ePub 版

Where shall I sojourn? what kind sea will hide
My head from thunder? where shall I abide,
Until his flames be quench'd or laid aside?
What if my feet should take their hasty flight,
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas! no shades can blind the God of light.
What is my soul should take the wings of day,
And find some desert; if she springs away,
The wings of Vengeance clip as fast as they.
What if some solid rock should entertain
My frighted soul ? can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of Justice and not cleave in twain ?
Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave,
What flame-eyed Fury means to smite, can save.

Tis vain to flee; till gentle Mercy show
Her better eye, the farther off we go,
The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow.
Th’ ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.
Great God! there is no safety here below;
Thou art my fortress, thou that seem'st my foe;
'Tis thou, that strik'st the stroke, must guard tlie blow.

She's empty: bark! she sounds: there's nothing there

But noise to fill thy ear;
Thy vain inquiry can at length but find

A blast of murmuring wind:
It is a cask that seems as full as fair,

But merely tunn'd with air.
Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds;

The soul that vainly founds
Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds.
She's empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing in't;

The spark-engendering flint
Shall sooner melt, and hardest rauncel shall first

Dissolve and quench thy thirst,
Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast

With smooth-faced calms of rest.
Thou mayst as well expect meridian light

From shades of black-mouth'd night,
As in this empty world to find a full delight.
She's empry: hark! she sounds: 'tis void and vast;

What if some flattering blast
Of flatuous bonor should perchance be there,

And whisper in thine ear?

1 A dry crust.

It is but wind, and blows but where it list,

And vanisheth like mist.
Poor honor earth can give! Wbat generous mind

Would be so base to bind
Her heaven-bred soul, a slave to serve a blast of wind ?
She's empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis but a ball

For fools to play withal;
The painted film but of a stronger bubble,

That's lined with silken trouble.
It is a world whose work and recreation

Is vanity and vexation :
A lag, repair'd with vice-complexion'd paint,

A quest-house of complaint.
It is a saint, a ficnd; worse fiend when most a saint.
She's empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis vain and void.

What's here to be enjoy'd
But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow,

Drawn now and cross d to-morrow?
Or, what are men but puffs of dying breath,

Revived with living death?
Fond youth, O build thy hopes on surer grounds

Than what dull fleslı propounds:
Trust not this hollow world; she's empty: hark! she sounds

Had not the milder land of Mercy broke
The furious violence of that fatal stroke
Offended Justice struck, we had been quite
Lost in the shadows of eternal night.
Thy mercy, Lord, is like the morning sun,
Whose beams undo what sable night hath done;
Or like a stream, the current of whose course,
Restrain'd awhile, runs with a swister force.
Oh! let me glow beneath those sacred beams,
And after, bathe me in those silver streams;
To Thee alone my sorrows shall appeal:
Hath earth a wound too hard for heaven to heal ?

Though in his day Quarles was mostly known as a poet, he was also the author of a few prose works, the principal of which is the « Enchiridion,' containing Institutions divine, conteinplative, practical, moral, ethical, economical, political.” Of this, Headley remarks, “ had this little piece been written at Athens or Rome, its author would have been classed with the wise men of his country.” The following are some specimens of it:

If thou be ambitious of honor, and yet fearful of the canker of honor, envy, so behave thyself, that opinion may be satisfied in this, that thou seekest merit, and not fame; and that thou attributest ihy preferment rather to Providence than thy own virtue. Honor is a due debt to the deserver; and who ever envied the payment of a debt? A just advancement is a providential act; and who ever envied the act of Providence ?

1 Compounded of tv (en), "in," and xtip (cheir), “the hand:"--something held " in the hand," a "mannal.' Read--an article on thts treatise in the Retrospective Review, ix. 258.

If evil men speak good, or good men evil, of thy conversation, examine all thy actions, and suspect thyself. But if evil men speak evil of thee, hold it as thy honor; and, by way of thankfulness, love them ; but upon condition that they continue to hate thee.

To tremble at the sight of thy sin, makes thy faith the less apt to tremble: the devils believe and tremble, because they tremble at what they believe; their belief brings trembling: thy trembling brings belief.

If thou desire to be truly valiant, fear to do any injury: he that fears not to do evil, is always afraid to suffer evil; he that never fears, is desperate ; and he that fears always, is a coward. He is the true valiant man, that dares nothing but what he may, and fears nothing but what he ought.

If thou stand guilty of oppression, or wrongfully possest of another's right, see thou make restitution before thou givest an alms: if otherwise, what art thou but a thief, and makest God thy receiver ?

When thou prayest for spiritual graces, let thy prayer be absolute; when for temporal blessings, add a clause of God's pleasure: in both, with faith and humiliation : so shalt thou, undoubtedly, receive what thou desirest, or more, or better. Never prayer rightly made, was made unheard; or heard, ungranted.

Not to give to the poor, is to take from him. Not to feed the hungry, if thou hast it, is to the utmost of thy power to kill him. That, therefore, thou mayst avoid both sacrilege and murder, be charitable.

Hath any wronged thee? Be bravely revenged: slight it, and the work's begun; forgive it, and 'tis finished: he is below himself that is not above an injury.

Gaze not on beauty too much, lest it blast thee; nor too long, lest it blind thee; nor too near, lest it burn thee: if thou like it, it deceives thee; if thou love it, it disturbs thee; if thou lust after it, it destroys thee : if virtue accompany it, it is the heart's paradise ; if vice associate it, it is the soul's purgatory : it is the wise man's bonfire, and the fool's furnace.

Use law and physic only for necessity; they that use theni otherwise, abuse themselves into weak bodies and light purses : they are good remedies, bad businesses, and worse recreations.

If what thou hast received from God thou sharest to the poor, thou hast gained a blessing by the hand; if what thou hast taken from the poor, thou givest to God, thou hast purchased a curse into the bargain. He that puts to pious uses what he hath got by impious usury, robs the spittle? to make an hospital; and the cry of the one will out-plead the prayers of the other.

Give not thy tongue too great a liberty, lest it take thee prisoner. A word unspoken is, like the sword in the scabbard, thine ; if vented, thy sword is in another's hand. If thou desire to be held wise, be so wise as to hold thy tongue.

Wisdom without innocency is knavery; innocency without wisdom is foolery: be, therefore, as wise as serpents, and innocent as doves. The subtilty of the serpent instructs the innocency of the dove; the innocency of the dove corrects the subtilty of the serpent. What God hath joined together, let no man separate.


WILLIAM DRUMMOND, of Hawthornden, the first Scottish poet that wrote well in English, was born in 1585. « To the scholar and the wit he added every elegant attainment. After forming liis taste at the University of Edinburgh, he enlarged his views by travelling and by a cultivation of the modern languages. At first he appears to have studied the law, but soon left it for more congenial pursuits. The character of his poetry is various, consisting of sonnets, epigrams, epitaplıs, religious and other poems. His sonnets are the most beautiful, and some of them of the highest excellence. His greatest charm is, unaffected feeling, and unaffected language.'? His feelings were so intense on the side of the royalists, that the execution of Charles is said to have lastened his death, which took place at the close of the same year, December, 1649. The following are specimens of his sonnets :

Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;

Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that eternal Love,

O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the lioarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,

Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!

0! how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,
And siglis embalm’d, which new-born flowers unfold,

Than that applause vain honor doth bequcath!
How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold !

The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights:
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

I This term was originally applied to a lazar-house, or receptacle for persons affected with leprosy, but afterwards to an hospital of any kind. 2 See Retrospective Review, ix. 358.

Drummond's sonnets, I tl ink, come as near as almost any others to the perfection of this kind of writing, which should embody a sentiment, and every shade of a sentiment, as it varies with time and place and bumor, with the extra ugance or lightness of a momentary impression."-Hazlitt.

Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,

Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,

Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds with grief oppress’d;

Lo, by thy charming rod, all breathing things
Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness possessid,

And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou spar'st, alas! who cannot be thy guest.

Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light, which thou art wont to show,
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;

Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath;

I long to kiss the image of my death. The lady to whom he was engaged to be married was suddenly snatched away by death, and the sonnets which dwell on his own afflictions are as hull of true feeling as poetic merit.

Sweet Spring, thou turn'stl with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers;

The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers.
Thou turn'st, sweet youth-but, ah! my pleasant hours,
And happy days, with thee come not again;

The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours,

Thou art the same which still thou wast before,
Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair;
But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air

Is gone; nor gold nor gems her can restore.
Neglected Virtue, seasons go and come,
When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

What doth it serve to see sun's burning face?
And skies enamellid with both Indies' gold?
Or moon at night in jetty chariot rollid,

And all the glory of that starry place?
What doth it serve earth's beauty to beliold,

The mountain's pride, the meadow's flowery grace;
The stately comeliness of forests old,

The sport of floods which would themselves embrace!
What doth it serve to hear the sylvans' songs,

The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains,
Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs?

For what doth serve all that this world contains,
Sith she, for whom those once to me were dear,
No part of them can have now with me here?

My lute, be as thou wast, when thou didst grow

With thy green mother in some shady grove.

1 "Turn'st" is here used for "rcturnest."

« 上一頁繼續 »