Classic and Contemporary Poetry
LIFE, by JOSEPH BEAUMONT First Line: Alas poor life, no more will I Last Line: From this intestine warre, & I shall live. Subject(s): Beauty; Contrariness; Death; Life; Dead, The | ||||||||
ALAS poor Life, No more will I Miscall that foule Hypocrisie, By which Thou stealst ye dainty Face Of Sweetnes, and Dost men command To court and idolize thy borrowed grace. The Monstrous Mixtures temperd by Foule Fiends & Wizzards Industrie Lesse guilty are of Mischeife, then Those Looks of thine, Which undermine With false inchantments Us beguiled Men. Thy Treason plainely I descry'd The other day by ye Beds side Of a young Friend of mine, which lay, Deep under thy Fierce Treachery: And much I envy'd Thee so sweet a Prey. Her Virgin Soule soft as her yeares A correspondent Body weares: O No; It wore of late, till Thou Didst it betray, And foundst a way To ravish those pure Sweets which there did grow. She had beheld twelve flowry Springs, And there a thousand blooming things Smiling in genuine braverie; But yet no feild Profest to yeild A Bud or Flower so soft, & sweet as Shee. Yet fairer then her Looks She was In that internall Comelinesse Which drest her Soule, & made it rise Much faster, then Her yeares did run Like to some forward Plant of Paradise. The Odours that She breathed, were Well-worthy to perfume ye Spheer Where Angels sing: Upon Her Toung Did nothing sit, But what might fit Their noble Quire, Some Psalme, or Sacred Song. All David was Her owne, writ deep In her soft Heart, which strove to keep That rich Inscription faire, each day For feare of rust And worldly Dust, She rubbd it o're, & swept all harme away. Then on industrious Wings of Love After ye Eagles flight She strove And soone Shee reach'd no little part Of that highway, Nor ment to stay Till all his Gospell eccho'd in her Heart. But oh her gallant wings are now Cut short, & she flags wondrous low. Found I not Her at highnoone day In Bed? whence Shee Was wont to be Risen before the Mornings earlyest Ray. I found Her there: If yet 'twere Shee: For sure Her barbarous Miserie Had forraged & made such wast Of all ye Grace Which deckd her face That from her owne sweet selfe Shee seemed lost. Cold Palenes took its gastly seat On Her Soft Cheeks, (O how unmeet For such a Guest!) & leaden Night Gan to surprize Those fainting Eyes Which lately sparkled with a Lovely light. Her Mouth of late ye roseall doore By which her purer Soule did powre Its Sweet Effusions, now begun To testifie Lifes Vanitie, And breath'd aforehand flat Corruption. A fiery fever to beguile The office of a Funerall Pile Seiz'd on Her, & had quickly done Such Mischeife that Naught scaped, but An heap of bones wrap'd in a Milkie skin. Oh why may all sweet Flowrs, but Shee Prevent this worst of Miserie? The Lilly & ye Rose when they Are stricken so, Have leave to goe And in their graves their yet whole beauties lay. But this poore Flowre must live to see The Death of all her Braverie And have no breath left to perfume Some Sacred Dittie: What mighty Pittie, That onely Sighs should such deare Blasts consume! Sad Heavy Sighs, or what is more Heavy then they, tumultuous store Of words as light as was ye winde That blew them out, As being brought Forth by an hoodwink'd & abused Minde. For from ye Fevers raging Flame Such fumes & troubled Vapours came, As did obstruct ye way betweene Her Heart & Braine, Reason in vaine Strove to assert her selfe as Fancies Queene. Wild Fancle now ye Reines did guide, And through ten thousand by-wayes ride, Where shapeles shapes, & Fantomes strayd, And all ye way More light then they She courted Shaddows, & with Nothings playd. And all ye while her restlesse Toung Like an importunate Clapper rung, Ecchoing out ye Antik sound, Which her weak Braine Could not restraine. Was e'r so sad a Transformation found! Is this a Sceen of Life, where Shee Canno wayes her owne Owner be? But sees what ever could be said Lively & quick E'r She fell sick, Both in her robbed Soule & Body dead. Strange Life which makes her onely be Witnesse to her owne Miserie: Which doth not stop, but taint her breath: Which worse then killing, Is yet unwilling To grant her but ye Courtesie of Death. O Life, some other Title I Must print upon thy Treacherie. Life is a Name pure as ye Day And sweet as Light, But Thou like Night To blackest horrors dost poore Man betray. All Deaths, but Thou, are short, if wee Compare their close Epitomie To thy huge bulke: One Minute can Their torments measure, But thine take leisure To make of Thee Death in expansion. A Death, which lives to make us die So oft before our Destinie; A Death, which hath its yeouth & Age, And weeks & dayes And thousand wayes To make advantage for its lasting Rage. Out Spurious Thing. A place I know Where pure & genuine Life doth grow: A Life, which lives; A Life most true To its great Name, Whose noble Flame Forever burnes, yet keeps forever new. A life, which unacquainted is With Paines, & Sighs, & Sicknesses; A Life, which doth no fever feele Unlesse it be The Ardencie Of Heavnly Love; a Sicknesse, wch doth heale. A Life, which wth Eternitie Doth in its Noble date agree: A Life, whose foot tramples ye Head Of all yt wee Still changing see, A Life, yt lives when every Death is dead. A Life that streameth from those Eyes, Whose beams embellish all ye skies; The Eyes of Joy, ye Eyes of Love Thine Eyes Dear Lord Which doe afford What ever maketh Heavn to be above. No hopes have I to live, untill My Soule in Thee doth take her fill, And from these Shades of Death doth flie To meet those Streames Of Living Beames, Whose everlasting East is in thine Eye. DEARE JESU, when, when will it bee! How long is this short Life to Mee, Which mocks Me thus! O when shall I (Peace fond Temptations Of carnall Passions.) Have leave to end this living Death, & die! Faine would I die; but first be dead; Dead to those Sins, which murdered Thee on thy Crosse, & which would doe The like to Me, Unlesse they be Well mortify'd before I hence doe goe. O who can slay all them for Me, But thy propitious Potencie, Which hath no other foes, but those! Tis Sin, & none But Sin alone Which warrs with Man, & which doth God oppose. O then revenge thy Selfe, yt I May conquer by Communitie Of Cause with Thee: some Succour give That I may bee Set safe & free From this intestine Warre, & I shall Live. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND Γενεθλιακον by JOSEPH BEAUMONT Γενεθλιακον by JOSEPH BEAUMONT A CONCLUSORIE HUMNE TO THE SAME WEEK; & FOR MY FRIEND by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |
|