The Minor Poems of Joseph Beaumont :: :: University of Virginia Library

Say what is Love
That little Word & mighty Thing;
Which blinder poets as they sing,
Conspire to prove
Blind as ye Night,
And yet as bright
As is the Mornings Face
Wth all her roseall Grace
Or Phoebu's eyes
When first they rise
And powre their flaming gold through all ye skies.

They give him Wings,
Such as their foolish quills can make,
But stain them wth their inke: They talk
Of warlike things,
Of shafts & Bow
But say not now
Their childish Dietie
Should use them, or can see
To shoot, & yet
They fondly set
Pure Sprightfull soules his Mark to practise at.

His Mark indeed
Are onely Soules, & happy they
In being so: His weapons may
Cause them to bleed;

But first his Dart
Pierc'd his owne Heart
And broach'd his dearest veine
To make them wholl againe.
His wound is ope
All theirs to stop;
Nor does He ever meane to close it up.

Soules are His Mark,
And well He sees to hit them too.
Nor is His never-failing Bow
Bent in ye Dark.
All one bright Eye
Is Love, & by
The Day yt from it breaks
His noble aime He takes.
Soft as ye Ray
Of this Sweet Day
Are all His healing Shafts where e'r they slay.

Who calls Fire blind?
What slaunder dares accuse ye spark,
And blushes not to call it dark?
What Eye can find
Shades in ye flame?
Who prints ye Name
Of Night upon ye Beame,
Wch from high-Noon doth streame?
The Spark, ye Beame,
The Fire, ye Flame,
Of glorious Love are but a severall Name.

And oh how far
They faile of what they faine would say!
Love is a nobler kind of Ray;
No trembling star
No labouring Fire
Wch doth aspire
Into a wavoring Flame;

No vaine ambitious Beame
Which swells upon
The garish Sunne
Has light enough to make Love's shade alone.

Goe but wth Mee
To yonder Hill, where Valiant Love
The utmost of His power did prove;
And you shall see
His strength, & how
He us'd his Bow.
Tis worth your sight; Great Kings
Have wishd to see those things.
And wish they may,
But Love will stay
His owne time, He's a Greater Prince then they.

And yet He came
Hither at last. Mark that crosse Tree
No other Bow but that brought Hee:
And on ye same
Stretch'd with full strength
Himselfe at length
And shot at Death & Hell.
But since those Monsters fell,
He aims His Darts
At none but Hearts
He heales by wounds, by killing Life imparts.

In His faire Eyes
Millions of little Loves doe play,
As Atoms in ye highnoone Ray.
Who can comprise
Those radiant Pleasures
And smiling Treasures
That all in His Sweet Face
Find their delicious place!
Which when Heaven spy'd
Though vilify'd
On Earth, her owne dull Sun She strove to hide.

Sweet Warrior,
Whose soft Artillery does invite
All enemies unto ye fight;
Though their cheife feare
It be, least they
Should win ye Day.
What gaines a soule, when Shee
Yeilds not to Life, & Thee?
When Shee doth choose
Herselfe to loose
Rather then Thou shouldst win Her from her woes!

How dead am I
Sweet Master of Heavns Archerie,
Because I am not slaine by Thee!
Help Mee to die,
Lest dangerous Death
Suck up my breath
Before I live: My Heart
Will need a speciall Dart:
Yet make no stay,
Look but this way,
Thy potent Eyes my Soule will quickly slay.