Classic and Contemporary Poetry
IN ANSWER OF AN ELEGIACAL LETTER UPON THE DEATH OF THE KIND OF SWEDEN, by THOMAS CAREW Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Why dost thou sound, my dear aurelian Last Line: And dance and revel then, as we do now. Subject(s): Townshend, Aurelian (1583-1651) | ||||||||
WHY dost thou sound, my dear Aurelian, In so shrill accents from thy Barbican A loud alarum to my drowsy eyes, Bidding them wake in tears and elegies For mighty Sweden's fall? Alas! how may My lyric feet, that of the smooth soft way Of love and beauty only know the tread, In dancing paces celebrate the dead Victorious king, or his majestic hearse Profane with th' humble touch of their low verse? Virgil, nor Lucan, no, nor Tasso, more Than both, not Donne, worth all that went before, With the united labour of their wit, Could a just poem to this subject fit. His actions were too mighty to be rais'd Higher by verse: let him in prose be prais'd, In modest faithful story, which his deeds Shall turn to poems. When the next age reads Of Frankfort, Leipzig, Wurzburg, of the Rhine, The Lech, the Danube, Tilly, Wallenstein, Bavaria, Pappenheim, Lutzen-field, where he Gain'd after death a posthume victory, They 'll think his acts things rather feign'd than done, Like our romances of The Knight o' th' Sun. Leave we him, then, to the grave chronicler, Who, though to annals he cannot refer His too-brief story, yet his journals may Stand by the Cæsars' years, and, every day Cut into minutes, each shall more contain Of great designment than an emperor's reign. And, since 'twas but his churchyard, let him have For his own ashes now no narrower grave Than the whole German continent's vast womb, Whilst all her cities do but make his tomb. Let us to supreme Providence commit The fate of monarchs, which first thought it fit To rend the empire from the Austrian grasp, And next from Sweden's, even when he did clasp Within his dying arms the sovereignty Of all those provinces, that men might see The Divine wisdom would not leave that land Subject to any one king's sole command. Then let the Germans fear if Cæsar shall, Or the United Princes, rise and fall; But let us, that in myrtle bowers sit Under secure shades, use the benefit Of peace and plenty, which the blessed hand Of our good king gives this obdurate land; Let us of revels sing, and let thy breath, (Which fill'd Fame's trumpet with Gustavus' death, Blowing his name to heaven), gently inspire Thy past'ral pipe, till all our swains admire Thy song and subject, whilst they both comprise The beauties of the SHEPHERD'S PARADISE. For who like thee (whose loose discourse is far More neat and polish'd than our poems are, Whose very gait's more graceful than our dance) In sweetly-flowing numbers may advance The glorious night when, not to act foul rapes Like birds or beasts, but in their angel-shapes, A troop of deities came down to guide Our steerless barks in passion's swelling tide By virtue's card, and brought us from above A pattern of their own celestial love? Nor lay it in dark sullen precepts drown'd, But with rich fancy and clear action crown'd, Through a mysterious fable (that was drawn, Like a transparent veil of purest lawn, Before their dazzling beauties) the divine Venus did with her heavenly Cupid shine. The story's curious web, the masculine style, The subtle sense, did Time and Sleep beguile; Pinion'd and charm'd they stood to gaze upon Th' angelic forms, gestures and motion; To hear those ravishing sounds that did dispense Knowledge and pleasure to the soul and sense. It fill'd us with amazement to behold Love made all spirit; his corporeal mould, Dissected into atoms, melt away To empty air, and from the gross allay Of mixtures and compounding accidents Refin'd to immaterial elements. But when the Queen of Beauty did inspire The air with perfumes, and our hearts with fire, Breathing from her celestial organ sweet Harmonious notes, our souls fell at her feet, And did with humble reverend duty more Her rare perfections than high state adore. These harmless pastimes let my Townshend sing To rural tunes; not that thy Muse wants wing To soar a loftier pitch, for she hath made A noble flight, and plac'd th' heroic shade Above the reach of our faint flagging rhyme; But these are subjects proper to our clime, Tourneys, masques, theatres, better become Our halcyon days. What though the German drum Bellow for freedom and revenge, the noise Concerns not us, nor should divert our joys; Nor ought the thunder of their carabins Drown the sweet airs of our tun'd violins. Believe me, friend, if their prevailing powers Gain them a calm security like ours, They 'll hang their arms up on the olive bough, And dance and revel then, as we do now. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PASTORAL DIALOGUE: SHEPHERD, NYMPH, CHORUS by THOMAS CAREW A PRAYER TO THE WIND by THOMAS CAREW AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF DOCTOR DONNE, DEAN OF PAUL'S by THOMAS CAREW BOLDNESS IN LOVE by THOMAS CAREW DISDAIN RETURNED by THOMAS CAREW EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS [OR VILLERS] (1) by THOMAS CAREW EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS [OR VILLERS] (2) by THOMAS CAREW INGRATEFUL [OR UNGRATEFUL] BEAUTY THREATENED by THOMAS CAREW MARIA WENTWORTH by THOMAS CAREW |
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