He enters, and she faints! in which pale trance
His pity finds her, but to no such chance
Imputes the cause: rather conceives it joy,
Whose rushing torrent made her heart employ
Its nimble servants, all her spirits, to
Prevent a deluge, which might else undo
Love's new made commonwealth. But whilst
his care
Hastens to help, her fortune did declare
Her sorrow's dark enigma; from her bed
The letter dropt-which, when life's army fled,
Their frontier garrisons neglected, had
Been left within't-this seen, declares a sad
Truth to th' amazed Bassa, though 'twere mix'd
With subtle falsehood. While he stands, betwixt
High rage and grief distracted, doubtful yet
In what new dress to wear revenge, the fit
Forsakes Janusa; who, not knowing she
Detected stood of lust's conspiracy
'Gainst honour's royal charter, from a low
Voice strains a welcome, which did seem to flow
From fickle discontent, such as the weak
Lungs breathe their thoughts in whilst their fibres
break.
To counterfeited slumbers leaving her,
He's gone with silent anger to confer;
With such a farewell as kind husbands leave
Their pregnant wives, preparing to receive
A mother's first of blessings, he forsakes
The room, and into strict inquiry takes
The wretched Manto, who, ere she could call
Excuse to aid, surprised, discovers all.
The captive Argalia is again brought before Janusa, who is unconscious that the Bassa had read the letter. Ammurat, in the mean time, is concealed, to watch the interview.
PLACED, by false Manto, in a closet, which,
Silent and sad, had only to enrich
Its roof with light, some few neglected beams
Sent from Janusa's room, which serve as streams
To watch intelligence; here he beheld,
Whilst she who with his absence had expell'd
All thoughtful cares, was with her joy swell'd high,
As captives are when call'd to liberty.
Perfumed and costly, her fair bed was more
Adorn'd than shrines which costly kings adore;
Incense, in smoky curls, climbs to the fair
Roof, whilst choice music rarifies the air;
Each element in more perfection here,
Than in the first creation did appear,
Yet lived in harmony: the wing'd fire lent
Perfumes to the air, that to moist cordials pent
In crystal vials, strength; and those impart
Their vigour to that ball of earth, the heart.
The nice eye here epitomized might see
Rich Persia's wealth, and old Rome's luxury.
But now, like Nature's new-made favourite,
Who, until all created for delight
Was framed, did ne'er see Paradise, comes in
Deceived Argalia, thinking he had been
Call'd thither to behold a penitent..
With such a high
Heroic scorn as aged saints that die,
[slights Heaven's fav'rites, leave the trivial world-he
That gilded pomp; no splendent beam invites
His serious eye to meet their objects in
An amorous glance, reserved as he had been
Before his grave confessor: he beholds
Beauty's bright magic, while its art unfolds
Great love's mysterious riddles, and commands
Captive Janusa to infringe the bands
Of matrimonial modesty. When all
Temptation fails, she leaves her throne to fall,
The scorn of greatness, at his feet: but prayer,
Like flattery, expires in useless air,
Too weak to batter that firm confidence
Their torment's thunder could not shake. From
hence
Despair, love's tyrant, had enforced her to
More wild attempts, had not her Ammurat, who,
Unseen, beheld all this, prevented, by
His sight, the death of bleeding modesty.
Made swift with rage, the ruffled curtain flies
His angry touch-he enters-fix'd his eyes,
From whence some drops of rage distil, on her
Whose heart had lent her face its character.
Whilst he stood red with flaming anger, she
Looks pale with fear-passion's disparity
Dwelt in their troubled breasts; his wild eyes stood
Like comets, when attracting storms of blood
Shook with portents sad, the whilst hers sate
Like the dull earth, when trembling at the fate
Of those ensuing evils-heavy fix'd
Within their orbs. Passions thus strangely mix'd,
No various fever e'er created in
[been
The phrenzied brain, when sleep's sweet calm had
From her soft throne deposed.....
So having paused, his dreadful voice thus broke
The dismal silence.
Thou curse of my nativity, that more
Affects me than eternal wrath can do-
Spirits condemn'd, some fiends, instruct me to
Heighten revenge to thy desert; but so
I should do more than mortals may, and throw
Thy spotted soul to flames. Yet I will give
Its passport hence; for think not to outlive
This hour, this fatal hour, ordain'd to see
More than an age before of tragedy. . . . .
Fearing tears should win
The victory of anger, Ammurat draws
His scimitar, which had in blood writ laws
For conquer'd provinces, and with a swift
And cruel rage, ere penitence could lift
Her burden'd soul in a repentant thought
Tow'rds heaven, sheathes the cold steel in her soft
And snowy breast: with a loud groan she falls
Upon the bloody floor, half breathless, calls
For his untimely pity: but perceiving
The fleeting spirits, with her blood, were leaving
Her heart unguarded, she implores that breath
Which yet remain'd, not to bewail her death,
But beg his life that caused it-on her knees,
Struggling to rise. But now calm'd Ammurat frees
Her from disturbing death, in his last great work
And thus declares some virtue in a Turk.
I have, brave Christian, by perusing thee
In this great art of honour learnt to be,
Too late, thy followe: this ring (with that
Gives him his signet) shall, when question'd at
The castle guards, thy safety be. And now
I see her blood's low water doth allow
Me only time to launch my soul's black bark
Into death's rubric sea-for to the dark
And silent region, though we here were by
Passion divorced, fortune shall not deny
Our souls to sail together. From thy eyes
Remove death's load, and see what sacrifice
My love is offering. With that word, a stroke
Pierces his breast, whose speedy pains invoke
Death's opiates to appease them: he sinks down
By 's dying wife, who, ere the cold flood drown
Life in the deluge of her wounds, once more
Betrays her eyes to the light; and though they wore
The weight of death upon their lids, did keep
Them so long open, till the icy sleep
Began to seize on him, and then she cries-
O see, just heaven! see, see my Ammurat dies,
To wander with me in the unknown shade
Of immortality-But I have made
The wounds that murther'd both; his hand that gave
Mine, did but gently let me blood to save
An everlasting fever. Pardon me,
My dear, my dying lord. Eternity
Shall see my soul white-wash'd in tears; but oh!
I now feel time's dear want-they will not flow
Fast as my stream of blood. Christian, farewell!
Whene'er thou dost our tragic story tell,
Do not extenuate my crimes, but let
Them in their own black characters be set,
Near Ammurat's bright virtues, that, read by
Th' unpractised lover, which posterity,
Whilst wanton winds play with our dust, shall raise
On beauties; that the good may justice praise
By his example, and the bad by mine
From vice's throne be scared to virtue's shrine. ... This,
She cries, is our last interview-a kiss
Then joins their bloodless lips-each close the eyes
Of the other, whilst the parting spirit flies.
THIS gallant, unfortunate man, who was much distinguished for the beauty of his person, was the son of Sir William Lovelace, of Woolwich, in Kent. After taking a master's degree at Cambridge, he was for some time an officer in the army; but returned to his native country after the pacification of Berwick, and took possession of his paternal estate, worth about 500l. per annum. About the same time he was deputed by the county of Kent to deliver their petition to the House of Commons, for restoring the king to his rights, and settling the government. This petition gave such offence that he was committed to the Gate-house prison, and only released on finding bail to an enormous amount not to pass beyond the lines of communication. During his
A LOOSE SARABAND.
АH me, the little tyrant thief
As once my heart was playing, He snatch'd it up, and flew away, Laughing at all my praying. Proud of his purchase, he surveys, And curiously sounds it; And though he sees it full of wounds, Cruel still on he wounds it. And now this heart is all his sport, Which as a ball he boundeth, From hand to hand, from breast to lip, And all its rest confoundeth. Then as a top he sets it up,
And pitifully whips it; Sometimes he clothes it gay and fine, Then straight again he strips it. He cover'd it with false belief, Which gloriously show'd it; And for a morning cushionet
On's mother he bestow'd it.
confinement to London his fortune was wasted in support of the royal cause. In 1646 he formed a regiment for the service of the French king, was colonel of it, and was wounded at Dunkirk. On this occasion his mistress, Lucasta, a Miss Lucy Sacheverel, married another, hearing that he had died of his wounds. At the end of two years he returned to England, and was again imprisoned till after the death of Charles I. He was then at liberty; but, according to Wood, was left in the most destitute circumstances, his estate being gone. He, who had been the favourite of courts, is represented as having lodged in the most obscure recesses of poverty,* and died in great misery in a lodging near Shoe-lane.
Each day with her small brazen stings
A thousand times she raced it;
But then at night, bright with her gems,
Once near her breast she placed it.
Then warm it 'gan to throb and bleed,
She knew that smart and grieved;
At length this poor condemned heart,
With these rich drugs reprieved.
She wash'd the wound with a fresh tear,
Which my Lucasta dropped;
And in the sleeve silk of her hair
"Twas hard bound up and wrapped.
She probed it with her constancy,
And found no rancour nigh it;
Only the anger of her eye
Had wrought some proud flesh nigh it.
The compiler of the Biographia Dramatica remarks that Wood must have exaggerated Lovelace's poverty, for his daughter and sole heir married the son of Lord Chief Justice Coke, and brought to her husband the estates of her father at King's-down in Kent.
Then press'd she hard in every vein, Which from her kisses thrill'd, And with the balm heal'd all its pain That from her hand distill'd.
But yet this heart avoids me still,
Will not by me be owned;
But, fled to its physician's breast,
There proudly sits enthroned.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,-
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.
AMARANTHA, Sweet and fair,
Forbear to braid that shining hair:
As my curious hand or eye,
Hovering round thee, let it fly:
Let it fly as unconfined
As its ravisher the wind,
Who has left his darling east
To wanton o'er this spicy nest.
Every tress must be confess'd
But neatly tangled at the best,
Like a clew of golden thread
Most excellently ravelled:
Do not then wind up that light
In ribands, and o'ercloud the night;
Like the sun in his early ray,
But shake your head and scatter day.
TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.
WHEN Love, with unconfined wings,
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at my grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd to her eye,—
The birds, that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless head with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,-
Fishes, that tipple in the deep,
Know no such liberty.
When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King;*
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,-
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.
[Charles I., in whose cause Lovelace was then in prison.-C.]
WHY should you swear I am forsworn? Since thine I vow'd to be;
Lady, it is already morn,
And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.
Have I not loved thee much and long,
A tedious twelve hours' space?
I must all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace,
Could I still dote upon thy face.
Not but all joy in thy brown hair,
By others may be found;
But I must search the black and fair,
Like skilful mineralists that sound
For treasure in unplough'd-up ground.
Then, if when I have loved my round,
Thou provest the pleasant she;
With spoils of meaner beauties crown'd
I laden will return to thee,
Ev'n sated with variety.
TO LUCASTA.-GOING TO THE WARS. TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True; a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.
TO SIR PETER LELY, ON HIS PICTURE OF
CHARLES I.
SEE! what an humble bravery doth shine And grief triumphant breaking through each line. How it commands the face! so sweet a scorn Never did happy misery adorn!
So sacred a contempt! that others show
To this (o' th' height of all the wheel) below;
That mightiest monarchs by this shaded book
May copy out their proudest, richest look.....
Thou sorrow canst design without a tear.
And, with the man, his very hope or fear....
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