University of Virginia Library

previous section The Works of Mr Abraham Cowley
next section
392

[2.] Of Solitude.

[_]

The following verse has bean extracted from the prose of this discourse.

395

[Hail, old Patrician Trees, so great and good!]

1

Hail, old Patrician Trees, so great and good!
Hail ye Plebeian under wood!
Where the Poetique Birds rejoyce,
And for their quiet Nests and plentious Food,
Pay with their grateful voice.

2

Hail, the poor Muses richest Mannor Seat!
Ye Countrey Houses and Retreat,
Which all the happy Gods so Love,
That for you oft they quit their Bright and Great
Metropolis above.

3

Here Nature does a House for me erect,
Nature the wisest Architect,
Who those fond Artists does despise
That can the fair and living Trees neglect;
Yet the Dead Timber prize.

4

Here let me careless and unthoughtful lying,
Hear the soft winds above me flying,
With all their wanton Boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful Birds to both replying
Nor be my self too Mute.

5

A Silver stream shall roul his waters neer,
Guilt with the Sun-beams here and there
On whose enamel'd Bank I'll walk,
And see how prettily they Smile, and hear
How prettily they Talk.
396

6

Ah wretched, and too Solitary Hee
Who loves not his own Company!
He'l feel the weight of't many a day
Unless he call in Sin or Vanity
To help to bear't away.

7

Oh Solitude, first state of Human-kind!
Which blest remain'd till man did find
Even his own helpers Company.
As soon as two (alas!) together joyn'd,
The Serpent made up Three.

8

Though God himself, through countless Ages Thee
His sole Companion chose to be,
Thee, Sacred Solitude alone,
Before the Branchy head of Numbers Tree
Sprang from the Trunk of One.

9

Thou (though men think thine an unactive part)
Dost break and tame th'unruly heart,
Which else would know no setled pace,
Making it move, well mannag'd by thy Art,
With Swiftness and with Grace.

10

Thou the faint beams of Reasons scatter'd Light,
Dost like a Burning-glass unite,
Dost multiply the feeble Heat,
And fortifie the strength, till thou dost bright
And noble Fires beget.

11

Whilst this hard Truth I teach, methinks, I see
The Monster London laugh at me,
I should at thee too, foolish City,
If it were fit to laugh at Misery,
But thy Estate I pity.
397

12

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go,
And all the Fools that crowd the[e] so,
Even thou who dost thy Millions boast,
A Village less then Islington wilt grow,
A Solitude almost.
previous section The Works of Mr Abraham Cowley
next section