The Abraham Cowley
Cowley's "Solitudo" / "Solitude"
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| Solitudo. [Poemata Lat. 1668] RUra laudamus meritò Poëtæ, Rure floremus; Dominóque Laurum Sole gaudentem necat Oppidorum Nubilus Aër. Nam priùs crescet Seges in plateis, Et coronabunt fora densa flores Spontè nascentes, priùs ipsa Civis Fiet et Herba. Urbe Quam surgat mediâ bonorum Carminum Messis; bona semper Urbem 10 Carmina oderunt, neque nutrit omnis Omnia Tellus. Rure, Persarum veluti Tyrannus, Abditus longo maneam recessu, Sæpè Legatum satìs est ad urbem Mittere Carmen. Arbores salvete, bonæque sylvæ, Civitas fœlix Avium innocentum! Regna Musarum! sacra rusticantum Villa Deorum! 20 Hic jacens vestris temerè sub umbris, Audiam suprà Zephyros volantes Cúmque facundis benè disputantes Frondibus Auras. O sacrum risum juvenilis anni! Cùm calor totos penetrans per artus, Fertilem pubem, Venerémque adulti Suscitat orbis. Hîc mihi æstivo Domus apta Sole, Pulchra Naturæ Domus Architectæ! 30 Quis Trabem excisam priùs æstimabit Arbore vivâ? Audiam hîc proni per aprica collis Luce turgentes liquidísque gemmis, Dulcè ridentes properare Rivos, Dulcè loquentes. Esse qui secum nequit Occupatus, Aut laborabit miser ille vitæ Tædio, aut caras malè collocabit Prodigus horas. 40 Tu Deum longis comitata sœclis Sola tu Rerum, Sacra solitudo, Antequam Trunco Numerorum abiret Arbor ab Uno. Impetus Mentis nimiùm evagantes Instar Aurigæ cohibes periti, Et jubes pulchrum breviore gyro Claudere cursum. Languidos Mentis fluidæ Calores Et nimis multum spacii occupantes 50 Ritè constringénsque fovénsque pulchros Elicis Ignes. Quid mihi æterno populum, fluentem Fonte, Londinum, numerósque jactas? Quid mihi ingentes nihil invidenti Objicis arces? Eximam Stultos numero tuorum, Eximam densum genus Improborum, Vicus obscurus, propè Solitudo Tu quoque fies. 60 |
Solitude. [trans. DK] We poets rightly praise the fields and flourish there; delighting in its lord the sun, the laurel dies in towns' murky shadows. For corn will grow in city squares, flowers crown the crowded marketplace, simply sprung up, and grass itself first move to the city before the city's midst will yield a harvest of good verse; that hates 10 the city, always has; all plots will not bear all products. Afield may I long stay, withdrawn, sequestered like the Persians' king; it's often well enough to make a verse my town-envoy. Hail trees, and you good woods, the blest metropolis of harmless birds! The muses' realm! Hallowed estate of gods of the country! 20 Here may I loiter in your shade and hear the zephyrs overhead and fecund boughs and breeze contending well with each other. Ah, for the young year's sacred smile when driving warmth through all the limbs draws on to fruitful ripeness and an amorous adulthood! My house here's made for summer sun, fair house of Nature, Architect! 30 Who rates a cut beam higher than a tree that is living? Here I will hear down sunny slopes welling with light and liquid gems swift-footed streamlets sweetly laughing, sweetly conversing. Who cannot live alone, engaged, content, lives miser-like, fed up with life, or prodigal, misspending his precious hours. 40 God's partner sole long ages through, of all things, holy Solitude, before the tree of numbers branched from its trunk of oneness, you rein the mind's too-wayward drives like an experienced charioteer, making a fairer finish in a narrower circuit; the heat of an unsettled mind that fades and dissipates you fix, 50 and fan and focus it into a fire of real brightness. London, why flaunt your endless flood of citizens, your sums, at me? Why cast up your tall towers to someone not at all envious? From those sums take away the fools, away the thronging tribe of rogues; a small town next to solitude is what you too end in. 60 |
[From "Of Solitude." Works 1668] |1| Hail, old Patrician Trees, so great and good! Hail, ye Plebeian under wood! Where the Poetique Birds rejoyce, And for their quiet Nests and plenteous Food Pay with their grateful voice. |2| Hail, the poor Muses richest Mannor Seat! Ye Countrey Houses and Retreat. Which all the happy Gods so Love, That for you oft they quit their Bright and Great Metropolis above. |3| Here Nature does a House for me erect, Nature the wisest Architect, Who those fond Artists does despise That can the fair and living Trees neglect, Yet the Dead Timber prize. |4| Here let me careless and unthoughtful lying, Hear the soft winds above me flying, With all their wanton Boughs dispute, And the more tuneful Birds to both replying, Nor be myself too Mute. |5| A Silver stream shall roul his waters near, Guilt with the Sun-beams here and there On whose enamel'd Bank I'll walk, And see how prettily they Smile, and hear How prettily they Talk. |6| Ah wretched, and too Solitary Hee Who loves not his own Company! He'l feel the weight of't many a day, Unless he call in Sin or Vanity To help to bear't away. |7| Oh Solitude, first state of Human-kind! Which blest remain'd till man did find Even his own helpers Company. As soon as two (alas!) together joyn'd, The Serpent made up Three. |8| Though God himself, through countless Ages Thee His sole Companion chose to be, Thee, sacred Solitude alone, Before the branchy head of Numbers Tree Sprang from the Trunk of One. |9| Thou (though men think thine an unactive part) Dost break and tame th' unruly heart, Which else would know no settled pace Making it move, well mannag'd by thy Art With Swiftness and with Grace. |10| Thou the faint beams of Reasons scatter'd Light, Dost like a Burning-glass unite, Dost multiply the feeble Heat, And fortifie the strength; till thou dost bright And noble Fires beget. |11| Whilst this hard Truth I teach, methinks, I see The Monster London laugh at me, I should at thee too, foolish city, If it were fit to laugh at Misery, But thy Estate I pity. |12| Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, And the Fools that crowd thee so, Even thou, who dost thy Millions boast, A Village less than Islington wilt grow, A Solitude almost. |