The Underwood Read Online

Our fleeces, 6. And first lambs;

7. Our teeming ewes, 8. And lusty-mounting rams.

9. See where he walks, 10. With Mira by his side;

Chorus.

Sound, sound his praises loud, and with his, hers divide.

Shepherds.

Of Pan we sing, the best of hunters, Pan,

That drives the hart to seek unused ways,

And in the chase more than Silvanus can;

Chorus.

Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his praise.

Nymphs.

Of brightest Mira do we raise our song,

Sister of Pan, and glory of the spring;

Who walks on earth as May still went along;

Chorus.

Rivers and valleys, echo what we sing.

Shepherds.

Of Pan we sing, the chief of leaders, Pan,

That leads our flocks and us, and calls both forth

To better pastures than great Pales can;

Chorus.

Hear, O you groves, and hills, resound his worth.

Nymphs.

Of brightest Mira is our song, the grace

Of all that nature yet to life did bring;

And were she lost, could best supply her place;

Chorus.

Rivers and valleys, echo what we sing.

1. Where'er they tread the enamoured ground

The fairest flowers are always found;

2. As if the beauties of the year

Still waited on them where they were.

1. He is the father of our peace;

2. She to the crown hath brought increase.

1. We know no other power than his,

Pan only our great shepherd is,

Chorus.

Our great, our good. Where one's so dressed

In truth of colours, both are best.

Haste, haste you hither, all you gentler swains,

That have a flock, or herd, upon these plains;

This is the great preserver of our bounds,

To whom you owe all duties of your grounds;

Your milks, your fells, your fleeces, and first lambs,

Your teeming ewes, as well as mounting rams.

Whose praises let's report unto the woods,

That they may take it echoed by the floods.

'Tis he, 'tis he; in singing, he,

And hunting, Pan, exceedeth thee.

He gives all plenty, and increase,

He is the author of our peace.

Where'er he goes upon the ground,

The better grass and flowers are found.

To sweeter pastures lead he can,

Than ever Pales could, or Pan;

He drives diseases from our folds,

The thief from spoil his presence holds.

Pan knows no other power than his,

This only the great shepherd is.

'Tis he, 'tis he, etc.

To My Lord the King, on the Christening His Second Son, James

That thou art loved of God, this work is done,

Great king, thy having of a second son;

And by thy blessing may thy people see

How much they are beloved of God, in thee;

Would they would understand it! Princes are

Great aids to empire, as they are great care

To pious parents, who would have their blood

Should take first seisin of the public good,

As hath thy James; cleansed from original dross

This day by baptism, and his Saviour's cross:

Grow up, sweet babe, as blessed in thy name,

As in renewing thy good grandsire's fame;

Methought Great Britain in her sea before

Sat safe enough, but now secured more.

At land she triumphs in the triple shade

Her rose and lily, intertwined, have made.

Oceano secura meo, securior umbris.

An Elegy on the Lady Jane Paulet, Marchioness of Winton

What gentle ghost, besprent with April dew,

Hails me so solemnly to yonder yew,

And beckoning woos me, from the fatal tree

To pluck a garland for herself, or me?

I do obey you, beauty! for in death

You seem a fair one. Oh, that you had breath

To give your shade a name! Stay, stay, I feel

A horror in me, all my blood is steel!

Stiff, stark, my joints 'gainst one another knock!

Whose daughter? – ha! Great Savage of the Rock?

He's good as great. I am almost a stone!

And ere I can ask more of her, she's gone.

Alas, I am all marble! Write the rest

Thou wouldst have written, fame, upon my breast:

It is a large fair table, and a true,

And the disposure will be something new,

When I, who would her poet have become,

At least may bear the inscription to her tomb.

She was the Lady Jane, and Marchioness

Of Winchester – the heralds can tell this:

Earl Rivers' grandchild – serve not forms, good fame,

Sound thou her virtues, give her soul a name.

Had I a thousand mouths, as many tongues,

And voice to raise them from my brazen lungs,

I durst not aim at that: the dotes were such

Thereof, no notion can express how much

Their carat was! I or my trump must break,

But rather I, should I of that part speak!

It is too near of kin to heaven, the soul,

To be described; fame's fingers are too foul

To touch these mysteries. We may admire

The blaze and splendour, but not handle fire!

What she did here by great example well

To enlive posterity, her fame may tell;

And, calling truth to witness, make that good

From the inherent graces in her blood!

Else, who doth praise a person by a new

But a feigned way, doth rob it of the true.

Her sweetness, softness, her fair courtesy,

Her wary guards, her wise simplicity,

Were like a ring of virtues 'bout her set,

And piety the centre, where all met.

A reverend state she had, an awful eye,

A dazzling, yet inviting majesty:

What nature, fortune, institution, fact

Could sum to a perfection, was her act!

How did she leave the world, with what contempt!

Just as she in it lived, and so exempt

From all affection. When they urged the cure

Of her disease, how did her soul assure

Her sufferings, as the body had been away!

And to the torturers, her doctors, say,

Stick on your cupping-glasses, fear not, put

Your hottest caustics to, burn, lance, or cut:

'Tis but a body which you can torment,

And I into the world all soul was sent!

Then comforted her lord, and blessed her son

Cheered her fair sisters in her race to run,

With gladness tempered her sad parents' tears,

Made her friends' joys to get above their fears,

And, in her last act, taught the standers-by

With admiration and applause to die.

Let angels sing her glories, who did call

Her spirit home to her original;

Who saw the way was made it, and were sent

To carry and conduct the complement

'Twixt death and life; where her mortality

Became her birthday to eternity.

And now, through circumfused light, she looks

On nature's secrets, there, as her own books:

Speaks heaven's language, and discourseth free

To every order, every hierarchy;

Beholds her Maker, and in him doth see

What the beginnings of all beauties be,

And all beatitudes that thence do flow:

Which they that have the crown are sure to know.

Go now, her happy parents, and be sad,

If you not understand what child you had;

If you dare grudge at heaven, and repent

To have paid again a blessing was but lent

And trusted so, as it deposited lay

At pleasure to be called for, every day;

If you can envy your own daughter's bliss

And wish her state less happy than it is;

If you can cast about your either eye,

And see all dead here, or about to die;

The stars, that are the jewels of the night,

And day, deceasing with the prince of light,

The sun; great kings and mightiest kingdoms fall;

Whole nations, nay mankind, the world, with all

That ever had beginning there, to have end!

With what injustice should one soul pretend

To escape this common known necessity;

When we were all born, we began to die;

And, but for that contention and brave strife

The Christian hath to enjoy the future life,

He were the wretched'st of the race of men:

But as he soars at that, he bruiseth then

The serpent's head; gets above death and sin,

And, sure of heaven, rides triumphing in.

Eupheme; or, the Fair Fame Left to Posterity of that Truly Noble Lady, the Lady Venetia Digby, Late Wife of Sir Kenelm Digby, Knight: A Gentleman Absolute in All Numbers.

Consisting of These Ten Pieces:

The Dedication of Her Cradle;

The Song of Her Descent;

The Picture of Her Body;

Her Mind;

Her Being Chosen a Muse;

Her Fair Offices;

Her Happy Match;

Her Hopeful Issue;

Her 'Apoteosis, or Relation to the Saints;

Her Inscription, or Crown.

Vivam amare voluptas, defunctam religio.

Statius.

The Dedication of Her Cradle

Fair fame, who art ordained to crown

With evergreen, and great renown,

Their heads that envy would hold down

With her, in shade

Of death and darkness, and deprive

Their names of being kept alive

By thee and conscience, both who thrive

By the just trade

Of goodness still: vouchsafe to take

This cradle, and for goodness' sake,

A dedicated ensign make

Thereof, to time.

That all posterity, as we,

Who read what the crepundia be,

May something by that twilight see

'Bove rattling rhyme.

For though that rattles, timbrels, toys

Take little infants with their noise,

As properest gifts to girls and boys

Of light expense;

Their corals, whistles, and prime coats,

Their painted masks, their paper boats,

With sails of silk, as the first notes

Surprise their sense:

Yet here are no such trifles brought,

No cobweb cauls, no surcoats wrought

With gold or clasps, which might be bought

On every stall.

But here's a song of her descent,

And call to the high parliament

Of heaven, where seraphim take tent

Of ordering all.

This uttered by an ancient bard,

Who claims (of reverence) to be heard,

As coming with his harp, prepared

To chant her gree,

Is sung; as also her getting up

By Jacob's ladder to the top

Of that eternal port kept ope'

For such as she.

The Song of Her Descent

I sing the just and uncontrolled descent

Of Dame Venetia Digby, styled the fair;

For mind and body the most excellent

That ever nature, or the later air,

Gave two such houses as Northumberland

And Stanley, to the which she was co-heir.

Speak it, you bold Penates, you that stand

At either stem, and know the veins of good

Run from your roots; tell, testify the grand

Meeting of graces, that so swelled the flood

Of virtues in her as, in short, she grew

The wonder of her sex and of your blood.

And tell thou, Alderley, none can tell more true

Thy niece's line than thou that gav'st thy name

Into the kindred, whence thy Adam drew

Meschin's honour with the Cestrian fame

Of the first Lupus, to the family

By Ranulf ...

The rest of this song is lost

The Picture of the Body

Sitting, and ready to be drawn,

What make these velvets, silks, and lawn,

Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace,

Where every limb takes like a face?

Send these suspected helps to aid

Some form defective, or decayed;

This beauty without falsehood fair

Needs nought to clothe it but the air.

Yet something, to the painter's view,

Were fitly interposed; so new,

He shall, if he can understand,

Work with my fancy his own hand.

Draw first a cloud, all save her neck,

And out of that make day to break;

Till, like her face it do appear,

And men may think all light rose there.

Then let the beams of that disperse

The cloud, and show the universe;

But at such distance as the eye

May rather yet adore than spy.

The heaven designed, draw next a spring,

With all that youth or it can bring:

Four rivers branching forth like seas,

And Paradise confining these.

Last, draw the circles of this globe,

And let there be a starry robe

Of constellations 'bout her hurled;

And thou hast painted beauty's world.

But, painter, see thou do not sell

A copy of this piece, nor tell

Whose 'tis: but if it favour find,

Next sitting we will draw her mind.

The Mind

Painter, you're come, but may be gone;

Now I have better thought thereon,

This work I can perform alone;

And give you reasons more than one.

Not that your art I do refuse;

But here I may no colours use.

Beside, your hand will never hit

To draw a thing that cannot sit.

You could make shift to paint an eye,

An eagle towering in the sky,

The sun, a sea, or soundless pit,

But these are like a mind, not it.

No, to express a mind to sense

Would ask a heaven's intelligence;

Since nothing can report that flame

But what's of kin to whence it came.

Sweet mind, then speak yourself, and say

As you go on, by what brave way

Our sense you do with knowledge fill

And yet remain our wonder still.

I call you muse, now make it true:

Henceforth may every line be you;

That all may say that see the frame,

This is no picture, but the same.

A mind so pure, so perfect fine,

As 'tis not radiant, but divine:

And so disdaining any trier;

'Tis got where it can try the fire.

There, high exalted in the sphere,

As it another nature were,

It moveth all, and makes a flight

As circular as infinite.

Whose notions when it will express

In speech, it is with that excess

Of grace, and music to the ear,

As what it spoke, it planted there.

The voice so sweet, the words so fair,

As some soft chime had stroked the air;

And though the sound were parted thence,

Still left an echo in the sense.

But that a mind so rapt, so high,

So swift, so pure, should yet apply

Itself to us, and come so nigh

Earth's grossness: there's the how and why.

Is it because it sees us dull,

And stuck in clay here, it would pull

Us forth by some celestial sleight

Up to her own sublimed height?

Or hath she here, upon the ground

Some paradise, or palace found

In all the bounds of beauty fit,

For her to inhabit? There is it.

Thrice happy house, that hast receipt

For this so lofty form, so straight,

So polished, perfect, round, and even,

As it slid moulded off from heaven.

Not swelling like the ocean proud,

But stooping gently as a cloud,

As smooth as oil poured forth, and calm

As showers, and sweet as drops of balm.

Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all a flood

Where it may run to any good;

And where it stays, it there becomes

A nest of odorous spice and gums.

In action, winged as the wind;

In rest, like spirits left behind

Upon a bank, or field of flowers,

Begotten by that wind, and showers.

In thee, fair mansion, let it rest,

Yet know with what thou art possessed:

Thou entertaining in thy breast

But such a mind, mak'st God thy guest.

A whole quaternion in the midst of this poem is lost, containing entirely the three next pieces of it, and all of the fourth (which in the order of the whole, is the eighth) excepting the very end: which at the top of the nextquaternion goeth on thus:

But for you, growing gentlemen, the happy branches of two so illustrious houses as these, wherefrom your honoured mother is in both lines descended, let me leave you this last legacy of counsel; which, so soon as you arrive at years of mature understanding, open you, sir, that are the eldest, and read it to your brethren, for it will concern you all alike. Vowed by a faithful servant and client of your family, with his latest breath expiring it,

B.J.

To Kenelm, John, George

Boast not these titles of your ancestors,

Brave youths, they're their possessions, none of yours;

When your own virtues equalled have their names,

'Twill be but fair to lean upon their fames,

For they are strong supporters; but till then,

The greatest are but growing gentlemen.

It is a wretched thing to trust to reeds,

Which all men do that urge not their own deeds

Up to their ancestors; the river's side

By which you're planted shows your fruit shall bide.

Hang all your rooms with one large pedigree:

'Tis virtue alone is true nobility.

Which virtue from your father, ripe, will fall;

Study illustrious him, and you have all.

Elegy on My Muse, the Truly Honoured Lady, the Lady Venetia Digby: who, Living, Gave Me Leave to Call Her So. Being Her 'Apoteosis, or Relation to the Saints.

Sera quidem tanto struitur medicina dolori.

'Twere time that I died too, now she is dead,

Who was my muse, and life of all I said,

The spirit that I wrote with, and conceived;

All that was good or great in me she weaved,

And set it forth; the rest were cobwebs fine,

Spun out in name of some of the old nine,

To hang a window or make dark the room,

Till, swept away, they were cancelled with a broom:

Nothing that could remain, or yet can stir

A sorrow in me, fit to wait to her!

Oh, had I seen her laid out a fair corse

By death on earth, I should have had remorse

On nature for her, who did let her lie,

And saw that portion of herself to die.

Sleepy, or stupid nature, couldst thou part

With such a rarity, and not rouse art

With all her aids to save her from the seize

Of vulture death, and those relentless clees?

Thou wouldst have lost the phoenix, had the kind

Been trusted to thee, not to itself assigned.

Look on thy sloth, and give thyself undone:

For so thou art with me, now she is gone.

My wounded mind cannot sustain this stroke;

It rages, runs, flies, stands, and would provoke

The world to ruin with it; in her fall,

I sum up mine own breaking, and wish all.

Thou hast no more blows, fate, to drive at one:

What's left a poet, when his muse is gone?

Sure, I am dead, and know it not! I feel

Nothing I do, but like a heavy wheel,

Am turned with another's powers. My passion

Whirls me about, and to blaspheme in fashion,

I murmur against God, for having ta'en

Her blessed soul hence, forth this valley vain

Of tears, and dungeon of calamity.

I envy it the angels' amity!

The joy of saints, the crown for which it lives,

The glory and gain of rest which the place gives!

Dare I prophane, so irreligious be

To greet or grieve her soft euthanasy?

So sweetly taken to the court of bliss,

As spirits had stolen her spirit, in a kiss,

From off her pillow and deluded bed,

And left her lovely body unthought dead!

Indeed, she is not dead, but laid to sleep

In earth, till the last trump awake the sheep

And goats together, whither they must come

To hear their judge and his eternal doom;

To have that final retribution,

Expected with the flesh's restitution.

For, as there are three natures, schoolmen call

One corporal only, the other spiritual,

Like single; so there is a third, commixt

Of body and spirit together, placed betwixt

Those other two; which must be judged or crowned:

This, as it guilty is, or guiltless found,

Must come to take a sentence, by the sense

Of that great evidence, the conscience,

Who will be there, against that day prepared,

To accuse, or quit all parties to be heard.

O day of joy and surety to the just,

Who in that feast of resurrection trust!

That great eternal holy-day of rest

To body and soul, where love is all the guest,

And the whole banquet is full sight of God:

Of joy the circle and sole period!

All other gladness with the thought is barred,

Hope hath her end, and faith hath her reward.

This being thus, why should my tongue or pen

Presume to interpel that fulness, when

Nothing can more adorn it than the seat

That she is in, or make it more complete?

Better be dumb, than superstitious;

Who violates the godhead is most vicious

Against the nature he would worship. He

Will honoured be in all simplicity,

Have all his actions wondered at, and viewed

With silence and amazement, not with rude,

Dull, and prophane, weak, and imperfect eyes,

Have busy search made in his mysteries.

He knows what work he hath done to call this guest

Out of her noble body to this feast,

And give her place, according to her blood,

Amongst her peers, those princes of all good:

Saints, martyrs, prophets, with those hierarchies,

Angels, archangels, principalities,

The dominations, virtues, and the powers,

The thrones, the cherub, and seraphic bowers,

That planted round, there sing before the Lamb

A new song to his praise, and great I am.

And she doth know, out of the shade of death,

What 'tis to enjoy an everlasting breath!

To have her captived spirit freed from flesh,

And on her innocence a garment fresh

And white as that, put on; and in her hand

With boughs of palm, a crowned victrix stand!

And will you, worthy son, sir, knowing this,

Put black and mourning on, and say you miss

A wife, a friend, a lady, or a love,

Whom her redeemer honoured hath above

Her fellows, with the oil of gladness, bright

In heaven's empyrean, with a robe of light?

Thither you hope to come, and there to find

That pure, that precious and exalted mind

You once enjoyed; a short space severs ye

Compared unto that long eternity

That shall rejoin ye. Was she then so dear

When she departed? You will meet her there

Much more desired, and dearer than before,

By all the wealth of blessings, and the store

Accumulated on her by the Lord

Of life and light, the Son of God, the Word!

There all the happy souls that ever were,

Shall meet with gladness in one theatre;

And each shall know, there, one another's face,

By beatific virtue of the place.

There shall the brother with the sister walk,

And sons and daughters with their parents talk,

But all of God; they still shall have to say,

But make him all in all, their theme that day,

That happy day, that never shall see night!

Where he will be all beauty to the sight,

Wine or delicious fruits unto the taste,

A music in the ears, will ever last,

Unto the scent a spicery or balm,

And to the touch a flower like soft as palm.

He will all glory, all perfection be,

God, in the Union, and the Trinity!

That holy, great, and glorious mystery

Will there revealed be in majesty!

By light and comfort of spiritual grace,

The vision of our Saviour, face to face

In his humanity! To hear him preach

The price of our redemption, and to teach

Through his inherent righteousness, in death,

The safety of our souls, and forfeit breath:

What fulness of beatitude is here!

What love with mercy mixed doth appear!

To style us friends, who were by nature foes;

Adopt us heirs by grace, who were of those

Had lost ourselves, and prodigally spent

Our native portions and possessed rent;

Yet have all debts forgiven us, and advance

By imputed right to an inheritance

In his eternal kingdom, where we sit

Equal with angels, and co-heirs of it!

Nor dare we under blasphemy conceive

He that shall be our supreme judge should leave

Himself so uninformed of his elect,

Who knows the hearts of all, and can dissect

The smallest fibre of our flesh; he can

Find all our atoms from a point to a span,

Our closest creeks and corners, and can trace

Each line, as it were graphic, in the face.

And best he knew her noble character,

For 'twas himself who formed and gave it her.

And to that form lent two such veins of blood,

As nature could not more increase the flood

Of title in her. All nobility

(But pride, that schism of incivility)

She had, and it became her; she was fit

To have known no envy but by suffering it.

She had a mind as calm as she was fair,

Not tossed or troubled with light lady-air,

But kept an even gait; as some straight tree

Moved by the wind, so comely moved she.

And by the awful manage of her eye

She swayed all business in the family!

To one she said, Do this; he did it. So

To another, Move; he went. To a third, Go;

He run. And all did strive with diligence

To obey and serve her sweet commandments.

She was, in one, a many parts of life;

A tender mother, a discreeter wife,

A solemn mistress, and so good a friend,

So charitable to religious end,

In all her petty actions so devote,

As her whole life was now become one note

Of piety and private holiness.

She spent more time in tears herself to dress

For her devotions, and those sad essays

Of sorrow, than all pomp of gaudy days:

And came forth ever cheered with the rod

Of divine comfort, when she'd talked with God.

Her broken sighs did never miss whole sense,

Nor can the bruised heart want eloquence:

For prayer is the incense most perfumes

The holy altars, when it least presumes.

And hers were all humility; they beat

The door of grace, and found the mercy-seat.

In frequent speaking by the pious psalms

Her solemn hours she spent, or giving alms,

Or doing other deeds of charity,

To clothe the naked, feed the hungry. She

Would sit in an infirmary whole days

Poring, as on a map, to find the ways

To that eternal rest, where now she hath place

By sure election, and predestined grace.

She saw her Saviour, by an early light,

Incarnate in the manger, shining bright

On all the world. She saw him on the cross,

Suffering and dying to redeem our loss.

She saw him rise, triumphing over death

To justify, and quicken us in breath.

She saw him too in glory to ascend

For his designed work, the perfect end

Of raising, judging, and rewarding all

The kind of man, on whom his doom should fall.

All this by faith she saw, and framed a plea,

In manner of a daily apostrophe,

To him should be her judge, true God, true man,

Jesus, the only-gotten Christ, who can

(As being redeemer, and repairer too

Of lapsed nature) best know what to do,

In that great act of judgement: which the Father

Hath given wholly to the Son (the rather

As being the Son of Man) to show his power,

His wisdom, and his justice, in that hour,

The last of hours, and shutter-up of all;

Where first his power will appear, by call

Of all are dead to life; his wisdom show

In the discerning of each conscience, so;

And most his justice, in the fitting parts

And giving dues to all mankind's deserts.

In this sweet ecstasy she was rapt hence.

Who reads, will pardon my intelligence,

That thus have ventured these true strains upon,

To publish her a saint. My muse is gone.

In pietatis memoriam quam praestas

Venetiae tuae illustrissim. marit. dign.