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The Triumphs Of Philamore And Amoret. To The Noblest Of Our
Youth And Best Of Friends, Charles Cotton, Esquire. Being At
Berisford, At His House In Straffordshire. From London. A Poem
by Richard Lovelace |
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Sir, your sad
absence I complain, as earth
Her long-hid spring,
that gave her verdures birth,
Who now her cheerful
aromatick head
Shrinks in her cold and dismal widow'd
bed;
Whilst the false sun her lover doth him move
Below, and to th' antipodes make love.
What fate
was mine, when in mine obscure cave
(Shut up almost
close prisoner in a grave)
Your beams could reach me
through this vault of night,
And canton the dark
dungeon with light!
Whence me (as gen'rous Spahys)
you unbound,
Whilst I now know my self both free and
crown'd.
But as at Meccha's tombe, the devout
blind
Pilgrim (great husband of his sight and mind)
Pays to no other object this chast prise,
Then with
hot earth anoynts out both his eyes:
So having seen
your dazling glories store,
It is enough, and sin for
to see more.
Or, do you thus those pretious rayes
withdraw
To whet my dull beams, keep my bold in aw?
Or, are you gentle and compassionate,
You will not
reach me Regulus his fate?
Brave prince! who, eagle-ey'd
of eagle kind,
Wert blindly damn'd to look thine own
self blind!
But oh, return those fires, too
cruel-nice!
For whilst you fear me cindars, see, I'm
ice!
A nummed speaking clod and mine own show,
My
self congeal'd, a man cut out in snow:
Return those
living fires. Thou, who that vast
Double advantage
from one-ey'd Heav'n hast,
Look with one sun, though
't but obliquely be,
And if not shine, vouchsafe to
wink on me.
Perceive you not a gentle, gliding
heat,
And quick'ning warmth, that makes the statua
sweat;
As rev'rend Ducaleon's black-flung stone,
Whose rough outside softens to skin, anon
Each crusty
vein with wet red is suppli'd,
Whilst nought of stone
but in its heart doth 'bide.
So from the rugged
north, where your soft stay
Hath stampt them a
meridian and kind day;
Where now each A LA MODE
inhabitant
Himself and 's manners both do pay you
rent,
And 'bout your house (your pallace) doth
resort,
And 'spite of fate and war creates a court.
So from the taught north, when you shall return,
To glad those looks that ever since did mourn,
When
men uncloathed of themselves you'l see,
Then start
new made, fit, what they ought to be;
Hast! hast!
you, that your eyes on rare sights feed:
For thus the
golden triumph is decreed.
The twice-born god,
still gay and ever young,
With ivie crown'd, first
leads the glorious throng:
He Ariadne's starry
coronet
Designs for th' brighter beams of Amoret;
Then doth he broach his throne, and singing quaff
Unto her health his pipe of god-head off.
Him
follow the recanting, vexing Nine
Who, wise, now sing
thy lasting fame in wine;
Whilst Phoebus, not from th'
east, your feast t' adorn,
But from th' inspir'd
Canaries, rose this morn.
Now you are come, winds
in their caverns sit,
And nothing breaths, but new-inlarged
wit.
Hark! One proclaims it piacle to be sad,
And
th' people call 't religion to be mad.
But now,
as at a coronation,
When noyse, the guard, and
trumpets are oreblown,
The silent commons mark their
princes way,
And with still reverence both look and
pray;
So they amaz'd expecting do adore,
And count
the rest but pageantry before.
Behold! an hoast
of virgins, pure as th' air
In her first face, ere
mists durst vayl her hair:
Their snowy vests, white
as their whiter skin,
Or their far chaster whiter
thoughts within:
Roses they breath'd and strew'd, as
if the fine
Heaven did to earth his wreath of swets
resign;
They sang aloud: "THRICE, OH THRICE HAPPY,
THEY
THAT CAN, LIKE THESE, IN LOVE BOTH YIELD AND
SWAY."
Next herald Fame (a purple clowd her
bears),
In an imbroider'd coat of eyes and ears,
Proclaims the triumph, and these lovers glory,
Then
in a book of steel records the story.
And now a
youth of more than god-like form
Did th' inward minds
of the dumb throng alarm;
All nak'd, each part
betray'd unto the eye,
Chastly: for neither sex ow'd
he or she.
And this was heav'nly love. By his bright
hand,
A boy of worse than earthly stuff did stand;
His bow broke, his fires out, and his wings clipt,
And the black slave from all his false flames stript;
Whose eyes were new-restor'd but to confesse
This
day's bright blisse, and his own wretchednesse;
Who,
swell'd with envy, bursting with disdain,
Did cry to
cry, and weep them out again.
And now what heav'n
must I invade, what sphere
Rifle of all her stars, t'
inthrone her there?
No! Phoebus, by thy boys fate we
beware
Th' unruly flames o'th' firebrand, thy carr;
Although, she there once plac'd, thou, Sun, shouldst see
Thy day both nobler governed and thee.
Drive on,
Bootes, thy cold heavy wayn,
Then grease thy wheels
with amber in the main,
And Neptune, thou to thy
false Thetis gallop,
Appollo's set within thy bed of
scallop:
Whilst Amoret, on the reconciled winds
Mounted, and drawn by six caelestial minds,
She armed
was with innocence and fire,
That did not burn; for
it was chast desire;
Whilst a new light doth gild the
standers by.
Behold! it was a day shot from her eye;
Chafing perfumes oth' East did throng and sweat,
But
by her breath they melting back were beat.
A crown of
yet-nere-lighted stars she wore,
In her soft hand a
bleeding heart she bore,
And round her lay of broken
millions more;
Then a wing'd crier thrice aloud did
call:
LET FAME PROCLAIM THIS ONE GREAT PRISE FOR ALL.
By her a lady that might be call'd fair,
And
justly, but that Amoret was there,
Was pris'ner led;
th' unvalewed robe she wore
Made infinite lay lovers
to adore,
Who vainly tempt her rescue (madly bold)
Chained in sixteen thousand links of gold;
Chrysetta
thus (loaden with treasures) slave
Did strow the pass
with pearls, and her way pave.
But loe! the
glorious cause of all this high
True heav'nly state,
brave Philamore, draws nigh,
Who, not himself, more
seems himself to be,
And with a sacred extasie doth
see!
Fix'd and unmov'd on 's pillars he doth stay,
And joy transforms him his own statua;
Nor hath he
pow'r to breath [n]or strength to greet
The gentle
offers of his Amoret,
Who now amaz'd at 's noble
breast doth knock,
And with a kiss his gen'rous heart
unlock;
Whilst she and the whole pomp doth enter
there,
Whence her nor Time nor Fate shall ever tear.
But whether am I hurl'd? ho! back! awake
From thy
glad trance: to thine old sorrow take!
Thus, after
view of all the Indies store,
The slave returns unto
his chain and oar;
Thus poets, who all night in blest
heav'ns dwell,
Are call'd next morn to their true
living hell;
So I unthrifty, to myself untrue,
Rise cloath'd with real wants, 'cause wanting you,
And what substantial riches I possesse,
I must to
these unvalued dreams confesse.
But all our
clowds shall be oreblown, when thee
In our horizon
bright once more we see;
When thy dear presence shall
our souls new-dress,
And spring an universal
cheerfulnesse;
When we shall be orewhelm'd in joy,
like they
That change their night for a vast
half-year's day.
Then shall the wretched few,
that do repine,
See and recant their blasphemies in
wine;
Then shall they grieve, that thought I've sung
too free,
High and aloud of thy true worth and thee,
And their fowl heresies and lips submit
To th'
all-forgiving breath of Amoret;
And me alone their
angers object call,
That from my height so miserably
did fall;
And crie out my invention thin and poor,
Who have said nought, since I could say no more.
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