Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ARAMANTHA, by RICHARD LOVELACE Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Up with the jolly bird of light Last Line: And separated minds can tell. | ||||||||
UP with the jolly bird of light, Who sounds his third retreat to night, Fair Aramantha from her bed Ashamed starts, and rises red As the carnation-mantled morn, Who now the blushing robe doth spurn, And puts on angry grey, whilst she, The envy of a deity, Arrays her limbs, too rich indeed To be enshrin'd in such a weed; Yet lovely 'twas, and strait, but fit, Not made for her, but she to it: By nature it sate close and free, As the just bark unto the tree: Unlike love's martyrs of the town, All day imprison'd in a gown, Who, rack'd in silk 'stead of a dress, Are clothed in a frame or press, And with that liberty and room The dead expatiate in a tomb. No cabinets with curious washes, Bladders, and perfumed plashes, No venom-temper'd water's here, Mercury is banished this sphere: Her pail's all this, in which wet glass She both doth cleanse and view her face. Far hence all Iberian smells, Hot amulets, pomander spells; Fragrant gales, cool air, the fresh And natural odour of her flesh Proclaim her sweet from th' womb as morn. Those colour'd things were made not born, Which, fix'd within their narrow straits, Do look like their own counterfeits. So like the Provence rose she walk'd, Flower'd with blush, with verdure stalk'd; Th' officious wind her loose hair curls, The dew her happy linen purls, But wets a tress, which instantly Sol with a crisping beam doth dry. Into the garden is she come, Love and delight's Elysium; If ever earth show'd all her store, View her discolour'd budding floor; Here her glad eye she largely feeds, And stands, 'mongst them, as they 'mong weeds; The flowers, in their best array, As to their queen their tribute pay, And freely to her lap proscribe A daughter out of ev'ry tribe: Thus as she moves, they all bequeath At once the incense of their breath. The noble heliotropion Now turns to her, and knows no sun; And as her glorious face doth vary, So opens loyal golden Mary; Who, if but glanced from her sight, Straight shuts again as it were night. The violet (else lost i' th' heap) Doth spread fresh purple for each step; With whose humility possess'd, Sh' enthrones the poor girl in her breast. The July-flow'r that hereto thriv'd, Knowing herself no longer liv'd, But for one look of her upheaves, Then 'stead of tears straight sheds her leaves. Now the rich-robed tulip, who Clad all in tissue close doth woo Her, (sweet to th' eye but smelling sour), She gathers to adorn her bower. But the proud honeysuckle spreads Like a pavilion her heads, Contemns the wanting commonalty, That but to two ends useful be, And to her lips thus aptly plac'd, With smell and hue presents her taste. So all their due obedience pay, Each thronging to be in her way: Fair Aramantha with her eye Thanks those that live, which else would die; The rest, in silken fetters bound, By crowning her are crown and crown'd. And now the sun doth higher rise, Our Flora to the meadow hies; The poor distressed heifers low, And as sh' approacheth gently bow, Begging her charitable leisure To strip them of their milky treasure. Out of the yeomanry o' th' herd, With grave aspect, and feet prepar'd, A rev'rend lady cow draws near, Bids Aramantha welcome here; And from her privy purse lets fall A pearl or two, which seem to call This adorn'd, adored fairy To the banquet of her dairy. Soft Aramantha weeps to see 'Mongst men such inhumanity, That those who do receive in hay, And pay in silver twice a day, Should, by their cruel barb'rous theft, Be both of that and life bereft. But 'tis decreed, whene'er this dies, That she shall fall a sacrifice Unto the gods, since those that trace Her stem show 'tis a godlike race, Descending in an even line From heifers and from steers divine, Making the honour'd extract full In IÖ and Europa's bull. She was the largest, goodliest beast That ever mead or altar blest; Round as her udder, and more white Than is the Milky Way in night; Her full broad eye did sparkle fire, Her breath was sweet as kind desire, And in her beauteous crescent shone, Bright as the argent-horned moon. But see! this whiteness is obscure, Cynthia spotted, she impure; Her body writhell'd, and her eyes Departing lights at obsequies; Her lowing hot to the fresh gale Her breath perfumes the field withal; To those two suns that ever shine, To those plump parts she doth enshrine, To th' hovering snow of either hand, That love and cruelty command. After the breakfast on her teat, She takes her leave o' th' mournful neat, Who, by her touch'd, now prize their life, Worthy alone the hallow'd knife. Into the neighb'ring wood she's gone, Whose roof defies the telltale sun, And locks out ev'ry prying beam; Close by the lips of a clear stream She sits and entertains her eye With the moist crystal, and the fry With burnish'd silver mail'd, whose oars Amazed still make to the shores. What need she other bait or charm But look? or angle, but her arm? The happy captive, gladly ta'en, Sues ever to be slave in vain, Who instantly, confirm'd in 's fears, Hastes to his element of tears. From hence her various windings rove To a well order'd stately grove; This is the palace of the wood, And court o' th' royal oak, where stood The whole nobility, the pine, Straight ash, tall fir, and wanton vine, The proper cedar, and the rest: Here she her deeper senses bless'd; Admires great Nature in this pile Floor'd with green-velvet camomile, Garnish'd with gems of unset fruit, Suppli'd still with a self-recruit; Her bosom wrought with pretty eyes Of never-planted strawberries; Where th' winged music of the air Do richly feast, and for their fare, Each evening in a silent shade, Bestow a grateful serenade. Thus, ev'n tired with delight, Sated in soul and appetite; Full of the purple plum and pear, The golden apple with the fair Grape, that mirth fain would have taught her, And nuts which squirrels cracking brought her; She softly lays her weary limbs, Whilst gentle slumber now begins To draw the curtains of her eye; When straight awaken'd with a cry And bitter groan, again reposes, Again a deep sigh interposes. And now she hears a trembling voice: "Ah, can there aught on earth rejoice! Why wears she this gay livery, Not black as her dark entrails be? Can trees be green, and to the air Thus prostitute their flowing hair? Why do they sprout, not wither'd die? Must each thing live save wretched I? Can days triumph in blue and red, When both their light and life is fled? Fly, joy, on wings of popinjays, To courts of fools; there, as your plays, Die, laugh'd at and forgot; whilst all That's good mourns at this funeral. Weep, all ye Graces, and you sweet Choir, that at the Hill inspir'd meet; Love, put thy tapers out, that we And th' world may seem as blind as thee; And be, since she is lost (ah wound!) Not heav'n itself by any found." Now, as a prisoner new cast, Who sleeps in chains that night his last, Next morn is wak'd with a reprieve, And from his trance not dream bid live, Wonders (his sense not having scope) Who speaks, his friend or his false hope: So Aramantha heard, but fear Dares not yet trust her tempting ear; And as again her arms o' th' ground Spread pillows for her head, a sound More dismal makes a swift divorce, And starts her thus: "Rage, Rapine, Force! Ye blue-flam'd daughters o' th' Abyss, Bring all your snakes, here let them hiss; Let not a leaf its freshness keep; Blast all their roots, and as you creep And leave behind your deadly slime, Poison the budding branch in 's prime; Waste the proud bowers of this grove, That fiends may dwell in it, and move As in their proper hell, whilst she, Above, laments this tragedy; Yet pities not our fate. O fair Vow-breaker, now betroth'd to th' air, Why by those laws did we not die, As live but one, Lucasta! why---" As he Lucasta nam'd, a groan Strangles the fainting passing tone; But as she heard, Lucasta smiles, Posses her round; she 's slipp'd meanwhiles Behind the blind of a thick bush, When, each word temp'ring with a blush, She gently thus bespake: "Sad swain, If mates in woe do ease our pain, Here 's one full of that antic grief Which, stifled, would for ever live, But told, expires; pray then, reveal (To show our wound is half to heal) What mortal nymph or deity Bewail you thus?" "Whoe'er you be," The shepherd sigh'd, "my woes I crave Smother'd in me, I in my grave; Yet be in show or truth a saint, Or, fiend, breathe anthems, hear my plaint For her and her breath's symphony, Which now makes full the harmony Above, and to whose voice the spheres Listen, and call her music theirs. This was I blest on earth with, so As Druids amorous did grow Jealous of both, for as one day This star, as yet but set in clay, By an embracing river lay, They steep'd her in the hollow'd brook, Which from her human nature took, And straight to heaven with winged fear, Thus ravish'd with her, ravish her." The nymph repli'd, "This holy rape Became the gods, whose obscure shape They cloth'd with light, whilst ill you grieve Your better life should ever live, And weep that she to whom you wish What heav'n could give, has all its bliss; Calling her angel here, yet be Sad at this true divinity: She 's for the altar not the skies, Whom first you crown, then sacrifice. "Fond man thus to a precipice Aspires, till at the top his eyes Have lost the safety of the plain, Then begs of Fate the vales again." The now confounded shepherd cries, "Ye all-confounding Destinies! How did you make that voice so sweet Without that glorious form to it? Thou sacred spirit of my dear, Where'er thou hover'st o'er us, hear! Imbark thee in the laurel tree, And a new Phæbus follows thee, Who, 'stead of all his burning rays, Will strive to catch thee with his lays; Or if within the orient vine, Thou art both deity and wine; But if thou takest the myrtle grove, That Paphos is, thou Queen of Love, And I thy swain who else must die By no beasts, but thy cruelty. But you are rougher than the wind: Are souls on earth than heav'n more kind? Imprison'd in mortality, Lucasta would have answer'd me." "Lucasta!" Aramantha said. "Is she that virgin-star a maid, Except her prouder livery, In beauty poor, and cheap as I? Whose glory like a meteor shone, Or aëery apparition, Admir'd a while but slighted known." Fierce, as the chafed lion hies, He rouses him, and to her flies, Thinking to answer with his spear. Now, as in war intestine, where, I' th' mist of a black battle, each Lays at his next, then makes a breach Through th' entrails of another, whom He sees nor knows when he did come, Guided alone by rage and th' drum, But stripping and impatient wild, He finds too soon his only child: So our expiring desp'rate lover Far'd, when amaz'd he did discover Lucasta in this nymph; his sin Darts the accursed javelin 'Gainst his own breast, which she puts by, With a soft lip and gentle eye, Then closes with him on the ground; And now her smiles have heal'd his wound, Alexis too again is found; But not until those heavy crimes She hath kiss'd off a thousand times, Who, not contented with this pain, Doth threaten to offend again. And now they gaze, and sigh, and weep, Whilst each cheek doth the other's steep, Whilst tongues as exorcis'd are calm; Only the rhet'ric of the palm Prevailing pleads, until at last, They chain'd in one another fast, Lucasta to him doth relate Her various chance and diff'ring fate: How chas'd by Hydraphil, and track'd, The num'rous foe to Philanact, Who, whilst they for the same things fight, As bards' decrees and druids' rite, For safeguard of their proper joys And shepherd's freedom, each destroys The glory of this Sicily; Since, seeking thus the remedy, They fancy (building on false ground) The means must them and it confound, Yet are resolv'd to stand or fall, And win a little or lose all. From this sad storm of fire and blood She fled to this yet living wood; Where she 'mongst savage beasts doth find Herself more safe than humankind. Then she relates how Cælia, The Lady here, strips her array, And girdles her in homespun bays, Then makes her conversant in lays Of birds, and swains more innocent, That ken not guile or courtshipment. Now walks she to her bow'r to dine Under a shade of eglantine, Upon a dish of Nature's cheer, Which both grew dress'd and serv'd up there; That done, she feasts her smell with posies Pluck'd from the damask cloth of roses, Which there continually doth stay, And only frost can take away; Then wagers which hath most content, Her eye, ear, hand, her gust or scent. Entranc'd Alexis sees and hears, As walking above all the spheres; Knows and adores this, and is wild Until with her he live thus mild. So that which to his thoughts he meant For loss of her a punishment, His arms hung up and his sword broke, His ensigns folded, he betook Himself unto the humble crook; And for a full reward of all, She now doth him her shepherd call, And in a see of flow'rs instal; Then gives her faith immediately, Which he returns religiously; Both vowing in her peaceful cave To make their bridal-bed and grave. But the true joy this pair conceiv'd, Each from the other first bereav'd, And then found, after such alarms Fast pinion'd in each other's arms, Ye panting virgins, that do meet Your loves within their winding-sheet, Breathing and constant still ev'n there; Or souls their bodies in yon' sphere, Or angels men return'd from hell, And separated minds can tell. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LA BELLA BONA ROBA by RICHARD LOVELACE THE GRASSHOPPER; TO MY NOBLE FRIEND MR. CHARLES COTTON by RICHARD LOVELACE THE SCRUTINY; SONG by RICHARD LOVELACE TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON by RICHARD LOVELACE TO AMARANTHA, THAT SHE WOULD DISHEVEL HER HAIR by RICHARD LOVELACE TO LUCASTA, [ON] GOING BEYOND THE SEAS by RICHARD LOVELACE TO LUCASTA, [ON] GOING TO THE WARS by RICHARD LOVELACE A BLACK PATCH ON LUCASTA'S FACE (1) by RICHARD LOVELACE A BLACK PATCH ON LUCASTA'S FACE (2) by RICHARD LOVELACE |
|