Anne Killigrew

Love, the Soul of Poetry

WHen first Alexis did in Verse delight,
  His Muse in Low, but Graceful Numbers walk't,
And now and then a little Proudly stalk't;
  But never aim'd at any noble Flight:
The Herds, the Groves, the gentle purling Streams,
Adorn'd his Song, and were his highest Theams. 

  But Love these Thoughts, like Mists, did soon disperse,
Enlarg'd his Fancy, and set free his Muse,
Biding him more Illustrious Subjects choose;
  The Acts of Gods, and God-like Men reherse.
From thence new Raptures did his Breast inspire,
His scarce Warm-Heart converted was to Fire. 

  Th' exalted Poet rais'd by this new Flame,
With Vigor flys, where late he crept along,
And Acts Divine, in a Diviner Song,
  Commits to the eternal Trompe of Fame.
And thus Alexis does prove Love to be,
As the Worlds Soul, the Soul of Poetry.

On Death

TEll me thou safest End of all our Woe,
Why wreched Mortals do avoid thee so:
Thou gentle drier o'th' afflicteds Tears,
Thou noble ender of the Cowards Fears;
Thou sweet Repose to Lovers sad dispaire,
Thou Calm t'Ambitions rough Tempestuous Care.
If in regard of Bliss thou wert a Curse,
And then the Joys of Paradise art worse;
Yet after Man from his first Station fell,
And God from Eden Adam did expel,
Thou wert no more an Evil, but Relief;
The Balm and Cure to ev'ry Humane Grief:
Through thee (what Man had forfeited before)
He now enjoys, and ne'r can loose it more.
No subtile Serpents in the Grave betray,
Worms on the Body there, not Soul do prey;
No Vice there Tempts, no Terrors there afright,
No Coz'ning Sin affords a false delight:
No vain Contentions do that Peace annoy,
No feirce Alarms break the lasting Joy.

  Ah since from thee so many Blessings flow,
Such real Good as Life can never know;
Come when thou wilt, in thy afrighting'st Dress,
Thy Shape shall never make thy Welcome less.
Thou mayst to Joy, but ne'er to Fear give Birth,
Thou Best, as well as Certain'st thing on Earth.
Fly thee? May Travellers then fly their Rest,
And hungry Infants fly the profer'd Brest.
No, those that faint and tremble at thy Name,
Fly from their Good on a mistaken Fame.
Thus Childish fear did Israel of old
From Plenty and the Promis'd Land with-hold;
They fancy'd Giants, and refus'd to go,
When Canaan did with Milk and Honey flow.

The Complaint of a Lover

SEest thou younder craggy Rock,
    Whose Head o'er-looks the swelling Main,
Where never Shepherd fed his Flock,
    Or careful Peasant sow'd his Grain.

No wholesome Herb grows on the same,
    Or Bird of Day will on it rest;
'Tis Barren as the Hopeless Flame,
    That scortches my tormented Breast.

Deep underneath a Cave does lie,
    Th' entrance hid with dismal Yew,
Where Phebus never shew'd his Eye,
    Or cheerful Day yet pierced through.

In that dark Melancholy Cell,
    (Retreate and Sollace to my Woe)
Love, sad Dispair, and I, do dwell,
    The Springs from whence my Griefs do flow.

Treacherous Love that did appear,
    (When he at first approach't my Heart)
Drest in a Garb far from severe,
    Or threatning ought of future smart.

So Innocent those Charms then seem'd,
    When Rosalinda first I spy'd,
Ah! Who would them have deadly deem'd?
    But Flowers do often Serpents hide.

Beneath those sweets conceal'd lay,
    To Love the cruel Foe, Disdain,
With which (alas) she does repay
    My Constant and Deserving Pain.

When I in Tears have spent the Night,
    With Sighs I usher in the Sun,
Who never saw a sadder sight,
    In all the Courses he has run.

Sleep, which to others Ease does prove,
    Comes unto me, alas, in vain:
For in my Dreams I am in Love,
    And in them too she does Disdain.

Some times t'Amuse my Sorrow, I
    Unto the hollow Rocks repair,
And loudly to the Eccho cry,
    Ah! gentle Nimph come ease my Care.

Thou who, times past, a Lover wer't,
    Ah! pity me, who now am so,
And by a sense of thine own smart,
    Alleviate my Mighty Woe.

Come Flatter then, or Chide my Grief;
    Catch my last Words, and call me Fool;
Or say, she Loves, for my Relief;
    My Passion either sooth, or School.