The Poems of Thomas Pestell Edited with an account of his life and work by Hannah Buchan |
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 | [Lachrymae Musarum:] |
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 | The Poems of Thomas Pestell |  |
75
[Lachrymae Musarum:]
For the Right Honourable, LUCIE, Countess of Huntingdon. 1649. From her Honours humblest Servant, T. P.
Her Soliloquie, or her Meditation.
'Tis mystick Union, man and Wife,
Yet scarce distinct from Single life,
Till like the Sun, a Son arise,
And set them Both before their eyes:
No sweeter, braver, fairer sight,
Then thus to stand in our own Light.
Yet scarce distinct from Single life,
Till like the Sun, a Son arise,
And set them Both before their eyes:
No sweeter, braver, fairer sight,
Then thus to stand in our own Light.
And such a Son I joy'd: (Ay me!
Was ever such a Son as he?)
And felt what fervent spirits of Love
Orbs of Maternal Bowels move.
Was ever such a Son as he?)
And felt what fervent spirits of Love
Orbs of Maternal Bowels move.
I wou'd not shun those outward snares,
Of Shape, of shining eyes and hairs;
Which still the more they catch, or wound,
More pleasing still their power I found.
And it is lawful, godly too,
To love what Gods own fingers do:
Whose Angells still are sweetly fac'd,
Himself with perfect Beauty grac'd.
Of Shape, of shining eyes and hairs;
Which still the more they catch, or wound,
More pleasing still their power I found.
And it is lawful, godly too,
To love what Gods own fingers do:
Whose Angells still are sweetly fac'd,
Himself with perfect Beauty grac'd.
But eager Vertue from the Clay,
In words and actions making way
To Sense: in All that heard or saw
Became a fierce almighty Law,
And stoop'd all hearts that were not stone,
Or drown'd in Malice; or in Moan,
Like mine. So overgone with Wo,
My very Reason bids it go:
Nor lies it in the power of Wit,
By Reason to recover it.
In words and actions making way
To Sense: in All that heard or saw
Became a fierce almighty Law,
And stoop'd all hearts that were not stone,
Or drown'd in Malice; or in Moan,
Like mine. So overgone with Wo,
My very Reason bids it go:
Nor lies it in the power of Wit,
By Reason to recover it.
76
The Rational Reply.
By Reason to recover it,
Sans forlorn Hope, or wings of Wit,
Who serves you, his main Battel brings.
Heark how the feather'd Tempest sings;
Your clouds of Grief transpiercing quite,
Or hurrying to disordered Flight.
Then (Sorrow vanquisht) on his Herse
Rears Trophies of victorious Verse.
First, let us ask Impatience why
At gentle Death's approach we cry.
Sweet Favourite of heaven, that flies
With Cupids face, but Hermes eyes;
Whose Rods, and Snakes, and seeming harms,
Our souls in slumber wisely charms.
For that poor Spark call'd Life; the brand,
The Rush we carry in our hand;
Which dropping and defiling spends:
Death gives Delight that never ends.
O mad mistake! Sea-tost, a Calm;
And wounded, we reject a Balm:
Rabide for want of Rest, we keep
A bawling, and refuse to sleep:
Dead-weary tir'd, yet scorn to stay;
And, Cripples, hurl our Crutch away.
But these are General: for your pain
Here's water of a Special vein;
Wherein no relish you shall feel
Of Sulph'ry Wit, but Reasons steel.
What cou'd you wish your Son? A pair
Of Dove-like Eyes; as Joseph fair;
Straight as young Mountain-Pines, whose arms
The Sun with early kisses warms:
Guilds, blazons so each Leaf and Limb,
That Paint is dirt, and Metal dim.
He was all this, and all that we
Can fetch from Beauties pedigree.
The Case so bright, what radiance threw
The Jewel that it did indue!
The Queen that held the Throne in state
Of Grace, there drest and re-create:
Till like a Lark from earthly Cage
Enlarg'd, and fir'd with strong new Rage,
She mounts, and sings in heaven. And what?
May we not fall some drops thereat?
Good reason, if the Tears you shed
From joyful brains expansion spread,
Call it not grief; foul Envie 'tis,
To whine at Saints enshrin'd in bliss.
Reflect on all the whole worlds frame,
It climbs and twines to whence it came:
So Beams that shine, and Streams that flow,
Back to their Sun and Ocean go.
To Vernal Flowers, which, at their birth
Thrust up pure crowns from impure Earth,
Grow by degrees full ripe, and then
Must hide them in their Roots agen.
Sans forlorn Hope, or wings of Wit,
Who serves you, his main Battel brings.
Heark how the feather'd Tempest sings;
Your clouds of Grief transpiercing quite,
Or hurrying to disordered Flight.
Then (Sorrow vanquisht) on his Herse
Rears Trophies of victorious Verse.
First, let us ask Impatience why
At gentle Death's approach we cry.
Sweet Favourite of heaven, that flies
With Cupids face, but Hermes eyes;
Whose Rods, and Snakes, and seeming harms,
Our souls in slumber wisely charms.
For that poor Spark call'd Life; the brand,
The Rush we carry in our hand;
Which dropping and defiling spends:
Death gives Delight that never ends.
O mad mistake! Sea-tost, a Calm;
And wounded, we reject a Balm:
Rabide for want of Rest, we keep
A bawling, and refuse to sleep:
Dead-weary tir'd, yet scorn to stay;
And, Cripples, hurl our Crutch away.
But these are General: for your pain
Here's water of a Special vein;
Wherein no relish you shall feel
Of Sulph'ry Wit, but Reasons steel.
What cou'd you wish your Son? A pair
Of Dove-like Eyes; as Joseph fair;
Straight as young Mountain-Pines, whose arms
The Sun with early kisses warms:
Guilds, blazons so each Leaf and Limb,
That Paint is dirt, and Metal dim.
77
Can fetch from Beauties pedigree.
The Case so bright, what radiance threw
The Jewel that it did indue!
The Queen that held the Throne in state
Of Grace, there drest and re-create:
Till like a Lark from earthly Cage
Enlarg'd, and fir'd with strong new Rage,
She mounts, and sings in heaven. And what?
May we not fall some drops thereat?
Good reason, if the Tears you shed
From joyful brains expansion spread,
Call it not grief; foul Envie 'tis,
To whine at Saints enshrin'd in bliss.
Reflect on all the whole worlds frame,
It climbs and twines to whence it came:
So Beams that shine, and Streams that flow,
Back to their Sun and Ocean go.
To Vernal Flowers, which, at their birth
Thrust up pure crowns from impure Earth,
Grow by degrees full ripe, and then
Must hide them in their Roots agen.
He parted in Perfection's time,
In Golden Number, and in Prime
Of Life, of Love, and White Report
For Vertue; past the ranker sort
Of Flash-green youths; no Vicious Stain
Envenoming his Blood or Brain:
From Duels, Drink, Dice, Cares, Age, Laws,
Faces of Dames, and Eagles Claws,
Exempt: he laughs at us that still
Bleat round the bottom of the hill.
In Golden Number, and in Prime
Of Life, of Love, and White Report
For Vertue; past the ranker sort
Of Flash-green youths; no Vicious Stain
Envenoming his Blood or Brain:
From Duels, Drink, Dice, Cares, Age, Laws,
Faces of Dames, and Eagles Claws,
Exempt: he laughs at us that still
Bleat round the bottom of the hill.
Last, think of your clear open way
To heaven, obstructed by his stay;
While, more than Mer-Maid, face and words
All Ear-wax melts, and breaks all Cords.
Did not his Look, his Voice and Deed,
With full commerce of Pleasure feed
Your Sense and Soul? which now takes wing,
Checks not at ought; nor spies fair thing
Worth stooping at. O let it flie
To Quarries there above the skie
To heaven, obstructed by his stay;
While, more than Mer-Maid, face and words
78
Did not his Look, his Voice and Deed,
With full commerce of Pleasure feed
Your Sense and Soul? which now takes wing,
Checks not at ought; nor spies fair thing
Worth stooping at. O let it flie
To Quarries there above the skie
On the untimely death of HENRY Lord HASTINGS, Onely Son to Ferdinand and Lucy, Earl and Countess of Huntingdon.
Up, Beldame Muse! thy Climacterick's past:
But one work more; thy lastingst, if not last.
Lord Hastings glorious shade before us stands,
Whose Vertue exacts this Duty from our hands:
'Twill be a Night-piece, friends: Here never seek
Lucie large-soul'd, and Ferdinand the meek;
Who both esteem'd it braver work and worth,
To bring this Son up, then t'have brought him forth.
He th'Exposition to their double Text,
The Glass wherein they saw themselves reflext;
He, that was He; and She, and both in one,
Both she and he, all three, in him are gone.
This Sun-set all obscur'd: with Ætna prest,
Their burning Giant Grief can take no rest.
To print so black a Sorrow fair, I want
Gold-plate for Paper, Pen of Adamant.
Veils on those chief Close-mourners faces spread;
I pencil out all gentler eyes in Red
Swoln lids; as having spent their bottom-store
Of precious dew-drops, till their hearts are sore.
Which fast congeal'd Balm has his Herse in fixt
In Chrystal Case, with Pearl and Amber mixt.
Rare Monument! but cannot him refine,
So rich a Saint impov'rishing his Shrine.
Was he not purest, fairest, wisest, best?
All Graces magazin'd, yet unexprest.
When his bright Bodies eminence I view'd,
With such a soveraign Intellect indu'd,
So just and ponder'd Temp'rature to finde,
So early ripe, so richly matcht in Minde;
Choice Gem of Nature, set in Nurturing Gold;
Exulting Fancy quick conceiv'd the Mold
Was ready now, wherein th'Almightie's hand
Wou'd cast new Nobles, and restore the Land;
Whose finest Gold, if in compare it bring,
Is sure to finde his strong Mercurial Sting.
He caus'd us hurl our Vows, and gave free scope
To change our Wishes into Present Hope.
But O Sydneian! O Blood-Royal Fate!
Great Britains curse, whose sinful, shameful State
Makes all Heroick Vertue soon decay;
Which mad she throws, or just God takes away.
So fell our Ripheus in New Troy, lest he
Perchance her Fires and instant Ruine see:
For will that sacred Thundrer never powre
On such a Sodom his revengeful showre?
Where Lust and Pride, with their five brethren stand
In bold defiance of his armed hand:
Where Lords and Gentry, mindless of white Fame,
Graceless of old, are now beneath all Shame.
But one work more; thy lastingst, if not last.
Lord Hastings glorious shade before us stands,
Whose Vertue exacts this Duty from our hands:
'Twill be a Night-piece, friends: Here never seek
Lucie large-soul'd, and Ferdinand the meek;
Who both esteem'd it braver work and worth,
To bring this Son up, then t'have brought him forth.
He th'Exposition to their double Text,
The Glass wherein they saw themselves reflext;
He, that was He; and She, and both in one,
Both she and he, all three, in him are gone.
This Sun-set all obscur'd: with Ætna prest,
Their burning Giant Grief can take no rest.
To print so black a Sorrow fair, I want
Gold-plate for Paper, Pen of Adamant.
Veils on those chief Close-mourners faces spread;
I pencil out all gentler eyes in Red
Swoln lids; as having spent their bottom-store
Of precious dew-drops, till their hearts are sore.
Which fast congeal'd Balm has his Herse in fixt
In Chrystal Case, with Pearl and Amber mixt.
Rare Monument! but cannot him refine,
So rich a Saint impov'rishing his Shrine.
79
All Graces magazin'd, yet unexprest.
When his bright Bodies eminence I view'd,
With such a soveraign Intellect indu'd,
So just and ponder'd Temp'rature to finde,
So early ripe, so richly matcht in Minde;
Choice Gem of Nature, set in Nurturing Gold;
Exulting Fancy quick conceiv'd the Mold
Was ready now, wherein th'Almightie's hand
Wou'd cast new Nobles, and restore the Land;
Whose finest Gold, if in compare it bring,
Is sure to finde his strong Mercurial Sting.
He caus'd us hurl our Vows, and gave free scope
To change our Wishes into Present Hope.
But O Sydneian! O Blood-Royal Fate!
Great Britains curse, whose sinful, shameful State
Makes all Heroick Vertue soon decay;
Which mad she throws, or just God takes away.
So fell our Ripheus in New Troy, lest he
Perchance her Fires and instant Ruine see:
For will that sacred Thundrer never powre
On such a Sodom his revengeful showre?
Where Lust and Pride, with their five brethren stand
In bold defiance of his armed hand:
Where Lords and Gentry, mindless of white Fame,
Graceless of old, are now beneath all Shame.
Pardon, fresh Saint, to set thy shining Good
With such coarse foils, to make it understood:
To topless height, from their base depth below,
Thy flaming Pyramid of Praise wou'd grow.
But for thou joy'st th'applause of Angels there,
How frivolous are our weak Ecchoes here!
With such coarse foils, to make it understood:
To topless height, from their base depth below,
Thy flaming Pyramid of Praise wou'd grow.
But for thou joy'st th'applause of Angels there,
How frivolous are our weak Ecchoes here!
| The Poems of Thomas Pestell | |