Which to
abrupter
greatness thrust.
Marvell - Poems
The work has faults which would, in
innumerable cases, disguise its real merit from
modern readers, or rather deter them from giving
it a reading altogether. It is characterized by
much of the coarseness which was so prevalent
in that age, and from which Marvell was by no
means free ; though, as we shall endeavour here-
after to show, his spirit was far from partaking
of the malevolence of ordinary satirists.
Yet the reader must not infer that the only, or
even the chief, merit of the Rehearsal Transprosed
consists in wit and banter. Not only is there
amidst all its ludicrous levities, " a vehemence of
solemn reproof, and an eloquence of invective, that
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. XXXV
awes one with the spirit of a modem Junius;"*
but there are many passages of very powerful
reasoning, in advocacy of truths then but ill under-
stood, and of rights which had been shamefully
violated.
Perhaps the most interesting passages of the
work are those in which Marvell refers to his
great friend, John Milton. Parker, with his cus-
tomary malignity, had insinuated that the poet,
who was then living in cautious retirement, might
have been the author of the Rehearsal — appa-
rently with the view of turning the indignation
of government upon the illustrious recluse. Mar-
vell had always entertained towards Milton a
feeling of reverence akin to idolatry, and this
stroke of deliberate malice was more than he
could bear. He generously hastened to throw his
shield over his aged and prostrate patron.
** J. M. was, and is, a man of great learning and
sharpness of wit as any man. It was his misfortune,
living in a tumultuous time, to be tossed on the wrong
side, and he writ, flagrante BeUo, certain dangerous
treatises of no other nature than that which I men-
tioned to you writ by your own father, only with this
difference, that your father's, which I have by me, was
written with the same design, but with much less wit
or judgment. At his Majesty's happy return, J. M.
did partake, even as you yourself did, of his regal
clemency, and has ever since lived in a most retired
* D^Israeli.
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XXXVl NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
silence. It was after that, I well remember it, that
being one day at his house, I there first met you ac-
cidentally. But there it was, when you, as I told you,
wandered up and down Moorfields, astrologizing on
the duration of his Majesty's government, that you
frc((uentcd J. M. incessantly, and haunted his house
day by day. What discourses you there used he is
too generous to remember. "
About three years after the publication of the
second part of the Behears<dy Marvell's chival-
rous love of justice impelled him again to draw
the sword. In 1675, Dr. Croft, Bishop of Here-
ford, had published a work entitled " The Naked
Truth, or the true state of the Primitive Church,
by a humble Moderator. " It enjoined on all
religious parties the unwelcome duties of forbear-
ance and charity; but as it especially exposed
the danger and folly of enforcing a minute uni-
formity, it could not be suffered to pass unchal-
lenged in that age of high church intolerance. It
was petulantly attacked by Dr. Francis Turner,
Master of St John's College, Cambridge, in a
pamphlet entitled '* Animadversions on the Naked
Truth. " This provoked our satirist, who replied
in a pamphlet entitled, "Mr. Smirke, or the
Divine in Mode. " He here fits his antagonist
with a character out of Etherege's "Man of
Mode " — ^as he had before fitted Parker with one
from Buckingham's " Rehearsal. " The merits
and defects of this pamphlet are of much the
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. XXXVll
same order as those of his former work — it is
perliaps less disfigured by coarseness and vehe-
mence. Of Dr. Croft's pamphlet, he beautifully
expresses a feeling, of which we imagine few of
us can have been unconscious when perusing any
work which strongly appeals to our reason and
conscience, and in which, as we proceed, we seem
to recognize what we have often thought, but
never uttered. " It is a book of that kind, that
no Christian can peruse it without wishing him-
self to have been the author, and almost imagin-
ing that he is so ; the conceptions therein being
of so eternal an idea, that every man finds it to
be but a copy of the original in his own mind. "
To this little brochure was attached, "A Short
Historical Essay concerning General Councils,
Creeds, and Impositions in matters of Religion. "
It is characterized by the same strong sense and
untiring vivacity as his other writings, and evinces
a creditable acquaintance with ecclesiastical his-
tory ; but it is neither copious nor profound
enough for the subject.
In 1677, Marvell published his last contro-
versial piece, elicited like the rest by his disinte-
rested love of fair play. It was a defence of the
celebmted divine, John Howe, whose conciliatory
tract on the " Divine Prescience '* had been rudely
assailed by three several antagonists. This little
volume, which is throughout in MarvelFs vein, is
now extremely scarce, is not included in any edi-
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XXXVlll NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
tion of his works, and was evidentlj unknown to
all his biographers.
His last work of any extent was entitled "An
Account of the Growth of Popery and Arbitrary
Government in England. " It first appeared in
1678. It is written with much vigour — boldly
vindicates the great principles of the constitu-
tion — and discusses the limits of the royal pre-
rogative. The gloomy anticipations expressed
by the author were but too well justified by the
public events which transpired subsequently to
his death. But the fatal consequences of the
principles and policy he denounced, were happily
averted by the Bevolution of 1688.
A reward was oflTered by the government for
the discovery of the author of this " libel," as it
was pleasantly designated. Marvell seems to
have taken the matter very coolly, and thus hu-
morously alludes to the subject in a private letter
to Mr. Ramsden, dated June 10, 1678— "There
came out about Christmas last, here, a large book
concerning the growth of Popery and Arbitrary
Government. There have been great rewards
offered in private, and considerable in the Gazette,
to any one who could inform of the author or
printer, but not yet discovered. Three or four
printed books since have described, as near as it
was proper to go (the man being a member of
Parliament) Mr. Marvell to have been the
author ; but^ if he had, surely he should not have
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. XXXIX
escaped being questioned in Parliament, or some
other place. "
Marvell also published, during the latter years
of his life, several other political pamphlets, which,
though now forgotten, were doubtless not without
their influence in unmasking corruption, and rous-
ing the nation to a consciousness of its political
degradation.
Marvell's intrepid patriotism and bold writings
had now made him so odious to the corrupt court,
and especially to tlie bigoted heir presumptive,
James, that he was compelled frequently to con-
ceal himself for fear of assassination. He makes
an affecting allusion to this in one of his private
letters — *^ Magxs occidere^ says he, " met%u> quam
occidi; non quod vitam tanti astimam, sed ne
imparatus mortar," *
He died August 1 6, 1 678, the very year that
his obnoxious work on the growth of Popery and
Arbitrary Government appeared ; and, as he was
in vigorous health just before, strong suspicions
were entertained that he had been poisoned.
In person, according to the description of
Aubrey, who knew him well, Marvell " was of a
middling stature, pretty strong set, roundish-faced^
cherry-cheeked, hazel-eyed, brown-haired. In his
conversation he was modest, and of very few^
words. He was wont to say, he would not drink
high or freely with any one with whom he couldi
not trust his life. "
♦ Cooke's Life of Marvell, prefixed to his Poems, p. 14.
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Xl NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
Of the editious of MarvelFs collected works,
that of 1726, in two volumes duodecimo, contains
only his poems and some of his private letters.
That of Captain Thompson, in three volumes
quailo, was published in 1776. Yet even this,
as already said, omits one treatise. The Captain's
diligence is indeed worthy of commendation, and
his enthusiasm may be pardoned. But he was
far from being a correct or judicious editor ; and
is often betrayed by his indiscriminate admiration
into excessive and preposterous eulogy. The
only separate biography is, we believe, that of
John Dove.
The characteristic attribute of Marvell's genius
was unquestionably wit, in all the varieties of
which — ^brief sententious sarcasm, fierce invective,
light raillery, grave irony, and broad laughing
humour — he seems to have been by nature almost
equally fitted to excel. To say that he has equally
excelled in all would be untrue, though striking
examples of each might easily be selected from
his writings. The activity with which his mind
suggests ludicrous images and analogies is asto-
nishing ; he often absolutely startles us by the
remoteness and oddity of the sources from which
they are supplied, and by the unexpected inge-
nuity and felicity of his repartees. *
♦ In this respect he constantly reminds one of Butler, and
in proof of his literary catholicity, wo quote the following
from tlie Uehearsal Trunsprosed. " Uut lest I might be mis-
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KOTIC£ OF THE AUTHOR. xli
His ybr^e, however, appears to be a grave ironi-
cal banter, which he often pursues at such a length
that there seems no limit to his fertility of inven-
tion. In his endless accumulation of ludicrous
images and allusions, the untiring exhaustive ridi-
cule with which he will play upon the same topics,
he is unique; yet this peculiarity not seldom
leads him to drain the generous wine even to the
dregs — to spoil a series of felicitous railleries by
some far-fetched conceit or unpardonable extra-
vagance.
But though Marvell was so great a master of
wit, and especially of that caustic species which
is appropriate to satirists, we will venture to say
that he was singularly free from many of the
faults which distinguish that irritable brotherhood.
Unsparing and merciless as his ridicule is, con-
temptuous and ludicrous as are the lights in which
he exhibits his opponent ; nay, further, though
his invectives are not only often terribly severe,
but (in compliance with the spirit of the age)
often grossly coarse and personal, it is still im-
possible to detect a single particle of malignity.
His geneml tone is that of broad laughing banter,
taken as to the persons I mention, I will assure the reader
that I intend not Hudibras; for he is a man of the other robe,
and his excellent wit hath taken a flight fur above these
ivhifficrs ; that whoever dislikes his subject cannot but com-
mend his performance of it, and calculate if on so barren a
theme he were so copious, what admirable sport he would
have made of an ecclesiastical politician. *' Ed.
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Xlii NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
or of the most cutting invective ; but he appears
equally devoid of malevolence in both. In the
one, he seems amusing himself with opponents
too contemptible to move his anger ; in the other,
to lay on with the stern imperturbable gravity of
one who is performing the unpleasant but neces-
sary functions of a public executioner. This
freedom from the usual faults of satirists may be
traced to several causes ; partly to the honhommie
which, with all his talents for satire, was a pecu-
liar characteristic of the man, and which rendered
him as little disposed to take offence, and as pla-
cable when it was offered, as any man of his time;
partly to the integrity of his nature, which, while
it prompted him to champion any cause in which
justice had been outraged or innocence wmnged,
effectually preserved him from the wanton exer-
cise of his wit for the gratification of malevo-
lence; partly, perhaps principally, to the fact,
that both the above qualities restricted him to
encounters in which he had personally no con-
cern. If he carried a keen sword, it was a most
peaceable and gentlemanly weapon ; it never left
the scabbard except on the highest provocation,
and even then, only on behalf of others. His
magnanimity, self-control, and good temper, re-
strained him from avenging any insult offered to
himself; — his chivalrous love of justice instantly
roused all the lion within him on behalf of the
injured and oppressed. It is perhaps well for
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NOTICE OP THE AUTHOR. xliii
Marvcirs fame that his quarrels were not per-
sonal: had they been so, it is hardly probable
that such powers of sarcasm and irony should
have been so little associated with bitterness of
temper.
We must not quit the subject of his wit, with-
out presenting the reader with some few of his
pleasantries : premising that they form but a very
small part of those which we had marked in the
perusal of his works; and that, whatever their
merit, it were easy to find others far superior to
them, if we could afford space for long citations.
Of the invention of printing, he writes in the
following cutting train of irony : —
* The press, (that villanous engine,) invented much
about the same time with the Reformation, hath done
more mischief to the discipline of our Church than the
doctrine can make amends for. It was a happy time,
when all learning was in manuscript, and some little
officer, like our author, did keep the keys of the
library : When the clergy needed no more knowledge
than to read the liturgy, and the laity no more clerk-
ship than to save them from hanging. But now, since
printing came into the world, such is the mischief, that
a man cannot write a book, but presently ho is an-
swered. Could the press but at once be conjured to
obey only an imprimatur^ our author might not dis-
daine, perhaps, to be one of its most zealous patrons.
There have been wayes found out to banish ministers,
to find not only the people, but even the grounds and
fields where they assembled, in conventicles ; but no
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Xliv NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
art yet could prevent these seditious meetings of let-
ters. Two or three brawny fellows in a corner, with
meer ink and elbow-jrrease, do more harm than a
hundred systematical divines, with their sweaty preach-
injr. And, what is a stranjre thinjr, the very spunks,
which one would think should rather deface and blot
out the whole book, and were anciently used for that
purpose, are become now the instalments to make
them legible. Their ugly printing letters look but
like so many rotten teeth; how oft have they been
pulled out by B. & L. the public tooth drawers ; and
yet these rascally operators of the press have got
a trick to fasten them again in a few minutes, that
they grow as firm a set, and as biting and talkative as
ever. O, printing ! how hast thou disturbed the
peace of mankind! — that lead, when moulded into
bullets, is not so mortal as when formed into letters !
There was a mistake, sure, in the story of Cadmus;
and the serpent's teeth which he sowed were nothing
else but the Icttera which he invented. The first essay
that was made towards this art, was in single charac-
ters upon iron, wherewith, of old, they stigmatized
slaves and remarkable offenders ; and it was of goo<l
use, sometimes, to brand a schismatic ; but a bulky
Dutchman diverted it quite from its first institution,
and contriving those innumerable si/ntagmes of alpha-
bets, hath pestered the world ever since, with the
gross bodies of their German divinity. One would
liave thought in reason, that a Dutchman might have
contented himself only with the wine-press. "
The following passage from ** Mr. Smirke, or
the Divine in Mode," would he enough to show
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. xlv
even without any acknowledgment on his own
part, that Swift studied and profited by the prose
of Marvell.
" And from hence it proceeds, that, to the no small
scandal and disreputation of our church, a great arca-
num of their state hath been discovered and divulged ;
that, albeit wit be not inconsistent and incompatible
with a clergyman, yet neither is it inseparable from
them. So that it is of concernment to my Lords the
Bishops henceforward to repress those of them who
have no wit from writing, and to take care that even
those that have, do husband it better, as not knowing
to what exigency they may be reduced; but how-
ever, that they the Bishops be not too forward in
licensing and prefixing their venerable names to such
pamphlets. For admitting, though J am not too posi-
tive in ity that our episcopacy is of apostolical right, yet
we do not find, among all those gifls t^iere given to
men, that Wit is enumerated ; nor yet among those
qualifications requisite to a Bishop. And therefore
should they, out of complacency for an author, or de-
light in the argument, or facility oi their judgments,
approve of a dull book, their own understandings will
be answerable, and irreverent people, that cannot dis-
tinguish, will be ready to think that such of them diifer
from men of wit, not only in degree, but in order.
For all are not of my mind, who could never see any
one elevated to that dignity, but I presently conceived
a greater opinion of his wit than ever I had fornierly.
But some do not stick to affirm, that even they, the
Bishops, come by theirs, not by inspiration, not by
teaching, but even as the poor laity do sometimes
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Xlvi NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
light upon it, — by a good mother. Which has occa*
sioned the homely Scotch proverb, that " an ounce of
mother wit is worth a pound of clergy. " And as they
come by it as do other men, so they possess it on
the same condition ; that they cannot transmit it by
breathing, touching, or any natural effluvium, to other
persons ; not so much as to their most domestick chap-
lains, or to the closest residentiary. That the King
himself, who is no less the spring of that, than he is the
fountain of honour, yet has never used the dubbing or
creating of wits as a flower of his prerogative ; much
less can the ecclesiastical power confcrrc it with the
same ease as they do the holy orders. That whatso-
ever they can do of that kind is, at uttermost, to im-
power men by their authority and commission, no
otherwise than in the licensing of midwives or physi-
cians. But that as to their collating of any internal
talent or ability, they could never pretend to it ; their
grants and their prohibitions are alike invalid, and
they can neither capacitate one man to be witty, nor
hinder another from being so, further than as they
press it at their devotion. Which, if it be the case,
they cannot be too exquisite, seeing this way of writing
is found so necessary, in making choice of fit instru-
ments. The Church's credit is more interested in an
ecclesiastical droll, than in a lay chancellor. It is no
small trust that is reposed in him to whom the Bishop
sliall commit omne et omni modo suimi ingeniumy tarn
temporale quam, spirUuale ; and, however it goes with
excommunication, they should take good heed to what
manner of person they delegate the keys of laughter.
It is not every man that is qualified to sustain the
dignity of the Church's jester, and, shouhl they take
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. xlvu
as exact a scrutiny of them as of the Nonconformists
through their dioceses, the numbers would appear
inconsiderable upon this Easter visitation. Before
men be admitted to so important an employment, it
were fit they underwent a severe examination; and
that it might appear, first, whether they have any
sense ; for without that, how can any man pretend — and
yet they do— to be ingenious ? Then, whether they
have any modesty ; for without that they can only be
scurrilous and impudent. Next, whether any truth ;
for true jests are those that do the greatest execution.
And lastly, it were not amiss that they gave some
account, too, of their Christianity ; for the world has
hitherto been so uncivil as to expect something of that
from the clergy, in the design and style even of their
lightest and most uncanonical writings. "
MarveH's learning must have been very exten-
sive. His education was superior; and as we
have seen from the testimony of Milton, his indus-
try had made him master, during his long sojourn
on the Continent, of several continental languages.
It is certain also, that he continued to be a stu-
dent all his days : his works bear ample evidence
of his wide and miscellaneous reading. He ap-
pears to have been well versed in most branches
of literature, though he makes no pedantic dis-
play of erudition, and in this respect is favourably
distinguished from many of his contemporaries;
yet he cites his authors with the familiarity bf a
thorough scholar. In the department of history
be appears to have been particularly well read;
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Xlviii NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
and derives his witty illustrations from such re-
mote and obscure sources, that Parker did not
hesitate to avow his belief that he had sometimes
drawn on his invention for them. In his Reply,
Marvell justifies himself in all the alleged in-
stances, and takes occasion to show that his oppo-
nent's learning is as hollow as all his other pre-
tensions.
Numerous examples show, that it is almost
impossible for even the rarest talents to confer
permanent popularity on books which turn on
topics of temporary interest, however absorbing
at the time. If Pascal's transcendent genius has
been unable to rescue even the Letters Promn-
dales from partial oblivion, it is not to be expected
that Marvell should have done more for the Jie-
hearsal Transprosed, Swift, it is true, about half
a century later, has been pleased, while express-
ing this opinion, to make an exception in favour
of Marvell. "There is indeed," says he, "an
exception, when any great genius thinks it worth
his while to expose a foolish piece : so we still
read MarvcU's answer to Parker with pleasure,
though the book it answers be sunk long ago. '*
But this statement is scarcely applicable now. It
is true that the " Rehearsal " is occasionally read
by the curious ; but it is by the resolutely curious
alone.
But admirable as were Marvell's intellectual
endowments, it is his moral worth, after all, which
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. xlxix
constitutes his principal claim on the admiration
of posterity, and which sheds a redeeming lustre
on one of the darkest pages of the English annals.
Inflexible integrity was the basis of it — integrity
by which he has not unworthily earned the glo-
rious name of the " British Aristides. ** With
talents and acquirements which might have justi-
fied him in aspiring to almost any office, if he
could have disburdened himself of his conscience ;
with wit which, in that frivolous age, was a surer
passport to fame than any amount either of intel-
lect or virtue, and which, as we have seen, molli-
fied even the monarch himself in spite of his
prejudices ; Marvell preferred poverty and inde-
pendence to riches and servility. He had learned
the lesson, practised by few in that age, of being
content with little — so that he preserved his con-
science. He could be poor, but he could not be
mean ; could starve, but could not cringe. By
economizing in the articles of pride and ambition,
he could afford to keep what their votaries were
compelled to retrench, the necessaries, or rather
the luxuries, of integrity, and a good conscience.
Neither menaces, nor caresses, nor bribes, nor
poverty, nor distress, could induce him to abandon
his integrity ; or even to take an office in which
it might be tempted or endangered. He only who
has arrived at this pitch of magnanimity, has an
adequate security for his public virtue. He who
cannot subsist upon a little; who has not learned.
d
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1 NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
to be content with such things as he has, and even
to be content with almost nothing ; who has not
learned to familiarize his thoughts to poverty,
much more readily than he can familiarize them
to dishonour, is not yet free from peril. Andrew
Marvell, as his whole course proves, had done
this. But we shall not do full justice to his public
integrity, if we do not bear in mind the corruption
of the age in whicb he lived; the manifold apos-
tasies amidst which he retained his conscience ;
and the effect which such wide -spread profligacy
must have had in making thousands almost scep-
tical as to whether there were such a thing as
public virtue at all. Such a relaxation in the
code of speculative morals, is one of the worst
results of general profligacy in practice. But
Andrew Marvell was not to be deluded ; and
amidst corruption perfectly unparalleled, he still
continued untainted. We are accustomed to hear
of his virtue as a truly Roman virtue, and so it
was ; but it was something more. Only the best
pages of Boman history can supply a parallel :
there was no Cincinnatus in those Ages of her
shame which alone can be compared with those
of Charles II. It were easier to find a Cincinna-
tus during the era of the English Commonwealth,
than an Andrew Marvell in the age of Com mo-
dus.
The integrity and patriotism which distin-
guished him in his relations to the Court, also
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. h
marked all his public conduct. He was evidently
most scrupulously honest and faitliful in the dis-
charge of his duty to his constituents ; and, as we
have seen, almost punctilious in guarding against
any thing which could tarnish his fair fame, or
defile his conscience. On reviewing the whole
of his public conduct, we may well say that he
attained his wish, expressed in the lines which
he has written in imitation of a chorus in the
Thyestes of Seneca : —
" Climb at court for me that will-
Tottering favour's pinnacle;
All I seek is to lie still.
Settled in some secret nest,
In calm leisure let me rest,
And far oflf the public stage,
Pass away my silent age.
Thus, when without noise,. unknown,.
I have lived out all my span,
I shall die without a groan,
An old honest countryman. '*
He seems to have been as amiable in his pri-
vate as he was estimable in his public character.
So far as any documents throw light upon the
subject, the same integrity appears to have be-
longed to both. He is described as of a very
reserved and quiet temper; but, like Addison
(whom in this respect as in some few others he
resembled,) exceedingly facetious and lively
amonccst his intimate friends. His disinterested
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Hi KOTICK OF TIIK AUTHOR.
championship of others is no less a proof of his
sympathy with the oppressed than of his abhor-
rence of oppression ; and many pleasing traits of
amiability occur in his private correspondence as
well as in his writings. On the whole, we think
that Marvell's epitaph, strong as the terms of
panegyric are, records little more than the truth ;
and that it was not in the vain spirit of boasting,
but in the honest consciousness of virtue and in-
tegrity, that he himself concludes a letter to one
of his correspondents in the words —
"Disce, puer, virtutem ex me, verumque laborem;
Fortunam ex aliis. "
*^* The foregoing notice of Marvell (which is,
on the whole, the best in print,) has been taken
from the Edinburgh Rtview, and is said to have
been written by Mr. Henry Rogers. * The editor
has shortened it by some omissions, and hjvs added
a few notes. He has also given fuller extracts
from MarvelPs prose.
There has been no edition of MarvelFs poems
since 1776, and that seems to have retained the
blunders of the three previous editions, beside
adding a few of its own. If it were possible to
reverse the author's meaning by any ingenuity
of punctuation, the occasion seems never to have
been neglected. In the present edition, all the
* Poole's Index to Periodical Literature.
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. lili
more apparent errors have been corrected, and
some advance made toward a pure text. The
poems were never published, or at any rate, col-
lected, by the author himself.
The intellect of Marvell was a remarkably
compact and sincere one, and his habitual charac-
ter was that of prudence and upnghtness. But
whenever he surrendered himself to his tempera-
ment, his mind sought relief in wit, so sportful
and airy, yet at the same time so recondite, that
it is hard to find anywhere an instance in which
the Court, the Tavern, and the Scholar*s Study
are blended with such Ck)rinthian justness of
measure. Nowhere is there so happy an exam-
ple of the truth that wit and fancy are diflferent
operations of the same principle. The wit is
so spontaneous and so interfused with feeling,
that we can scarce distinguish it from fancy ;
and the fancy brings together analogies so remote
that they give us the pleasurable shock of wit.
Now and then, in his poems, he touches a deeper
vein, but shuns instinctively the labour of laying
it open, and escapes gleefully into the more con-
genial sunshine. His mind presents the rare
combination of wit with the moral sense, by which
the one is rescued from scepticism and the other
from prosing. His poems form the synthesis of
Donne and Butler.
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POEMS
SEVERAL OCCASIONS.
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POEMS.
UPON THE HILL AND GROVE AT BILL-
BOROW.
TO THE LORD FAIRFAX.
See how the arched earth does here
Rise in a perfect hemisphere !
The stifiest compass could not strike
A line more circular and like,
Nor softest pencil draw a brow
So equal as this hill does bow ;
It seems as for a model laid,
And that the world by it was made.
Here learn, ye mountains more unjust.
Which to abrupter greatness thrust.
Which do, with your hook-shoulder'd height^
The earth deform, and heaven fright,
For whose excrescence, ill designed.
Nature must a new centre find.
Learn here those humble steps to tread.
Which to securer glory lead.
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TnE POEMS.
See what a soft access, and wide,
Lies open to its grassy side,
Nor with the rugged path deters
The feet of breathless travellers ;
See then how courteous it ascends,
And all the way it rises, bends,
Nor for itself the height does gain.
But only strives to raise the plain.
Yet thus it all the field commands,
And in unenvyVl greatness stands,
Discerning farther than the cliff
Of heaven-daring Teneriff.
How glad i\ui w^eary seamen haste.
When they salute it from the mast I
By night, the northern star their way
Directs, and this no less by day.
Upon its crest, this mountain grave,
A plume of aged trees does wave.
No hostile hand does e*er invade.
With impious steel, the sacred shade ;
For something always did appear
Of the Great Master's terror there,
And men could hear his armour still,
Rattling through all the grove and hill.
Fear of the Master, and respect
Of the great nymph, did it protect.
Vera, the nymph, that him inspired.
To whom he often here retir'd.
And on these oaks engrav'd her name, —
Such wounds alone these woods became,—
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OF MARYELL. 9
But ere he well the barks could part,
Twas writ already in their heart ;
For they, 'tis credible, have sense^
As we, of love and reverence^
And underneath the coarser rind,
The genius of the house do bind.
Hence they successes seem to know.
And in their Lord's advancement grow,
But in no memory were seen.
As under this, so straight and green ;
Yet now no farther strive to shoot,
Contented, if they fix their root,
Nor to the wind's uncertain gust,
Their prudent heads too far intrust.
Only sometimes a flutt'ring breeze
Discourses with the breathing trees,
Which in their modest whispers name
Those acts which swell'd the cheeks of Fame.
" Much other groves," say they, " than these,
** And other hills, him once did please.
" Through groves of pikes he thunder'd then,
" And mountains rais'd of dying men.
" For all the civic garlands due
^ To him, our branches are but few ;
" Nor are our trunks enough to bear
" The trophies of one fertile year. "
*Ti8 true, ye trees, nor ever spoke
More certain oracles in oak ;
But peace, if you his favour prize !
That courage its own praises flies :
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THE POEMS
Therefore to your obscurer feats,
From his own brightness lie retreats ;
Nor he the hills, without the groves.
Nor height, but with retirement, loves.
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OP MARVELL.
APPLETON HOUSE. *
TO THE LORD FAIRFAX.
Within this sober frame expect
"Work of no foreign architect,
That unto caves the quarries drew.
And forests did to pastures hew ;
Who, of his great design in pain, >
Did for a model vault his brain ;
Whose columns should so high be rais'd,
To arch the brows which on them gaz'd.
Why should, of all things, man, unruFd,
Such unproportion*d dwellings build ? lo
The beasts are by their dens expressed,
And birds contrive an equal nest ;
The low-roof *d tortoises do dwell
In cases fit of tortoise-shell ;
No creature loves an empty space ; is
Their bodies measure out their place.
* A house of the Lord Fairfax, in Yorkshire, now called
Nun-^Appleton.
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8 THE POEMS
But he, superfluously spread,
Demands more room alive than dead ;
And in his hollow palace goes,
Where winds, as he, themselves may lose.
What need of all this marble crust.
To impark the wanton mole of dust.
That thinks by breadth the world to unite,
Though the first builders failed in height ?
But all things are composed here,
Like nature, orderly, and near ;
In which we the dimensions find
Of that more sober age and mind,
When larger-sized men did stoop
To enter at a narrow loop,
As practising, in doors so strait,
To strain themselves through heaven's gate.
And surely, when the after-age
Shall hither come in pilgrimage,
These sacred places to adore.
By Verb and Fairfax trod before,
Men will dispute how their extent
Within such dwarfish confines went.
And some will smile at this, as well
As Romulus's bee-like cell.
Humility alone designs
Those short but admirable lines.
By which, ungirt and unconstrained,
Things greater are in less contained.
Let others vainly strive to immure
The circle in the quadmture !
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OF MARYELL.
These holy mathematics can
In every figure equal man.
Yet thus tlie laden house does sweat,
And scarce endures the master great :
But, where he comes, the swelling hall
Stirs, and the square grows spherical ;
More by his magnitude distressed,
Than he is by its straitness pressed :
And too officiously it slights.
That in itself, which him delights^.
So honour better lowness bears.
Than that unwonted gi^eatness wears ;
Height with a certain grace does bend.
But low things clownishly ascend.
And yet what need there here excuse.
Where every thing does answer use ?
"Where neatness nothing can condemn,.
Nor pride invent what to contemn ?
A stately frontispiece of poor,.
Adorns without the open door ;
Daily new furniture of friends.
No less the rooms within commends*
The house was built upon the place.
Only as for a mark of grace.
And for an inn to entertain
Its Lord awhile, but not remain.
Him Bishop's-hill or Denton may,
Or Bilborow, better hold than they :
But nature here hath been so free,
As if she said, ' Leave this to me.
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10 THE POEMS .
Art would more neatly have defae'd
What she had laid so sweetly waste
In fragrant gardens, shady woods,
Deep meadows, and transparent floods.
While, with slow eyes, we these survey.
And on each pleasant footstep stay,
We opportunely may relate
The progress of this house's fate.
A nunnery first gave it birth,
(For virgin buildings oft brought forth,)
And all that neighbour-ruin shows
The quarries whence this dwelling rose.
Near to this gloomy cloister's gates.
There dwelt the blooming virgin Thwates,
Fair beyond measure, and an heir,
Which might deformity make fair ;
And oft she spent the summer's suns
Discoursing with the subtle Nuns,
Whence, in these words, one to her weav'd,
As 'twere by chance, thoughts long conceiv'd :
' Within this holy leisure, we
* Live innocently, as you see.
' These walls restrain the world without,
' But hedge our liberty about ;
* These bars inclose that wider den
' Of those wild creatures, called men ;
' The cloister outward shuts its gates,
* And, from us, locks on them the grates.
' Here we, in shining armour white,
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OF MARVELL. 11
* Like virgin amazons do fight,
* And our chaste lamps we hourly trim,
* Lest the great bridegroom find them dim.
* Our orient breaths perfumed are
* With incense of incessant prayV ; iw
* And holy-water of our tears
' Most strangely our complexion clears ;
* Not tears of grief, — but such as those
* With which calm pleasure overflows,
* Or pity, when we look on you n»
* That live without this happy vow.
* How should we grieve must we be seen,
^ (Each one a spouse, and each a queen,)
* Who can in heaven hence behold
* Our brighter robes and crowns of gold! i»
* When we have prayed all our beads,
* Some one the holy legend reads,
* While all the rest with needles paint
* The face and graces of the Saint,
* But what the linen can't receive, t»
* They in their lives do interweave.
* This work the Saints best represents
* That serves for altar's ornaments.
* But much it to our work would add,
* If here your hand, your face, we had : i3o
* By it we would our Lady touch ;
* Yet thus she you resembles much.
* Some of your features, as we sewed,
* Through every shrine should be bestow'd,
* And in one beauty we would take »»
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12 THE P0E3IS
^ Enough a thousand Saints to make.
* And (for I dare not quench the fire
* That me does for your good inspire)
* 'Twere sacrilege a man to admit
* To holy things, for heaven fit.
* I see the angels, in a crown,
* On you the lilies showering down ;
* And TOund about you, glory breaks,
* That something more than human speaks.
* All beauty, when at such a height,
* Is so already consecrate.
* Fairfax I know, and long ere this
* Have mark'd the youth, and what he is ;
* But can he such a rival seem,
* For whom you heaven should disesteem ?
* Ah, no! and 'twould more honour prove
* He your devoto were than Love.
' Here live beloved and obeyed^
' Each one your sister, each your maid,
* And, if our rule seem strictly penned,
* The rule itself to you shall bend.
* Our Abbess, too, now far in age,
* Doth your succession near presage.
* How soft the yoke on us would lie,
* Might such fair hands as yours it tie !
* Your voice, the sweetest of the choir,
* Shall draw heaven nearer, raise us higher,
* And your example, if our head,
* Will soon us to perfection lead.
* Those virtues to us all so dear,
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OF MARVBLL. 13
* Will straight grow sanctity when here ;
^ And that, once sprung, increase so fast,
* Till miracles it work at last.
* Nor is our order yet so nice,
* Delight to banish as a vice : iw
< Here Pleasure Piety doth meet,
* One perfecting the other sweet ;
* So through the mortal fruit we boil
*The sugar's uncoiTupting oil,
'^ And that which perished while we pull, m
* Is thus preserved clear and full.
^ For such indeed are all our arts,
^ Still handling Nature's finest parts :
* Flowers dress the altars ; for the clothes
* The sea-bom amber we compose ; im
^ Balms for the griev'd w« draw ; and pastes
^ We mould as baits for curioils tastes.
* What need is here of man, unless
* These as sweet sins we should confess ?
*' Each night among us to your side i»
* Appoint a fresh and virgin bride,
* Whom, if our Lord at midnight find,
* Yet neither should be left behind !
* Where you may lie as chaste in bed,
* As pearls together billeted, •»
* All night embracing, arm in arm,
* Like crystal pure, with cotton warm.
* But what is this to all the store
* Of joys you see, and may make more ?
* Try but awhile, if you be wise : i»
* The trial neither costs nor ties. "
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14 THE POEMS
Now, Fairfax, seek her promised faith ;
Keligion that dispensed hath
Which she henceforward does begin ;
The Nun's smooth tongue has sucked her in.
Oft, though he knew it was in vain,
Yet would he valiantly complain :
* Is this that sanctity so great,
* An art by which you finelier cheat ?
* Hypocrite witches, hence avaunt,
* Who, though in prison, yet enchant !
* Death only can such thieves make fast,
* As rob, though in the dungeon cast.
* Were there but, when this house was made,
* One stone that a just hand had laid,
* It must have fallen upon her head
* Who first thee from thy faith misled.
* And yet, how well soever meant,
' With them 'twould soon grow fraudulent ;
' For like themselves they alter all,
* And vice infects the very wall ;
* But sure those buildings last not long,
* Founded by folly, kept by wrong.
^ I know what fruit their gardens yield,
* When they it think by night concealed.
* Fly from their vices : 'tis thy state,
* Not thee, that they would consecrate.
* Fly fix)m their ruin : how I fear,
* Though guiltless, lest thou perish there I'
What should he do ? He would respect
Keligion, but not right neglect ;
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OF MARVELL. 15
For first, religion taught him right,
And dazzled not, but cleared his sight.
Sometimes, resolved, his sword he draws,
But reverenceth then the laws ; «»
For justice still that courage led.
First from a judge, then soldier bred.
Small honour would be in the storm ;
The Court him gmnts the lawful form.
Which licensed either peace or force, «»
To hinder the unjust divorce.
Yet still the Nuns his right debarr'd.
Standing upon their holy guard.
Ill-counselled women, do you know
Whom you resist, or what to do ? i4o
Is not this he, whose offspring fierce
Shall fight through all the universe ;
And with successive valour try
France, Poland, either Germany,
Till one, as long since prophesied, s«5
His horse through conquered Britain ride ?
Yet, against fate, his spouse they kept.
And the great race would intercept.
Some to the breach, against their foes,
Their wooden Saints in vain oppose ; »o.
Another bolder, stands at push.
With, their old holy-water brush.
While the disjointed Abbess threads
The jingling chain-shot of her beads ;
But their loud'st cannon were their lungs, 255=
And sharpest weapons were their tongues.
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16 THE POEMS
But, waving these aside like flies,
Young Faikfax through the wall does rise.
Then the unfrequented vault appeared,
And superstitions, vainly feared ; «o
The relicks false were set to view ;
Only the jewels there were true.
And truly bright and holy Thwates,
That weeping at the altar waits.
But the glad youth away her bears, s»
And to the Nuns bequeathes her tears.
Who guiltily their prize bemoan.
Like gypsies who a child have stoFa.
Thenceforth (as, when the enchantment ends.
The castle vanishes or rends) sw
The wasting cloister, with the rest,
Was, in one instant, dispossessed.
At the demolishing, this seat.
To Fairfax fell, as by escheat ;
And what both Nuns and Founders willed, sts
'Tis likely better thus fulfilled.
For if the virgin proved not theirs,
The cloister yet remained hers ;
Though many a Nun there made her voWy
'Twas no religious house till now. aso
From that blest bed the hero came
Whom France and Poland yet does fame.
Who, when retired here to peace.
His warlike studies could not cease.
But laid these gardens out in sport sss
In the just figure of a fort,
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OP MARVELL. 17
And with five bastions it did fence,
As aiming one for every sense.
When in the cast the morning ray
Hangs out the colours of the day, mo
The bee through these known alleys hums,
Beating the dian with its drums.
Then flowers their drowsy eyelids raise.
Their silken ensigns each displays,
And dries its pan yet dank with dew, aai*
And fills its flask with odours new.
These, as their Governor goes by.
In fragrant volleys they let fly,
And to salute their Governess
Again as great a charge they press :. aw
None for the virgin nymph ; for she
Seems with the flowers, a flower to \>e.
And think so still ! though not compare
With breath so sweet, or cheek so fair!
Well shot, ye firemen ! Oh how sweet «»
And round your equal fires do meet.
Whose shrill report no ear can tell,
But echoes to the eye and smell !
See how the flowers, as at parade.
Under their colours stand displayed ; sit
Each regiment in order grows,
That of the tulip, pink, and rose.
But when the vigilant patrol
Of stars walk round about the pole.
Their leaves, which to the stalks are curled, «'»•
Seem to their staves the ensigns furled.
2
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18 THE POLMS
Then in some flower's beloved hut,
Each bee, as sentinel, is shut,
And sleeps so too, but, if once stu-red.
She runs you through, nor asks the word.
Oh thou, that dear and happy isle.
The garden of the world erewhile.
Thou Paradise of the four seas.
Which heaven planted us to please,
But, to exclude the world, did guard
With watery, if not flaming sword, —
What luckless apple did we taste,
To make us mortal, and thee waste ?
Unhappy ! shall we never more
That sweet militia restore,
When gardens only had their towers,
And all the garrisons were flowers.
When roses only arms might bear.
And men did rosy garlands wear ?
Tulips, in several colours barred,
Were then the Switzers of our guard ;
The gardener had the soldier's place.
And his more gentle forts did trace ;
The nui-sery of all things green
Was then the only magazine ;
The winter quarters were the stoves,
Where he the tender plants removes.
But war all this doth overgrow :
We ordnance plant, and powder sow.
And yet there walks one on the sod.
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OF MARVELL. 15
Who, had it pleased him and God,
Might once have made our gardens spring,
Fresh as his own, and flourishing.
But he preferred to the Cinque Ports,
These ^vq imaginary forts, sm
And, in those half-dry trenches, spanned
Power which the ocean might command.
For he did, with his utmost skill.
Ambition weed, but conscience till, —
Conscience, that heaven-nursed plant, 333
Which most our earthly gardens want.
A prickling leaf it bears, and such
As that which shrinks at every touch,
But flowers eternal, and divine,
Which in the crowns of Saints do shine. 3»
The sight does from these bastions ply,
The invisible artillery.
And at proud Cawood Castle seems
To point the battery of its beams,
As if it quarrelled in the seat, xa
The ambition of his prelate great,
But o'er the meads below it plays,
Or innocently seems to gaze.
And now to the abyss I pass
Of that unfathomable grass, 370
Where men like grasshoppers appear,
But grasshoppers are giants there :
They, in their squeaking laugh, contemn
Us as we walk more low than them,
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20 THE POEMS
And from the precipices tall
Of the green spires to us do call.
To see men through this meadow dive,
We wonder how they rise alive ;
As under water, none does know
Whether he fall through it or go,
But, as the mariners who sound,
And show upon their lead the ground,
They bring up flowers so to be seen,
And prove they've at the bottom been.
No scene, that turns with engines strange,
Does oftener than these meadows change ;
For when the sun the gi-ass hath vexed.
The tawny mowers enter next.
Who seem like Israelites to be,
Walking on foot through a green sea.
To them the grassy deeps divide,
And crowd a lane to either side ;
With whistling scythe and elbow strong
These massacre the grass along,
While one, unknowing, carves the rail.
Whose yet unfeathered quills her fail ;
The edge all bloody from its breast
He draws, and does In's stroke detest.
Fearing the flesh, untimely mowed.
To him a fate as black forebode.
But bloody Thestylis, that waits
To bring the mowing camp their cates,
Greedy as kite, has trussed it up
And forthwith means on it to sup.
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OF MARVELL. 21
When on another quick she lights^ ^
And cries, " he calFd us Israelites ;
But now, to make his saying true^
Rails rain for quails, for manna dew. "
Unhappy biixls ! what docs it boot
To build below the grass's root ; <i»
When lowness is unsafe as height^
And chance overtakes Avhat 'scapeth spite ?
And now your orphan parent's call
Sounds your untimely funeral ;
Death-trumpets creak in such a note, 415
And 'tis the sourdine in their throat.
Or sooner hatch, or higher build ;
The mower now commands the field ;
In whose new traverse seemeth wrought
A camp of battle newly fought, <»
Where, as the meads with hay, the plain
Lies quilted o'er with bodies slain :
The women that with forks it fling.
Do represent the pillaging.
And now the careless victors play, *»
Dancing the triumphs of the hay,
Where every mower's wholesome heat
Smells like an Alexander's sweat,
Their females fragrant as the mead
Which they in fairy ciixiles tread : *»
When at their dance's end they kiss,
Their new-made hay not sweeter is ;
When, after this, 'tis piled in cocks.
Like a calm sea it shews the rocks ;
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22 THE POEMS.
We wondering in the river near «»
How l>oat8 among them safely steer ;
Or, like the desert Memphis' sand,
Short pyramids of hay do stand ;
And such the Roman camps do rise
In hills for soldiers' obsequies. *^
This scene, again withdrawing, brings
A new and empty face of things ;
A levelled space, as smooth and plain,
As cloths for Lilly * stretched to stain.
The world when first created sure «»
Was such a table rase and pure ;
Or rather such is the Toril,
Ere the bulls enter at Madril ;
For to this naked equal flat,
Which levellers take pattern at, 46o
The villagers in common chase
Their cattle, which it closer rase ;
And what below the scythe increased
Is pinched yet nearer by the beast.
Such, in the painted world, appeared 455
Davenant, with the universal herd.
innumerable cases, disguise its real merit from
modern readers, or rather deter them from giving
it a reading altogether. It is characterized by
much of the coarseness which was so prevalent
in that age, and from which Marvell was by no
means free ; though, as we shall endeavour here-
after to show, his spirit was far from partaking
of the malevolence of ordinary satirists.
Yet the reader must not infer that the only, or
even the chief, merit of the Rehearsal Transprosed
consists in wit and banter. Not only is there
amidst all its ludicrous levities, " a vehemence of
solemn reproof, and an eloquence of invective, that
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. XXXV
awes one with the spirit of a modem Junius;"*
but there are many passages of very powerful
reasoning, in advocacy of truths then but ill under-
stood, and of rights which had been shamefully
violated.
Perhaps the most interesting passages of the
work are those in which Marvell refers to his
great friend, John Milton. Parker, with his cus-
tomary malignity, had insinuated that the poet,
who was then living in cautious retirement, might
have been the author of the Rehearsal — appa-
rently with the view of turning the indignation
of government upon the illustrious recluse. Mar-
vell had always entertained towards Milton a
feeling of reverence akin to idolatry, and this
stroke of deliberate malice was more than he
could bear. He generously hastened to throw his
shield over his aged and prostrate patron.
** J. M. was, and is, a man of great learning and
sharpness of wit as any man. It was his misfortune,
living in a tumultuous time, to be tossed on the wrong
side, and he writ, flagrante BeUo, certain dangerous
treatises of no other nature than that which I men-
tioned to you writ by your own father, only with this
difference, that your father's, which I have by me, was
written with the same design, but with much less wit
or judgment. At his Majesty's happy return, J. M.
did partake, even as you yourself did, of his regal
clemency, and has ever since lived in a most retired
* D^Israeli.
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XXXVl NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
silence. It was after that, I well remember it, that
being one day at his house, I there first met you ac-
cidentally. But there it was, when you, as I told you,
wandered up and down Moorfields, astrologizing on
the duration of his Majesty's government, that you
frc((uentcd J. M. incessantly, and haunted his house
day by day. What discourses you there used he is
too generous to remember. "
About three years after the publication of the
second part of the Behears<dy Marvell's chival-
rous love of justice impelled him again to draw
the sword. In 1675, Dr. Croft, Bishop of Here-
ford, had published a work entitled " The Naked
Truth, or the true state of the Primitive Church,
by a humble Moderator. " It enjoined on all
religious parties the unwelcome duties of forbear-
ance and charity; but as it especially exposed
the danger and folly of enforcing a minute uni-
formity, it could not be suffered to pass unchal-
lenged in that age of high church intolerance. It
was petulantly attacked by Dr. Francis Turner,
Master of St John's College, Cambridge, in a
pamphlet entitled '* Animadversions on the Naked
Truth. " This provoked our satirist, who replied
in a pamphlet entitled, "Mr. Smirke, or the
Divine in Mode. " He here fits his antagonist
with a character out of Etherege's "Man of
Mode " — ^as he had before fitted Parker with one
from Buckingham's " Rehearsal. " The merits
and defects of this pamphlet are of much the
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. XXXVll
same order as those of his former work — it is
perliaps less disfigured by coarseness and vehe-
mence. Of Dr. Croft's pamphlet, he beautifully
expresses a feeling, of which we imagine few of
us can have been unconscious when perusing any
work which strongly appeals to our reason and
conscience, and in which, as we proceed, we seem
to recognize what we have often thought, but
never uttered. " It is a book of that kind, that
no Christian can peruse it without wishing him-
self to have been the author, and almost imagin-
ing that he is so ; the conceptions therein being
of so eternal an idea, that every man finds it to
be but a copy of the original in his own mind. "
To this little brochure was attached, "A Short
Historical Essay concerning General Councils,
Creeds, and Impositions in matters of Religion. "
It is characterized by the same strong sense and
untiring vivacity as his other writings, and evinces
a creditable acquaintance with ecclesiastical his-
tory ; but it is neither copious nor profound
enough for the subject.
In 1677, Marvell published his last contro-
versial piece, elicited like the rest by his disinte-
rested love of fair play. It was a defence of the
celebmted divine, John Howe, whose conciliatory
tract on the " Divine Prescience '* had been rudely
assailed by three several antagonists. This little
volume, which is throughout in MarvelFs vein, is
now extremely scarce, is not included in any edi-
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XXXVlll NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
tion of his works, and was evidentlj unknown to
all his biographers.
His last work of any extent was entitled "An
Account of the Growth of Popery and Arbitrary
Government in England. " It first appeared in
1678. It is written with much vigour — boldly
vindicates the great principles of the constitu-
tion — and discusses the limits of the royal pre-
rogative. The gloomy anticipations expressed
by the author were but too well justified by the
public events which transpired subsequently to
his death. But the fatal consequences of the
principles and policy he denounced, were happily
averted by the Bevolution of 1688.
A reward was oflTered by the government for
the discovery of the author of this " libel," as it
was pleasantly designated. Marvell seems to
have taken the matter very coolly, and thus hu-
morously alludes to the subject in a private letter
to Mr. Ramsden, dated June 10, 1678— "There
came out about Christmas last, here, a large book
concerning the growth of Popery and Arbitrary
Government. There have been great rewards
offered in private, and considerable in the Gazette,
to any one who could inform of the author or
printer, but not yet discovered. Three or four
printed books since have described, as near as it
was proper to go (the man being a member of
Parliament) Mr. Marvell to have been the
author ; but^ if he had, surely he should not have
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. XXXIX
escaped being questioned in Parliament, or some
other place. "
Marvell also published, during the latter years
of his life, several other political pamphlets, which,
though now forgotten, were doubtless not without
their influence in unmasking corruption, and rous-
ing the nation to a consciousness of its political
degradation.
Marvell's intrepid patriotism and bold writings
had now made him so odious to the corrupt court,
and especially to tlie bigoted heir presumptive,
James, that he was compelled frequently to con-
ceal himself for fear of assassination. He makes
an affecting allusion to this in one of his private
letters — *^ Magxs occidere^ says he, " met%u> quam
occidi; non quod vitam tanti astimam, sed ne
imparatus mortar," *
He died August 1 6, 1 678, the very year that
his obnoxious work on the growth of Popery and
Arbitrary Government appeared ; and, as he was
in vigorous health just before, strong suspicions
were entertained that he had been poisoned.
In person, according to the description of
Aubrey, who knew him well, Marvell " was of a
middling stature, pretty strong set, roundish-faced^
cherry-cheeked, hazel-eyed, brown-haired. In his
conversation he was modest, and of very few^
words. He was wont to say, he would not drink
high or freely with any one with whom he couldi
not trust his life. "
♦ Cooke's Life of Marvell, prefixed to his Poems, p. 14.
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Xl NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
Of the editious of MarvelFs collected works,
that of 1726, in two volumes duodecimo, contains
only his poems and some of his private letters.
That of Captain Thompson, in three volumes
quailo, was published in 1776. Yet even this,
as already said, omits one treatise. The Captain's
diligence is indeed worthy of commendation, and
his enthusiasm may be pardoned. But he was
far from being a correct or judicious editor ; and
is often betrayed by his indiscriminate admiration
into excessive and preposterous eulogy. The
only separate biography is, we believe, that of
John Dove.
The characteristic attribute of Marvell's genius
was unquestionably wit, in all the varieties of
which — ^brief sententious sarcasm, fierce invective,
light raillery, grave irony, and broad laughing
humour — he seems to have been by nature almost
equally fitted to excel. To say that he has equally
excelled in all would be untrue, though striking
examples of each might easily be selected from
his writings. The activity with which his mind
suggests ludicrous images and analogies is asto-
nishing ; he often absolutely startles us by the
remoteness and oddity of the sources from which
they are supplied, and by the unexpected inge-
nuity and felicity of his repartees. *
♦ In this respect he constantly reminds one of Butler, and
in proof of his literary catholicity, wo quote the following
from tlie Uehearsal Trunsprosed. " Uut lest I might be mis-
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KOTIC£ OF THE AUTHOR. xli
His ybr^e, however, appears to be a grave ironi-
cal banter, which he often pursues at such a length
that there seems no limit to his fertility of inven-
tion. In his endless accumulation of ludicrous
images and allusions, the untiring exhaustive ridi-
cule with which he will play upon the same topics,
he is unique; yet this peculiarity not seldom
leads him to drain the generous wine even to the
dregs — to spoil a series of felicitous railleries by
some far-fetched conceit or unpardonable extra-
vagance.
But though Marvell was so great a master of
wit, and especially of that caustic species which
is appropriate to satirists, we will venture to say
that he was singularly free from many of the
faults which distinguish that irritable brotherhood.
Unsparing and merciless as his ridicule is, con-
temptuous and ludicrous as are the lights in which
he exhibits his opponent ; nay, further, though
his invectives are not only often terribly severe,
but (in compliance with the spirit of the age)
often grossly coarse and personal, it is still im-
possible to detect a single particle of malignity.
His geneml tone is that of broad laughing banter,
taken as to the persons I mention, I will assure the reader
that I intend not Hudibras; for he is a man of the other robe,
and his excellent wit hath taken a flight fur above these
ivhifficrs ; that whoever dislikes his subject cannot but com-
mend his performance of it, and calculate if on so barren a
theme he were so copious, what admirable sport he would
have made of an ecclesiastical politician. *' Ed.
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Xlii NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
or of the most cutting invective ; but he appears
equally devoid of malevolence in both. In the
one, he seems amusing himself with opponents
too contemptible to move his anger ; in the other,
to lay on with the stern imperturbable gravity of
one who is performing the unpleasant but neces-
sary functions of a public executioner. This
freedom from the usual faults of satirists may be
traced to several causes ; partly to the honhommie
which, with all his talents for satire, was a pecu-
liar characteristic of the man, and which rendered
him as little disposed to take offence, and as pla-
cable when it was offered, as any man of his time;
partly to the integrity of his nature, which, while
it prompted him to champion any cause in which
justice had been outraged or innocence wmnged,
effectually preserved him from the wanton exer-
cise of his wit for the gratification of malevo-
lence; partly, perhaps principally, to the fact,
that both the above qualities restricted him to
encounters in which he had personally no con-
cern. If he carried a keen sword, it was a most
peaceable and gentlemanly weapon ; it never left
the scabbard except on the highest provocation,
and even then, only on behalf of others. His
magnanimity, self-control, and good temper, re-
strained him from avenging any insult offered to
himself; — his chivalrous love of justice instantly
roused all the lion within him on behalf of the
injured and oppressed. It is perhaps well for
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NOTICE OP THE AUTHOR. xliii
Marvcirs fame that his quarrels were not per-
sonal: had they been so, it is hardly probable
that such powers of sarcasm and irony should
have been so little associated with bitterness of
temper.
We must not quit the subject of his wit, with-
out presenting the reader with some few of his
pleasantries : premising that they form but a very
small part of those which we had marked in the
perusal of his works; and that, whatever their
merit, it were easy to find others far superior to
them, if we could afford space for long citations.
Of the invention of printing, he writes in the
following cutting train of irony : —
* The press, (that villanous engine,) invented much
about the same time with the Reformation, hath done
more mischief to the discipline of our Church than the
doctrine can make amends for. It was a happy time,
when all learning was in manuscript, and some little
officer, like our author, did keep the keys of the
library : When the clergy needed no more knowledge
than to read the liturgy, and the laity no more clerk-
ship than to save them from hanging. But now, since
printing came into the world, such is the mischief, that
a man cannot write a book, but presently ho is an-
swered. Could the press but at once be conjured to
obey only an imprimatur^ our author might not dis-
daine, perhaps, to be one of its most zealous patrons.
There have been wayes found out to banish ministers,
to find not only the people, but even the grounds and
fields where they assembled, in conventicles ; but no
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Xliv NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
art yet could prevent these seditious meetings of let-
ters. Two or three brawny fellows in a corner, with
meer ink and elbow-jrrease, do more harm than a
hundred systematical divines, with their sweaty preach-
injr. And, what is a stranjre thinjr, the very spunks,
which one would think should rather deface and blot
out the whole book, and were anciently used for that
purpose, are become now the instalments to make
them legible. Their ugly printing letters look but
like so many rotten teeth; how oft have they been
pulled out by B. & L. the public tooth drawers ; and
yet these rascally operators of the press have got
a trick to fasten them again in a few minutes, that
they grow as firm a set, and as biting and talkative as
ever. O, printing ! how hast thou disturbed the
peace of mankind! — that lead, when moulded into
bullets, is not so mortal as when formed into letters !
There was a mistake, sure, in the story of Cadmus;
and the serpent's teeth which he sowed were nothing
else but the Icttera which he invented. The first essay
that was made towards this art, was in single charac-
ters upon iron, wherewith, of old, they stigmatized
slaves and remarkable offenders ; and it was of goo<l
use, sometimes, to brand a schismatic ; but a bulky
Dutchman diverted it quite from its first institution,
and contriving those innumerable si/ntagmes of alpha-
bets, hath pestered the world ever since, with the
gross bodies of their German divinity. One would
liave thought in reason, that a Dutchman might have
contented himself only with the wine-press. "
The following passage from ** Mr. Smirke, or
the Divine in Mode," would he enough to show
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. xlv
even without any acknowledgment on his own
part, that Swift studied and profited by the prose
of Marvell.
" And from hence it proceeds, that, to the no small
scandal and disreputation of our church, a great arca-
num of their state hath been discovered and divulged ;
that, albeit wit be not inconsistent and incompatible
with a clergyman, yet neither is it inseparable from
them. So that it is of concernment to my Lords the
Bishops henceforward to repress those of them who
have no wit from writing, and to take care that even
those that have, do husband it better, as not knowing
to what exigency they may be reduced; but how-
ever, that they the Bishops be not too forward in
licensing and prefixing their venerable names to such
pamphlets. For admitting, though J am not too posi-
tive in ity that our episcopacy is of apostolical right, yet
we do not find, among all those gifls t^iere given to
men, that Wit is enumerated ; nor yet among those
qualifications requisite to a Bishop. And therefore
should they, out of complacency for an author, or de-
light in the argument, or facility oi their judgments,
approve of a dull book, their own understandings will
be answerable, and irreverent people, that cannot dis-
tinguish, will be ready to think that such of them diifer
from men of wit, not only in degree, but in order.
For all are not of my mind, who could never see any
one elevated to that dignity, but I presently conceived
a greater opinion of his wit than ever I had fornierly.
But some do not stick to affirm, that even they, the
Bishops, come by theirs, not by inspiration, not by
teaching, but even as the poor laity do sometimes
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Xlvi NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
light upon it, — by a good mother. Which has occa*
sioned the homely Scotch proverb, that " an ounce of
mother wit is worth a pound of clergy. " And as they
come by it as do other men, so they possess it on
the same condition ; that they cannot transmit it by
breathing, touching, or any natural effluvium, to other
persons ; not so much as to their most domestick chap-
lains, or to the closest residentiary. That the King
himself, who is no less the spring of that, than he is the
fountain of honour, yet has never used the dubbing or
creating of wits as a flower of his prerogative ; much
less can the ecclesiastical power confcrrc it with the
same ease as they do the holy orders. That whatso-
ever they can do of that kind is, at uttermost, to im-
power men by their authority and commission, no
otherwise than in the licensing of midwives or physi-
cians. But that as to their collating of any internal
talent or ability, they could never pretend to it ; their
grants and their prohibitions are alike invalid, and
they can neither capacitate one man to be witty, nor
hinder another from being so, further than as they
press it at their devotion. Which, if it be the case,
they cannot be too exquisite, seeing this way of writing
is found so necessary, in making choice of fit instru-
ments. The Church's credit is more interested in an
ecclesiastical droll, than in a lay chancellor. It is no
small trust that is reposed in him to whom the Bishop
sliall commit omne et omni modo suimi ingeniumy tarn
temporale quam, spirUuale ; and, however it goes with
excommunication, they should take good heed to what
manner of person they delegate the keys of laughter.
It is not every man that is qualified to sustain the
dignity of the Church's jester, and, shouhl they take
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. xlvu
as exact a scrutiny of them as of the Nonconformists
through their dioceses, the numbers would appear
inconsiderable upon this Easter visitation. Before
men be admitted to so important an employment, it
were fit they underwent a severe examination; and
that it might appear, first, whether they have any
sense ; for without that, how can any man pretend — and
yet they do— to be ingenious ? Then, whether they
have any modesty ; for without that they can only be
scurrilous and impudent. Next, whether any truth ;
for true jests are those that do the greatest execution.
And lastly, it were not amiss that they gave some
account, too, of their Christianity ; for the world has
hitherto been so uncivil as to expect something of that
from the clergy, in the design and style even of their
lightest and most uncanonical writings. "
MarveH's learning must have been very exten-
sive. His education was superior; and as we
have seen from the testimony of Milton, his indus-
try had made him master, during his long sojourn
on the Continent, of several continental languages.
It is certain also, that he continued to be a stu-
dent all his days : his works bear ample evidence
of his wide and miscellaneous reading. He ap-
pears to have been well versed in most branches
of literature, though he makes no pedantic dis-
play of erudition, and in this respect is favourably
distinguished from many of his contemporaries;
yet he cites his authors with the familiarity bf a
thorough scholar. In the department of history
be appears to have been particularly well read;
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Xlviii NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
and derives his witty illustrations from such re-
mote and obscure sources, that Parker did not
hesitate to avow his belief that he had sometimes
drawn on his invention for them. In his Reply,
Marvell justifies himself in all the alleged in-
stances, and takes occasion to show that his oppo-
nent's learning is as hollow as all his other pre-
tensions.
Numerous examples show, that it is almost
impossible for even the rarest talents to confer
permanent popularity on books which turn on
topics of temporary interest, however absorbing
at the time. If Pascal's transcendent genius has
been unable to rescue even the Letters Promn-
dales from partial oblivion, it is not to be expected
that Marvell should have done more for the Jie-
hearsal Transprosed, Swift, it is true, about half
a century later, has been pleased, while express-
ing this opinion, to make an exception in favour
of Marvell. "There is indeed," says he, "an
exception, when any great genius thinks it worth
his while to expose a foolish piece : so we still
read MarvcU's answer to Parker with pleasure,
though the book it answers be sunk long ago. '*
But this statement is scarcely applicable now. It
is true that the " Rehearsal " is occasionally read
by the curious ; but it is by the resolutely curious
alone.
But admirable as were Marvell's intellectual
endowments, it is his moral worth, after all, which
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. xlxix
constitutes his principal claim on the admiration
of posterity, and which sheds a redeeming lustre
on one of the darkest pages of the English annals.
Inflexible integrity was the basis of it — integrity
by which he has not unworthily earned the glo-
rious name of the " British Aristides. ** With
talents and acquirements which might have justi-
fied him in aspiring to almost any office, if he
could have disburdened himself of his conscience ;
with wit which, in that frivolous age, was a surer
passport to fame than any amount either of intel-
lect or virtue, and which, as we have seen, molli-
fied even the monarch himself in spite of his
prejudices ; Marvell preferred poverty and inde-
pendence to riches and servility. He had learned
the lesson, practised by few in that age, of being
content with little — so that he preserved his con-
science. He could be poor, but he could not be
mean ; could starve, but could not cringe. By
economizing in the articles of pride and ambition,
he could afford to keep what their votaries were
compelled to retrench, the necessaries, or rather
the luxuries, of integrity, and a good conscience.
Neither menaces, nor caresses, nor bribes, nor
poverty, nor distress, could induce him to abandon
his integrity ; or even to take an office in which
it might be tempted or endangered. He only who
has arrived at this pitch of magnanimity, has an
adequate security for his public virtue. He who
cannot subsist upon a little; who has not learned.
d
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1 NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR.
to be content with such things as he has, and even
to be content with almost nothing ; who has not
learned to familiarize his thoughts to poverty,
much more readily than he can familiarize them
to dishonour, is not yet free from peril. Andrew
Marvell, as his whole course proves, had done
this. But we shall not do full justice to his public
integrity, if we do not bear in mind the corruption
of the age in whicb he lived; the manifold apos-
tasies amidst which he retained his conscience ;
and the effect which such wide -spread profligacy
must have had in making thousands almost scep-
tical as to whether there were such a thing as
public virtue at all. Such a relaxation in the
code of speculative morals, is one of the worst
results of general profligacy in practice. But
Andrew Marvell was not to be deluded ; and
amidst corruption perfectly unparalleled, he still
continued untainted. We are accustomed to hear
of his virtue as a truly Roman virtue, and so it
was ; but it was something more. Only the best
pages of Boman history can supply a parallel :
there was no Cincinnatus in those Ages of her
shame which alone can be compared with those
of Charles II. It were easier to find a Cincinna-
tus during the era of the English Commonwealth,
than an Andrew Marvell in the age of Com mo-
dus.
The integrity and patriotism which distin-
guished him in his relations to the Court, also
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. h
marked all his public conduct. He was evidently
most scrupulously honest and faitliful in the dis-
charge of his duty to his constituents ; and, as we
have seen, almost punctilious in guarding against
any thing which could tarnish his fair fame, or
defile his conscience. On reviewing the whole
of his public conduct, we may well say that he
attained his wish, expressed in the lines which
he has written in imitation of a chorus in the
Thyestes of Seneca : —
" Climb at court for me that will-
Tottering favour's pinnacle;
All I seek is to lie still.
Settled in some secret nest,
In calm leisure let me rest,
And far oflf the public stage,
Pass away my silent age.
Thus, when without noise,. unknown,.
I have lived out all my span,
I shall die without a groan,
An old honest countryman. '*
He seems to have been as amiable in his pri-
vate as he was estimable in his public character.
So far as any documents throw light upon the
subject, the same integrity appears to have be-
longed to both. He is described as of a very
reserved and quiet temper; but, like Addison
(whom in this respect as in some few others he
resembled,) exceedingly facetious and lively
amonccst his intimate friends. His disinterested
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Hi KOTICK OF TIIK AUTHOR.
championship of others is no less a proof of his
sympathy with the oppressed than of his abhor-
rence of oppression ; and many pleasing traits of
amiability occur in his private correspondence as
well as in his writings. On the whole, we think
that Marvell's epitaph, strong as the terms of
panegyric are, records little more than the truth ;
and that it was not in the vain spirit of boasting,
but in the honest consciousness of virtue and in-
tegrity, that he himself concludes a letter to one
of his correspondents in the words —
"Disce, puer, virtutem ex me, verumque laborem;
Fortunam ex aliis. "
*^* The foregoing notice of Marvell (which is,
on the whole, the best in print,) has been taken
from the Edinburgh Rtview, and is said to have
been written by Mr. Henry Rogers. * The editor
has shortened it by some omissions, and hjvs added
a few notes. He has also given fuller extracts
from MarvelPs prose.
There has been no edition of MarvelFs poems
since 1776, and that seems to have retained the
blunders of the three previous editions, beside
adding a few of its own. If it were possible to
reverse the author's meaning by any ingenuity
of punctuation, the occasion seems never to have
been neglected. In the present edition, all the
* Poole's Index to Periodical Literature.
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NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. lili
more apparent errors have been corrected, and
some advance made toward a pure text. The
poems were never published, or at any rate, col-
lected, by the author himself.
The intellect of Marvell was a remarkably
compact and sincere one, and his habitual charac-
ter was that of prudence and upnghtness. But
whenever he surrendered himself to his tempera-
ment, his mind sought relief in wit, so sportful
and airy, yet at the same time so recondite, that
it is hard to find anywhere an instance in which
the Court, the Tavern, and the Scholar*s Study
are blended with such Ck)rinthian justness of
measure. Nowhere is there so happy an exam-
ple of the truth that wit and fancy are diflferent
operations of the same principle. The wit is
so spontaneous and so interfused with feeling,
that we can scarce distinguish it from fancy ;
and the fancy brings together analogies so remote
that they give us the pleasurable shock of wit.
Now and then, in his poems, he touches a deeper
vein, but shuns instinctively the labour of laying
it open, and escapes gleefully into the more con-
genial sunshine. His mind presents the rare
combination of wit with the moral sense, by which
the one is rescued from scepticism and the other
from prosing. His poems form the synthesis of
Donne and Butler.
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Digitized by VjOOQIC
POEMS
SEVERAL OCCASIONS.
Digitized by
Digitized by
POEMS.
UPON THE HILL AND GROVE AT BILL-
BOROW.
TO THE LORD FAIRFAX.
See how the arched earth does here
Rise in a perfect hemisphere !
The stifiest compass could not strike
A line more circular and like,
Nor softest pencil draw a brow
So equal as this hill does bow ;
It seems as for a model laid,
And that the world by it was made.
Here learn, ye mountains more unjust.
Which to abrupter greatness thrust.
Which do, with your hook-shoulder'd height^
The earth deform, and heaven fright,
For whose excrescence, ill designed.
Nature must a new centre find.
Learn here those humble steps to tread.
Which to securer glory lead.
Digitized by VjOOQIC
TnE POEMS.
See what a soft access, and wide,
Lies open to its grassy side,
Nor with the rugged path deters
The feet of breathless travellers ;
See then how courteous it ascends,
And all the way it rises, bends,
Nor for itself the height does gain.
But only strives to raise the plain.
Yet thus it all the field commands,
And in unenvyVl greatness stands,
Discerning farther than the cliff
Of heaven-daring Teneriff.
How glad i\ui w^eary seamen haste.
When they salute it from the mast I
By night, the northern star their way
Directs, and this no less by day.
Upon its crest, this mountain grave,
A plume of aged trees does wave.
No hostile hand does e*er invade.
With impious steel, the sacred shade ;
For something always did appear
Of the Great Master's terror there,
And men could hear his armour still,
Rattling through all the grove and hill.
Fear of the Master, and respect
Of the great nymph, did it protect.
Vera, the nymph, that him inspired.
To whom he often here retir'd.
And on these oaks engrav'd her name, —
Such wounds alone these woods became,—
Digitized by VjOOQIC
OF MARYELL. 9
But ere he well the barks could part,
Twas writ already in their heart ;
For they, 'tis credible, have sense^
As we, of love and reverence^
And underneath the coarser rind,
The genius of the house do bind.
Hence they successes seem to know.
And in their Lord's advancement grow,
But in no memory were seen.
As under this, so straight and green ;
Yet now no farther strive to shoot,
Contented, if they fix their root,
Nor to the wind's uncertain gust,
Their prudent heads too far intrust.
Only sometimes a flutt'ring breeze
Discourses with the breathing trees,
Which in their modest whispers name
Those acts which swell'd the cheeks of Fame.
" Much other groves," say they, " than these,
** And other hills, him once did please.
" Through groves of pikes he thunder'd then,
" And mountains rais'd of dying men.
" For all the civic garlands due
^ To him, our branches are but few ;
" Nor are our trunks enough to bear
" The trophies of one fertile year. "
*Ti8 true, ye trees, nor ever spoke
More certain oracles in oak ;
But peace, if you his favour prize !
That courage its own praises flies :
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THE POEMS
Therefore to your obscurer feats,
From his own brightness lie retreats ;
Nor he the hills, without the groves.
Nor height, but with retirement, loves.
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OP MARVELL.
APPLETON HOUSE. *
TO THE LORD FAIRFAX.
Within this sober frame expect
"Work of no foreign architect,
That unto caves the quarries drew.
And forests did to pastures hew ;
Who, of his great design in pain, >
Did for a model vault his brain ;
Whose columns should so high be rais'd,
To arch the brows which on them gaz'd.
Why should, of all things, man, unruFd,
Such unproportion*d dwellings build ? lo
The beasts are by their dens expressed,
And birds contrive an equal nest ;
The low-roof *d tortoises do dwell
In cases fit of tortoise-shell ;
No creature loves an empty space ; is
Their bodies measure out their place.
* A house of the Lord Fairfax, in Yorkshire, now called
Nun-^Appleton.
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8 THE POEMS
But he, superfluously spread,
Demands more room alive than dead ;
And in his hollow palace goes,
Where winds, as he, themselves may lose.
What need of all this marble crust.
To impark the wanton mole of dust.
That thinks by breadth the world to unite,
Though the first builders failed in height ?
But all things are composed here,
Like nature, orderly, and near ;
In which we the dimensions find
Of that more sober age and mind,
When larger-sized men did stoop
To enter at a narrow loop,
As practising, in doors so strait,
To strain themselves through heaven's gate.
And surely, when the after-age
Shall hither come in pilgrimage,
These sacred places to adore.
By Verb and Fairfax trod before,
Men will dispute how their extent
Within such dwarfish confines went.
And some will smile at this, as well
As Romulus's bee-like cell.
Humility alone designs
Those short but admirable lines.
By which, ungirt and unconstrained,
Things greater are in less contained.
Let others vainly strive to immure
The circle in the quadmture !
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OF MARYELL.
These holy mathematics can
In every figure equal man.
Yet thus tlie laden house does sweat,
And scarce endures the master great :
But, where he comes, the swelling hall
Stirs, and the square grows spherical ;
More by his magnitude distressed,
Than he is by its straitness pressed :
And too officiously it slights.
That in itself, which him delights^.
So honour better lowness bears.
Than that unwonted gi^eatness wears ;
Height with a certain grace does bend.
But low things clownishly ascend.
And yet what need there here excuse.
Where every thing does answer use ?
"Where neatness nothing can condemn,.
Nor pride invent what to contemn ?
A stately frontispiece of poor,.
Adorns without the open door ;
Daily new furniture of friends.
No less the rooms within commends*
The house was built upon the place.
Only as for a mark of grace.
And for an inn to entertain
Its Lord awhile, but not remain.
Him Bishop's-hill or Denton may,
Or Bilborow, better hold than they :
But nature here hath been so free,
As if she said, ' Leave this to me.
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10 THE POEMS .
Art would more neatly have defae'd
What she had laid so sweetly waste
In fragrant gardens, shady woods,
Deep meadows, and transparent floods.
While, with slow eyes, we these survey.
And on each pleasant footstep stay,
We opportunely may relate
The progress of this house's fate.
A nunnery first gave it birth,
(For virgin buildings oft brought forth,)
And all that neighbour-ruin shows
The quarries whence this dwelling rose.
Near to this gloomy cloister's gates.
There dwelt the blooming virgin Thwates,
Fair beyond measure, and an heir,
Which might deformity make fair ;
And oft she spent the summer's suns
Discoursing with the subtle Nuns,
Whence, in these words, one to her weav'd,
As 'twere by chance, thoughts long conceiv'd :
' Within this holy leisure, we
* Live innocently, as you see.
' These walls restrain the world without,
' But hedge our liberty about ;
* These bars inclose that wider den
' Of those wild creatures, called men ;
' The cloister outward shuts its gates,
* And, from us, locks on them the grates.
' Here we, in shining armour white,
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OF MARVELL. 11
* Like virgin amazons do fight,
* And our chaste lamps we hourly trim,
* Lest the great bridegroom find them dim.
* Our orient breaths perfumed are
* With incense of incessant prayV ; iw
* And holy-water of our tears
' Most strangely our complexion clears ;
* Not tears of grief, — but such as those
* With which calm pleasure overflows,
* Or pity, when we look on you n»
* That live without this happy vow.
* How should we grieve must we be seen,
^ (Each one a spouse, and each a queen,)
* Who can in heaven hence behold
* Our brighter robes and crowns of gold! i»
* When we have prayed all our beads,
* Some one the holy legend reads,
* While all the rest with needles paint
* The face and graces of the Saint,
* But what the linen can't receive, t»
* They in their lives do interweave.
* This work the Saints best represents
* That serves for altar's ornaments.
* But much it to our work would add,
* If here your hand, your face, we had : i3o
* By it we would our Lady touch ;
* Yet thus she you resembles much.
* Some of your features, as we sewed,
* Through every shrine should be bestow'd,
* And in one beauty we would take »»
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12 THE P0E3IS
^ Enough a thousand Saints to make.
* And (for I dare not quench the fire
* That me does for your good inspire)
* 'Twere sacrilege a man to admit
* To holy things, for heaven fit.
* I see the angels, in a crown,
* On you the lilies showering down ;
* And TOund about you, glory breaks,
* That something more than human speaks.
* All beauty, when at such a height,
* Is so already consecrate.
* Fairfax I know, and long ere this
* Have mark'd the youth, and what he is ;
* But can he such a rival seem,
* For whom you heaven should disesteem ?
* Ah, no! and 'twould more honour prove
* He your devoto were than Love.
' Here live beloved and obeyed^
' Each one your sister, each your maid,
* And, if our rule seem strictly penned,
* The rule itself to you shall bend.
* Our Abbess, too, now far in age,
* Doth your succession near presage.
* How soft the yoke on us would lie,
* Might such fair hands as yours it tie !
* Your voice, the sweetest of the choir,
* Shall draw heaven nearer, raise us higher,
* And your example, if our head,
* Will soon us to perfection lead.
* Those virtues to us all so dear,
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OF MARVBLL. 13
* Will straight grow sanctity when here ;
^ And that, once sprung, increase so fast,
* Till miracles it work at last.
* Nor is our order yet so nice,
* Delight to banish as a vice : iw
< Here Pleasure Piety doth meet,
* One perfecting the other sweet ;
* So through the mortal fruit we boil
*The sugar's uncoiTupting oil,
'^ And that which perished while we pull, m
* Is thus preserved clear and full.
^ For such indeed are all our arts,
^ Still handling Nature's finest parts :
* Flowers dress the altars ; for the clothes
* The sea-bom amber we compose ; im
^ Balms for the griev'd w« draw ; and pastes
^ We mould as baits for curioils tastes.
* What need is here of man, unless
* These as sweet sins we should confess ?
*' Each night among us to your side i»
* Appoint a fresh and virgin bride,
* Whom, if our Lord at midnight find,
* Yet neither should be left behind !
* Where you may lie as chaste in bed,
* As pearls together billeted, •»
* All night embracing, arm in arm,
* Like crystal pure, with cotton warm.
* But what is this to all the store
* Of joys you see, and may make more ?
* Try but awhile, if you be wise : i»
* The trial neither costs nor ties. "
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14 THE POEMS
Now, Fairfax, seek her promised faith ;
Keligion that dispensed hath
Which she henceforward does begin ;
The Nun's smooth tongue has sucked her in.
Oft, though he knew it was in vain,
Yet would he valiantly complain :
* Is this that sanctity so great,
* An art by which you finelier cheat ?
* Hypocrite witches, hence avaunt,
* Who, though in prison, yet enchant !
* Death only can such thieves make fast,
* As rob, though in the dungeon cast.
* Were there but, when this house was made,
* One stone that a just hand had laid,
* It must have fallen upon her head
* Who first thee from thy faith misled.
* And yet, how well soever meant,
' With them 'twould soon grow fraudulent ;
' For like themselves they alter all,
* And vice infects the very wall ;
* But sure those buildings last not long,
* Founded by folly, kept by wrong.
^ I know what fruit their gardens yield,
* When they it think by night concealed.
* Fly from their vices : 'tis thy state,
* Not thee, that they would consecrate.
* Fly fix)m their ruin : how I fear,
* Though guiltless, lest thou perish there I'
What should he do ? He would respect
Keligion, but not right neglect ;
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OF MARVELL. 15
For first, religion taught him right,
And dazzled not, but cleared his sight.
Sometimes, resolved, his sword he draws,
But reverenceth then the laws ; «»
For justice still that courage led.
First from a judge, then soldier bred.
Small honour would be in the storm ;
The Court him gmnts the lawful form.
Which licensed either peace or force, «»
To hinder the unjust divorce.
Yet still the Nuns his right debarr'd.
Standing upon their holy guard.
Ill-counselled women, do you know
Whom you resist, or what to do ? i4o
Is not this he, whose offspring fierce
Shall fight through all the universe ;
And with successive valour try
France, Poland, either Germany,
Till one, as long since prophesied, s«5
His horse through conquered Britain ride ?
Yet, against fate, his spouse they kept.
And the great race would intercept.
Some to the breach, against their foes,
Their wooden Saints in vain oppose ; »o.
Another bolder, stands at push.
With, their old holy-water brush.
While the disjointed Abbess threads
The jingling chain-shot of her beads ;
But their loud'st cannon were their lungs, 255=
And sharpest weapons were their tongues.
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16 THE POEMS
But, waving these aside like flies,
Young Faikfax through the wall does rise.
Then the unfrequented vault appeared,
And superstitions, vainly feared ; «o
The relicks false were set to view ;
Only the jewels there were true.
And truly bright and holy Thwates,
That weeping at the altar waits.
But the glad youth away her bears, s»
And to the Nuns bequeathes her tears.
Who guiltily their prize bemoan.
Like gypsies who a child have stoFa.
Thenceforth (as, when the enchantment ends.
The castle vanishes or rends) sw
The wasting cloister, with the rest,
Was, in one instant, dispossessed.
At the demolishing, this seat.
To Fairfax fell, as by escheat ;
And what both Nuns and Founders willed, sts
'Tis likely better thus fulfilled.
For if the virgin proved not theirs,
The cloister yet remained hers ;
Though many a Nun there made her voWy
'Twas no religious house till now. aso
From that blest bed the hero came
Whom France and Poland yet does fame.
Who, when retired here to peace.
His warlike studies could not cease.
But laid these gardens out in sport sss
In the just figure of a fort,
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OP MARVELL. 17
And with five bastions it did fence,
As aiming one for every sense.
When in the cast the morning ray
Hangs out the colours of the day, mo
The bee through these known alleys hums,
Beating the dian with its drums.
Then flowers their drowsy eyelids raise.
Their silken ensigns each displays,
And dries its pan yet dank with dew, aai*
And fills its flask with odours new.
These, as their Governor goes by.
In fragrant volleys they let fly,
And to salute their Governess
Again as great a charge they press :. aw
None for the virgin nymph ; for she
Seems with the flowers, a flower to \>e.
And think so still ! though not compare
With breath so sweet, or cheek so fair!
Well shot, ye firemen ! Oh how sweet «»
And round your equal fires do meet.
Whose shrill report no ear can tell,
But echoes to the eye and smell !
See how the flowers, as at parade.
Under their colours stand displayed ; sit
Each regiment in order grows,
That of the tulip, pink, and rose.
But when the vigilant patrol
Of stars walk round about the pole.
Their leaves, which to the stalks are curled, «'»•
Seem to their staves the ensigns furled.
2
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18 THE POLMS
Then in some flower's beloved hut,
Each bee, as sentinel, is shut,
And sleeps so too, but, if once stu-red.
She runs you through, nor asks the word.
Oh thou, that dear and happy isle.
The garden of the world erewhile.
Thou Paradise of the four seas.
Which heaven planted us to please,
But, to exclude the world, did guard
With watery, if not flaming sword, —
What luckless apple did we taste,
To make us mortal, and thee waste ?
Unhappy ! shall we never more
That sweet militia restore,
When gardens only had their towers,
And all the garrisons were flowers.
When roses only arms might bear.
And men did rosy garlands wear ?
Tulips, in several colours barred,
Were then the Switzers of our guard ;
The gardener had the soldier's place.
And his more gentle forts did trace ;
The nui-sery of all things green
Was then the only magazine ;
The winter quarters were the stoves,
Where he the tender plants removes.
But war all this doth overgrow :
We ordnance plant, and powder sow.
And yet there walks one on the sod.
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OF MARVELL. 15
Who, had it pleased him and God,
Might once have made our gardens spring,
Fresh as his own, and flourishing.
But he preferred to the Cinque Ports,
These ^vq imaginary forts, sm
And, in those half-dry trenches, spanned
Power which the ocean might command.
For he did, with his utmost skill.
Ambition weed, but conscience till, —
Conscience, that heaven-nursed plant, 333
Which most our earthly gardens want.
A prickling leaf it bears, and such
As that which shrinks at every touch,
But flowers eternal, and divine,
Which in the crowns of Saints do shine. 3»
The sight does from these bastions ply,
The invisible artillery.
And at proud Cawood Castle seems
To point the battery of its beams,
As if it quarrelled in the seat, xa
The ambition of his prelate great,
But o'er the meads below it plays,
Or innocently seems to gaze.
And now to the abyss I pass
Of that unfathomable grass, 370
Where men like grasshoppers appear,
But grasshoppers are giants there :
They, in their squeaking laugh, contemn
Us as we walk more low than them,
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20 THE POEMS
And from the precipices tall
Of the green spires to us do call.
To see men through this meadow dive,
We wonder how they rise alive ;
As under water, none does know
Whether he fall through it or go,
But, as the mariners who sound,
And show upon their lead the ground,
They bring up flowers so to be seen,
And prove they've at the bottom been.
No scene, that turns with engines strange,
Does oftener than these meadows change ;
For when the sun the gi-ass hath vexed.
The tawny mowers enter next.
Who seem like Israelites to be,
Walking on foot through a green sea.
To them the grassy deeps divide,
And crowd a lane to either side ;
With whistling scythe and elbow strong
These massacre the grass along,
While one, unknowing, carves the rail.
Whose yet unfeathered quills her fail ;
The edge all bloody from its breast
He draws, and does In's stroke detest.
Fearing the flesh, untimely mowed.
To him a fate as black forebode.
But bloody Thestylis, that waits
To bring the mowing camp their cates,
Greedy as kite, has trussed it up
And forthwith means on it to sup.
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OF MARVELL. 21
When on another quick she lights^ ^
And cries, " he calFd us Israelites ;
But now, to make his saying true^
Rails rain for quails, for manna dew. "
Unhappy biixls ! what docs it boot
To build below the grass's root ; <i»
When lowness is unsafe as height^
And chance overtakes Avhat 'scapeth spite ?
And now your orphan parent's call
Sounds your untimely funeral ;
Death-trumpets creak in such a note, 415
And 'tis the sourdine in their throat.
Or sooner hatch, or higher build ;
The mower now commands the field ;
In whose new traverse seemeth wrought
A camp of battle newly fought, <»
Where, as the meads with hay, the plain
Lies quilted o'er with bodies slain :
The women that with forks it fling.
Do represent the pillaging.
And now the careless victors play, *»
Dancing the triumphs of the hay,
Where every mower's wholesome heat
Smells like an Alexander's sweat,
Their females fragrant as the mead
Which they in fairy ciixiles tread : *»
When at their dance's end they kiss,
Their new-made hay not sweeter is ;
When, after this, 'tis piled in cocks.
Like a calm sea it shews the rocks ;
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22 THE POEMS.
We wondering in the river near «»
How l>oat8 among them safely steer ;
Or, like the desert Memphis' sand,
Short pyramids of hay do stand ;
And such the Roman camps do rise
In hills for soldiers' obsequies. *^
This scene, again withdrawing, brings
A new and empty face of things ;
A levelled space, as smooth and plain,
As cloths for Lilly * stretched to stain.
The world when first created sure «»
Was such a table rase and pure ;
Or rather such is the Toril,
Ere the bulls enter at Madril ;
For to this naked equal flat,
Which levellers take pattern at, 46o
The villagers in common chase
Their cattle, which it closer rase ;
And what below the scythe increased
Is pinched yet nearer by the beast.
Such, in the painted world, appeared 455
Davenant, with the universal herd.
