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Poems of the Week–More Marvell

An Epitaph

Enough: and leave the rest to Fame.
'Tis to commend her but to name.
Courtship, which living she declin'd,
When dead to offer were unkind...


Where never any could speak ill,
Who would officious Praises spill?
Nor can the truest Wit or Friend,
Without Detracting, her commend.
To say she liv'd a Virgin chast,
In this Age loose and all unlac't;
Nor was, when Vice is so allow'd,
Of Virtue or asham'd, or proud;
That her Soul was on Heaven so bent

No Minute but it came and went;

That ready her last Debt to pay
She summ'd her Life up ev'ry day;
Modest as Morn; as Mid-day bright;
Gentle as Ev'ning; cool as Night;
'Tis true: but all so weakly said;
'Twere more Significant, She's Dead.

 

The Garden

 

How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays ; 
And their uncessant labors see
Crowned from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid ;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose.Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men :
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow ;
Society is all but rude,
To this delicious solitude.No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green ;
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name.
Little, alas, they know or heed,
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheresoe'er your barks I wound
No name shall but your own be found.When we have run our passion's heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat :
The gods who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race.
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow,
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head ;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine ;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach ;
Stumbling on melons as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness :
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find ;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas ;
Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide :
There like a bird it sits and sings,
Then whets and combs its silver wings ;
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walked without a mate :
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there :
Two paradises 'twere in one
To live in Paradise alone.

How well the skillful gard'ner drew
Of flowers and herbs this dial new ;
Where from above the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run ;
And, as it works, th' industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers!

 

8 Responses »

  1. It's probably very obvious, but may I ask who the Epitaph was for? It wasn't Queen Elizabeth, was it? Marvell was around well after her death, correct?

    I can't quite figure out if the Epitaph is actually praising the subject or not. It seems guarded with the language, and the more I read it the more I think that it's not a very flattering epitaph. Have I missed the point?

  2. Mr. Cornell, I had to find out who it was, too--a young woman "in the prime of her age", Frances Jones, who was a granddaughter of the Lord High Treasurer of Ireland, Richard Boyle. I haven't found out whether Marvell knew her.

    I think that what you see as not very flattering in the poem is that every phrase used to describe her is stock. Marvell says them all and verifies them ("'Tis true"}, then in the last line conveys the wrenching sadness of losing life before more than an untested virtue is realized. He might be paraphrased as saying, "She was saintly and holy--she was above commendation--and now, alas, she's dead, 'in the prime of her age', when commendation should be earned, or what's life for?"

  3. Ray,
    It seems always sad when they die young -- virtuous or not. Here is one called, "Epigrams"

    Live Go-Go Girls" the noen said,
    The place next door they have them dead.

    Another of the neon pearls:
    "exotic and Unsensored Girls!"
    No mispelling! In the bar,
    you discover that they are.

    "The company can run for years," it's Chairman
    stated
    On the inertia this committee generated."

    May all who profit when I but and sell
    find their real estae in hell.

  4. "when I buy and sell"

  5. Thank you, Mr. Olson, for the information. And thank you also for passing on the link to the Dakota Dave show. That, along with archived episodes of the Chronicles Unbound radio show, are the only two things on the Internet my network administrator has somehow not figured out how to block.

    I'm not wise enough in the ways of poetry or the world to expound upon "The Garden". The only two thoughts I had were

    1 - It is another, much more beautiful way of expressing the dictum "Hell is other people"

    2 - I was struck by how completely cut off from the tradition and culture Mr. Marvell inhabited is modern man. If left alone in the garden today, Man would have his blackberry or iPhone to tinker with. If he didn't have those gadgets he would be mortified or bored to death or fall asleep. Many modern men not only have no apprecitaion for solitude, they actively fear it. I guess Hell's composition is not restricted just to "other people".

  6. Robert, are those found epigrams, by any chance? They have the right vernacular feel for it, and I'm always happy to find them contexts where they reply to more typical and even earthier (usually not good-earthier) flashes of insight.

    Mr. Cornell, you're welcome. I'm listening to Dave Hull's show as I write this. Today's a theme show consisting of songs about dreams and dreaming. Sublime, I think.

    I think you're right about "The Garden", but note Marvell's realization, "But 'twas beyond a mortal's share /
    To wander solitary there [i.e., in Eden]". In most if not all the poems Dr. Fleming has posted, we see a poet of great tragic sensibility, unable to praise without qualification, unable to celebrate without humility. I admit I've never read Marvell so closely before. I am happy to find how much I like him. He is admirably balanced as well as consummately witty--in the sense of acuity more than of humor.

  7. Ray,
    Yes, basically they are from a collection of poems called, Pale Horse, Easy Rider by an old teacher of mine. He wanted, as a young man, to be a cowboy, a teacher, a poet and ride in the National Finals Rodeo in Madison Square Garden. He accomplished three of the four before he passed away several years ago. I will bring a copy of the collection up for you at this years summer school.

  8. Yippee-i-ay! I'll bring Pop Wagner's CD that includes "The Impressionist Two-Step"--that's the Cajun 2-step, because the album is "Disco on the Bayou".