As much as the metaphysic poets’ linguistic inventiveness should appeal to a modern taste, I have previously tried to point out how underappreciated they really are. I personally discovered how vast their current was fairly recently and quite by accident: I wanted to read some of the more obscure figures of the Elizabethan and Tudor period and was rather amazed at the wealth of poetry I encountered in these “men of learning…who to show their learning was their whole endeavour.”
Up until that point I assumed naively (but rather conventionally) that the value of the metaphysics was pretty much confined to an exclusive circle of Donne, Marvell, Herbert and…well, that’s about it. How wrong I was.
The contemporary reader has therefore a large responsibility in casting light on its undeservedly obscured figures. Samuel Johnson’s dismissive attitude of their work (he is source of the quote above) casts a long shadow yet and the likes of an Aurelian Townshend, among others, are by and large to rise from it.
Though Regions Far Divided
Though regions far divided
And tedious tracts of time,
By my misfortune guided
Make absence thought a crime;
Though we were set asunder
As far as east from west
Love still would work this wonder,
Thou shouldst be in my breast.
How slow alas are paces
Compared to thoughts that fly
In moment back to places
Whole ages scarce descry.
The body must have pauses;
The mind requires no rest;
Love needs no second causes
To guide thee to my breast.
Accept in that poor dwelling,
But welcome, nothing great,
With pride no turrets swelling,
But lowly as the seat;
Where, though not much delighted,
In peace thou mayst be blest,
Unfeasted yet unfrighted
By rivals, in my breast.
But this is not the diet
That doth for glory strive;
Poor beauties seek in quiet
To keep one heart alive.
The price of his ambition,
That looks for such a guest
Is, hopeless of fruition,
To beat an empty breast.
See then my last lamenting:
Upon a cliff I’ll sit,
Rock constancy presenting,
Till I grow part of it;
My tears a quicksand feeding,
Whereon no foot can rest;
My sighs a tempest breeding
About my stony breast.
Those arms, wherein wide open
Love’s fleet was wont to put
Shall laid across betoken
That haven’s mouth is shut.
Mine eyes no light shall cherish
For ships at sea distressed,
But darkling let them perish
Or split against my breast.
Yet if I can discover
When thine before it rides,
To show I was thy lover
I’ll smooth my rugged sides,
And so much better measure
Afford thee than the rest,
Thou shalt have no displeasure
By knocking at my breast.
Form
Seven stanzas of eight lines each rhyming ABABCDCD. The final line of each stanza is a loose refrain. Notice the pattern of alternating masculine/feminine rhymes: this is something much more typical of poetry in the German or Scandinavian languages where stress of the penultimate syllable is very frequent.
Analysis
For all their erudition, I find that the metaphysic poets present two contradictions. The first has to do with subject matter. In this, their poetry is not pedantic, but conventional and uncomplicated. The poem at hand is on the subject of amorous longing, as established in the second stanza:
Though regions far divided
And tedious tracts of time,
By my misfortune guided
Make absence thought a crime;
Though we were set asunder
As far as east from west,
Love still would work this wonder,
Thou shouldst be in my breast.
The second contradiction–and the more poignant one, I feel–is how sensual, worldly and carnal their poetry is. There is certainly a presence of philosophical meditation and jargon here (note the description of love as a kind of prime mover in stanza two–not needing any “second causes”) but is never immaterial. The tangible world is always with us here–it feels totally necessary. It is meta without forgetting the physic:
Accept in that poor dwelling,
But welcome, nothing great,
With pride no turrets swelling,
But lowly as the seat;
Where, though not much delighted,
In peace thou mayst be blest,
Unfeasted yet unfrighted
By rivals, in my breast.
Once the subject is presented, note how each stanza in this poem really is distinct from the others. Either it turns a new thought or borrows new motifs to express the overarching mood. For example, stanza four contrasts love with heroic struggle:
But this is not the diet
That doth for glory strive;
Poor beauties seek in quiet
To keep one heart alive.
Stanza five is a lamentation on slow and silent longing, accentuated using images of a geological nature throughout it:
See then my last lamenting:
Upon a cliff I’ll sit,
Rock constancy presenting,
Till I grow part of it;
My tears a quicksand feeding,
Whereon no foot can rest;
My sighs a tempest breeding
About my stony breast.
And stanza six harps on the emotional torment of separation by using the image of ships riding the tempest. The metaphor of the belovéd’s embrace being an bsent harbour is so wonderfully metaphysic:
Those arms, wherein wide open
Love’s fleet was wont to put
Shall laid across betoken
That haven’s mouth is shut.
Mine eyes no light shall cherish
For ships at sea distressed,
But darkling let them perish
Or split against my breast.
The ending is somewhat difficult. The first two lines are conditional/temporal, referring to a future moment when they will be reunited:
Yet if I can discover
When thine before it rides
And that when that time comes, the poet will get his act together to prove he is the worthiest candidate of her affection, should she be willing to accept it:
To show I was thy lover
I’ll smooth my rugged sides,
And so much better measure
Afford thee than the rest,
Thou shalt have no displeasure
By knocking at my breast.