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

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СКАЧАТЬ Heard, till 'twas sin to wish her here again.

       That horrid word, at once, like lightning spread,

       Struck all our ears—The Lady Rich is dead!

       Heart-rending news! and dreadful to those few

       Who her resemble, and her steps pursue;

       That death should license have to rage among

       The fair, the wise, the virtuous, and the young! 20

      The Paphian queen from that fierce battle borne,

       With gored hand, and veil so rudely torn,

       Like terror did among th'immortals breed,

       Taught by her wound that goddesses may bleed.

      All stand amazed! but beyond the rest

       th'heroic dame whose happy womb she bless'd,[2]

       Moved with just grief, expostulates with Heaven,

       Urging the promise to th'obsequious given,

       Of longer life; for ne'er was pious soul

       More apt t'obey, more worthy to control. 30

       A skilful eye at once might read the race

       Of Caledonian monarchs in her face,

       And sweet humility; her look and mind

       At once were lofty, and at once were kind.

       There dwelt the scorn of vice, and pity too,

       For those that did what she disdain'd to do;

       So gentle and severe, that what was bad,

       At once her hatred and her pardon had.

      Gracious to all; but where her love was due, 39

       So fast, so faithful, loyal, and so true,

       That a bold hand as soon might hope to force

       The rolling lights of heaven, as change her course.

      Some happy angel, that beholds her there,

       Instruct us to record what she was here!

       And when this cloud of sorrow's overblown,

       Through the wide world we'll make her graces known.

       So fresh the wound is, and the grief so vast,

       That all our art and power of speech is waste.

       Here passion sways, but there the Muse shall raise

       Eternal monuments of louder praise. 50

      There our delight, complying with her fame,

       Shall have occasion to recite thy name,

       Fair Saccharissa!—and now only fair!

       To sacred friendship we'll an altar rear

       (Such as the Romans did erect of old),

       Where, on a marble pillar, shall be told

       The lovely passion each to other bare,

       With the resemblance of that matchless pair.

       Narcissus to the thing for which he pined

       Was not more like than yours to her fair mind, 60

       Save that she graced the several parts of life,

       A spotless virgin, and a faultless wife.

       Such was the sweet converse 'twixt her and you,

       As that she holds with her associates now.

      How false is hope, and how regardless fate,

       That such a love should have so short a date!

       Lately I saw her, sighing, part from thee;

       (Alas that that the last farewell should be!)

       So looked Astræa, her remove design'd,

       On those distressed friends she left behind. 70

       Consent in virtue knit your hearts so fast,

       That still the knot, in spite of death, does last;

       For as your tears, and sorrow-wounded soul,

       Prove well that on your part this bond is whole,

       So all we know of what they do above,

       Is that they happy are, and that they love.

       Let dark oblivion, and the hollow grave,

       Content themselves our frailer thoughts to have;

       Well-chosen love is never taught to die,

       But with our nobler part invades the sky. 80

       Then grieve no more that one so heavenly shaped

       The crooked hand of trembling age escaped;

       Rather, since we beheld her not decay,

       But that she vanish'd so entire away,

       Her wondrous beauty, and her goodness, merit

       We should suppose that some propitious spirit

       In that celestial form frequented here,

       And is not dead, but ceases to appear.

      [1] 'Lady Rich': she was the daughter of the Earl of Devonshire, and

       married to the heir of the Earl of Warwick.

       [2] 'Womb she blessed': the Countess of Devonshire, a very old woman,

       the only daughter of Lord Bruce, descended from Robert the Bruce.

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