The Map and the Clock

by Carol Ann Duffy

  O holy Hope! and high Humility,

  High as the heavens above!

  These are your walks, and you have showed them me,

  To kindle my cold love.

  Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just,

  Shining nowhere, but in the dark;

  What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

  Could man outlook that mark!

  He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know,

  At first sight, if the bird be flown;

  But what fair well or grove he sings in now,

  That is to him unknown.

  And yet as Angels in some brighter dreams

  Call to the soul, when man doth sleep:

  So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,

  And into glory peep.

  If a star were confined into a tomb,

  Her captive flames must needs burn there;

  But when the hand that locked her up gives room,

  She’ll shine through all the sphere.

  O Father of eternal life, and all

  Created glories under Thee!

  Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall

  Into true liberty.

  Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill

  My perspective still as they pass:

  Or else remove me hence unto that hill,

  Where I shall need no glass.

  HENRY VAUGHAN

  In Praise of a Girl

  Slip of loveliness, slim, seemly,

  freshly fashioned, modest maiden, star serene,

  sage and queenly, gracious, granting heart;

  paragon, look upon

  this grave song, growing sign

  that I pine, my constant moon.

  No beauty clear so dear I’ll hold,

  not till I’m old, foam of the sea,

  loveliest lily of the land,

  soft of hand, white-breasted, brisk, bright, flower-created;

  who’d not be charmed whose blood is warmed?

  Moon of my nature, it was you

  I viewed in my desire,

  because your brow is like the snow,

  able, notable, gifted, gay, flawless,

  laughing, skilful, peerless pearl of girls.

  If from all lands girls came in bands

  and from a tree one could see

  that sweet society of all loveliest ones,

  the paragons of town and country,

  dazzling, shapely, stately, fair, I declare,

  Moon of Wales, your loveliness prevails.

  Your praise and glory, peerless girl,

  now impel me to applaud

  your sweet looks, your subtle tongue,

  dawn-sweet dearest, purest, prettiest, many-beautied,

  unpolluted and reputed spotless rose,

  there’s none to make comparison,

  wave sparkling in the darkling,

  with your parabling of sweet peace,

  piece of goodness, fond enchantress, blithesome dove,

  lucent, laughing, blameless slip of love.

  From love’s curse who’ll be my nurse?

  Will you listen, light of dawn, to my dole?

  Deal me charity, slip of beauty;

  if I win not your good will

  it will kill me, girl of worth; under earth

  there’s sad dearth of space for a person, in that prison;

  low there my share of ash and loam.

  That’s my legacy from your beauty

  unless, daybreak, for my sake

  my love-ache you’ll relieve, grant reprieve,

  properly gentle, fluent, generous girl.

  Cure my illness, dawn of sweetness,

  shapely, lissom lass;

  and bestow, for my woe,

  a sweet lotion; maiden, listen

  and endorse whilst I rehearse this true verse.

  My sweetly woven, only chosen,

  if my triumph makes you mine only,

  life will be fine, flesh of the lily.

  On this journey, soft of parley,

  you’ll find endless perfect heaven, morn and even,

  swift mirth and soft ease on this earth:

  I’m the most faithful man yet made,

  eggshell maid, still to you.

  Where you dwell it will be well

  for me to love, luscious, lively slip, so sprightly,

  following freely your trim tread;

  in spire of all, I expect

  to be your fellow, fine of eyebrow;

  it’s my aim, in God’s good name,

  nights and days in faithful ways to live

  always in the solace of your love.

  O, it’s bitter, beauteous girl,

  a true body can’t escape from its sickness;

  cruel harshness that I suffer for your sake!

  You shall see, rarity,

  who adores you ceaselessly; pity me,

  cherish me charitably.

  If kindly you’ll my days extend

  and send ending to my pain,

  you shall be gloried till I’m buried:

  come, to greet me, set me free, let there not be

  open hurting of my diligent, good heart.

  O, take my part in this story

  of my weary, st ark lament;

  don’t augment my suffering,

  ease my unsparing, gloomy faring,

  my sweet darling, with swift loving.

  HUW MORUS

  translated by Gwyn Williams

  Nature’s Cook

  Death is the cook of nature, and we find

  Creatures drest several ways to please her mind;

  Some Death doth roast with fevers burning hot,

  And some he boils with dropsies in a pot;

  Some are consumed for jelly by degrees,

  And some with ulcers, gravy out to squeeze;

  Some, as with herbs, he stuffs with gouts and pains,

  Others for tender meat he hangs in chains;

  Some in the sea he pickles up to keep,

  Others he, as soused brawn, in wine doth steep;

  Some flesh and bones he with the Pox chops small,

  And doth a French fricassee make withall;

  Some on grid-irons of calentures are broiled,

  And some are trodden down, and so quite spoiled:

  But some are baked, when smothered they do die,

  Some meat he doth by hectick fevers fry;

  In sweat sometimes he stews with savory smell,

  An hodge-podge of diseases he likes well;

  Some brains he dresseth with apoplexy,

  Or fawce of megrims, swimming plenteously;

  And tongues he dries with smoak from stomachs ill,

  Which, as the second course he sends up still;

  Throats he doth cut, blood puddings for to make,

  And puts them in the guts, which cholicks rack;

  Some hunted are by him for deer, that’s red,

  And some as stall-fed oxen knocked o’th’ head;

  Some singed and scald for bacon, seem most rare,

  When with salt rheum and phlegm they powdered are.

  MARGARET CAVENDISH,

  DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE

  A Song of Sorrow

  O Robertson of Inverawe,

  You take the road as a stranger;

  Though Mary Cameron lies in front,

  Young did I lose any interest in you.

  God, it is I who am undone,

  Going to lie with another man,

  With my own man behind the house,

  Hunter of the brown stags and hinds.

  Darling of the men of the Dale,

  You took me out of the house of plague,

  Where my father and mother lay,

  My dear sister and five brothers.

  Darling of all men under the sun,

  You built me a house in the spreading woods,

  Joyful there my lying down and rising,

  No wond
er that – for I was new-wed.

  MARY CAMERON

  An Answer to another persuading a Lady to Marriage

  Forbear, bold youth, all’s Heaven here,

  And what you do aver,

  To others, courtship may appear,

  ’Tis sacriledge to her.

  She is a publick deity,

  And were’t not very odd

  She should depose her self to be

  A petty household god?

  First make the sun in private shine,

  And bid the world adieu,

  That so he may his beams confine

  In complement to you.

  But if of that you do despair,

  Think how you did amiss,

  To strive to fix her beams which are

  More bright and large than this.

  KATHERINE PHILIPS

  The Downfall of Charing Cross

  Undone, undone the lawyers are,

  They wander about the towne,

  Nor can find the way to Westminster,

  Now Charing-cross is downe:

  At the end of the Strand, they make a stand,

  Swearing they are at a loss,

  And chaffing say, that’s not the way,

  They must go by Charing-cross.

  The parliament to vote it down

  Conceived it very fitting,

  For fear it should fall, and kill them all,

  In the house, as they were sitting.

  They were told, god-wot, it had a plot,

  Which made them so hard-hearted,

  To give command, it should not stand,

  But be taken down and carted.

  But neither man, woman, nor child,

  Will say, I’m confident,

  They ever heard it speak one word

  Against the parliament.

  An informer swore, it letters bore,

  Or else it had been freed;

  I’ll take, in troth, my Bible oath,

  It could neither write, nor read.

  The committee said, that verily

  To popery it was bent;

  For ought I know, it might be so,

  For to church it never went.

  What with excise, and such device,

  The kingdom doth begin

  To think you’ll leave them ne’er a cross,

  Without doors nor within.

  Methinks the common-council should

  Of it have taken pity,

  ’Cause, good old cross, it always stood

  So firmly to the city.

  Since crosses you so much disdain,

  Faith, if I were as you,

  For fear the king should rule again,

  I’d pull down Tiburn too.

  ANON

  ‘If all the world were paper’

  If all the world were paper,

  And all the sea were inke;

  And all the trees were bread and cheese,

  What should we do for drinke?

  If all the world were sand ’o,

  Oh, then what should we lack ’o;

  If as they say there were no clay,

  How should we make tobacco?

  If all our vessels ran ’a,

  If none but had a crack ’a;

  If Spanish apes eat all the grapes,

  What should we do for sack ‘a?

  If fryers had no bald pates,

  Nor nuns had no dark cloysters,

  If all the seas were beans and pease,

  What should we do for oysters?

  If there had been no projects,

  Nor none that did great wrongs;

  If fidlers shall turne players all,

  What should we doe for songs?

  If all things were eternall,

  And nothing their end bringing;

  If this should be, then how should we

  Here make an end of singing?

  ANON

  The Drowned Blackbird

  Lovely daughter of Conn O’Neill,

  You are in shock. Sleep a long sleep.

  After the loss of what was dearest,

  Don’t let your people hear you weep.

  The song of the quick-quick flitting bird

  Has fled, sweet girl, left you forlorn.

  Always what’s dearest is endangered

  So bear up now, no beating of hands.

  Instead of keens and beating hands

  Be silent, girl, as dew in air.

  Lovely daughter of Conn O’Neill,

  The bird is dead, don’t shed a rear.

  Child of that high-born kingly Ulster line,

  Show what you’re made of, don’t let yourself go wild

  Even though the loveliest bird in the leaf-and-branch scrim

  Is drowned, washed white in whitewash: water and lime.

  SÉAMAS DALL MAC CUARTA

  translated by Seamus Heaney

  Verses Said to be Written on the Union

  The Queen has lately lost a part

  Of her entirely English heart,

  For want of which by way of botch,

  She pieced it up again with Scotch.

  Blessed revolution, which creates

  Divided hearts, united states.

  See how the double nation lies;

  Like a rich coat with skirts of frieze:

  As if a man in making posies

  Should bundle thistles up with roses.

  Whoever yet a union saw

  Of kingdoms, without faith or law.

  Henceforward let no statesman dare,

  A kingdom to a ship compare;

  Lest he should call our commonweal,

  A vessel with a double keel:

  Which just like ours, new rigged and manned,

  And got about a league from land,

  By change of wind to leeward side

  The pilot knew not how to guide

  So tossing faction will o’erwhelm

  Out crazy double-bottomed realm.

  JONATHAN SWIFT

  The Liberty

  Shall I be one of those obsequious fools

  That square their lives by Custom’s scanty rules?

  Condemned forever to the puny curse

  Of precepts taught at boarding-school or nurse,

  That all the business of my life must be

  Foolish, dull, trifling formality?

  Confined to a strict magic complaisance

  And round a circle of nice visits dance,

  Nor for my life beyond the chalk advance?

  The devil Censure stands to guard the same;

  One step awry, he tears my venturous fame,

  So when my friends, in a facetious vein

  With mirth and wit a while can entertain,

  Though ne’er so pleasant, yet I must not stay,

  If a commanding clock bids me away,

  But with a sudden start, as in a fright,

  ‘I must be gone indeed! ’Tis after eight!’

  Sure these restraints with such regret we bear

  That dreaded Censure can’t be more severe,

  Which has no terror if we did not fear,

  But let the bugbear timorous infants fright.

  I’ll not be scared from innocent delight.

  Whatever is not vicious I dare do.

  I’ll never to the idol Custom bow

  Unless it suits with my own humour too.

  Some boast their fetters of formality,

  Fancy they ornamental bracelets be;

  I’m sure they’re gyves and manacles to me.

  To their dull, fulsome rules I’ll not be tied,

  For all the flattery that exalts their pride.

  My sex forbids I should my silence break;

  I lose my jest, ’cause women must not speak.

  Mysteries must not be with my search profaned;

  My closet not with books but sweetmeats crammed,

  A little china to advance the show,

  My prayerbook and Seven Champions or so.

 
My pen, if ever used, employed must be

  In lofty themes of useful housewifery,

  Transcribing old receipts of cookery,

  And what is necessary among the rest,

  Good cures for agues and a cancered breast,

  But I can’t here write my probatum est.

  My daring pen will bolder sallies make

  And, like myself, an unchecked freedom take,

  Not chained to the nice order of my sex,

  And with restraints my wishing soul perplex.

  I’ll blush at sin, and not what some call shame,

  Secure my virtue, slight precarious fame.

  This courage speaks me brave. ’Tis surely worse

  To keep those rules which privately we curse,

  And I’ll appeal to all the formal saints

  With what reluctance they endure restraints.

  SARAH FYGE

  A Grey Eye Weeping

  That my old bitter heart was pierced in this black doom,

  That foreign devils have made our land a tomb,

  That the sun that was Munster’s glory has gone down

  Has made me a beggar before you, Valentine Brown.

  That royal Cashel is bare of house and guest,

  That Brian’s turreted home is the otter’s nest,

  That the kings of the land have neither land nor crown

  Has made me a beggar before you, Valentine Brown.

  Garnish away in the west with its master banned,

  Hamburg the refuge of him who has lost his land,

  An old grey eye, weeping for lost renown,

  Have made me a beggar before you, Valentine Brown.

  AODHÁGAN Ó RATHAILLE

  translated by Frank O’Connor

  The Glamoured

  Brightening brightness, alone on the road, she appears,