The Surrender

MY once dear love, hapless that I no more

Must call thee so, the rich affection's store

That fed our hope lies now exhaust and spent,

Like sums of treasure unto bankrupts lent.

We, that did nothing study but the way

To love each other, with which thoughts the day

Rose with delight to us and with them set,

Must learn the hateful art, how to forget.

We that did nothing wish that Heaven would give

Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live

Beyond that wish, all these now cancel must

As if not writ in faith, but words and dust.

Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make,

Witness the chaste desires that never brake

Into unruly heats; witness that breast

Which in thy bosom anchor'd his whole rest;

'Tis no default in us: I dare acquite

Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white

As thy pure self. Cross planets did envý

Us to each other, and Heaven did untie

Faster than vows could bind. Oh, that the stars,

When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars!

Since, then, some higher destinies command,

Let us not strive, nor labor to withstand

What is past help. The longest date of grief

Can never yield a hope of our relief;

And though we waste ourselves in moist laments,

Tears may drown us, but not our discontents.

Fold back our arms, take home our fruitless loves,

That must new fortunes try, like turtle doves

Dislodgëd from their haunts. We must in tears

Unwind a love knit up in many years.

In this last kiss I here surrender thee

Back to thy self, so thou again art free;

Thou in another, sad as that, resend

The truest heart that lover e'er did lend.

Now turn from each. So fare our severed hearts

As the divorced soul from her body parts.

Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

Sic Vita

LIKE to the falling of a star,

Or as the flights of eagles are,

Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,

Or silver drops of morning dew,

Or like a wind that chafes the flood,

Or bubbles which on water stood:

Even such is man, whose borrowed light

Is straight called in, and paid to night.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies;

The spring entombed in autumn lies;

The dew dries up, the star is shot;

The flight is past, and man forgot.

Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

The Exequy

ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint,

Instead of dirges, this complaint;

And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse,

Receive a strew of weeping verse

From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see

Quite melted into tears for thee.

Dear loss! since thy untimely fate

My task hath been to meditate

On thee, on thee; thou art the book,

The library whereon I look,

Though almost blind. For thee, loved clay,

I languish out, not live, the day,

Using no other exercise

But what I practise with mine eyes;

By which wet glasses I find out

How lazily time creeps about

To one that mourns; this, only this,

My exercise and business is.

So I compute the weary hours

With sighs dissolvëd into showers.

Nor wonder if my time go thus

Backward and most preposterous;

Thou hast benighted me; thy set

This eve of blackness did beget,

Who wast my day, though overcast

Before thou hadst thy noon-tide past;

And I remember must in tears,

Thou scarce hadst seen so many years

As day tells hours. By thy clear sun

My love and fortune first did run;

But thou wilt never more appear

Folded within my hemisphere,

Since both thy light and motïon

Like a fled star is fall'n and gone;

And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish

An earth now interposëd is,

Which such a strange eclipse doth make

As ne'er was read in almanac.

I could allow thee for a time

To darken me and my sad clime;

Were it a month, a year, or ten,

I would thy exile live till then,

And all that space my mirth adjourn,

So thou wouldst promise to return,

And putting off thy ashy shroud,

At length disperse this sorrow's cloud.

But woe is me! the longest date

Too narrow is to calculate

These empty hopes; never shall I

Be so much blest as to descry

A glimple of thee, till that day come

Which shall the earth to cinders doom,

And a fierce fever must calcine

The body of this world like thine,

My little world. That fit of fire

Once off, our bodies shall aspire

To our souls' bliss; then we shall rise

And view ourselves with clearer eyes

In that calm region where no night

Can hide us from each other's sight.

Meantime, thou hast her, earth; much good

May my harm do thee. Since it stood

With heaven's will I might not call

Her longer mine, I give thee all

My short-lived right and interest

In her whom living I loved best;

With a most free and bounteous grief,

I give thee what I could not keep.

Be kind to her, and prithee look

Thou write into thy doomsday book

Each parcel of this rarity

Which in thy casket shrined doth lie.

See that thou make thy reck'ning straight,

And yield her back again by weight;

For thou must audit on thy trust

Each grain and atom of this dust,

As thou wilt answer Him that lent,

Not gave thee, my dear monument.

So close the ground, and 'bout her shade

Black curtains draw, my bride is laid.

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed,

Never to be disquieted!

My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake

Till I thy fate shall overtake;

Till age, or grief, or sickness must

Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves, and fill the room

My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.

Stay for me there, I will not fail

To meet thee in that hollow vale.

And think not much of my delay;

I am already on the way,

And follow thee with all the speed

Desire can make, or sorrws breed.

Each minute is a short degree,

And ev'ry hour a step towards thee.

At night when I betake to rest,

Next morn I rise nearer my west

Of life, almost by eight hours' sail,

Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.

Thus from the sun my bottom steers,

And my day's compass downward bears;

Nor labor I to stem the tide

Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield,

Thou like the van first tookst the field,

And gotten hath the victory

In thus adventuring to die

Before me, whose more years might crave

A just precedence in the grave.

But hark! my pulse like a soft drum

Beats my approach, tells thee I come;

And slow howe'er my marches be,

I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on,

And wait my dissolutïon

With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive

The crime, I am content to live

Divided, with but half a heart,

Till we shall meet and never part.

Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

Sonnet

TELL me no more how fair she is,

I have no mind to hear

The story of that distant bliss

I never shall come near:

By sad experience I have found

That her perfection is my wound.

And tell me not how fond I am

To tempt a daring Fate,

From whence no triumph ever came,

But to repent too late:

There is some hope ere long I may

In silence dote my self away.

I ask no pity (Love) from thee,

Nor will thy justice blame,

So that thou wilt not envy me

The glory of my flame:

Which crowns my heart when ere it dies,

In that it falls her sacrifice.

Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

My Midnight Meditation

ILL busi'd man! why should'st thou take such care

To lengthen out thy life's short calendar?

When ev'ry spectacle thou lookst upon

Presents and acts thy execution.

Each drooping season and each flower doth cry,

"Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must die.

"The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well)

Is just the tolling of thy Passing Bell:

Night is thy Hearse, whose sable Canopy

Covers alike deceased day and thee.

And all those weeping dews which nightly fall,

Are but the tears shed for thy funeral."

Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

A Contemplation upon Flowers

BRAVE flowers, that I could gallant it like you

And be as little vain;

You come abroad, and make a harmless show,

And to your beds of earth again;

You are not proud, you know your birth

For your embroider'd garments are from earth:

You do obey your months and times, but I

Would have it ever spring,

My fate would know no winter, never die

Not think of such a thing;

Oh, that I could my bed of earth but view

And smile, and look as cheerfully as you:

Oh, teach me to see death, and not to fear

But rather to take truce;

How often have I seen you at a bier,

And there look fresh and spruce;

You fragrant flowers, then teach me that my breath

Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.

Henry King, Bishop of Chichester