Chapter 22
NOTES AND ILl.u.s.tRATIONS.
In 1648 the t.i.tle is 'To the Queene's Majestie upon his dedicating to her the foregoing Hymne, viz. "A Hymne for the Epiphanie,"' which there precedes, but in 1652 follows, the dedicatory lines to the Queen. 1648 furnishes these variations: line 7 misprints 'down' for 'dawn:' line 11 reads 'deare' for 'rare:' line 14 'royall' for 'golden:' line 18 corrects our text's misprint of 'whose' for 'whole,' which I have accepted: line 20 reads 'great' for 'dread.'
In line 3 we read
'Those royall sages sue for decent place.'
We know that the King on Twelfth-day presented gold, frankincense and myrrh, and so perhaps did the Queen. But these gifts were not presented to the magi-kings, and CRASHAW seems to sue on behalf of 'these royall sages.' The explanation doubtless is that this was a verse-letter to the Queen, enclosing as a gift his Epiphany Hymn 'sung as by the three Kings.'
In line 5 'the purpling bud,' &c. requires study. Led by the (erroneous) punctuation (face,) I supposed this clause to refer to the 'Babe.' But would our Poet have said that the 'dawn of the world smiled on the Babe's face,' and in the same breath have called the face a 'rosy dawn'?
Looking to this, and his rather profuse employment of 'bud,' I now believe the clause to be another description of the kings, and punctuate (face;). The rhythm of the pa.s.sage is certainly improved thereby and made more like that of CRASHAW, and the words 'right royall blood,'
which may be thought to become difficult, can be thus explained. The races of the heathen kings were not 'royal,' their authority being usurped and falsely derived from false G.o.ds, and the kingly blood first became truly royal when the kings recognised the supreme sovereignty of the King of kings and the derivation of their authority from Him, and when they were in turn recognised by Him. Hence the use of the epithet 'purpling,' the Christian or Christ-accepting kings being the first who were truly 'born in the purple,' or '_right_ royall blood.'
In lines 15-18, as punctuated in preceding editions, the Poet is made to arrange his words after a fas.h.i.+on hardly to be called English, and to jumble his metaphors like a poetaster or 4th of July orator in America.
But both sense and poetry are restored by taking the (!) after 'blood'
as at least equal to (:), and by replacing 'whose' by 'whole,' as in 1648. This seems to us restoration, not change. Even thus read, however, the pa.s.sage is somewhat cloudy; but the construction is--the groves of sceptres of your high-born ancestors bend with you their wealthy tops, when you bow down your head. Our Poet is fond of inversions,
VPON EASTER DAY.[40]
Rise heire of fresh Eternity 1 From thy virgin tombe!
Rise mighty Man of wonders, and Thy World with Thee!
Thy tombe the uniuersall East, Nature's new wombe, 5 Thy tombe, fair Immortalitie's perfumed nest.
Of all the glories make Noone gay, This is the Morne; This Rock buds forth the fountaine of the streames of Day; In Joye's white annalls live this howre 10 When Life was borne; No cloud scoule on His radiant lids, no tempest lower.
Life, by this Light's nativity All creatures have; Death onely by this Daye's just doome is forc't to dye, 15 Nor is Death forc't; for may he ly Thron'd in Thy grave, Death will on this condition be content to dye.
SOSPETTO D' HERODE.
LIBRO PRIMO.[41]
ARGOMENTO.
_Casting the times with their strong signes, Death's master his owne death divines: Strugling for helpe, his best hope is Herod's suspition may heale his.
Therefore he sends a fiend to wake The sleeping tyrant's fond mistake; _foolish_ Who feares (in vaine) that He Whose birth Meanes Heav'n, should meddle with his Earth._
I.
Muse, now the servant of soft loves no more, Hate is thy theame, and Herod, whose unblest Hand (O what dares not jealous greatnesse?) tore A thousand sweet babes from their mothers' brest: The bloomes of martyrdome. O be a dore Of language to my infant lips, yee best Of confessours: whose throates answering his swords, Gave forth your blood for breath, spoke soules for words.
II.
Great Anthony! Spain's well-beseeming pride, Thou mighty branch of emperours and kings; The beauties of whose dawne what eye may bide?
Which with the sun himselfe weigh's equall wings; Mappe of heroick worth! whom farre and wide To the beleeving world, Fame boldly sings: Deigne thou to weare this humble wreath, that bowes To be the sacred honour of thy browes.
III.
Nor needs my Muse a blush, or these bright flowers Other than what their owne blest beauties bring: They were the smiling sons of those sweet bowers That drink the deaw of life, whose deathlesse spring, Nor Sirian flame nor Borean frost deflowers: From whence heav'n-labouring bees with busie wing, Suck hidden sweets, which well-digested proves Immortall hony for the hive of loves.
IV.
Thou, whose strong hand with so transcendent worth, Holds high the reine of faire Parthenope, That neither Rome nor Athens can bring forth A name in n.o.ble deeds rivall to thee!
Thy fame's full noise, makes proud the patient Earth, Farre more then, matter for my Muse and mee.
The Tyrrhene Seas and sh.o.r.es sound all the same And in their murmurs keepe thy mighty name.
V.
Below the bottome of the great Abysse, There where one center reconciles all things: The World's profound heart pants; there placed is Mischiefe's old master. Close about him clings A curl'd knot of embracing snakes, that kisse His correspondent cheekes: these loathsome strings Hold the perverse prince in eternall ties Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.
VI.
The judge of torments and the king of teares, He fills a burnisht throne of quenchlesse fire: And for his old faire roabes of light, he weares A gloomy mantle of darke flames; the tire That crownes his hated head on high appeares: Where seav'n tall hornes (his empire's pride) aspire.
And to make up h.e.l.l's majesty, each horne Seav'n crested Hydras, horribly adorne.
VII.
His eyes, the sullen dens of Death and Night, Startle the dull ayre with a dismall red: Such his fell glances, as the fatall light Of staring comets, that looke kingdomes dead.
From his black nostrills, and blew lips, in spight Of h.e.l.l's owne stinke, a worser stench is spread.
His breath h.e.l.l's lightning is: and each deepe groane Disdaines to think that Heav'n thunders alone.
VIII.
His flaming eyes' dire exhalation, Vnto a dreadfull pile gives fiery breath; Whose unconsum'd consumption preys upon The never-dying life of a long death.
In this sad house of slow destruction, (His shop of flames) hee fryes himself, beneath A ma.s.se of woes; his teeth for torment gnash, While his steele sides sound with his tayle's strong lash.
IX.
Three rigourous virgins waiting still behind, a.s.sist the throne of th' iron-sceptred king.
With whips of thornes and knotty vipers twin'd They rouse him, when his ranke thoughts need a sting.
Their lockes are beds of uncomb'd snakes that wind About their shady browes in wanton rings.