Poetical Works of John Oldham/To Madam L. E. upon her Recovery from a late Sickness
TO MADAM L. E. UPON HER RECOVERY FROM A LATE SICKNESS.
Madam,
PARDON, that with slow gladness we so late
Your wished return of health congratulate;
Our joys at first so thronged to get abroad,
They hindered one another in the crowd;
And now such haste to tell their message make,
They only stammer what they meant to speak.
You, the fair subject which I am to sing,
To whose kind hands this humble joy I bring,
Aid me, I beg, while I this theme pursue,
For I invoke no other muse but you.
Long time had you here brightly shone below,
With all the rays kind Heaven could bestow;
No envious cloud e'er offered to invade
Your lustre, or compel it to a shade;
Nor did it yet by any sign appear,
But that you throughout immortal were;
Till Heaven (if Heaven could prove so cruel,) sent
To interrupt the growth of your content,
As if it grudged those gifts you did enjoy,
And would that bounty, which it gave, destroy.
'Twas since your excellence did envy move
In those high powers, and made them jealous prove,
They thought these glories, should they still have shined
Unsullied, were too much for woman-kind;
Which might they write as lasting as they're fair,
Too great for aught but deities appear.
But Heaven, it may be, was not yet complete,
And lacked you there to fill your empty seat;
And when it could not fairly woo you hence,
Turned ravisher, and offered violence.
Sickness did first a formal siege begin,
And by sure slowness tried your life to win,
As if by lingering methods Heaven meant
To chase you hence, and tire you to consent.
But, thus in vain, fate did to force resort,
And next by storm strove to attack the fort;
A sleep, dull as your last, did you arrest,
And all the magazines of life possessed.
No more the blood its circling course did run,
But in the veins, like icicles, it hung;
No more the heart, now void of quickening heat,
The tuneful march of vital motion beat;
Stiffness did into all the sinews climb,
And a short death crept cold through every limb;
All signs of life from sight so far withdrew,
'Twas now thought Popery to pray for you.
There might you (were not that sense lost) have seen
How your true death would have resented been:
A lethargy like yours each breast did seize,
And all by sympathy caught your disease.
Around you silent imagery appears,
And nought in the spectators moves, but tears;
They pay what grief were to your funeral due,
And yet dare hope Heaven would your life renew.
Meanwhile, all means, all drugs, prescribèd are,
Which the decays of health or strength repair,
Medicines so powerful they new souls would save,
And life in long-dead carcasses retrieve.
But, these in vain, they rougher methods try,
And now you're martyred that you may not die.
Sad scene of fate! when tortures were your gain,
And 'twas a kindness thought to wish you pain!
As if the slackened string of life run down,
Could only by the rack be screwed in tune.
But Heaven at last, grown conscious that its power
Could scarce what was to die with you restore,
And loth to see such glories overcome,
Sent a post angel to repeal your doom;
Straight Fate obeyed the charge which Heaven sent,
And gave this first dear proof it could repent.
Triumphant charms! what may not you subdue,
When Fate's your slave, and thus submits to you!
She now again the new-broke thread does knit,
And for another clew her spindle fit;
And life's hid spark, which did unquenched remain,
Caught the fled light, and brought it back again.
Thus you revived, and all our joys with you
Revived, and found their resurrection too.
Some only grieved, that what was deathless thought,
They saw so near to fatal ruin brought.
Now crowds of blessings on that happy hand,
Whose skill could eager destiny withstand;
Whose learnèd power has rescued from the grave
That life, which 'twas a miracle to save;
That life, which were it thus untimely lost,
Had been the fairest spoil death e'er could boast.
May he henceforth be god of healing thought,
By whom such good to you and us was brought;
Altars and shrines to him are justly due,
Who showed himself a god by raising you.
But say, fair saint, for you alone can know,
Whither your soul in this short flight did go?
Went it to antedate that happiness,
You must at last (though late we hope) possess?
Inform us, lest we should your fate belie,
And call that death which was but ecstasy.
The Queen of Love, we're told, once let us see
That goddesses from wounds could not be free;
And you, by this unwished occasion, show
That they like mortal us can sickness know.
Pity! that Heaven should all its titles give,
And yet not let you with them ever live.
You'd lack no point that makes a deity,
If you could like it too immortal be.
And so you are; half boasts a deathless state,
Although your frailer part must yield to fate.
By every breach in that fair lodging made,
Its blest inhabitant is more displayed;
In that white snow which overspreads your skin,
We trace the whiter soul which dwells within;
Which, while you through this shining hue display,
Looks like a star placed in the milky way.
Such the bright bodies of the blessèd are,
When they for raiment clothed with light appear;
And should you visit now the seats of bliss,
You need not wear another form but this.
Never did sickness in such pomp appear,
As when it thus your livery did wear,
Disease itself looked amiable here.
So clouds, which would obscure the sun, oft gilded be,
And shades are taught to shine as bright as he.
Grieve not, fair nymph, when in your glass you trace
The marring footsteps of a pale disease;
Regret not that your cheeks their roses want,
Which a few days shall in full store replant,
Which, whilst your blood withdraws its guilty red,
Tells that you own no faults that blushes need.
The sun, whose bounty does each spring restore
What winter from the rifled meadows tore,
Which every morning with an early ray
Paints the young blushing cheeks of instant day;
Whose skill, inimitable here below,
Limns those gay clouds which form heaven's coloured bow,
That sun shall soon with interest repay
All the lost beauty sickness snatched away;
Your beams, like his, shall hourly now advance,
And every minute their swift growth enhance.
Meanwhile, that you no helps of health refuse,
Accept these humble wishes of the muse;
Which shall not of their just petition fail,
If she (and she's a goddess) aught prevail.
May no profane disease henceforth approach
This sacred temple with unhallowed touch,
Or with rude sacrilege its frame debauch;
May these fair members always happy be,
In as full strength and well-set harmony,
As the new foundress of your sex could boast,
Ere she by sin her first perfection lost;
May destiny, just to your merits, twine
All your smooth fortunes in a silken line;
And that you may at Heaven late arrive,
May it to you its largest bottom give;
May Heaven with still repeated favours bless,
Till it its power below its will confess;
Till wishes can no more exalt your fate,
Nor poets fancy you more fortunate.