving words thus speaks his drift:

208

4

“O purest Air, and thou, thrice golden Light,
That art the Soul of this enmarbled Sphere,
Why on the land and sea, by day and night,
In tempest and in calm, in hope and fear,
In Hell's tremendous gulph, at Heav'n's dread height,
Thus wear I out the day, the month, the year?
All things have rest, but only I unresting,
But rest, sweet rest, thou art not of my questing!

5

“But if in thee I could have found delight,
Well in my father's palace I had liv'd;
But present joys are hateful to his sight,
Who of all joy is by his fate bereav'd:
O hapless man, and O unhappy knight,
Who trusts in that, that still has him deceiv'd,
And in his ill-plac'd trust, how fond soever,
Though still deceiv'd, must still in it persever!

209

6

“I seek for that, which I can never find,
I look for that, which I can never see,
I live as in a dream, sans sense and blind,
Plaything of fate, and fool of memory;
My fortune at no stay, to worse inclin'd,
The evils of my race all heap'd on me:
And that, which should demand a firmer age,
In tender years no pity can engage.

7

“Is't fit the sapling with the winds should fight?
Is't fit the tender kid should roam the plain?
Is't fit the little bird should speed it's flight?
Or the small boat be plung'd into the main?
But fatal love on me doth vent it's spite,
That from new errour should young things restrain,
And, what is worse, my own sad fate I cherish,
And love the ill, that causeth me to perish.

210

8

“Else had I never parted from my mother,
That daily in Illyria sits, and weeps,
And, lulling with her song my little brother,
Beholds in him my image, as he sleeps;
Then kissing him, she cries, ‘Just such another
Euphorbus was, but cruel fortune keeps
Him from my love, and thou perhaps some day,
Sweet urchin, from my arms wilt steal away.’”

9

This tender thought hath quite unmann'd the knight,
And loving tears his noble eyes have fill'd,
He sees not, that the ebon clouds of Night
Above his head their gloomy stores have pil'd,
But, gazing wistly on the dying light,
Almost his life is in his bosom still'd,
So deep within his heart affection speaks,
That the big drops run coursing down his cheeks.

211

10

And, certes, he had gaz'd the Night away,
Like to a marble Monument of woe,
But that it chanc'd, forth issuing on his way,
A hermit from the wood came footing slow:
His aged limbs were clad in vestment grey,
And down his breast his silver beard did flow,
And on a staff his weary steps he stay'd,
Yet with much labour little progress made.

11

Then, somewhat bending, to Euphorbus said,
“Sir knight, permit an ancient man to know,
Why thus at Eve you bare your noble head
To all the winds, that under Heav'n do blow?
Perchance, from you your lady fair is fled,
Or at your feet your dearest friend laid low,
Or what is but small ill, compar'd with these,
Here in this soil your purpos'd path you leese.

212

12

“But if your lady from your sight be gone,
Feed on this thought, she constant is and pure:
Or, if for your beloved friend you moan,
Think that this World not always can endure:
But from this Stage, so thick with ills bestrown,
In perfect bliss he liveth, that is sure:
And in short space, if Virtue guide you right,
With his lov'd image you may feed your sight.

13

“Or if, indeed, your way you have mistook,
In precinct of this forest, long and wide,
Hard by, within the shelter of a nook,
My lowly home invites you to abide,
Till the first lark hath from her pinions shook
The glist'ning dew, and the sweet thrush replied
To the shrill note, that doth awake the Morn;
Then with fresh light let better hope be born.

213

14

“For endless Sorrow cannot long maintain
It's griping hold, but evil will ensue;
And timely rest is sweetest after pain:”
So saying, with his feeble hand he drew
Eupheme on, that hardly felt the rein,
Yet follow'd with light hoof, for well he knew
That aged Sire, and that he counsell'd well:
But of Eupheme something I will tell.

15

That horse was born in hills of Thessaly,
Of perfect shape, as lovely as the day,
And, at his birth, with winged speed could fly,
Like the swift South upon the Adrian bay;
A ruddy chesnut his bright limbs did dye,
And, like the Moon, his silver mane did play,
Like the full Moon, or like the frothy Sea,
Or meads of corn in laughing Sicily.

214

16

Full gentle was he, and so brave to wit,
That gentler none, or braver could be found,
But hardly could endure the golden bit,
Wherewith his lord, Euphorbus, had him bound;
Yet lightly handled, as for him unfit:
His finest feet did finely spurn the ground,
And with an eye, that shot like living fire,
He look'd abroad, and neighed with desire.

17

His neigh was like the silver clarionet,
That brayeth out the plumed Victory;
It love at once, and wonder did beget,
Whenso the sound about the rocks did fly
That whoso heard it, never could forget,
So lovely was that bravest melody;
But when he list his foemen's hearts to quell,
Then he outvoic'd the brazen gates of Hel!

215

18

He was indeed the Son of Zephyrus,
Begot upon a fresh Thessalian mare,
Which being of the God too amorous,
The jolly steed conceived of the Air:
(And let not men believe it fabulous,
The wise do know such fine conceptions are:)
Milk white she was, as is a holy heifer,
And bore this son, as I have said, to Zephyr.

19

So did he with his dam, Leucoloë, range
In pleasant sort upon the flowery mees;
Nor ever meant his happy life to change,
Or mother's side, if so the fates might please:
But they, which still are to our wishes strange,
Did force him soon his native pastures leese,
And, by the skill of Archelaüs caught,
Him to the Queen of all Illyria brought.

216

20

The Queen, whose name was fair Kalisthene,
Sole daughter of the King of Troynovant,
So lovely was, and beautiful to see,
That all the World did of her sweetness vaunt:
Her father held the British Isle in fee,
And her, pure Virgin, did in marriage grant
To King Theagenes, in blissful hour:
And so she reigned in Illyria's bower.

21

It happ'd, when first her slender womb 'gan swell
With the dear burden of her princely child,
One day, beside the margin of a well,
Within the palace gardens she beguil'd
The Summer hours, and bade her maidens tell
Sweet tales of love, and of adventure wild:
For, so it was, upon a point of state,
The King that morn had pass'd from out the gate.

217

22

Her maidens fair, and fairest would have been,
Save at the feet of sweet Kalisthene,
(But when the Sun ascends, no star is seen;)
Did pick, from out the stores of memory,
So many fables to delight the Queen,
That with pure joy an aged Nurse would die;
To hear such tales of ladies and of knights,
Of pomps, of banquets, errours and delights.

23

Till, being with the sweet recital tir'd,
As sweetest things will work their own decay,
Kalisthene from that young troop retir'd,
To lose in sleep the fervour of the day:
A flow'ring orange, that the air inspir'd
With od'rous joy, above her head did play,
And, by her side, a silver fountain crept,
That lulled her with murmurs, as she slept.

218

24

She dream'd,—but to Euphorbus I return,
(And from Euphorbus I too long have staid;)
Who being by persuasion mov'd to turn
Of that old man into the forest shade,
With many courteous thanks did seek to learn,
What him of that wide wood a tenant made;
Who told the knight that love of Contemplation
Had fix'd him there in that lone habitation.

25

“And truly, Sir,” quoth prudent Archelaüs,
For he it was, though in a fine disguise,
“So many things in wicked world do fray us,
Such heaps of falsehoods, perjuries, and lies,
Besides what dangers on all sides dismay us,
That who not flieth hardly can be wise:
A good exchange from foolish fear and riot,
To dwelling with high God in peace and quiet.”

219

26

And many other things he said by rote,
Still talking fondly, as befitted Age,
Of which perhaps I might have taken note,
But that Euphorbus must my thoughts engage;
Who now, at Wisdom's pace, full slow, God wot,
Is come at last to that small hermitage,
Wherein he means to make his travel's inn,
So knight and Archelaüs enter in.

27

A little lowly cave, and hollow'd under
A marble rock, ycover'd all with trees,
Wherein the winds, like very distant thunder,
Did softly sound, or like a swarm of bees,
That with full murmur from the hive doth sunder,
Or like the gentle roaring of the seas,
Heard inland, so the winds a lulling keep,
For ever in that cave persuading sleep.

220

28

The seemly hermit proferr'd what he had,
Such simple food, as fed him in the wild;
And with it mix'd his speech, so sagely sad,
That very much he pleas'd the princely child:
Long had the Moon been in her glory clad,
So was he of his wise discourse beguil'd,
Ere yet, and then reluctant, he withdrew,
With balmy sleep his body to renew.

29

But with the springing dawn uprose the knight,
And donn'd his armour, glorious to behold,
Which in that gloomy dwelling made a light,
That somewhat did amaze that beadsman old:
For cap-à-pèe he was completely dight,
Like Mars himself, in living case of gold;
And on his head a golden bunch he wore
Of fairest apples, shaking evermore.

221

30

His warlike spear into his hand he took,
And paced forth unto Eupheme's stall;
Then loosed him, whereas in little nook
That horse divine was tied to the wall:
His ears he prick'd, his flowing mane he shook,
And neighed thrice to hear the welcome call;
Then pawing, in his thought he spurns the floods,
The hills, the vales, the champaign, and the woods.

31

Departing forth, Euphorbus gently paid
Such courteous thanks, as to his host were due:
And, at the last, his dearest blessing pray'd,
With many wishes him again to view:
The good old man, that with his hand did shade
His aged cheek, to hide the kindly dew,
Then prayed him, that he with him might ride,
Till he was sped out of that forest wide.

222

32

So mounting on his horse, that harness'd was,
A lowly-looking beast, but well can go,
Full many hours they on their way did pass,
Without occurrence or of friend or foe:
Till now Dan Phœbus in the Westward was,
And nearer to the Earth was driving low;
When they arriv'd upon a river's brink,
But how to overpass they cannot think.

33

A lovely poplar on the bank there grew:
Euphorbus cut it down, and with it strove
To touch some shallow place, to bear them through;
But all in vain: so up and down they rove,
Still sounding with their pole; till now they view
A herdsman fast come running through the grove,
Who told them of a ford, not distant was;
Where with his cattle he was wont to pass.

223

34

They thank'd him much for that his courtesy,
(Ah gentle word, ill-named from a Court!)
And then he proffer'd them their guide to be,
To that same place of which he did report:
So on they marched with full goodly glee,
And talk'd of this and that in pleasant sort:
The while the murmuring Wind full softly sigh'd,
And the base Water at their feet replied.

35

When suddenly a hideous shriek they heard,
A hideous shriek, that pierced all the sky,
And at the sound a savage man appear'd,
Which on a horse from out the wood did fly;
A lovely lady in his arms he rear'd,
That for vain help continually did cry;
“Help, help, O God,” she cried continually:
Whereat the savage man more fast did fly.

224

36

But when he saw Euphorbus in his race,
He turn'd, as swift as doth a glancing arrow,
And plung'd into the stream, despite of grace,
And lady's cries, that any heart would harrow;
(But in his heart no pity could have place:)
So is she, as a dove or tender sparrow,
That the fierce falcon in his gripe hath caught,
And beareth oft, till he can tear to nought.

37

Inflam'd with rage, and great astonishment,
Euphorbus drove Eupheme to the bank,
And at one plunge into the middle went,
That horse and rider in an instant sank:
But rose again, and fury did augment,
To see upmounting from the river dank,
That savage man, who, giving look behind,
Set off again, as rapid as the wind.

225

38

Yet had he not escap'd the thrilling spear
Of good Euphorbus, not for all his speed,
But that the lady sate to him so near,
He fear'd the point might make her body bleed;
So flying through the woods at full career,
Of nothing but his foe he taketh heed,
And often rais'd his lance, and often stay'd
The fatal lance for pity of the maid.

39

At length the night her doleful shadow cast
O'er all the world, encompassing from view
Both man and beast, and that wide wood embrac'd
With twofold horrour of her pois'nous hue;
That, nathless, so enforc'd he checks his haste,
Ne longer can his flying prey pursue;
But, maugre discontent and pining ire,
His steed he stops, his foe hath his desire.

226

40

And grieving much at his so fruitless chace,
Yet wond'ring at the swiftness of the horse,
Whereon the savage rode, whose glorious pace
Had clear'd him from the peril of that course;
He mote suspect some magick in the case,
To baffle him in his so virtuous force;
Or, sure, his prey Eupheme had o'erta'en,
And his vile life upon the ground been slain.

41

But wait he must until the dawn appear,
And feed his thoughts so wisely as he may;
Patience is his best friend, and ever near
He keeps the hope, that all his life doth sway;
But grieves to think, for he to him is dear,
Of that good hermit, who is far away:
And then, for woeful thought augmenteth woe,
He thinks, perchance, it may be ever so.

227

43

But pity of that lady's sad mishap
Did most torment him through the restless night:
He thinks the slave will in a dungeon clap
Her tender limbs; perhaps will kill outright:
Or, since he now hath got her in his trap,
Will quite despoil, to feed his appetite:
Such thoughts as these his fancy did torment,
Till creeping Night had half her journey spent:

44

When weary Sleep his senses did surprize,
Foredone with toil of body and of mind,
And pour'd a gentle slumber on his eyes:
Now the dull darkness, drooping, look'd behind,
And saw the harbingers of Morn arise,
Then slowly down the steep of Heav'n declin'd:
And bright Aurora shot her saffron fires
Quite thro' the realms of air, dispersing pure desires.

228

44

The birds did wake their wanton melody,
And sweetly caroll'd in the dewy leaves:
But yet Euphorbus did in slumber lie,
That 'midst the light and musick him bereaves
Of joyous beams, and molten harmony:
At length his sprite the message glad receives,
And the pure Soul, awaking to the day,
'Gan much herself reproach, that in oblivion lay.

45

So doth he mount upon Eupheme' again,
That all the Night had by his master stood,
Ne gather'd from his hand the idle rein:
Forthwith he speeds right forward thro' the wood,
To see, if he that savage can regain,
Or help the dame from that infernal brood:
Long time he journey'd through those leafy bowers,
Beguiling with his thoughts the lonely hours.

229

46

When suddenly he list a trumpet sound,
That marble Air doth startle with it's voice,
And, as it seem'd, a neighbour to that ground:
Much at that musick did the Knight rejoice,
Then straightway thro' th' entangled forest wound;
Where of his road he had but evil choice:
Yet, govern'd by his ear, he came at last
To a fair hill, that high in heav'n was plac'd.

47

And, right afore, a spacious castle stood,
Built on a sharp and steepy pinnacle,
And 'twixt a little gulph did pour its flood:
But, all beyond, 'twere difficult to tell
Th' extent of that fair country, that he view'd:
Hot Titan on the shining fortress fell,
That the walls blaz'd, like steel, or diamond;
At this so glorious sight Euphorbus stood astond.

230

48

But time it is we loosen now our team,
Our weary team, and from the furrow send,
To slake their thirst with murmurs of the stream,
And in the flowery meadows roam an end:
Then for a little space I drop my theme,
For Wisdom bids soft rest with labour blend;
But what in that same castle there befell,
I in another canto, speedily will tell.

The Argument of the above Canto.

By Ardenne wood Euphorbus doth complain,
In terms, to melt a marble rock with woe;
Him Archelaüs sees, oppress'd with pain,
And well persuades into his cave to go;
Together with the light they take the rein,
And thrid the wood; till chancing on a foe,
The Prince pursues, and being foil'd by Night,
The Morn presents a castle to his sight.

This Legend was part of a larger Poem, which I then designed to write.