Collected English Verse — Abraham Cowley. b. 1618, d. 1667 (Part 2 of 2)

your sad branches thicker join,
       And into darksome shades combine,
Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid!

Large was his soul; as large a soul as e’er
Submitted to inform a body here;
High as the place ’twas shortly in Heaven to have,
       But low and humble as his grave;
So high that all the virtues there did come,
       As to their chiefest seat
       Conspicuous and great;
So low, that for me too it made a room.

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
As if for him Knowledge had rather sought;
Nor did more learning ever crowded lie
       In such a short mortality.
Whene’er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,
       Still did the notions throng
      About his eloquent tongue,
Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.

His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
Yet never did his God or friends forget;
And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,
       Retired, and gave to them their due.
For the rich help of books he always took,
       Though his own searching mind before
       Was so with notions written o’er,
As if wise Nature had made that her book.

With as much zeal, devotion, piety,
He always lived, as other saints do die.
Still with his soul severe account he kept,
       Weeping all debts out ere he slept.
Then down in peace and innocence he lay,
       Like the sun’s laborious light,
       Which still in water sets at night,
Unsullied with his journey of the day.

But happy Thou, ta’en from this frantic age,
Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage!
A fitter time for Heaven no soul e’er chose—
       The place now only free from those.
There ’mong the blest thou dost for ever shine;
       And wheresoe’er thou casts thy view
       Upon that white and radiant crew,
See’st not a soul clothed with more light than thine.

362   The Wish

WELL then! I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne’er agree.
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does of all meats the soonest cloy;
     And they, methinks, deserve my pity
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings,
     Of this great hive, the city.

Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave,
May I a small house and large garden have;
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!
     And since love ne’er will from me flee,
A Mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian angels are,
     Only beloved and loving me.

O fountains! when in you shall I
Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy?
O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made
The happy tenant of your shade?
     Here’s the spring-head of Pleasure’s flood:
Here’s wealthy Nature’s treasury,
Where all the riches lie that she
     Has coin’d and stamp’d for good.

Pride and ambition here
Only in far-fetch’d metaphors appear;
Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,
And nought but Echo flatter.
     The gods, when they descended, hither
From heaven did always choose their way:
And therefore we may boldly say
     That ’tis the way too thither.

How happy here should I
And one dear She live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.
     I should have then this only fear:
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,
     And so make a city here.