Poetical Works of Edmund Waller and Sir John Denham. Edmund Waller

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       No cloud in so serene a mansion find,

       To overcast her ever-shining mind,

      Which holds resemblance with those spotless skies,

       Where flowing Nilus want of rain supplies;

       That crystal heaven, where Phoebus never shrouds

       His golden beams, nor wraps his face in clouds.

       But what so hard which numbers cannot force?

       So stoops the moon, and rivers change their course. 30

      The bold Mæonian[1] made me dare to steep

       Jove's dreadful temples in the dew of sleep;

       And since the Muses do invoke my power,

       I shall no more decline that sacred bower

       Where Gloriana their great mistress lies;

       But, gently taming those victorious eyes,

      Charm all her senses, till the joyful sun

       Without a rival half his course has run;

       Who, while my hand that fairer light confines,

       May boast himself the brightest thing that shines. 40

      [1] 'Mæonian': Homer.

PUERPERIUM.[1]

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      1 You gods that have the power

       To trouble and compose

       All that's beneath your bower,

       Calm silence on the seas, on earth impose.

      2 Fair Venus! in thy soft arms

       The God of Rage confine;

       For thy whispers are the charms

       Which only can divert his fierce design.

      3 What though he frown, and to tumult do incline?

       Thou the flame

       Kindled in his breast canst tame,

       With that snow which unmelted lies on thine.

      4 Great goddess! give this thy sacred island rest;

       Make heaven smile,

       That no storm disturb us while

       Thy chief care, our halcyon, builds her nest.

      5 Great Gloriana! fair Gloriana!

       Bright as high heaven is, and fertile as earth,

       Whose beauty relieves us,

       Whose royal bed gives us

       Both glory and peace,

       Our present joy, and all our hopes' increase.

      [1] 'Puerperium ': Fenton conjectures that this poem was written in 1640, when the Queen was delivered of her fourth son, the Duke of Gloucester.

A LA MALADE.

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      Ah, lovely Amoret! the care

       Of all that know what's good or fair!

       Is heaven become our rival too?

       Had the rich gifts conferr'd on you

       So amply thence, the common end

       Of giving lovers—to pretend?

       Hence, to this pining sickness (meant

       To weary thee to a consent

       Of leaving us) no power is given 9

       Thy beauties to impair; for heaven

       Solicits thee with such a care,

       As roses from their stalks we tear,

       When we would still preserve them new

       And fresh, as on the bush they grew.

      With such a grace you entertain,

       And look with such contempt on pain,

       That languishing you conquer more,

       And wound us deeper than before.

       So lightnings which in storms appear,

       Scorch more than when the skies are clear. 20

      And as pale sickness does invade

       Your frailer part, the breaches made

       In that fair lodging, still more clear

       Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.

       So nymphs o'er pathless mountains borne,

       Their light robes by the brambles torn

       From their fair limbs, exposing new

       And unknown beauties to the view

       Of following gods, increase their flame

       And haste to catch the flying game. 30

UPON THE DEATH OF MY LADY RICH.[1]

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      May those already cursed Essexian plains,

       Where hasty death and pining sickness reigns,

       Prove all a desert! and none there make stay,

       But savage beasts, or men as wild as they!

       There the fair light which all our island graced,

       Like Hero's taper in the window placed,

       Such fate from the malignant air did find, 7

       As that exposed to the boist'rous wind.

      Ah, cruel Heaven! to snatch so soon away

       Her for whose life, had we had time to pray,

       With thousand vows and tears we should have sought

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