Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots; Their port was more than human as they stood: I took it for a fairy vision
Of some gay creatures of the element
That in the colours of the rainbow live,
And play i' the plighted clouds. I was awe-struck, And, as I past, I worshipt; if those you seek, It were a journey like the path to heaven,
What readiest way would bring me to that place? Comus. Due west it rises from this shrubby point. Lady. To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose. In such a scant allowance of star-light,
Would overtask the best land pilot's art,
Without the sure guess of well-practised feet.
Comus. I know each lane, and every alley green, Dingle, or bushy dell, of this wide wood, And every bosky bourn from side to side My daily walks and ancient neighbourhood; And if your stray attendants be yet lodged, Or shroud within these limits, I shall know Ere morrow wake, or the low roosted lark From her thatch'd pallet rouse; if otherwise, I can conduct you, lady, to a low
But loyal cottage, where you may be safe Till further quest.
Shepherd, I take thy word,
And trust thy honest offered courtesy, Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds
With smoky rafters, than in tapestry halls In courts of princes, where it first was named, And yet is most pretended: in a place Less warranted than this, or less secure,
I cannot be, that I should fear to change it.
Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial To my proportion'd strength. Shepherd, lead on.
El. Br. Unmuffle, ye faint stars; and thou, fair moon,
That wont'st to love the traveller's benison,
Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud,
And disinherit Chaos, that reigns here
In double night of darkness and of shades; Or, if your influence be quite dammed up With black usurping mists, some gentle taper, Though a rush candle from the wicker hole Of some clay habitation, visit us
With thy long levell'd rule of streaming light; And thou shalt be our star of Arcady,
Be barr'd that happiness, might we but hear The folded flocks penn'd in their wattled cotes, Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops, Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock Count the night watches to his feathery dames, "Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering, In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs. But, O that hapless virgin, our lost sister! Where may she wander now, whither betake her From the chill dew, among rude burs and thistles? Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now, Or 'gainst the rugged bark of some broad elm Leans her unpillow'd head, fraught with sad fears. What if in wild amazement and affright?
Or, while we speak, within the direful grasp
Of savage hunger, or of savage heat!
El. Br. Peace, brother: be not over exquisite
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils:
For grant they be so; while they rest unknown, What need a man forestall his date of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid? Or, if they be but false alarms of fear, How bitter is such self-delusion!
I do not think my sister so to seek,
Or so unprincipled in virtue's book,
And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms ever, As that the single want of light and noise
(Not being in danger, as I trust she is not) Could stir the constant mood of her calm thoughts, And put them into misbecoming plight.
Virtue could see to do what virtue would
By her own radiant light, though sun and moon Were in the flat sea sunk. And wisdom's self Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude;
Where, with her best nurse, contemplation, She plumes her feathers and lets grow her wings, That in the various bustle of resort
Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd. He that has light within his own clear breast, May sit i' the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he, that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts, Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself is his own dungeon.
That musing meditation most affects
The pensive secrecy of desert cell,
Far from the cheerful haunt of men and herds, And sits as safe as in a senate-house;
For who would rob a hermit of his weeds,
His few books, or his beads, or maple dish,
Or do his grey hairs any violence? But beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree
Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard Of dragon watch, with unenchanted eye, To save her blossoms and defend her fruit From the rash hand of bold incontinence. You may as well spread out the unsunn'd heaps Of miser's treasure by an outlaw's den, And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope Danger will wink on opportunity, And let a single helpless maiden pass Uninjured in this wild surrounding waste. Of night, or loneliness, it recks me not; I fear the dread events that dog them both, Lest some ill greeting touch attempt the person Of our unowned sister.
I do not, brother, Infer, as if I thought my sister's state Secure, without all doubt or controversy; Yet, where an equal poise of hope and fear Does arbitrate the event, my nature is That I incline to hope, rather than fear, And gladly banish squint suspicion. My sister is not so defenceless left
As you imagine; she has a hidden strength. Which you remember not.
Sec. Br. What hidden strength, Unless the strength of Heaven, if you mean that?
El. Br. I mean that too, but yet a hidden strength, Which, if Heaven gave it, may be term'd her own: 'Tis chastity, my brother, chastity:
She, that has that, is clad in complete steel; And, like a quiver'd nymph with arrows keen, May trace huge forests, and unharbour'd heaths, Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds; Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, No savage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer,
Will dare to soil her virgin purity:
Yea, there where very desolation dwells,
By grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid shades, She may pass on with unblench'd majesty, Be it not done in pride, or in presumption. Some say, no evil thing that walks by night, In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call Antiquity from the old schools of Greece, To testify the arms of chastity?
Hence had the huntress Dian her dread bow, Fair silver-shafted queen, for ever chaste, Wherewith she tamed the brinded lioness, And spotted mountain pard, but set at nought The frivolous bolt of Cupid; gods and men Fear'd her stern frown, and she was queen o' the woods. What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield,
That wise Minerva wore, unconquer'd virgin, Wherewith she freez'd her foes to congeal'd stone,
But rigid looks of chaste austerity,
And noble grace that dash'd brute violence With sudden adoration and blank awe? So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt: And, in clear dream and solemn vision, Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear; Till oft converse with heavenly habitants. Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape, The unpolluted temple of the mind,
« ForrigeFortsæt » |