Metaphysical Poets

Quote :

The metaphysical poets were a loose group of British lyric poets of the 17th century, who shared an interest in metaphysical concerns and a common way of investigating them. The label "metaphysical" was given much later by Samuel Johnson in his Life of Cowley.
These poets themselves did not form a school or start a movement; most
of them did not even know or read each other. Their style was
characterized by wit, subtle argumentations, "metaphysical conceits", and/or an unusual simile or metaphor such as in Andrew Marvell’s comparison of the soul with a drop of dew. Several metaphysical poets, especially John Donne, were influenced by NeoPlatonism.
One of the primary Platonic concepts found in metaphysical poetry is
the idea that the perfection of beauty in the beloved acted as a
remembrance of perfect beauty in the eternal realm. In a famous
definition Georg Lukács,
the Hungarian Marxist critic, described the school's common trait of
"looking beyond the palpable" and "attempting to erase one's own image
from the mirror in front so that it should reflect the not-now and not-here" as foreshadowing existentialism (as quoted in The Aesthetics of Georg Lukács
by B. Királyfalvi (1975)). Though secular subjects drew them (in
particular matter drawn from the new science, from the expanding
geographical horizons of the period, and from dialectic) there was also
a strong casuistical element to their work, defining their relationship
with God.^[1]

Henry Vaughn

THE RETREAT.
by Henry Vaughan



HAPPY those early days, when I

Shin'd in my angel-infancy !

Before I understood this place

Appointed for my second race,

Or taught my soul to fancy ought

But a white, celestial thought ;

When yet I had not walk'd above

A mile or two from my first love,

And looking back—at that short space—

Could see a glimpse of His bright face ;

When on some gilded cloud, or flow'r,

My gazing soul would dwell an hour,

And in those weaker glories spy

Some shadows of eternity ;

Before I taught my tongue to wound

My conscience with a sinful sound,

Or had the black art to dispense

A sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense,

But felt through all this fleshly dress

Bright shoots of everlastingness.

O how I long to travel back,

And tread again that ancient track !

That I might once more reach that plain,

Where first I left my glorious train ;

From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees

That shady City of palm-trees.

But ah ! my soul with too much stay

Is drunk, and staggers in the way !

Some men a forward motion love,

But I by backward steps would move ;

And when this dust falls to the urn,

In that state I came, return.

THE WATERFALL.
by Henry Vaughan



WITH what deep murmurs, through Time's silent stealth,

Doth thy transparent, cool, and wat'ry wealth,

Here flowing fall,

And chide and call,

As if his liquid, loose retinue stay'd

Ling'ring, and were of this steep place afraid,

The common pass,

Where clear as glass,

All must descend

Not to an end,

But quick'ned by this deep and rocky grave,

Rise to a longer course more bright and brave.


Dear stream ! dear bank ! where often I

Have sat, and pleased my pensive eye ;

Why, since each drop of thy quick store

Runs thither whence it flow'd before,

Should poor souls fear a shade or night,

Who came—sure—from a sea of light ?

Or, since those drops are all sent back

So sure to Thee that none doth lack,

Why should frail flesh doubt any more

That what God takes He'll not restore ?



O useful element and clear !

My sacred wash and cleanser here ;

My first consigner unto those

Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes !

What sublime truths and wholesome themes

Lodge in thy mystical, deep streams !

Such as dull man can never find,

Unless that Spirit lead his mind,

Which first upon thy face did move

And hatch'd all with His quick'ning love.

As this loud brook's incessant fall

In streaming rings restagnates all,

Which reach by course the bank, and then

Are no more seen : just so pass men.

O my invisible estate,

My glorious liberty, still late !

Thou art the channel my soul seeks,

Not this with cataracts and creeks.

To his Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.