 Part 6 of THE MATCHLESS ORINDA Poems by the most deservedly admired Mrs. Catherine Phillips, THE MATCHLESS ORINDA. Part 6. Poems 51 to 60. 51. In memory of Mr. Cartwright. Stay, Prince of Fancy, stay, we are not fit to welcome or admire thy raptures yet. Such horrid ignorance benights the times, that wit and honour are become our crimes. But when those happy powers which guard thy dust to us and to thy memory shall be just, and by a flame from thy blessed genius lent, rescue us from our dull imprisonment, unsequester our fancies, and create a worth that may upon thy glories wait, we then shall understand thee, and describe the splendour of restored poetry, till then let no bold hand profane thy shrine, to his high wit treason to debase thy coin. 52. Mr. Frances Finch, THE EXCELENT PALOMON. This is confessed presumption. For had I all that rich stock of ingenuity which I could wish for this, yet would it be Palomon's blot, a pious injury? But as no votaries are scorned when they, the meanest victim in religion pay, not that the power they worship needs a gum, but that they speak their thanks for all with some. So though the most contemptible of all that do themselves Palomon's servants call, I know that zeal is more than sacrifice, for God did not the widow's might despise, and that Palomon hath divinity, and mercy is his highest property. He that doth such transcendent merit own, must have imperfect offerings or none. He's one rich luster which doth raise dispense, as knowledge will when set in innocence. For learning did select his noble breast, where in her native majesty to rest, free from the tyranny and pride of schools, who have confined her to pedantic rules, and that gentler error which does take offence at learning for her habit's sake, Palomon hath redeemed her, who may be esteemed himself and university, and yet so much a gentleman, that he needs not, though he enjoys, a pedigree. Before he was built and sent to let us know, what man completed could both be and do. Freedom from vice is in him nature's part, without the help of discipline or art. He's his own happiness and his own law, whereby he keeps passion and fate in awe. Nor was this wrought in him by time and growth, his genius had anticipated both. And all men in Palomon's pride had nair-taught one men tyranny, the other fear. Ambition had been full as monstrous then, as this ill-world doth render worthy men. Had men his spirit, they would soon forbear, groveling for dirt and quarreling for air. Were his harmonious soul diffused in all, we should believe that men did never fall. It is Palomon's soul that hath engrossed the ingenuous candor that the world hath lost, whose own mind seats him quiet, safe, and high, above the reach of time or destiny. T'was he that rescued gasping friendship, when the bell tolled for her funeral with men. T'was he that made friends more than lovers burn, and then made love to sacred friendship turn. T'was he turned honour inward, set her free from titles and from popularity. Now fixed to virtue, she begs praise of none, but's witnessed and rewarded both at home. And in his breast this honour so enshrined, as the old law was, and the ark confined, to which posterity shall all consent, and less dispute than acts of parliament. He's our original, by whom we see how much we fail, and what we ought to be. But why do I to copy him pretend? My rhymes but liable whom they would commend. T'is true, but none can reach what's set so high, and though I miss, I have noble company. For the most happy language must confess, it doth obscure, Palomon, not express. 53. To Mrs. M. A. at parting. I have examined and defined, of all that favour me, there is none I grieve to leave behind, but only, only thee. To part with thee I need's must die, could parting separate thee and I. But neither chance nor compliment did element our love, to a sacred sympathy was lent us from the choir above. That friendship fortune did create, still fears a wound from time or fate. Our changed and mingled souls are grown to such acquaintance now, that if each would resume their own, alas, we know not how. We have each other so engrossed, that each is in the union lost. And thus we can no absence know, nor shall we be confined. Our active souls will daily go to learn each other's mind. Nay, should we never meet to sense, our souls would hold intelligence. Inspired with a flame divine, I scorn to court a stay. For from that noble soul of thine I never can be away. I shall weep when thou dost grieve, nor can I die whilst thou dost live. By my own temper I shall guess at thy felicity, and only like my happiness, because it pleases thee. Our hearts at any time will tell if thou or I be sick or well. All honour sure I must pretend, all that is good or great. She that would be Rosania's friend must be at least complete. If I have any bravery, to his cause I have so much of thee. Thy leager soul in me shall lie, and all thy thoughts reveal, then back again with mine shall fly, and thence to me shall steal. Thus still to one another tend, such is the sacred name of friend. Thus our twin souls in one shall grow, and teach the world new love, redeem the age and sex, and show a flame fate dares not move. And courting death to be our friend, our lives together too shall end. A dew shall dwell upon our tomb of such a quality, that fighting armies thither come shall reconcile it be. We'll ask no epitaph, but say, Orinda and Rosania. 54. To my dearest Antonor, on his parting. Though it be just to grieve when I must part with him that is the guardian of my heart, yet by a happy change the loss of mine is with advantage paid in having thine, and I, by that dear guest instructed, find absence can do no hurt to souls combined, as we were born to love brought to agree by the impressions of divine decree, so when united near we became, it did not weaken, but increase our flame. Unlike to those who distant joys admire, but slight them when possessed of their desire, each of our souls did its own temper fit, and in the other's mould so fashioned it, that now our inclinations both are grown, like to our interests and persons one. And souls whom such an union fortifies, passion can ne'er destroy nor fate surprise. Now as in watches, though we do not know when the hand moves, we find it still doth go, so I, by secret sympathy inclined, will absent meet and understand thy mind. And thou at thy return shall find thy heart still safe with all the love thou didst impart. For though that treasure I have ne'er deserved, it shall with strong religion be preserved. And besides this thou shalt in me survey thy self-reflected while thou art away. For what some forward arts do undertake, the images of absent friends to make, and represent their actions in a glass, friendship itself can only bring to pass that magic which both fate and time beguiles, and in a moment runs a thousand miles. So in my breast thy picture drawn shall be, my guide, life, object, friend, and destiny, and none shall know, though they employ their wit, which is the right antinor, thou, or it. 55. In Graven on Mr. John Collier's Tombstone at Bedlington. Here what remains of him doth lie, who was the world's epitome, religions, darling, world's glory, men's true delight, and virtue's story, who, though a prisoner to the grave, a glorious freedom once shall have, till when no monument is fit, but what's beyond our love and wit. 56. On the Little Regina Collier on the Same Tombstone. Virtue's blossom, beauty's bud, the pride of all that's fair and good, by death's fierce hand was snatched hence, in her state of innocence, who by it this advantage gains, her wages got without her pains. 57. Friendship. Let the dull, brutish world that know not love, continue heretics, and disapprove that noble flame, but the refined know, till all the heaven we have here below. Nature subsists by love, and they do tie things to their causes, but by sympathy. Love changed the different elements in one great harmony, linked to the heavenly throne. And as on earth, so the blessed choir above of saints and angels are maintained by love, that is their business and felicity, and will be so to all eternity. That is the ocean, our affections here, our butt-streams borrowed from the fountain there, and is the noblest argument to prove a beautyous mind, that it knows how to love. Those kind impressions which fate can't control, are heaven's mintage on a worthy soul, for love is all the art's epitome, and is the sum of all divinity. He's worse than beasts that cannot love, and yet is not bought for money, pains, or wit, for no chance or design can spirits move but the eternal destiny of love. And when two souls are changed and mixed so, it is what they and none but they can do. This is friendship, that abstracted flame, which groveling mortals know not how to name. All love is sacred, and the marriage tie hath much of honour and divinity, but lust, design, or some unworthy ends may mingle there, which are despised by friends. Passion hath violent extremes, and thus all oppositions are contiguous. So when the end is served, their love will bait, if friendship make it not more fortunate. Friendship, that loves elixir, that pure fire, which burns the clear, cause it burns the higher. For love, like earthly fires, which will decay if the material fuel be away, is with offensive smoke accompanied, and by resistance only is supplied. But friendship, like the fiery element, with its own heat and nourishment content, where neither hurt nor smoke nor noise is made, scorns the assistance of a foreign aid. Friendship, like heraldry, is hereby known, richest when plainest, bravest when alone, calm as a virgin, and more innocent than sleeping doves are, and as much content as saints and visions, quiet as the night, but clear and open as the summer's light, united more than spirits, faculties, higher in thoughts than are the eagle's eyes. What shall I say, when we true friends are grown? We are alike, alas, we are like ourselves alone. 58. The Enquiry If we know old historians' name, authentic will admit, but think all said of friendship's fame, but poetry or wit. Yet what's revered by mind so pure must be a bright idea, sure. But as our immortality, by inward sense, we find, judging that if it could not be, it would not be designed. So here how could such copies fall, if there were no original? But if truth be an ancient song, or story we believe, if the inspired and graver throng have scorned to deceive, there have been hearts whose friendship gave them thoughts at once both soft and brave. Among that consecrated view some more seraphic shade, lend me a favourable clue, now mist's my eyes invade. Why, having filled the world with fame, left you so little of your flame? Why is it so difficult to see two bodies and one mind? And why are those who else agree so differently kind? With nature such fantastic art that she can vary every heart. Why are the bands of friendship tied with so remiss a knot, that by the most it is defied and by the rest for God? Why do we step with so light sense from friendship to indifference? If friendship's sympathy impart, why this ill-shuffled game, that heart can never meet with heart, or flame and counter-flame, what does this cruelty create? Is the intrigue of love or fate? Had friendship ne'er been known to men, the ghost at last confessed, the world had been a stranger then to all that heaven possessed. But could it all be here acquired, not heaven itself would be desired? 59. To my Lucacia, in defence of a declared friendship. Oh, my Lucacia, let us speak our love, and think not that impertinent can be which to us both doth such assurance prove, and whence we find how justly we agree. Before we knew the treasures of our love, our noble aims, our joys did entertain, and shall enjoyment nothing then improve? To her best for us then to begin again. Now we have gained, we must not stop, and sleep out all the rest of our mysterious reign. It is as hard and glorious to keep a victory as it is to obtain. Nay, to what end did we once barter minds only to know and to neglect the claim? Or like some wantons our pride, pleasure finds, to throw away the thing at which we aim? If this be all our friendship does design, we covet not enjoyment then, but power. To our opinion we are bliss confine, and love to have, but not to smell the flower. Ah! Then let miser's bury thus their gold, who though they starve no farthing will produce. But we loved to enjoy, and to behold, and sure we cannot spend our stock by use. Think not his needless to repeat desires, the fervent turtles always court and bill, and yet their spotless passion never tires, but does increase by repetition still. Although we know we love, yet while our soul is thus imprisoned by the flesh we bear, there's no way left that bondage to control, but to convey transactions through the ear. Nay, though we read our passions in the eye, it will oblige and please to tell them too. Such joys as these by motion multiply, work but to find that our souls told us true. Believe not, then, that being now secure of either's heart we have no more to do. The spheres themselves by motion do endure, and they move on by circulation too. And as a river, when it once hath paid the tribute which it to the ocean owes, stops not but turns and having curled and played on its own waves the shore it overflows. So the soul's motion does not end in bliss, but on herself she scatters and delates, and on the object doubles till by this she finds new joys which that reflux creates. But then because it cannot all contain, it seeks event by telling the glad news. to the heart which did its joys obtain, then to the heart which did those joys produce. When my soul, then, doth such excursions make, unless thy soul delight to meet it too, what satisfaction can it give or take, thou being absent at the interview? Tis not distrust, for were that plea allowed letters and visits all would useless grow. Love's whole expression, then, would be its cloud, and it would be refined to nothing so. If I distrust, tis my own worth for thee, tis my own fitness for a love like thine, and therefore still new evidence would see to assure my wonder that thou canst be mine. But as the morning sun to drooping flowers as weary travellers ashade do find, as to the parched violet evening showers, such is from thee to me a look that's kind. But when that look is dressed in words, tis like the mystic power of music's unison, which when the finger doth one vile strike, the others' string heaves to reflection. Be kind to me, and just then to our love, to which we owe our free and dear converse, and let not tract of time where or remove it from the privilege of that commerce. Friends do banish what they can't requite, but let us never know such mean desires, but to be grateful to that love-delight which all our joys and noble thoughts inspires. 60. A Reverie A chosen privacy, a cheap content, and all the peace of friendship ever lent. A rock which civil nature made a seat, a willow that repulses all the heat. The beauty is quiet of a summer's day. A brook which sobbed aloud, and ran away, invited my repose, and then conspired to entertain my fancy, thus retired. As Lucian's ferryman aloft did view the angry world, and then laughed at it too, so all at sullen folly seemed to me but as a too well-acted tragedy. One dangerous ambition doth be fool, another envies to see that man rule, one makes his love the parent of his rage, for private friendship publicly to engage. And some for conscience, some for honour die, and some are meanly killed they know not why. More different than men's faces are their ends, whom yet one common ruin can make friends. Death, dust, and darkness they have only one, and hastily unto their periods run. Death is a leveler. Beauty, and kings, and conquerors, and all those glorious things are tumbled to their graves in one rude heap, like common dust as quiet and as cheap. At greater changes who would wander then, since kingdoms have their fates as well as men. They must fall sick and die, nothing can be in this world certain but uncertainty. Since power and greatness are such slippery things, who'd pity cottages or envy kings. Now least of all, when weary of deceit the world no longer flatters with the great, though such confusions here below we find as providence were wanton with mankind. Yet in this chaos some things do send forth, like jewels in the dark, a native worth. He that derives his high nobility not from the mention of a pedigree, who thinks it not his praise that others know his ancestors were gallant long ago. Who scorns to boast the glories of his blood, and thinks he can't be great that is not good. Who knows the world, and what we pleasure call, it cannot sell one conscience for them all. Who hates to hoard that gold with an excuse, for which he can find out a nobler use. Who dares not keep that life that he can spend to serve his god, his country, and his friend. Who flattery and falsehood doth so hate, he would not bury ten lives at such a rate. Whose soul then diamonds more rich and clear, naked and open as his face doth wear. Who dares be good alone in such a time, when virtues held and punished as a crime. Who thinks dark crooked plots a mean defense, and is both safe and wise in innocence. Who dares both fight and die, but dares not fear, whose only doubt is if his cause be clear. Whose courage and his justice equal warn can dangers grapple, overcome, and scorn. Yet not insult upon a conquered foe, but can forgive him and oblige him too. Whose friendship is congenial with his soul. Who where he gives a heart bestows it whole. Whose other ties and titles here do end, or buried or completed in the friend. Who ne'er resumes the soul he once did give, while his friend's honesty and honour live. And if his friend's content could cost the price, would count himself a happy sacrifice. Whose happy days no pride infects, nor can his other titles make him slight the man. No dark ambitious thoughts do cloud his brow, nor restless cares when to be great, and how. Who scorns to envy wealth where ere it be, but pity such a golden slavery. With no mean fawnings can the people court, nor wholly slight a popular report. Whose house no orphan groans do shake or blast, nor any riot help to serve his taste. Who from the top of his prosperity's can take a fall, and yet without surprise. Who with the same august and even state can entertain the best and worst of fate. Whose suffering sweet, if honour once adorn it. Whose light's revenge yet does not fear, but scorn it. Whose happiness in every fortune lives, for that no fortune either takes or gives. Who no unhandsome ways can bribe his fate. Nay, out of prison marches through the gate. Who losing all his titles and his pelf. Nay, all the world can never lose himself. This person shines indeed, and he that can be virtuous is the great immortal man. A Country Life How sacred and how innocent a country life appears. How free from tumult, discontent, from flattery or fears. This was the first and happiest life when man enjoyed himself, till pride exchanged peace for strife, and happiness for pelf. Twas here the poets were inspired, here taught the multitude. The brave they here with honour fired, and civilised the rude. That golden age did entertain no passion but of love. The thoughts of ruling and of gain did nare their fancies move. None then did envy neighbour's wealth, nor plot to wrong his bed. Happy in friendship and in health, on roots, not beasts they fed. They knew no law nor physics then. Nature was all their wit. And if there yet remain to men content, sure this is it. What blessings doth this world afford to tempt or bribe desire? Her courtship is all fire and sword. Who would not then retire? Then welcome, dearest solitude, my great felicity. Though some are pleased to call thee rude, thou art not so, but we. Some that do covet only rest, a cottage will suffice. It is not brave to be possessed of earth but to despise. Opinion is the rate of things, from hence our peace doth flow. I have a better fate than kings, because I think it so. When all the stormy world doth roar, how concerned am I? I cannot fear to tumble lower, who never could be high. Secure in these unenviied walls I think not on the state, and pity no man's case that falls from his ambition's height. Silence and innocence are safe—a heart that's nobly true, at all these little arts can laugh, that do the world subdue. While others revel it in state, here all contented sit, and think I have as good a fate as wealth and pomp admit. Let some in courtship take delight, and to the exchange resort, then revel out winter's night not making love but sport. These never know a noble flame, to his lust, scorn, or design, while vanity plays all their game. Let peace and honour mine. When the inviting spring appears to hide park, let them go, and hasting thence be full of fears to lose spring-garden show. Let others, nobler, seek to gain in knowledge happy fate, and others busy them in vain to study ways of state. But I, resolve it from within, confirm it from without, in privacy intend to spin my future minutes out. And from this hermitage of mine I banish all wild toys, and nothing that is not divine shall dare to tempt my joys. There are below but two things good—friendship and honesty—and only those of all I would ask for felicity. In this retired and humble seat, free from both war and strife, I am not forced to make retreat, but choose to spend my life. 62. To Mrs. Wogan, my honoured friend, on the death of her husband. Dry up your tears. There's enough shed by you. And we must pay our share of sorrows, too. It is no private loss when such men fall. The world's concerned, and grief is general. But, though of our misfortune, we complain to him at his injurious in vain. For since we know his rich integrity, his real sweetness, and full harmony, how free his heart and house were to his friends, whom he obliged without design or ends, how universal was his courtesy, how clear a soul, how even and how high, how much he scorned disguise or meaner arts, but with a native honour, conquered hearts. We must conclude he was a treasure lent, soon weary of this sordid tenement. The age and world deserved him not, and he was kindly snatched from future misery. We can scarce say he's dead, but gone to rest, and left a monument in every breast. For you to grieve, then, in this sad excess is not to speak of love, but make it less. A noble soul no friendship will admit, but it's eternal and divine as it. The soul is hid in mortal flesh, we know, and all its weaknesses must undergo, till by degrees it doth shine forth at length, and gathers beauty, purity, and strength. But never yet doth this immortal ray put on full splendour till it put off clay. So infant love is, in the worthiest breast, by sense and passion fettered and oppressed. But by degrees it grows still more refined, and scorning clogs only concerns the mind. Now as the soul you loved is here set free from its material gross capacity, your love should follow him now he is gone, and quitting passion, put perfection on. Such love as this will its own good deny if its dear object have felicity. And since we cannot his great loss reprieve, let's not lose you in whom he still doth live. For while you are by grief secluded thus, it doth appear your funeral to us. 63. In memory of the most justly honoured Mrs. Owen of Oriolton. As when the ancient world by reason lived, the Asian monarch's deaths were never grieved. Their glorious lives made all their subjects call their rites a triumph, not a funeral. So still the good our princes and their fate invites us not to weep, but imitate. Nature intends a progress of each stage whereby weak man creeps to succeeding age, ripens him for that change for which he's made, where the active soul is in her centre staid. And since none stripped of infancy complain, caused his both their necessity and gain, so age and death by slow approaches come, and by that just inevitable doom, by which the soul, her cloggy dross once gone, puts on perfection, and resumes her own. Since then we mourn a happy soul. O why disturb we her with airing piety? Who so enamoured on the beauteous ground when with rich autumn's livery hung round, as to deny a sickle to his grain, and not undress the teeming earth again? Fruits grow for use, mankind is born to die, and both fates have the same necessity. Then grieve no more sad relatives, but learn. Sigh not, but profit by your just concern. Read over her life's volume, wise and good, not cause she must be so, but cause she would. To chosen virtue still a constant friend, she saw the times which changed, but did not mend. And as some are so civil to the sun they fixed his beams and make the earth to run, so she unmoved beheld the angry fate which tore a church and overthrew a state. Still durst be good, and own the noble truth, to crown her age which had adorned her youth. Fate without pride, a soul which still could be humble and high, full of calm majesty. She kept true state within, and could not buy her satisfaction with her charity. Fortune or birth ne'er raised her mind, which stood not on her being rich, but doing good. Obliged the world, but yet would scorn to be paid with requitals, thanks, or vanity. How oft did she what all the world adore, make the poor happy with her useful store? So general was her bounty that she gave equality to all before the grave. By several means she different persons tied, who by her goodness only were allied. Her virtue was her temper, not her fit, feared nothing but the crimes which some commit, scorned those dark arts which pass for wisdom now, nor to a mean ignoble thing could bow. And her vast prudence had no other end, but to forgive a foe, endear a friend. To use but slight the world, and fixed above shine down in beams of piety and love. Why should be then by poor unjust complaint, prove envious sinners, cause she is a saint? Close then the monument. Let not a tear that may profane her ashes now appear. For her best obsequies are that we be prudent and good, noble and sweet, as she. A Friend Love, nature's plot, this great creation's soul, the being and the harmony of things, doth still preserve and propagate the whole, from whence man's happiness and safety springs. The earliest, whitest, blessed's times did draw, from her alone their universal law. Friendships and abstract of this nobler flame, to his love refined and purged from all its dross, the next to angels' love, if not the same, as strong as passion is, though not so gross, it anti-dates a glad eternity, and is in heaven in epitome. Nobler than kindred or then marriage-band, because more free, wedlock felicity itself doth only by this union stand, and turns to friendship or to misery. Force or design matches to pass may bring, but friendship doth from love and honour spring. If souls no sexes have, for men to exclude woman from friendship's vast capacity, is a design injurious or rude, only maintained by partial tyranny. Love is allowed to us and innocence, and noblest friendships do proceed from thence. The chiefest thing in friends is sympathy. There is a secret, but doth friendship guide, which makes two souls before they know agree, who by a thousand mixtures are allied and changed and lost, so that it is not known within which breast doth now reside their own. Essential honour must be in a friend, not such as every breath fans to and fro, but born within, is its own judge and end, and dares not sin, though sure that none should know. Where friendship spoke, honesty's understood, for none can be a friend that is not good. Friendship doth carry more than common trust, and treachery is here the greatest sin. Secrets deposed then none ever must presume to open, but who put them in. They that in one chest lay up all their stock, had need be sure that none can pick the lock. A breast too open friendship doth not love, for that the other's trust will not conceal, nor one too much reserved can it approve, its own condition this will not reveal. We empty passions for a double end, to be refreshed and guarded by a friend. Wisdom and knowledge friendship doth require, the first for counsel, this for company, and though not mainly, yet we may desire both complacence and ingenuity, though everything may love, yet tis a rule, he cannot be a friend, that is a fool. Discretion uses parts and best knows how, and patience will all qualities commend, that serves a need best, but this doth allow the weakness and passions of a friend. We are not yet come to the choir above, who cannot pardon here can never love. Thick waters show no images of things, friends are each other's mirrors, and should be clear than crystal or the mountain springs, and free from clouds, design, or flattery. For vulgar souls no part of friendship share, poets and friends are born to what they are. Friends should observe and chide each other's faults, to be severe than is most just and kind. Nothing can scape their search who knew the thoughts, this they should give and take with equal mind. For friendship, when this freedom is denied, is like a painter when his hands are tied. A friend should find out each necessity, and then unasked relieve it at any rate. It is not friendship but formality to be desired, for kindness keeps no state. Of friends he doth the benefactor prove that gives his friend the means to express his love. Absence doth not from friendship's right excuse, them who preserve each other's heart and fame, parting can ne'er divide, it may diffuse. As afar stretched out rivers still the same, though presence helped them at the first to greet, their souls know now without these aids to meet. Constant and solid, whom no storms can shake, nor death on fix, a right friend ought to be, and if condemnate to survive doth make no second choice but grief and memory. But friendship's best fate is when it can spend a life, a fortune, all to serve a friend. 65. L'accord du bien. Order, by which all things are made, and this great world's foundation laid, is nothing else but harmony, where different parts are brought to agree. As empires are still best maintained, those ways which first their greatness gained, so in this universal frame what made and keeps it is the same. Thus all things unto peace do tend, even discords have it for their end. The cause, why elements do fight, is but their instinct to unite. Music could never please the sense, but by united excellence, the sweetest note which numbers know, if struck alone, would tedious grow. Man, the whole world's epitome, is by creation harmony. Twas sin versed quarreled in his breast that made him angry with the rest, but goodness keeps that unity, and loves its own society so well, that seldom we have known one real worth to dwell alone. And hence it is we friendship call, not by one virtue's name, but all, nor is it when bad things agree thought union but conspiracy. Nature and grace, such enemies, that when one fell, tother did rise, are now by mercy even set as stars and constellations met. If nature were herself a sin, her author, God, had guilty been, but man by sin contracting stain shall purge from that be clear again. To prove that nature's excellent, even sin itself's an argument. Therefore we nature's stain to plure because itself was pure before. And grace destroys not, but refines, unveils our reason, then it shines, restores what was depressed by sin, the fainting beam of God within. The mainspring, judgment, rectified, will all the lesser motions guide, to splendour, labour, love, and care, not as things seem, but as they are. Tis fancy lost, wit thrown away, in trifles to employ that ray, which then doth in full luster shine when both ingenious and divine. To eyes by humour vitiated, all things seem falsely colour it, so tis our prejudicial thought that makes clear objects seem and fault. They scarce believe united good by whom't was never understood, they think one grace enough for one, and is because their selves have none. We hunt extremes, and run so fast, we can no steady judgment cast. He best surveys the circuit round who stands in the middle of the ground. What happy mean would let us see knowledge and meekness may agree, and find when each thing hath its name, passion and zeal are not the same. Who studies God doth upwards fly, and height still lessens to our eye, and he that knows God soon will see vast cause for his humility? For by that search it will be known there's nothing but our will, our own. And who doth so that stark employ but finds more cause for shame than joy? We know so little, and so dark, and so extinguish our own spark, that he who furthest here can go knows nothing as he ought to know. It will with the most learned suit more to inquire than dispute, but vapours swell within a cloud, tis ignorance that makes us proud. So when their own vain heart belies like inflammations quickly rise, but that soul which is truly great is lowest in its own conceit. Yet while we hug our own mistake, we censures, but not judgements make, and thence it is we cannot see obedience stand with liberty. Providence still keeps even state, but he can best command his fate, whose art by adding his own voice makes his necessity his choice. Rightly to rule oneself must be the hardest, largest monarchy, whose passions are his master's groan, will be a captive and a throne. He most the inward freedom gains, who just submission entertains. For while in that his reason sways, it is himself that he obeys. But only in eternity we can these beautyous unions see, for heaven itself and glory is, but one harmonious constant bliss. 66. Invitation to the country Be kind, my dear Rosania, though tis true thy friendship will become thy penance too. Though there be nothing can reward the pain, nothing to satisfy or entertain, though all be empty, wild, and like to me, who make new troubles in my company. Yet is the action more obliging great, tis hardship only makes dessert complete. But yet to prove mixtures all things compound, there may in this be some advantage found. For a retirement from the noise of towns is that for which some kings have left their crowns. And conquerors, whose laurel pressed the brow, have changed it for the quiet myrtle-bow. For titles, honors, and the world's address, are things too cheap to make up happiness. The easy tribute of a giddy race, and paid less to the person than the place. So false reflected, and so short content, is that which fortune and opinion lent. That who most tried it have a fate complained, with titles burdened and to greatest chained. For they alone enjoyed what they possessed, who relished most and understood it best. And yet that understanding made them know the empty swift dispatch of all below. So that what most can outward things endear, is the best means to make them disappear. And even that tyrant, sense, dut they use destroy, has more officious to our grief than joy. Thus all the glittering world is but a cheat, obtruding on our sense things gross for great. But he that can inquire and undisguise will soon perceive the sting that hidden lies, and find no joys merit esteem but those who seen lies only at our own dispose. Man unconcerned without himself may be his own both prospect and security. Kings may be slaves by their own passions hurled, but who commands himself, commands the world. A country life assists this study best, where no distractions do the soul arrest. There heaven and earth lie open to our view, there we search nature and its author too. Possessed with freedom and a real state, look down on vice and vanity and fate. There, my Razzania, will we, mingling souls, pity the folly which the world controls, and all those grandeurs which the world do prize, we either can enjoy or will despise. 67. In Memory of Mrs. E. H. As some choice plant cherished by sun and air, and ready to requite the gardener's care, blossoms and flourishes, but then we find is made the triumph of some rudor wind. So thy untimely grave did both entomb thy sweetness now, and wonders yet to come. Hung full of hopes, thou cels to lovely prize, just as thou didst attract all hearts and eyes. Thus we might apprehend, for had thy years been lengthened to have paid those vast arrears the world expected, we should then conclude the age of miracles had been renewed. For thou already hast with ease found out what others study with such pains and doubt, that frame of soul which is content alone, and needs no entertainment but its own. Thy even mind, which made thee good and great, was to thee both a shelter and retreat. Of all the tummels which this world do fill, thou wert an unconcerned spectator still, and were thy duty punctually supplied, indifferent to all the world beside, thou wert made up within resolved and fixed, and wouldst not with a base allay be mixed. Above the world couldst equally despise both its temptations and its injuries, couldst sum up all and find not worth desire those glittering trifles which the most admire. But with a nobler aim, and higher-born, looked down on greatness with contempt and scorn, thou hath no arts that others this might see, nor loved so trumpet thy piety. But silent and retired, calm and serene, stolest thy blessed haven hardly seen. It were vain to describe thee then, but now thy vast accession harder is to know. How full of light, and satisfied thou art, so early from this treacherous world to part. How pleased thou art reflections now to make, and find thou dits not things below mistake. In how abstracted converse thou dost live, how much thy knowledge is intuitive. How great and bright a glory is enjoyed with angels and in mysteries employed. To sin, then, till meant thy fate. But we should help thee to a new eternity, and by successive imitations strive till time shall die to keep thee still alive, and by thy great example furnished be more apt to live than rite thy elegy. 68. On Rosania's apostasy and Lucacia's friendship. Great soul of friendship, whither art thou fled? Where dost thou now choose to repose thy head? Or art thou nothing but voice, air, and name, found out to put souls in pursuit of fame? Thy flames being thought immortal, we may doubt whether they aired it burn that see them out. Go, weary soul, find out thy wanted rest, in the safe harbour of Orinda's breast. There all unknown adventures thou hast found in thy late transmigrations expound, but so Rosania's darkness may be known to be her want of luster, not thy own. Then to the great Lucacia have recourse. There gather up new excellence and force, till by a free unbiased clear commerce, endearments which no tongue can air rehearse. Lucacia and Orinda shall ye give eternity, and make even friendship live. Hail, great Lucacia, thou art doubly shine, what was Rosania's own is now twice thine, thou sauced Rosania's chariot and her flight, and so the double portion is thy right, though twas Rosania's spirit be content since twas at first from thy Orinda sent. 69. To my lady Elizabeth Boyle, singing now affairs, etc. Subduing fair, what will you win to use a needless dart? Why then so many to take in one undefended heart? I came exposed to all your charms, against which the first half hour, I had no will to take up arms, and in the next no power. How can you choose but win the day? Who can resist your siege? Who in one action knew the way to vanquish and oblige? Your voice which can in melting strains teach beauty to be blind, confines me yet in stronger chains by being soft and kind. Whilst you my trivial fancy sing, do it to wit, refine, as leather once stamped by a king became a current coin. By this my verse is sure to gain eternity with men, which by your voice it will obtain, though never by my pen. I'd rather in your favour live than in a lasting name, and much a greater rate would give for happiness than fame. 70. Submission. And so, and humbly I will resign, nor dare dispute with providence divine. In vain alas we struggle with our chains, but more entangled by the fruitless pains. For as the great creation of this all, nothing by chance could in such order fall, and what would single be deformed confessed, grows beauty is in its union with the rest. So providence, like wisdom we allow, for what created once does govern now, and the same fate that seems to one reverse is necessary to the universe. All these particular and various things linked to their causes by such secret springs are held so fast, and governed by such art, that nothing can out of its order start. The world's gods watch where nothing is so small, but makes a part of what composes all. Could the least pin be lost or else displaced, the world would be disordered and effaced. It beats no pulse in vain, but keeps its time, and undissurned to its own height doth climb. Strung first and daily wound up by his hand, who can its motions guide and understand. No secret cunning then nor multitude can providence divert, cross, or delude, and her just full decrees are hidden things, which harder are to find than births of springs. It all in various consorts fitly sound, and by their discords harmony compound. Hence is that order, life, and energy, whereby forms are preserved though matters die, and shifting dress keep their own living state. So what kills this does that propagate? This made the ancient sage in rapture cry, that sure the world had full eternity. For though itself to time and fate submit, he's above both who made and governs it. And to each creature hath such portion lent, as love and wisdom sees convenient. For he's no tyrant, nor delights to grieve the beings which from him alone can live. He's most concerned and hath the greatest share in man, and therefore takes the greatest care to make him happy, who alone can be so by submission and conformity. For why should changes hear below surprise, when the whole world its revolution tries? Where were our springs, our harvests, pleasant use, and less vicissitude did them produce? Nay, what can be so wearisome a pain, as when no alterations entertain? To lose, to suffer, to be sick and die, arrest us by the same necessity. Nor could they trouble us, but that our mind hath its own glory and address confined. For outward things remove naught from their place till our souls run to beg their mean embrace. Then doting on the choice make it our own, by placing trifles in the opinions thrown. So when they are divorced by some new cross our souls seem widowed by the fatal loss. But could we keep our grandeur and our state? Nothing below would seem unfortunate. But grace and reason which best suckers bring would with advantage manage everything. And by right judgment would prevent our moan, for losing that which never was our own. For right opinions like a marble grot, in summer cool, and in the winter hot. A principle which in each fortune lives bestowing Catholic preservatives. Tis this resolves there are no losses, where virtue and reason are continued there. The meanest soul might such a fortune share, but no mean soul could sow that fortune bear. Thus I can pose my thoughts grown insolent, as the Irish harper doth his instrument, which if once struck doth murmur and complain, but the next touch will silence all again. Part 8 of The Matchless Orinda. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. Poems, by the most deservedly admired Mrs. Catherine Phillips, The Matchless Orinda. Part 8. Poems 71 to 80. Second Corinthians, verse 19. God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself. When God contracted to humanity could sigh and suffer, could be sick and die, when all the heap of miracles combined to form the greatest, which was save mankind. Then God took stand in Christ, studying away how to repair the ruined world's decay. His love, power, wisdom must some means procure his mercy to advance, justice secure. And since man in such misery was hurled, it cost him more to save than make the world. Oh! what a desperate load of sins had we when God must plot for our felicity. When God must beg us that he may forgive and die himself before mankind could live. And what still are we when our king in vain begs his lost rebels to be friends again? What floods of love perceived from heaven's smile had once to pardon and to reconcile. What God himself hath made he cannot hate, for tis one act to love and to create, and he is too perfect full of majesty to need additions from armissory. He hath a father's, not a tyrant's, joy, shows more his power to save than to destroy. With their ten thousand worlds to ruin fall, one God could save, one Christ redeem them all. Be silent, then, ye narrow souls, take heed lest ye restrain the mercy you will need. But oh! my soul, from these be different, imitate thou a nobler precedent. As God with open arms the world does woo, learn thou like God to be enlarged too, as he begs thy consent to pardon thee, learn to submit unto thy enemy, as he stands ready thee to entertain, be thou as forward to return again, as he was crucified for and by thee, crucify thou what caused his agony, and like to him be mortified to sin, die to the world, as he died for it then. 72. The World We falsely think it do unto our friends that we should grieve for their untimely ends. He that surveys the world with serious eyes, and strips her from her gross and weak disguise, shall find his injury to mourn their fate. He only dies untimely, who dies late. For if, to her told to children in the womb, to what a stage of mischiefs they must come, could they foresee with how much toil and sweat men count that gilded nothing being great? What pains they take not to be what they seem, rating their bliss by others false esteem, and sacrificing their content to be guilty of grave and serious vanity? How each condition hath its proper thorns, and what one man admits and other scorns? How frequently their happiness they miss, so far even from agreeing what it is, that the same person we can hardly find who is an hour together in one mind? Sure they would beg a period of their breath, and what we call their birth would count their death. One kind is mad, for none can live alone, because their joys stand by comparison, and yet they quarrel at society, and strive to kill they know not whom nor why. We all live by mistake, delight in dreams, lost to ourselves and dwelling in extremes, rejecting what we have, though nare so good, and prizing what we never understood. Compared to our boisterous inconstancy, tempests are calm and discords harmony. Hence, we reverse the world, and yet do find the God that made can hardly please our mind. We live by chance, and slip into events, have all of beasts accept their innocence. The soul which no man's power can reach, a thing that makes each woman man, each man a king, doth so much lose, and from its height so fall, that some can tend to have no soul at all. Tis either not observed, or at the best, by passion fought with all, by sin depressed. Freedom of will, God's image, is forgot, and if we know it, we improve it not. Our thoughts, though nothing can be more our own, are still unguided, very seldom known. Time escapes our hands as water and a sieve. We come to die ere we begin to live. Truth, the most suitable and noble prize, food of our spirits, yet neglected lies. Error and shadows are our choice, and we owe our perdition to our own decree. If we search truth, we make it more obscure, and when it shines, cannot the light endure. For most men now, who plod, and eat, and drink, have nothing less their business than to think, and those few that inquire how small the share of truth they find, how dark their notions are. That serious evenness that calms the breast, and in a tempest can bestow a rest, we either not attempt, or else decline, by every trifle snatched from our design. Others, he must and his deceits involve, who is not true unto his own resolve. We govern not ourselves, but lose the reins, counting our bondage to a thousand chains. And with as many slaveries, content as there are many tyrants ready to torment, we live upon a rack extended still to one extreme or both, but always ill. For since our fortune is not understood, we suffer less from bad than from the good. The sting is better dressed, and longer lasts, as surfeits are more dangerous than fasts. And to complete the misery to us, we see extremes are still contiguous. And as we run so fast from what we hate, like squibs on ropes to know no middle state, so outward forms strengthened by us, we find our fortune as disordered as our mind. But that's excused by this, it doth its part, a treacherous world befits a treacherous heart. All ills our own, the outward storms we loathe receive from us their birth, their sting, or both. And that our vanity be pasted out, to his one new vanity to find it out. Happy are they to whom God gives a grave, and from themselves as from his wrath doth save. To his good not to be born, but if we must, the next good is soon to return to dust, when the uncaged soul fled to eternity shall rest and live and sing and love and see. Here we but crawl and grovel, play and cry, our first our own than others' enemy. But there shall be defaced both stain and score, for time and death and sin shall be no more. 73. The soul. How vain a thing is man, whose noblest part, that soul which through the world doth roam, traverses heaven, finds out the depth of art, yet is so ignorant at home. In every brook or mirror we can find reflections of our face to be, but a true optic to present our mind we hardly get and darkly see. Yet in the search after ourselves we run, actions and causes we survey, and when the weary chase is almost done, then from our quest we slip away. Tis strange and sad, that since we do believe we have a soul must never die, there are so few that can a reason give how it obtains that life or why. I wonder not to find those that know most profess so much their ignorance, since in their own soul's greatest wits are lost, and of themselves have scarce a glance. But some much sure doth hear obscurely lie, that above dross would feign advance, and pants and catches at eternity, as twere its own inheritance. A soul self-moved which can delay, contract, pierces and judges things unseen, but this gross heap of matter cannot act unless impulsed from within. Sin sent quantity to bodies due the state of souls cannot admit, and all the conteries with nature new meet there nor hurt themselves nor it. God never body made so bright and clean which good and evil could discern what these words honesty and honour mean, the soul alone knows how to learn. And though she is true she is imprisoned here, yet has she notions of her own, which sense doth only jog, awake and clear, but cannot at the first make known. The soul, her own felicity hath laid, and independent on the sense, sees the weak terrors which the world invade with pity or with negligence. So unconcerned she lives, so much above the rubbish of assorted jail, that nothing doth her energy improve so much as when those structures fail. She is then a substance subtle, strong and pure, so immaterial and refined as speaks her from the body's fate secure, and wholly of a different kind. Religion, for reward and vain with look, virtue were doomed to misery, all actions were like bubbles in a brook, worked not for immortality. But as that conqueror who millions spent thought it too mean to give a might, so the world's judge can never be content to bestow less than infinite. Trees in against eternal majesty must have eternal justice too, and since unbounded love does satisfy, he will unbounded mercy show. It is our narrow thoughts shorten these things, by their companion flesh inclined, which feeling is its own weakness gladly brings, the same opinion to the mind. We stifle our own sun, and live in shade. But where its beams do once appear they make that person of himself afraid, and to his own acts most severe. For ways to sin close, and our breast disguise from outward search we soon may find. But who can his own soul bribe or surprise, or sin without a sting behind? He that commands himself is more a prince than he who nations keep in awe, who yield to all that does their soul convince shall never need another law. 74. Happiness Nature courts happiness, although it be unknown as the Athenian deity. It dwells not in man's sense, yet he supplies that want by growing fond of its disguise. The false appearances of joy deceive, and seeking her unto her like we cleave. For sinking man hath scarce sense left to know whether the plank he grasps will hold or know. While all the business of the world is this, to seek that good which by mistake they miss, and all the several passions men express are but for pleasure in a different dress. They hope for happiness in being great, or rich or loved, then hug their own conceit. But the good man can find this treasure out, for which in vain others do dig and doubt, and hath such secret full content within, though all abroad be storms, yet he can sing. His peace is made, all's quiet in that place, where nature's cured and exercised by grace. This inward calm prevents his enemies, for he can neither envy nor despise, but in the beauty of his ordered mind doth still a new, rich satisfaction find. Innocent Epicure, whose single breast can furnish him with a continual feast, a prince at home and sceptres can refuse, valuing only what he cannot lose. He studies to do good. A man may be harmless for want of opportunity, but he is industrious kindness to dispense, and therein only covet's eminence. Others do court applause and fame, but he thinks all that giddy noise but vanity. He takes no pains to be observed or seen, while all his acts are echoed from within. He still himself, when company are gone, too well employed ever to be alone. For studying God in all his volumes, he begins the business of eternity, and unconcerned without retains the power to suck like bees a sweet from every flower. And as the manna of the Israelites had several tastes to please all appetites, so his contentment is that catholic food that makes all states seem fit as well as good. He dares not wish nor his own fate propound, but if God sends, reads love in every wound, and would not lose for all the joys of sense the glorious pleasures of obedience, his better part can neither change nor lose, and all God's will can bear, can do, can choose. DEATH How weak a star doth rule mankind, which owes its ruin to the same causes which nature had designed to cherish and preserve the frame. As common wealths may be secure, and no remote invasion dread, yet may a sadder fall endure from traitors in their bosom bread. So while we feel no violence, and on our active health do trust, a secret hand doth snatch us hence, and tumbles us into the dust. Yet carelessly we run our race, as if we could death's summons waive, and think not on the narrow space between a table and a grave. But since we cannot death reprieve, our souls and fame we ought to mind, for they our bodies will survive that goes beyond, this stays behind. If I be sure my soul is safe, and that my actions will provide my tomb a nobler epitaph, than that I only lived and died, so that in various accidents I conscience may and honour keep, I with that ease and innocence shall die as infants go to sleep. 76. To the Queen's Majesty, on her late sickness and recovery. The public gladness that's to us restored, for your escape from what we so deplored, will want as well resemblance as belief, unless our joy be measured by our grief, and in your fever we with terror saw at once our hopes and happiness withdraw, and every crisis did with jealous fear inquire the news we scarce durst stay to hear. Some dying princes have their servants slain, that after death they might not want to train. Such cruelty were here a needless sin, for had our fatal fears prophetic been, sorrow alone that service would have done, and you by nations had been waited on. Your danger was in every visage seen, and only yours was quiet and serene, but all our zealous grief had been in vain, had not great Charles's called you back again. Who did your sufferings with such pain discern, he lost three kingdoms once with less concern. Laboring your safety he neglected his, nor feared he death in any shape but this. His genius did the bold distemper tame, and his rich tears quenched the rebellious flame, as once the thration hero loved and grieved till he his lost felicity retrieved, and with the moving accents of his woe his spouse recovered from the shades below. So the king's grief your threatened loss withstood, who mourned with the same fortune than he would, and to his happy passion we have been now twice obliged for so adored a queen. But how severe a choice had you to make, when you must heaven delay or him for sake, yet since those joys you made such haste to find had scarce been full if he were left behind. How well did fate decide your inward strife by making him a present of your life, which rescued blessing he must long enjoy, since our offenses could it not destroy, for none but death durst rival him and you, and death himself was baffled in it too. Upon Mr. Abraham Cowley's retirement. Ode. No, no, unfaithful world, thou hast too long my easy heart betrayed, and me too long thy football made, but I am wiser grown at last, and will improve by all that I have passed. I note was just I should be practised on, for I was told before, and told in sober and instructive lore, how little all that trusted thee have won, and yet I would make haste to be undone. Now by my suffering I am better taught, and shall no more commit that stupid fault. Go, get some other fool whom thou maist next cajole, on me thy frowns thou dust in vain bestow, for I know how to be as coy and as reserved as thou. In my remote and humble seat now I am again possessed, of that late fugitive my breast, from all thy tummels and from all thy heat. I'll find a quiet and a cool retreat, and on the fetters I have worn look with experienced and revengeful scorn, in this my sovereign privacy. Tis true I cannot govern thee, but yet myself I may subdue, and that's the nobler empire of the two. If every passion had got leave its satisfaction to receive, yet I would it a higher pleasure call, to conquer one than to indulge them all. For thy inconstant sea no more I'll leave that safe and solid shore. No, though to prosper in the cheat, thou shouldst my destiny defeat, and make me be beloved or rich or great, nor from myself shouldst me reclaim, with all the noise and all the pomp of fame. Judiciously I'll thee despise, too small the bargain, and too great the price, for them to cousin twice. At length this secret I have learned, who will be happy, must be unconcerned, must all their comfort in their bosomware, and seek their treasure and their power there. No other wealth will I aspire, but that of nature to admire, nor envy on a laurel will bestow whilst I have any in my garden grow. And when I would be great, tis but ascending to a seat which nature and a lofty rock hath built, a throne as free from trouble as from guilt. Where, when my soul her wings does raise above what worldlings fear or praise, with innocence and quiet pride I'll sit, and see the humble waves pay tribute to my feet. Oh, life divine, when free from joy is diseased, not always merry, but is always pleased. A heart, which is too greater thing to be a present for a Persian king, which God himself would have to be his court, for angels would officiously resort, from its own height should much decline, if this converse it should resign, ill-natured world for thine. Thy unwise rigor hath thy empire lost, it hath not only set me free, but it hath made me see, they only can of thy possession boast, who do enjoy thee least, and understand thee most. For lo, the man whom all mankind admired, by every grace adorned, and every muse inspired, is now triumphantly retired, the mighty cowley this hath done, and over thee a Parthian conquest one, which future ages shall adore, and which in this subdues thee more, than either Greek or Roman ever could before. 78. The Irish Greyhound. Behold, this creature's form and state, which nature therefore did create, that to the world might be expressed what mean there can be in a beast, and that we in this shape may find a lion of another kind. For this heroic beast does seem in majesty to rival him, and yet vouchsafes to man to show both service and submission too. From whence we this distinction have, that beast is fierce, but this is brave. This dog hath so himself subdued, that hunger cannot make him rude, and his behaviour does confess true courage dwells with gentleness. With sternest wolves he dares engage, and acts on them successful rage. Yet too much courtesy may chance to put him out of countenance, when in his opposers blood fortune hath made his virtue good, this creature from an act so brave grows not more sullen, but more grave. Man's guard he would be, not his sport, believing he hath ventured for it, but yet no blood or shed or spent can ever make him insolent. Few men of him to do great things have learned, and when they are done, to be so unconcerned. 79. Song. To the tune of Some New Parr through Urre. How prodigious is my fate, since I can't determine clearly, whether you'll do more severely, giving me your love or hate? For if you with kindness bless me, since from you I soon must part, fortune will so dispossess me, that your love will break my heart. But since death all sorrow cures, might I choose my way of dying? I could wish the arrow flying from fortune's quiver, not from yours. For in the sad, unusual story, how my wretched heart was torn, it will more concern your glory, I by absence fell than scorn. 80. A dialogue betwixt Lucacia and Rosania, imitating that of gentle Thursus. Rosania. My Lucacia, leave the mountaintops, and like a nearer heir. Lucacia. How shall I then forsake my lovely flocks, bequeathed to my care? Rosania. Shepherdess, thy flocks will not be less, although thou shouldst come hither. Lucacia. But I fear the world will be severe, should I leave them to go thither. Rosania. Oh, my friend, if you on that depend, you'll never know content. Lucacia. Rather I near thee would live and die, would fortune but consent. Rosania. But did you ask leave to love me, too, that others should deprive me? Lucacia. Not all mankind a stratagem confined which from that heart should drive me. Rosania. Bettered had been I thee had never seen, than that content to lose. Lucacia. Such are thy charms, I dwell within thine arms, could I my station choose? Rosania. When life is done, the world to us is gone, and all our cares do end. Lucacia. Nay, I know there's nothing sweet below, unless it be a friend. Rosania. Then whilst we live, this joy let's take and give, since death a soon will sever. Lucacia. But I trust, when crumbled into dust, we shall meet, and love, for ever. End of Part 8. Part 9 OF THE MATCHLESS ORINDA This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. Poems. By the most deservedly admired Mrs. Catherine Phillips. The matchless orinda. Part 9. Poems 81-90. 81. Song. To the tune of Adieu, Phyllis. To his true our life is but a long disease, made up of real pain and seeming ease. You stars who these entangled fortunes give, O tell me why it is so hard to die, yet such a task to live? If with some pleasure we are grief's betray, it costs us dear than it can repay. For time or fortune all things so devours, our hopes are crossed, or else the object lost, ere we can call it ours. 82. An epitaph on my honoured mother-in-law, Mrs. Phillips of Porthanon, in Cardiganshire, who died January 1st, 1663. Reader, stay, it is but just. Thou dost not tread on common dust. For underneath the stone does lie one whose name can never die, who from an honoured lineage sprung, was to another match at young, whose happiness she ever sought, one blessing was, and many brought. And to her spouse her faith did prove by fifteen pledges of their love. But when by death of him deprived, an honourable widow lived, full four and twenty years, wherein, though she had much afflicted been, saw many of her children fall, and public ruin threaten all, yet from above assisted, she both did and suffered worthily. She to the crown and church adhered, and in their sorrows them revered, with piety which knew no strife, but was as sober as her life. A furnished table, open door, that for her friends, this for the poor, she kept, yet did her fortune find too narrow for her nobler mind, which seeking objects to relieve, did food to many orphans give, who in her life no want did know, but all the poor are orphans now. Yet hold, her fame is much too safe to need a written epitaph, her fame was so confessed that she can never hear forgotten be, till cardigan itself become to its own ruined heaps a tomb. Eighty-three. Lucacia, Rosania, and Orinda, parting at a fountain, July, sixteen-sixty-three. Here, here are our enjoyments done, and since the love and grief we wear forbids us either word or tear, and art wants hear expression, see nature furnish us with one. The kind and mournful nymph which here inhabits in her humble cells no longer her own sorrow tells, nor for it now concerned appears, but for our parting sheds these tears. Unless she may afflicted be lest we should doubt her innocence, since she hath lost her best pretense unto a matchless purity, our love being clearer far than she. Cold as the streams that from her flow, or if her private recess of greater coldness can express, then cold as those dark beds of snow our hearts are at this parting blow. But time, that has both wings and feet, our suffering minutes being spent, will visit us with new content, and sure if kindness be so sweet, it is harder to forget than meet. Then, though the sad adieu we say, yet as the wine we hither bring, revives and then exalts the spring, so let our hopes to meet allay the fears and sorrows of this day. Eighty-four. A farewell to Rosania. My dear Rosania, sometimes be so kind to think upon the friend thou leaves'd behind, and wish thee here to make thy joys complete, or else me there to share thy blessed retreat, but to the heart which for thy loss doth mourn, the kindest thought is that of quick return. Eighty-five. To my lady Anne Boyle, saying I looked angrily upon her. Adored Valeria, and can you conclude, Orinda lost in such ingratitude, and so misspell the language of my face, when in my heart you have so great a place? Ah, be assured I could no look direct to you not full of passion and respect. Or if my looks have played that treacherous part and so much misinterpreted my heart, I shall forgive them that one falsehood less than all their folly and their ugliness. And had much rather choose they should appear always unhandsome than once unsincere, but I must thank your error, which procures me such a bludging jealousy as yours, for at that quarrel I can nare a pine, which shows your kindness, though it questions mine. To your concern I pardon your distrust, and prize your love, even when it is unjust. Eighty-six. On the Welsh language. If honour to an ancient name be due, or riches challenge it for one that's new, the British language claims in either sense, both for its age, and for its opulence. But all great things must be from us removed, to be with higher reverence beloved. So landscapes, which in prospect's distant lie, with greater wonder draw the pleas at eye, is not great Troy to one dark ruin hurled, once the famed scene of all the fighting world, wears Athens now, to whom Rome learning owes, and the safe laurels that adorned her brows, a strange reverse of fate she did endure, never once greater than she's now obscure. Even Rome herself can but some footstep show, of Scipio's times, or those of Cicero, and as the Roman and the Grecian state the British fell the spoil of time and fate. But though the language hath the beauty lost, yet she has still some great remains to boast. For twas in that, the sacred bards of old, in deathless numbers did their thoughts unfold, in groves by rivers and on fertile plains, they civilized and taught the listening swains. Whilst with high raptures, and as great success, virtue they clothed in music's charming dress, this Merlin spoke, who in his gloomy cave, even destiny herself, seemed to enslave. For to his sight the future time was known much better than to others is their own, and with such state predictions from him fell, as if he did decree and not foretell. This, spoke King Arthur, who if fame be true, could have compelled mankind to speak it too. In this once Bodicea Valortot, and spoke more nobly than her soldiers fought, tell me what hero could be more than she, who fell at once for fame and liberty? Nor could a greater sacrifice belong, or to her children's, or her country's wrong. This, spoke Caractacus, who was so brave, that to the Roman fortune Shaq he gave, and when their yoke he could decline no more, he it so decently and nobly wore, that Rome herself with blushes did believe, a Britain would the law of honour give, and hastily his chains away she threw, lest her own captive else should her subdue. Eighty-seven. To the Countess of Thanet, upon her marriage. Since you who credit to all wonders bring, that lovers can believe, or poets sing, whose only shape and fashion does express, your virtue is your nature, not your dress, in whom the most admired extremes appear, humble and fair, prudent and yet sincere, whose matchless worth transmit such splendid rays, as those that envy it are forced to praise. Since you have found such an illustrious sphere, and are resolved to fix your glories there, a heart whose bravery to his sex secures, as much renown as you have done to yours, and whose perfections in obtaining you are both discovered and rewarded too, to her almost equal boldness to invent how to increase your merit or content, yet sure them uses somewhat have to say, but they will send it to you a better way. The court which so much to your lust arose, must also pay you its officious vows. But whilst this shows respect, and those there art, let me too speak the language of my heart, whose rudour offerings dare approach your shrine, for you who merits theirs can pardon mine, fortune and virtue, with such heat contend, as once for Rome, now to make you their friend. As you so well can this prefer to that, as you can neither fear nor mend your fate, yet since the votes of joy from all are due, a love like mine must find some wishes too. May you, in this bright constellation set, still show how much the good outshine the great. May you be courted with all joys of sense, yet place the highest in your innocence, whose praise may you enjoy, but not regard, finding within both motive and reward. May fortune still to your commands be just, yet still beneath your kindness or your trust. May you no trouble either feel or fear, but from your pity, for what others wear. And may the happy owner of your breast still find his passion with his joys increased, whilst every moment your concern makes known, and gives him too fresh reason for his own. And from their parents may your offspring have all that is wise and lovely, soft and brave, or if all wishes we in one would give, for him and for the world, long may you live. 88. Epitaph, on her son H.P., at St. Scythe's Church, where her body also lies interred. 88. What on earth deserves our trust? Youth and beauty both are dust. Long we gathering are with pain, what one moment calls again. Seven years' childless marriage passed, a son, a son is born at last, so exactly limbed and fair, full of good spirits, mean and air, as a long life promised, yet in less than six weeks dead. Too promising, too great a mind in so small room to be confined. Therefore, as fit in heaven to dwell, he quickly broke the prison-shell. So the subtle alchemist can't with Hermes' seal resist the powerful spirit's subtler flight, but will bid him long good night. And so the son, if it arise, half so glorious as his eyes, like this infant, takes a shroud, buried in a morning cloud. 89. On the death of my Lord Rich, only son to the Earl of Warwick, who died of smallpox, 1664. Have not so many lives of late sufficed to quench the greedy thirst of fate? Though to increase the mournful purple flood, as well as noble, she drank royal blood. That not content against us to engage our own wild fury and usurper's rage, by sickness now, when all that storm is past, she strives to hue our heroes down as fast. And by the prey she chooses, shows her aim is to extinguish all the English fame. Else had this generous youth we now have lost, beam still his friends delight and countries boast, and higher raise the illustrious name he bore than all our chronicles had done before. Had death considered ere he struck this blow, how many noble hopes would overthrow, the genius of his house, who did complain that all her worthies now died or again, his flourishing and yet untainted years, his father's anguish and his mother's tears, sure he had been persuaded to relent, nor had for so much early sweetness sent that fierce disease which knows not how to spare the young, the great, the knowing, or the fair. But we as well might flatter every wind, and court the tempest to be less unkind, as hope from churlish death to snatch his prey, who is as furious and as deaf as they, and who hath cruelly surprised in him his parents joy and all the world's esteem. Say treacherous hopes that whisper in our ear, still to expect some steady comfort here, and though we often discover all your arts would still betray our disappointed hearts, what new delusion can you now prepare since this pale object shows how false you are? To a fully answer all that you have to plead, if we reply, great warwick's air is dead, blush, human hopes and joys, and then be all in solemn mourning at this funeral, for since such expectations brittle prove, what can we safely either hope or love? 90. The Virgin The things that make a virgin please, she that seeks will find them these, a beauty not to art in debt, rather agreeable than great, an eye wherein at once to meet the beams of kindness and of wit, an undissembled innocence, apt not to give nor take offence, a conversation at once free from passion and from subtlety, a face that's modest, yet serene, a sober and yet lively mean, the virtue which does her adorn by honour guarded, not by scorn, with such wise lowliness endued as never can be mean or rude, that prudent negligence enrich, and times her silence and her speech, whose equal mind does always move, neither a foe nor slave to love, and whose religion strong and plain, not superstitious nor profane. 10. The Matchless Orinda This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Elizabeth Klett. Poems, by the most deservedly admired Mrs. Catherine Phillips, The Matchless Orinda. Part 10. Poems 91 to 104 91. Upon the graving of her name, upon a tree in Barnelm's walks. 92. Alas! how barbarous are we thus to reward the courteous tree, who its broad shade affording us deserves not to be wounded thus! See how the yielding bark complies with our ungrateful injuries, and seeing this, say how much then trees are more generous than men, who by a nobleness so pure can first oblige and then endure. 92. To my dearest friend Mrs. A. Owen, upon her greatest lost. As when two sister rivulets, who crept from that dark bed of snow wherein they slept, by private distant currents underground, have by meanders either's bosom found, they sob aloud, and break down what withstood, swollen by their own embraces to a flood. So when my sympathy for thy dear grief had brought me near, in hope to give relief, I found my sorrow heightened when so joined, and thine increased by being so combined. Since to the bleeding hopes of many years I could contribute nothing but my tears. Fears which to thy sad fate were justly due, and to his loss by all who that loss knew. For thy choristus was so much above, the eloquence of all our grief and love, that it would be injurious to his hearse to think to crowd his worth into a verse. Could I by miracles such praise indict, who with more ease and justice weep than write? He was all that which history can boast, or bolder poetry had air engrossed. So pious, just, noble, discreet, and kind, their best ideas know not how to find. His strong religion not on trifles spent, was useful, firm, early, and eminent, never betrayed to indigested heat, nor yet enticed from what was safely great. And this so soon, as if he had foresight, he must begin be times whose noon is night. His virtue was his choice, and not his chance, not moved by age nor born of ignorance. He well knew whom and what he did believe, and for his faith did not dispute but live, and lived just like his infant innocence, but that was crowned with free obedience. How did he scorn design, and equally how much abhor this age's vanity? He neither liked its tumult nor its joys, slighted alike earth's pleasures and her noise. But unconcerned in both, in his own mind, alone could power and satisfaction find. A treasury of merit there lay hid, which though he nare confessed, his actions did. His modesty unto his virtue lent at once a shadow and an ornament. But what could hide those filial rites he paid? How much he loved, how prudently obeyed? How, as a brother, did he justly share his kind concern betwixt respect and care? And to a wife, how fully did he prove, how wisely he could judge, how fondly love? As husband's serious, but as lover's kind, he valued all of her, but loved her mind. And with a passion made this riddle true, it was ever perfect, and yet still it grew. Such handsome thoughts his breast did ever fill, he durst do anything but what was ill. Unlike those gallants who so use their time as opportunity to act their crime, and lost in wine or vanity when young, they die too soon because they lived too long. But he has hallowed so his early death, to his almost shame to draw a longer breath. I can no more. They that can must have learned to be more eloquent and less concerned. But all that noble justice to his name, his own good angel, will commit to fame. Could grief recall this happiness again? Of thy dear sorrow I would nare complain. But such an opportunity would take to grieve and useless life out for thy sake. But since it cannot, I must pray thee, live, that so much of touristus must survive, and that thou do not act so harsh to love, as that his glory should thy sorrow move. Endure thy loss till heaven shall it repay, upon thy last and glorious wedding-day, when thou shalt know him more, and quickly find the love increased by being so refined, and there possess him without parting fears, as I my friendship free from future tears. 93. Orinda to Lucacia, parting, October 1661, at London. Adieu, dear object of my love's excess, and with thee all my hopes of happiness, with the same fervent and unchanged heart which did its whole self once to thee impart, and which, though fortune has so sorely bruised, would suffer more to be from this excused, I too resign thy dear converse submit, since I can neither keep nor merit it. Thou hast too long to me confine it being, who ruin am without passion within. My mind is sunk below thy tenderness, and my condition does deserve it less. I am so entangled, and so lost a thing, by all the shocks my daily sorrows bring, that what's thou for thy old orinda call, thou hardly couldst unravel her at all. And should I thy clear fortunes interline with the incessant miseries of mine? No, no, I never loved at such a rate, to tie thee to the rigors of my fate. As from my obligations thou art free, sure thou shalt be so from my injury. Though every other worthiness I miss, yet all at least be generous in this. I'd rather perish without sigh or groan, than thou shouldst be condemned to give me one. Nay, in my soul I'd rather could allow friendship should be a sufferer than thou. Go, then, since my sad heart has set thee free, let all the loads and chains remain on me. Though I be left the prey of sea and wind, thou, being happy, wilt in that be kind. Nor shall I my undoing much deplore, since thou art safe whom I must value more. Oh, mayest thou ever be so, and as free from all ills else as from my company, and may the torments thou hast had from it be all that heaven will to thy life permit, and that they may thy virtue service do, mayest thou be able to forgive them too. But though I must this sharp submission learn, I cannot yet unwish thy dear concern. Not one new comfort I expect to see, I quit my joy, hope, life, and all but thee. Nor seek I then sought that may discompose that mind where so serene a goodness grows. I ask no inconvenient kindness now, to move thy passion or to cloud thy brow, and thou wilt satisfy my boldest plea by some few soft remembrances of me, which may present thee with this candid thought, I meant not all the troubles that I brought. Own not what passion rules, and fate does crush, but wish thou couldst have done't without a blush, and that I had been ere it was too late, either more worthy or more fortunate. Ah, who can love the thing they cannot prize? But thou mayst pity, though thou dost despise. Yet I should think that pity bought too dear if it should cost those precious eyes a tear. Oh, may no minutes trouble thee possess, but to endear the next hour's happiness, and mayst thou, when thou art from me removed, be better pleased, but never worse beloved. Oh, pardon me, for pouring out my woes in rhyme now, that I dare not do it in prose, for I must lose whatever is called dear, and thy assistance all that lost bear, and have more cause than ere I had before, to fear that I shall never see thee more. Ninety-four. On the first of January, sixteen-fifty-seven. Eternal centre of my life and me, who when I was not gave me room to be, hath since, my time preserving in his hands, by moments numbered out the precious sands, yet it is swelled to six and twenty years, checkered by providence with smiles and tears. I have observed how vain all glories are, the change of empire and the chance of war, seen faction with its native venom burst, and treason struck by what itself had nursed, seen useless crimes whose owners but made way for future candidates to wear the bay. Ninety-five. To my Lady M. Cavendish, choosing the name of Polychrite. That nature in your frame has taken care, as well your birth as beauty do declare, since we at once discover in your face the luster of your eyes and of your race, and that your shape and fashion does attest so bright a form has yet a brighter guest. To future times authentic fame shall bring, historian shall relate, and poets sing. But since your boundless mind upon my head some rays of splendor is content to shed, and lest I suffer by the great surprise since you submit to meet me in disguise, can lay aside what dazzles vulgar sight, and two orinda can be Polychrite. You must endure my vows and find the way to entertain such rites as I can pay, for so the power divine new praise acquires by scorning nothing that it once inspires. I have no merit that your smile can win, nor offering to appease you when I sin, nor can my useless homage hope to raise when what I cannot serve I strive to praise. But I can love, and love at such a pitch, as I dare boast it will even you enrich, for kindness is a mine when great and true of nobler ore than ever Indians knew, tis all that mortals can on heaven bestow, and all that heaven can value here below. 96. Against Love Hence, cupid, with your cheating toys, your real griefs and painted joys, your pleasure which itself destroys, lovers like men in fevers burn and rave, and only what will injure them do crave. Men's weakness makes love so severe that they give him power by their fear, and make the shackles which they wear, who to another does his heart submit, wakes his own idol, and then worships it. Him whose heart is all his own, peace and liberty does crown, he apprehends no killing frown, he feels no raptures which are joys diseased, and is not much transported, but still pleased. 97. A Dialogue of Friendship Multiplied 98. Musodorus Will you unto one single sense confine a starry influence, or when you do the rays combined to themselves only make them shine? Love that's engrossed by one alone is envy, not affection. Orinda. No, Musodorus, this would be but friendship's prodigality. Union and rays does not confine but doubles lustre when they shine, and souls united live above, envy as much as scattered love. Friendship, like rivers, as it multiplies in many streams, grows weaker still, and dies. Musodorus. Rivers indeed may lose their force when they divide or break their course. For they may want some hidden spring which to their streams recruits may bring. But friendship's made of purest fire, which burns and keeps its stock entire. Love, like the sun, may shed his beams on all and grow more great by being general. Orinda. The purity of friendship's flame proves that from sympathy it came, and that the heart so close to knit they know third partner can admit. Love, like the sun, does all inspire, but burns most by contracted fire. Then though I honour every worthy guest, yet my Lucacia only rules my breast. 98. Rosania to Lucacia on her letters. Ah, strike outright or else forbear, be more kind or more severe, for in this checkered mixture I cannot live and would not die, and must I neither? Tell me why? When thy pen, thy kindness, tells my heart transported leaps and swells, but when my greedy eye does stray thy threatened absence to survey, that heart is struck and faints away. To give me title to rich land and the fruition to withstand, or solemnly to send the key of treasures I must never see, would it contempt or bounty be? This is such refined distress, that thy sad lovers sigh for less. Though thou their hopes hast overthrown, they lose but what they nare have known, but I am plundered from my own. How canst thou thy Rosania prize, and be so cruel and so wise? For if such rigid policy must thy resolves dispute with me, where then is friendship's victory? Kindness is of so brave a make, twill rather death than bondage take, so that if thine no power can have, give it and me one common grave, but quickly either kill or save. 99. To my Antonor, March 16, 1661. My dear Antonor, now give ore, for my sake talk of graves no more. Death is not in your power to gain, and is both wished and feared in vain. Let's be as angry as we will, grief sooner may distract than kill, and the unhappy often proved death is as coy a thing as love. Those whose own sword their death did give, afraid were, or ashamed to live, and by an act so desperate did poorly run away from fate. Tis braver muched how to ride the storm, endure its rage, and shun his harm, affliction nobly undergone more greatness shows than having none. But yet the wheel in turning round at last may lift us from the ground, and when our fortunes most severe, the less we have, the less we fear. And why should we that grief permit which can nor mend nor shorten it? Let's wait for a succeeding good. Woes have their ebb as well as flood, and since the Parliament have rescued you, believe that Providence will do so too. 100. A Triton to Lucacia going to sea shortly after the Queen's arrival. My master Neptune took such pains of late to quiet the commotions of his state, that he might give, through his fierce winds and seas, safe passage to the royal Portuguese, that he ne'er since at home has kept, and in his crystal palace slept, till a swift wind told him to-day a stranger was to pass this way, whom he hath sent me out to view, and I must tell him, madame, it is you. He knows you by an honourable fame. Who hath not heard Lucacia's worthy name? But should he see you too, I doubt he will grow amorous, and here detain you still. I know his humour very well. So best can the event foretell, but wishing you better success, and that my master's guilt be less, I will say nothing of your form, till you are past the danger of a storm. Fear nothing else, for eyes so sweet as these, no power that his seaborn can displease. You are much more than nim for goddess bright. I saw them all at supper till the night. They with far less attraction draw. They give us love. You give us law. Your charms the winds and seas will move, but is no wonder not to love. Your only danger is, lest they stiff with amazement, should be calm your way. But should they all want breath to make a gale, what sent in prayers for you will fill your sail? What brought you hither will your way secure? Courage and kindness can no slip endure. The winds will do as much for you. Yet since our birth the English ocean boasts, we hope sometimes to see you on these coasts, and we will order for you as you pass. Winds soft as lover's vows, waves smooth as glass. Each deity shall you befriend, and all the scenims shall attend. But if because a ship's too straight, or else unworthy such a freight, a coach more useful would appear, that and six Danish steeds you know are here. 101. Orynda upon little Hector Phillips Twice forty months of wedlock I did stay, then had my vows crowned with a lovely boy, and yet in forty days he dropped away, o swift vicissitude of human joy. I did but see him, and he disappeared. I did but pluck the rosebud, and it fell. A sorrow unforeseen and scarcely feared, for ill can mortals their afflictions spell. And now, sweet babe, what can my trembling heart suggest to write my doleful fate or thee? Tears are my muse, and sorrow all my art. So piercing groans must be thy elegy. Thus whilst no eye is witness of my moan, I grieve thy loss. Ah, boy, too dear to live, and let the unconcerned world alone, who neither will nor can refreshment give. An offering, too, for thy sad tomb I have, to just a tribute to thy early hearse, receive these grasping numbers to thy grave, the last of thy unhappy mother's verse. 102. To the Lady E. Boyle Ah, lovely Salamena, why are you so full of charms, that neither sex can from them fly, nor take against them arms? Others in time may gain a part, but you at once snatch all the heart. Dear Tyrant, why will you subdue Arunda's trivial heart, which can no triumph add to you not meriting your dart? And sure you will not grant it one, if not for my sake, for your own. For it has been by tenderness already so much bruised, that at your altars I may guess it will but be refused. For never deity did prize a torn and maimed sacrifice. But, oh, what madness can or dare dispute this noble chain, which it is a greater thing to wear than empires to obtain? To be your slave, I more design, than to have all the world be mine. Those glorious fetters will create a merit fit for them, repair the breeches made by fate, and whom they own redeem. What thus ennobles and thus cures can be no influence but yours. Pardon the ambition of my aim, who love you at that rate, that story cannot boast a flame so lasting and so great. I can be only kind and true, but what else can be worthy you? 103 To my lord Duke of Ormond, upon the late plot. Though you, great sir, be heaven's immediate care, who showed you danger and then broke the snare, and our first gratitude to that be due, yet there is much that must be paid to you. For it is your prudence, Ireland's peace secures, gives her her safety, and what's dear, yours, whilst your prevailing genius does dispense at once its conduct and its influence. Less honour from a battle one is got, than to repel so dangerous a plot. Fortune with courage may play booty there, but single virtue is triumphant here. In vain the bold, ungrateful rebels aim to overturn when you support the same. You who three potent kingdoms late have seen tremble with fury, and yet steadfast bean. Who, an afflicted majesty could wait, when it was seemingly forsook by fate, whose settled loyalty no storms dismayed, nor the more flattering mischiefs could dissuade? And having escaped so dangerous a coast, could you now fall, expiring treason's boast? Or was it hoped by this contemptant crew that you could fortune, and not them, subdue? But whilst these wretches at this impious rate will buy the knowledge of your mighty fate, you shall preserve your king's entrusted crown, assisted by his fortune and your own. And whilst his sword kingdoms abroad bestows, you with the next renown shall this dispose. 104. To the Countess of Roscommon with a copy of Pompey. Great Pompey's fame from Egypt made escape, and flies to you for succour in this shape, a shape which I assured him would appear nor fit for you to see nor him to wear. Yet, he says, madam, he's resolved to come, and run a hazard of a second doom. But still he hopes to bribe you by that trust you may be kind, but cannot be unjust. Each of whose favours will delight him more than all the laurels that his temples wore. Yet if his name and his misfortunes fail, he thinks my intercession will prevail. And whilst my numbers would relate his end, not like a judge you'll listen, but a friend. For how can either of us fear your frown, since he and I are both so much your own? But when you wonder at my bold design, remember who did that high task in join, the illustrious Ori, whose least command you would more wonder if I could withstand. Of him I cannot, which is hardest to tell, or not to praise him or to praise him well, who on that height from whence true glory came, does there possess and thence distribute fame. Where all their liars the willing muses bring, to learn of him whatever they shall sing, since all must yield whilst there are books or men, the universal empire to his pen. Oh, had that powerful genius but inspired the feeble hand whose service he required, it had your justice then, not mercy prayed, had pleased you more, and better him obeyed.