It was not till 1681--three years after Marvell's death--that the small folio appeared with a fine portrait, still dear to the collector, which contains for the first time what may be called the "garden-poetry" of our author, together with some specimens of his political and satirical versification.

Marvell's most famous poem--_The Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland_--is not included in the 1681 volume, and remained in ma.n.u.script until 1776, as also did the poem upon Cromwell's death.

The remainder of the political poems, which had made their first appearance as broadsheets, were reprinted after the Revolution in the well-known _Collection of Poems on Affairs of State_.[35:1] These verses were never owned by Marvell, and it is probable that some of them, though attributed to him, are not his at all. We have only tradition to go by. In the case of political satires, squibs, epigrams, rough popular occasional rhymes flung off both in haste and heat to be sold with old ballads in the market-place, we need not seek for better evidence than tradition, which indeed is often the only external evidence we have for the authorship of much more important things.

Now to return to the Nunappleton poetry.

In a poem of 776 lines Marvell tells the story and describes the charms of the house which Lord Fairfax built for himself during the war, and to which, as just narrated, he retired in the summer of 1650. The story is only too familiar a one, being writ large over many a fine property.

Appleton House was Church loot. In the time of Henry, "the majestic lord that burst the bonds of Rome," the old house at Nunappleton was a Cistercian nunnery, a religious house. In 1542 the community was suppressed and its property appropriated by the great-grandfather of the Lord-General--one Sir Thomas Fairfax. The religious buildings were pulled down and a new secular house rose in their place. In these bare and sordid facts there is not much room for poetry, but there is a story thrown in. Shortly before 1518 a Yorkshire heiress, bearing the unromantic name of Isabella Thwaites, was living in the Cistercian abbey, under the guardianship of the abbess, the Lady Anna Langton.

Property under the care of the Church is always supposed to be in danger, and the Lady Anna was freely credited with the desire to make a nun of her ward, and so keep her broad acres in Wharfedale and her messuages in York for the use of Mother Church. None the less, the young lady was allowed to go about and visit her neighbours, and whilst so doing she fell in love with Sir William Fairfax, or he fell in love with her or with her estates. Thereupon, so the story proceeds, the abbess kept her ward a close prisoner within the nunnery walls. Legal proceedings were taken, but in the end the privacy of the nunnery was invaded, and Miss Thwaites was abducted and married to Sir William Fairfax at the church of Bolton Percy. The lady abbess had to submit to _vis major_, but worse days were in front of her, for she lived on to see the nunnery itself despoiled, and the fair domains she had during a long life preserved and maintained for religious uses handed over to the son of her former ward, Isabella Thwaites.

Our poet begins by referring to the modest dimensions of the house, and the natural charms of its surroundings:--

"The house was built upon the place, Only as for a mark of grace, And for an inn to entertain Its Lord awhile, but not remain.

Him Bishop's-hill or Denton may, Or Billborow, better hold than they: But Nature here hath been so free, As if she said, 'Leave this to me.'

Art would more neatly have defac'd What she had laid so sweetly waste In fragrant gardens, shady woods, Deep meadows, and transparent floods."

And then starts the story:--

"While, with slow eyes, we these survey, And on each pleasant footstep stay, We opportunely may relate The progress of this house's fate.

A nunnery first gave it birth, (For virgin buildings oft brought forth) And all that neighbour-ruin shows The quarries whence this dwelling rose.

Near to this gloomy cloister's gates, There dwelt the blooming virgin Thwaites, Fair beyond measure, and an heir, Which might deformity make fair; And oft she spent the summer's suns Discoursing with the subtle Nuns, Whence, in these words, one to her weav'd, As 'twere by chance, thoughts long conceiv'd: 'Within this holy leisure, we Live innocently, as you see.

These walls restrain the world without, But hedge our liberty about; These bars inclose that wilder den Of those wild creatures, called men, The cloister outward shuts its gates, And, from us, locks on them the grates.

Here we, in shining armour white, Like virgin amazons do fight, And our chaste lamps we hourly trim, Lest the great Bridegroom find them dim.

Our orient breaths perfumed are With incense of incessant prayer; And holy-water of our tears Most strangely our complexion clears; Not tears of grief, but such as those With which calm pleasure overflows; Or pity, when we look on you That live without this happy vow.

How should we grieve that must be seen Each one a spouse, and each a queen, And can in heaven hence behold Our brighter robes and crowns of gold!

When we have prayed all our beads, Some one the holy Legend reads, While all the rest with needles paint The face and graces of the Saint; Some of your features, as we sewed, Through every shrine should be bestowed, And in one beauty we would take Enough a thousand Saints to make.

And (for I dare not quench the fire That me does for your good inspire) 'Twere sacrilege a man to admit To holy things for heaven fit.

I see the angels in a crown On you the lilies showering down; And round about you glory breaks, That something more than human speaks.

All beauty when at such a height, Is so already consecrate.

Fairfax I know, and long ere this Have marked the youth, and what he is; But can he such a rival seem, For whom you heaven should disesteem?

Ah, no! and 'twould more honour prove He your devoto were than Love.

Here live beloved and obeyed, Each one your sister, each your maid, And, if our rule seem strictly penned, The rule itself to you shall bend.

Our Abbess, too, now far in age, Doth your succession near presage.

How soft the yoke on us would lie, Might such fair hands as yours it tie!

Your voice, the sweetest of the choir, Shall draw heaven nearer, raise us higher, And your example, if our head, Will soon us to perfection lead.

Those virtues to us all so dear, Will straight grow sanct.i.ty when here; And that, once sprung, increase so fast, Till miracles it work at last.'"

What reply was given by the heiress to these arguments, and others of a still more seductive hue, the poet does not tell, but turns to the eager lover who asks, What should he do? He hints that a nunnery is no place for a virtuous maid, and that the nuns (unlike himself, I hope) are only thinking of her property. He complains that though the Court has authorised him to use either peace or force, the nuns still stand upon their guard.

"Ill-counselled women, do you know Whom you resist or what you do?"

Using a most remarkable poetic licence, the poet refers to the fact that this barred-out lover is to be the progenitor of the great Lord Fairfax.

"Is not this he, whose offspring fierce Shall fight through all the universe; And with successive valour try France, Poland, either Germany, Till one, as long since prophesied, His horse through conquered Britain ride?"

The lover determines to take the place by a.s.sault. It was not a very heroic enterprise, as Marvell describes it.

"Some to the breach, against their foes, Their wooden Saints in vain oppose; Another bolder, stands at push, With their old holy-water brush, While the disjointed Abbess threads The jingling chain-shot of her beads; But their loud'st cannon were their lungs, And sharpest weapons were their tongues.

But waving these aside like flies, Young Fairfax through the wall does rise.

Then the unfrequented vault appeared, And superst.i.tion, vainly feared; The relicks false were set to view; Only the jewels there were true, And truly bright and holy Thwaites, That weeping at the altar waits.

But the glad youth away her bears, And to the Nuns bequeathes her tears, Who guiltily their prize bemoan, Like gypsies who a child have stol'n."

The poet then goes on to glorify the results of this union and to describe happy days spent at Nunappleton by the descendants of Isabella Thwaites.

"At the demolishing, this seat To Fairfax fell, as by escheat; And what both nuns and founders willed, 'Tis likely better thus fulfilled.

For if the virgin proved not theirs, The cloister yet remained hers; Though many a nun there made her vow, 'Twas no religious house till now.

From that blest bed the hero came Whom France and Poland yet does fame; Who, when retired here to peace, His warlike studies could not cease; But laid these gardens out, in sport, In the just figure of a fort, And with five bastions it did fence, As aiming one for every sense.

When in the east the morning ray Hangs out the colours of the day, The bee through these known alleys hums, Beating the dian with its drums.

Then flowers their drowsy eyelids raise, Their silken ensigns each displays, And dries its pan, yet dank with dew, And fills its flask with odours new.

These as their Governor goes by In fragrant volleys they let fly, And to salute their Governess Again as great a charge they press: None for the virgin nymph; for she Seems with the flowers a flower to be.

And think so still! though not compare With breath so sweet, or cheek so fair!

Well shot, ye firemen! Oh, how sweet And round your equal fires do meet, Whose shrill report no ear can tell, But echoes to the eye and smell!

See how the flowers, as at parade, Under their colours stand displayed; Each regiment in order grows, That of the tulip, pink and rose.

But when the vigilant patrol Of stars walk round about the pole, Their leaves, which to the stalks are curled, Seem to their staves the ensigns furled.

Then in some flower's beloved hut, Each bee, as sentinel, is shut, And sleeps so too, but, if once stirred, She runs you through, nor asks the word.

Oh, thou, that dear and happy isle, The garden of the world erewhile, Thou Paradise of the four seas, Which heaven planted us to please, But, to exclude the world, did guard With watery, if not flaming sword,-- What luckless apple did we taste, To make us mortal, and thee waste?

Unhappy! shall we never more That sweet militia restore, When gardens only had their towers And all the garrisons were flowers, When roses only arms might bear, And men did rosy garlands wear?

Tulips, in several colours barred, Were then the Switzers of our guard; The gardener had the soldier's place, And his more gentle forts did trace; The nursery of all things green Was then the only magazine; The winter quarters were the stoves, Where he the tender plants removes.

But war all this doth overgrow: We ordnance plant, and powder sow.

The arching boughs unite between The columns of the temple green, And underneath the winged quires Echo about their tuned fires.

The nightingale does here make choice To sing the trials of her voice; Low shrubs she sits in, and adorns With music high the squatted thorns; But highest oaks stoop down to hear, And listening elders p.r.i.c.k the ear; The thorn, lest it should hurt her, draws Within the skin its shrunken claws.

But I have for my music found A sadder, yet more pleasing sound; The stock-doves, whose fair necks are graced With nuptial rings, their ensigns chaste, Yet always, for some cause unknown, Sad pair, unto the elms they moan.

O why should such a couple mourn, That in so equal flames do burn!

Then as I careless on the bed Of gelid strawberries do tread, And through the hazels thick espy The hatching throstle's shining eye, The heron, from the ash's top, The eldest of its young lets drop, As if it stork-like did pretend That tribute to its lord to send.

Thus I, easy philosopher, Among the birds and trees confer; And little now to make me, wants, Or of the fowls, or of the plants; Give me but wings as they, and I Straight floating on the air shall fly; Or turn me but, and you shall see I was but an inverted tree.

Already I begin to call In their most learn'd original, And where I language want, my signs The bird upon the bough divines, And more attentive there doth sit Than if she were with lime-twigs knit, No leaf does tremble in the wind, Which I returning cannot find.

One of these scattered Sibyls' leaves Strange prophecies my fancy weaves, And in one history consumes, Like Mexique paintings, all the plumes; What Rome, Greece, Palestine e'er said, I in this light mosaic read.

Thrice happy he, who, not mistook, Hath read in Nature's mystic book!

And see how chance's better wit Could with a mask my studies. .h.i.t!

The oak-leaves me embroider all, Between which caterpillars crawl; And ivy, with familiar trails, Me licks and clasps, and curls and hales.

Under this Attic cope I move, Like some great prelate of the grove; Then, languishing with ease, I toss On pallets swoln of velvet moss, While the wind, cooling through the boughs, Flatters with air my panting brows.

Thanks for your rest, ye mossy banks, And unto you, cool zephyrs, thanks, Who, as my hair, my thoughts too shed, And winnow from the chaff my head!

How safe, methinks, and strong behind These trees, have I encamped my mind, Where beauty, aiming at the heart, Bends in some tree its useless dart, And where the world no certain shot Can make, or me it toucheth not, But I on it securely play And gall its hors.e.m.e.n all the day.

Bind me, ye woodbines, in your twines Curl me about, ye gadding vines, And oh so close your circles lace, That I may never leave this place!

But, lest your fetters prove too weak, Ere I your silken bondage break, Do you, O brambles, chain me too, And, courteous briars, nail me through!

Oh what a pleasure 'tis to hedge My temples here with heavy sedge, Abandoning my lazy side, Stretched as a bank unto the tide, Or to suspend my sliding foot On the osier's undermined root, And in its branches tough to hang, While at my lines the fishes tw.a.n.g?

But now away, my hooks, my quills, And angles, idle utensils!

The young MARIA walks to-night;

'Tis she that to these gardens gave That wondrous beauty which they have; She straightness on the woods bestows; To her the meadow sweetness owes; Nothing could make the river be So crystal pure, but only she, She yet more pure, sweet, straight, and fair Than gardens, woods, meads, rivers are.

This 'tis to have been from the first In a domestic heaven nursed, Under the discipline severe Of FAIRFAX, and the starry VERE; Where not one object can come nigh But pure, and spotless as the eye, And goodness doth itself entail On females, if there want a male."