Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A DEDICATORY ELEGY TO THE ... UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, by ABRAHAM COWLEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A DEDICATORY ELEGY TO THE ... UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Mother most rich, from thy poor son to thee
Last Line: Death never can avail to close thine eyes!
Subject(s): Cambridge University


MOTHER most rich, from thy poor son to thee
This scanty pledge of vast affection see.
Ah, better gifts for thee I fain would pour
Had but my grateful hands a larger store.
Will thy son's voice in these poor strains be known,
So badly formed and so unlike thy own?
The sacred footsteps of a Mother's grace
Here wilt thou find? -- the mirror of thy face?
Cowley, thou'lt say, after so many days
Hoped for, dost bring such disappointing lays?
What wicked fairies in their wanton play
Have placed a changeling where my infant lay?
Nay holy parent, art thou cruel too
Thy son's fresh wounds with rough hand to renew?
Alas, unkindly dost thou come to me?
Fate, but not thou, my stepmother may be!
If in the Muses' home, had been my lot
To spend my growing years and wander not,
And to luxuriate in that well-loved spot;
If at that learned fountain-head to lie
Drinking, and my huge thirst to satisfy;
With doubtful lips your ear I should not claim,
Nor blushing would you read my worthless name.
You know what tempest with world-wrecking sway,
From your dear bosom snatched me quite away,
A helpless babe with querulous voice that cried
For the sustaining nourishment denied.
So when a warring wind has rent the air,
And Winter rains harsh blows on Autumn fair --
The apples from the trees unripe are torn:
Vanquished by violence, they lie forlorn:
The mother-trees are heard to sigh and mourn:
Not yet earth's generous juice has filled their veins,
Not yet the sun painted his rosy stains.
O name of Cambridge, O most pleasant sound!
Deep in my heart the love of thee is found.
Fair, without luxury, thy Halls are seen;
And happy are the lives led there, I ween:
A splendid poverty, of meanness shorn,
A comeliness and beauty, noble-born:
Dearest abode of all, worthy the name
Of mighty Kings -- nay, worthy to proclaim
The Triune God, and spread abroad His fame;
O fields too richly piled with Ceres' gifts,
Which o'er her own loved Enna she uplifts!
O sacred fountains and O sacred shades,
Where poets wander, nor the world invades!
While choirs of singing birds refresh the ear,
And all the tuneful Muses hover near!
O Cam, Apollo thee most pleasant deems,
Though poor, yet envied by gold-bearing streams!
Ah, if God would your dear delights restore,
The learned leisure on your happy shore;
Such as you saw me, with a tranquil mind
Upon your bank, O Cam serene, reclined;
And heard me soothe, with boyish song your wave --
Of little worth -- to you it pleasure gave.
For I remember when each bank would deign,
Nay, all the woodland to repeat my strain,
Then smooth and silent my life's course flowed on,
White as the light which on your waters shone.
Now dim my suns, and all my turbid days
Broken and vext and rolled o'er troubled ways.
For Seine or Thames or Tyber, what care I?
Thou, Cam alone my thirst canst satisfy!
Happy who sees a single stream -- no more --
And, like a willow, haunts the self-same shore!
Happy to whom the untried world looks base,
Tried poverty reveals a shining face!
To whom the sad experience ne'er is brought,
To deem all human interests as Nought!
But us has Fortune taught with all her lore,
And given us proofs of it, enough and more.
We have beheld a royal head and crown
And broken sceptre rudely tumbled down,
And human threats crushed by Fate's threatening frown:
The sports of Destiny, which none can guide,
And the world's wealth upturned with ruin wide.
Who now will trust his frail bark to the shocks
Of the rude sea -- its shipwrecks and its rocks?
Thou too hast trembled in this great earthquake,
O Cambridge, and hast felt thy halls to shake:
Trembled the very towers of Pallas mild,
And feared the laurel tree new lightning wild.
Ah, would that God would turn this plague away,
(Though angry) nor give up to War's fell sway
These halls and towers that stand in fair array.
Let us, thy offspring, Alma Mater, die;
'Tis done as soon as spoken -- low we lie.
Upon our heads let Justice wreak its wrath;
All kinds of wrong and misery Justice hath!
Steadfast thou shalt build up a deathless race
Of dying sons, nor shalt to death give place!
For ever full remaining thou shalt send
From thy womb's fount perennial, without end,
Thy bounteous streams of youth that draw sweet breath
To that still sea of all-devouring Death.
So Venus once, wounded by human hand,
(For against wounds in war not Gods can stand),
Asked help of Heaven and ceased not to complain,
Her white limbs coloured with a wondrous stain.
Why dost complain? These short-lived griefs despise;
Secure against all wounds that men devise,
Death never can avail to close thine eyes!





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