The Canticles, Chapter VI

WHITHER is thy BELOVED gone,
Fairest of Women, whither turn'd aside?
Tell us, if Thou hast his retirements known,
Or dein Thy self to be our Guide!
In every place, we'll with Thee seek Him out,
And find, or else be found of Him they sought.

DOWN to his Garden my BELOVED went.
To' his Garden, as I thought, with full intent,
The Beds of Spices, in his Walk to see,
How fresh and verdant in his Livery.
There to divert a while, and feed his Flock,
And new-blown Lillies gather from his Stock.
—But (Lo!) I see him, this way the steps incline.
I my BELOVED's AM, and HE IS MINE.
His, none but his, who 'mongst the Lillies feeds,
And with them to be Crown'd, first for them bleeds.

BELOVED, Thou 'art fair, my Love, behold Thou 'art fair,
As Tirza, which for Empire strove
With th' holy City', and with it would compare;
Fair as Jeru'salem, coming from above:
So fair art Thou, but dreadful too withal,
As a rang'd Phalanx, at the Trumpets call.

Ah! from me turn those killing Eyes away,
Too piercing is their beauteous sight;
I yield, my Love, I yield, Thou hast gain'd the Day,
And all in vain I see it is to fight:
Thou need'st but only look to overcome;
And, bound in Chains, thy Captives are led home.

Chains of that Hair, that does like Gilead shine,
When on the Golden Fleeces there,
The jealous Sun, just ready to decline,
Ith' Mid-Heav'n stops, his Tresses to compare;
But brighter far, and longer much are they,
Than Sun-beam in the fairest Summer-day.

Such are Thy Locks, Thy Teeth like couples thence,
All washt in Aenons Streams, and shorn,
In Aenons Silver Streams, and rising whence,
To th' joyful Shearing-house, new washt they'are born:
Each has it's make, and Twins they bear all round,
Nor is a Barren one ith' number found.

Thy Cheeks, which underneath Thy Temples lie,
And there their modest blushes hide,
In such a Vail, as does all Art defie,
(Nature for Virgins does that Vail provide)
Thy Cheeks, all vaild within Thy Curls, appear
Like shaded Pomegranats, but shine more clear.

Tho threescore Queens, and fourscore Concubines,
And Virgins numberless there be;
Ten thousand Virgins, Concubines, and Queens,
Nor are, nor ever were so fair as She:
She, who's my Dove, my Undefil'd, the One,
Mine and her Morthers, more than all, alone.

The Virgins saw her, and their blessings sent,
Heav'ns tendrest blessings on her shour'd;
As if th' officious drops they on her spent,
Should on themselves again, in streams be pour'd:
The Queens, and Concubines by different ways,
Whom yet they envi'd, could not chuse but praise.

WHAT fair One's that, who like the Day,
From its dark Prison broke away,
Comes gently on, all crownd with Light,
The Rosie-fingred Morn in white;
And as She still does draw more near,
Still more radiant does appear?
How fair She is, as Mid-night Moon,
Radiant too as Mid-day Sun;
Clear, and bright, but terrible withal,
As a rang'd Phalanx at the Trumpets call.

DOWN to my Garden am I come; and here,
How fresh, how verdant all my Fruits appear!
To see I'm come, how my Nuts clusters grow,
How my Vines shoot, and the Pomgranats blow,
But hold!—What sudden change is it I feel?
What 'tis I know not, how I cannot tell;
But now, methinks, I mount, and now I flie:
Lo! how the Earth, and Clouds beneath me lie;
And now to th' Empyrean I approach,
And starry is my Way, a Cherub is my Coach.

WHither, O Sulamite, whither so fast,
And why thus soon, to leave us, all this haste?
Return, O Sulamite, return, that we
On equal ground may thy chast Beauties see!
Return, that we a while may on Thee gaze;
Return, or us together with Thee raise.

AH! too o're curious, and too over-bold,
What is't you'd in the Sulamite behold?
What is't, when all that you can in her see,
Are but the Lines of a tremendous Majesty.
As when two Armies ready are to joyn,
And with stern Looks, to th' onset give the Sign.