The

COMPLAINT.

In a deep vision’s intellectual scene Beneath a bower for sorrow made, Th’ uncomfortable shade Of the black yew’s unlucky green, Mixt with the mourning willow’s careful gray, Where reverend CAM cuts out his famous way, The melancholy COWLEY lay: And lo! a Muse appear’d to’s closed sight, (The Muses oft in lands of visions play) Bodied, array’d, and seen by an internal light: A golden harp with silver strings she bore, A wonderous hieroglyphic robe she wore, In which all colours, and all figures were, That nature, or that fancy can create, That art can never imitate; And with loose pride it wanton’d in the air. In such a dress, in such a well-cloath’d dream, She us’d of old, near fair ISMENUS’ stream, PINDAR her THEBAN favourite to meet; A crown was on her head, and wings were on her feet.

II.

She touch’d him with her harp, and rais’d him from the ground; The shaken strings melodiously resound. Art thou return’d at last, said she, To this forsaken place and me? Thou prodigal, who didst so loosely waste Of all thy youthful years, the good estate? Art thou return’d here to repent too late; And gather husks of learning up at last, Now the rich harvest-time of life is past, And Winter marches on so fast? But when I meant t’adopt thee for my son, And did as learn’d a portion thee assign, As ever any of the mighty Nine Had to her dearest children done; When I resolv’d t’exalt thy anointed name, Among the spiritual lords of peaceful fame; Thou changeling, thou, bewitch’d with noise and show, Would’st into courts and cities from me go; Would’st see the world abroad, and have a share In all the follies, and the tumults there. Thou would’st, forsooth, be something in a state, And business thou would’st find, and would’st create: Business! the frivolous pretence Of humane lusts to shake off innocence: Business! the grave impertinence: Business! the thing which I of all things hate: Business! the contradiction of thy fate.

III.

Go, renegado, cast up thy account, And see to what amount Thy foolish gains by quitting me: The sale of knowledge, fame, and liberty, The fruits of thy unlearn’d apostasy. Thou thought’st, if once the public storm were past, All thy remaining life should sun-shine be; Behold, the public storm is spent at last, The sovereign is tost at sea no more, And thou, with all the noble company, Art got at last to shore. But whilst thy fellow voyagers, I see, All march’d up to possess the promis’d land, Thou still alone (alas!) dost gaping stand Upon the naked beach, upon the barren sand.

IV.

As a fair morning of the blessed spring, After a tedious stormy night; Such was the glorious entry of our king: Enriching moisture dropp’d on every thing; Plenty he sow’d below, and cast about him light. But then (alas!) to thee alone, One of old GIDEON’S miracles was shown; For every tree, and every herb around, With pearly dew was crown’d, And upon all the quicken’d ground The fruitful seed of heaven did brooding lye, And nothing but the Muse’s fleece was dry. It did all other threats surpass When God to his own people said, (The men, whom thro’ long wanderings he had led) That he would give them ev’n a heaven of brass; They look’d up to that heaven in vain, That bounteous heaven, which God did not restrain, Upon the most unjust to shine and rain.

V.

The RACHAEL, for which twice seven years and more Thou didst with faith and labour serve, And didst (if faith and labour can) deserve, Though she contracted was to thee, Giv’n to another who had store Of fairer, and of richer wives before, And not a Leah left, thy recompence to be. Go on, twice seven years more thy fortune try, Twice seven years more, God in his bounty may Give thee, to fling away Into the court’s deceitful lottery. But think how likely ’tis that thou, With the dull work of thy unwieldy plough, Should’st in a hard and barren season thrive, Should even able be to live; Thou, to whose share so little bread did fall, In the miraculous year, when MANNA rain’d on all.

VI.

Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile, That seem’d at once to pity and revile, And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head, The melancholy COWLEY said: Ah, wanton foe, dost thou upbraid The ills which thou thyself hast made? When, in the cradle, innocent I lay, Thou, wicked spirit, stolest me away, And my abused soul didst bear Into thy new-found words I know not where, Thy golden Indies in the air; And ever since I strive in vain My ravish’d freedom to regain: Still I rebel, still thou dost reign, Lo, still in verse against thee I complain. There is a sort of stubborn weeds, Which if the earth but once, it ever breeds; No wholesome herb can near them thrive, No useful plant can keep alive; The foolish sports I did on thee bestow, Make all my art and labour fruitless now; Where once such Fairies dance no grass doth ever grow.

VII.

When my new mind had no infusion known, Thou gav’st so deep a tincture of thine own, That ever since I vainly try To wash away the inherent dye: Long work perhaps may spoil thy colours quite, But never will reduce the native white; To all the ports of honour and of gain, I often steer my course in vain, Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back again. Thou slack’nest all my nerves of industry, By making them so oft to be The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsie. Whoever this world’s happiness would see, Must as entirely cast off thee, As they who only heaven desire, Do from the world retire. This was my error, this my gross mistake, Myself a demy-votary to make. Thus with SAPPHIRA, and her husband’s fate, (A fault which I like them am taught too late) For all that I gave up, I nothing gain, And perish for the part which I retain.

VIII.

Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse, The court, and better king, t’ accuse; The heaven under which I live is fair; The fertile soil will a full harvest bear; Thine, thine is all the barrenness; if thou Mak’st me sit still and sing, when I should plough; When I but think, how many a tedious year Our patient sov’reign did attend His long misfortunes fatal end; How chearfully, and how exempt from fear, On the Great Sovereign’s will he did depend, I ought to be accurst, if I refuse To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse! Kings have long hands (they say) and though I be So distant, they may reach at length to me. However, of all princes, thou Should’st not reproach rewards for being small or slow; Thou, who rewardest but with popular breath, And that too after death.

DIALOGUE III.