The Stand

And such a force the fair example had, As they that saw The good, and durst not practise it, were glad That such a law Was left yet to mankind; Where they might read and find Friendship, indeed, was written not in words; And with the heart, not pen, Of two so early men, Whose lines her rolls were, and records; Who, ere the first down bloomed upon the chin, Had sowed these fruits, and got the harvest in.

PRÆLUDIUM.

AND must I sing? What subject shall I choose! Or whose great name in poets’ heaven use, For the more countenance to my active muse?

Hercules? alas, his bones are yet sore With his old earthly labours t’ exact more Of his dull godhead were sin. I’ll implore

Phœbus. No, tend thy cart still. Envious day Shall not give out that I have made thee stay, And foundered thy hot team, to tune my lay.

Nor will I beg of thee, lord of the vine, To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine, In the green circle of thy ivy twine.

Pallas, nor thee I call on, mankind maid, That at thy birth mad’st the poor smith afraid. Who with his axe thy father’s midwife played.

Go, cramp dull Mars, light Venus, when he snorts, Or with thy tribade trine invent new sports; Thou, nor thy looseness with my making sorts.

Let the old boy, your son, ply his old task, Turn the stale prologue to some painted mask; His absence in my verse is all I ask.

Hermes, the cheater, shall not mix with us, Though he would steal his sisters’ Pegasus, And rifle him; or pawn his petasus.

Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake, Though they were crushed into one form, could make A beauty of that merit, that should take

My muse up by commission; no, I bring My own true fire: now my thought takes wing, And now an epode to deep ears I sing.

EPODE.

NOT to know vice at all, and keep true state, Is virtue and not fate: Next to that virtue, is to know vice well, And her black spite expel. Which to effect (since no breast is so sure, Or safe, but she’ll procure Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard Of thoughts to watch and ward At th’ eye and ear, the ports unto the mind, That no strange, or unkind Object arrive there, but the heart, our spy, Give knowledge instantly To wakeful reason, our affections’ king: Who, in th’ examining, Will quickly taste the treason, and commit Close, the close cause of it. ’Tis the securest policy we have, To make our sense our slave. But this true course is not embraced by many: By many! scarce by any. For either our affections do rebel, Or else the sentinel, That should ring ’larum to the heart, doth sleep: Or some great thought doth keep Back the intelligence, and falsely swears They’re base and idle fears Whereof the loyal conscience so complains. Thus, by these subtle trains, Do several passions invade the mind, And strike our reason blind: Of which usurping rank, some have thought love The first: as prone to move Most frequent tumults, horrors, and unrests, In our inflamèd breasts: But this doth from the cloud of error grow, Which thus we over-blow. The thing they here call love is blind desire, Armed with bow, shafts, and fire; Inconstant, like the sea, of whence ’tis born, Rough, swelling, like a storm; With whom who sails, rides on the surge of fear, And boils as if he were In a continual tempest. Now, true love No such effects doth prove; That is an essence far more gentle, fine, Pure, perfect, nay, divine; It is a golden chain let down from heaven, Whose links are bright and even; That falls like sleep on lovers, and combines The soft and sweetest minds In equal knots: this bears no brands, nor darts, To murder different hearts, But, in a calm and god-like unity, Preserves community. O, who is he that, in this peace, enjoys Th’ elixir of all joys? A form more fresh than are the Eden bowers, And lasting as her flowers; Richer than Time and, as Times’s virtue, rare; Sober as saddest care; A fixèd thought, an eye untaught to glance; Who, blest with such high chance, Would, at suggestion of a steep desire, Cast himself from the spire Of all his happiness? But soft: I hear Some vicious fool draw near, That cries, we dream, and swears there’s no such thing, As this chaste love we sing. Peace, Luxury! thou art like one of those Who, being at sea, suppose, Because they move, the continent doth so: No, Vice, we let thee know Though thy wild thoughts with sparrows’ wings do fly, Turtles can chastely die; And yet (in this t’ express ourselves more clear) We do not number here Such spirits as are only continent, Because lust’s means are spent; Or those who doubt the common mouth of fame, And for their place and name, Cannot so safely sin: their chastity Is mere necessity; Nor mean we those whom vows and conscience Have filled with abstinence: Though we acknowledge who can so abstain, Makes a most blessèd gain; He that for love of goodness hateth ill, Is more crown-worthy still Than he, which for sin’s penalty forbears: His heart sins, though he fears. But we propose a person like our Dove, Graced with a Phœnix’ love; A beauty of that clear and sparkling light, Would make a day of night, And turn the blackest sorrows to bright joys: Whose odorous breath destroys All taste of bitterness, and makes the air As sweet as she is fair. A body so harmoniously composed, As if natùre disclosed All her best symmetry in that one feature! O, so divine a creature Who could be false to? chiefly, when he knows How only she bestows The wealthy treasure of her love on him; Making his fortunes swim In the full flood of her admired perfection? What savage, brute affection, Would not be fearful to offend a dame Of this excelling frame? Much more a noble, and right generous mind, To virtuous moods inclined, That knows the weight of guilt: he will refrain From thoughts of such a strain, And to his sense object this sentence ever, “Man may securely sin, but safely never.”

AN ELEGY.

THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise, And yours, of whom I sing, be such As not the world can praise too much, Yet is ’t your virtue now I raise.

A virtue, like allay, so gone Throughout your form, as though that move, And draw, and conquer all men’s love, This subjects you to love of one,

Wherein you triumph yet: because ’Tis of yourself, and that you use The noblest freedom, not to choose Against or faith, or honour’s laws.

But who could less expect from you, In whom alone Love lives again? By whom he is restored to men; And kept, and bred, and brought up true?

His falling temples you have reared, The withered garlands ta’en away; His altars kept from the decay That envy wished, and nature feared;

And on them burns so chaste a flame, With so much loyalty’s expense, As Love, t’ acquit such excellence, Is gone himself into your name.

And you are he: the deity To whom all lovers are designed, That would their better objects find; Among which faithful troop am I;

Who, as an offering at your shrine, Have sung this hymn, and here entreat One spark of your diviner heat To light upon a love of mine;

Which, if it kindle not, but scant Appear, and that to shortest view, Yet give me leave t’ adore in you What I, in her, am grieved to want.