Little Saxham


Village poems

Two poems are known to have been written about Litle Saxham. Both come from the first half of the 17th century. The first, 'To Saxham', was written by the well-known poet Thomas Carew in about 1624 (see biography below). This poem is often quoted in literary texts and is considered a fine example of its style.

The second is quite different. It was written by Master John Crofts, the third son of Sir John Crofts (1563 - 1628) in about 1615, and probably celebrates King James I's first visit to Little Saxham Hall. It is clearly written in some awe of the presence of the great man.

To go directly to the poems, click on the relevant link below. Alternatively, scroll down for a detailed biography of Thomas Carew.

'To Saxham' - by Thomas Carew

'To the King, at his entrance to Saxham' - by Master John Crofts

Thomas Carew (pronounced Carey) was born, possibly at West Wickham, Kent, in either 1594 or 1595. His father, lawyer Matthew Carew, moved the family to London about 1598. Nothing is known of Carew's education before he matriculated at Merton College, Oxford, in 1608. Graduating B.A. in 1610/11, he was incorporated B.A. of Cambridge in 1612, after which he was admitted to the Middle Temple. From 1613 to 1616 Carew served as secretary to Sir Dudley Carleton on embassies to Italy and the Netherlands.

After being fired for making insulting remarks about Carleton and his wife, Carew returned to England for a futile search for employment. In 1619, his father having died the previous year, Carew joined an embassy to Paris headed by Sir Edward Herbert (later Lord Herbert of Chirbury). Possibly, he met there the Italian poet Giambattista Marino. In 1622, Carew's first poem was published: verses prefixed to Thomas May's comedy The Heir.

In the early 1620s Carew associated with Ben Jonson and his circle, and also frequented the court. In 1630 Carew was made a gentleman of Charles I's Privy Chamber Extraordinary. He was named Sewer in Ordinary to the King (that is, an official in charge of the royal dining arrangements). It is said he was "high in favour with that king, who had a high opinion of his wit and abilities."

Carew had a reputation for mischief that stayed with him all of his adult life. This reputation did nothing to damage his career as a poet, soldier, and courtier. His society verses, such as "A Divine Mistress" and "Disdain Returned," were prized for their wit. In truth, he was a conscientious poetic craftsman. Though he did not produce a large body of work, he took extraordinary care in shaping each piece. Carew's masque Coelum Britannicum, performed before the king in 1634, though full of jokes and allusions, draws upon an important work by the sixteenth century Italian philosopher Giordano Bruno. Much of Carew's poetry was sexually explicit far beyond the norms of his age, and he was a reputed libertine.

Carew died on March 23, 1640 and was buried in Saint Dunstan's-in-the-West, Westminster. His Poems were published the same year, to be followed by the second edition "revised and enlarged" in 1642.

'Saxham' refers to Little Saxham Hall, the country estate of Sir John Crofts with whose family Carew had a close relationship; the poem is patterned on Ben Jonson's "To Penshurst."

To Saxham
by 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, thou within thy gate
Art of thyself 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 starv'd* [killed]
Much poor, if not by thee preserv'd,
Whose prayers have made thy table blest
With plenty, far above the rest.
The season hardly did afford
Coarse cates* unto thy neighbors' board, [foods]
Yet thou hadst dainties, as the sky
Had only been thy volary*; [aviary]
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,
Bath'd in thy dish, than in the brook;
Water, earth, air, did all conspire
To pay their tributes 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* [a distance]
The weary pilgrim to thy roof,
Where if, refresh'd, he will away,
He's faily welcome; or if stay,
Far more; which he shall hearty find
Both from the master and the hind*. [servant]
The stranger's welcome each man there
Stamp'd on his cheerful brow doth wear,
Nor doth this welcome or his cheer
Grow less 'cause he stays longer here;
There's none observes, much less repines*, [criticizes]
How often this man sups or dines.
Thou hast no porter at the door
T'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 didst deserve a foe;
And as for thieves, thy bounty's such,
They cannot steal, thou giv'st so much.

To the King, at his entrance to Saxham
by Master John Crofts

Sir,
Ere you pass this threshold, stay,
And give your creature leave to pay
Those pious rites, which unto you,
As to our household gods, are due.
Instead of sacrifice, each breast
Is like a flaming altar drest
With zealous fires, which from pure hearts
Love mix’d with loyalty imparts.
Incense nor gold have we, yet bring
As rich and sweet an offering;
And such as doth both these express,
Which is our humble thankfulness;
By which is paid the all we owe
To gods above, or men below.
The slaughtr’d beast, whose flesh should feed
The hungry flames, we for pure need
Dress for your supper; and the gore
Which should be dash’d on every door,
We change into the lusty blood
Of youthful vines, of which a flood
Shall springly run through all your veins,
First to your health, then your fair train’s.
We shall want nothing but good fare,
To show your welcome and our care;
Such rarities, that come from far,
From poor men’s houses banish’d are:

Yet we’ll express in homely cheer
How glad we are to see you here.
We’ll have whate’er the season yields,
Out of the neighbouring woods and fields;
For all the dainties of your board
Will only be what those afford;
And, having supp’d, we may perchance
Present you with a country dance.
Thus much your servants, that bear sway
Here in your absence, bade me say,
And beg, besides, you’ld hither bring
Only the mercy of a king,
And not the greatness: since they have
A thousand faults must pardon crave,
But nothing that is fit to wait
Upon the glory of your state.
Yet your gracious favour will,
They hope, as heretofore, shine still
On their endeavours, for they swore,
Should Jove descend, they could no more.