Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ELEGY (1), by CHARLES COTTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ELEGY (1), by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Gods! Are you just and can it be
Last Line: Must live or die for you alone.


GODS! are you just and can it be
You should deal man his misery
With such a liberal hand, yet spare
So meanly when his joys you share?
Durst timorous Mortality
Demand of this the reason why?
The argument of all our ills
Would end in this, that 'tis your wills.
Be it so then, and since 'tis fit
We to your harsh decrees submit,
Farewell all durable content,
Nothing but woe is permanent.

How strangely, in a little space,
Is my state chang'd from what it was,
When my Clorinda with her rays,
Illustrated this happy place?
When she was here, was here, alas!
How sadly sounds that, when she was!
That Monarch rul'd not under sky,
Who was so great a Prince as I:
And if who boasts most treasure be
The greatest Monarch, I was he;
As seiz'd of her, who from her birth
Has been the treasure of the earth:
But she is gone and I no more
That mighty Sovereign, but as poor,
Since stripped of that my glorious trust,
As he who grovels in the dust.

Now I could quarrel Heav'n, and be
Ringleader to a mutiny,
Like that of the Gigantic Wars,
And hector my malignant stars;
Or, in a tamer method, sit
Sighing, as though my heart would split;
With looks dejected, arms across,
Mourning and weeping for a loss
My Sweet (if kind as heretofore)
Can in two short-liv'd hours restore.

Some God then, (sure you are not all
Deaf to poor Lovers when they call)
Commiserating my sad smart,
Touch fair Clorinda's noble heart
To pity a poor sufferer,
Disdains to sigh, unless for her!
Some friendly Deity possess
Her generous breast with my distress!
Oh! tell her how I sigh away
The tedious hours of the day;
Hating all light that does not rise
From the gay morning of her eyes:
Tell her that friends, which were to be
Welcome to men in misery,
To me, I know not how, of late
Are grown to be importunate:
My books which once were wont to be
My best beloved company,
Are (save a Prayer-Book for form)
Left to the canker or the worm:
My study's grief, my pleasure care,
My joys are woe, my hope despair,
Fears are my drink, deep sighs my food,
And my companion's solitude.

Night too, which Heav'n ordained to be
Man's chiefest friend 's my enemy,
When she her sable curtain spreads,
The whole creation make their beds,
And everything on earth is bless'd
With gentle and refreshing rest:
But wretched I, more pensive made
By the addition of that shade,
Am left alone, with sorrow roar
The grief I did but sigh before;
And tears which, check'd by shame and light,
Do only drop by day, by night
(No longer aw'd by nice respects.)
Gush out in floods and cataracts.
Ill life, ah Love, why is it so!
To me is measur'd out by woe,
Whilst she, who is that life's great light,
Conceals her glories from my sight.
Say, fair Clorinda, why should he
Who is thy virtue's creature be
More wretched than the rest of men
Who love and are belov'd agen?
I know my passion, not desert,
Has giv'n me int'rest in a heart,
Truer than ever man possess'd,
And in that knowledge I am bless'd;
Yet even thence proceeds my care,
That makes your absence hard to bear;
For were you cruel, I should be
Glad to avoid your cruelty;
But happy in an equal flame,
I, Sweetest, thus impatient am:
Then since your presence can restore
My heart the joy it had before,
Since lib'ral Heaven never gave
To woman such a pow'r to save,
Practise that sovereign pow'r on one
Must live or die for you alone.





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