Francis Quarles: Hosanna or divine poems on the passion of Christ and Threnodes ::

Who ever saw when as the gloomy sky
Hath 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.

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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.

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No sooner were the blessed Obsequies
Of this rare Saint solemniz'd in our teares;
(Whose rare Example (if this Age be wise)
Will read brave Lectures to succeeding yeares)

But, see! new sorrowes fill our empty eyes,
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!

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Ah! gentle Reader, how my palefac'd Quill
Begins 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.

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Within the Current of whose gentle vaine
There 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:

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Nor doe we boast th' Allyance that he joyn'd
With Noble Barington; from whose faire Tree
He pluck'd a Siens, of so rare a kinde,
That Phæbus Easterne eye did seldome see

A Graft so hopefull; and, by Heaven, design'd
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 vye
With 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;

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A Soule, that had Divinity enough
To 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 began
To 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)

Alas! He liv'd not halfe his little span;
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 pleade
Or 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.

11

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 strife
Twixt 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,

And Clotho'es hand had twisted up a life
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.

13

But why? why name we Death, what meane we so
To 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.

University of Virginia Library

Threnodes On William Cheyne Esquire.

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