To Saxham

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.