Thomas Carew
Though frost and snow lock’d from mine eyes
That beauty which
without-door lies,
Thy gardens,
orchards, walks, that so
I might not all thy
pleasures know,
Yet, Saxham, thou within thy gate
Art of thy self so
delicate,
So full of native
sweets, that bless
Thy roof with inward
happiness,
As neither from, nor
to, thy store
Winter takes aught,
or Spring adds more.
The cold and frozen air had starved
Much Poor, if not by
thee preserved,
Whose prayers have
made thy table blest
With plenty, far
above the rest.
The season hardly did
afford
Coarse cates unto thy
neighbours’ board,
Yet thou had’st
dainties: as the sky
Had only been thy Votary;
Or else the birds,
fearing the snow
Might to another
Deluge grow,
The pheasant,
partridge, and the lark
Flew to thy house, as
to the Ark.
The willing ox of
himself came
Home to the
slaughter, with the lamb;
And every beast did
thither bring
Himself, to be an
offering.
The scaly herd more
pleasure took,
Bathed in thy dish,
than in the brook;
Water, earth, air,
did all conspire
To pay their tribute
to thy fire,
Whose cherishing
flames themselves divide
Through every room,
where they deride
The night and cold
aboard: whilst they,
Like suns, within,
keep endless day.
Those cheerful beams send forth their light
To all that wander in
the night,
And seem to beckon
from aloof
The weary Pilgrim to
thy roof;
Where, when refresh’d,
if he’ll away,
He’s fairly welcome; but,
if he stay,
Far more; which he
shall hearty find
Both from the master
and the hind:
The Stranger’s Welcome
each man there
Stamp’d on his
cheerful brow doth wear.
Nor doth his welcome
or his cheer
Grow less, ’cause he
stays longer there.
There’s none
observes, much less repines,
How often this man
sups or dines.
Thou hast no Porter at thy door
To examine or keep
back the Poor;
Nor locks nor bolts:
thy gates have been
Made only to let strangers
in.
Untaught to shut,
they do not fear
To stand wide open
all the year,
Careless who enters,
for they know
Thou never did’st
deserve a foe:
And as for thieves, thy bounty’s such,
They cannot steal, thou givest so much.
Fonte (versos 21-26):
Dawkins, R. 1998. A escalada do monte improvável. SP, Companhia das Letras. Poema publicado
em livro em 1640.