Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, UPON THE GUNPOWDER TREASON (2), by RICHARD CRASHAW



Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

Rhyming Dictionary Search
UPON THE GUNPOWDER TREASON (2), by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Reach me a quill, pluckt from the flaming wing
Last Line: The light's faire face, but still abortive bee.
Subject(s): Gunpowder Plot; Guy Fawkes


Reach me a quill, pluckt from the flaming wing
Of Pluto's Mercury, that I may sing
Death to the life. My inke shall be the blood
Of Cerberus, or Alecto's viperous brood.
Unmated malice! Oh unpeer'd despight!
Such as the sable pinions of the night
Never durst hatch before: Extracted see
The very Quintessence of villanie.
I feare to name it; least that he, which heares,
Should have his soule frighted beyond the sphaeres.
Heaven was asham'd, to see our mother Earth
Engender with the Night, and teeme a birth
Soe foule, one minutes light had it but seene,
The fresh face of the morne had blasted beene.
Her rosy cheekes you should have seene noe more
Dy'd in vermilion blushes, as before:
But in a vaile of clouds mufling her head
A solitary life she would have led.
Affrighted Phaebus would have lost his way,
Giving his wanton palfreys leave to play
Olympick games in the 'Olympian plaines,
His trembling hands loosing the golden raines.
The Queene of night gott the greene sicknes then,
Sitting soe long at ease in her darke denne,
Not daring to peepe forth, least that a stone
Should beate her headlong from her jetty throne.
Joves twinckling tapers, that doe light the world,
Had beene puft out. and from their stations hurl'd.
AEol kept in his wrangling sonnes, least they
With this grand blast should have bin bloune away.
Amazed Triton with his shrill alarmes
Bad sporting Neptune to pluck in his armes,
And leave embracing of the Isles, least hee
Might be an actor in this Tragaedy:
Nor should wee need thy crisped waves, for wee
An Ocean could have made t' have drowned thee.
Torrents of salt teares from our eyes should runne,
And raise a deluge, where the flaming sunne
Should coole his fiery wheeles, and never sinke
Soe low to give his thirsty stallions drinke.
Each soule in sighes had spent its dearest breath,
As glad to waite upon their King in death.
Each winged Chorister would swan-like sing
A mournfull Dirge to their deceased King.
The painted meddowes would have laught noe more
For joye of their neate coates; but would have tore
Their shaggy locks, their floury mantles turn'd
Into dire sable weeds, and sate, and mourn'd.
Each stone had streight a Niobe become,
And wept amaine; then rear'd a costly tombe,
T' entombe the lab'ring earth. for surely shee
Had died just in her delivery.
But when Joves winged Heralds this espied,
Upp to th' Almighty thunderer they hied,
Relating this sad story. streightway hee
The monster crusht, maugre their midwiferie.
And may such Pythons never live to see
The light's faire face, but still abortive bee.





Other Poems of Interest...



Home: PoetryExplorer.net