Francis Quarles: Hosanna or divine poems on the passion of Christ and Threnodes Edited by John Horden |
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 | Francis Quarles: Hosanna or divine poems on the passion of Christ and Threnodes |  |
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Threnodes On the Lady Marsham, late wife to Sir William Marsham of High Laver in the County of Essex Bnt AND William Cheyne Esquire the late Husband to That Vertuous and Mournefull Lady Lucie, Youngest Daughter of Sir Thomas Barington Knight and Baronet.
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THRENODES Consecrated To the pretious Memory OF The Lady Marsham.
TO The Honourable Lady; Joanna,
Lady Barington, the Relict of noble
Sir Francis Barington, Kt. and Bnt.
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1
So have I seene the gray-eyed morning breakeInto the beauty of a glorious Day,
In whose faire Sunshine, Turtles bill and beake,
And Shepherds sing, while their brisk Lambs do play
When, at the length, a swarthy Cloud does fright
The smiling Sunbeames hence, and cloathes our day with night.
2
So have I seene the dewy-brested SpringSuckling her blossomes, till the rising Fires
Ripen her non-ag'd fruits, and Autumne bring
Her downe-ripe dainties to the vast desires;
When, at the length, a winter storme does chide
And strike the wanton yeare: and cancels all her pride:
3
That Lampe, whose lustre glorifyed our Spheare,Whose radiant Beames did lately shine so bright,
And made our Day the glory of the yeare,
Is now obscured, and hath lost her light;
Our Sunne is set, and all our pleasure lyes
Ship-wreckt in shades of night, and drownd in flowing eyes:
4
That blessed Spring, whose sweetnesse, late, did suiteAnd fringe the earth, embroydring all her Bowers
With fruitfull pleasures, and with pleasing fruit,
Is blasted now, nor bearing fruite, nor flowers;
And black-mouth'd Boreas blasts have reveld here,
And darkned all our Joyes, and deaded all our yeare!
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5
Shee, whom the lavish Trump of fullmouth'd fameCould not belye, nor pens hyperbolize,
Or make her more, than her own worth may clame,
Or raise her merits up to higher skyes;
Shee, shee is dead; whilst her surviving glory
Finds mortall Quills too flat for her immortall story.
6
Had shee beene nothing but a Branch, that sprungFrom famous Broadoke, it had serv'd to fill
Th' insatiate vastnesse of an Heraults tongue,
And given full matter to an Essex Quill;
Griefe neede no other Subject; This, alone,
This, this had beene enough; She was a Barington.
7
A Branch of him, to whom his Country owesA life, at least; whose freedome, wealth and Blood,
His zeale conceiv'd too little, to depose
For Albions honour, and great Britaines good;
Whose noble dust, and meritorious name
Are treasur'd; That, in dust; This, in the Rolles of Fame.
8
To whose rich favours, in more speciall Bands,I stood oblig'd, a stranger to the earth,
Who snatch'd me from the curse of Natures Hands,
And was my Father, in my second birth;
Witnesse that sacred Ewer, whereto he came
With Blessings in his mouth, and stampt me with his Name.
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9
But stay! Th' exuberance of my Pen commitsA zealous Sacriledge against his glory;
Which, cantling out his honour thus by bits,
Gives him a Stanza, that deserves a Story;
Excuse my red-hot zeale, which too too bold,
Glaunces where it should strike; I cannot, cannot hold.
10
And thou sweet Saint, thou now sitst crownd & drestWith Him, in Robes of white Eternity,
Pardon my sausy Quill, that hath digrest,
And, for a Minit, lay'd thy Legend by:
Excuse my zeale; who ever yet did see
A Branch of dainty fruite, and not applaud the Tree?
11
She was no Branch of Sycamore, to pleaseThe Sun-burnt soule but with an empty shade;
No fruitlesse Ash, whose unprolifique Keyes
Obscurely flourish for a while, and fade:
She was a clustred Branch of a rich Vine;
Vnprest, delicious fruite; and prest, delicious Wine.
12
Her body was an Arke, where all supplyesWere fully made; where no perfection wanted:
Her soule was a celestiall Paradise,
Where all the seeds of sacred worth were planted:
The Tree of Knowledge did so flourish here,
That Serpents sued in vaine; No Serpent found an eare.
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13
Heav'n was the object where she fixt her eye,And lov'd the Earth, but as of earth bereiven;
The practise of her life was how to dye;
Her Stage was earth, but yet her Sceane was Heaven:
She had no Earth about her, but the shrine
Wherein her Soule was Sainted: She was all divine.
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But hold, my Pen! what mean'st thou thus to paintPerfection out? What needes thy idle Glosse
Thus raise the Spirits of our dull complaynt,
And magnifye the vastnesse of a losse?
Is Flesh and Blood not prone enough t'encurre,
The danger of Extreames, unquickned with a Spurre?
15
The Ocean-ploughing Merchant, having lostIn stormy Seas, that wealth he could not hold,
Findes but poore comfort, to recount and boast,
How rich that Diamond was; how fine that Gold;
But, in his secret thoughts, he does bewaile
His Merchandize in grosse; He grieves not by Retayle.
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Nor shall the Accent of our story touchUpon the severall Items of her worth;
The Spring-tides of our flesh would flow too much
If we should blazon every vertue forth;
May this suffice; Our Universall Mother
Will hardly ope her wombe, to let in such another:
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Where let her honor'd Ashes rest, and makeShort shaddowes, now deliver'd from the noyse
Of sighes and groanes; Let her faire Soule partake
With blessed Angels in Angelike Joyes;
That when that great, uncertaine Trump shall sound,
They may, in glory meet; with perfect glory, Crown'd.
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Where, now, that widdow'd Soule, divorc'd from earth,Rapt up and mounted on Seraphicke wings,
Fill'd with new pleasures of celestiall mirth,
Defyes death-conquer'd Death; tryumphs & sings;
Sings and tryumphs in Joyes; which to unfold,
Some Angell lend a tongue; or else remaine untold.
FINIS.
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Threnodes On William Cheyne Esquire.
TO My Honorable Friend Sir Thomas Barington of
Hatfield Broadoke in the County of Essex Knight and Baronet.
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1
Who ever saw when as the gloomy skyHath drencht the Pilgrim with the hasty drops
Of a malitious Cloud, how by and by,
The wind-affrighted Welkin cleares, and stops
Her watry flux; and with a noone-bright eye,
Salutes the Earth, and gilds the mountaine tops,
Where in the nimble progresse of an howre,
The new clear'd Firmament begins to lowre,
And drownes the reeking Pilgrim in a second shower.
2
Even so the burthen of our Childbed sorrow,Newly deliver'd of her infant teare,
Finding some glimring twilight of a morrow,
After a night of sadnesse, to appeare,
Our griefe-bedabbled Muse began to borrow
Some Joy, which Faith had whisper'd in her eare,
But, loe! a new, unlook'd-for Birth constraines
Another Misery, which entertaines
Our wounded Soules afresh, and doubles all our paynes.
3
No sooner were the blessed ObsequiesOf this rare Saint solemniz'd in our teares;
(Whose rare Example (if this Age be wise)
Will read brave Lectures to succeeding yeares)
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And craves the freedome of your gentle eares;
Sorrowes too strong for silent lips to smother
In private sighs: How like a fruitfull Mother
Griefe multiplies by griefe! One griefe brings forth another!
4
Ah! gentle Reader, how my palefac'd QuillBegins to faulter! How my twittring brest,
Even moap'd with sadnesse, waxes cold and chill,
Swoll'n bigge with language not to be exprest!
The Flowre of Youth—Ah me! How it does drill
My sorrow-wounded Soule to say the rest!
The Flowre of Youth is dead: O, such a Flower
As Phœbus lov'd; whereon his influous power
So breath'd, that he became a Plant in Daphne's bower.
5
Within the Current of whose gentle vaineThere ran a Spring-tide of Heroicke Blood,
Untainted with the Epidemicke stayne;
Whose down-weight Honor scorn'd to be allow'd
The Heraults deare-bought Favour as a Graine
To make the weight of his knowne Gentry good:
But our sad Pencill, lists not to bewray
The Gests of his faire Lineage, or display
The auncient Honour of his Ensigne: Heraults may:
6
Nor doe we boast th' Allyance that he joyn'dWith Noble Barington; from whose faire Tree
He pluck'd a Siens, of so rare a kinde,
That Phæbus Easterne eye did seldome see
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To greater happinesse: But these things be
The goods of Fortune, and may serve to Crown
The Pageant of our Lives: We boast alone
What we (in spight of Death) may justly stile his owne.
7
Nature (still emulous with her selfe) did vyeWith her best Workes, and striving to exceed,
Charm'd all her starres, whose sweet benignity
Joyn'd in one faire Aspect, whilst all agreed
To make a Systeme of Philosophy,
Abridg'd in one, for every eye to read:
His structure was harmonious, built, and blest
With Natures best endowments, trim'd and drest
Fit for so faire a Soule, fit for so faire a guest;
8
A Soule, that had Divinity enoughTo light him from the vanity of earth,
Which taught him how to prize that easy puffe
Of ayery Joyes, and transitory Mirth:
Which please a while, then languish with a snuffe,
Which promise Day, but perish in the birth:
A Soule, whose blessed motion was above
The reach of Earth, and ever taught to move
Betwixt the Poles of Peace, in the great Orbe of Love.
9
The Sparkles of his growing Youth beganTo glimmer in the blossome of his dayes;
Which, ere his tender greennesse could write Man
Brake forth in flames; (ah me! 'twas but a blaze)
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Yet had he Intrest in the learned Bayes,
As well deserv'd an Intrest, even as theirs
That boast themselves the honorable Peeres
Of great Apolloes Realme; who Crownes by worth, not yeares.
10
Nor was his Youth an Advocate, to pleadeOr qualifie the guilt of ugly Crimes:
He was more prone to judge than intercede
And blanch the smooth delinquence of the Times;
He did not stroake, but strike the Syrens head,
And scorn'd the Musicke of her Magicke Rhimes:
His Virgin-soule had fixt her safe desire
On nobler joyes; and, being ravisht higher,
Mounted on sacred Wings of more Heroicke fier.
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But ah! what bootes it to be wise, or good?Endu'd with parts, full marrow'd, plump & young?
Of high Alyance, of Heroicke Blood?
Potent in Purse; of Constitution, strong?
Autumnes ripe fruite, and Aprils tender Bud,
Roses, and Cankers sing the selfe-same song;
All cry Mortality: the selfe same State
Betides to all: All, all subscribe to Fate,
And bide the selfe same Change, and beare the selfe same Date.
12
Else had our Cheyne conquer'd, in his strifeTwixt Death, and Nature, and had won the field:
Then had the fatall Dames too earely knife
Strucke but in vaine; His worth had bin his shield,
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Too strong (if Death had made assault) to yeeld:
But death, respects nor parts, nor strength, nor blood
Nor Kinne, nor Youth, nor wealth, nor bad, nor good:
Death must have Timber too, as well as Underwood.
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But why? why name we Death, what meane we soTo wash his milkewhite Memory in a Teare?
He hath but done, what we have yet to doe
(Alas) we know not when, we know not where,
We whine for shells, and let the Kirnell goe:
His better part tryumphs; yet we forbeare
To sing an Iö, and like mortals turne
Our sensuall eyes upon his senseless Urne,
And where we should congratulate, ev'n there we mourne.
14
Had he beene straitned in his passage hence;Had want of Sea-room brought the rocks too neare
And threatned Shipwracke, 'thad beene no offence
To have giv'n his Vessell waftage with a teare:
But having quit the shore; conveigh'd from thence
With a full Tide; and being landed there
Where all the glory of his Treasure lyes
Possest by Him; O Reader, wipe thine eyes;
He merits not thy Teares; keepe Teares for him that dyes.
END.
| Francis Quarles: Hosanna or divine poems on the passion of Christ and Threnodes | |