Thalia Rediviva The Pass-times and Diversions of a Countrey-muse, In Choice Poems on several Occasions. With Some Learned Remains of the Eminent Eugenius Philalethes. Never made Publick till now [by Henry Vaughan] |
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The Phœnix out of Claudian.
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 | Thalia Rediviva |  |
The Phœnix out of Claudian.
Oceani summo circumfluus æquore lucus
Trans Indos, Eurumque viret &c,
Trans Indos, Eurumque viret &c,
A grove there grows round with the Sea confin'd
Beyond the Indies, and the Eastern wind.
Which, as the Sun breaks forth in his first beam,
Salutes his steeds, and hears him whip his team.
When with his dewy Coach the Eastern Bay
Crackles, whence blusheth the approaching day;
And blasted with his burnish'd wheels, the night
In a pale dress doth vanish from the light.
Beyond the Indies, and the Eastern wind.
Which, as the Sun breaks forth in his first beam,
Salutes his steeds, and hears him whip his team.
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Crackles, whence blusheth the approaching day;
And blasted with his burnish'd wheels, the night
In a pale dress doth vanish from the light.
This the blest Phœnix Empire is, here he
Alone exempted from mortality,
Enjoys a land, where no diseases raign;
And ne'r afflicted, like our world, with pain.
A Bird most equal to the Gods, which vies
For length of life and durance, with the skyes;
And with renewed limbs tires ev'ry age,
His appetite he never doth asswage
With common food. Nor doth he use to drink
When thirsty, on some River's muddy brink.
A purer, vital heat shot from the Sun
Doth nourish him, and airy sweets that come
From Tethis lap, he tasteth at his need;
On such abstracted Diet doth he feed.
Alone exempted from mortality,
Enjoys a land, where no diseases raign;
And ne'r afflicted, like our world, with pain.
A Bird most equal to the Gods, which vies
For length of life and durance, with the skyes;
And with renewed limbs tires ev'ry age,
His appetite he never doth asswage
With common food. Nor doth he use to drink
When thirsty, on some River's muddy brink.
A purer, vital heat shot from the Sun
Doth nourish him, and airy sweets that come
From Tethis lap, he tasteth at his need;
On such abstracted Diet doth he feed.
A secret Light there streams from both his Eyes
A firy hue about his cheeks doth rise.
His Crest grows up into a glorious Star
Giv'n t' adorn his head, and shines so far.
That piercing through the bosom of the night
It rends the darkness with a gladsome light.
His thighs like Tyrian scarlet, and his wings
(More swift than Winds are,) have skie-colour'd rings
Flowry and rich: and round about inroll'd
Their utmost borders glister all with gold.
Hee's not conceiv'd, nor springs he from the Earth,
But is himself the Parent, and the birth.
None him begets; his fruitful death reprieves
Old age, and by his funerals he lives.
For when the tedious Summer's gone about
A thousand times: so many Winters out,
So many Springs: and May doth still restore
Those leaves, which Autumn had blown off before;
Then prest with years his vigour doth decline
Foil'd with the number; as a stately Pine
Tir'd out with storms, bends from the top & height
Of Causacus, and falls with its own weight:
Whose part is torn with dayly blasts, with Rain
Part is consum'd, and part with Age again.
So now his Eyes grown dusky, fail to see
Far off, and drops of colder rheums there be
Fall'n slow and dreggy from them; such in sight
The cloudy Moon is, having spent her light.
And now his wings, which used to contend
With Tempests, scarce from the low Earth ascend.
He knows his time is out! and doth provide
New principles of life; herbs he brings dried
From the hot hills, and with rich spices frames
A Pile shall burn, and Hatch him with its flames.
On this the weakling sits; salutes the Sun
With pleasant noise, and prays and begs for some
Of his own fire, that quickly may restore
The youth and vigour, which he had before.
Whom soon as Phœbus spyes, stopping his rayns,
He makes a stand and thus allayes his pains.
O thou that buriest old age in thy grave,
And art by seeming funerals to have
A new return of life! whose custom 'tis
To rise by ruin, and by death to miss.
Ev'n death it self: a new beginning take,
And that thy wither'd body now forsake!
Better thy self by this thy change! This sed,
He shakes his locks, and from his golden head
Shoots one bright beam, which smites with vital fire
The willing bird; to burn is his desire,
That he may live again: he's proud in death,
And goes in haste to gain a better breath.
The spicie heap fir'd with cœlestial rays
Doth burn the aged Phœnix, when strait stays
The Chariot of th' amazed Moon; the pole
Resists the wheeling, swift Orbs, and the whole
Fabric of Nature at a stand remains,
Till the old bird a new, young being gains.
All stop and charge the faithful flames, that they
Suffer not nature's glory to decay.
A firy hue about his cheeks doth rise.
His Crest grows up into a glorious Star
Giv'n t' adorn his head, and shines so far.
That piercing through the bosom of the night
It rends the darkness with a gladsome light.
His thighs like Tyrian scarlet, and his wings
(More swift than Winds are,) have skie-colour'd rings
Flowry and rich: and round about inroll'd
Their utmost borders glister all with gold.
Hee's not conceiv'd, nor springs he from the Earth,
But is himself the Parent, and the birth.
None him begets; his fruitful death reprieves
Old age, and by his funerals he lives.
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A thousand times: so many Winters out,
So many Springs: and May doth still restore
Those leaves, which Autumn had blown off before;
Then prest with years his vigour doth decline
Foil'd with the number; as a stately Pine
Tir'd out with storms, bends from the top & height
Of Causacus, and falls with its own weight:
Whose part is torn with dayly blasts, with Rain
Part is consum'd, and part with Age again.
So now his Eyes grown dusky, fail to see
Far off, and drops of colder rheums there be
Fall'n slow and dreggy from them; such in sight
The cloudy Moon is, having spent her light.
And now his wings, which used to contend
With Tempests, scarce from the low Earth ascend.
He knows his time is out! and doth provide
New principles of life; herbs he brings dried
From the hot hills, and with rich spices frames
A Pile shall burn, and Hatch him with its flames.
On this the weakling sits; salutes the Sun
With pleasant noise, and prays and begs for some
Of his own fire, that quickly may restore
The youth and vigour, which he had before.
Whom soon as Phœbus spyes, stopping his rayns,
He makes a stand and thus allayes his pains.
O thou that buriest old age in thy grave,
And art by seeming funerals to have
A new return of life! whose custom 'tis
To rise by ruin, and by death to miss.
Ev'n death it self: a new beginning take,
And that thy wither'd body now forsake!
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He shakes his locks, and from his golden head
Shoots one bright beam, which smites with vital fire
The willing bird; to burn is his desire,
That he may live again: he's proud in death,
And goes in haste to gain a better breath.
The spicie heap fir'd with cœlestial rays
Doth burn the aged Phœnix, when strait stays
The Chariot of th' amazed Moon; the pole
Resists the wheeling, swift Orbs, and the whole
Fabric of Nature at a stand remains,
Till the old bird a new, young being gains.
All stop and charge the faithful flames, that they
Suffer not nature's glory to decay.
By this time, life which in the ashes lurks
Hath fram'd the Heart, and taught new bloud new works;
The whole heap stirs, and ev'ry part assumes
Due vigour; th' Embers too are turn'd to plumes.
The parent in the Issue now revives,
But young and brisk; the bounds of both these lives
With very little space between the same,
Were parted only by the middle flame.
Hath fram'd the Heart, and taught new bloud new works;
The whole heap stirs, and ev'ry part assumes
Due vigour; th' Embers too are turn'd to plumes.
The parent in the Issue now revives,
But young and brisk; the bounds of both these lives
With very little space between the same,
Were parted only by the middle flame.
To Nilus strait he goes to consecrate
His parents ghoste; his mind is to translate
His dust to Egypt. Now he hastes away
Into a distant land, and doth convey
The ashes in a turf. Birds do attend
His Journey without number, and defend
His pious flight like to a guard; the sky
Is clouded with the Army, as they fly.
Nor is there one of all those thousands dares
Affront his leader: they with solomn cares
Attend the progress of their youthful king;
Not the rude hawk, nor th' Eagle that doth bring
Arms up to Jove, fight now; lest they displease;
The miracle enacts a common peace.
So doth the Parthian lead from Tigris side
His barbarous troops, full of a lavish pride
In pearls and habit, he adorns his head
With royal tires: his steed with gold is lead.
His robes, for which the scarlet fish is sought,
With rare Assyrian needle work are wrought.
And proudly reigning o're his rascal bands,
He raves and triumphs in his large Commands.
His parents ghoste; his mind is to translate
His dust to Egypt. Now he hastes away
Into a distant land, and doth convey
The ashes in a turf. Birds do attend
His Journey without number, and defend
His pious flight like to a guard; the sky
Is clouded with the Army, as they fly.
Nor is there one of all those thousands dares
Affront his leader: they with solomn cares
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Not the rude hawk, nor th' Eagle that doth bring
Arms up to Jove, fight now; lest they displease;
The miracle enacts a common peace.
So doth the Parthian lead from Tigris side
His barbarous troops, full of a lavish pride
In pearls and habit, he adorns his head
With royal tires: his steed with gold is lead.
His robes, for which the scarlet fish is sought,
With rare Assyrian needle work are wrought.
And proudly reigning o're his rascal bands,
He raves and triumphs in his large Commands.
A City of Egypt famous in all lands
For rites, adores the Sun, his temple stands
There on a hundred pillars by account
Dig'd from the quarries of the Theban mount.
Here, as the Custom did require (they say,)
His happy parents dust down he doth lay;
Then to the Image of his Lord he bends
And to the flames his burden strait commends.
Unto the Altars thus he destinates
His own Remains: the light doth gild the gates;
Perfumes divine the Censers up do send:
While th' Indian odour doth it self extend
To the Pelusian fens, and filleth all
The men it meets with the sweet storm. A gale
To which compar'd, Nectar it self is vile:
Fills the seav'n channels of the misty Nile.
For rites, adores the Sun, his temple stands
There on a hundred pillars by account
Dig'd from the quarries of the Theban mount.
Here, as the Custom did require (they say,)
His happy parents dust down he doth lay;
Then to the Image of his Lord he bends
And to the flames his burden strait commends.
Unto the Altars thus he destinates
His own Remains: the light doth gild the gates;
Perfumes divine the Censers up do send:
While th' Indian odour doth it self extend
To the Pelusian fens, and filleth all
The men it meets with the sweet storm. A gale
To which compar'd, Nectar it self is vile:
Fills the seav'n channels of the misty Nile.
O happy bird! sole heir to thy own dust!
Death, to whose force all other Creatures must
Submit, saves thee. Thy ashes make thee rise;
'Tis not thy nature, but thy age that dies.
Thou hast seen All! and to the times that run
Thou art as great a witness, as the Sun.
Thou saw'st the deluge, when the sea outvied
The land, and drown'd the mountains with the tide.
What year the stragling Phaeton did fire
The world, thou know'st. And no plagues can conspire
Against thy life; alone thou do'st arise
Above mortality; the Destinies
Spin not thy days out with their fatal Clue;
They have no Law, to which thy life is due.
Death, to whose force all other Creatures must
Submit, saves thee. Thy ashes make thee rise;
'Tis not thy nature, but thy age that dies.
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Thou art as great a witness, as the Sun.
Thou saw'st the deluge, when the sea outvied
The land, and drown'd the mountains with the tide.
What year the stragling Phaeton did fire
The world, thou know'st. And no plagues can conspire
Against thy life; alone thou do'st arise
Above mortality; the Destinies
Spin not thy days out with their fatal Clue;
They have no Law, to which thy life is due.
| Thalia Rediviva | |