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J. NICHOLS'S SELECT COLLECTION OF POEMS. VOLUME II.
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SERVARE MODUM FINEMQUE TUERI NATURAMQUE SEQUI.
Sir W. TEMPLE. Aet. 58.
[...] Collyer sc
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A SELECT COLLECTION OF POEMS: WITH NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL.
THE SECOND VOLUME.
LONDON: PRINTED BY AND FOR J. NICHOLS, RED LION PASSAGE, FLEET-STREET. MDCCLXXX.
[1]A SELECT COLLECTION OF MISCELLANY POEMS.
THE ECLOGUES OF VIRGIL.
ECLOGUE I.
MELIBOEUS.
IN peaceful ſhades, which aged oaks diffuſe,
You, Tityrus, enjoy your royal Muſe.
We leave our home, and (once) our pleaſant fields,
The native ſwain to rude intruders yields;
[2]While you in ſongs your happy love proclaim,
And every grove learns Amaryllis name*.
TITYRUS.
A God (to me he always ſhall be ſo)
O Meliboeus! did this grace beſtow.
The choiceſt lamb which in my flock does feed
Shall each new moon upon his altar bleed:
He every bleſſing on his creatures brings;
By him the herd does graze; by him the herdſman ſings.
MELIBOEUS.
I envy not, but I admire your fate,
Which thus exempts you from our wretched ſtate.
Look on my goats that browze, my kids that play,
Driven hence myſelf, theſe I muſt drive away,
[3]And this poor mother of a new-fall'n pair
(The herd's chief hope, alas! but my deſpair!)
Has left them in yon brakes, beſide the way,
Expos'd to every beaſt and bird of prey.
Had not ſome angry planet ſtruck me blind,
This dire calamity I had divin'd.
'Twas oft foretold me by heaven's loudeſt voice,
Rending our talleſt oaks with diſmal noiſe:
Ravens ſpoke too, though in a lower tone,
And long from hollow trees were heard to groan.
But ſay: what God has Tityrus reliev'd?
TITYRUS.
The place call'd Rome, I fooliſhly believ'd
Was like our Mantua, where, on market-days,
We drive our well-fed lambs (the ſhepherd's praiſe);
[4]So whelps, I knew, ſo kids, their dams expreſs,
And ſo the great I meaſur'd by the leſs.
But other towns when you to her compare,
They creeping ſhrubs to the tall cypreſs are.
MELIBOEUS.
What great occaſion call'd you hence to Rome?
TITYRUS.
Freedom, which came at laſt, though ſlow to come:
She came not till cold Winter did begin,
And age ſome ſnow had ſprinkled on my chin,
Nor then, till Galatea I forſook,
For Amaryllis deign'd on me to look.
No hope for liberty, I muſt confeſs,
No hope, nor care of wealth, did me poſſeſs,
Whilſt I with Galatea did remain:
For though my flock her altars did maintain,
Though often I had made my cheeſe-preſs groan,
Largely to furniſh our ungrateful town,
Yet ſtill with empty hands I trotted home.
MELIBOEUS.
I wonder'd, Galatea! whence ſhould come
Thy ſad complaints to heaven, and why ſo long
Ungather'd on their trees thy apples hung!
Abſent was Tityrus! thee every dale,
Mountain and ſpring, thee every tree did call!
TITYRUS.
What ſhould I do? I could not here be free,
And only in that place could hope to ſee
A God propitious to my liberty.
[5]There I the heavenly youth did firſt behold,
Whoſe monthly feaſt while ſolemnly I hold,
My loaded altars never ſhall be cold.
He heard my prayers; go home, he cry'd, and feed
In peace your herd, let forth your bulls for breed.
MELIBOEUS.
Happy old man! thy farm untouch'd remains,
And large enough: though it may aſk thy pains,
To clear the ſtones, and ruſhes cure by drains.
Thy teeming ewes will no ſtrange paſtures try,
No murrain fear from tainted company.
Thrice happy ſwain! guarded from Syrian beams,
By ſacred ſprings, and long-acquainted ſtreams.
Look on that bordering fence, whoſe oſier trees
Are fraught with flowers, whoſe flowers are fraught with bees:
How, with their drowſy tone, the whiſtling air
(Your ſleep to tempt) a concert does prepare!
At farther diſtance, but with ſtronger lungs,
The wood-man joins with theſe his ruſtic ſongs:
Stock-doves and murmuring turtles tune their throat,
Thoſe in a hoarſer, theſe a ſofter note.
TITYRUS.
Therefore the land and ſea ſhall dwellers change:
Fiſh on dry ground, ſtags ſhall on water range:
The Parthians ſhall commute their bounds with Francs,
Thoſe ſhall on Soane, theſe drink on Tygris' banks,
Ere I his god-like image from my heart
Suffer with black ingratitude to part.
MELIBOEUS.
[6]But we muſt roam to parts remote, unknown,
Under the Torrid and the Frigid Zone:
Theſe frozen Scythia, and parch'd Africk thoſe,
Cretan Oaxis others muſt incloſe:
Some 'mongſt the utmoſt Britains are confin'd,
Doom'd to an iſle from all the world disjoin'd.
Ah! muſt I never more my country ſee,
But in ſtrange lands an endleſs exile be?
Is my eternal baniſhment decreed,
From my poor cottage, rear'd with turf and reed?
Muſt impious ſoldiers all theſe grounds poſſeſs,
My fields of ſtanding corn, my fertile leyes?
Did I for theſe barbarians plow and ſow?
What dire effects from civil diſcord flow!
Graft pears, O Meliboeus! plant the vine!
The fruit ſhall others be, the labour thine.
Farewell my goats! a happy herd, when mine!
No more ſhall I, in the refreſhing ſhade
Of verdant grottoes, by kind nature made,
Behold you climbing on the mountain top,
The flowery thyme and fragrant ſhrubs to crop.
I part with every joy, parting from you;
Then farewell all the world! verſes and pipe, adieu!
TITYRUS.
At leaſt this night with me forget your care;
Cheſnuts and well-preſt cheeſe ſhall be your fare;
For now the mountain a long ſhade extends,
And curling ſmoke from village tops aſcends.
ECLOGUE II.
[7]A HOPELESS flame did Corydon deſtroy,
The lov'd Alexis was his maſter's joy.
No reſpite from his grief the ſhepherd knew,
But daily walk'd where ſhady beeches grew:
Where, ſtretch'd on earth, alone he thus complains,
And in theſe accents tells the groves his pains.
Cruel Alexis! haſt thou no remorſe?
Muſt I expire? and have my ſongs no force?
'Tis now high noon, when herds to coverts run,
The very lizards hide, that love the ſun.
The reapers home to dinner now repair,
While buſy Theſtylis provides both ſauce and fare.
[8]Yet in the raging heat I ſearch for thee,
Heat only known to locuſts and to me.
Oh, was it not much better to ſuſtain
The angry days of Amaryllis' reign?
And ſtill be ſubject to Menalcas' ſway,
Though he more black than night, and thou more fair than day?
O lovely boy, preſume not on thy form;
The faireſt flowers are ſubject to a ſtorm:
Thou both diſdain'ſt my perſon and my flame,
Without ſo much as aſking who I am!
How rich in he [...]fers, all as white as ſnow,
Or cream, with which they make my dairies flow.
A thouſand ewes within my paſtures breed,
And all the year upon new milk I feed.
[9]Beſides, the fam'd Amphion's ſongs I ſing,
That into Theban walls the ſtones did bring,
Nor am I ſo deform'd; for t'other day,
When all the dreadful ſtorm was blown away,
As on the cliffs above the ſea I ſtood,
I view'd my image in the ſea-green flood;
And if I look as handſome all the year,
To vie with Daphnis' ſelf I would not fear.
Ah! would'ſt thou once in cottages delight,
And love, like me, to wound the ſtag in flight!
Where wholeſome mallows grow our kids to drive,
And in our ſongs with Pan himſelf to ſtrive!
From Pan the reed's firſt uſe the ſhepherd knew,
'Tis Pan preſerves the ſheep and ſhepherd too.
Diſdain not then the tuneful reed to ply,
Nor ſcorn the paſtime of a deity.
What taſk would not Amyntas undergo,
For half the noble ſkill I offer you?
A pipe with quills of various ſize I have,
The legacy Damaetas dying gave;
And ſaid, Poſſeſs thou this, by right 'tis thine;
Am [...]ntas then ſtood by, and did repine:
Beſides two kids that I from danger bore,
With ſtreaks of lovely white enamel'd o'er;
Who drain the bagging udder twice a-day,
And both at home for thy acceptance ſtay.
Oft Theſtylis for them has pin'd, and ſhe
Shall have them, ſince thou ſcorn'ſt my gifts and me.
Come to my arms, thou lovely boy, and take
The richeſt preſents that the ſpring can make.
[10]See how the nymphs with lilies wait on thee:
Fair Naïs, ſcarce thyſelf ſo fair as ſhe,
With poppies, daffadils, and violets join'd,
A garland for thy ſofter brow has twin'd.
Myſelf with downy peaches will appear,
And cheſnuts, Amaryllis' dainty cheer:
I'll crop my laurel, and my myrtle tree,
Together bound, becauſe their ſweets agree.
Unbred thou art, and homely, Corydon,
Nor will Alexis with thy gifts be won:
Nor canſt thou hope, if gifts his mind could ſway,
That rich Iölas would to thee give way.
Ah me! while I fond wretch indulge my dreams,
Winds blaſt my flowers, and boars bemire my ſtreams.
Whom fly'ſt thou? Gods themſelves have had abode
In woods, and Paris equal to a God.
Let Pallas in the towns ſhe built reſide,
To me a grove's worth all the world beſide:
Lions chace wolves, thoſe wolves a kid in prime,
That very kid ſeeks heaths of flowering thyme,
While Corydon purſues with equal flame,
Alexis, thee; each has his ſeveral game.
See how the ox unyok'd brings home the plough,
The ſhades increaſing as the ſun goes low.
Bleſt fields reliev'd by night's approach ſo ſoon,
Love has no night! 'tis always raging noon!
Ah Corydon! what frenzy fills thy breaſt?
Thy vineyard lies half prun'd and half undreſt.
Luxurious ſprouts ſhut out the ripening ray,
The branches ſhorn, not yet remov'd away.
[11]Recall thy ſenſes, and to work with ſpeed;
Of many utenſils thou ſtand'ſt in need.
Fall to thy labour, quit the peeviſh boy;
Time, or ſome new deſire, ſhall this deſtroy.
THE SAME ECLOGUE*.
ALEXIS.
YOUNG Corydon, hard fate! an humble ſwain,
Alexis lov'd, the joy of all the plain;
He lov'd, but could not hope for love again;
Yet every day through groves he walk'd alone,
And vainly told the hills and woods his moan:
Cruel Alexis! can't my verſes move?
Haſt thou no pity? muſt I die for love?
Juſt now the flocks purſue the ſhades and cool,
And every lizard creeps into his hole:
Brown Theſtylis the weary reapers ſeeks,
And brings their meat, their onions, and their leeks:
And whilſt I trace thy ſteps, in every tree
And every buſh, poor inſects ſigh with me:
Ah! had it not been better to have borne
The peeviſh Amaryllis' frown and ſcorn,
Or elſe Menalcas, than this deep deſpair?
Though he was black, and thou art lovely fair!
[12]Ah, charming beauty! 'tis a fading grace,
Truſt not too much, ſweet youth, to that fair face:
Things are not always us'd that pleaſe the ſight,
We gather black-berries when we ſcorn the white.
Thou doſt deſpiſe me, thou doſt ſcorn my flame,
Yet doſt not know me, nor how rich I am:
A thouſand tender lambs, a thouſand kine,
A thouſand goats I feed, and all are mine:
My dairy's full, and my large herd affords,
Summer and winter, cream, and milk, and curds,
I pipe as well, as when through Theban plains
Amphion fed his flocks, or charm'd the ſwains.
Nor is my face ſo mean; I lately ſtood,
And view'd my figure in the quiet flood,
And think myſelf, though it were judg'd by you,
As fair as Daphnis, if that glaſs be true.
Oh that, with me, thee humble plains would pleaſe,
The quiet fields and lowly cottages!
Oh that with me you'd live, and hunt the hare,
Or drive the kids, or ſpread the fowling ſnare!
Then we would ſing like Pan in ſhady groves;
Pan taught us pipes, and Pan our art approves:
Pan both the ſheep and harmleſs ſhepherd loves.
Nor muſt you think the pipe too mean for you;
To learn to pipe, what won't Amyntas do?
I have a pipe, well-ſeaſon'd, brown, and try'd;
Which good Damaetas left me when he died:
He ſaid, Here, take it for a legacy,
Thou art my ſecond, it belongs to thee;
He ſaid, and dull Amyntas envy'd me.
[13]Beſides, I found two wanton kids at play
In yonder vale, and thoſe I brought away,
Young ſportive creatures, and of ſpotted hue,
Which ſuckle twice a-day, I keep for you:
Theſe Theſtylis hath begg'd, and begg'd in vain,
But now they 're hers, ſince you my gifts diſdain:
Come, lovely boy, the nymphs their baſkets fill,
With poppy, violet, and daffadil,
The roſe and thouſand other fragrant flowers,
To pleaſe thy ſenſes in thy ſofteſt hours;
Theſe Naïs gathers to delight my boy,
Come, dear Alexis, be no longer coy.
I'll ſeek for cheſnuts too in every grove,
Such as my Amaryllis us'd to love.
The gloſſy plumbs and juicy pears I'll bring,
Delightful all, and many a pretty thing:
The laurel and the neighbouring myrtle tree,
Confus'dly planted 'cauſe they both agree
And prove more ſweet, ſhall ſend their boughs to thee.
Ah, Corydon! thou art a fooliſh ſwain,
And coy Alexis doth thy gifts diſdain;
Or if gifts could prevail, if gifts could woo,
Iölas can preſent him more than you.
What doth the madman mean? he idly brings
Storms on his flowers, and boars into his ſprings.
Ah! whom doſt thou avoid? whom fly? the Gods,
And charming Paris too, have liv'd in woods:
Let Pallas, ſhe whoſe art firſt rais'd a town,
Live there, let us delight in woods alone:
The boar the wolf, the wolf the kid purſues,
The kid her thyme, as faſt as t' other does,
[14]Alexis Corydon, and him alone,
Each hath his game, and each purſues his own:
Look how the wearied ox brings home the plough,
The ſun declines, and ſhades are doubled now:
And yet my paſſion nor my cares remove,
Love burns me ſtill, what flame ſo fierce as Love!
Ah Corydon! what fury's this of thine!
On yonder elm there hangs thy half-prun'd vine:
Come, rather mind thy uſeful work, prepare
Thy harveſt baſkets, and make thoſe thy care;
Come, mind thy plough, and thou ſhalt quickly find
Another, if Alexis proves unkind.
ECLOGUE III. OR, PALAEMON*.
MENALCAS.
TELL me, Dametas, tell whoſe ſheep theſe are?
DAMETAS.
Aegon's, for Aegon gave them to my care.
MENALCAS.
Whilſt he Neaera courts, but courts in vain,
And fears that I ſhall prove the happier ſwain;
[15]Poor ſheep! whilſt he his hopeleſs love purſues,
Here twice an hour his ſervant milks his ewes:
The flock is drain'd, the lambkins ſwigg the teat,
But find no moiſture, and then idly bleat.
DAMETAS.
No more of that, Menalcas; I could tell,
And you know what, for I remember well;
I know when, where, and what, the fool deſign'd,
And what had happen'd, but the nymphs were kind.
MENALCAS.
Twas then perhaps, when ſome obſerv'd the clown
Spoil Mico's vines, and cut his olives down.
DAMETAS.
Or rather when, where thoſe old beeches grow,
You broke young Daphnis' arrows and his bow.
You ſaw them given to the lovely boy,
Ill-natur'd you, and envy'd at his joy;
But hopes of ſweet revenge thy life ſupply'd,
And hadſt thou not done miſchief, thou hadſt died.
MENALCAS.
What will not maſter ſhepherds dare to do,
When their baſe ſlaves pretend ſo much as you?
Did not I ſee, not I, you pilfering for,
When you lay cloſe, and ſnapt rich Damon's goat?
His ſpoch-dog bark'd, I cry'd, The robber, ſee,
Guard well your flock; you ſkulkt behind a tree.
DAMETAS.
I tell thee, ſhepherd, 'twas before my own,
We two pip'd for him, and I fairly won:
This he would own, and gave me cauſe to boaſt,
Though he refus'd to pay the goat he loſt.
MENALCAS.
[16]You pipe with him! thou never hadſt a pipe
Well join'd with wax, and fitted to the lip;
But under hedges to the long-ear'd rout
Wert wont, dull fool, to toot a ſcreeching note.
DAMETAS.
And ſhall we have a tryal of our ſkill?
I'll lay this heifer, 'twill be worth your while;
Two calves ſhe ſuckles, and yet twice a-day
She fills two pails; now ſpeak what dare you lay!
MENALCAS.
I cannot ſtake down any of my flock,
My fold is little, and but ſmall my ſtock:
Beſides, my father's covetouſly croſs,
My ſtep-dame curſt, and they will find the loſs:
For both ſtrict eyes o'er all my actions keep,
One counts my kids, and both twice count my ſheep.
But yet I'll lay what you muſt grant as good
(Since you will loſe) two cups* of beechen wood,
Alcimedon made them, 'tis a work divine,
And round the brim ripe grapes and ivy twine;
So curiouſly he hits the various ſhapes,
And with pale ivy cloaths the bluſhing grapes;
It doth my eyes and all my friends delight,
I'm ſure your mouth muſt water at the ſight:
Within, two figures neatly carv'd appear,
Conon, and he (who was't?) that made the ſphere,
And ſhew'd the various ſeaſons of the year.
[17]What time to ſhear our ſheep, what time to plough:
'Twas never us'd, I kept it clean till now.
DAMETAS.
Aleimedon too made me two beechen pots,
And round the handles wrought ſmooth ivy knots;
Orpheus within, and following woods around,
With bended tops, ſeem liſtening to the ſound.
I never us'd them, never brought them forth;
But to my h [...]ifer theſe are little worth.
MENALCAS.
I'll pay thee off, I'm ready, come let's try,
And he ſhall be our judge that next comes by;
See, 'tis Palaemon; come, I'll ne'er give o'er,
Till thou ſhalt never dare to challenge more.
DAMETAS.
Begin, I'll not refuſe the ſkilful'ſt ſwain,
I ſcorn to turn my back for any man;
I know myſelf; but pray, judicious friend,
('Tis no ſmall matter) carefully attend.
PALAEMON.
Since we have choſen a convenient place,
Since woods are cloath'd with leaves, the fields with graſs,
The trees with fruit, the year ſeems fine and gay,
Demetas firſt, then next Menalcas play,
By turns, for verſe the Muſes love by turns.
DAMETAS.
My Muſe begin with Jove, all's full of Jove;
The God loves me, and doth my verſes love.
MENALCAS.
[18]And Phoebus mine: on Phoebus I'll beſtow
The bluſhing hyacinth, and laurel bough.
DAMETAS.
Sly Galatea drives me o'er the green,
And apples throws, then hides, yet would be ſeen.
MENALCAS.
But my Amyntas doth his paſſion tell,
Our dogs ſcarce know my Delia half ſo well.
DAMETAS.
I'll have a gift for Phyllis cre 'tis long;
I know where ſtock-doves build, I'll take their young.
MENALCAS.
I pluck'd my boy fine pears, I ſent him ten,
'Twas all I had, but ſoon I'll ſend again.
DAMETAS.
What things my nymph did ſpeak! what tales of love!
Winds bear their muſick to the Gods above.
MENALCAS.
What boots it, boy, you not contemn my flame,
Since, whilſt I hold the net, you hunt the game?
DAMETAS.
My birth-day comes, ſend Phyllis quickly home,
But at my ſhearing-time, Iölas come.
MENALCAS.
And I love Phyllis, for her charms excell;
She ſigh'd, Farewell, dear youth, a long farewell.
DAMETAS.
Wolves ruin flocks, wind trees when newly blown,
Storms corn, and me my Amaryllis' frown.
MENALCAS.
[19]D [...]w ſwells the corn, kids browze the tender tree,
The goats love ſallow*; fair Amyntas me.
DAMETAS.
Mine Pollio loves, though 'tis a ruſtic ſong;
Muſe, feed a ſteer for him that reads thee long.
MENALCAS.
Nay Pollio writes, and at the king's command;
Muſe, feed the bulls that puſh, and ſpurn the ſand.
DAMETAS.
Let Pollio have what-e'er thy wiſh provokes,
Myrrh from his thorns, and honey from his oaks.
MENALCAS.
He that loves Bavius' ſongs may fancy thine;
The ſame may couple wolves, and ſhear his ſwin [...].
DAMETAS.
Ye boys that pluck the beauties of the ſpring,
Fly, fly; a ſnake lies hid, and ſhoots a ſting.
MENALCAS.
Beware the ſtream, drive not the ſheep too nigh;
The bank may fail, the rain is hardly dry.
DAMETAS.
Kids from the river drive, and ſling your hook;
Anon I'll waſh them in the ſhallow brook.
MENALCAS.
Drive to the ſhades; when milk is drain'd by heat,
In vain the milk-maid ſtroaks an empty teat.
DAMETAS.
[20]How lean my bull is in my fruitful field!
Love has the herd, and Love the herdſman kill'd.
MENALCAS.
Sure theſe feel none of Love's devouring flames,
Mere skin and bone, and yet they drain the dams:
Ah me! what ſorcereſs has bewitch'd my lambs!
DAMETAS.
Tell me where heaven is juſt three inches broad,
And I'll believe thee prophet, or a God.
MENALCAS.
Tell me where names of kings in riſing flowers
Are writ and grow, and Phyllis ſhall be yours.
PALAEMON.
I cannot judge which youth does moſt excell;
For you deſerve the ſteer, and he as well.
Reſt equal happy both; and all that prove
A bitter, or elſe fear a pleaſing love:
But my work calls, let's break the meeting off;
Boys, ſhut your ſtreams, the fields have drunk enough.
⁂Eclogue IV. (by Mr. Dryden) is omitted, as it is already in the Collection of the Engliſh Poets, vol. XVII. p. 39. The Fifth (by Mr. Duke) is in vol. XI. p. 28; the Sixth (by Lord Roſcommon) in vol. X. p. 233; and the Ninth (by Mr. Dryden) in vol. XVII. p. 67. N.
MELIBOEUS, ECLOGUE VII.
[21]This Eclogue is wholly paſtoral, and conſiſts of the contention of two ſhepherds, Thyrſis and Corydon; to the hearing of which Mcliboeus was invited by Daphnis, and thus relates it.
WHILE Daphnis ſate beneath a whiſpering ſhade,
Thyrſis and Corydon together fed
Their mingling flocks; his ſheep with ſofteſt wool
Were cloath'd, his goats of ſweeteſt milk were full.
Both in the beauteous ſpring of blooming youth,
The worthy pride of bleſt Arcadia both;
Each with like art his tuneful voice could raiſe,
Each anſwer readily in rural lays;
[22]Hither the father of my flock had ſtray'd,
While ſhelters I for my young myrtles made;
Here I fair Daphnis ſaw; when me he ſpy'd,
Come hither quickly, gentle youth! he cry'd.
Your goat and kids are ſafe, O ſeek not thoſe,
But, if you've leiſure, in this ſhade repoſe:
Hither to water the full heifers tend,
When lengthening ſhadows from the hills deſcend,
Mincius with reeds here interweaves his bounds,
And from that ſacred oak a buſy ſwarm reſounds.
What ſhould I do? Nor was Alcippe there,
Nor Phyllis, who might of my lambs take care;
Yet to my buſineſs I their ſports prefer.
For the two ſwains with great ambition ſtrove,
Who beſt could tune his reed, or beſt could ſing his love;
Alternate verſe their ready Muſes choſe,
In verſe alternate each quick fancy flows;
Theſe ſang young Corydon, young Thyrſis thoſe.
CORYDON.
[23]Ye much-lov'd Muſes! ſuch a verſe beſtow,
As does from Codrus, my lov'd Codrus, flow;
Or, if all can't obtain the gift divine,
My pipe I'll conſecrate on yonder pine.
THYRSIS.
Y' Arcadian ſwains, with ivy wreaths adorn
Your youth, that Codrus may with ſpite be torn;
Or, if he praiſe too much, apply ſome charm,
Leſt his ill tongue your future poet harm.
CORYDON.
Theſe branches of a ſtag, this wild-boar's head,
By little M [...]con's on thy altar laid:
If this continue, Delia! thou ſhalt ſtand
Of ſmootheſt marble, by the ſkilful'ſt hand.
THYRSIS.
This milk, theſe cakes, Priapus, every year
Expect; a little garden is thy care:
Thou 'rt marble now; but, if more land I hold,
If my flock thrive, thou ſhalt be made of gold.
CORYDON.
O Galatea! ſweet as Hybla's rhyme;
White as, more white than, ſwans are in their prime,
Come, when the herds ſhall to their ſtalls repair,
O come, if e'er thy Corydon's thy care.
THYRSIS.
O may I harſh as bittereſt herbs appear,
Rough as wild myrtle, vile as ſea-weeds are,
If years ſeem longer than this tedious day!
Haſte home, my glutton herd, haſte, haſte away.
CORYDON.
[24]Ye moſſy ſprings, ye paſtures, ſofter far
Than thoughtleſs hours of ſweeteſt ſlumbers are,
Ye ſhades, protect my flock, the heats are near;
On the glad vines the ſwelling buds appear.
THYRSIS.
Here on my hearth a conſtant flame does play,
And the fat vapour paints the roof each day;
Here we as much regard the cold north-wind
As ſtreams their banks, or wolves do number mind.
CORYDON.
Look how the trees rejoice in comely pride,
While their ripe fruit lies ſcatter'd on each ſide;
All nature ſmiles: but, if Alexis ſtay,
From our ſad hills the rivers weep away.
THYRSIS.
The dying graſs with ſickly air does fade,
No field's unparch'd, no vines our hills do ſhade;
But, if my Phyllis come, all ſprouts again,
And bounteous Jove deſcends in kindly rain.
CORYDON.
Bacchus the vine, the laurel Phoebus loves,
Fair Venus cheriſhes the myrtle groves,
Phyllis the hazels loves; while Phyllis loves that tree,
Myrtles and laurels of leſs fame ſhall be.
THYRSIS.
The lofty aſh is glory of the woods,
The pine of gardens, poplar of the floods:
If oft thy ſwain, fair Lycidas, thou ſee,
To thee the aſh ſhall yield, the pine to thee.
MELIBOEUS.
[25]Theſe I remember well—
While vanquiſh'd Thyrſis did contend in vain:
Thence Corydon, young Corydon does reign
The beſt, the ſweeteſt, on our wondering plain.
PHARMACEUTRIA*. ECLOGUE VIII.
SAD Damon's and Alpheſiboeus' Muſe
I ſing: to hear whoſe notes the herds refuſe
Their needful food, the ſalvage lynxes gaze,
And ſtopping ſtreams their preſſing waters raiſe.
I ſing ſad Damon's and Alpheſiboeus' lays:
And thou (whatever part is bleſt with thee,
The rough Timavus, or Illyrian ſea)
Smile on my verſe: is there in fate an hour
To ſwell my numbers with my emperour?
There is, and to the world there ſhall be known
A verſe that Sophocles might deign to own.
[26]Amidſt the laurels on thy front divine,
Permit my humble ivy wreath to twine:
Thine was my earlieſt Muſe, my lateſt ſhall be thine.
Night ſcarce was paſt, the morn was yet ſo new,
And well-pleas'd herds yet roll'd upon the dew;
When Damon ſtretch'd beneath an olive lay,
And ſung, Riſe, Lucifer, and bring the day:
Riſe, riſe, while Niſa's falſehood I deplore,
And call thoſe Gods to whom ſhe vainly ſwore,
To hear my ſad expiring Muſe and me,
To Maenalus, my pipes and Muſe, tune all your harmony.
On Maenalus ſtand ever-echoing groves,
Still truſted with the harmleſs ſhepherds loves:
Here Pan reſides, who firſt made reeds and verſe agree.
To Maenalus, my pipes and Muſe, tune all your harmony.
Mopſus is Niſa's choice; how juſt are lovers fears!
Now mares with griffins join, and following years
Shall ſee the hound and deer drink at a ſpring.
O worthy bridegroom, light thy torch, and fling
The nuts; ſee modeſt Heſper quits the ſky.
To Maenalus, my pipes and Muſe, tune all your harmony.
O happy nymph, bleſt in a wondrous choice,
For Mopſus you contemn'd my verſe and voice:
For him my beard was ſhaggy in your eye;
For him, you laugh'd at every deity,
To Maenalus, my pipes and Muſe, tune all your harmony.
When firſt I ſaw thee young and charming too,
'Twas in the fences where our apples grew;
My thirteenth year was downy on my chin,
And hardly could my hands the loweſt branches win;
[27]How did I gaze! how did I gazing die!
To Maenalus, my pipes and Muſe, tune all your harmony.
I know thee, Love; on mountains thou waſt bred,
And Thracian rocks thy infant fury fed:
Hard-ſoul'd, and not of human progeny.
To Maenalus, my pipes and Muſe, tune all your harmony.
Love taught the cruel mother to imbrue
Her hands in blood: 'twas Love her children ſlew:
Was ſhe more cruel, or more impious he?
An impious child was Love, a cruel mother ſhe.
To Maenalus, my pipes and Muſe, tune all your har⯑mony.
Now let the lamb and wolf no more be foes,
Let oaks bear peaches, and the pine the roſe;
From reeds and thiſtles balm and amber ſpring,
And owls and daws provoke the ſwan to ſing:
Let Tityrus in woods with Orpheus vie,
And ſoft Arion on the waves defy;
To Maenalus, my pipes and Muſe, tune all your har⯑mony.
Let all be Chaos now farewell, ye woods:
From you high cliff I'll plunge into the floods.
O Niſa, take this diſmal legacy,
Now ceaſe, my pipes and Muſe, ceaſe all your harmony.
Thus he. Alpheſiboeus' ſong rehearſe,
Ye ſacred Nine, above my rural verſe.
Bring water, altars bind wi [...]h myſtic bands,
Burn gums and vervain, and lift high the wands;
We'll mutter ſacred magic till it [...]rms
My icy ſwain; 'tis verſe we want [...] my charms,
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.
By charms compell'd, the trembling moon deſcends,
And Circe chang'd by charms Ulyſſes' friends;
[28]By charms the ſerpent burſt: ye powerful charms,
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.
Behold his image with three ſillets bound,
Which thrice I drag the ſacred altars round.
Unequal numbers pleaſe the Gods: my charms,
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.
Three knots of treble-colour'd ſilk we tie;
Haſte, Amaryllis, knit them inſtantly;
And ſay, Theſe, Venus, are thy chains; my charms,
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.
Juſt as before this fire the wax and clay
One melts, one hardens, let him waſte away.
Strew corn and ſalt, and burn thoſe leaves of bay.
I burn theſe leaves, but he burns me: my charms,
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.
Let Daphnis rage as when the bellowing kind,
Mad with deſire, run round the woods to find
Their mates: when tir'd, their trembling limbs they lay
Near ſome cool ſtream, nor mind the ſetting day.
Thus let him rage, unpitied too: my charms,
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.
Theſe garments once were my perſidious ſwain's,
Which to the earth I caſt: ah dear remains!
Ye owe my Daphnis to his nymph: my charms,
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.
Moeris himſelf theſe herbs from Pontus brought,
Pontus for every noble poiſon ſought:
Aided by theſe, he now a wolf becomes,
Now draws the buried ſtalking from their tombs.
The corn from field to field tranſports: my charms,
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.
[29]
Caſt o'er your head the aſhes in the brook,
Caſt backward o'er your head, nor turn your look.
I ſtrive; but Gods and art he ſlights: my charms,
Return, return, return my Daphnis to my arms.
Behold new flames from the dead aſhes riſe,
Bleſt be the omen, bleſt the prodigies;
For Hylax barks, ſhall we believe our eyes?
Or do we lovers dream? ceaſe, ceaſe, my charms:
My Daphnis comes, he comes, he flies into my arms.
GALLUS, ECLOGUE X.
SICILIAN nymph. aſſiſt my mournful ſtrains;
The laſt I ſing in rural notes to ſwains:
Grant then a verſe ſo tender and ſo true,
As even Lycoris may with pity view:
Who can deny a verſe to grief and Gallus due?
So, when thy waters paſs beneath the tide,
Secure from briny mixture may they glide!
Begin my Gallus' love and hapleſs vows;
While on the tender twigs the cattle browze:
Nothing is deaf; woods liſten while we ſing,
And echoing groves reſound, and mountains ring.
Ye Naiades, what held you from his aid,
When to unpitied flames he was betray'd?
Nor Aganippe tempted you away,
Nor was Parnaſſus guilty of your ſtay:
The bays, whoſe honours he ſo long had kept,
The lofty bays and humble herbage wept.
[30]When, ſtretch'd beneath a rock, he ſigh'd alone,
The mountain pines and Maenalus did groan,
And cold Lycaeus wept from every ſtone.
His flock ſurrounded him: nor think thy fame
Impair'd, great poet! by a ſhepherd's name;
Ere thou and I our ſheep to paſtures led,
His flocks the Goddeſs-lov'd Adonis fed.
The ſhepherds came; the ſluggiſh neat-herd ſwains,
And ſwine-herds reeking from their maſt and grains.
All aſk'd, from whence this frenzy? Phoebus came
To ſee his poet, Phoebus aſk'd the ſame:
And is (he cry'd) that cruel nymph thy care,
Who, flying thee, can for thy rival dare
The froſts and ſnow, and all the frightful forms of war?
Sylvanus came, thy fortune to deplore;
A wreath of lilies on his head he wore.
Pan came, and wondering we beheld him too,
His ſkin all dy'd of a vermilion hue:
He cry'd, What mad deſigns doſt thou purſue?
Nor ſatisfy'd with dew the graſs appears,
With browze the kids, nor cruel love with tears,
When thus (and ſorrow melted in his eyes)
Gallus to his Arcadian friends replies:
Ye gentle ſwains, ſing to the rocks my moan
(For you, Arcadian ſwains, ſhould ſing alone):
How calm a reſt my wearied ghoſt would have,
If you adorn'd my love, and mourn'd my grave!
O that your birth and buſineſs had been mine,
To feed a flock, or preſs the ſwelling vine!
[31]Had Phyllis or had Galatea been
My love, or any maid upon the green,
(What if her face the nut-brown livery wear,
Are violets not ſweet, becauſe not fair?)
Secure in that unenvied ſtate, among
The poplars, I my careleſs limbs had flung;
Phyllis had made me wreaths, and Galatea ſung.
Behold, fair nymph what bliſs the country yields,
The flowery meads, the purling ſtreams, the laugh⯑ing fields.
Next, all the pleaſures of the foreſt ſee,
Where I could melt away my years with thee.
But furious Love denies me ſoft repoſe,
And hurls me on the pointed ſpears of foes.
While thou (but ah! that I ſhould find it ſo!)
Without thy Gallus for thy guide doſt go
Through all the German colds and Alpine ſnow.
Yet, flying me, no hardſhip may'ſt thou meet;
Nor ſnow nor ice offend thoſe tender feet.
But let me run to deſarts, and rehearſe
On my Sicilian reeds Euphorion's verſe:
Ev'n in the dens of monſters let me lie;
Thoſe I can tame, but not your cruelty.
On ſmootheſt rinds of trees I'll carve my woe;
And as the rinds increaſe, the love ſhall grow.
Then, mixt with nymphs, on Maenalus reſort;
I'll make the boar my danger and my ſport.
When from the vales the jolly cry reſounds,
What rain or cold ſhall keep me from my hounds?
Methinks my ears the ſprightly concert fills;
I ſeem to bound through woods and mount o'er hills.
[32]My arm of a Cydonian javelin ſeiz'd,
As if by this my madneſs could be eas'd;
Or, by our mortal woes, the cruel God appeas'd:
My frenzy changes now; and nymphs and verſe I hate,
And woods; for ah, what toil can ſtubborn love abate!
Should we to drink the frozen Hebrus go,
And ſhiver in the cold Sithonian ſnow,
Or to the ſwarthy Ethiops clime remove,
Parch'd all below, and burning all above,
Ev'n there would Love o'ercome; then let us yield to Love.
Let this ſad lay ſuffice, by ſorrow breath'd,
While bending twigs I into baſkets wreath'd:
My rural numbers, in their homely guiſe,
Gallus, becauſe they came from me, will prize:
Gallus, whoſe growing love my breaſt does rend,
As ſhooting trees the burſting bark diſtend.
Now riſe, for night and dew the fields invade;
And juniper is an unwholſome ſhade:
Blaſts kill the corn by night, and flowers with mildew fade.
Bright Heſper twinkles from afar; away
My kids, for you have had a feaſt to-day.
VIRGIL'S LAST ECLOGUE,
TRANSLATED, OR RATHER IMITATED, AT THE DESIRE OF LADY GIFFARD*, 1666.
[33]ONE labour more, O Arethuſa, yield,
Before I leave the ſhepherds and the field:
Some verſes to my Gallus ere we part,
Such as may one day break Lycoris' heart,
As ſhe did his; who can refuſe a ſong,
To one that lov'd ſo well, and dy'd ſo young!
[34]So may'ſt thou thy belov'd Alpheus pleaſe,
When thou creep'ſt under the Sicanian ſeas.
Begin, and ſing Gallus' unhappy fires,
Whilſt yonder goat to yonder branch aſpires
[35]Out of his reach. We ſing not to the deaf;
An anſwer comes from every trembling leaf.
What woods, what foreſts, had intic'd your ſtay?
Ye Naiades, why came ye not away!
When Gallus dy'd by an unworthy flame,
Parnaſſus knew, and lov'd too well his name
To ſtop your courſe; nor could your haſty flight
Be ſtay'd by Pindus, which was his delight.
Him the freſh laurels, him the lowly heath,
Bewail'd with dewy tears; his parting breath
Made lofty Maenalus hang his piny head;
Lycaean marbles wept when he was dead.
Under a lonely tree he lay and pin'd,
His flock about him feeding on the wind,
As he on love; ſuch kind and gentle ſheep,
Ev'n fair Adonis would be proud to keep.
[36]There came the ſhepherds, there the weary hinds,
Thither Menalcas parch'd with froſts and winds.
All aſk him whence, for whom this fatal love?
Apollo came, his arts and herbs to prove:
Why, Gallus! why ſo fond? he ſays; thy flame,
Thy care. Lycoris, is another's game;
For him ſhe ſighs and raves, him ſhe purſues
Thorough the mid-day heats and morning dews;
Over the ſnowy cliffs and frozen ſtreams,
Through noiſy camps. Up, Gallus, leave thy dreams.
She has left thee. Still lay the drooping ſwain
Hanging his mournful head; Phoebus in vain
Offers his herbs, employs his counſel here;
'Tis all refus'd, or anſwer'd with a tear.
What ſhakes the branches! what makes all the trees
Begin to bow their heads, the goats their knees!
Oh! 'tis Sylvanus, with his moſſy beard
And leafy crown, attended by a herd
Of wood-born fatyrs; ſee! he ſhakes his ſpear,
A green young oak, the talleſt of the year.
Pan, the A [...]cadian God, forſook the plains,
Mov'd with the ſtory of his Gallus' pains.
We ſaw him come with oaten-pipe in hand,
Painted with berries juice; we ſaw him ſtand
And gaze upon his ſhepherd's bathing eyes;
And what! no end, no end of grief, he cries!
Love little minds all thy conſuming care,
Or reſtleſs thoughts; they are his daily fare.
Nor cruel Love with tears, nor graſs with ſhowers,
Nor goats with tender ſprouts, nor bees with flowers
[37]Are ever ſatisfy'd. Thus ſpoke the God,
And touch'd the ſhepherd with his hazle rod [...]
He, ſorrow-ſlain, ſeem'd to revive, and ſaid,
But yet, Arcadians, is my grief allay'd,
To think that in theſe woods, and hills, and plains,
When I am ſilent in the grave, your ſwains
Shall ſing my loves, Arcadian ſwains inſpir'd
By Phoebus! Oh! how gently ſhall theſe tir'd
And fainting limbs repoſe in endleſs ſleep,
While your ſweet notes my love immortal keep!
Would it had pleas'd the Gods I had been born
Juſt one of you, and taught to wind a horn,
Or wield a hook, or prune a branching vine,
And known no other love but, Phyllis, thine;
Or thine, Amyntas; what though both are brown,
So are the nuts and berries on the down;
Amongſt the vines, the willows, and the ſprings,
Phyllis makes garlands, and Amyntas ſings.
No cruel abſence calls my love away,
Farther than bleating ſheep can go aſtray:
Here, my Lycoris, here are ſhady groves,
Here fountains cool, and meadows ſoft; our loves
And lives may here together wear, and end:
O the true joys of ſuch a fate and friend!
I now am hurried by ſevere commands
Into remoteſt parts, among the bands
Of armed troops; there by my foes purſued,
Here by my friends; but ſtill by Love ſubdued.
Thou, far from home and me, art wandering o'er
The Alpine ſnows, the fartheſt weſtern ſhore,
[38]The frozen Rhine. When are we like to meet?
Ah, gently, gently, leſt thy tender feet
Be cut with ice. Cover thy lovely arms;
The northern cold relents not at their charms:
Away, I 'll go into ſome ſhady bowers,
And ſing the ſongs I made in happier hours,
And charm my woes. How can I better chuſe,
Than among wildeſt woods myſelf to loſe,
And carve our loves upon the tender trees;
There they will thrive. See how my love agrees
With the young plants: look how they grow together,
In ſpight of abſence, and in ſpight of weather.
Meanwhile I 'll climb that rock, and ramble o'er
Yon woody hill; I'll chace the grizly boar,
I 'll find Diana's and her nymphs reſort;
No froſts, no ſtorms, ſhall ſlack my eager ſport.
Methinks I 'm wandering all about the rocks
And hollow-ſounding woods: look how my locks
Are torn with boughs and thorns; my ſhafts are gone,
My legs are tir'd; and all my ſport is done.
Alas! this is no cure for my diſeaſe;
Nor can our toils that cruel God appeaſe.
Now neither nymphs, nor ſongs can pleaſe me more,
Nor hollow woods, nor yet the chaf [...]d boar:
No ſport, no labour, can divert my grief:
Without Lycoris there is no relief.
Though I ſhould drink up Heber's icy ſtreams,
Or Scythian ſnows, yet ſtill her fiery beams
Would ſcorch me up. Whatever we can prove,
Love conquers all, and we muſt yield to Love.
VIRGIL'S O FORTUNATOS, &c.*
TRANSLATED, OR RATHER IMITATED, UPON THE DESIRE OF MY LADY TEMPLE.
[39]O HAPPY ſwains, if their own good they knew!
Whom, far from jarring arms, the juſt and due
Returns of well-fraught fields with eaſy fare
Supply, and chearful heavens with healthy air:
What though no aged title grace the ſtock;
What though no troops of early waiters flock
To the proud gates, and with officious fear
Firſt beg the porter's, then the maſter's ear;
What though no ſtately pile amuſe the eye
Of every gazer; though no ſcarlet dye
Stain the ſoft native whiteneſs of the wool,
Nor greedy painter ever rob the full
Untainted bowls of liquid olives' juice
Deſtin'd for altars, and for tables uſe;
Though the bright dawn of gold be not begun,
And nothing ſhine about the houſe but ſun;
Yet ſecure peace, reward of harmleſs life,
Yet various ſorts of treaſures free from ſtrife
Or envy, careleſs leiſure, ſpacious plains,
Cool ſhades and flowery walks along the veins
[40]Of branched ſtreams, yet ſoft and fearleſs ſleep
Amidſt the tender bleating of the ſheep
Want not; there hollow gloomy groves appear,
And wilder thickets, where the ſtaring deer
Dare cloſe their eyes; there youth to homely fare,
And patient labour, age to chearful care
Accuſtom'd, ſacred rites, and humble fear
Of Gods above; fair Truth and Juſtice there
Trod their laſt footſteps when they left the earth,
Which to a thouſand miſchiefs gave a birth.
For me, the Muſes are my firſt deſire,
Whoſe gentle favour can with holy fire
Guide to great Nature's deep myſterious cells
Through paths untrac'd: 'tis the chaſte Muſe that tel [...]s
Poor groveling mortals how the ſtars above
Some keep their ſtation, ſome unwearied move
Through the vaſt azure plains, and what obſcures
The mid-day ſun; how the faint moon endures
So many changes, and ſo many fears,
As by the paleneſs of her face appears;
What ſhakes the bowels of the groaning earth;
What gives the thunder, what the hail a birth;
Why the winds ſometimes whiſtle, ſometimes roar;
What makes the raging waves now brave it o'er
The towering cliffs, now calmly backwards creep
Into the ſpacious boſom of the deep.
But if cold blood about my heart ſhall damp
This noble heat of rifling Nature's camp,
Then give me ſhady groves, and purling ſtreams,
And airy downs; then far from ſcorching beams
[41]Of envy, noiſe, or cities buſy fry,
Careleſs and nameleſs let me live and die.
Oh, where! where are the fields, the waving veins
Of gentle mounts amidſt the ſmoother plains?
The nymphs fair walks? Oh, for the ſhady vale
Of ſome proud hill, ſome freſh reviving gale!
Oh, who will lead me? Whither ſhall I run,
To find the woods, and ſhroud me from the ſun?
Happy the man that Gods and cauſes knows,
Nature's and Reaſon's laws, that ſcorns the blows.
Of Fate or Chance, lives without ſmiles or tears,
Above fond hopes, above diſtracting fears.
Happy the ſwain that knows no higher powers
Than Pan or old Sylvanus, and the bowers
Of rural nymphs ſo oft by ſatires griev'd
(All this unſeen perhaps, but well believ'd);
Him move not princes frowns, nor peoples heats,
Nor faithleſs civil jars, nor foreign threats;
Not Rome's affairs, nor tranſitory crowns,
The fall of princes, or the riſe of clowns,
All 's one to him; nor grieves he at the ſad
Events he hears, nor envies at the glad.
What fruits the laden boughs, the willing fields,
What pleaſures innocence and freedom yields,
He ſafely gathers, neither ſkills the feat
Of arms or laws, nor labours but to eat.
Some rove through unknown ſeas with ſwelling ſails;
Some wait on courts and the uncertain gales
Of princes favour; others, led by charms
Of greedy honour, follow fatal arms.
[42]Some mount the pulpit, others ply the bar,
And make the arts of peace the arts of war.
One hugs his brooding bags, and feels the woe
He fears, and treats himſelf worſe than his foe.
Another breaks the banks, lets all run out
But to be talk'd and gaz'd on by the rout.
Some ſow ſedition, blow up civil broils,
And venture exile, death, and endleſs toils,
Only to ſleep in ſcarlet, drink in gold,
Though other fair pretences may be told.
Meanwhile the ſwain riſes at early dawn,
And turns his fallow, or breaks up the lawn
With crooked plough, buries the hopeful grain,
Folds his lov'd flock, and lays a wily train
For their old foe; prunes the luxurious vine,
Pleas'd with the thoughts of the next winter's wine:
Viſits the lowing herd, theſe for the pale,
Thoſe for the yoke deſigns, the reſt for ſale:
Each ſeaſon of the ſliding year his pains
Divides, each ſeaſon ſhares his equal gains.
The youthful ſpring ſcatters the tender lambs
About the fields; the parching ſummer crams
His ſpacious barns; Bacchus the autumn crowns,
And fair Pomona; when the winter frowns
And curls his rugged brow with hoary froſt,
Then are his feaſts, then thoughts and cares are loſt
In friendly bowls, then he receives the hire
Of his year's labour by a chearful fire.
Or elſe abroad he tries the arts and toils
Of war, with truſty dog and ſpear he foils
[43]The grizly boar; with traps, and trains, and nets,
The greedy wolf, the wily fox beſets.
At home he leaves, at home he finds, a wife
Sharer of all that's good or bad in life;
Prudent and chaſte, yet gentle, eaſy, kind,
Much in his eye, and always of his mind;
He feeds no others children for his own;
Theſe have his kiſſes, theſe his cares; he's known
Little abroad, and leſs deſires to know;
Friend to himſelf, to no man elſe a foe.
Eaſy his labours, harmleſs are his plays,
Juſt are his deeds, healthy and long his days:
His end nor wiſh'd nor fear'd; he knows no odds
'Tween life and death, but ev'n as pleaſe the Gods.
Among ſuch ſwains Saturn the ſceptre bore;
Such cuſtoms made the golden age, before
Trumpets were heard, or ſwords ſeen to decide
Quar [...]els of luſt, or avarice, or pride;
Or cruel men began to ſtain their feaſts
With blood and ſlaughter of poor harmleſs beaſts;
Thus liv'd the ancient Sabines, thus the bold
Et [...]urians, ſo renown'd and fear'd of old.
Thus Romulus, and thus auſpicious Rome
From ſlender low beginnings, by the doom
Of Fates, to ſuch prodigious greatneſs came,
Bounded by heavens, and ſeas, and vaſter fame.
But hold! for why, the country ſwain alone?
Though he be bleſt, cares not to have it known.
HORACE, BOOK I. SAT. I.
BEING A TRANSLATION, OR RATHER IMITATION, OF HIS WAY OF WRITING, UPON THE DESIRE OF MY LADY TEMPLE, AND MY LADY GIFFARD.
[44]HOW is't, Maecenas, that no man abides
The lot which reaſon gives, or chance divides
To his own ſhare? ſtill praiſes other ſtars?
Oh happy merchants! broken with the wars
And age, the ſoldier cries. On t'other ſide,
When the ſhip's toſt by raging winds and tide,
Happy the wars! there in an hour one dies
Or conquers, the repining merchant cries.
The lawyer, paſt the fear of being poor,
When early clients taber at his door,
And break his ſleep, forgets his eaſy gains,
And mutters, Oh how bleſt are country ſwains,
Their time's their own! But when th' unpractis'd clow [...]
Summon'd by writ enters the buſy town,
Every man's prey or jeſt he meets, How curſt
His hap, he cries, in fields ſo rudely nurſt!
The reſt of the ſame kind would make a theme
As long and tedious as a winter's dream.
But to diſpatch: if any God ſhall ſay,
Your vows are heard, each has his wiſh, away,
[45]Change all your ſtations; ſoldier, go and trade;
Merchant, go fight; lawyer, come take the ſpade
And plough in hand; farmer, put on the gown,
Learn to be civil, and leave off the clown:
Why what d'ye mean, good ſirs! make haſte, you'll find
Hardly one God another time ſo kind.
Soft, and conſider, they all ſtand and ſtare,
Like what they would be worſe than what they are.
Well, this is mirth, and 'tis confeſt, though few
Can tell me what forbids jeſts to be true,
Or gentle maſters to invite their boys
To ſpell and learn at firſt with plumbs and toys.
But to grow ſerious, he that follows arms,
Phyſick, or laws, thriving by others harms,
The fawning hoſt and he that ſweats at plough,
Th' adventurous merchant, all agree and vow
Their end's the ſame; they labour and they care,
Only that reſt and eaſe may be their ſhare
When they grow old, and have ſecur'd the main:
Juſt ſo we ſee the wiſe and heedful train
Of buſy ants in reſtleſs journies ſpend
The ſummer-months to gather and to mend
Their little heap, foreſeeing winter's rage,
And in their youth careful to ſtore their age.
But when it comes, they ſnug at home, and ſhare
The fruits in plenty of their common care.
A council ſafe and wiſe; when neither fire,
Nor ſea, nor froſt, nor ſteel, tames thy deſire
Of endleſs gain, whilſt there is any can
So much as tell thee of one richer man.
[46]Where is the pleaſure, with a timorous hand
And heart, to bury treaſures in the ſand?
Who would be rich muſt never touch the bank;
You rout an army if you break a rank.
But if ne'er touch'd, what helps the ſacred heap
Of hidden gold' thy ſweaty hinds may reap
Large fields of corn, and fill whole tuns with wine;
But yet thy belly holds no more than mine.
So the tann'd ſlave, that 's made perhaps to ſtoop
Under the whole proviſions of the troop,
Upon their way, alas, eats no more bread
Than he that carried none upon his head.
Or tell me what 't imports the man that lives
Within the narrow bounds that Nature gives
To plough a hundred or a thouſand fields?
Oh! but to draw from a great heap that yields
More than is aſk'd, is pleaſant ſure: but why,
If mine, though little, gives me more than I
Or you can uſe, where is the difference?
Why is your fortune better or your ſenſe?
As if ſome traveller, upon his way
Wanting one quart of water to allay
His raging thirſt, ſhould ſcorn a little ſpring
And ſeek a river, 't were a pleaſant thing:
And what comes on 't, that ſuch as covet more
Than what they need, perhaps are tumbled o'er
Into the ſtream by failing banks, whilſt he
That only wants what can't be ſpar'd is free,
And, drinking at the ſpring, nor water fears
Troubled with mud, nor mingled with his tears.
[47]
Yet moſt men ſay, by falſe deſire miſled,
Nothing 's enough, becauſe you 're valued
Juſt ſo much as you have. What ſhall one ſay
Or do to ſuch a man? Bid him away
And he as wretched as he pleaſe himſelf
Whilſt he ſo fondly doats on dirty pelf.
A ſordid rich Athenian, to allay
The ſcorn of all the peoples tongues, would ſay,
They hiſs me, but I hug myſelf at home,
While I among my endleſs treaſures roam.
Tantalus catches at the ſl [...]ing ſtreams
That ſtill beguile him like a lover's dreams.
Why doſt thou laugh? Of thee the fable 's told,
Thou that art plunged in thy heaps of gold,
And gazeſt on them with ſuch wakeful eyes,
And greedy thoughts, yet dar'ſt not touch the prize
No more than if 't were ſacred, or enjoy'd
Like pictures which with handling are deſtroy'd.
Doſt thou not know what money 's worth? what uſe
It yields? let bread be bought, and chearful juice
Of grapes, warm eaſy cloaths, and wood to burn,
As much of all as ſerves kind Nature's turn.
Or elſe go ſpend thy nights in broken dreams
Of thieves or fire, by day try all extremes
Of pinching cold and hunger, make thy fare
Of watchful thoughts, and heart-conſuming care.
Are theſe thy treaſures? theſe thy goods? may I
In want of all ſuch riches live and die!
But if thy body ſhakes with aguiſh cold,
Or burns with raging fevers, or grows old
[48]Betimes with unkind uſage, thou art ſped
With friends and ſervants that ſurround thy bed,
Make broths, and beg phyſicians to reſtore
A health now ſo bewail'd, ſo lov'd before
By all thy dear relations. Wretched man!
Neither thy wife, nor child, nor ſervant, can
Endure thou ſhould'ſt recover; all the boys
And girls, thy neighbours hate thee, make a noiſe
To break thy ſleeps; and doſt thou wonder, when
Thou lov'ſt thy gold far above Gods or men?
Canſt thou teach others love, thyſelf have none?
Thou may'ſt as well get children all alone.
Then l [...]t there be ſome end of gain; the more
Thou doſt poſſeſs, the leſs fear to be poor.
And end thy labour when thou haſt attain'd
What firſt thou hadſt in [...]im, nor be arraign'd
Like baſe Umidius, who was wont to mete
His money as his neighbours did their wheat,
By buſhels; yet a wretch to ſuch degree
That he was cloath'd and fed as begga [...]ly
As the worſt ſlave, and to his very laſt
His fear of downright ſtarving ne'er was paſt:
But, as the Gods would have it, a brave t [...]ull,
He kept, with a plain hatchet cleft his ſkull.
What is your counſel then, I pray, to ſwill
Like Nomentanus, or like Moenius ſtill
To pinch and cark? Why go'ſt thou on to join
Things ſo directly oppoſite? 'Tis fine,
And does become thee, if I bid thee fly
The prodigal, a miſer thou muſt die:
[49]Nor one nor t'other like my counſel ſounds;
There is a mean in things, and certain bounds,
Short or beyond the which the truth and right
Cannot conſiſt, nor long remain in ſight.
But to return from whence I parted; where
Is there one miſer does content appear
With what he is or has, and does not hate
His own, or envy at his neighbour's fate?
Never regards the endleſs ſwarm of thoſe
That ſo much poorer are, but ſtill outgoes
The next, and then the next, when he is paſt,
Meeting ſtill one or other ſtops his haſte.
Like a fierce rider in a numerous race
That ſtarts and ſpurs it on with eager pace,
While there is one before him, vext in mind,
But ſcorning all that he has left behind.
Hence comes it that ſo ſeldom one is found
Who ſays his life has happy been and ſound;
And, having fairly meaſur'd out the ſpan
[...]f poſting age, dies a contented man;
[...]r riſes from the table like a gueſt
[...]hat e'en has fill'd his belly at the feaſt.
ON MRS. PHILIPPS'S DEATH*.
AT THE DESIRE OF MY LADY TEMPLE.
[50]WHY all theſe looks ſo ſolemn and ſo ſad!
Who is that one can die, and none be glad!
The rich leaves heirs, the great makes room, the wiſe
Pleaſes the fooliſh only when he dies.
Men ſo divided are in hopes and fears,
That none can live or die with general tears;
[51]'Tis ſure ſome ſtar is fallen, and our hearts
Grow heavy as its gentle influence parts.
Thus ſaid I, and like others hung my head,
When ſtraight 'twas whiſper'd, 'tis Orinda's dead:
Orinda! what! the glory of our ſtage!
Crown of her ſex, and wonder of the age!
Graceful and fair in body and in mind,
She that taught ſullen Virtue to be kind,
Youth to be wiſe, Mirth to be innocent,
Fame to be ſteady, Envy to relent,
[52]Love to be cool, and Friendſhip to be warm,
Praiſe to do good, and Wit to do no harm!
Orinda! that was ſent the world to give
The beſt example how to write and live!
The queen of poets, whoſoe'er 's the king,
And to whoſe ſceptre all their homage bring!
Who more than men conceiv'd and underſtood,
And more than women knew how to be good!
Who learnt all young that age could e'er attain,
Excepting only to be proud and vain;
[53]And made alone ſo rich amends for all
The faults her ſex committed ſince the fall!
Can ſhe be dead? Can any thing be great
And ſafe? Can day advance, and not retreat
Into the ſhady night? But ſhe was young;
And might have liv'd to tune the world, and ſung
Us all aſleep, that now lament her fall,
And Fate unjuſt, Heaven unrelenting call.
Alas! can any fruit grow ripe in ſpring,
And hang till autumn? Nature gives this ſting
To all below, whatever thrives too faſt
Decays too ſoon, late growths may longer laſt.
Orinda could not wait on ſlow-pac'd Time,
Having ſo far to go, ſo high to climb;
But, like a flaſh of heavenly fire that falls
Into ſome earthly dwelling, firſt it calls
The neighbours only to admire the light
And luſtre that ſurprize their wondering ſight,
Till, kindling all, it grows a noble flame,
Towering and ſpiring up from whence it came;
But, ere arrived at thoſe azure walls,
The houſe that lodg'd it here to aſhes falls.
Such was Orinda's ſoul. But hold! I ſee
A troop of mourners in deep elegy:
Make room and liſten to their charming lays,
For they bring cypreſs here to trade for bays;
And he deſerves it who of all the reſt
Praiſes and imitates Orinda beſt.
ON MY LADY GIFFARD'S LOORY*.
[54]OF all the queſtions which the curious raiſe
Either in ſearch of knowledge or of praiſe,
None ſeem ſo much perplexed or ſo nice
As where to find the ſeat of paradiſe.
But who could once that happy region name,
From whence the fair and charming Loory came?
To end this doubt would give the beſt advice,
For this was ſure the bird of paradiſe.
Such radiant colours from no tainted air,
Such notes and humour from no lands of care,
Such unknown ſmells could from no common earth,
From no known climate could receive a birth:
For he alone in theſe alive outvy'd
All the perfumes with which the phoenix died.
About a gentle turtle's was the ſize,
The ſweeteſt ſhape that e'er ſurprized eyes.
A longiſh hawked bill, and yellow brown,
A ſtick black velvet cap upon the crown.
His back a ſcarlet mantle cover'd o'er,
One purple ſploach upon his neck he wore.
His jetty eyes were circled all with flame;
His ſwelling breaſt was, with his back, the ſame.
All down his belly a deep violet hue
Was gently ſhaded to an azure blue.
[55]His ſpreading wings were green, to brown inclin'd,
But with a ſweet pale ſtraw-colour were lin'd.
His tail, above was purples mixt with green,
Under, a colour ſuch as ne'er was ſeen;
When like a fan it ſpread, a mixture bold
Of green and yellow, grideline and gold.
Thus by fond nature was he dreſt more gay
Than eaſtern kings in all their rich array;
For feather much, as well as flower, outvies
In ſoftneſs ſilk, in colour mortal dyes.
But none his beauty with his humour dare,
Nor can his body with his ſoul compare.
If that was wonder, this was prodigy;
They differ'd as the fineſt earth and ſky.
If ever any reaſonable ſoul
Harbour'd in ſhape of either brute or fowl,
This was the manſion; metamorphoſy
Gain'd here the credit loſt in poetry.
No paſſion moving in a human breaſt
Was plainer ſeen, or livelier expreſt.
No wit or learning, eloquence or ſong,
Acknowledg'd kindneſs, or complain'd of wrong,
With accents half ſo feeling as his notes:
Look how he rages, now again he doats;
Brave like the eagle, meek as is the dove,
Jealous as men, like women does he love.
With bill he wounds you ſudden as a dart,
Then, nibbling, aſks you pardon from his heart.
He calls you back if e'er you go away,
He thanks you if you are ſo kind to ſtay.
[56]When you return, with exultation high
He raiſes notes that almoſt pierce the ſky,
But all in ſuch a language, that we gueſt,
Though he ſpoke ours, he found his own the beſt.
Such a badeen* ne'er came upon the ſtage,
So droll, ſo monkey in his play and rage;
Sprawling upon his back, and pitching pyes,
Twirling his head, and flurring at the flies.
A thouſand tricks and poſtures would he ſhow,
Then riſe ſo pleas'd both with himſelf and you,
That the amaz'd beholders could not ſay
Whether the bird was happier, or they.
With a ſoft bruſh was tipt his wanton tongue,
He lapt his water like a tiger young:
His lady's teeth with this he prick'd and prun'd;
With this a thouſand various notes he tun'd.
A chagrin† fine cover'd his little feet,
Which to wild airs would in wild meaſures meet.
With theſe he took you by the hand, his prey
With theſe he ſeiz'd, with theſe he hopt away.
With theſe held up he made his bold defence,
The arms of ſafety, love, and violence.
With all theſe charms Loory endow'd and dreſt,
Forſaking climates with ſuch creatures bleſt,
From eaſtern regions and remoteſt ſtrands
Flew to the gentle Artemiſa's hands;
And, when from thence he gave the fatal ſtart,
Went to the gentle Artemiſa's heart;
[57]Fed with her hands, and perch'd upon her head,
From her lips water'd, neſted in her bed;
Nurſt with her cares, preſerved with her fears,
And now, alas! embalmed with her tears.
But ſure among the griefs that plead juſt cauſe,
This needs muſt be acquitted by the laws:
For never could be greater paſſion,
Concernment, jealouſy, for miſtreſs ſhown,
Content in preſence, and at parting grief;
Trouble in abſence, by return relief;
Such application, that he was i' th' end
Company, lover, play-fellow, and friend,
Could I but hope or live one man to find.
As much above the reſt of human-kind
As this above the race of all that fly,
Long ſhould I live, contented ſhould I die.
Had ſuch a creature heretofore appear'd
When to ſuch various Gods were altars rear'd,
Who came transformed down in twenty ſhapes
For entertainment, love, revenge, or rapes:
Loory would then have Mercury been thought,
And of him ſacred images been wrought:
For between him ſure was ſufficient odds,
And all th' Egyptian, Gothic, Indian Gods:
Nay, with more reaſon had he been ador'd
Than Gods that parjur'd, Goddeſſes that whor'd:
Yet ſuch the greateſt nations choſe or found,
And rais'd the higheſt plant from loweſt ground.
ARISTAEUS*.
FROM VIRGIL'S GEORGICKS, BOOK IV.
[58]THE ſhepherd Ariſtaeus, grieving, ſees
The helpleſs loſs of his beloved bees;
In vain he with the ſtrong contagion ſtrives,
The cluſtering ſtocks lie famiſh'd in their hives;
Some from abroad return with droopy wing,
With empty thighs, and moſt without a ſting.
They with diſeaſes, he with ſorrow pines,
And to his ſpited grief himſelf reſigns;
Abandons all his wonted cares and pains,
His flocks, his groves, his ſhepherds, and his plains.
Away he goes, led by his raving dreams,
To the clear head of the Peneian ſtreams;
[59]Full of complaints he there his ſorrow breaks,
And thus reproaching to his mother ſpeaks:
Cyrene, ſometime mother, whofe abodes
Are at the bottom of theſe cryſtal floods,
If e'er Apollo charmed thy deſire,
As I am told, or was my ſacred ſire,
If ever thou brought'ſt forth this child, the hate
And ſcorn of angry unrelenting Fate;
What is his care? Or where thy tender love,
That bid me hope for bleſſed ſeats above?
Is this th' advantage of immortal race?
Are theſe the trophies that thy offspring grace?
Is 't not enough I paſs inglorious life
Among the country ſhades, in toil and ſtrife,
With my hard fate, but thou muſt envy bear,
That I liv'd private, void of hope or fear?
Sprung from ſuch ſeed I ſhould a hero be,
Is it too much to be content and free?
[60]What is the honour of poor ſheep and bees,
That thou ſhould'ſt envy or deny me theſe?
Thou art a Goddeſs, I an humble ſwain,
And can my rural fortunes give thee pain?
If ſo, then come and cut down all my groves,
Parch all my eared ſheaves, and kill my droves,
Famiſh my flocks, and root up all my vines;
He that is once undone no more repines.
Thus went he on, until at length the ſound
Reach'd fair Cyrene; ſhe ſat circled round
With all her nymphs, in vaulted chambers ſpread
Under the great and ſacred river's bed;
There was Cydippe, gentle, ſweet, and fair,
And bright Dycorias with golden hair;
The firſt a virgin free from wanton ſtains,
The other newly paſt Lucina's pains,
Clio and Peroe from the ocean
Lately arrived each upon a ſwan;
Opis and Ephyre and Deiopeia,
Drymo, Ligaea, and the young Thalcia;
Swift Arethuſa had her quiver laid;
And wanton Speio with her garland play'd;
Some ſpin Mileſian wools, ſome entertain
The reſt with ſtories of the pleaſing pain;
The gay Climene told the crafty wiles
Of jealous Vulcan; how he Mars beguiles,
How the ſweet thefts are found, the train is ſet,
And how the lovers ſtruggle in the net.
Whilſt to ſuch tales they lend a willing ear,
Their time and work away together wear;
[61]Till Ar [...]ſtaeus' ſad complaint begins
To make them liſten, then proceeding wins
All the attention of the cryſtal hall:
But Arethuſa, moved, before all
The reſt ſtarts up, and rears her ſprightly head
Above the waves that murmur'd as they fled;
And, Oh the Gods, Cyrene! cries ſhe out,
Siſter Cyrene, ſiſter, here without,
Thy chiefeſt care, ſad Ariſtaeus ſtands,
And ſighs, and ſwells, and with his gentle hands
Wipes his wet eyes, then to reproaches falls,
And thee unkind and cruel mother calls.
She, ſtruck and pale, and feeling all the ſmart
That at ſuch news could pierce a mother's heart,
Cries, Bring him to us, bring him ſtrait away,
For him 'tis lawful, Ariſtaeus may,
Sprung of the Gods, their ſacred portals tread.
Then ſhe commands the haſty ſtreams, that fled
So faſt away, to ſtop and leave a room
Where the ſad youth might to her palace come.
The waters hear their Goddeſs's command,
And, riſing from their bed, in arches ſtand;
He, through the glazed vaults, amaz'd, deſcends,
Guided by two of the kind nymphs, his friends,
Till the vaſt ſpacious caverns he deſcries,
Where fair Cyrene's watery kingdom lies,
And, ſtruck with wonder, the new ſcene beheld,
Where in vaſt regions mighty waters ſwell'd;
Here gloomy groves repeat the hollow ſound
Of falling floods, there rocky cliffs rebound
[62]The fainting echoes; here great lakes remain
Enclos'd in caves, reſerv'd to fill ſome vein
Of failing ſtreams; there mighty rivers roll
In torrents raging, and without control;
Here gentle brooks with a ſoft murmur glide,
Phaſis and Lycus coaſting by his ſide;
Cold Cydnus haſtening to Cicilian ſtrands,
Old Tyber winding through the tawny ſands;
The troubled Hypanis and Anio fair,
All haſte to ſhow their heads in open air;
That way the rapid Po in branched veins
Runs out to water many fertile plains.
At length the noble ſwain is wondering brought
Into a great and round pavilion, wrought
Out of a cryſtal rock, with moſs o'ergrown,
Within 'twas paved all with pumice-ſtone;
The vaulted roof with mother-pearl was ſpread,
Fretted with coral in wild branches led,
The wall in groteſque im [...]gery excels,
Wrought in a thouſand various-colour'd ſhells;
Some repreſenting the fierce ſea-gods rapes,
Others the fair and flying nymphs eſcapes;
Here Neptune with the Tritons in his train,
There Venus riſing from the foamy main.
Twenty light ivory chairs, and cover'd all
With moſſy cuſhions, ſtood about the hall;
To one of theſe is Ariſtaeus led,
Where, ſitting down, at firſt he hung his head,
Then, ſighing, tells his ſtory, and his moan
Repeats, but only lets reproach alone.
[63]
Cyrene hearing all her ſon's complaints;
Alas, poor youth, ſhe cries, alas he faints;
Is it with faſting or with grief? Go bring
A bowl of water from you cryſtal ſpring,
And bring a flaggon of old ſparkling wine.
The nymphs diſpatch; ſome make the altar ſhine
With ſpicy flam [...]s, ſome the white napkins get,
And various diſhes on the table ſet.
She takes a cup of one great pearl, and cries
Firſt to the Ocean let us ſacrifice;
And, while ſhe holds it in her hand, ſhe prays
To the great Ocean; ſings the Ocean's praiſe;
Invokes a hundred nymphs that him obey,
But in a hundred groves and rivers ſway;
Thrice ſhe pours wine upon the ſacred fires,
And thrice the flame to th' arched roof aſpires,
With which propitious ſigns Cyrene pleas'd,
She thus her ſon's impatient grief appeas'd:
In the Carpoethian gulph blue Proteus dwells,
Great Neptune's prophet, who the ocean quells;
He in a glittering chariot courſes o'er
The foaming waves, him all the nymphs adore,
Old Nereus too, becauſe he all things knows,
The paſt, the preſent, and the future ſhows:
So Neptune pleas'd, who Proteus thus inſpir'd,
And with ſuch wages to his ſervice hir'd,
Gave him the rule of all his briny flocks,
That feed among a thouſand ragged rocks:
He's coaſting now to the Emathian ſhore,
Near fair Pallene, where bright Thetis bore
[64]This ſon of th' Ocean, thou muſt him purſue,
And ſeize, and bind, and make him tell the true
Cauſe and events of thy ſad diſaſtrous chance;
By no fair words or prayers canſt thou advance,
Nor gentle means; hard force will make him bend,
And for his own be glad to ſerve thy end:
When next the radiant ſun ſhall ſcorch the plain,
And thirſty cattle ſeek for ſhade in vain;
I will myſelf conduct thee to the cells
And cloſe retreats where this enchanter dwells;
When he the ocean leaves and takes his reſt;
There ſeize him tired, and with ſleep oppreſt,
And bind him faſt with fetters and with chains;
And ſtill, the more he ſtruggles and he ſtrains,
The faſter hold him, and beware his wiles,
By which he other mortals ſtill beguiles;
For into twenty various forms he'll turn,
A marble pillar, or a curved urn,
A flaſh of fire, or elſe a guſhing flood,
A ſhaggy lion ſmeared all with blood,
A ſcaly dragon, or a rugged bear,
A chafed boar, or tiger, he'll appear.
But thou, the more he ſhifts his various ſhapes,
Take the more care to hinder his eſcapes,
And hold him faſter, till at length he riſe
In the ſame form thou didſt him firſt ſurprize;
Then will he tell whoſe anger has thee griev'd,
And how thy loſs may be again retriev'd.
Thus ſaid Cyrene, and, with a gentle look
Upon her ſon, her golden treſſes ſhook,
[65]From whence ambroſian odours were diffus'd
About the room, by which the ſhepherd, us'd
So long to woe, ſtraight ſeemed to revive,
And thought his loved bees again alive;
His hair and weed the ſweet perfume retains,
And ſprightly vigour runs through all his veins.
There is a mighty gulph, which many a tide
Had eaten out of a great mountain's ſide;
Sometimes the foaming waves come braving o'er
The ragged cliffs that all infeſt the ſhore,
And a great ſea covers this mighty bay;
But when with falling tides it ſteals away,
Then does a dry and ſpacious ſtrand appear,
Which rough and ſcatter'd rocks does only bear.
About the midſt, one above all the reſt
With ſcraggy ſplints raiſes its lofty creſt;
The ſpreading roof has two unequal ſides,
Half undermined by the beating tides,
Which make two hollow chambers on the ſtrand,
Arched with rock, and floored with the ſand;
Of theſe the larger is the cool retreat
Which Proteus chooſes from the ſcorching heat;
Within the leſſer fair Cyrene hides
Bold Ariſtaeus, where the youth abides,
Turn'd from the light, and caſting in his mind
How he may ſeize the bard, and how him bind.
Thus all prepar'd, the nymph no longer ſtays,
But in a miſt away herſelf conveys;
And, as ſhe riſes, all the ſky grows clear,
Phoebus begins his flaming head to rear,
[66]Parching the corn, and ſcorching up the blades;
The lowing cattle ſeek about for ſhades,
The panting lions with the heat oppreſt,
And tigers tamed, lay them down to reſt;
The thirſty Indians haſten to their caves;
And now the briny flocks forſake the waves:
Here comes a Triton on a dolphin borne,
There a great ſea-horſe with his wreathed horn,
The ſnarling ſeals crawl up the ſloping ſhore,
And deep-mouth'd hounds that in Charybdis roar,
Calves, hogs, and bears (all monſters of the floods
But thoſe reſembling which frequent the woods)
Roll on the ſand, or ſprawling on their ſides
In the hot ſun they tan their tawny hides.
Then Proteus, wafted o'er the curling waves,
Leaps on the ſhore, and haſtens to his caves;
There ſitting down, he ſhakes his briny locks,
And eyes his herds ſcatter'd among the rocks;
Juſt as ſome aged ſhepherd, ere the night
Approaches, and the wolves begin to fright
His tender lambs, gets on ſome riſing ground,
And gathers all his flocks about him round,
Views them with care, and numbers all his ſheep,
Then on the graſs ſecurely falls aſleep.
But Proteus ſcarce is laid upon the ſands,
In eaſy ſlumbers ſtretching out his hands,
When the fierce youth in haſte upon him runs,
Seizes him faſt, and with amazement ſtuns
The frighted captive. Then he claps-on bands
Upon his fainting legs and trembling hands.
[67]Yet 'tis not long the elf forgets his arts,
But at the firſt ſurprizing fright departs,
Come to himſelf, he is himſelf no more,
Nothing appears of what he was before;
But into twenty monſtrous ſhapes he turns,
Guſhes like water, or in flame he burns,
A ſerpent hiſſes, or a lion roars,
A tiger's likeneſs, or a grizly boar's:
But the warn'd ſwain never lets go his hold,
Till Proteus finding none of all his old
Accuſtom'd wiles ſucceed, he ſilence breaks,
And thus in human voice and ſhape he ſpeaks:
But who, thou boldeſt of all mortal race,
Has ſent thee here, my lonely ſteps to trace,
And taught thee, undiſcerned, thus to creep
[...]nto the ſecret cloſets of the deep?
Or what's the thing thou ſeek'ſt now I am ty'd,
And in thy hands? The ſhepherd ſtraight reply'd
Thou aſkeſt what thou know'ſt, for none can thee
[...]eceive; then think not of deceiving me:
Tis by the Gods commands we here are come
To thee for help, or elſe to know our doom.
[...]t this the prophet rolls his fiery eyes,
And grinds his teeth awhile, and then replies:
'Tis not in vain, or for light cauſe, decreed
[...]y angry Fates, that thy fond heart ſhould bleed
[...]s well as his, for whom this puniſhment
[...]oo too unequ [...]l to thy crime is ſent:
Tis wretched Orpheus does thy life infeſt,
[...]nd both have loſt what both have loved beſt;
[68]Thy heart was ſet upon thy rural ſtores,
He nothing but Eurydice adores;
Thou wert the cauſe of her untimely fate,
And he purſues thee with an endleſs hate.
The lovely bride was wandering o'er the plain,
In hopes to meet her own deſired ſwain;
When thou, bold youth, enflamed by her charms,
Would fain have caught her in thy luſtful arms:
Away ſhe ſprings, like a light doe that flies
The bloody hound; her nimble feet ſhe plies
Along the downs; but whilſt away ſhe runs,
And thy purſuit amaz'd and frighted ſhuns;
Alas! unwary, ſhe ne'er ſpy'd the ſnake,
That, as ſhe paſs'd, lay lurking in the brake;
Thus, almoſt hopeleſs grown and out of breath,
She 'ſcapes thy rage by an untimely death:
But her laſt cries the echoes far report,
The nymphs about her ſhrieking all reſort;
The hollow woods in murmur make their moan,
Among their branches all the turtles groan;
The Thracian mountains round with ſorrow ſwell
The very tigers all about them yell;
The towering heavens at her fate complain,
And broken-hearted clouds fall down in rain;
The following night her deepeſt ſable wears,
And the next morning weeps in dewy tears.
But woeful Orpheus all in grief excels,
All in complaints; among the rocks he dwells,
In tears diſſolving, and with ſighing pin'd,
Calling the Heavens unjuſt, and Gods unkind;
[69]At length he takes up his melodious lyre
Which Phoebus ever uſed to inſpire;
Thinking to charm his woes and love-ſick heart,
A cure too hard for either time or art;
For now his warbling harp would yield no ſounds,
But loſt Eurydice, Eurydice rebounds
From every trembling ſtring; thee ſtill he ſung,
Thy gentle name among the woods he rung;
Thee on the lonely ſhore amidſt the rocks,
Thee on the hills among the herds and flocks,
Thee at the dawning of the morning gray,
Thee at the cloſing of the weary day.
But where, alas, thus wretched ſhould he go?
Tir'd with the light, he ſeeks the ſhades below;
To the Taenarian caves his courſe he bends,
And by the deep infernal gates deſcends
Into the ghaſtly leaſleſs woods that ſpread
Over the gloomy regions of the dead;
Trunks without ſap, and boughs that never bear,
Some pale with fear, ſome black with deep deſpair,
He croſt the ſooty plains and miry lakes,
All full of croaking toads and hiſſing ſnakes;
Came to the ruſty iron gates that bring
To the black towers of the great dreadful king,
Hoping to touch a heart with his ſad care,
That ne'er relented yet with human prayer.
But at his powerful ſong the very ſeats
Of Erebus were moved; the retreats
Of all the ghoſts were open'd, and they ſwarm
Like bees in cluſters when the ſun grows warm,
[70]Or when the evening drives them to the hive;
Mothers and virgins as if ſtill alive,
Huſbands and children, heroes ſo renown'd,
Mixt with the nameleſs croud, and monarchs crown'd
'Mong ſweaty hinds, and ſlaves about him throng,
Admire and liſten to his charming ſong:
The whole Tartarian regions all amaz'd
Stood and attended, or upon him gaz'd;
The ſlow Cocytus ſtops its muddy flood,
And Styx about him nine times circling ſtood;
The ſnaky treſſes of th' Eumenides
Left off their hiſſing, Cerberus at eaſe
Laid down his threefold head, and ceas'd to roar,
Ixion's reſtleſs wheel would turn no more.
And now th' enchanting Orpheus had prevail'd,
His ſongs had more than ever prayers avail'd,
Eurydice's reſtor'd to human life,
And he returns cloſe follow'd by his wife;
Hears, but not ſees her, for that law was made
By Proſerpine, and was upon him laid,
He ſhould not once behold his lovely fair,
Till both arriv'd above in open air.
But when, th' infernal manſions almoſt paſt,
Approaching day a dawning twilight caſt
Upon the lovers, the unhappy ſwain,
Forgetting all his woes and all his pain,
Spent with deſire, and vanquiſh'd of his mind,
Turn'd his impatient head, and caſt a kind
And longing look upon his gentle mate,
Now heedleſs of the doom impos'd by fate;
[71]A venial fault, if pity or if grace
Had ever grown among th' infernal race.
But here his labour all ran out in vain,
The unrelenting doom takes place again;
Thrice from th' Avernian lake a horrid noiſe
Invades his ears, and thrice the howling voice
Of Cerberus, thrice ſhook the vaulted cave,
And for the nymph open'd a ſecond grave.
She fainting cries, What fury thee poſſeſt,
What frenzy, Orpheus, ſeized on thy breaſt!
Ah me, once more undone! Behold the Fates
Again recall me to their iron gates;
Once more my eyes are ſeiz'd with endleſs ſleep,
And now farewell, I ſink into the deep
Oblivious cells, ſurrounded all with night,
No longer thine; in vain to ſtop my flight
I ſtretch my arms, in vain thou ſtretcheſt thine,
In vain thou grieveſt, I in vain repine.
Thus ſaid ſhe; and o' th' ſudden from his eyes
Like ſmoke to air all vaniſhing ſhe flies,
And leaves him catching at the empty ſhade:
In vain he call'd her, and fond offers made
To follow, for no more hard Fate allows
His wiſh'd return, nor hearkens to his vows;
Black guards of Orcus ſtrongly him withſtood,
Nor ſuffer'd to approach the Stygian flood.
What ſhould he do? where paſs his woeful life?
Twice had he got, twice loſt his deareſt wife;
With what new vows ſhould he the heavens pleaſe?
With what new ſongs ſhould he the ghoſts appeaſe?
[72]She now, grown pale and cold, was wafting o'er
The Stygian lake, and near the hated ſhore.
Full ſeven long months in ſad and raving dreams
Or reſtleſs thoughts he paſs'd near Strimon's ſtreams
Under a lonely rock, or in wild dens,
Seeking the ſavage beaſts, avoiding men's
Commerce or ſight, but with his doleful lays
He taught the flocking birds to [...]ing her praiſe;
His own deſpair the very ſtones admire,
And rolling follow his melodious lyre;
He forc'd the heart of hardeſt oak to groan,
And made fierce tigers leave their rage, and moan;
So the ſweet nightingale that grieving ſtood
And ſaw th' untimely rape of her young brood
Snatch'd by ſome clown out of the downy neſt,
Under a poplar ſhade, or elſe her breaſt
Againſt ſome thorn, ſhe ſpends the longſome night
In mournful notes, and ſhuns th' approaching light,
But the dark thicket fills with endleſs moan,
Charming all others' ſorrow but her own.
No heats new Venus in him e'er could raiſe,
No ſenſe e'er mov'd him of reproach or praiſe;
Along the ſtreams of Tanaïs he goes,
Alone he wanders o'er the Scythian ſnows,
Seeks the rough mountains cover'd all with froſt,
And tells the trees Eurydice is loſt;
Curſes the vain conceſſion of the Fates;
Himſelf, and angry Gods, and men he hates;
Women he ſcorns, ſince ſhe muſt be no more,
Whom only he, and ever, could adore.
[73]But the Cyconian dames, too long deſpis'd,
Too much deſiring by him to be priz'd,
Amidſt the ſacred rites of Bacchus' feaſt
Ripp'd up his vainly lov'd and loving breaſt,
Tore him in pieces, and about the fields
Scatter'd his limbs (what fruits religion yields!)
And even then, when into Heber's ſtreams
They threw his head, his eyes had loſt their beams,
His lips their ruddy hue; but ſtill his voice
Call'd, in a low and now expiring noiſe,
Eurydice; Eurydice his tongue,
In broken notes, now chill and trembling, ſung;
Eurydice the echoes ſounded o'er
The neighbouring banks, and down the rocky ſhore.
Thus Proteus ſung, then leap'd into the main,
For now the foaming tide return'd again
Among the rocks. The ſhepherd ſtood amaz'd;
But ſtraight Cyrene came, on whom he gaz'd
Like one enchanted with the dreary ſong
Of charming Proteus; for the fatal wrong
Of Orpheus touch'd him now, more than his own,
In ſuch ſad notes and lively colours ſhown.
She chear'd his troubled thoughts, and thus began:
No more complaints, my ſon; no more theſe wan
And careful looks, the cauſe of all thy grief
Is now diſcover'd, ſo is the relief.
The angry Nymphs that haunt the ſhady groves,
Where Orpheus and his bride began their loves;
And many a dance had taught her in their rings
Whilſt he ſo ſweetly to their meaſures ſings;
[74]'Tis they have plagued thee in all thy ſtores,
Among thy ſheep have caus'd ſo many ſores,
Blaſted thy corn, and made thy heifers pine,
Blighted the fruitful olive and the vine;
But, above all, thy bees have felt the ſmart,
Becauſe they knew thou hadſt them moſt at heart.
Therefore with offerings thou muſt them appeaſe,
They, reconciled once, will give thee eaſe;
The nymphs are gentle, may their rage allay,
When thou begin'ſt to worſhip and to pray.
But the whole order of their ſacred rites
I muſt explain, unknown to mortal wights;
Firſt chooſe four ſteers, the faireſt of thy herd,
Which on Lycaean mountains thou haſt rear'd;
Four lovely heifers yet unhandled take,
Then juſt as many unhewn altars make
Within the grove, where ancient uſe allows
Arcadian ſwains to pay their holy vows
Unto the Nymphs. There, as the day ſhall riſe,
Of all theſe offerings make one ſacrifice;
Upon the altars pour the reeking blood,
And leave the bodies in the ſhady wood,
Firſt ſtrowed over with freſh oaken boughs;
But, when the ninth Aurora thee ſhall rouſe
From thy ſoft ſleep, Lethaean poppies bring,
And unto Orpheus ſolemn dirgies ſing;
With a black ſheep his angry ghoſt appeaſe,
And a white calf Eurydice to pleaſe;
Then to the grove return with humble gait
And heart devout, and there expect thy fate.
[75]
The ſwain inſtructed makes no long delay;
Unto the ſhrine he ſtraight begins his way,
Raiſes the altars, all the bullocks ſlays,
Offers his humbleſt prayers and his praiſe
Unto the angry nymphs, then home retires
And lays ſweet incenſe on his houſhold fires
Full eight long days; but when the dawning light
Upon the ninth reſtor'd the morning bright,
He to the grove returns, and there he ſees
(Stupendous ſight!) a thouſand thouſand bees
Out of the melted bowels of each ſteer,
As from a mighty ſwarming hive appear,
Burſting from out the ſides with vital heat,
From whence in clouds they riſe, then take their ſeat
Upon the leaning boughs, till all the trees
Are hung with bunches of the cluſtering bees.
Thus have I ſung poor nymphs' and ſhepherds' dreams;
Whilſt Caeſar thunders at Euphrates' ſtreams,
With conquering arms the vanquiſh'd nations awes,
And to the willing people gives juſt laws,
Treads the true path to great Olympus' hills,
And wondering mortals with his praiſes fills.
HORACE, BOOK IV. ODE VII.
[76]THE ſnows are melted all away,
The fields grow flowery, green, and gay,
The trees put out their tender leaves;
And all the ſtreams, that went aſtray,
The brook again into her bed receives.
See! the whole Earth has made a change:
The Nymphs and Graces naked range
About the fields, who ſhrunk before
Into their caves. The empty grange
Prepares its room for a new ſummer's ſtore.
Leſt thou ſhould'ſt hope immortal things,
The changing year inſtruction brings:
The fleeting hour, that ſteals away
The beggar's time, and life of kings,
But ne'er returns them, as it does the day.
The cold grows ſoft with weſtern gales,
The Summer over Spring prevails,
But yields to Autumn's fruitful rain,
As this to Winter ſtorms and hails;
Each loſs the haſting moons repair again.
But we, when once our race is done,
With Tullus, and Anchiſes' ſon,
(Though rich like one, like t'other good)
To duſt and ſhades, without a ſun,
Deſcend, and ſink in deep oblivion's flood.
Who knows, if the kind Gods will give
Another day to men that live
[77]In hope of many diſtant years;
Or if one night more ſhall retrieve
The joys thou loſeſt by thy idle fears?
The pleaſant hours thou ſpend'ſt in health,
The uſe thou mak'ſt of youth and wealth,
As what thou giv'ſt among thy friends
Eſcapes thy heirs; ſo thoſe the ſtealth
Of Time and Death, where good and evil ends:
For when that comes, nor birth, nor fame,
Nor piety, nor honeſt name,
Can e'er reſtore thee. Theſeus bold,
Nor chaſte Hippolytus could tame
Devouring fate, that ſpares nor young nor old.
HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XIII.
WHEN thou commend'ſt the lovely eyes
Of Telephus, that for thee dies,
His arms of wax, his neck, or hair;
Oh! how my heart begins to beat!
My ſpleen is ſwell'd with gall and heat,
And all my hopes are turn'd into deſpair.
Then both my mind and colour change,
My jealous thoughts about me range,
In twenty ſhapes; my eyes begin,
The ſtealing drops, as from a ſtill,
Like winter ſprings, apace to fill;
Fall down, and tell what fires I feel within.
When his reproaches make thee cry,
[...] freſh cheeks with paleneſs die,
[78]I burn, to think you will be friends;
When his rough hand thy boſom ſtrips,
Or his fierce kiſſes tear thy lips,
I die, to ſee how all ſuch quarrel ends.
Ah, never hope a youth to hold,
So haughty, and in love ſo bold;
What can him tame in anger keep,
Whom all this fondneſs can't aſſuage,
Who even kiſſes turns to rage,
Which Venus does in her own nectar ſteep?
Thrice happy they, whoſe gentle hearts,
Till death itſelf their union parts,
An undiſturbed kindneſs holds,
Without complaints or jealous fears,
Without reproach or ſpited tears,
Which damps the kindeſt heats with ſudden colds.
UPON THE APPROACH OF THE SHORE AT HARWICH. IN JANUARY 1668; BEGUN UNDER THE MAST, AT THE DESIRE OF MY LADY GIFFARD.
WELCOME, the faireſt and the happieſt earth,
Seat of my hopes and pleaſures, as my birth;
Mother of well-born ſouls and fearleſs hearts,
In arms renown'd, and flouriſhing in arts;
[79]The iſland of good-nature and good cheer,
That elſewhere only paſs, inhabit here:
Region of valour, and of beauty too;
Which ſhews, the brave are only fit to woo.
No child thou haſt, ever approach'd thy ſhore,
That lov'd thee better, or eſteem'd thee more.
Beaten with journeys both of land and ſeas,
Weary'd with care, the buſy man's diſeaſe;
Pinch'd with the froſt, and parched with the wind;
Giddy with rolling, and with faſting pin'd;
Spited and vex'd, that winds, and tides, and ſands,
Should all conſpire to croſs ſuch great commands,
As haſte me home, with an account that brings
The doom of kingdoms to the beſt of kings:
Yet I reſpire at thy reviving ſight,
Welcome as health, and chearful as the light.
How I forget my anguiſh and my toils,
Charm'd at th' approach of thy delightful ſoils!
How, like a mother, thou hold'ſt out thy arms,
To ſave thy children from purſuing harms,
And open'ſt thy kind boſom, where they find
Safety from waves, and ſhelter from the wind:
Thy cliffs ſo ſtately, and ſo green thy hills,
This with reſpect, with hope the other fills
All that approach thee; who believe they find
A Spring, for Winter that they left behind.
Thy ſweet incloſures, and thy ſcatter'd farms,
Shew thy ſecureneſs from thy neighbour's harms;
Their ſheep in houſes, and their men in towns,
Sleep only ſafe; thine rove about the downs,
[80]And hills, and groves, and plains, and know no fear
Of foes, or wolves, or cold, throughout the year.
Their vaſt and frightful woods ſeem only made
To cover cruel deeds, and give a ſhade
* To ſavage beaſts, who on the weaker prey,
Or human ſavages more wild than they.
Thy pleaſant thickets, and thy ſhady groves,
Only relieve the heats, and cover loves,
Sheltering no other thefts or cruelties,
But thoſe of killing or beguiling eyes.
Their famiſh'd hinds, by cruel lords enſlav'd,
† Ruin'd by taxes, and by ſoldiers brav'd,
Know no more eaſe than juſt what ſleep can give,
Have no more heart and courage but to live:
Thy brawny clowns, and ſturdy ſeamen, fed
‡ With manly food that their own fields have bred,
Safe in their laws, and eaſy in their rent,
Bleſs'd in their king, and in their ſtate content,
When they are call'd away from herd or plough
To arms, will make all foreign forces bow,
And ſhew how much a lawful monarch ſaves,
When twenty ſubjects beat an hundred ſlaves.
Fortunate iſland! if thou didſt but know
How much thou doſt to heaven and nature owe!
[81]And if thy humour were as good, as great
Thy forces, and as bleſs'd thy ſoil as ſeat!
But then with numbers thou would'ſt be o'er-run:
Strangers, to breathe thy air, their own would ſhun;
And of thy children none abroad would roam,
But for the pleaſure of returning home.
Come, and embrace us in thy ſaving arms,
Command the waves to ceaſe their rough alarms,
And guard us to thy port, that we may ſee
Thou art indeed the empreſs of the ſea.
So may thy ſhips about the ocean courſe,
And find increaſe in number and in force.
So may no ſtorms ever infeſt thy ſhores,
But all the winds that blow increaſe thy ſtores.
May never more contagious air ariſe,
To cloſe ſo many of thy children's eyes:
But all about thee health and plenty vie,
Which ſhall ſeem kindeſt to thee, earth or ſky!
May no more fires be ſeen among the towns,
But charitable beacons on thy downs;
Or elſe victorious bonfires in thy ſtreets,
Kindled by winds that blow from off thy fleets!
May'ſt thou feel no more fits of factious rage,
But all diſtempers may thy Charles aſſuage,
With ſuch a well-tun'd concord of his ſtate,
As none but ill, and hated men, may hate!
And may'ſt thou from him endleſs monarchs ſee,
Whom thou may'ſt honour, who may honour thee!
[...]ay they be wiſe and good! thy happy ſeat
And ſtores will never fail to make them great.
HORACE, BOOK III. ODE XXIX.
[82]I.
MAECENAS, off-ſpring of Tyrrhenian kings,
And worthy of the greateſt empire's ſway,
Unbend thy working mind awhile, and play
With ſofter thoughts, and looſer ſtrings;
Hard iron, ever wearing, will decay.
II.
A piece untouch'd of old and noble wine
Attends thee here; ſoft eſſence for thy hair,
Of purple violets made, or lilies fair;
The roſes hang their heads and pine,
And, till you come, in vain perfume the air.
III.
Be not inveigled by the gloomy ſhades
Of Tiber, nor cool Anio's cryſtal ſtreams:
The ſun is yet but young, his gentle beams
Revive, and ſcorch not up the blades.
The ſpring, like virtue, dwells between extremes.
IV.
Leave fulſome plenty for a while, and come
From ſtately palaces that tower ſo high,
And ſpread ſo far; the duſt and buſineſs fly,
The ſmoke and noiſe of mighty Rome,
And cares, that on embroider'd carpets lie.
[83]V.
It is viciſſitude that pleaſure yields
To men, with greateſt wealth and honours bleſt;
And ſometimes homely fare, but cleanly dreſt.
In country farms, or pleaſant fields,
Clears up a cloudy brow, and thoughtful breaſt.
VI.
Now the cold winds have blown themſelves away.
The froſts are melted into pearly dews;
The chirping birds each morning tell the news
Of chearful ſpring and welcome day,
The tender lambs follow the bleating ewes.
VII.
The vernal bloom adorns the fruitful trees
With various dreſs; the ſoft and gentle rains
Begin with flowers t' enamel all the plains;
The turtle with her mate agrees;
And wanton nymphs with their enamour'd ſwains.
VIII.
Thou art contriving in thy mind, what ſtate
And form becomes that mighty city beſt:
Thy buſy head can take no gentle reſt,
For thinking on the events and fate
Of factious rage, which has her long oppreſt.
IX.
Thy cares extend to the remoteſt ſhores
Of her vaſt empire; how the Perſian arms;
Whether the Bactrians join their troops; what harms
From the Cantabrians and the Moors
May come, or the tumultuous German ſwarms.
[84]X.
But the wiſe Powers above, that all things know,
In ſable night have hid the events, and train
Of future things; and with a juſt diſdain
Laugh, when poor mortals here below
Fear without cauſe, and break their ſleeps in vain.
XI.
Think how the preſent thou may'ſt beſt* compoſe
With equal mind, and without endleſs cares;
For the unequal courſe of ſtate affairs,
Like to the ocean, ebbs and flows,
Or rather like our neighbouring Tiber fares.
XII.
Now ſmooth and gentle† through her channel creeps
With ſoft and eaſy murmurs purling down:
Now ſwells and rages, threatening all to drown,
Away both corn and cattle ſweeps,
And fills with noiſe and horror fields and town.
XIII.
After a while, grown calm, retreats again
Into her ſandy bed, and ſoftly glides.
So Jove ſometimes in fiery chariot rides
With cracks of thunder, ſtorms of rain,
Then grows ſerene, and all our fears derides.
XIV.
He only lives content, and his own man,
Or rather maſter, who each night can ſay,
'Tis well, thanks to the gods, I've liv'd to-day;
This is my own, this never can,
Like other goods, be fo [...]c'd or ſtol'n away.
[85]XV.
And for to-morrow let me weep or laugh,
Let the ſun ſhine, or ſtorms or tempeſts ring,
Yet 'tis not in the power of fates, a thing
Should ne'er have been, or not be ſafe,
Which flying Time has cover'd with his wing.
XVI.
Capricious Fortune plays a ſcornful game
With human things; uncertain as the wind:
Sometimes to thee, ſometimes to me is kind:
Throws about honours, wealth, and fame,
At random, heedleſs, humourous, and blind.
XVII.
He's wiſe, who, when ſhe ſmiles, the good enjoys,
And unallay'd with fears of future ill;
But, if ſhe frowns, e'en let her have her will.
I can with eaſe reſign the toys,
And lie wrapp'd-up in my own virtue ſtill.
XVIII.
I'll make my court to honeſt poverty,
An eaſy wife, although without a dower:
What nature aſks will yet be in my power;
For without pride or luxury
How little ſerves to paſs the fleeting hour!
XIX.
'Tis not for me, when winds and billows riſe,
And crack the maſt, and mock the ſeamen's cares,
To fall to poor and mercenary prayers,
For fear the Tyrian merchandiſe
Should all be loſt, and not enrich my heirs.
[86]XX.
I'll rather leap into the little boat,
Which, without fluttering ſails, ſhall waft me o'er
The ſwelling waves, and then I'll think no more
Of ſhip, or fraight: but change my note,
And thank the gods, that I am ſafe a-ſhore.
HORACE, BOOK I. PART OF EP. II.
NOR houſe nor lands, nor heaps of plate, or gold,
Can cure a fever's heat, or ague's cold,
Much leſs a mind with grief or care oppreſt:
No man's poſſeſſions e'er can make him bleſs'd,
That is not well himſelf, and ſound at heart;
Nature will ever be too ſtrong for art.
Whoever feeds vain hopes, or fond deſires,
Diſtracting fears, wild love, or jealous fi [...]es,
Is pleas'd with all his fortunes, like ſore eyes
With curious pictures; gouty legs and thighs
With dancing; or half-dead and aching ears
With muſic, while the noiſe he hardly hears.
For, if the caſk remains unſound or four,
Be the wine ne'er ſo rich, or ſweet, you pour,
'Twill take the veſſel's taſte, and loſe its own,
And all you fill were better let alone.
TIBULLUS, LIB. IV. EL. II.
[87]TO worſhip thee, O mighty Mars, upon
Thy ſacred calends, is Sulpitia gone?
If thou art wiſe, leave the celeſtial ſphere,
And for a while come down to ſee her here:
Venus will pardon; but take heed her charms
Make thee, not gazing, ſoon let fall thy arms:
When Love would ſet the gods on fire, he flies
To light his torches at her ſparkling eyes.
Whate'er Sulpitia does, where-e'er ſhe goes,
The Graces all her motions ſtill compoſe:
How her hair charms us, when it looſely falls,
Comb'd back and ty'd our veneration calls;
If ſhe comes out in ſcarlet, how ſhe turns
U [...] all to aſhes; though, in white, ſhe burns!
Vertumnus ſo a thouſand dreſſes wears,
So, in a thouſand, every grace appears:
Of all the virgins, ſhe deſerves alone
In Tyrian purple to adorn a throne;
She, to poſſeſs, and reap the ſpicy fields,
Gather the gums that rich Arabia yields;
She, all the orient pearls, that grow in ſhells,
Along the ſhores where the tann'd Indian dwells.
For her, the Muſes tune their charming lays,
For her, upon his harp Apollo plays.
May ſhe this feaſt for many years adore!
None can become, deſerve an altar more.
SONG, FROM MARRIAGE A-LA-MODE,
[88]I.
WHY ſhould a fooliſh marriage vow,
Which long ago was made,
Oblige us to each other now,
When paſſion is decay'd?
We lov'd, and we lov'd, as long as we could,
Till our love was lov'd out of us both;
But our marriage is dead, when the pleaſures are fled;
'Twas pleaſure firſt made it an oath.
II.
If I have pleaſures for a friend,
And farther love in ſtore,
What wrong has he, whoſe joys did end,
And who could give no more?
'Tis a madneſs that he
Should be jealous of me,
Or that I ſhould bar him of another:
For all we can gain
Is to give ourſelves pain,
When neither can hinder the other.
SONG, FROM TYRANNIC LOVE,
[89]AH, how ſweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay is young deſire!
And what pleaſing pains we prove
When we firſt approach love's fire!
Pains of love be ſweeter far
Than all other pleaſures are.
Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart:
E'en the tears they ſhed alone
Cure, like trickling balm, their ſmart.
Lovers, when they loſe their breath,
Bleed away in eaſy death.
Love and Time with reverence uſe,
Treat them like a parting friend:
Nor the golden gifts refuſe
Which in youth ſincere they ſend:
For each year their price is more,
And they leſs ſimple than before.
Love, like ſpring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein:
But each tide does leſs ſupply,
Till they quite ſhrink-in again:
If a flow in age appear,
'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.
ON THE DEATH OF PRINCE HENRY AND PRINCESS MARY*.
[90]INDUE Melpomene, funeſtos indue vultus,
Conveniens noſtris luctibus iſte dolor.
Quid fata Henricum [...]apuerunt invida te [...]ris?
An didicere igitur Parcae & amare Ducem?
[91]Carole, tu frater, tu magnus denique Rex es,
Ille tuâ ſpectat ſceptra movenda manu;
Viderat, & loetus jam ſe non ſuſtinet ultrà
Mortalem, & Superis gaudia tanta re [...]ert:
Audiit interea raptum ſuper aethera fratrem
Divali inſertum Diva Maria choro;
Protinùs ergò tibi valedixit, maxime Princeps,
Carole Rex gaude, Carole chare vale.
Nec mora, ſiſte (inquit) gemitus, Dea fio per altum,
Et Patris, & Fratris, Conjugis atque memor.
JON. DRYDEN.
ON THE MARRIAGE OF K. CHARLES II*.
[92]QUIS mihi jam cauſas memorat cur pigra Bootae
Plauſtra vehunt cathedram, Caſſiopeia, tuam?
En tedas Venus ipſa pirat, deſertáque Cyprus,
Proniùs in thalamos quòd ruitura tuos:
Praefulget clarâ cum lampade pulchra ſupernè,
Sternit & aequoreas aequore nata vias.
Aeolus armatas hyemes non funder ab antro,
Numine ſcit bene quòd tu propiore cales.
Ut properes quoque Fama ſuas tibi commodat alas,
Utque ſuum Muſae, ſic tibi Caſtor equum.
Connubium hoc Superis labor eſt, vult hoc Dea Juno
Pronuba, te jactans muneris eſſe ſui;
Felix ut laetas ducet Lucina choreas!
Anglis quum Matrem detulit illa Bonam.
Si quando adverſi veniant in lintea venti,
Impleat atque tuos aura maligna ſinus;
Haec Britonum ſacra vota ut ſint in amore ſecundi
Neptunu [...], virides Nereïdúmque comae,
Nubila ſi terrent nigros glomerantia nimbos,
Nè dubites, tecum Cynthia lumen habes.
[93]Helleſpontiaci penetrat vada fervida ponti
Leander, Nymphae dum calet igne ſuae,
Tu Dea, quid tam tarda? tuus Leander in igne eſt,
Fax amor in tenebris & Cynoſura tibi eſt.
Penelopen lentam tuus objurgabit Ulyſſes,
Nectere perpetuas ſi juvet uſque moras:
Nulla retexenda eſt, mendax quae tela moretur,
Ni magìs auriferi retrahit unda Tagi.
Mand [...]t Ulyſpo Tago, Tamiſis ſe miſceat undis,
Atque torus Dana [...]s ſic Jove dignus erit.
JON. DRYDEN, Art. Bac. Trin. Coll. Soc.
HORACE, BOOK I. SAT. VIII.
I Was, at firſt, a piece of fig-tree wood,
And long an honeſt joiner pondering ſtood,
Whether he ſhould employ his ſhaping tool,
To make a God of me, or a joint-ſtool;
Each knob he weigh'd, on every inch did plod,
And rather choſe to turn me to a God;
As a Priapus hence I grew ador'd,
The fear of every thief and every bird.
The raſcals from their pilfering tricks deſiſt,
And dread each wooden finger of my fiſt.
The reeds ſtuck in my cap the Peckers fright,
From our new orchards far they take their flight,
And dare not touch a pippin in my ſight.
When any of the rabble did deceaſe,
They brought them to this place to ſtink in peace.
[94]Unnoiſome here the ſnuſſs of rogues went out,
'Twas once a common grave for all the rout.
Looſe Nomentanus left his riots here,
And lewd Pantalabus forgot to jeer.
Nor in theſe pit-holes might they put a bone,
Could lie beneath a dunghill of its own.
But now the ground for ſlaves no more they tear.
Sweet are the walks, and vital is the air:
Myrtle and orange-groves the eye delight,
Where ſculls and ſhanks did mix a ghaſtly fight.
While here I ſtand the guardian of the trees,
Not all the Jays are half the grievances
As are thoſe hags, who, diligent in ill,
Are either poiſoning or bewitching ſtill.
Theſe I can neither hurt nor terrify;
But every night, when once the moon is high,
They haunt theſe alleys with their ſhricks and groans,
And pick up baneful herbs and human bones.
I ſaw Canidia here; her feet were bare,
Black were her robes, and looſe her flaky hair;
With her fierce Sagana went ſtalking round,
Their hideous howlings ſhook the trembling ground;
A paleneſs, caſting horror round the place,
Sat dead and terrible on either's face.
Their impious trunks upon the earth they caſt,
And dug it with their nails in frantic haſte.
A cole-black lamb then with their teeth they tore,
And in the pit they pour'd the reeking gore:
By this they force the tortur'd ghoſts from hell,
And anſwers to their wild demands compel.
[95]
Two images they brought, of wax and wool,
The waxen was a little puling fool,
A chidden image, ready ſtill to ſkip,
Whene'er the woollen one but ſnapt his whip.
On Hecate aloud this beldame calls,
T [...]phone as loud the other bawls.
A thouſand ſerpents hiſs'd upon the ground,
And hell-hounds compaſs'd all the gardens round.
Behind the tombs, to ſhun the horrid ſight,
The moon ſkulk'd down, or out of ſhame or fright.
May every crow and cuckow, if I lye,
Aim at my crown as often as they fly:
And never miſs a dab though ne'er ſo high!
May villain Julius, and his raſcal crew,
Uſe me with juſt ſuch ceremony too!
But how much time and patience would it coſt,
To tell the gabblings of each hag and ghoſt!
Or how the earth the ugly beldame ſcrapes,
And hides the beards of wolves, and teeth of ſnakes;
While on the fire the waxen image fries!
Vex'd to the heart to ſee their ſorceries,
My ears torn with their bellowing ſprights, my guts,
My fig-tree bowels, wambled at the ſluts.
Mad for revenge, I gather'd all my wind,
And bounc'd, like fifty bladders, from behind.
Scar'd with the noiſe, they ſcud away to town,
While Sagana's falſe hair comes dropping down:
Canidia tumbles o'er, for want of breath,
And ſcatters from her jaws her ſet of teeth;
I almoſt burſt to ſee their labours croſt,
Their bones, their herbs, and all their devils loſt.
THE DEATH OF CAMILLA.
FROM VIRGIL, AENEID XI.
[96]ON death and wounds Camilla looks with joy,
Freed from a breaſt, the ſiercer to deſtroy.
Now, thick as hail, her fatal darts ſhe ſſings;
The two-edg'd ax now on their helmets rings.
Her ſhoulders bore Diana's arms and bow:
And if, too ſtrongly preſt, ſhe ſled before a foe,
Her ſhafts, revers'd, did death and horror bear,
And found the raſh, who durſt purſue the fair.
Near her fierce Tulla and Tarpeia ride,
And bold Larina conquering by her ſide.
Theſe above all Camilla's breaſt did ſhare,
For faith in peace, and gallantry in war.
Such were the Thracian, Amazonian bands,
When firſt they dy'd with blood Thermodoon's ſands.
Such troops Hippolyta herſelf did head,
And ſuch the bold Pentheſilca led,
When female ſhouts alarm'd the trembling fields,
And glaring beams ſhot bright from maiden ſhields.
Who, gallant virgin, who by thee were ſlain?
What gaſping numbers ſtrew'd upon the plain?
Thy ſpear firſt through Eumenius paſſage found;
Whole torents guſh'd out of his mouth and wound;
With gnaſhing teeth, in pangs, the earth he tore,
And roll'd himſelf, half delug'd, in his gore.
[97]
Then hapleſs Pegaſus and Lyris bleed:
The latter reining up his fainting ſteed;
The firſt as to his aid he ſtretch'd his hand,
Both at an inſtant, headlong, ſtruck the ſand.
Her arm Amaſtrus next, and Tereas feel;
Then follows Chromis with her lifted ſteel:
Of all her quiver not a ſhaft was loſt,
But each attended by a Trojan ghoſt.
Strong Orphitus (in arms unknown before)
In battle an Apulian courſer bore;
His brawny back wrapt in a bullock's ſkin,
Upon his head a wolf did fiercely grin,
Above the reſt his mighty ſhoulders ſhow,
And he looks down upon the troops below:
Aim (and 'twas eaſy, while his fellows fled)
She ſtruck along, and thus ſhe triumph'd while he bled:
Some coward game thou didſt believe to chace;
But, hunter, ſee a woman ſtops thy race.
Yet to requiring ghoſts this glory bear,
Thy ſoul was yielded to Camilla's ſpear.
The mighty Butes next receives her lance
(While breaſt to breaſt the combatants advance);
Clanging between his armour's joints it [...]ung,
While on his arm his uſeleſs target hung.
Then from Orſilochus in circle runs,
And follows the purſuer, while ſhe ſhuns.
For ſtill with craft a narrow ring ſhe wheels,
And brings herſelf up to the chacer's heels.
Her ax, regardleſs of his prayers and groans,
She craſhes through his a [...]mout and his bones.
[98]Redoubled ſtrokes the vanquiſh'd foe ſuſtains,
His reeking face beſpatter'd with his brains.
Chance brought unhappy Aunus to the place;
Who, ſtopping ſhort, ſtar'd wildly in her face.
Of all to whom Liguria fraud imparts,
While Fate allow'd that fraud, he was of ſubtleſt arts;
Who, when he ſaw he could not ſhun the ſight,
Strives to avoid the virgin by his ſlight;
And cries aloud, What courage can you ſhew,
By cunning horſemanſhip to cheat a foe?
Forego your horſe, and ſtrive not to betray,
But dare to combat a more equal way:
'Tis thus we ſee who merits glory beſt.
So brav'd, fierce indignation fires her breaſt;
Diſmounted from her horſe, in open field,
Now firſt ſhe draws her ſword, and lifts her ſhield.
He, thinking that his cunning did ſucceed,
Reins round his horſe, and urges all his ſpeed,
His golden rowels hidden in his ſides;
When thus his uſeleſs fraud the maid derides:
Poor wretch, that ſwell'ſt with a deluding pride,
In vain thy country's little arts are try'd.
No more the coward ſhall behold his fire;
Then plies her feet, quick as the nimble fire,
And up before his horſe's head ſhe ſtrains;
When, ſeizing with a furious hand his reins,
She wreaks her fury on his ſpouting veins.
So, from a rock, a hawk ſoars high above,
And in a cloud with eaſe o'ertakes a dove;
His pounces ſo the grappled foe aſſail,
And blood and ſeathers mingle in a hail.
[99]
Now Jove, to whom mankind is ſtill in ſight,
With more than uſual care beholds the fight;
And, urging Tarchon on, to rage inſpires
The furious deeds to which his blood he fires.
He ſpurs through ſlaughter and his failing troops,
And with his voice lifts every arm that droops.
He ſhouts his name in every ſoldier's ears;
Reviling thus the ſpirits which he chears.
Ye ſham'd and ever-branded Tyrrhene race,
From whence this terror, and your ſouls ſo baſe?
When tender virgins triumph in the field,
Let every brawny arm let fall his ſhield,
And break the coward ſword he dare not wield.
Not thus you fly the daring ſhe by night:
Nor goblets that your drunken throats invite.
This is your choice; when, with lewd Bacchanals,
Y' are call'd by the fat ſacrifice, it waits not when it calls.
Thus having ſaid —
He ſpurs, with headlong rage, among his foes,
As if he only had his life to loſe;
And, meeting Venulus, his arms he claſps;
The armour dints beneath the furious graſps.
High from his horſe the ſprawling foe he rears,
And thwart his courſer's neck the prize he bea [...]s.
The Trojans ſhout, the Latins turn their eyes;
While ſwift as lightning airy Tarchon ſlies.
Who breaks his lance, and views his armour round,
To find where he might fix the deadly wound;
The foe writhes doubling backward on his horſe,
And to defend his throat oppoſes force to force.
[100]As when an eagle high his courſe does take,
And in his griping talons bears a ſnake,
A thouſand folds the ſerpent caſts, and high
Setting his ſpeckled ſcales goes whiſtling through the ſky,
The fearleſs bird but deeper gores his prey,
And through the clouds he cuts his airy way.
So from the midſt of all his enemies,
Triumphant Tarchon ſnatch'd and bore his prize.
The troops that ſhrunk, with emulation preſs
To reach his danger now, to reach at his ſucceſs.
Then Aruns, doom'd in ſpight of all his art,
Surrounds the nimble virgin with his dart.
And, ſlily watching for his time, would try
To join his ſafety with his treachery.
Where-e'er her rage the bold Camilla ſends,
There creeping Aruns ſilently attends.
When, tir'd with conquering, ſhe retires from fight,
He ſteals about his horſe, and keeps her in his ſight.
In all her rounds from him ſhe cannot part,
Who ſhakes his treacherous, but inevitable dart.
Chloreus, the prieſt of Cybele, did glare
In Phrygian arms remarkable afar.
A foaming ſteed he rode, whoſe haunches caſe,
Like feathers, ſcales of mingled gold and braſs.
He, clad in foreign purple, gall'd the foe
With Cretan arrows from a Lycian bow.
Gold was that bow, and gold his helmet too:
Gay were his upper robes, which looſely flew.
Each limb was cover'd o'er with ſomething rare,
And as he ſought he gliſter'd every where.
[101]
Or that the temple might the trophies hold,
Or elſe to ſhine herſelf in Trojan gold,
Him the fierce maid purſues through all her foes;
Regardleſs of the life ſhe did expoſe:
Him eyes alone, to other dangers blind,
And manly force employs, to pleaſe a virgin's mind.
His dart now Aruns from his ambuſh throws;
And thus to heaven he ſends his coward vows:
Apollo, oh thou greateſt deity!
Patron of bleſt Soractis, and of me;
(For we are all thy own; whole woods of pine
We heap in piles, which to thy glory ſhine;
And when we trample on the fire, our ſoles,
By thee preſerv'd, contemn the glowing coals;)
My mighty patron, make me wipe away▪
The ſhame of this diſhonourable day!
Nor ſpoils nor triumph from the deed I claim,
But truſt my future actions with my fame.
This raging female plague but overcome,
Let me return unthank'd inglorious home!
Apollo heard, to half his prayer inclin'd:
The reſt he mingles with the fleeting wind.
He gives Camilla's ruin to his prayer,
To ſee his country, that was loſt in air.
As ſinging o'er the f [...]eld the javelin ſlies,
Upon the queen the army turn their eyes.
But ſhe, intent upon her golden prey,
Nor minds nor hears it cut the hiſſing way,
Till in her ſide it takes its deadly reſt;
And drinks the virgin purple of her breaſt.
[202]The trembling Amazons run to her aid,
And in their arms they catch the falling maid.
More quick than they the fright'ned Aruns flies,
And fee's a terror mingled with his joys.
He truſts no more his ſafety to his ſpear;
Ev'n her expiring courage gives him fear.
So runs the wolf ſmear'd with ſome ſhepherd's blood,
And ſtrives to gain the ſhelter of a wood,
Before the darts his panting ſides aſſail,
And claps between his legs his ſhivering tail;
Conſcious of the audacious bloody deed:
As Aruns ſeeks his troops ſtretch'd on his ſpeed,
Where, in their center, quaking, he attends,
And ſkulks behind the targets of his friends.
She ſtrives to draw the dart, but, wedg'd among
Her ribs, deep to the wound the weapon clung;
Then fainting rolls in death her cloſing eyes,
While from her cheeks the chearful beauty flies.
To Acca thus ſhe breathes her laſt of breath;
Acca that ſhar'd with her in all, but death:
Ah, friend! you once have ſeen me draw the bow,
But fate and darkneſs hover round me now.
Make haſte to Turnus, bid him bring with ſpeed
His freſh reſerves, and to my charge ſucceed,
Cover the city, and repel the foe.
Thus having ſaid, her hands the reins forego;
Down from her horſe ſhe ſinks, then gaſping lies
In a cold ſweat, and by degrees ſhe dies:
Her drooping neck declines upon her breaſt,
Her ſwimming head with ſlumber is oppreſt;
[103]The lingering ſoul th' unwelcome doom receives,
And, murmuring with diſdain, the beauteous body leaves.
TO MY HEART.
WHAT ail'ſt thou, oh thou trembling thing,
To pant and languiſh in my breaſt,
Like birds that fain would try the callow wing,
And leave the downy neſt?
Why haſt thou fill'd thyſelf with thought,
Strange, new, fantaſtic as the air?
Why to thy peaceful empire haſt thou brought
That reſtleſs tyrant, Care?
But oh! alas, I aſk in vain;
Thou anſwer'ſt nothing back again,
But in ſoft ſighs Amyntor's name.
Oh thou betrayer of my liberty,
Thou fond deceiver, what's the youth to thee!
What has he done, what has he ſaid,
That thus has conquer'd or betray'd?
He came and ſaw, but 'twas by ſuch a light
As ſcarce diſtinguiſh'd day from night;
Such as in thick-grown ſhades is found,
When here and there a piercing beam
Scatters faint ſpangled ſun-ſhine on the ground,
And caſts about a melancholy gleam;
But ſo obſcure, I could not ſee
The charming eyes that wounded thee;
But they, like gems, by their own light
Betray'd their value through the gloom of night.
[104]I felt thee heave at every look,
And ſtop my language as I ſpoke.
I felt my blood fly upward to my face,
While thou unguarded lay,
Yielding to every word, to every gra [...],
Fond to be made a prey.
I left thee watching in my eyes,
And liſtening in my ear,
Diſcovering weakneſs in thy ſighs,
Uneaſy with thy fear:
Suffering imagination to deceive,
I found thee willing to believe,
And with the treacherous ſhade conſpire,
To let into thyſelf a dangerous fire.
Ah, fooliſh wanderer, ſay, what would'ſt thou do,
If thou ſhould'ſt find at ſecond view
That all thou fancieſt now were true?
If thou ſhould'ſt find by day thoſe charms,
Which, thus obſerv'd, threaten undoing harms?
If thou ſhould'ſt find that awful mien
Not the effects of firſt addreſs,
Nor of my converſation diſeſteem,
But noble native ſullenneſs?
If thou ſhould'ſt find that ſoft good-natur'd voice
(Unus'd to inſolence and noiſe)
Still thus adorn'd with modeſty,
And his mind's virtues with his wit agree?
Tell me, thou forward laviſh fool,
What reaſon could thy fate control,
Or ſave the ruin of thy ſoul?
[105]Ceaſe then to languiſh for the coming day,
That may direct his wandering ſteps that way,
When I again ſhall the lov'd form ſurvey.
CATO's ANSWER TO LABIENUS,
FROM THE NINTH BOOK OF LUCAN*,
‘"Quid quaeri, Labiene, jubes, &c."’
WHAT ſhould I aſk my friend, which beſt would be,
To live enſlav'd, or thus in arms die free!
If any force can Honour's price abate?
Or Virtue bow beneath the blows of Fate?
If Fortune's threats a ſteady ſoul diſdains?
Or if the joys of life be worth the pains?
If it our happineſs at all import
Whether the fooliſh ſcene be long or ſhort?
If when we do but aim at noble ends,
Th' attempt alone immortal fame attends?
If for bad accidents, which thickeſt preſs
On merit, we ſhould like a good cauſe leſs;
Or be the fonder of it for ſucceſs?
All this is clear, wove in our minds it ſticks,
Nor Ammon, nor his prieſts, can deeper fix;
[106]Without the clergy's venial cant and pains,
God's never-fruſtrate will holds ours in chains,
Nor can we act but what th' All-wiſe ordains:
Who needs no voice, nor periſhing words, to awe
Our wild deſires, and give his creatures law.
Whate'er to know, or needful was or fit,
In the wiſe frame of human ſouls 'tis writ;
Both what we ought to do, and what forbear,
He, once for all, did at our births declare.
But never did he ſeek out deſart lands,
To bury truth in unfrequented ſands:
Or to a corner of the world withdrew,
Head of a ſect, and partial to a few.
Nature's vaſt fabrick is his houſe alone,
This globe his foot-ſtool, and high heaven his throne.
In earth, air, ſea, and in whoe'er excels,
In knowing heads and honeſt hearts he dwells.
Why ſeek we then among theſe barren ſands,
In narrow ſhrines, and temples built with hands,
Him, whoſe dread preſence does all places fill?
Or look but in our reaſon for his will?
All we e'er ſaw is God! in all we find
Apparent prints of the eternal mind.
Let doating fools their courſe by prophets ſteer,
And always of the future live in fear;
No oracle, or dream the croud is told,
Can make me more or leſs reſolv'd and bold:
But ſurer Death, which equally on all,
Both on the coward and the brave muſt fall.
This ſaid, and turning with diſdain about,
He left ſcorn'd Ammon to the vulgar rout.
ON THE PRINCE'S GOING TO ENGLAND, WITH AN ARMY TO RESTORE THE GOVERNMENT, 1688.
[107]" Hunc ſaltem everſo juvenem ſuccurrere ſaeclo
" Ne prohibete —"
Virg. Georg. lib. i. 500.
ONCE more a FATHER and a SON fall out,
The world involving in their high diſpute;
Remoteſt India's fate on theirs depends,
And Europe, trembling, the event attends.
Their motions ruling every other ſtate,
As on the ſun the leſſer planets wait.
Power warms the father, Liberty the ſon,
A prize well worth th' uncommon venture run.
Him a falſe pride to govern unreſtrain'd,
And by mad means, bad ends to be attain'd;
All bars of property drives headlong through,
Millions oppreſſing to enrich a few.
Him Juſtice urges, and a noble aim
To equal his progenitors in fame,
And make his life as glorious as his name.
For Law and Reaſon's power he does engage,
Againſt the reign of Appetite and Rage.
There, all the licenſe of unbounded might;
Here, conſcious honour, and deep ſenſe of right,
Immortal enmity to arms incite.
Greatneſs the one, glory the other [...]:
This only can deſerve, what [...]at deſires.
[108]This ſtrives for all that e'er to men was dear,
And he for what they moſt abhor and fear.
Caeſar and Pompey's cauſe, by Cato thought
So ill adjudg'd, to a new trial's brought,
Again at laſt Pharſalia muſt be fought.
Ye fatal ſiſters! now to right be friends,
And make mankind for Pompey's fate amends.
In Orange's great line, 'tis no new thing
To free a nation and uncrown a king.
SONG,
FReedom is a real treaſure,
Love a dream, all falſe and vain,
Short, uncertain is the pleaſure,
Sure and laſting is the pain.
A ſincere and tender paſſion
Some ill planet over-rules;
Ah, how blind is inclination!
Fate and women dote on fools.
ANSWERED
WHEN wits from ſighing turn to railing,
Ill ſucceſs pleads ſome excuſe;
Always trying, ever failing,
Will provoke the dulleſt Muſe.
Cupid a revengeful God is,
Woe be to the poet's heart,
Flannel ſhirts and whale-bone bodice
Are not proof againſt his dart.
A PROLOGUE TO SATYR.
[109]TO that prodigious height of vice we're grown,
Both in the court, the theatre, and town,
That 'tis of late believ'd, nay fix'd a rule,
Whoever is not vicious, is a fool:
Hiſs'd at by old and young, deſpis'd, oppreſt,
If he be not a villain like the reſt.
Virtue and Truth are loſt: ſearch for good men,
Among ten thouſand you will ſcarce find ten.
Half wits, conceited coxcombs, cowards, braves.
Baſe flatterers, and the endleſs fry of knaves,
Pops, fools, and pimps, we every where may find;
And not to meet them is to ſhun mankind.
The other ſex too, whom we all adore,
When ſearch'd, we ſtill find rotten at the core,
An old dry bawd, or a young juicy whore:
Their love all falſe, their virtue but a name,
And nothing in them conſtant but their ſhame.
What ſatyriſt then that's honeſt can ſit ſtill,
And unconcern'd ſee ſuch tide of ill
With an impetuous force o'erflow the age,
And not ſtrive to reſtrain it with his rage;
On Sin's vaſt army ſeize, wing, rear, and van,
And, like impartial Death, not ſpare a man?
For where, alas! where is that mighty he,
That is from pride, deceit, and envy free,
Or rather is not tainted with all three?
[110]Mankind is criminal, their acts, their thoughts;
'Tis charity to tell them of their faults,
And ſhew their failings in a faithful glaſs:
For who won't mend who ſees himſelf an aſs?
And this deſign 'tis that employs my Muſe,
That for her daily theme ſhe 's proud to chuſe,
A theme that ſhe 'll have daily need to uſe.
Let other poets flatter, fawn, and write,
To get ſome guineas and a dinner by 't:
Such mercenary wretches, ſhould they ſtarve,
They meet a kinder fate than they deſerve.
But ſhe could ne'er cringe to a lord for meat,
Or praiſe a proſperous villain, though he's great:
Quite contrary her practice ſhall appear,
Unbrib'd, impartial, pointed, and ſevere:
That way my nature leads, compos'd of gall,
I muſt write ſharply, or not write at all.
Though Thyrſis wings the air in towering ſlights,
And to a wonder panegyrick writes,
Though he is ſtill exalted and ſublime,
Scarce to be match'd by paſt or preſent time;
Though ſmooth and lofty all his lines appear,
The thoughts all noble, the expreſſion clear,
With judgement, wit, and ſancy, ſhining every where;
Yet what inſtruction can from hence accrue?
'Tis flattery all; too fulſome to be true.
Urge not, for 'tis to vindicate the wrong,
It cauſes emulation in the young,
A thirſt to fame, while ſome high act they read,
That prompts them to the ſame romantic deed.
[111]As if ſome powerful magick lay in rhimes,
That made them braver than at other times.
'Tis falſe and fond; heroes may huff and fight;
But who can merit ſo as he can write?
To ſay a glow-worm is the morning-ſtar,
And that it may with eaſe be ſeen as far,
Were moſt ridiculous; ſo far from truth,
It juſtly would deſerve a ſharp reproof.
That ſlave is more to blame, whoſe hireling pen
Calls knaves and coxcombs wiſe deſerving men;
Says the rank bawds are all with ſweetneſs grac'd,
Courtiers all juſt, and all court-ſtrumpets chaſte.
If to be prais'd does give a man pretence
To glory, learning, honeſty, and ſenſe,
Cromwell had much to ſay in his defence:
Who, though a tyrant, which all ills comprize,
Has been extoll'd and lifted to the ſkies.
Whilſt living, ſuch was the applauſe he gave,
Counted high, princely, pious, juſt, and brave;
And with encomiums waited to his grave.
Who then would give this for a poet's praiſe,
Which rightly underſtood does but debaſe,
And blaſt the reputation it would raiſe?
Hence 'tis, and 'tis a puniſhment that 's fit,
They are contemn'd and ſcorn'd by men of wit.
'Tis true ſome Scots may nibble at their praiſe,
And think it great to ſtand i' th' front of plays;
Though moſt to that ſtupidity are grown,
They waive their patron's praiſe to write their own:
[112]And yet they never fail of their rewards;
And faith in that I cannot blame the bards.
If coxcombs will be coxcombs, let them rue;
If they love flattery, let them pay for 't too.
'Tis one ſure method to convince the elves,
They ſpare my pains, and ſatirize themſelves.
In ſhort, nought helps like Satyr to amend.
While in huge volumes motley prieſts contend,
And let their vain diſputes ne'er have an end:
They plunge us in thoſe ſnares we elſe ſhould ſhun;
Like tinkers, make ten holes in mending one.
Our deareſt friends too, though they know our faults,
For pity, or for ſhame, conceal their thoughts;
While we, who ſee our failings, not forbid,
Looſely run on in the vain paths we did.
'Tis Satyr then that is our trueſt friend;
For none, before they know their faults, can mend:
That tells us boldly of our fouleſt crimes,
Reproves ill-manners, and reforms the times,
How am I then to blame, when all I write
Is honeſt rage, not prejudice or ſpite?
Truth is my aim, with truth I ſhall impeach;
And I'll ſpare none that comes within its reach.
On then, my Muſe—the world before thee lies—
And laſh the knaves and fools that I deſpiſe.
SONG OF BASSET.
[113]LET equipage and dreſs deſpair,
Since Baſſet is come in,
For nothing can oblige the fair
Like Money and Morine.
Is any counteſs in diſtreſs,
She flies not to the beau,
'Tis only Cony can redreſs
Her grief with a Rouleau.
By this bewitching game betray'd,
Poor Love is bought and ſold;
And that which ſhould be a free trade
Is now ingroſs'd by gold.
Ev'n ſenſe is brought into diſgrace,
Where company is met;
Or ſilent ſtands, or leaves the place,
While all the talk 's Baſſet.
Why, ladies, will you ſtake your hearts,
Where a plain cheat is found?
You firſt are rook'd out of thoſe darts
That gave yourſelves the wound.
The time, which ſhould be kindly lent
To plays and witty men,
In waiting for a Knave is ſpent,
Or wiſhing for a Ten.
[114]
Stand in defence of your own charms,
Throw down this favourite,
That threatens with his dazzling arms
Your beauty and your wit.
What pity 'tis, thoſe conquering eyes,
Which all the world ſubdue,
Should, while the lover gazing dies,
Be only on Alpue.
TO THE EARL OF MIDDLETON*.
SINCE love and verſe, as well as wine,
Are briſker where the ſun does ſhine,
'Tis ſomething to loſe two degrees,
Now age itſelf begins to freeze:
[115]Yet this I patiently could bear,
If the rough Danube's beauties were
But only two degrees leſs fair
Than the bright nymphs of gentle Thames,
Who warm me hither with their beams†:
Such power they have, they can diſpenſe
Five hundred miles their influence.
But hunger forces men to eat,
Though no temptation's in the meat.
How would the ogling ſparks deſpiſe
The darling damſel of my eyes;
Should they behold her at a play,
As ſhe's trick'd-up on holy-day;
[116]When the whole family combine
For public pride to make her ſhine?
Her locks, which long before lay matted,
Are on this day comb'd out and platted:
A diamond bodkin in each treſs,
The badges of her nobleneſs;
For every ſtone, as well as ſhe,
Can boaſt an ancient pedigree.
Theſe form'd the jewel e [...]ſt did grace
The cap of the firſt Grave o' th' race;
Preferr'd by Graffin Marian
T' adorn the handle of her fan;
And, as by old record appears,
Worn ſince in Renigunda's years:
Now ſparkling in the frokin's hair,
No rocket breaking in the air
Can with her ſtarry head compare.
Such ropes of pearl her arms incumber,
She ſcarce can deal the cards at Ombre.
So many rings each finger freight,
They tremble with the mighty weight.
The like in England ne'er was ſeen,
Since Holbein drew Hal and his Queen.
But, after theſe fantaſtic flights,
The luſtre's meaner than the lights.
The thing that bears this glittering pomp
Is but a tawdry ill-bred romp,
Whoſe brawny limbs and martial face
Proclaim her of the Gothic race,
More than the mangled pageantry
Of all the father's heraldry.
[117]But there's another ſort of creatures,
Whoſe ruddy look and groteſque features
Are ſo much out of nature's way,
You'd think them ſtamp'd on other clay;
No lawful daughters of old Adam.
'Mongſt theſe behold a city madam,
With arms in mittins, head in muff,
A dapper cloak and reverend ruff:
No farce ſo pleaſant as this maukin,
And the ſoft ſound of High-dutch talking.
Here, unattended by the Graces,
The Queen of Love in a ſad caſe is.
Nature, her active miniſter,
Neglects affairs, and will not ſtir;
Thinks it not worth the while to pleaſe,
But when ſhe does it for her eaſe.
Ev'n I, her moſt devout adorer,
With wandering thoughts appear before her;
And, when I'm making an oblation,
Am fain to ſpur imagination
With ſome ſham London inclination:
The bow is bent at German dame;
The arrow ſlies at Engliſh game.
Kindneſs, that can Indifference warm,
And blow that calm into a ſtorm,
Has in the very tendereſt hour
Over my gentleneſs a power,
True to my country-women's charms,
When kiſs'd and preſs'd in foreign arms.
TO THE EARL OF MIDDLETON.
[118]FROM hunting whores, and haunting play,
And minding nothing elfe all day
(And all the night too, you will ſay);
To make grave legs in formal fetters,
Converſe with fools, and write dull letters;
To go to bed 'twixt eight and nine,
And ſleep away my precious time,
In ſuch a ſneaking idle place,
Where Vice and Folly hide their face,
And in a troubleſome diſguiſe,
The wife ſeems honeſt, huſband wiſe.
For Pleaſure here has the ſame fate
Which does attend affairs of ſtate,
The plague of ceremony infects,
Even in love, the ſofter ſex;
Who an eſſential will neglect,
Rather than loſe the leaſt reſpect.
In regular approach we ſtorm,
And never viſit but in form;
That is, ſending to know before
At what a clock ſhe 'll play the whore.
The nymphs are conſtant, gallants private,
One ſcarce can gueſs what 'tis they drive at.
This ſeems to me a ſcurvy faſhion,
Who have been bred in a free nation,
With liberty of ſpeech and paſſion.
[119]Yet I cannot forbear to ſpark it,
And make the beſt of a bad market.
Meeting with one by chance kind-hearted,
Who no preliminaries ſtarted,
I enter'd beyond expectation
Into a cloſe negotiation:
Of which hereafter a relation.
Humble to Fortune, not her ſlave,
I ſtill was pleas'd with what ſhe gave;
And with a firm and chearful mind
I ſteer my courſe with every wind
To all the ports ſhe has deſign'd.
THE CUP, FROM ANACREON,
MAKE me a bowl, a mighty bowl,
Large as my capacious [...]oul,
Vaſt, as my thirſt is; let it have
Depth enough to be my grave;
I mean the grave of all my care,
For I intend to bury 't there.
[120]Let it of ſilver faſhion'd be,
Worthy of wine, worthy of me;
Worthy to adorn the ſpheres,
As that bright cup among the ſtars;
That cup which heaven deign'd a place;
Next the ſun its greateſt grace.
Kind cup! that to the ſtars did go,
To light poor drunkards here below:
Let mine be ſo, and give me light,
That I may drink and revel by 't:
[121]Yet draw no ſhapes of armour there,
No caſk, nor ſhield, nor ſword, nor ſpear,
Nor wars of Thebes, nor wars of Troy,
Nor any other martial toy:
For what do I vain armour prize,
Who mind not ſuch rough exerciſe;
But gentler ſieges, ſofter wars,
Fights, that cauſe no wounds or ſcars?
I'll have no battles on my plate,
Leſt ſight of them ſhould brawls create;
L [...]ſt that provoke to quarrels too,
Which wine itſelf enough can do.
Draw me no conſtellations there,
No Ram, nor Bull, nor Dog, nor Bear,
Nor any of that monſtrous fry
Of animals, which ſtock the ſky:
For what are ſtars to my deſign;
Stars, which I, when drunk, out-ſhine,
Out-ſhone by every drop of wine?
I lack no pole-ſtar on the brink,
To guide in the wide ſea of drink,
But would for ever there be toſt;
And wiſh no haven, ſeek no coaſt.
Yet, gentle artiſt, if thou 'lt try
Thy ſkill, then draw me (let me ſee)
Draw me firſt a ſpreading vine,
Make its arms the bowl entwine
With kind embraces, ſuch as I
Twiſt about my loving ſhe,
Let its boughs o'erſpread above
Scenes of drinking, ſcenes of love:
[122]Draw next the patron of that tree,
Draw Bacchus, and ſoft Cupid by;
Draw them both in toping ſhapes,
Their temples crown'd with cluſter'd grapes:
Make them lean againſt the cup,
As 't were to keep the figures up:
And when their [...]eeling forms I view,
I'll think them drunk, and be ſo too:
The Gods ſhall my examples be,
The Gods thus drunk in effigy.
ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.
I.
BEGIN the ſong, your inſtruments advance,
Tune the voice, and tune the ſlute,
Touch the ſilent ſleeping lute,
And make the ſtrings to their own meaſures dance.
Bring gentleſt thoughts that into language glide,
Bring ſofteſt words that into numbers ſlide:
Let every hand and every tongue
To make the noble conce [...]t th [...]ong.
Let all in one harmonious note agree
To frame the mighty ſong,
For this is Muſic's ſacred jubilee.
II.
Hark how the waken'd ſtrings reſound,
And break the yielding air!
The raviſh'd ſenſe how pleaſingly they wound,
And call the liſtening ſoul into the ear!
Each pulſe beats time, and every heart
With tongue and ſingers bears a part.
[123]By Harmony's entrancing power,
When we are thus wound up to extaſy;
Methinks we mount, methinks we tour,
And ſeem to antedate our future bliſs on high.
III.
How dull were life, how hardly worth our care,
But for the charms that Muſic lends!
How faint its pleaſures would appear,
But for the pleaſure which our art attends!
Without the ſweets of melody,
To tune our vital breath,
Who would not give it up to death,
And in the ſilent grave contented lie!
IV.
Muſic's the cordial of a troubled breaſt,
The ſofteſt remedy that grief can find;
The greateſt ſpell that charms our care to reſt,
And calms the ruſ [...]led paſſions of the mind.
Muſic does all our joy refine,
It gives the reliſh to our wine,
'Tis that gives rapture to our love,
And wings devotion to a pitch divine;
'Tis our chief bliſs on earth, and half our heaven above.
CHORUS.
Come then, with tuneful throat and ſtring,
The praiſes of our art let's ſing;
Let's ſing to bleſt CECILIA's fame,
That grac'd this art, and gave this day its name;
With muſic, wine and mirth conſpire
To bear a concert, and make up the choir!
A PASTORAL ON THE DEATH OF MR. OLDHAM,
[124]ON the remains of an old blaſted oak,
Unmindful of himſelf, Menalcas lean'd;
He ſought not now in heat the ſhade of trees,
But ſhunn'd the flowing river's pleaſing bank.
His pipe and hook lay ſcatter'd on the graſs,
Nor fed his ſheep together on the plain,
Left to themſelves they wander'd out at large.
In this lamenting ſtate young Corydon
(His friend and dear companion of his hours).
Finding Menalcas, aſks him thus the cauſe.
CORYDON.
Thee have I ſought in every ſhady grove,
By purling ſtreams, and in each private place
Where we have us'd to ſit and talk of love.
Why do I find thee leaning on an oak,
By lightning blaſted, and by thunder rent?
What curſed chance has turn'd thy chearful mind?
And why wilt thou have woes unknown to me?
But I would comfort, and not chide my friend;
Tell me thy grief, and let me bear a part.
MENALCAS.
Young Aſtrophell is dead, dear Aſtrophell,
He that could tune ſo well his charming pipe;
To hear whoſe lays, nymphs left their cryſtal ſpring,
[125]The Fawns and Dryades forſook the woods,
And, hearing, all were raviſh'd—ſwifteſt ſtreams
With-held their courſe to hear the heavenly ſound,
And murmur'd when by following waves preſt on;
The following waves forcing their way to hear.
Oft the fierce wolf purſuing of the lamb,
Hungry and wildly certain of his prey,
Left the purſuit, rather than loſe the ſound
Of his alluring pipe. The harmleſs lamb
Forgot his nature, and forſook his fear,
Stood by the wolf, and liſten'd to the ſound.
He could command a general peace, and nature would obey.
This youth, this youth is dead! The ſame diſeaſe
That carry'd ſweet Orinda from the world
Seiz'd upon Aſtrophell.—Oh, let theſe tears
Be offer'd to the memory of my friend,
And let my ſpeech give way a-while to ſighs.
CORYDON.
Weep on, Menalcas; for his fate requires
The tears of all mankind; general the loſs,
And general be the grief. Except by fame,
I knew him not; but ſurely this is he
Dead ere he liv'd, yet have new life from him.
Did he not mourn lamented ‡ Bion's death,
In verſes equal to what Bion wrote?
MENALCAS.
[126]Yes this was he, (oh that I ſay he was!)
He that could ſing the ſhepherds deeds ſo well,
Whether to praiſe the good he turn'd his pen,
Or laſh'd th' egregious follies of the bad,
In both he did excel—
His happy genius bade him take the pen,
And dictated more faſt than he could write:
Sometimes becoming negligence adorn'd
His verſe, and nature ſhew'd they were her own;
Yet art he us'd where art could uſeful be,
And ſweated not to be correctly dull.
CORYDON.
Had fate allow'd his life a longer thread,
Adding experience to that wondrous fraught
Of youthful vigour, how would he have wrote!
Equal to mighty * Pan's immortal verſe;
He that now rules with undiſputed ſway,
Guide of our pens, crown'd with eternal bays.
MENALCAS.
We wiſh for life, not thinking of its cares;
I mourn his death, the loſs of ſuch a friend:
But for himſelf he dy'd in the beſt hour,
And carry'd with him every man's applauſe.
Youth meets not with Detraction's blotting hand,
Nor ſuffers aught from Envy's canker'd mind.
Had he known age, he would have ſeen the world
Put on its uglieſt, but its trueſt face;
Malice had watch'd the droppings of his pen,
[127]And ignorant youths, who would for critics paſs,
Had thrown their ſcornful jeſts upon his vein,
And cenſur'd what they did not underſtand.
Such was not my dear Aſtrophell: he's dead,
And I ſhall quickly follow him. What's death,
But an eternal ſleep without a dream?
Wrapt in a laſting darkneſs, and exempt
From hope and fear, and every idle paſſion!
CORYDON.
See, thy complaints have mov'd the pitying ſkies;
They mourn the death of Aſtrophell in tears.
Thy ſheep, return'd from ſtraying, round thee gaze,
And wonder at thy mourning. Drive them home,
And tempt thy troubled mind with eaſing ſleep;
To-morrow's chearful light may give thee comfort.
REMEDY OF LOVE.
WOULD you be quite cur'd of love?
From your miſtreſs' ſight remove.
To the open fields repair;
Cool'd with abſence, and with air,
You will ſoon be eas'd of care.
[128]Seek out in another place
Something fit for your embrace;
Perhaps in a leſs charming face
You may find a pleaſing grace,
Wit, or motion, dreſs, or art,
Thouſand things that may divert
The torments of your throbbing heart.
[129]If in this no eaſe you find,
But conſtant love ſtill plagues your mind,
To your former flame return,
See if ſtill her eyes do burn
With equal force; you'll find, perchance,
Leſs warmth in every amorous glance:
Seeing oft what we deſire
Makes us leſs and leſs admire,
And will in time put out the fire.
Viſit her betimes each morn,
Stand by her when ſhe does adorn
[130]Her head; perhaps ſome borrow'd hair,
Some ill-contriv'd, affected ſnare,
Lewd ſong on table found, or prayer
Nonſenſical, may let you ſee,
That what you thought divinity
Is but a piece of puppetry.
If ſtill thy paſſion does remain,
And unſeen charms thy heart inchain,
If ſhe break thy ſleep by night,
Fly again the witch's ſight;
Opium take, that may invite
The gentle god to calm thy ſoul;
Peaceful ſlumbers Love control.
Have a care of purling brooks,
Of ſilent groves, and awful ſhade,
They but to thy torment add,
Love does there with eaſe invade.
No muſic hear, no dying looks
Behold, read no romantic books;
Books and muſic turn the head,
Fools only ſing, and madmen read:
They with falſe notions fill the brain,
Are only fit to entertain
Women, and fops that are more vain.
Love and folly ſtill are found
In thoſe to make the deepeſt wound,
Who think their paſſions to allay,
By giving of them leave to ſway
A-while; but they like winter torrents grow,
And all our limits overflow.
[131]Never truſt thyſelf alone,
Frequent good company and wine;
In generous wines thy paſſion drown,
That will make thee all divine.
Better 'tis to drink to death,
Than ſigh and whine away our breath.
In friends and bottles we may find
More joys than in womankind.
After enjoyment women pall,
Intolerable plagues they 're all,
Vain, fooliſh, fond, proud, whimſical,
Diſſembling, hypocritical.
Wines by keeping them improve,
And real friends more firmly love.
If one vintage prove ſevere,
We 're doubly recompenc'd next year.
If our deareſt friends we loſe,
Others may ſucceed to thoſe;
Women only of all things
Have nothing to aſſuage their ſtings.
Curs'd is the man that does purſue
The ſhort-liv'd pleaſures of their charms;
There is [...]o hell but in their arms:
For ever damned, damning ſex, adieu,
ON VIRTUE, TO MR. S. G.
[132]FAIR Virtue, ſhould I follow thee,
I ſhould be naked and alone;
For thou art not in company,
And ſcarce art to be found in one.
Thy rules are too ſevere and cold,
To be embrac'd by vigorous youth;
And Fraud and Avarice arm the old
Againſt thy juſtice and thy truth.
He who, by light of reaſon led,
Inſtructs himſelf in thy rough ſchool,
Shall all his life-time beg his bread,
And, when he dies, be thought a fool.
Though in himſelf he's ſatisfied
With a calm mind and chearful heart,
The world will call his virtue pride,
His holy life deſign and art.
The reign of Vice is abſolute,
While good men vainly ſtrive to riſe;
They may declaim, they may diſpute,
But ſhall continue poor and wiſe.
Honours and wealth are made by Fate
To wait on fawning Impudence,
To give inſipid coxcombs weight,
And to ſupply the want of ſenſe.
[133]
Mighty Pompey, whoſe great ſoul
Deſign'd the liberty of Rome,
In vain did Caeſar's arms control,
And at Pharſalia was o'ercome.
His virtue, conſtant in diſtreſs,
In Ptolemy no pity bred,
Who, barely guided by ſucceſs,
Secur'd his peace with his friend's head.
Brutus, whom the gods ordain'd
To do what Pompey would have done,
The generous motion entertain'd,
And ſtabb'd the tyrant on his throne.
This god-like Brutus, whoſe delight
Was Virtue, which he had ador'd,
Haunted by ſpectres over-night,
Fell the next day on his own ſword.
If, when his hope of victory loſt,
This noble Roman could exclaim,
Oh Virtue, whom I courted moſt,
I find ſhe's but an empty name!
In a degenerate age like this,
We with more reaſon may conclude,
That Fortune will attend on Vice,
Miſery on thoſe who dare be good.
TO ENVY.
OVID, AMOR. BOOK I. ELEG. XV.
[134]ENVY, how dar'ſt thou ſay that I in vain
Have ſpent my years, or with falſe names profane
The ſacred product of my fertile brain?
'Tis true, in th' art of war I am not ſkill'd,
No trophies did I e'er attempt to build
By gaining grinning honour* in the field.
I never try'd to learn the tedious laws,
Or ſought, in pleading of a deſperate cauſe,
To ſell my breath for intereſt or applauſe.
Such little things I ſcorn; I nobly aim
At that which may ſecure a laſting fame,
And through the world immortalize my name.
Old Chaucer ſhall, for his facetious ſtyle,
Be read and prais'd by warlike Britons, while
The ſea enriches, and defends their iſle.
While the whole earth reſounds Eliſa's fame,
Who aw'd the French, and did the Spaniard tame,
The Engliſh will remember Spenſer's name.
While flatterers thrive and paraſites ſhall dine,
While commonwealths afford a Catiline,
Laborious Jonſon ſhall be thought divine.
[135]
Thee, Shakſpeare, poets ever ſhall adore,
Whoſe wealthy fancy left ſo vaſt a ſtore,
They ſtill refine thy rough but precious ore.
So long ſhall Cowley be admir'd above
The crowd, as David's troubles pity move,
Till women ceaſe to charm, and youth to love.
While we the fall of our firſt parents grieve,
And worſhip him who did that fall retrieve,
Milton ſhall in majeſtic numbers live.
Dryden will laſt as long as wit and ſenſe,
While judgement is requir'd to excellence,
While perfect language charms an audience.
As long as men are falſe, and women vain,
While gold continues to be Virtue's bane,
In pointed ſatire Wicherley ſhall reign.
When the aſpiring Grecian in the Eaſt,
And haughty Philip is forgot i' th' Weſt,
Then Lee and Otway's works ſhall be ſuppreſt.
While fathers are ſevere, and ſervants cheat,
Till bawds and whores can live without deceit,
Sedley and eaſy Etherege ſhall be great.
Stones will conſume, age will on metals prey,
But deathleſs verſe no time can wear away;
That ſtands the ſhock of years without decay.
When kingdoms ſhall be loſt in ſloth and luſt,
When treaſures fail, and glorious arms ſhall ruſt,
Verſe only lifts itſelf above the duſt.
[136]
Come, bright Apollo! then, let me drink deep
Of that bleſt ſpring thou doſt for poets keep,
While in ignoble eaſe the world's aſleep.
Let wreaths of tender myrtle crown my head,
Let me be ſtill by anxious lovers read,
Envy'd alive, but honour'd when I 'm dead.
Till after death, deſert was never crown'd,
When my aſhes are forgotten under ground,
Then my beſt part will be immortal found.
MARTIAL, BOOK VIII. EPIG. LVI.
ALL other ages ſince our age excels,
And conquering Rome to ſo much greatneſs ſwells,
You wonder what's become of Maro's vein,
That none write battles in ſo high a ſtrain.
Had Wit its patrons, Flaccus, now-a-days,
As once it had, more would contend for praiſe,
Thy villa would a mighty genius raiſe.
When Virgil was oppreſs'd by civil hate,
Robb'd of his flocks, and ſtripp'd of his eſtate,
In Tityrus' dreſs beneath a beech he ſate.
Weeping in ſhades thus was the poet found,
Till brave Maecenas rais'd him from the ground;
Knowing that Want would greateſt minds betray,
He fear'd a Muſe ſo God-like ſhould decay,
And drave malicious Poverty away.
[137]Freed from the want that now oppreſſes thee,
Thou ſhalt for ever prince of poets be.
In all my pleaſures thou a part ſhalt bear,
Thou ſhalt with me my dear Alexis ſhare.
The charming youth ſtood by his maſter's board,
And with his ivory hands black Falern pour'd;
With roſy lips each cup he firſt aſſay'd,
Of ſuch a draught Jove would himſelf be glad,
And for Alexis change his Ganymed.
Down go the rude Bucolicks on the floor,
Of bees and harveſt now he writes no more,
Whoſe humble Muſe had ſung the great when poor.
Straight he exalts his voice to arms and kings,
The Roman ſtory and his hero ſings.
Mean thoughts upon a narrow fortune wait,
The fancy is improv'd by an eſtate,
Favour and penſion make a Laureat.
HORACE, BOOK I. ODE VIII.
LYDIA, I conjure you, ſay,
Why haſte you ſo to make away
Poor Sybaris with love?
Why hates he now the open air?
Why heat, and clouds of duſt to bear,
Does he no more approve?
Why leaves he off his martial pride?
Why is he now afraid to ride
Upon his Gallic ſteed?
[138]Why ſwims he not the Tyber o'er?
Or wreſtles as he did before?
Whence do his fears proceed?
Why boaſts he not his limbs grown black
With bearing arms, or his ſtrong back
With which he threw the bar?
Is he like Thetis' ſon conceal'd,
And from all manly ſports with-held,
To keep him ſafe from war?
THE PUNISHMENT.
ON Hebrus bank as Orpheus ſate,
Mourning Eurydice's hard fate,
The birds and beaſts did on his muſic wait,
And trees and ſtones became compaſſionate;
Yet he, who all things elſe could move,
Was quite inſenſible to love,
Therefore, ye Gods, ye juſtly did ordain,
That he, who love and women did deſpiſe,
To the fair ſex ſhould fall a ſacrifice,
And, for contempt of pleaſure, ſuffer pain.
PART OF AJAX'S SPEECH.
OVID, METAM. BOOK XIII.
[139]THE princes ſate, whom martial throngs incloſe,
When Ajax lord o' th' ſevenfold ſhield aroſe.
With juſt diſdain and untam'd paſſion ſwell'd,
Sig [...]eum and the navy he beheld.
Then lifting up his hands, Oh Jove! ſaid he,
Before this fleet, can my right queſtion'd be?
And dares Ulyſſes too contend with me?
He, who, when Hector all our ſhips had fir'd,
Far from the danger cowardly retir'd;
While I alone the hoſtile flame ſuſtain'd,
And ſav'd the burning [...]navy with this hand?
He'll therefore find it much his ſafeſt courſe,
To truſt to tropes and figures, not to force.
His talent lies in prating, mine in war;
And yet you ſo unequal judges are,
That you prefer his pedantry and art,
Before my conquering arm and generous heart.
Of my exploits I nothing need to ſay,
For they were all perform'd in open day,
You ſaw them; his, if any, were all done
By night, told of himſelf, but ſeen by none.
OUT OF SANNAZARIUS.
[140]NEPTUNE ſaw Venice on the Adria ſtand,
Firm as a rock, and all the ſea command.
Think'ſt thou, O Jove! ſaid he, Rome's walls excel?
Or that proud cliff whence falſe Tarpeia fell?
Grant Tyber beſt, view both; and you will ſay,
That men did thoſe, Gods theſe foundations lay.
WRITTEN ON A LADY'S MASK.
WELL may'ſt thou, envious maſk, be proud,
That doſt ſuch killing, beauties ſhroud!
Not Phoebus, when behind a cloud,
Of half thoſe glories robs our eye,
As behind thee concealed lie.
I would have kept thee; but I find
My fair Eliſa ſo unkind,
Thou wilt better ſervice do
To keep her charms from human view:
For ſhe is ſo ſtrangely bright,
So ſurprizing, ſo divine,
That I know her very ſight
Soon will make all hearts like mine.
ELEGY ON JOHN CROFTS, D.D.*
[141]HERE let his reverend duſt in ſilence ſleep;
I could add tears, were't not a ſin to weep;
Which heathens wont: what elſe in grief ſhould we,
But doubt, or envy his felicity?
Death, as in duty, came and ſnuff'd the light,
As who ſhould ſay to make it ſhine more bright.
As to the ſhutting-in of nature's day,
His evening red was, but his morning grey.
The elements diſputed Death's control,
Nature was loath to part with ſuch a ſoul.
As to his quality he doubly owes;
But which, to birth, or breeding more, who knows?
[142]The firſt has him among the great ones reckon'd;
And in the ſecond he to none was ſecond.
But ſome have troubled at his paſſion been,
Why ſhould they ſo? a fly will have her ſpleen.
He could be angry; and who lives but can?
For could he not, he ſhould be leſs than man.
True, he was haſty at ſome croſs event,
But was again as haſty to repent.
And be his choler at the worſt believ'd,
Whom his right hand depreſs'd, his left reliev'd.
His ſtrictneſs at the church's gates did well,
No gates ſtand always ope, but thoſe of hell.
And ſince the lord his vineyard did reſtore,
'Twas zeal, not choler, to keep out the boar.
Should I forbear a trophy here to raiſe him,
(With reverence to the text) his works would praiſe him.
[143]Impartial eyes, ſurvey what he has done;
And you 'll not ſay church-work went ſlowly on.
Whoſe elegy each grateful ſtone preſents,
From th' humble baſe, to th' higheſt battlements.
Others themſelves wrap up in laſting lead,
But he wrapt up the church in his own ſtead;
Whoſe pinacle he rear'd ſo high, it even
Climbs up the clouds to reach his alms to heaven;
Upon whoſe top, St. Peter may behold
His monitor in characters of gold.
Not but in this others pretend a ſhare,
But the dead challenge what the living ſpare.
Now then for epitaph, this let him take:
Here lies the temple's great Jehojada*,
Who for the ſums he, to repair it, ſpent,
Has the whole church to be his monument.
A PROLOGUE,
GENTLE reproofs have long been try'd in vain,
Men but deſpiſe us while we but complain:
Such numbers are concern'd for the wrong ſide,
A weak reſiſtance ſtill provokes their pride;
And cannot ſtem the fierceneſs of the tide.
[144]Laughers, buffoons, with an unthinking crowd
Of gaudy fools, impertinent and loud,
Inſult in every corner: want of ſenſe,
Confirm'd with an outlandiſh impudence,
Among the rude diſturbers of the pit,
Have introduc'd ill breeding and falſe wit;
To boaſt their lewdneſs here young ſcourers meet,
And all the vile companions of a ſtreet
Keep a perpetual bawling near that door,
Who beat the baud laſt night, who bilk'd the whore:
They ſnarl, but neither fight nor pay a farthing:
A play-houſe is become a mere bear-garden;
Where every one with inſolence enjoys
His liberty and property of noiſe.
Should true ſenſe, with revengeful fire, come down,
Our Sodom wants ten men to ſave the town:
Each pariſh is infected; to be clear,
We muſt loſe more than when the plague was here:
While every little thing perks up ſo ſoon,
That at fourteen it hectors up and down
With the beſt cheats and the worſt whores i' th' town;
Swears at a play who ſhould be whipt at ſchool,
The foplings muſt in time grow up to rule,
The faſhion muſt prevail to be a fool.
Some powerful Muſe, inſpir'd for our defence,
Ariſe, and ſave a little common ſenſe:
[145]In ſuch a cauſe let thy keen ſatire bite,
Where indignation bids thy genius write:
Mark a bold leading coxcomb of the town,
And ſingle out the beaſt, and hunt him down;
Hang up his mangled carcaſe on the ſtage,
To fright away the vermin of the age.
OVID, DE TRIST. BOOK I. EL. XI. COMPLAINING OF THREE YEARS BANISHMENT.
CONDEMN'D to Pontus, tir'd with endleſs toil,
Since baniſh'd Ovid left his native ſoil,
Thrice has the frozen Iſter ſtood, and thrice
The Euxine ſea been cover'd o'er with ice.
Ten tedious years of ſiege the Trojans bore;
But count my ſorrow, I have ſuffer'd more:
For me alone old Chronus ſtops his glaſs,
For years, like ages, ſlowly ſeem to paſs:
Long days diminiſh not my nightly care,
Both night and day their equal portion ſhare.
The courſe of nature ſure is chang'd with me,
And all is endleſs as my miſery.
Do Time and Heaven their common motion keep?
Or are the Fates, that ſpin my thread, aſleep?
In Euxine Pontus here I hide my face,
How good the name! but, oh, how bad the place!
The people round about us threaten war,
Who live by ſpoils, and thieves or pirates are:
[146]No living thing can here protection have,
Nay ſcarce the dead are quiet in their grave,
For here are birds as well as men of prey,
That ſwiftly ſnatch, unſeen, the limbs away.
Darts are ſlung at us by the neighbouring foe,
Which oftentimes we gather as we go.
He who dares plough (but few there are who dare)
Muſt arm himſelf as if he went to war.
The ſhepherd puts his helmet on, to keep,
Not from the wolves, but enemies, his ſheep:
While mournfully he tunes his rural Muſe,
One foe the ſhepherd and his ſheep purſues.
The caſtle, which the ſafeſt place ſhould be,
Within from cruel tumults is not free.
Oft dire contentions put me in a fright,
The rude inhabitants with Grecians fight.
In one abode amongſt a barbarous rout
I live, but when they pleaſe they thruſt me out:
My hatred to theſe brutes takes from my fear,
For they are like the beaſts whoſe ſkins they wear.
Ev'n thoſe who as we think were born in Greece
Wrap themſelves up in rugs and Perſian frize;
They eaſily each other underſtand,
But I, alas, am forc'd to ſpeak by hand!
Ev'n to theſe men (if I may call them ſo)
Who neither what is right or reaſon know,
I a Barbarian am; hard fate to ſee,
When I ſpeak Latin, how they laugh at me!
Perhaps they falſely add to my diſgrace,
Or call me wretched exile to my face.
[147]Beſides, the cruel ſword 'gainſt Nature's laws
Cuts off the innocent without a cauſe.
The market-place, by lawleſs arms poſſeſt,
Has ſlaughter-houſes both for man and beaſt.
Now, O ye Fates, 'tis time to ſtop my breath,
And ſhorten my misfortunes by my death.
How hard my ſentence is, to live among
A cut-throat, barbarous, and unruly throng!
But to leave you, my friends, a harder doom,
Though baniſh'd here, I left my heart at Rome,
Alas, I left it where I cannot come*!
[148]To be forbid the city, I confeſs,
That were but juſt, my crime deſerves no leſs.
A place ſo diſtant from my native air
Is more than I deſerve, or long can bear.
Why do I mourn! the fate I here attend
Is a leſs grief than Caeſar to offend!
ELEGY ON DR. WHITAKER*.
BINDE ye my browes with mourning cypariſſe,
And paliſh twigs of deadlie poplar tree,
Or if ſome ſadder ſhades ye can deviſe,
Thoſe ſadder ſhades vaile my light-loathing eie:
I loath the laurel-bandes I loved beſt,
And all that maketh mirth and pleaſant reſt.
[149]
If ever breath diſſolv'd the world to teares,
Or hollow cries made heavens vault reſound:
If ever ſhrikes were ſounded out ſo cleare,
That all the worlds waſt might heare around:
Be mine the breath, the teares, the ſhrikes, the cries,
Yet ſtill my griefe unſeene, unſounded lies.
[150]
Thou flattering Sun, that ledſt this loathed light,
Why didſt thou in thy ſaffron-robes ariſe?
Or foldſt not up the day in drierie night?
And wakſt the weſterne worldes amazed eies?
And never more riſe from the ocean,
To make the morn, or chaſe night-ſhades again.
Heare we no bird of day, or dawning morne,
To greet the ſun, or glad the waking eare:
Sing out ye ſcrich-owles lowder then aforne.
And ravens blacke of night; of death of driere:
And all ye barking foules yet never ſeene,
That fill the moonleſſe night with hideous din.
[151]
Now ſhall the wanton Devils daunce in rings
In everie mede, and everie heath hore:
The Elviſh Faeries, and the Gobelins:
The hoofed Satyres ſilent heretofore:
Religion, Vertue, Muſes, holie mirth
Have now forſworne the late forſaken earth.
The Prince of Darkneſſe gins to tyrannize,
And reare up cruel trophees of his rage:
Faint earth through her deſpairing cowardice
Yeelds up herſelfe to endleſſe vaſſalage:
What Champion now ſhal tame the power of Hell,
And the unrulie ſpirits overquell?
The worlds praiſe, the pride of Natures proofe,
Amaze of times, hope of our faded age:
Religions hold, Earths choice, and Heavens love,
Patterne of Vertue, patron of Muſes ſage:
All theſe and more were Whitakers alone,
Now they in him, and he and all are gone.
Heaven, Earth, Nature, Death, and every Fate
Thus ſpoild the careleſſe world of woonted joy:
Whiles each repin'd at others pleaſing ſtate,
And all agreed to work the worlds annoy:
Heaven ſtrove with Earth, Deſtiny gave the doome,
That Death ſhould Earth and Nature overcome.
Earth takes one part, when forced Nature ſendes
The ſoule, to flit into the yeelding ſkie:
Sorted by death into their fatal ends,
Foreſeene, foreſ [...]tt from all eternitie:
Deſtinie by Death ſpoyl'd feeble Natures frame,
Earth was deſpoyl'd when Heaven overcame.
[152]
Ah, coward Nature, and more cruell Death,
Envying Heaven, and unworthy mold,
Unweildy carkaſſe and unconſtant breath,
That did ſo lightly leave your living hold:
How have ye all conſpir'd our hopeleſſe ſpight,
And wrapt us up in Griefes eternall night.
Baſe Nature yeeldes, imperious Death commaundes.
Heaven deſires, durſt lowly duſt denie?
The Fates decreed, no mortall might withſtand,
The ſpirit leaves his load, and lets it lie.
The ſenceleſſe corpes corrupts in ſweeter clay,
And waytes for worms to waſte it quite away.
Now ginne your triumphes, Death and Deſtinies,
And let the trembling world witneſſe your waſt:
Now let blacke Orphney raiſe his gaſtly neighes,
And trample high, and helliſh ſome outcaſt:
Shake he the earth and teare the hollow ſkies,
That all may feele and feare your victories.
And after your triumphant chariot,
Drag the pale corpes that thus you did to die,
To ſhew what goodly conqueſts ye have got,
To fright the world, and fill the woondring eie:
Millions of lives, of deathes no conqueſt were,
Compared with one onely Whitakere.
But thou, o ſoule, ſhalt laugh at their deſpite,
Sitting beyond the mortall mans extent,
All in the boſome of that bleſſed ſpright:
Which the great God for thy ſafe conduct ſent,
He through the circling ſpheares taketh his flight,
And cuts the ſolid ſkie with ſpirituall might.
[153]
Open ye golden gates of Paradiſe,
Open ye wide unto a welcome ghoſt:
Enter, O ſoule, into thy boure of bliſſe,
Through all the throng of Heavens hoaſt:
Which ſhall with triumph gard thee as thou go'ſt
With pſalmes of conqueſt and with crownes of coſt.
Seldome had ever ſoule ſuch entertaines,
With ſuch ſweet hymnes, and ſuch a glorious crowne.
Nor with ſuch joy amids the heavenly traines,
Was ever led to his Creators throne:
There now he lives, and ſees his Saviours face,
And ever ſings ſweet ſongs unto his grace.
Meanewhile, the memorie of his mightie name,
Shal live as long as aged earth ſhal laſt:
Enrolled on berill walles of fame,
Ay ming'd, ay mourn'd: and wiſhed oft in waſt:
Is this to die, to live for evermore.
A double life: that neither liv'd afore?
JOS. HALL, Imman.
AD CAROLUM REGEM*.
TE, Rex, felicem numeroſa propago coronat,
Atque tuas reliquas illa CORONA beat;
Augebitque tuum Diadema CORONA nepotum,
Addidit ut titulis Juno ſecunda tuis.
[154]Quàm verè regnas, duplici redimite coronâ!
Inſignit regem prima, ſecunda patrem.
JOANNES COTTON*, MAGD. COLL. CANT.
ON MR. H. DICKINSON'S TRANSLATION OF PERE SIMON'S CRITICAL HISTORY†.
OF all heaven's judgments, that was ſure the worſt,
When our bold fathers were at Babel curſt:
Man, to whoſe race this glorious orb was given,
Nature's lov'd darling, and the joy of heaven,
Whoſe powerful voice the ſubject world obey'd,
And gods were pleas'd with the diſcourſe he made;
He, who before did every form excel,
Beneath the moſt ignoble creature fell:
Every vile beaſt through the wide earth can rove,
And, where the ſenſe invites, declare his love!
Sounds inarticulate move through all the [...]ace;
And one ſhort language ſerves for every place:
But ſuch a price did that preſumption coſt,
That half our lives in trifling words are loſt.
Nor can their utmoſt force and power expreſs
The ſoul's ideas in their native dreſs.
Knowledge, that godlike orn'ment of the mind,
To the ſmall ſpot where it is born 's confin'd.
[155]But he, brave youth, the toilſome fate repeals,
While his learn'd pen myſterious truth reveals.
So did, of old, the cloven tongues deſcend;
And Heaven's commands to every ear extend.
And 'twas but juſt that all th' aſtoniſh'd throng
Should underſtand the Galileans tongue,
God's ſacred law was for all Iſrael made;
And in plain terms, to every tribe diſplay'd.
On marble pillars, his Almighty hands,
In letters large, wrote the divine commands:
But ſcarce they were ſo much in pieces broke,
When Moſes' wrath the people did provoke,
As has the ſacred cowl been torn and rent,
T' explain what the All-wiſe Dictator meant.
But now, t' our Egypt the great Prophet 's come;
And eloquent Aaron tells the joyful doom.
From the worſt ſlavery at laſt we 're freed,
And ſhall no more with ſtripes from error bleed;
The learned Simon has th' hard taſk ſubdued;
And holy tables the third time renew'd.
Sinai be bleſs'd, where was receiv'd the law
That ought to keep the rebel world in awe;
And bleſs'd be he that taught us to invoke
God's awful name, as God to Moſes ſpoke.
Nor does he merit leſs, who could ſo well
From foreign language his great dictates tell:
In our cold clime the pregnant ſoul lay hid;
No virtual power mov'd the prolific ſeed,
Till his kind genial heat preſerv'd it warm;
And to perfection wrought the noble form.
[156]Never did yet arrive ſo vaſt a ſtore
Of ſolid learning on the Britiſh ſhore:
T' export it thence has been the greateſt trade;
But he, at laſt, a full return has made.
Raiſe up, ye tuneful bards, your voices raiſe,
And crown his head with never-dying praiſe:
And all ye Nimrod's mighty ſons rejoice,
While ev'ry workman knows the builder's voice.
In Shinar's plain the lofty tower may riſe,
Till its vaſt head ſuſtain the bending ſkies:
In its own nature Truth is ſo divine,
No ſacred powers oppoſe this great deſign;
So dark a veil obſcur'd her reverend head,
The wiſeſt travellers knew not where to tread,
Blind zeal and mad enthuſiaſts ſhew'd the way,
While wandering meteors led their eyes aſtray;
Through the dark maze without a clue they ran,
And at beſt ended where they firſt began:
But now at laſt we 're brought ſo near her throne,
At the next ſtep the glorious crown 's our own.
HORTI ARLINGTONIANI.
AD CL. DOM. HENRICUM COMITEM ARLINGTONIAE.
MAgnificos propter ſaltus, & avita Jacobi
Moenio, quae faciunt commercia duplicis aulae,
Ac Ducis ac Divi nomen commune tuctur,
Surgunt coctilibus ſuccincta palatia muris:
[157]Quae poſita ad Zephyrum, radiis ſol igneus aureis,
Illuſtrat moriente die, naſcente ſalutat.
Eximiam interea molem mirantur euntes,
Vulguſque, procereſque: caducos plorat honores
Aulicus, & rerum faſtigia lubrica damnat;
Felicemque vocat Dominum, cui tempora vitae
Labuntur variis aulae inconcuſſa procellis.
Et quamvis procul haud abſint, tum plebis iniquae
Improba garrulitas, tum clamor & ambitus aulae,
Circumfuſa quies, & pax incognita Magnis
Hic placidè regnant; & verum ſimplice cultu,
Propoſitique tenax virtus, & pectus honeſtum.
Namque ubi prima diem ſurgens Aurora reducit,
Et matutinae ſudant ſub roribus herbae,
Nulla volans fumante viam rota turbine verſat,
Crebra putres ſonitu nec verberat ungula glebas:
Hinc procul imbelles perſultant pabula damae,
Atque piâ placidos curant dulcedine foetus;
Inde, loquax ripas & aquoſa cubilia linquens
Fertur anas, madidis irroram aethera pennis.
Vos O Pierides molli teſtudine Muſae,
Dicite pulchricomis depictum floribus hortum:
Nullus abeſt cui dulcis honos, quem mille pererrant
Formoſae Veneres, pharetrâque Cupido tuetur.
Non illum Alcinoi floreta, aut Theſſala Tempe
Exuperant, quanquam haec qui fingunt omnia, Vates
Mendaci ſublime ferant ad ſidera cantu.
Areaque in medio eſt multum ſpectabilis horto,
Ordinibus raris palorum obducta, tuentum
Laetificans oculos ac dona latentia prodens:
[158]Nempe haec per ſpatia flores tranſmittit iniqua
Diſtinctos variis maculis, & ſuave rubentes.
Non illic violae, neque candida lilia deſunt:
Parva loquor: quicquid noſtro Deus invidet orbi.
Hic viget, & quicquid tepidi vicinia ſolis
Laetior Heſperis educit germen in arvis.
Qualia ſaepe inter moriens floreta Cupido
Conjugis aeterno jacuit devinctus amore;
Te ſolam cupiens, in te pulcherrima Pſyche
Arſit, & heu propriis fixit praecordia telis!
Nec ſine nomine erunt myrteta, nec aurea poma;
Quae quoniam calido naſcuntur plurima coelo
Et brumas indocta pati nimboſque ruentes,
Nec fas hic teneras ramorum effundere foetus:
Protinus hybernis clauduntur ab aethere tectis,
Spiranteſque premunt animas, ne poma caduca
Vel glacies laedat, teneras vel frigora myrtos:
Tum vero, aeſtate in mediâ, ſtabula alta relinquunt,
Scilicet, & tutas de cortice trudere gemmas,
Inque novos ſoles audent ſe credere, molles
Ut captent Zephyros impune, ac lumen amicum.
Nec te praeteream, tenebris quae dives opacis
Sylva vires, vento motis peramabilis umbris:
Hic magnus labor ille & inextricabilis error,
Per quem mille viis errantem Theſea duxit,
Ah nimis infelix per fila ſequentia virgo!
Securi hic tenero ludunt in gramine amantes;
Nec reperire viam curant, ubi lumina veſper
Deficiente die accendit; ſed longius ipſam
Hic ſecum placidè cupiunt conſumere noctem:
[159]Dum ſuper arboreos modulans luſcinia ramos,
Dulce melos iterat, teneroſque invitat amores.
Quinetiam extremo ſurgit conterminus ho [...]to
Mons felix, albis quem circum geſſamis ornat
Floribus, ac laetas dat praetereuntibus umbras.
Hunc ſuper aſcendit turbâ comitante virum Rex
Auguſtus, procereſque caput ſupereminet omnes;
Atque pedem properans graditur, viſtigia volvens
Grandia, nec ſerae meminit decedere nocti.
Omnibus ante oculos divini ruris imago,
Et ſincera quies operum, rerumque niteſcit
Incorruptus honos, & neſcia fallere vita.
Nec non hic ſolus placidi ſuper ardua montis,
Clare Comes, tecum meditaris, mente ſerenâ
Munera Daedaleae naturae; animuſque recedit
In loca ſacra, fugitque procul contagia mundi.
Deſpicere unde queas miſeros, paſſimque videre
Mortales, vitae ſubeuntes mille perîcla;
Continuò inter ſe niti praeſtante labore,
Divitiis inhiare & habenas ſumere rerum;
Deturbare throno Regem, magnaſque aliorum
Fortunas ambire, ac nigris ſervere curis.
Dum Tu, magne Comes, minimâ ſine parte doloris,
Proſpicis ex alto viridantes gramine ſaltus:
Undique confluxam hinc turbam, lautiſque crepantes
Sub pedibus cochleas, teneras queis fibula dives
Connectit ſoleas, gemmis imitantibus ignes:
Inde lacus luſtras, puroque canalia rivo
Lucida, magnificam neque lumen nictat ad aulam.
Inter purpureos, Regi gratiſſime, patres,
[160]O Dium, fidumque caput, venerabile gentis
Praeſidium! O magnos jamdudum exute labores!
Saepius hic tecum placido ſpatieris in horto,
Traducens faciles, ſed non inglorius annos;
Et vitam ſtudiis florentem nobilis o [...]!
Dum timor omnis abeſt, curaeque incendia luctus,
Nec tibi vel telis audet fortuna nocere,
Vel ſtr [...]ere inſidias canis. Tibi libera tranſis
Tempora, & accedis tantum non hoſpes ad aulam.
O felix animi, quem non ratione relictâ,
Spes elata trahit laudumque arrecta cupido;
Nec miſerè inſomnes cogunt diſperdere noctes!
At ſecura quies, animae divina voluptas,
Mitiaque emeritam ſolantur fata ſenectam.
Unica Regali connubit filia ſtirpi,
Anglia quas habuit pulchris praelata puellis.
Quae poſeis meliora Deos? quae pondere vaſto
Cor [...]uit uſta domus, flammae ſecura minacis
Ecce ſtat, è tantis major meliorque ruinis!
Scilicet hanc rerum alma Parens, ut vidit ab alta
Nube Venus; circum divini colla Mariti
Fuſa ſuper, roſeoque arridens ſuaviter ore,
Sic Divum alloquitur: noſtros delectat ocellos
Pulchra domus, ſaevis olim conſumpta favillis:
En hujus (ſi fata ſinant) celebrabitur Haeres
Herois divina, & me digniſſima cura!
Pallas & hoc poſcit (proprio favet illa Miniſtro;)
Qui Divam colit, ac ſimiles aſſurgit ad artes.
Vincitur illecebris Deus; & jubet omine laeto
Stare diu, longoſque domum ſupereſſe per annos.
TRANSLATED BY MR. SAM. BOYSE*.
[161]NEAR to thoſe domes th' indulgent powers aſſign
The ſacred ſeat of Stuart's majeſtic line;
(Thoſe riſing towers, that, known to ancient fame,
Bear both the Monarch's and the Martyr's name);
Near thoſe fair lawns, and intermingled groves,
Where gentle Zephyrs breathe and ſporting Loves;
[162]A frame there ſtands, that rears its beauteous height,
And ſtrikes with pleaſing raviſhment the ſight.
Full on the front the orient ſun diſplays
His chearful beams; and, as his light decays,
Again adorns it with his weſtern rays.
Here wondering crowds admire the owner's ſtate,
And view the glories of the fair and great;
Here falling ſtateſmen Fortune's changes feel,
And prove the turns of her revolving wheel;
[163]Then envy, mighty Arlington, thy life
That feels no tempeſt, and that knows no ſtrife.
Whence every jarring ſound is baniſh'd far,
The reſtleſs vulgar, and the noiſy bar;
But heavenly Peace that ſhuns the courtier-train,
And Innocence, and conſcious Virtue, reign.
Here when Aurora brings the purple day,
And opening buds their tender leaves diſplay;
While the fair vales afford a ſmiling view,
And the fields glitter with the morning dew;
No rattling wheel diſturbs the peaceful ground,
Or wounds the ear with any jarring ſound;
[164]Th' unwearied eye with ceaſeleſs rapture ſtrays,
And ſtill variety of charms ſurveys*.
Here watch the fearful deer their tender fawns,
Stray through the wood, or browze the verdant lawns:
Here from the marſhy glade the wild-duck ſprings,
And ſlowly moves her wet incumber'd wings:
Around ſoft Peace and Solitude appear,
And golden Plenty crowns the ſmiling year.
Thy beauteous gardens charm the raviſh'd ſight,
And ſurfeit every ſenſe with ſoft delight;
Where-e'er we turn our ſtill tranſported eyes,
New ſcenes of Art with Nature join'd ariſe;
We dwell indulgent on the lovely ſcene,
The lengthen'd viſta or the carpet green;
A thouſand graces bleſs th' inchanted ground,
And throw promiſcuous beauties all around.
Within thy fair parterres appear to view
A thouſand flowers of various form and hue.
There ſpotleſs lilies rear their ſickly heads,
And purple violets creep along the beds;
Here ſhews the bright jonquil its gilded face,
Join'd with the pale carnation's fairer grace;
The painted tulip and the bluſhing roſe
A blooming wilderneſs of ſweets compoſe.
In ſuch a ſcene great Cupid wounded lay,
To Love and Pſyche's charms a glorious prey;
Here felt the pleaſing pain and thrilling ſmart,
And prov'd too well his own reſiſtleſs dart.
[165]
High in the midſt appears a riſing ground,
With greens and balluſtrades inclos'd around:
Here a new wonder ſtops the wandering ſight,
A dome* whoſe walls and roof tranſmit the light;
Here foreign plants and trees exotic thrive,
And in the cold unfriendly climate live;
For when bleak Winter chills the rolling year,
The guarded ſtrangers find their ſafety here;
And, fenc'd from ſtorms and the inclement air,
They ſweetly flouriſh ever green and fair;
Their lively buds they ſhoot, and bloſſoms ſhow,
And gaily bloom amidſt ſurrounding ſnow.
But when the genial Spring all Nature chears,
And Earth renew'd her verdant honours wears;
The golden plants their wonted ſtation leave,
And in the milder air with freedom breathe:
Their tender branches feel th' enlivening ray,
Un [...]old their leaves, and all their pomp diſplay;
Around their fragrant flowers the Zephyrs play,
And waft the aromatic ſcents away.
Not far from hence a lofty wood appears,
That, ſpite of age, its verdant honours wears,
Here widely ſpread does ample ſhade diſplay,
Expel the ſun, and form a doubtful day.
Here thoughtful Solitude finds ſpacious room,
And reigns through all the wide-extended gloom;
Beneath the friendly covert lovers toy.
And ſpend the flying hours in amorous joy;
[166]Unmindful of approaching night they ſport,
While circling pleaſures new attention court;
Or through the Maze forgetfully they ſtray,
Loſt in the pleaſing ſweetly-winding way:
Or, ſtretch'd at eaſe upon the flowery graſs,
In tales of love the ſtarry night they paſs;
While the ſoft nightingale through all the groves
His ſong repeats, and ſooths his tender loves;
Whoſe ſtrains harmonious and the ſilent night
Increaſe the joy, and give compleat delight.
A curious terrace ſtops the wandering eye,
Where lovely jaſmines fragrant ſhade ſupply;
Whoſe tender branches, in their pride array'd,
Invite the wanderer to the grateful ſhade:
From hence afar a various proſpect lies,
Where artleſs Nature courts the raviſh'd eyes;
The ſight at once a thouſand charms ſurveys,
And, pleas'd, o'er villages and foreſts ſtrays:
Here harveſts grow, and lawns appear, and woods,
And gently riſing hills,—and diſtant floods.
Here, Arlington, thy mighty mind diſdains
Inferior earth, and breaks its ſervile chains,
A loft on Contemplation's wings you riſe,
Scorn all below, and mingle with the ſkies;
Where, rais'd by great Philoſophy, you ſoar,
And worlds remote in boundleſs ſpace explore;
There from your height divine with pity view
The various cares that buſy men purſue;
Where each by different ways aſpires to gain
Uncertain happineſs with certain pain:
[167]While you, well pleas'd, th' exalted raptures know,
That do from conſcious truth and virtue flow;
And, bleſſing all, by all around you bleſt,
You take the earneſt of eternal reſt.
You, who have left the public cares of ſtate,
Another Scipio in retirement great,
Have chang'd your royal maſter's* gentle ſmiles,
For ſolitude divine, and rural toils;
In vain the call of Glory ſounds to arms;
In vain Ambition ſhews her painted charms;
While in the happy walk, or ſacred ſhade,
No anxious cares thy ſoul ſerene invade;
Where all the heavenly train thy ſteps attend,
Sooth every thought, from every ill defend:
Such was the lot th' immortal Roman choſe;
Great in his triumphs, greater in repoſe!
Thus bleſt with ſmiling Heaven's indulgent ſtore,
Canſt thou in wiſhes laviſh aſk for more?
Yet more they give—thy good old age to bleſs,
And fill the ſum of mortal happineſs:
Thy only daughter, Britain's boaſted grace,
Join'd with a hero of the royal race†;
And that fair fabrick which our wondering eyes
So lately ſaw from humble ruins riſe,
[168]And mock the rage of the devouring flame!
A nobler ſtructure, and a fairer frame!
Whoſe beauties long ſhall charm ſucceeding days,
And tell poſterity the founder's praiſe.
When from divine Olympus' towering height,
All-beauteous Venus ſaw the pleaſing ſight,
In dimpled ſmiles and looks inchanting dreſt,
Thus powerful Jove the charming queen addreſt:
" Behold the lovely ſeat, and let thy care
" Indulgent bleſs th' united happy pair;
" Here long their place their happy race aſſign,
" By Virtue ſtill diſtinguiſh'd may they ſhine;
" In the requeſt immortal Pallas joins,
" (Long has the patriot offer'd at her ſhrines)
" With love of arts his God-like boſom glows,
" And treads thoſe paths by which the Goddeſs roſe."
The aweful father gave the gracious ſign,
And fix'd the fortunes of the glorious line.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE COMING IN THE SPRING; TO INVITE CHLOS FROM THE TUMULTS OF THE TOWN TO THE INNOCENT RETREAT IN THE COUNTRY.
LITTLE ſongſter, who doſt bring
Joy and muſic to the Spring,
Welcome to our grateful ſwains,
And the nymphs that grace the plains.
How the youths thy abſence mourn!
What their joy at thy return!
[169]For their mirth and ſports are done
All the year that thou are gone:
But at thy approach their joys
Take new date from they dear voice.
Every ſhepherd chooſes then
Some fair nymph for Valentine,
While the maid with equal love
Does the happy choice approve:
Underneath ſome ſhade he ſits,
Where ſoft ſilence Love begets;
And in artleſs fighs he bears
Untaught paſſion to her ears.
No deceit is in his tongue,
Nor ſhe fears, nor ſuffers wrong;
But each other's faith believe,
And each hour their loves revive.
Often have I wiſh'd to be,
Happy Damon, bleſt as thee;
Not that I for Sylvia pine,
Sylvia, who is only thine;
But that Chloe cannot be
Kind, as Sylvia is to thee.
Thou, dear bird, whoſe voice may find
Charms perhaps to make her kind,
Bear a meſſage to her breaſt,
And make me happy as the reſt,
In the place* where tumult dwells,
Treaſons lurk, ambition ſwells,
[170]Pride erects her monſtrous head,
And Perjury ſwears the guiltleſs dead,
Power oppreſſes, Envy pines,
Friends betray, and Fraud deſigns,
Fears and Jealouſy ſurprize
Reſt and ſlumber from our eyes,
And where Vice all ill contains,
And in gloomy glory reigns;
Where the loyal, brave and juſt,
Are victims to fanatic luſt,
Where the noble Stafford's blood
Calls from Heaven revenge aloud,
In this place there lives a maid,
Bright as Nature ever made,
Fair beyond dull beauty's name
Can expreſs her lovely frame.
In her charming eyes reſide
Love, Diſdain, Deſire, and Pride.
Such, we know not which to call,
But has the excellence of all.
The firſt bluſhes of the day
Or the new-blown roſe in May,
Or the aich Sidonian dye
Wrought for Eaſtern majeſty,
Is not gayer than the red
Nature on her cheeks has ſpread.
Her ſoft lips ſtill feed new wiſhes
Of a thouſand fancy'd kiſſes.
Gently ſwelling, plump and round,
With young Smiles and Graces crown'd;
[171]Her round breaſts are whiter far
Than the backs of ermins are,
Or the wanton breaſt of Jove,
When a ſwan for Leda's love.
Eyes that charm whene'er they dart,
And never miſs the deſtin'd heart.
Would'ſt thou have me tell thee more,
And deſcribe her beauties o'er;
I perhaps might make a rape
On my Idea's naked ſhape:
Therefore fly, you'll quickly ſee
By this picture which is ſhe.
Tell her, the loud winds are dumb,
Winter's paſt, and Spring is come,
The delightful Spring! that rains
Sweets and plenty o'er the plains,
And with ſhady garlands crown'd
All the woods and groves around.
If ſhe ſee the winged quire
Chuſe this ſeaſon to retire
To the ſhelter of the grove,
'Tis by inſtinct (ſay) of Love.
If ſhe ſee the herds and flocks
Wanton round the meads and rocks,
Thus their wiſhing males to move,
'Tis the inſtinct (ſay) of Love.
If ſhe ſee the bull among
Crowds of females ſleek and young,
Fight his rival of the drove,
'Tis by inſtinct (ſay) of Love.
[172]
If ſhe ſee the blooming vines,
In their ſeaſon, fold their twines
Round the oak that near her grows,
Say, 'tis Nature mix'd their boughs:
Then, if inſtinct theſe do move,
We by reaſon ought to love.
Tell the fair-one, every day
Youth and beauty ſteal away,
And within a little ſpace
Will deſtroy her charming face.
Every grace and ſmile, that lies
Languiſhing in lips and eyes,
Firſt he'll make his prey, and then
Leave to Death what does remain:
Who old Time does only ſend
To begin what he muſt end,
If ſhe aſk what hour and place,
Where and when, Time wounds the face;
Say, it is not in the night,
Nor when day renews her light,
In the morning, or at noon,
Or at evening when alone,
Or when entertain'd at home,
Or abroad this hour will come;
But ſwift Time is always by,
Firſt to perfect, then deſtroy:
And in vain you ſeek a cure
Since his wounds are every hour.
Bid her view Aurelia's brow,
Naked of her glories now,
[173]Yet ſhe once could charm the throng,
Conquering with her eyes and tongue.
Now, only 's left this weak relief,
(To ſupport her years and grief):
When ſhe could ſhe us'd her prime,
And enjoy'd the fruits of time:
And where-ever ſhe profeſt
Love or hate, ſhe kill'd or bleſt:
While the neighbouring plains were fill'd
With their names ſhe lov'd and kill'd.
Oh, when youth and beauty's paſt,
That poor pleaſure that does laſt
Is to think they were admir'd,
And by every youth deſir'd,
While the dotage of each ſwain
She return'd with ſcorn again.
Oh, then let my Chloe know,
When her youth is faded ſo,
And a race of nymphs appears,
Gay and ſprightly in their years,
Proud and wanton in their loves,
While the ſhepherds of the groves
Strive with preſents who ſhall ſhare
Moſt the favours of the fair;
And herſelf ſhe does behold
Like Aurelia now grown old,
Sighing to herſelf ſhe'll ſay,
I was once ador'd, as they!
Yet with pleaſure think, that ſhe
Lov'd and was belov'd by me.
[174]
Therefore bid her haſte and prove,
While ſhe may, the joys of Love.
I will lead her to a ſoil
Where perpetual Summers ſmile,
Without Autumn, which bereaves
Faireſt cedars of their leaves;
Where ſhe ſhall behold the meads
Ever green, the groves with ſhades:
Laſting flowers the banks ſhall wear,
And birds ſhall warble all the year.
Where the ruſtic ſwain does owe
Nothing to the ſpade and plow;
For their harveſt, Nature's care,
Without toil relieves them there,
And no differing ſeaſons bring
Changes to the conſtant Spring.
In the morn ſhe ſhall awake
With the noiſe the ſhepherds make,
Chearing, with the echoing ſounds
Of their horns, the eager hounds.
Nymphs, as well as ſhepherds too,
In theſe groves the chace purſue.
While at their backs their flowing hair
Looſely wantons in the air;
Gilded quivers on their thighs,
With darts leſs fatal than their eyes.
Each the other's ſloth does blame,
While they ſeek the hart for game;
Who, poor fool, his feet employs,
And through woods and dales he flies,
[175]Over plains and rivers bounds,
And out-flies the winds and hounds.
When perhaps ſome nymph, whoſe eyes
Makes both men and beaſt her prize,
Swifter than Camilla's pace
Soon o'er-takes the winged race,
And with one bright glance ſhe wounds,
And his fancy'd hope confounds;
Who, reflecting his faint eyes
On her face, with pleaſure dies.
When the ſports are done, they reſt
Underneath ſome ſhade, and feaſt
On ſweet beds of violets, crown'd
With ſweet roſes on the ground.
Where they garlands weave, and poſes
Of green myrtle, pinks, and roſes:
For which grace the raviſh'd ſwains
Pay ſoft kiſſes for their pains.
Thus they dally till the light
Falls behind the ſcene of night.
SONG.
I.
GO tell Amynta, gentle ſwain,
I would not die, nor dare complain:
Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,
Thy words will more prevail than mine.
To ſouls oppreſs'd and dumb with grief,
The Gods ordain this kind relief;
[176]That muſic ſhould in ſounds convey,
What dying lovers dare not ſay.
II.
A ſigh or tear perhaps ſhe'll give,
But Love on Pity cannot live.
Tell her that hearts for hearts were made,
And Love with Love is only paid.
Tell her my pains ſo faſt encreaſe,
That ſoon they will be paſt redreſs;
But ah! the wretch that ſpeechleſs lies,
Attends but Death to cloſe his eyes.
ON THE KING'S HOUSE, BUILDING AT WINCHESTER*.
AS ſoon as mild Auguſtus could aſſuage
A bloody civil war's licentious rage,
He made the bleſſing that he gave increaſe,
By teaching Rome the ſofter arts of peace.
[177]The ſacred temples, wanting due repair,
Had firſt their wounds heal'd with a pious care;
Nor ceas'd his labour till proud Rome outvy'd
In glory all the ſubject world beſide.
Thus Charles, in peace returning to our iſle,
With building did his regal cares beguile.
London, almoſt conſum'd but to a name,
He reſcues from the fierce devouring flame;
Its hoſtile rage the burning town enjoy'd,
For he reſtor'd as faſt as that deſtroy'd:
'Twas quickly burnt, and quickly built again,
The double wonder of his halcyon reign.
Of Windſor caſtle (his belov'd retreat
From this vaſt city troubleſomely great)
'Twas Denham only with ſucceſs could write,
The nation's glory, and the king's delight.
On Wincheſter my Muſe her ſong beſtows,
She that ſmall tribute to her country owes.
To Wincheſter let Charles be ever kind,
The youngeſt labour of his fertile mind.
Here ancient kings the Britiſh ſceptre ſway'd,
And all kings ſince have always been obey'd.
Rebellion here could ne'er erect a throne,
For Charles that bleſſing was reſerv'd alone.
Let not the ſtately fabric you decree,
An immature, abortive palace be,
But may it grow the miſtreſs of your heart,
And the full heir of Wren's ſtupendous art!
The happy ſpot on which its ſovereign dwells,
With a juſt pride above the city ſwells,
[178]That like a loyal ſubject choſe to lie
Beneath his feet with humble modeſty;
Faſt by a [...]everend church extends its wings,
And pays due homage to the beſt of kings.
Nature, like Law, a monarch will create,
He's ſituated head of Church and State.
The graceful Temple that delights his eye
(Luxurious toil of former piety)
Has vanquiſh'd envious Time's devouring rage,
And, like Religion, ſtronger grows by age:
It ſtems the torrent of the flowing years,
Yet gay as youth the ſacred pile appears.
Of its great riſe we no records have known,
It has out-liv'd all memory but its own*.
The monumental marbles us aſſure,
It gave the Daniſh monarchs ſepulture.
Here Death himſelf inthrones the crowned head,
For every tomb's a palace to the dead.
But now my Muſe, nay rather all the nine,
In a full chorus of applauſes join
Of your great Wykeham!
Wykeham, whoſe name can mighty thoughts infuſe,
But nought can eaſe the travail of my Muſe;
[179]Preſs'd with her load, her feeble ſtrength decays,
And ſhe's deliver'd of abortive praiſe.
Here he for youth erects a nurſery,
The great coheireſs of his piety*;
Where they through various tongues coy knowledge trace,
This is the barrier of their learned race,
From which they ſtart, and all along the way
They to their God and for their ſovereign pray,
And from their infancies are taught t' obey.
Oh! may they never vex the quiet nation,
And turn apoſtates to their education!
When with theſe objects Charles has fill'd his ſight,
Still freſh provoke his ſeeing appetite.
A healthy country opening to his view,
The chearful pleaſures of his eyes renew.
On neighbouring plains the courſers, wing'd with ſpeed,
Contend for plate, the glorious victor's meed.
Over the courſe they rather fly than run,
In a wide circle like the radiant ſun.
Then freſh delights they for their prince prepare,
And hawks (the ſwift-wing'd courſers of the air)
The trembling bird with fatal haſte purſue,
And ſeize the quarry in their maſter's view.
Till, like my Muſe, tir'd with the game they 've found,
They ſtoop for eaſe, and pitch upon the ground.
ON THE DEATH OF MELANTHA.
[180]WEEP, all ye virgins, weep o'er this ſad hearſe,
And you great goddeſs of immortal verſe,
Come here a while and mourn:
Weave not with roſy crowns your hair,
Let tears be all the gems you wear,
And ſhed them plentifully on this urn.
For 'tis Melantha, 'tis that lovely fair,
That lies beneath this weeping marble here.
But would you know, why ſhe has took her flight
Into the boſom of eternal night,
Before her beauties ſcarce had ſhew'd their light;
Ha [...]k, and lament her fate:
As the young God of Love one day
Sat on a rock at play,
And wantonly let fly his darts
Among the nymphs and ſhepherds hearts,
Melantha by unhappy chance came by.
Love jeſting cry'd, I'll make her prove
The godhead, ſhe contemn'd, of Love.
In ſcorn ſhe bade him ſtrike, and did his ſhaft defy.
While the boy ſlightly threw a dart
To wound, but not deſtroy, her heart.
But greedy Death, fond of this beauteous prey,
Caught the ſwift arrow as it flew,
And added to 't his own ſtrength too,
Which made ſo deep a wound, that, as ſhe lay,
In ſilent ſighs ſhe breath'd her ſoul away.
[181]Then all the little gods began to weep,
Oh, let your ſighs with theirs due meaſure keep:
For fair Melantha ſhe is dead,
Her beauteous ſoul to Death's dark empire 's fled.
Flora, the bounteous goddeſs of the plains,
Who in freſh groves and ſweeteſt meadows reigns,
Hearing the fair Melantha dead,
Brought all her odorous wealth, to ſpread
Over the grave where ſhe was laid.
Then ſtraight the infant ſpring began to fade,
And all the fields where ſhe did keep
And ſold her bleating flocks of ſheep,
Their influence loſt, with her fair eyes decay'd;
For fair Melantha, by whoſe cruel pride
So many ſad deſpairing ſwains had dy'd,
Felt love at laſt; but death ſhe rather choſe
Than own ſhe lov'd, or the hid flame diſcloſe.
Speak, Muſes, for ye hold immortal ſtate
With gods, and know the myſteries of Fate;
You all, whatever 's paſt or preſent, ſee,
And read th' unwritten pages o'er
Of Time's great chronicle, before
Events, and Time, had writ what Fate reſolv'd ſhould be.
Tell me, what Beauty is, whoſe force controls
Reaſon and power, and over mankind rules:
Kings ſtoop to Beauty, and the crowns they wear
Shine not with ſo much luſtre as the Fair.
Beauty a larger empire does command
Than the great monarch of the ſeas and land.
[182]She can the coldeſt anchorites inflame,
Cool tyrants' rage, and ſtroke their paſſions tame.
She can call youth to her forſaken ſeat
In wither'd veins, and give new life and heat.
She can ſubdue the fierce, the proud, and ſtrong,
Give courage to the weak, the fearful, and the young.
Beauty, the only deity we know,
With fear and awe we to her altars go,
And there our pureſt zeal of prayers and vows beſtow.
Sure then it only ſeems to die,
And, when it leaves us, mounts above
To the eternal roof of Jove,
To be a conſtellation, and inrich the ſky.
But, ſhould I ſearch the ſpangled ſphere
For metamorphos'd beauty there,
Nothing of Helen now is ſeen,
Nor the fair Egyptian queen;
Or thou, whoſe eyes were conſtellations here:
Oh then thy fate we can't enough deplore,
With thee thy beauty dy'd, and 'tis no more.
Then let us give Melantha's fate its due;
Strew cypreſs on her hearſe, and wreaths of yew,
For fair Melantha, poor Melantha 's dead,
Her ſighing ſoul to Death's eternal empire 's fled.
THE COURT-PROSPECT.
TO THE DUTCHESS OF ORMOND, 1699.
[183]MADAM, that your Grace has been pleaſed to ſpeak favourably of what I have already writ, [184] is encouragement ſufficient for a poet to boaſt of to the world, and to embolden him to dedicate to your Grace. [185] But I have more particular, both obligations and ex⯑cuſes; your illuſtrious conſort's family having been the [186] conſtant pations of ours, which, now depreſs'd by the late wars, and the chief pillar of it fallen, muſt depend [187] for ſupport on the firſt founders*. Thus the thanks for paſt favours are only petitions for more; as ſome men [188] pay off old debts in hopes to run deeper in for new. I dare not hope the enſuing eſſay can merit your Grace's approbation; let it (if poſſible) pleaſe others; if it meets with your pardon, it will abundantly ſatisfy the ambition of your Grace's moſt devoted, moſt humble ſervant,
CHARLES HOPKINS.
TO THE READER.
SOME writers perhaps may expect the thanks and favour of the nobility, after attempting their praiſe; but I am rather afraid of having incurred their diſ⯑pleaſure; they whom I have mentioned, I doubt, may with more reaſon find fault with me, than they whom I have omitted; for it is better not to be drawn at all, than to be drawn imperfectly and lamely. The poet, however, has the ſame excuſe with the painter; that art cannot equal nature; nor the pencil, nor the pen, pre⯑ſent a copy that comes up to her original. The buſineſs of a poet is to pleaſe; and he is very unhappy who gives offence where he deſigns acknowledgments or reſpects. The whole body of the nobility of England would be a boundleſs ſubject; painters own they find it more difficult to give a true and lively air and poſture to a picture; to place the legs, and duly proportion all the parts, than to draw the face, and take the likeneſs: but this piece was only intended for an half-length, and that too is only a rough draught, and in miniature. Though the following lines may want an excuſe with the cri⯑ticks, [189] I will not deſpair of pardon from the nobles to whom it was deſigned; and if I have failed in deſcribing their greatneſs, I have at the ſame time given them an opportunity of ſhewing their goodneſs.
ABOVE that bridge, which lofty turrets crown,
Joining two cities, of itſelf a town;
As far as fair Auguſta's buildings reach,
Bent, like a bow along a peaceful beach;
Her gilded ſpires the royal palace ſhow,
Towering to clouds, and fix'd in floods below.
The ſilver Thames waſhes her ſacred ſides,
And pays her prince her tributary tides.
Thither all nations of the earth reſort,
Not only England's now, but Europe's court.
Bleſs'd in the warriors which its walls contain,
Bleſs'd moſt in William's reſidence and reign;
Where, in his royal robes and regal ſtate,
He meditates, and dictates Europe's fate;
His heroes and his nobles ſtanding round,
Better by them than his gold circle crown'd.
O! could I repreſent that glorious ſhow;
You, whoſe great deeds form poets, tell me how.
But leſt my Muſe (which much I fear) ſhould faint,
What Dryden will not write, let Dauly* paint.
Haſte then, and ſpread abroad thy canvaſs ſheets,
Wide as the full-blown ſails that wing our fleets.
[190]Paint William firſt on an imperial throne,
Large ſhare of earth and all the ſeas his own;
O'er land and ocean let his realm extend,
And, like his fame, his empire never end.
Give him that look, which monarchs ought to have,
Give him that awful look, which nature gave.
Mix majeſty with mildneſs, while he ſhows
Dear to his friends, and dreadful to his foes.
Seat him ſurrounded by his Britiſh peers,
And make them ſeem his ſtrength, as he is theirs.
No poet here dares ſing the noble tribe,
Which you can better draw, than he deſcribe.
You can plant each in his peculiar place,
Give each the nobleſt features in his face,
Each has his charms, and all ſome certain grace.
Let England's Chancellor* the foremoſt ſtand,
That is his due, whoſe laws ſupport the land;
Who governs, influenc'd by his ſovereign lord,
And holds the balance, as the king the ſword.
Give the good Shrewſbury the ſecond ſeat,
In truſt, in ſecrecy, and council, great.
Great as the beſt will the great Ormond ſeem,
But in the field thou muſt delineate him;
Born with auſpicious ſtars and happy fate,
But more in merit, than in fortune, great.
On higher things he bends his nobler aim,
And in fierce wars has ſought and purchas'd fame.
Here could my grateful willing Muſe have ſung
Sweet as Cham flows, when firſt her harp was ſtrung;
[191]Here, Somerſet, ſhould ſhe thy praiſe proclaim,
And give thee, what thou giv'ſt our Cambridge*, Fame.
Let youthful Grafton there his ſtation find,
Grown man in body now, but more in mind.
His looks are in the mother's beauty dreſt,
And all the father has inform'd his breaſt.
Why wilt thou then to diſtant ſhores convey
Our hopes in thee? Why truſt the faithleſs ſea?
Why view the changing climates of the earth,
And bleſs all realms but that which gave thee birth?
Thy country, lovely youth, thy ſtay demands,
And fears to venture thee in foreign lands;
All thou haſt ſeen, and all thou goeſt to ſee,
Will not improve, but be improv'd in thee.
A manly beauty is in Dev'nſhire ſeen,
And true nobility in Dorſet's mien.
But here, great artiſt, is thy ſkill confin'd,
Thou canſt not paint his nobler Muſe and mind.
No pen the praiſe he merits can indite;
Himſelf, to repreſent himſelf, muſt write.
Next let young Burlington receive his place,
Adorn'd with every beauty, every grace.
Happy in fortune, perſon, and in parts,
Himſelf, not wanting them, promoting arts.
With him let Kingſton be for ever join'd,
Alike in quality, alike in mind:
For court, or camp, for love, or glory fit,
Poſſeſſing both, both patronizing wit.
[192]
Hither let Montague the treaſures bring,
Which, while he offers, let his Muſes ſing.
The patron of the reſt ſo juſtly grown,
Who ſerv'd ſo well a nation with his own;
Who, ſeated on the ſacred mountain's brow,
Inſpires and cheriſhes the train below.
Draw Ruſſel yonder, order'd to maintain
The power and honour of the Britiſh main.
Wrap him in curling ſmoak and circling flames,
Yet unconcern'd as on his ſovereign's Thames;
While his loud cannon thunders through the deep,
Makes ſeas attention give, and ſilence keep.
Then, as he coaſts the Mauritanian ſhores,
Paint pale the faces of th' aſtoniſh'd Moors.
Whence England gives ſurrounding nations law,
And from the centre keeps the world in awe.
No more let Poets name inconſtant ſeas,
For Neptune knows his ſovereign, and obeys.
Fled from that fatal field, the watery plain,
No foe dares venture there, our force again.
Fierce Gallia challenges to Belgian fields,
But ſtill her choſen plain ſmall harveſt yields.
The warlike Cutts the welcome tidings brings,
The true brave ſervant of the beſt of kings;
Cutts, whoſe known worth no herald need proclaim,
His wounds and his own verſe can ſpeak his fame.
The dreadful news moves William with delight,
Gladly he hears, and gladly haſtes to fight.
Leaving his faithful ſubſtitutes behind,
He truſts himſelf to his own ſeas and wind.
[193]The royal fleet a thouſand heroes grace,
And Mars in triumph rides o'er Neptune's face.
Now out of ſight of land they plough the main,
And in ſome rolling tides make land again;
Now ſight of hoſtile tents their valour warms,
And each encourages his mate to arms;
Fancy can ſcarce ſo ſwift and eager run,
Their lines are drawn, and the camp-work is done,
The word is given, and battle is begun.
They who have ſeen an ocean laſh its ſhore,
When billows tumble, and begin to roar,
When from all quarters clouds and tempeſts fly,
And from deſpairing ſailors hide the ſky;
Such as have ſeen thoſe elements at war,
May gueſs what well-diſputed battles are.
DESCRIPTION OF A BATTLE.
Hark! 'tis at hand, drums beat, and trumpets ſound,
The horſemen mount, the mounted horſes bound;
The ſoldiers leap tranſported from the ground.
When ſuch harmonious ſounds invite to arms,
'Tis ſure that valiant men feel ſecret charms.
Such William's is, when from his foaming horſe
He views the foe, rejoicing at their force.
Never ſo full of ſpirit and delight,
Never ſo pleas'd, as when prepar'd to fight.
Paint him then yonder ſpurring from afar,
Giving the charge, guiding the raging war.
Paint to the field party on party ſent;
Himſelf not waiting for the vaſt event.
[194]Now mingled in the war engage the whole,
And of his martial troops make him the ſoul.
Now from all parts death and deſtruction fly,
The cries of grappling ſquadrons rend the ſky,
Mars rages, and the rolling war runs high.
Here horſes rear at horſes, cheſt to cheſt,
There deſperate men encounter breaſt to breaſt.
Here, trampled under foot, fall'n ſoldiers groan,
For help they call, but with unpitied moan,
For every one now minds himſelf alone.
The cannons roar, and flaming balls fly round,
Men fall, and die, and hardly feel the wound.
Stones from the ground that nouriſh'd them are toſt,
And all the faſhion of the field is loſt.
Mortars ſhoot flaming meteors through the air,
And ſuch as have not ſeen them fly would fear
The ſtars diſſolv'd, and the laſt judgement near.
Death through the broken battle makes a lane,
And horror and confuſion fill the plain.
Horſes in troops without their riders run,
Wild as were thoſe of old that drew the ſun:
Madly they drag their reins, and champ their bit,
And bear down all before them whom they meet;
Sol's offspring, and their maſter's fate, the ſame,
All loſt, like him, in thunder, ſmoak, and flame.
As ſeamen fear, yet ſtruggle with a ſtorm,
The ſoldiers ſtart at what themſelves perform.
Paint then a fear in every face, and make
Ev'n William fear;—but fear for Ormond's ſake:
Ormond, who ſpurr'd amidſt the thundering war,
But, to his ſovereign's ſorrow, ſpurr'd too far.
[195]Diſmounted, make him ev'n in falling great,
Wounded, half dying, yet deſpiſing fate.
Make William view him with exceſs of grief,
And ſtrive, but ſtrive in vain, to ſend relief.
Till heaven inſpires his very foes to ſave
A life as ſtrangely fortunate as brave,
Who for that life may to more praiſe aſpire,
Than if the day had been their own intire.
Proud of their prize, more furious than before,
Make them preſs on; make Engliſh fury more.
Make ſhatter'd ſquadrons rally on the plain;
And make enrag'd battalions charge again.
Again, make horſes beat the ſuffering ground,
And toſs with reſtleſs hoofs the duſt around.
Again, their riders couch their ready lance,
And ſpurring them to warmth and foam advance;
Foam, which your pencil need not owe to chance.
Make ſheets of flame from ſmoaking culverins fly,
And clouds of mounting ſmoak obſcure the ſky.
Now draw beneath the dying and the dead,
And deluges of blood in battle ſhed,
O'erflowing Flanders in her waters ſtead.
And now let clouds like feeble curtains fall,
Protecting thoſe that live, and hiding all.
Caſt the black veil of night about the ſlain,
Covering the purple horror of the plain,
And now with ſolid darkneſs ſhut the ſcene.
As tempeſts make the ſkies ſerene and clear,
As thunder ſerves to purify the air,
On rain as ſunſhine, ſtorms on calms attend,
Peace is War's neceſſary certain end.
DESCRIPTION OF THE GODDESS OF PEACE AND HER PALACE.
[196]Pardon the Muſe, if here ſhe cannot hold;
The ſight of her own goddeſs makes her bold.
She comes—o'er fields of ſtanding corn ſhe walks,
Not cruſh'd the tender ears, nor bent the ſtalks;
Her march attended with a numerous train,
Yet with ſuch diſcipline that none complain.
Graſs ſprings where-e'er ſhe goes; the flowery mead
Receives new flowers where ſhe vouchſafes to tread.
Her blooming beauties teeming earth diſplays,
The lover's myrtle, and the poet's bays,
From every touch of her a perfume flows,
The lovely hyacinth, the bluſhing roſe,
And ſpreading jeſſamine freſh ſweets diſcloſe.
Thick palaces, as ſhe approaches, riſe,
And royal piles amaze beholders' eyes:
Built on a ſudden, they the ſight confound,
And ſeem to ſtart as from enchanted ground.
None this or that can her apartment call,
For ſhe promiſcuouſly reſides in all;
At home in every one, and all ſhe keeps
Silent, but ſplendider, than that of Sleep's*.
Her ſpacious halls with uſeleſs arms are hung,
With arrows broken, and with bows unſtrung.
No murmurs through her numerous train are heard,
She knows no danger, and her court no guard.
Secure as ſhades, as ſkies unclouded, bright,
As active, yet as noiſeleſs, as the light.
[197]No widows here their huſbands deaths deplore,
None hears the drum, or thundering cannon roar:
Only Love ſighs, which ſerves to lull her more.
Plenty, her beſt-lov'd favourite, duly waits,
And Pleaſure enters at her palace gates;
Roſes and myrtles, mingled, make her bed,
And heaps of flowers ſupport her ſacred head.
Inſpir'd by her, the Muſe around her ſings,
And Cupids fan her with expanded wings.
No grief or anxious cares her peace moleſt,
She folds her arms above her quiet breaſt;
Delightful are her dreams, and ſoft her reſt.
All at her riſe their adoration pay,
The Perſians worſhip leſs the ſpringing day.
Sweet is her temper, eaſy is her mien,
Not the leaſt frown in all her aſpect ſeen,
But gracious as our late lamented queen.
Nor are her bleſſings to her court confin'd,
But flow through nobles to the labouring hind.
All they can wiſh her own domeſticks ſhare,
Beſtowing ſtill, yet has ſhe ſtill to ſpare.
The grateful ſoil the jocund peaſants plow,
And with a certainty of reaping ſow;
Not now, as heretofore, with fears perplext,
Tilling theſe fields, and armies in the next.
Now Spring comes on;—
And night and day in equal meaſures run,
And mounting la [...]ks ſalute the morning ſun.
Then ripening fruits the loaded trees adorn,
And laughing fields are crown'd with lofty corn.
[198]The Summer, ſo accuſtom'd to alarms,
Wonders ſhe hears no more the ſounds of arms.
No trumpets echo through the ſpacious plain,
Nor earth-born brethren by themſelves are ſlain.
The ſun ſhines freely through the flowery field,
And ſuffers no reflection from the ſhield.
Men to the date of nature draw their breath,
For nothing now, but ſickneſs, cauſes death.
Secure the merchants trade abroad for gain,
And ſailors unmoleſted ſweep the main.
Unrolling waves ſteal ſoftly to the ſhore,
They know their ſovereign, and they fear to roar.
The conſcious winds within their caverns keep,
Like them, the ſeas are huſh'd, and ſeem aſleep,
And halcyon Peace broods o'er the boundleſs deep.
How are theſe bleſſings thus diſpens'd and given?
To us from William, and to him from Heaven.
Delight in blood let other heroes boaſt;
Our eaſe and ſafety pleaſe our monarch moſt.
For that he fought, for that was all his care,
He places all his pomp and glory there.
Hail! Peace of all things in confuſion hurl'd,
Hail! thou Reſtorer of the Chriſtian world.
Thou to the world art Heaven's chief bleſſing given,
And thou haſt render'd back the world to Heaven.
Thus in old times, at our bleſs'd Saviour's birth,
An univerſal calm was known on earth:
GOD to his SON did the firſt gift aſſign,
And lets the ſecond miracle be thine*.
[199]
How ſhall we thank thee for thy royal toil,
Thou ſtrength and glory of the Britiſh iſle?
What trophies ſhall thy grateful ſubjects raiſe?
And what ambitious poets ſing thy praiſe?
Thy greatneſs ſurely is the ſtars' deſign,
Thy hands our nobleſt palaces refine,
On all our metals all the ſtamp is thine.
Draw his triumphant entry, Dauly*, draw
Him and his allies free—
And all the reſt of the whole world in awe.
But ſee! all peaceable our hero comes,
No ſound of trumpet, nor alarm of drums.
Long kept from reſt by no inglorious foes,
He goes to take, what he has brought, repoſe.
His ſofter triumphs then prepare to grace,
Prepare a train fit to attend on Peace.
Chuſe them from all that breathe the Britiſh air,
And, like the Goddeſs whom they wait on, fair.
Make beauteous Grafton† with the firſt advance,
Charming at every ſtep with every glance.
[...] as her temper, paint her heavenly face;
Draw her but like, you give your piece a grace.
Blend for her all the beauties e'er you knew,
For ſo his Venus fam'd Apelles drew.
But hold—to make her moſt divinely fair,
Conſult herſelf, you'll find all beauty there.
[200]
Whom ſhall we think on now? there's ſcarce beſide
Any that can compare with her, but Hyde;
Hyde, who like her has beauties without blame,
Hyde, who like her is every poet's theme;
Hyde, by all eyes admir'd, all hearts ador'd,
Courteous to all, kind only to her lord;
Hyde, who ſo many powerful charms commands,
As will not ſhame the piece where Grafton ſtands.
And now, to make thy laſting fame renown'd,
Let all be with illuſtrious Ormond crown'd;
S [...]m all in her, that's fair, and good, and great,
Place her in Beauty's, and in Virtue's ſeat.
Paint ſweetneſs in her eyes, at once, and awe,
And make her looks give languiſhing, and law.
O! if my Muſe to her wiſh'd height could climb,
Sweet as her ſubject, as her theme ſublime,
The noble Ormond ſhould engroſs her praiſe,
Great Ormond's name ſhould ſanctify her lays.
Hers, and her moſt illuſtrious conſort's blood,
Takes pleaſure ſtill, like Heaven, in doing good.
Ormond, to whom fair lots on earth are given,
Ormond who has her ſeat ſecur'd in Heaven.
Stop here—though others may attract the ſight,
Your pencil, and my pen—
Dare not attempt to do ſo many right.
Who ſtrives to ſing a patron or a friend,
Though he omit ſome whom he ſhould commend,
Cannot be thought in juſtice to offend.—
And now you've finiſh'd ſo renown'd a piece,
Boaſt ſafely—challenge either Rome or Greece.
TO CHARLES EARL OF DORSET*.
[201]AS Nature does in new-born infants frame,
With their firſt ſpeech, their careful foſterer's name;
Whoſe needful hands their daily food provide,
And by whoſe aid they have their wants ſupply'd;
You are, my lord, the Poet's earlieſt theme,
And the firſt word he ſpeaks is Dorſet's name.
To you the praiſe of every Muſe is due,
For every Muſe is kept alive by you.
Their boaſted ſtream from your rich ocean pours,
And all the Helicon they drink is yours.
What other ſubject can the Muſes chuſe?
Or who beſides is worthy of a Muſe?
They ſhall to future ages make you known,
Their verſe ſhall give you fame; but more, your own,
Immortal Wit ſhall its great patron boaſt,
When others, of an equal rank, are loſt.
While eating Time all other tombs devours,
No Mauſoleum ſhall endure but yours.
[202]Life to yourſelf by your own verſe you give,
And only you, and whom you pleaſe, ſhall live.
Thus you muſt Naſſau's god-like acts proclaim,
And farther than his trumpets ſound his Fame;
Whoſe hundred mouths of nothing elſe ſhall tell,
But him who fought, and him who ſung, ſo well.
Ev'n after death, you ſhall your honours ſhare,
You, for improving Wit; and He, for War.
TO WALTER MOYLE*, ESQ.
TO you, dear youth, in theſe unpoliſh'd ſtrains
And rural notes, your exil'd friend complains.
With pain this tedious baniſhment I bear
From the dear town, and you the deareſt there.
[203]Hourly my thoughts preſent before my view
Thoſe charming joys, which once, alas! I knew,
In wine, in love, in friendſhip. and in you.
Now Fortune has withdrawn that pleaſing ſcene,
We muſt not for a while appear again.
Here, in its ſtead, unuſual proſpects riſe,
That dull the fancy, and diſguſt the eyes;
Bleak groves of trees ſhook by the northern winds,
And heavy aſpects of unthinking hinds;
No beauteous nymph to fire the youthful heart,
No ſwain inſtructed in the Muſes' art;
Hammond alone is from this cenſure free,
Hammond, who makes the ſame complaint with me;
Alike on both the want of you does ſtrike,
Which both repine at, and lament alike;
While here I ſtay, condemn'd to deſart fields,
Deny'd the pleaſures which the city yields.
My fortunes, by the chance of war depreſt,
Loſt at theſe years when I might uſe them beſt.
To crown your youth, conſpiring Graces join,
Honour and bounty, wealth and wit, are thine.
With charms united, every heart you move;
Eſteem in men; in vanquiſh'd virgins, love.
Though clogg'd with cares I drag my reſtleſs hours,
I envy not the flowing eaſe of yours;
Still may they roll with circling pleaſures on,
Nor you neglect to ſeize them as they run!
Time haſtes away with an impetuous flight,
And all its joys ſoon vaniſh from our ſight,
Which we ſhall mourn we us'd not while we might.
[204]In full delights let ſprightly Southerne live,
With all that women and that wine can give!
May generous Wycherley, all ſufferings paſt,
Enjoy a well-deſerv'd eſtate at laſt!
Fortune with Merit and with Wit be friends,
And ſure, though ſlowly, make a large amends!
Late, very late, may the great Dryden die,
But, when deceas'd, may Congreve riſe as high!
To him my ſervice and my love commend,
The greateſt wit, and yet the trueſt friend.
Accept, dear Moyle, a letter writ in haſte,
Which my impatient friendſhip dictates faſt;
Friendſhip, like Love, imperfectly expreſt,
Yet, by their being ſo, they 're both ſhown beſt.
Each no cold leiſure for our thoughts affords,
But at a heat ſtrikes out our eager words.
The ſoul's emotion moſt her truth aſſures,
Such as I feel while I ſubſcribe me YOURS.
TO ANTHONY HAMMOND*, ESQ.
AS when a prophet feels the God retir'd,
By whom he had a long time lain inſpir'd,
His eyes no more with ſacred fury roll,
No more divine impulſes move his ſoul:
[205]The fires, that warm'd him, with the God are gone;
The Deity with-drawn, the charm is done.
[206]So now my Muſe can no more rapture boaſt;
Since you went hence, her inſpiration's loſt.
[207]Robb'd of her flame, all languiſhing ſhe lies,
And, ſwan like, only ſings before ſhe dies.
But you, my friend, to different fortune move,
And crown your days with wine, your nights with love:
In endleſs bliſs, unbounded time you waſte;
Your raviſhing delights for ever laſt.
Long, long ere this, you've often been poſſeſt
Of all your wiſh could frame to make you bleſt.
When you, and Southerne, Moyle, and Congreve meet,
The beſt good men, with the beſt-natur'd wit;
Good wine, good company, the better feaſt,
And whene'er Wycherley is preſent, beſt.
Then, then your joys are perfectly compleat,
And ſacred Wit is at the nobleſt height.
Oh! how I long to be allow'd to ſhare,
And gain a fame, by mingling with you there.
The country now can be no longer borne,
And ſince you firſt are gone, I muſt return;
I come, I come, dear Hammond, to purſue
Pleaſures I cannot know, depriv'd of you.
Reſtleſs as lovers till we meet I live,
And envy this becauſe 'twill firſt arrive.
With joy I learnt, Dryden deſigns to crown
All the great things he has already done:
No loſs, no change of vigour, can he feel;
Who dares attempt the ſacred Mantuan ſtill*.
Adieu—
And yet methinks I owe too much to you,
To part ſo coldly with a bare adieu.
[208]But what requital can I make you more?
You've put all recompence beyond my power.
Fain would my working thoughts contrive a way,
For every generous man's in pain to pay.
'Tis not a ſuitable return I give,
Yet what it is, my beſt-good friend, receive;
Take the beſt wiſhes of a grateful ſoul;
Congreve, and Moyle, and you, poſſeſs it whole,
Take all the thanks a country Muſe can ſend;
And, in accepting this, oblige your friend.
TO C. C.* ESQ.
IN vain, my friend, ſo often I remove,
I find that abſence full increaſes Love;
The barbarous foe, like an ingrateful gueſt,
Too ſtrongly lodg'd, poſſeſſes all my breaſt.
Gladly I ſuffer'd him to ſhare my ſoul,
But now the traitor has uſurp'd it whole,
I burn with pains too great to be endur'd,
And yet I neither can, nor would be cur'd;
In other ills, all remedies we try,
But, fond of this, we grow content to die.
For all were uſeleſs here to help my grief,
And I ſhould ſtrive in vain to find relief.
In vain I ruſh'd amidſt the thundering war,
Endeavour'd all in vain to meet it there;
In all the heat of fight I thought on her.
If conquering camps refus'd to give me eaſe,
The town at my return affords me leſs.
[209]W [...]thout concern its wealth and pomp I ſee,
And all its pleaſures are but loſt on me.
It, with my friends, I ſhould to plays reſort,
Without a ſmile I ſee the comic ſport;
I mingle no applauſes with the pit,
Nor mind the action, nor the author's wit:
I ſee the ſhining beauties ſit around,
But have no room left for another wound.
I fly for refuge to the country now;
But that is ſavage, and denies it too.
Retirement ſtill foments the raging fire,
And trees, and fields, and floods, and verſe, conſpire
To ſpread the flame, and heighten the deſire.
Wildly I range the woods, and trace the groves;
To every oak I tell my hopeleſs loves:
Torn by my paſſion, to the earth I fall,
I kneel to all the Gods, I pray to all.
Nothing but Echo anſwers to my prayer,
And ſhe ſpeaks nothing, but deſpair, deſpair.
I give relentleſs Heaven this laſt reply,
I do deſpair, and will reſolve to die.
TO MRS. MOHUN, ON HER RECOVERY.
AS when the Queen of Love, engag'd in war,
Was raſhly wounded with a Grecian ſpear;
All parties were concern'd to ſee her bleed,
And he himſelf did firſt repent the deed:
He left th' inglorious field with grief and ſhame,
Where his late conqueſt had deſtroy'd his fame.
[210]So Sickneſs flies from you with ſuch a grief,
Aſham'd that ever ſhe began the ſtrife.
Better than Venus in the fight you fare,
For, though more wounded, you're without a ſcar.
All claim to you th' invader has reſign'd,
And left no marks of hoſtile rage behind.
No ſigns, no tracks of tyranny, remain,
But exil'd Beauty is reſtor'd again.
Fix'd in a realm, which was before her own,
More firm than ever, ſhe ſecures the throne.
Mildly, ah! mildly then, your power maintain,
And take example from Maria's reign.
Wide may your empire, under hers, be ſeen,
The fair Vicegerent of the faireſt Queen!
Through you may all our prayers to her be heard,
Our humble verſe be all by you preferr'd!
No bleſſing can the pious ſuppliant want,
Where ſhe the Goddeſs is, and you the Saint.
TO A LADY.
MUST all my life in fruitleſs love be ſpent?
And never, never will your heart relent?
Too well, my charming dear, your power you know,
And that which makes you play the tyrant ſo.
For ever be the fatal moment curſt,
When fondly I confeſs'd my paſſion firſt,
Oh! that my flames had never been reveal'd!
Oh! that I now could keep the fire conceal'd!
Reſiſtleſs Love your victory ſecures,
And you already know my ſoul is yours.
[211]It ſhews itſelf through all the forc'd diſguiſe,
Breaks through my lips, and trembles at my eyes.
My blood boils high, and rages to be bleſt;
My fluctuating thoughts will never reſt,
And know no calm till harbour'd in your breaſt.
Relent, at laſt, my cruel Fair, relent,
And liſten kindly to my juſt complaint.
Think on the paſſion that 's already paſt,
Think that the paſſion will for ever laſt.
O [...]ee with what impatient fires I burn,
And let your pitying heart make ſome return.
M [...] flames are ſo ſincere, my love is ſuch,
Some you ſhould ſhew—you cannot ſhew too much.
How bleſt ſhould I in your poſſeſſion be!
How happy might you make yourſelf in me?
No Miſtreſs ever led ſo ſweet a life,
As you ſhould in th' exploded thing—a Wife;
Years ſhould roll round on years, and ages move
[...]les crown'd in everlaſting love.
Our mutual joys ſhould like your charms be new,
And all my buſineſs be to merit you.
What ſhall I ſay? Lines after lines rehearſe
Nought but the fondneſs in the former verſe.
On the dear theme I could for ever dwell;
For while I ſpeak to you—
My faultering tongue can never ſpeak farewell.
In your cold breaſt let Love an entrance find,
And think, oh! quickly think, of growing kind.
My flames no more with dull indifference treat,
Indifference is the Lover's hardeſt fate;
[212]But, if my ruin is your fix'd intent,
Urge it, I beg you, with a cloſer bent.
All glimmerings of the fainteſt hope remove.
Say, that you do not, will not, cannot love.
Extremely kind, or in extremes ſevere.
Make ſure my bliſs, or mad me with deſpair.
Forbid me, baniſh me your charming ſight,
Shut from my view thoſe eyes that ſhine ſo bright,
Shut your dear image from my dreams by night.
Drive them ſomewhere, as far as Pole from Pole,
Let winds between us rage, and waters roll;
In diſtant climes let me my fate deplore,
In ſome lone iſland, on a deſart ſhore,
Where I may ſee your fatal charms no more.
TO THE SAME LADY.
I Thought in ſilence to ſuppreſs my pain,
And never ſhew my fond concern again,
Whate'er you ſhew'd—indifference, or diſdain.
But Love's great God the vain reſolve withſtands,
At once inſpires my breaſt, and guides my hands.
My ſoul flows out in every line I write.
And rolls in numbers in my own deſpight.
Then let me in poetic fury break,
For I can write the things I dare not ſpeak.
My tongue ſtill faulters as I move my ſuit,
And awful Love confounds and keeps me mute.
Out of your ſight I can my wrongs proclaim,
And with un [...]etter'd words confeſs my flame.
Why do you uſe me thus, ingrateful fair?
Oppreſs'd with doubts, yet bury'd 'bove deſpair,
[213]Like wounded fowl upon the flood I lie,
Floating on wings with which they us'd to fly,
Who would find eaſe could they but drown and die.
Such ſtill has been your conquering Beauty's ſpight,
Cruel to wound, not kind to kill outright;
Be merciful and ſave, or ſink me quite.
Toſs not 'twixt hope and fear my labouring heart,
Let us for ever join, or ever part.
You know I love you, and you love me too,
Which you have kindly let me know you do;
All this I know; oh! there will be the fall
From heaven to hell—
Should I be doom'd to loſe you after all.
But be not by miſtaken notions led,
Nor think that riches bleſs the nuptial bed.
This ſhall my only conſolation be,
No Fool of Fortune can your merit ſee,
Not have the wit and ſenſe to love like me.
Oh! would that you had been but meanly born,
Naked of friends, abandon'd, and forlorn;
[...]eft to the world!—then ſhould this wiſh enſue,
Oh! would I had a world to offer you!
You know this is no falſe poetic flight,
You know I feel more than the Muſe can write.
Too well, my cruel dear, you keep the field.
Too long hold out; 'tis now high time to yield.
Conſent at laſt, to mutual [...]oys reſign,
And let the ſmalleſt ſhare of bliſs be mine:
Unalterable love your part ſecures;
My intereſt, humour, all my ſoul, is yours.
[214]
I beg you, let me know my doom at laſt,
Nought worſe than death can come, then all is paſt.
But think, and do not make a raſh decree;
O! think you never were, nor e'er can be,
So truly lov'd as you have been by me.
TO DOCTOR GIBBONS*.
THE fires, that fell in ages paſt from Heaven,
Were to the charge of Prieſts and Augurs given.
Life, the moſt active, moſt exalted fire
The great creating Godhead could inſpire,
Breath'd into man while yet the world was new,
Is now committed to the care of you:
How you diſcharge your truſt, maintain your poſt,
Though you are ſilent, I have cauſe to boaſt.
Again, the riſing Muſe expands her wings,
Again prepares to mount, and mounting ſings:
Again would celebrate ſome ſacred name,
And chuſes you, who rais'd her, for her theme†.
[215]
Ye conſcious Poets, be no longer vain,
Confeſs your weakneſs, and your pride contain;
Quit your bold claim, and end your idle ſtrife;
It is not yours to give immortal life.
Ev'n you to him on all occaſions fly,
Without whoſe aid you and your Muſes die.
His ſuccour is implor'd where Wit declines,
Where Lovers languiſh, and where Beauty pines;
Where Monarchs faint beneath the weight of crowns,
And ſicken in their robes on ſilver thrones:
His ſacred art their ſacred lives ſuſtains,
And ſtrengthens them again to guide the reins.
As Iris enter'd with her golden beams
The cave of Sleep, and chac'd away the dreams;
In [...]aſes ſeem to fly at his approach,
And c [...]cling blood keeps meaſure at his touch.
[...] l [...]aps the Lover's heart, ſo beats and moves,
When he lies folded in her arms he loves.
S [...] influenc'd by the moon, wide oceans [...]oll [...]:
And ſo the needle trembles to the pole.
O Gibbons! I am rais'd; there 's nought I ſee
A [...]ove my reach, when thus reviv'd by thee.
Now could I paint a well-diſputed field,
O [...] praiſe proud Beauties till I made them yield.
But gratitude a different ſong requires;
M [...] breaſt enlarges, and dilates my fires.
[...], the firſt bleſſing human-kind can boaſt,
[...], which can never be reſtor'd when loſt,
En [...]ear'd by health, from pain and ſickneſs free,
Is the bl [...]ſt gift beſtow'd by Heaven and thee.
[216]How ſhall I then or Heaven or you regard?
The care of both has been beyond reward.
But grateful Poets, offering up their lays,
Find you content with thanks, and Heaven with praiſe.
O! may your ſtream of life run ſmooth, but ſtrong;
Long may you live—that others may live long;
Till healing plants no more on mountains grow;
Till mineral waters have forgot to flow,
And paint the vallies where they glide below!
While ſilver Helicon delights the taſte,
And while the Muſes ſacred mount ſhall laſt;
Their ſongs for thee the ſiſters ſhall deſign,
The grateful ſubject of the tuneful Nine;
Oft ſhalt thou fill their ſongs—and always mine.
TO MR. CONGREVE,
LET other poets other patrons chuſe,
Get their beſt price, and proſtitute their Muſe;
With flattering hopes and fruitleſs labour wait,
And court the ſlippery friendſhip of the great:
Some trifling preſent by my lord is made,
And then the patron thinks the poet paid.
On you, my ſurer, nobler hopes depend,
For you are all I wiſh; you are a friend.
From you, my Muſe her inſpiration drew,
All ſhe performs I conſecrate to you.
You taught me firſt my genius and my power,
Taught me to know my own, but gave me more:
Others may ſparingly their wealth impart,
But he gives nobleſt, who beſtows an art,
[217]Nature and you alone can that confer,
And I owe you, what you yourſelf owe her.
O! Congreve, could I write in verſe like thine,
Then in each page, in every charming line,
Should gratitude and ſacred friendſhip ſhine.
Your lines run all on eaſy, even feet;
Clear is your ſenſe, and your expreſſion ſweet:
Rich is your fancy, and your numbers go
Serene and ſmooth as cryſtal waters flow,
Smooth as a peaceful ſea which never rolls,
And ſoft as kind conſenting virgins' ſouls.
Nor does your verſe alone our paſſions move,
Beyond the poet, we the perſon love.
In you, and almoſt only you, we find
Sublimity of wit, and candour of the mind:
Both have their charms, and both give that delight,
'Tis pity that you ſhould, or ſhould not write:
But your ſtrong genius Fortune's power defies,
And, in deſpight of Poetry, you riſe.
To you the favour of the world is ſhown,
Enough for any merit but your own.
Your fortune riſes equal with your fame,
The beſt of poets, but above the name.
O! may you never miſs deſerv'd ſucceſs,
But raiſe your fortunes till I wiſh them leſs!
Here ſhould I, not to tire your patience, end;
But who can part ſo ſoon with ſuch a friend?
You know my ſoul, like yours, without deſign,
You know me yours, and I too know you mine.
[218]I owe you all I am, and needs muſt mourn
My want of power to make you ſome return.
Since you gave all, do not a part refuſe,
But take this ſlender offering of the Muſe.
Friendſhip, from ſervile intereſt free, ſecures
My love ſincerely and entirely yours.
TO MR. YALDEN, IN OXON,
MY labouring Muſe, grown tir'd of being hurl'd
And toſt about in a tempeſtuous world,
Prays for a calm, implores ſome quiet ſeat,
And ſeeks what yours has found, a ſweet retreat.
Now your bleſt fields their ſummer livery wear,
Their fruits your loaded trees in ſeaſon bear;
But Learning flouriſhes throughout the year:
From your full ſpring o'er Britain's iſle it ſtreams,
And ſpreads like Iſis when ſhe meets the Thames.
Rear'd on her banks, the Muſes' laurel grows,
Adorn'd by yours, adorning others brows.
Sweet are her ſtreams, ſweet the ſurrounding air,
But ſweeter are the ſongs ſhe echoes there.
There the great Ormond's daily praiſe is ſung,
There Addiſon's harmonious harp is ſtrung,
And there Lucretius * learnt the Engliſh tongue.
Well might I here the large account purſue,
But you have ſtopt me—for I write to you.
[219]
Methinks I ſee the tuneful ſiſters ride,
Mounted like ſea-nymphs on the ſwelling tide;
The ſilver ſwans are ſilent while they play,
Auguſta hears their notes, and puts to ſea,
Dryden and Congreve meet them half the way:
All wa [...]ted by their own ſweet voices move,
And all is harmony—
And all that's harmony is joy and love.
All are in all the tuneful numbers ſkill'd,
And now Apollo boaſts his concert fill'd.
Here liſten while our Engliſh Maro ſings,
Borne like the Mantuan ſwan on equal wings:
Mark the great numbers, mind the lofty ſong,
The ſenſe as clear and juſt, the lines as ſtrong.
Hark yonder where the Mourning Bride complains,
And melt with pity at the moving ſtrains:
Wait the concluſion, then allay your grief,
Vice meets with ruin, Virtue with relief:
Walk thither, and the charming muſick leads
To murmuring waters and enchanting meads:
Mark by the river-ſide, along the plain,
The dancing ſhepherdeſs and piping ſwain,
Then ſee him take the kiſs that crowns his pain.
Then hearken where the knowing poet ſings
Myſterious nature, and the ſeeds of things;
How in the teeming earth hard metals grow,
From what far diſtant fountains rivers flow,
What moves the ſtars above, and feas below.
Now ſee the charming concert ſail along,
Each tunes his harp, and each prepares his ſong:
[220]To the Muſeum ſee them all repair,
And ſee them all receive their laurels there.
A learn'd and reverend circle ready ſtands,
To crown the candidates with willing hands.
Aldrich*, who can the firſt large portion boaſt,
Knows, loves, and cheriſhes, the Muſes moſt:
Who gives ev'n Chriſt Church its peculiar grace,
The firſt in merit, as the firſt in place.
O! friend, have I not reaſon to complain
Of Fate. that ſhut me out from ſuch a train?
For that who would not ſhift the tragic ſcene?
Though tir'd of reſtleſs rambling up and down,
Or a more reſtleſs ſettlement in town;
Chang'd in the reſt, let this my love commend,
Yalden, believe I never chang'd my friend.
SONG,
AFTER the pangs of fierce deſire,
The doubts and hopes that wait on love,
And feed by turns the raging fire;
How charming muſt fruition prove!
When the triumphant lover feels
None of thoſe pains which once he bore;
Or when, reflecting on his ills,
He makes his preſent pleaſure more.
To mariners, who long have lain
On a tempeſtuous ocean toſt,
The ſtorms, that threaten'd on the main,
Serve only to endear the coaſt.
SANAZARIUS ON VENICE*.
[221]AS Neptune the Venetian towers ſurveys,
Rooted in floods, and ruling o'er the ſeas;
" Boaſt now thy capitol, great Jove," he cries,
" Boaſt how thy Rome's imperial ramparts riſe;
" Let to my tides thy Tyber be preferr'd,
" But look, how each aſpiring pile is rear'd:
" View both alike, thou ſhalt the cauſe reſign,
" And own, that Men built yours, but Gods built mine."
CATO'S CHARACTER,
FROM THE SECOND BOOK OF LUCAN.
SUCH Cato was, of ſuch exalted kind,
Auſtere his manners, and unmov'd his mind.
He kept a mien, and follow'd Nature's laws,
Fought, and fell bravely in his country's cauſe;
Nor thought himſelf born for himſelf alone,
But made the welfare of the world his own.
Through cold he cloath'd himſelf, through hunger fed,
His houſe but fenc'd the weather from his head,
Not luſt, but love of offspring, made him wed.
No looſe deſires debauch'd his noble life,
Rome was at once his miſtreſs and his wife.
Juſt in all points, firm and reſolv'd he ſtood,
Deſpiſing death, when for his country's good.
So great his ſoul, his actions ſo divine,
Free from all ſelf-deſire, or ſelf-deſign.
THE HISTORY OF LOVE.
IN A LETTER TO A LADY.
TO THE DUTCHESS OF GRAFTON.
[222]" Eſt quoque carminibus meritas celebrare puellas
" Dos mea —
OVID.
" — Utinam modo dicere poſſem,
" Carmina digna dea, certè eſt dea carmina digna."
Ibid.
MADAM, Beauty, as it is both the theme and inſpirer of Poetry, ſo it ought to be the patroneſs too; and a poem of Love ſhould in juſtice be ſacred to none but the Lovelieſt: it would therefore be adoring a falſe Deity, ſhould I offer up this at any ſhrine but yours. As it is the beſt I can do, and written on the moſt pleaſing ſubject, I was reſolved to lay it at the feet of the moſt beautiful; and had I been myſelf at a loſs where to fix, the univerſal opinion of the world would have directed me, and pointed out your Grace for the patroneſs; while the poem ſhall laſt (and a poem of Love ought to laſt longer than any other) ſucceeding ages ſhall read that your Grace was the ornament of this age. It is an innocent and harmleſs ambition in poets, whoſe only deſign in all they do is the pleaſing others, and in doing that pleaſe themſelves beſt; and, as Beauty is the chief object they bend their ſtudies to delight, all poets ought to aſpire to pleaſe your Grace in particular. That ambition is the beſt excuſe I can make for my preſumption in this dedication; ſince I am unknown to [223] your Grace, and perhaps even unheard-of yet; but what is my crime is at the ſame time my plea for pardon; or rather it is my merit. The Athenians, when they dedicated an altar to the Unknown God, ſhewed more devotion, and directed their devotion to a truer deity, than when they adored the many they knew. That I might be ſure of ſomething acceptable in this offering, and not fail to delight in a poem of Love, where all ought to be delightful, I have taken all the moſt moving tender things that Ovid and [...]ibullus ſaid to their miſtreſſes, to ſay to mine; nor will I allow it to be a theft, ſince I doubt not, as it was their love that inſpir'd them with thoſe thoughts, mine would have infuſed the ſame into me; and no man that thinks naturally of love can avoid running into the ſame thoughts with them. I have borrowed the examples to every paſſion from thoſe ſtories which I thought the moſt pleaſing in Ovid, where certainly the moſt pleaſing were to be met with: ſome few places in every ſtory I have tranſlated, but for the moſt part I have only kept him in view; I have gone on with him and left him where I thought it proper, and by that means have avoided the abſurdities of his Metamorphoſes; ſave only that of Pigmalion's ſtatue, but that was a Meta⯑morphoſis that pleaſed me. It was a delightful ſur⯑prize to ſee life breathed into an inanimate beauty, as it would be a killing affliction to ſee it taken away from one already animated: it would occaſion as much joy and wonder to have a Dutcheſs of GRAFTON made by Art (if Art could do it) as it would cauſe conſternation to have the Gods unmake one. But thoſe miracles of [224] Art are now ceaſed; and none but the Heavenly Artiſt could have drawn you, who has drawn you ſo that he has left the painter and the poet at a loſs to copy you. As to the ſucceſs of this poem, I hope I am ſecure, ſince it is ſacred in general to the Fair Sex, and committed in particular to the protection of the Faireſt. If they are once pleaſed, who will dare to find fault? or diſoblige them by diſliking what they approve? Under the ſhel⯑ter of your Grace's patronage I ſhall ſtand, like Aeneas, guarded by the Goddeſs of Love; and no Diomedes ſhall be found as deſperate as the firſt to wound me through you. Thus, as all dedicating poets, who write more to raiſe their own reputation than their patrons, I have taken the moſt effectual means to eſta⯑bliſh mine; and doubt not to make a ſtrong party, ſince every Lover will defend what is ſacred to the Lovely. Your Grace's moſt devoted, moſt humble ſervant,
CHARLES HOPKINS.
* YE woods and wilds, ſerene and bleſt retreats,
At once the Lovers' and the Muſes' ſeats;
To you I fly; to you, ye ſacred groves,
To tell my wondrous tale of wondrous Loves.
Thee, Delia, thee, ſhall every ſhepherd ſing,
With thy dear name the neighbouring woods ſhall ring.
No name but thine ſhall on their barks be found,
With none but thine ſhall echoing hills reſound.
[225]My verſe thy matchleſs beauties ſhall proclaim,
Till thine outrival Sachariſſa's fame.
My verſe ſhall make thee live while woods ſhall grow,
While ſtars ſhall ſhine, and while the ſeas ſhall flow;
While there remains alive a tender maid,
O [...] amorous youth, or love-ſick ſwain, to read.
Others may artfully the paſſions move,
In me alone 'tis natural to love:
While the world ſees me write in ſuch a ſtrain,
As ſhews I only feel what others feign.
Thou darling of my youth, my life's delight,
By day my viſion, and my dream by night;
Thou, who alone doſt all my thoughts infuſe,
And art at once my Miſtreſs and my Muſe;
Inſpir'd from thee, flows every ſacred line,
Thine is the poetry, the poet thine;
Thy ſervice ſhall my only buſineſs be,
And all my life employ'd in pleaſing thee.
Crown'd with my ſongs of thee, each day ſhall move,
And every liſtening ſun hear nought but Love.
With flowing numbers every page ſhall roll,
Where, as you read my verſe, receive my ſoul.
Should ſenſe, and wit, and art, refuſe to join
In all I write, and fail my great deſign;
Yet with ſuch paſſion ſhall my lines be crown'd,
And ſo much ſoftneſs in my poem found;
Such moving tenderneſs the world ſhall ſee,
Love could have been deſcrib'd by none but me.
Let Dryden from his works with juſtice claim
Immortal praiſe; I from my ſacred flame
Draw all my glory, challenge all my fame.
[226]
Believe me, Delia, Lovers have their wars;
And Cupid has his camp, as well as Mars.
That age which ſuits a ſoldier beſt will prove
The fitteſt for the ſharp fatigues of Love.
None but young men the toils of war can bear,
None but young men can ſerve and pleaſe the fair.
Youth with the foe maintains the vigorous fight,
Youth gives the longing maid the full delight:
On either hand, like hardſhip it ſuſtains,
Great are the ſoldier's, great the lover's pains.
Th' event of war no General can foreknow,
And that, alas! of Love is doubtful too.
In various fields, whatever chance ſhall fall,
The ſoldier muſt reſolve to bear it all.
With the like conſtancy muſt lovers wait,
Enduring bad, and hoping better fate.
Through doubts and fears, deſires and wiſhes toſt,
Undaunted, they muſt ſtrain to reach the coaſt.
All will a while look hideous to their eye,
The threatening ſtorm ſtill thickening in the ſky,
No ſight of land, no friendly harbour nigh.
Yet through all this the venturous lover ſteers,
To reap the golden crop that Beauty bears.
So the bold mariners the ſeas explore,
Though winds blow hard, and waves like thunder roar,
Rather than live in poverty on ſhore.
Embolden'd thus, let every youth ſet ſail,
And truſt to Fortune for a proſperous gale:
Let them launch boldly from the lazy ſhore,
Nor fear a ſtorm which will at laſt blow o'er;
[227]Set all the reins to all their paſſions free,
Give wings to their deſires; and love like me.
Happy that youth, who, when his ſtars incline
His ſoul to Love, can make a choice like mine!
ADMIRATION.
Thee, Delia, all that ſee thee muſt admire,
And mankind in its own deſpight deſire.
As a blind man, reſtor'd to ſudden ſight,
Starts in amaze at the firſt flaſh of light;
So was I ſtruck, ſuch ſudden wonder knew,
When my eyes dazzled with the ſight of you:
I [...]aw whatever could inflame deſire,
[...]-up the veins, and ſet the blood on fire;
From every charm the pointed lightning came,
And, faſt as they diſpers'd, I caught the flame.
Like ſtars your glittering eyes were ſeen to ſhine,
And [...]oll with motions that were all divine;
Where majeſty and ſoftneſs mingled meet.
And ſhew a ſoul at once ſublime and ſweet;
I gaz'd, and, as I gaz'd, from every view,
N [...]w wonders I deſcried, new paſſion drew.
[...] were the charms leſs powerful of your tongue;
My raviſh'd ſoul on every accent hung,
Glow'd when you ſpoke, and melted when you ſung.
Thoſe lips unopen'd cannot fail to move,
But ſilently are eloquent in Love;
That face and neck, thoſe ſhoulders, hands, and arms,
Each limb, each feature, has peculiar charms,
[...]ach of itſelf might ſingly win a ſoul,
And never need th' aſſiſtance of the whole.
[228]On this one part a poet's praiſe might dwell,
Did not this other part deſerve as well.
Beauty is ſurely near allied to Wit,
Of which none can the juſt deſcription hit;
By their own ſelves they may be ſhewn the beſt,
And only are in being ſeen expreſt.
Beauty's true charms no poem can preſent,
Which but imperfectly are done in paint;
That too comes ſhort of life, and only takes
Faint images of thoſe which Nature makes.
* Propitious chance led Perſeus once to view
The faireſt piece that ever Nature drew;
Chain'd on a rocky ſhore the virgin ſtood,
Naked, and whiter than the foaming flood;
Whom, as he cours'd the confines of the ſky,
Amaz'd he ſaw, and kept his wondering eye
So fix'd, he had almoſt forgot to fly.
Had not the winds diſpers'd her flowing hair,
And held it waving in the liquid air;
Or had not ſtreams of tears apace roll'd down
Her lovely cheeks; he would have thought her ſtone.
Straight he precipitates his haſty flight,
Impatient to attain a nearer ſight.
Now all at once he feels the raging fires,
Sees all the maid, and all he ſees admires.
With awe and wonder, mixt with love and fear,
He ſtands as motionleſs as ſhame made her.
[229]Urg'd-on at laſt, but ſtill by ſlow degrees,
Loth to offend, he draws to what he ſees.
" Oh! why, he cries, moſt matchleſs fair-one, why
Are you thus us'd? Can you be doom'd to die?
Have you done any guilt? that guilt relate.
How can ſuch beauty merit ſuch a fate?
I am thy champion, and eſpouſe thy cauſe;
In thy defence the Thunderer's offspring draws.
Say, if thou 'rt reſcued by the ſon of Jove,
Say, for thy life wilt thou return thy love?"
The baſhful virgin no return affords,
But ſends ten thouſand ſighs inſtead of words:
With grief, redoubled with her ſhame, ſhe mourns;
She weeps, he joys, ſhe bluſhes, and he burns.
In chains extended at her length ſhe lay,
While he with tranſport took a full ſurvey.
Fain would her hands her conſcious bluſhes hide,
But that the fetters which they wore deny'd.
What could ſhe do? all that ſhe could, ſhe did;
For, drown'd in floods of tears, her eyes ſhe hid.
Much urg'd to ſpeak, ſhe turn'd her baſhful look
Far as ſhe could aſide, and trembling ſpoke:
" My mother, conſcious of her beauty ſtrove
(Alas! too conſcious) with the wife of Jove;
Who, by a cruel and unjuſt decree,
To puniſh her, takes this revenge on me.
Here am I doom'd a dreadful monſter's prey,
Who now, now, now, is iſſuing from the ſea.
Haſte, generous youth, our common foe ſubdue;
And, if you ſave my life, I live for you."
[230]Thus ſpoke the maid, half dying with her fears,
When, lo! the monſter from the ſea appears.
The dauntleſs hero mounts his flying horſe,
And o'er the waves directs his airy courſe.
Let him, alone, his victory purſue;
For dreadful war has nothing here to do.
This ſhort account will love-ſick ſwains ſuffice;
He ſlew his foe, and ſtraight receiv'd his prize.
Thrice happy youth, too fortunately bleſt;
Who only came, and conquer'd, and poſſeſs'd:
None of the pangs of Love your bliſs annoy'd;
You but beheld, admir'd, and ſo enjoy'd.
All other lovers longer toils ſuſtain;
Deſires, Hopes, Jealouſies, an endleſs train.
DESIRE.
* How thou art envy'd, let Pigmalion prove;
Who by a miracle obtain'd his love;
Who, living in an age when women led
The lewdeſt lives, all ſhame and honour fled,
For a long time declin'd the nuptial-bed.
He ſaw them all debauch'd with monſtrous crimes;
No virtuous maid, no Delia, bleſs'd the times.
Had ſhe liv'd then, his ſkill had ne'er been ſhewn,
Nor the ſtrange miracle, that crown'd it, known.
There had he fix'd, not form'd his fancy'd maid;
Nor fondly been by his own art betray'd.
The nymph in poliſh'd ivory glitter'd bright,
So ſmooth, ſhe ſeem'd too ſlippery for his ſight.
[231]So curious was her ſhape, ſo juſt her frame,
So quick her eyes appear'd, ſo full of flame,
They would have roll'd, if not reſtrain'd by ſhame.
From his ſtrange art the ſtatue had receiv'd
Such lively ſtrokes, one would have thought it liv'd.
Ev'n he himſelf could hardly, hardly know,
But doubted long whether it liv'd or no.
Yet, from her as ſhe was, he gather'd fires;
And fierce and boundleſs were his mad deſires.
He felt her fleſh (his fancy thought it ſuch),
And fear'd to hurt her with too rude a touch.
He kiſs'd her with belief ſo ſtrong and vain,
That he imagin'd how ſhe kiſs'd again.
Now makes his court, his mad addreſſes moves,
And tells a long, fond tale, how well he loves.
Preſents her now with all he thought might pleaſe,
With procious gums diſtill'd from weeping trees;
Small ſinging-birds, who ſtrain their tuneful throats,
And, hovering round, repeat their pretty notes.
With ſweeteſt flowers he crowns her lovely head,
And lays her on the ſofteſt downy bed.
In richeſt robes his charming idol dreſt,
Bright ſparkling gems adorn her neck and breaſt,
And ſhe—look'd well in all, but look'd, when naked, beſt.
Now Venus kept her feaſt; a goodly train
Of love-ſick youths frequent and fill her fane;
The ſnow-white heifers fall by ſacred ſtrokes,
While with rich gums the loaden'd altar ſmokes:
[232]Among the reſt the hopeleſs lover ſtands,
Tears in his eyes, and offerings in his hands;
More furious than before he feels his fires,
Ev'n his deſpair redoubles his deſires.
A long, long time, his oriſons deferr'd,
He durſt not pray, leſt he ſhould not be heard;
Till, urg'd by Love, his timorous ſilence broke,
Thus (but ſtill timorouſly) at laſt he ſpoke:
" If you, ye ſacred powers that rule above,
And you, great Goddeſs of propitious Love,
If all we want is plac'd within your power,
And you can give whatever we implore;
Exert your Godhead now, now lend your aid,
Give me the wife I wiſh, one like"—he ſaid,
But durſt not ſay, "give me my ivory maid!"
This finiſh'd; thrice auſpicious flaſhes riſe,
And wreaths of curling ſmoak aſcended thrice.
Half hoping now, and yet ſtill half afraid,
With doubtful joy he ſeeks his ivory maid;
Doats more than ever on her fancy'd charms,
And cloſely claſps her in his longing arms.
When all at once, with joy and wonder fill'd,
He feels her ſtubborn ſides begin to yield.
Soft was her boſom grown, her throbbing breaſt
Heav'd with her breath, ſwell'd gently to be preſt.
Surpriz'd and glad, he feels her oft and oft;
And more and more perceives her warm and ſoft.
Warm were her lips, and every pointed kiſs
With melting touches met and moiſten'd his.
[233]Her blood now circled, and her pulſes beat,
And life at laſt enjoy'd a ſettled ſeat.
Slowly ſhe lifts her new and fearful ſight,
And ſees at once her lover and the light.
An unborn maid both life and lover found,
And he too had his deſperate wiſhes crown'd:
Deſperate indeed! what proſpect could he ſee,
Or how at firſt hope any more than me?
HOPE.
* Hippomanes alone, with Hope inſpir'd,
Might well rejoice to find his wiſhes fir'd,
Since well aſſur'd of all his wiſh deſir'd.
His paſſion was all life, all ſoul, and flame,
He dauntleſs to the fatal barriers came.
With joy his vanquiſh'd rivals he beheld,
Aſſur'd to win where all beſides had fail'd.
He ſaw the lovely nymph out-fly the wind,
And leave her breathleſs ſuitors far behind;
Saw Atalanta ſwift as lightning paſs,
Yet ſoft as Zephyrs ſweep along the graſs.
He knew the law, whoſe cruelty decreed,
That every youth who loſt the race ſhould bleed:
Yet, if like them he could not run ſo faſt,
He ſaw her worth the dying for, at laſt.
Her every charm his praiſe and wonder mov'd,
And ſtill, the more he prais'd, the more he lov'd.
Now had he view'd the laſt unhappy ſtrife,
And ſeen the vanquiſh'd youth reſign his life;
[234]When, with his love tranſported from his place,
Leſt any other firſt ſhould claim the race,
Riſing he runs, regardleſs of their fate,
And preſſes where the panting virgin ſate.
With eyes all ſparkling with his hope and love,
And ſuch a look as could not fail to move;
" Tell me, he cries, why, barbarous Beauty, why
Are you ſo pleas'd to ſee theſe wretches die?
Why have you with my feeble rivals ſtrove,
Betray'd to death by their too daring love?
With me a leſs unequal race begin,
With me exert your utmoſt ſpeed to win;
By my defeat. you will your conqueſts crown,
And in my fall eſtabliſh your renown.
Then undiſturb'd you may your conqueſts boaſt,
For none will dare to ſtrive, when I have loſt."
Thus while the prince his bold defiance ſpoke,
She eyes him with a ſoft relenting look;
Already does his diſtant fate deplore,
Concern'd for him, though ne'er concern'd before.
Doubtful ſhe ſtands, and knows not what to chooſe,
And cannot wiſh to win, nor yet to loſe;
But murmurs to herſelf: "Ye powers divine,
How hard, alas! a deſtiny is mine!
Why muſt I longer ſuch a law obey,
And daily throw ſo many lives away?
Why muſt I by their deaths my nuptials ſhun?
Or elſe by marrying be myſe [...]f undone?
Why muſt I ſtill my cruelty purſue?
Why muſt a prince ſo charming periſh too?
[235]Such is his youth, his beauty, valour ſuch,
Ev'n to myſelf I ſeem not worth ſo much.
Fly, lovely ſtranger, ere 'tis yet too late,
Fly from thy too, ah! too, too certain fate.
I would not ſend thee hence, I would not give
Such a command; could'ſt thou but ſtay, and live.
Thou with ſome fairer maid wilt happier be;
The faireſt maid might be in love with thee.
So many ſuitors have already bled,
Who raſhly vent'red for my nuptial bed;
I fear leſt thou ſhould'ſt run like them in vain,
Should'ſt loſe like them, and, ah! like them be ſlain.
Yet why ſhould he alone my pity move?
It is but pity ſure; it is not love.
I wiſh, bold youth, thou would'ſt the race decline,
Or rather wiſh thy ſpeed could equal mine.
Would thou hadſt never ſeen this fatal place;
Nor I, alas! thy too, too charming face.
Were I by rigorous fate allow'd to wed,
Thou ſhould'ſt alone enjoy and bleſs my bed.
Were it but left to my own partial choice,
Thou of all mankind ſhould'ſt obtain my voice."
'Twas here ſhe paus'd; when, urg'd with long delay,
The trumpets ſound to haſten them away:
Strait at the ſummons is the race begun,
And ſide by ſide for ſome ſhort time they run;
While the ſpectators from the barriers cry,
"Fly, proſperous youth, with all thy vigour fly,
Make haſte, make haſte, thy utmoſt ſpeed enforce,
Love give thee wings to win the noble courſe!
[236]See how unwillingly the virgin flies;
Purſue, and ſave thy life, and ſeize the prize."
'Tis doubtful yet, whether the general voice
Made the glad youth or virgin moſt rejoice.
Oft, in the ſwifteſt fury of the race,
The nymph would ſlacken her impetuous pace,
And halt, and gaze, and almoſt faſten on his face.
Then fleet away again, as ſwift as wind,
Not without ſighs to leave him ſo behind.
By this, he ſaw his ſtrength would ne'er prevail,
But ſtill he had a charm that could not fail.
From his looſe robe a golden apple drawn,
With force he hurl'd along the flowery lawn.
Strait at the ſight the virgin could not hold,
But ſtarts aſide to catch the rolling gold.
He takes the wiſh'd occaſion, paſſes by,
While all the field reſounded ſhouts of joy.
This ſhe recovers with redoubled haſte,
Till he far off the ſecond apple caſt.
Again the nymph diverts her near purſuit,
And, running ba [...]k, ſecures the tempting fruit:
But her ſtrange ſpeed recovers her again,
Again the foremoſt in the flowery plain.
Now near the goal he ſummons all his might,
And prays to Venus to direct him right,
With his laſt apple to retard her flight.
Though ſure to loſe if ſhe the race declin'd,
For ſuch a bribe the victory ſhe reſign'd.
Pleas'd that ſhe loſt, to the glad victor's arms
She gives the prize, and yields her dear-bought charms.
[237]He by reſiſtleſs gold the conqueſt gain'd,
In vain he ran, till that the race obtain'd.
Poſſeſs'd of that, he could not but ſubdue,
For gold, alas! would conquer Delia too.
Yet oh! thou beſt-belov'd, thou lovelieſt maid,
Be not by too much avarice betray'd.
Prize thyſelf high, no eaſy purchaſe prove,
Nor let a fool with fortune buy thy love.
Like Atalanta's conqueror let him be,
Brave, generous, young, from every failing free,
And, to compleat him, let him love like me.
What pains againſt my wretched ſelf I take?
Ev'n I myſelf my jealouſies awake.
Such men there are, bleſt with ſuch gifts divine,
Who if they knew thee would be ſurely thine.
JEALOUSY.
How wretched then, alas! ſhould Daphnis grow!
Gods! how the very thought diſtracts him now!
Ev'n now, perhaps, ſome youth with happier charms
Lies folded in the faithleſs Delia's arms.
Ev'n now the favours you denied me ſeem,
To be too prodigally heap'd on him.
Cloſe by your ſide, all languiſhing he ſtands,
And on your panting boſom warms his hands.
Straight in your lap he lays his envied head,
And makes the ſhrine of Love his ſacred bed.
Then glows his raviſh'd ſoul with pointed flames,
And thoughts of heavenly joys fill all his dreams.
Let not your paſſion be to me reveal'd,
But, if you love, keep him you love conceal'd.
[238]
From Cephalus's tragic ſtory read
What fatal miſchiefs jealouſy may breed.
Hear that unhappy wretched huntſman tell,
How by his hands his much-lov'd Procris fell;
Hear him, lamenting his miſchance, complain
In the ſoft Ovid's ſadly charming ſtrain:
* Happy a while, thrice happy was my life,
Bleſt in a beautiful and virtuous wife.
Love join'd us firſt, and Love made life ſo ſweet,
We prais'd the gods, that 't was our lot to meet.
Our breaſts glow'd gently with a mutual flame;
The ſame were our deſires, our fears the ſame.
Whate'er one did, the other would approve;
For one our liking was, as one our love.
Then happy days were crown'd with happier nights,
And ſome few months roll'd on in full delights.
Joys crouded to appear, and pleaſures ran,
A while in circles, ere our woes began;
Till I one fatal morn the chace purſu'd,
Of a wild boar through an adjacent wood;
Where, as I hunted eager on my prey,
Aurora ſtopp'd me in my haſty way.
You may believe I do not, dare not feign
(For miſery never made a man ſo vain).
She, though a goddeſs, ſtraight began to move
A fruitleſs ſuit, and vainly talk'd of Love.
Though ſhe look'd bright as when ſhe ſhines on high
In all the glories of a morning ſky;
[239]Though earlier than the ſun's her beams diſplay,
And ſhew the firſt approaches of the day;
I told her, "Procris all my ſoul poſſeſt,
That ſhe alone reign'd ſovereign of my breaſt,
Which never would admit another gueſt."
" Enjoy thy Procris then, the goddeſs cry'd,
Whom thou ſhalt one day wiſh th' hadſt ne'er enjoy'd."
Stung with her words, with doubts and fears op⯑preſs'd,
A ſudden jealouſy deſtroys my reſt,
Mads all my brain, and poiſons all my breaſt.
I thought the ſex all falſe, ev'n Procris too;
Again I thought, ſhe could not but be true.
Her youth and beauty kindled anxious cares,
But her known chaſtity condemn'd my fears.
But then my abſence does again revive,
And keep the torturing fancy ſtill alive.
I thought her faith too firmly fix'd to fall,
Yet a true lover is afraid of all.
I knew not what to think; but ſtraight I go,
Reſolv'd to cure, or to compleat my woe:
An habit different from my own I took,
While with curſt aid Aurora chang'd my look.
To Athens ſtraight, unknown by all, I came;
Ev'n to myſelf I ſcarce could ſeem the ſame.
Hardly I got admiſſion to my houſe,
But far, far harder, to my weeping ſpouſe.
The houſe itſelf from aught of blame was free,
And every place expreſs'd its grief for me.
A diſmal ſilence reign'd through every room,
To mourn my loſs, already ſafe at home.
[240]Ev'n that ſad pomp of woe ſome charms could boaſt,
But, when my Procris c [...]me, ſhe charm'd me moſt.
Black were her robes, her ſolemn pace was ſlow;
Her dreſs was careleſs, yet becoming too.
A virtuous grief dwelt deeply in her face,
But matchleſs beauty gave that grief a grace.
Whole ſhowers of tears her ſtreaming eyes let fall,
Yet ſomething wondrous lovely ſhone through all.
Scarce could I at the charming ſight forbear
From running to embrace my mournful fair,
Scarce hold, from telling whom ſhe ſaw (though alter'd) there.
But yet at length my firſt deſign purſued,
With words I flatter'd, and with gifts I woo'd.
All the moſt moving arguments I us'd,
Oft pray'd and preſs'd, but was as oft refus'd.
She ſaid, another had before engroſs'd
All her affection, and my ſuit was loſt.
Would any but a mad-man farther try?
But ah! that mad, that deſperate fool was I.
I grew the more induſtrious to deſtroy
Her matchleſs truth, and ruin all my joy.
Redoubled preſents and redoubled vows
I made and offer'd, to betray my ſpouſe.
At laſt, her ſtaggering faith began to yield,
And I 'ad juſt won the long diſputed field.
" Thy falſehood, ſtraight I cried, too late I ſee,
Falſe to thy Cephalus, for I am he.
Since you are perjur'd, ſince my Procris grew
Forſworn and falſe, what woman can be true?"
[241]
She at theſe words, almoſt of ſenſe bereav'd,
With ſad confuſion found herſelf deceiv'd.
Fix'd on the ground ſhe kept her downcaſt eye,
And, ſilent with her ſhame, made no reply.
But to the mountains like an huntreſs hies,
And for my ſake from all mankind ſhe ſlies.
Which when I found, abandon'd and alone,
My dearer half through my own folly gone,
Love fiercer than before began to burn,
Till I was raging for my wife's return.
My prayers, diſpatch'd with eagerneſs and haſte,
That ſhe would pardon all offences paſt,
Found her as kind as ſhe was truly chaſte.
She came, and crown'd my joys a ſecond time.
Forgot my jealouſy, forgave my crime.
'Twas then I thought my greateſt miſeries o'er.
But Fate, it ſeems, had worſe, far worſe in ſtore.
Soon as each early ſun began to riſe,
To glad th' enlighten'd earth, and gild the ſkies,
I with his firſt appearance riſe, and trace
The woods and hills, that yielded game to chace.
Alone I hunt a long and tedious way,
And ſeldom fail to kill ſufficient prey;
Then, ſpent with toil, to cooler ſhades retreat,
And ſeek a refuge from the ſcorching heat.
Where pleaſant valleys breathe a freer air,
For my refreſhment I addreſs this prayer:
* " Come, Air, I cry, joy of o'erlabour'd ſwains,
Come, and diffuſe thyſelf through all my veins;
[242]Breathe on my burning lips and feveriſh breaſt,
And reign at large an ever-grateful gueſt;
Glide to my ſoul and every vital part,
Diſtill thyſelf upon my panting heart.
By chance I other blandiſhments beſtow,
Or Deſtiny decreed it ſhould be ſo.
As, O thou greateſt Pleaſure of the plains;
Thou who aſſuageſt all my raging pains.
Thou, who doſt Nature's richeſt ſweets excite,
And mak'ſt me in theſe deſart woods delight;
Breathleſs and dead without thee ſhould I be,
For all the life I have I draw from thee."
While this I ſung, ſome one who chanc'd to hear
Thought her a nymph to whom I made my prayer,
And told my Procris of her rival Air.
She, kind good ſoul, half dying at the news,
Would now condemn me, now again excuſe.
Now hopes 'tis all a falſehood, now ſhe fears,
Suſpects my faith, as I ſuſpected hers:
Reſolv'd at laſt to truſt no buſy tongue,
But be herſelf the witneſs of her wrong;
When the next day with fatal haſte came on.
And I was to my lov'd diverſion gone,
She roſe, and ſought the ſolitary ſhade,
Where after hunting I was daily laid.
Cloſe in a thicket undiſcern'd ſhe ſtood,
When I took ſhelter in the ſhady wood.
Then, ſtretching on the graſs my fainting weight,
" Come, much-lov'd Air, I cry, oh! come abate
With thy ſweet breath this moſt immoderate heat!"
[243]
At this a ſudden noiſe invades my ear,
And ruſtling boughs ſhewed ſomething living there.
I, raſhly thinking it ſome ſavage beaſt,
Threw my unerring dart with heedleſs haſte,
Which pierc'd, oh Gods! my Procris through the breaſt.
She at the wound with fearful ſhriekings fell;
And I, alas! knew the dear voice too well.
Thither, diſtracted with my grief, I flew,
To give my dying Love a ſad adieu.
All bloody was her lately ſnowy breaſt,
Her ſoul was haſtening to eternal reſt.
With rage I tore my robe, which cloſe I bound,
To ſtop the blood about the gaping wound.
What pardons did I beg! what curſes frame,
For my damn'd fate, that was alone in blame!
When, weakly raiſing up her dying head,
With a faint voice theſe few ſad words ſhe ſaid:
" Draw nearer yet, dear author of my death,
Hear my laſt [...]ſigns, and ſnatch my parting breath.
But, ere I die, by all that 's ſacred ſwear,
That you will never let my rival, Air,
Prophane my bed, or find reception there.
This I conjure you by your nuptial vow;
The faith you gave me then, renew me now.
By all your love, if any love remain,
And by that love which dying I retain,
Aſſure me but of this before I go,
And I ſhall bleſs thee for the fatal blow."
To her ſad ſpeech abruptly I replied,
In haſte to ſhew her error ere ſhe died.
[244]Quickly I ran the tragic ſtory o'er,
Which made her pleas'd, amidſt the pangs ſhe bore:
That done, ſhe rolls in death her dizzy eyes,
And with a ſigh, which I receiv'd, ſhe dies.
Here did the youth his doleful tale conclude,
A tale too doleful to be long purſued.
But this ill-choſen inſtance will not do,
Unleſs my Delia could be jealous too.
But ſhe, whene'er I wooe ſome other fair,
Shews no reſentment, and betrays no care.
She ſees me court another, as unmov'd
As ſhe has always ſeen herſelf belov'd.
That dreadful thought redoubles all my fear,
That drowns my hopes, and drives me to deſpair.
DESPAIR.
No foreign inſtance need of this be ſhown,
To draw it beſt. I muſt deſcribe my own.
Though of this kind all ages can produce
Examples proper for the mourning Muſe;
Yet all to me muſt the firſt place reſign,
None ever was ſo juſt, ſo deep as mine.
All day and night I ſing, and all day long.
" I love, and I deſpair," makes all my ſong.
Revolving days the ſame ſad muſic hear
Unchang'd thoſe notes, "I love, and I deſpair."
To me, as to the echo, Fate affords
No power of ſpeech but for thoſe doleful words.
Some glimpſe of ſun, ſome chearful beams appear,
Ev'n through the gloomieſt ſeaſon of the year.
[245]My clouded life admits no dawn of light,
No ray can pierce through my eternal night.
All there is diſmal as the ſhades beneath,
And all is dark as hell, and ſad as death.
My anxious hours roll heavily away,
Depriv'd of ſleep by night, and peace by day.
My ſoul no reſpite from her ſufferings knows,
And ſees no end of her eternal woes.
I [...] a long line they run for ever on,
And [...]ll increaſe and lengthen as they run.
By fl [...]ght to loſe my ills in vain I try,
From my deſpairing ſelf I cannot fly.
Where-e'er I go, I bear about my flame,
In cities, countries, ſeas, 'tis ſtill the ſame.
Scorch'd with my burning pains, I ſhun my houſe,
And ſtrive in open air to ſeek repoſe.
My [...]lames, like torches ſhook in open air,
Grow with dilated heat more furious there.
Now to the moſt retir'd remoteſt place,
Ev'n to obſcurity, I fly for eaſe.
Retirement ſtill foments the raging fire,
And trees, and fields, and floods, and verſe, conſpire
To ſpread the flame, and heighten the deſire.
Wildly I range the woods, and trace the groves,
To every oak I tell my hopeleſs loves.
Torn by my paſſion, to the earth I fall,
I kneel to all the Gods, I pray to all.
Nothing but Echo anſwers to my prayer,
And ſhe ſpeaks nothing but Deſpair, Deſpair.
[246]From woods and wilds I no relief receive,
But wander on, to try what ſeas can give.
Deep through the tide, not knowing where, I walk;
To the deaf winds, not knowing what, I talk.
Mad as the foaming main, aloud I rave,
While every tear keeps time with every wave.
* So in old times the mournful Orpheus ſtood;
Drowning his ſorrows in the Stygian flood,
Whoſe lamentable ſtory ſeems to be
The neareſt inſtance of a wretch like me.
Already had he paſs'd the courts of Death,
And charm'd with ſacred verſe the powers beneath;
While Hell with ſilent admiration hung
On the ſoft muſic of his harp and tongue,
And the black roofs reſtor'd the wondrous ſong;
No longer Tantalus eſſay'd to ſip
The ſprings that fled from his deluded lip;
Their urn the fifty maids no longer fill,
Ixion lean'd and liſt'ned on his wheel,
And Syſiphus's ſtone for once ſtood ſtill;
The ravenous vulture had forſook his meal,
And Titius felt his growing liver heal;
Relenting Fiends to torture ſouls forbore,
And Furies wept, who never wept before;
All Hell in harmony was heard to move,
With equal ſweetneſs as the ſpheres above.
Nor longer was his charming prayer deny'd,
All Hell conſented to releaſe his bride.
[247]Yet could the youth but ſhort poſſeſſion boaſt;
For what his poem gain'd, his paſſion loſt.
Ere they reſtor'd her back to him and life,
They made him on theſe terms receive his wife:
If till he quite had paſs'd the ſhades of night,
And reach'd the confines of aethereal light.
He turn'd to view his prize; his wretched prize
Again was doom'd to vaniſh from his eyes.
Long had he wander'd on, and long forborn
To look, but was at laſt compell'd to turn.
And now arriv'd where the ſun's piercing ray
Struck through the gloom, and made a doubtful day,
Backwards his eyes th' impatient lover caſt
For one dear look, and that one look his laſt.
Straight from his ſight flies his unhappy wife,
Who now liv'd twice, and twice was robb'd of life,
In vain to catch the fleeting ſhade he ſought,
She too in vain bent backwards to be caught.
Gods! what tumultuous raging paſſions toſs'd
His anxious heart, when he perceiv'd her loſt!
How wildly did his dreadful eye-balls roll!
How did all Hell at once oppreſs his ſoul!
To what ſad height was his diſtraction grown!
How deep his juſt deſpair! how near my own!
In vain with her he labour'd to return,
All he could do was to ſit down and mourn.
In vain (but ne'er before in vain) he ſings
At once the ſaddeſt and the ſweeteſt things.
" Stay, dear Eurydice, he cries, ah! ſtay;
Why fleets the lovely ſhade ſo faſt away?
[248]Why am not I permitted to purſue?
Why will not rigorous Hell receive me too?
Already has ſhe reach'd the farther ſhore,
And I, alas! allow'd to paſs no more;
Impriſon'd cloſer in the diſmal coaſt,
She's now for ever, ever, ever loſt.
No charms a ſecond time can ſet her free,
Hell has her now again; would Hell had me!
From all his pains let Titius be releas'd,
And in his ſtead unhappier Orpheus plac'd:
He feels no torture I'll refuſe to bear,
Her loſs is worſe than all he ſuffers there.
Is this your bounty then, ye Powers below!
And theſe the ſhort-liv'd bleſſings you beſtow?
Why did you ſuch a cruel covenant make,
Which you but too well knew I needs muſt break?
Ah! by this artifice too late I find
Your envious nature never was inclin'd
To be intirely good, or throughly kind.
Had you perſiſted to refuſe the grant,
I ſhould not then have known the double want.
This was contriv'd by ſome malicious power,
To ſwell my woes, and make my miſeries more;
Plung'd in deſpair far deeper than at firſt,
And bleſt a ſhort, ſhort while, to be for ever curs'd!
Ah! yet again relent, again reſtore
My wretched bride, be bounteous as before.
Ah! let the force of verſe as powerful be
O'er you, as was the force of love o'er me.
[249]And the dear forfeit once again reſign,
Which but for too much love had ſtill been mine.
By that immenſe and awful ſway you bear,
That ſilent horror that inhabits here;
By theſe vaſt realms, and that unqueſtion'd right
By which you rule this everlaſting night.
By theſe my tears and prayers, which once could move;
Once more I beg you to releaſe my Love.
Let her a little while with me remain,
A little while, and ſhe is yours again.
The date of mortal life is finiſh'd ſoon,
Swift is the race, and ſhort the time to run:
Inevitable Fate your right ſecures;
And ſhe, and I, and all, at laſt are yours."
So ſung the charming youth in ſuch a ſtrain;
But ſung and charm'd the ſecond time in vain.
No longer could he move the Powers below,
Loſt were his numbers then, as mine are now.
Torn with deſpair, he leaves the Stygian lakes,
And back to light a loathſome journey takes.
No light could chear him in his cruel woes,
Who bears about his grief where-e'er he goes.
In ſacred verſe his ſad complaints he vents,
And all the day and all the night laments.
Inceſſantly he ſings, whoſe moving ſong
Draws trees, and ſtones, and liſtening herds along.
The Sylvan Gods and Wood-nymphs ſtood around,
And melting maids were raviſh'd at the ſound.
All heard the wondrous notes; and all that heard
With utmoſt art addreſs'd the mournful bard.
[250]Not all their charms his conſtancy could move,
Who fled the thoughts of any ſecond love.
When, mad to ſee him ſlight their raging fire,
To mortal hate converting fierce deſire,
With their own hands, they made the youth expire.
Such proofs, my Delia, would I gladly give,
For thee I'd die, without thee will not live.
I've felt already the ſevereſt ſmart
Death can inflict; for it was death to part.
THE PARTING.
What ſouls about to leave their bodies bear,
Forc'd to forſake their long-lov'd manſions there,
The dying anguiſh, the convulſive pain,
And all the racking tortures they ſuſtain,
And, moſt of all, the doubt, the dreadful fear,
When thruſt out thence, to go they know not where;
My ſoul ſuch pangs, ſuch ſad diſtractions knew,
Forc'd by deſpairing love to part with you:
Fix'd on that face where I could ever dwell
Charm'd into ſilence by ſome magic ſpell,
I ſigh'd, and ſhook, and could not ſay farewell;
Down my ſad cheeks did tears in torrents roll,
And death's cold damp ſate heavy on my ſoul;
My trembling eyes ſwam in a native flood,
As faſt as they wept tears, my heart wept blood;
All ſigns of deſperate grief poſſeſs'd my face,
My ſinking feet ſeem'd rooted to their place,
And ſcarce could bear me to the laſt embrace.
[251]Gods! where was then my ſoul? that parting kiſs
Was both the laſt and deareſt taſte of bliſs.
Ah! ſince that fatal time I could not boaſt
Of love, or life, or ſoul; all, all is loſt.
When the laſt moment that I had to ſtay
Call'd me, like one condemn'd to death, away;
With ſtaggering ſteps I did my path purſue,
Yet oft I turn'd to take another view,
Oft gaz'd and ſigh'd, and murmur'd but adieu.
Thus young Achilles in Bithynia's court
Had made a private and a long reſort;
Dreſs'd like a maid, the better to improve
With his fair princeſs, undiſcover'd love;
Where hours and days he might ſecure receive
The mighty bliſs that mutual love could give;
Where in full joys the youthful pair remain'd,
And nought a while but laughing Pleaſures reign'd;
Till at the laſt the Gods were envious grown,
To ſee the bliſs of man ſurpaſs their own.
All Greece was now with Helen's rape alarm'd,
And all its princes to revenge her arm'd;
When ſpiteful powers foretold them, their deſcent
Would be in vain, unleſs Achilles went;
In vain they might the Phrygian coaſts invade,
Scale Troy in vain, no onſet could be made,
That ſhould ſucceed without that hero's aid.
And now Ulyſſes, by a crafty flight,
Had found him out, in his diſguiſe's ſpite;
Who, though betray'd by his unhappy fate,
Had too much ſenſe of honour to retreat.
[252]Which when his charming Deidamia knew,
She to her late-diſcover'd* lover flew:
On his dear neck her ſnowy arms ſhe hung,
And ſtreaming tears awhile reſtrain'd her tongue.
But at the laſt her diſmal ſilence broke,
Theſe mournful words the weeping princeſs ſpoke:
" Whither, ah! whither would Achilles flee?
From all he's deareſt to, from love and me?
Are not my charms the ſame? the ſame their power?
Have I loſt mine? or has Bellona more?
Oh! let me not ſo poorly be forſook,
But view me, view me with your uſual look.
Would you, unkind, from theſe embraces break?
Is glory grown ſo ſtrong? or I ſo weak?
Glory is not your only call; I fear
You go to meet ſome other miſtreſs there.
Go then, ingrateful, though from me you fly,
You'll never meet with one ſo fond as I;
But ſome camp-miſtreſs, laviſh of her charms,
Devoted to a thouſand rival arms;
[253]Then will you think, when ſhe is common grown,
On Deidamia, who was all your own.
Thus will I claſp thee to my panting breaſt,
And thus detain thee to my boſom preſs'd.
And while I fold thee thus, and thus diſpenſe
Theſe kiſſes to reſtore thy wandering ſenſe,
What diſmal ſound of war ſhall ſnatch thee hence?
What though the Gods have order'd you ſhould go,
Or Greece return inglorious from her foe?
Have not the ſelf-ſame cruel Gods decreed
That, if you went, you ſhould as ſurely bleed!
Then, ſince your fate is deſtin'd to be ſuch,
Ah! think, can any Troy be worth ſo much?
Let Greece whate'er ſhe pleaſe for vengeance give,
Secure at home ſhall my Achilles live.
Troy, built by heavenly hands, may ſtand or fall;
You never ſhall obey the fatal call.
Your Deidamia ſwears you ſhall not go,
Life would be dear to you, if ſhe were ſo.
If not your own, at leaſt my ſafety prize,
For with Achilles Deidamia dies."
All this and more the lovely mournful maid
Told the ſad youth, who ſigh'd at all ſhe ſaid.
Yet would he not his reſolution break,
Where all his fame and honour lay at ſtake.
Now would he think on arms; but when he gave
A ſide-long glance on her he was to leave,
Then his tumultuous thoughts began to jar,
And Love and Glory held a doubtful war;
[254]Till, with a deep-drawn ſigh and mighty courſe
Of tears, which nothing elſe but love could force,
To the dear maid he turns his watery eyes,
And to her ſad diſcourſe as ſad replies:
" Thou late beſt bleſſing of my joyful heart,
Now grown my grief, ſince I muſt now depart:
Behold the pangs I bear, look up and ſee
How much I grieve to go; and comfort me.
Curſe on that cunning traitor's ſmooth deceit,
Whoſe craft has made me, to my ruin, great!
Curſe on that artifice by which I fell!
Curſe on theſe hands for wielding ſwords ſo well!
Though I ſhould ne'er ſo fit for battle prove,
All my ambition 's to be fit for love.
In his ſoft wars I would my life beguile,
With thee contend in the tranſporting toil,
Raviſh'd to read my triumph in thy ſmile.
Boldly I'd ſtrive, yet ev'n when conquering yield
To thee the glory of the bloodleſs field;
With liquid fires melt thy rich beauties down,
Rifle thy wealth, yet give thee all my own.
So ſhould our wars be rapture and delight,
But now I'm ſummon'd to another fight.
'Tis not my fault that I am forc'd away,
But, when my honour calls, I muſt obey.
Durſt I not death and every danger brave,
I were not worthy of the bliſs I have.
More hazards than another would I meet,
Only to lay more laurels at your feet.
[255]Oh! do not fear that I ſhould faithleſs prove,
For you, my only life, have all my love.
The thought of you ſhall help me to ſubdue,
I'll conquer faſter to return to you.
But, if my honours ſhould be laid in duſt,
And I muſt fall, as Heaven has ſaid I muſt;
Ev'n in my death my only grief will be,
That I for ever ſhall be ſnatch'd from thee.
That, that alone, occaſions all my fears,
Shakes my reſolves, and melts me into tears.
My beating heart pants to thee as I ſpeak,
And wiſhes, rather than depart, to break.
Feel how it trembles with a panic fright,
Sure it will never fail me thus in fight.
I cannot longer hold this fond diſcourſe,
For now the trumpets ſound our ſad divorce.
Sound every trumpet there, beat every drum.
Uſe all your charms to make Achilles come.
Farewell, alas! I have not time to tell
How wondrous loth I part; once more, farewell.
Remember me as I'll remember you,
Like me be conſtant, and like me be true;
Gods! I ſhall ne'er be gone; adieu, adieu, adieu!"
ABSENCE.
Happy that amorous youth, whoſe miſtreſs hear [...]
His ſwelling ſighs, and ſees his falling tears.
What ſavage maid her pity can deny
A breaking heart, and a ſtill ſtreaming eye?
Abſent, alas! hs ſpends them all in vain,
While the dear cauſe is ignorant of his pain.
[256]Yet, wretched as he is, he might be bleſt,
Would he himſelf contribute to his reſt;
Would he reſolve to ſtruggle through the net,
And but a while endeavour to forget.
But his mad thoughts run every paſſage o'er,
And anxious memory makes his paſſion more;
Perplexing memory, that renews the ſcene
Of his paſt cares, and keeps him ſtill in pain;
Keeps a poor wretch perpetually oppreſs'd,
And never lets unhappy lovers reſt;
Lets them no pangs, no cruel ſufferings loſe,
But heaps their paſt upon their preſent woes.
Such was Leander's memory when remov'd
And ſunder'd by the ſeas from all he lov'd.
The gather'd winds had wrought the tempeſt high,
Toſs'd up the ocean, and obſcur'd the ſky;
And at this time, with an impetuous ſway,
Pour'd ſorth their forces, and poſſeſs'd the ſea.
When the bold youth ſtood raging on the beach,
To view the much-lov'd coaſt he could not reach;
His reſtleſs eyes ran all the diſtance o'er,
And from afar diſcern'd his Hero's tower.
Thrice naked in the waves his ſkill he try'd,
And ſtrove, as he was us'd, to ſtem the tide;
But tumbling billows threaten'd preſent wreck,
And, riſing up againſt him, daſh'd him back.
Then, like a gallant ſoldier, forc'd to go
Full of brave wrath from a prevailing foe,
Again to town he makes his ſad reſort,
To ſee what ſhips would looſen from the port;
[257]Finding but one durſt launch into the ſeas,
He writes a letter, fill'd with words like theſe:
* " Read this; yet be not troubled when you read
Your Lover comes not in his letter's ſtead.
On you all health, all happineſs attend,
Which I would much, much rather bring than ſend.
But now theſe envious ſtorms obſtruct my way,
And only this bold bark durſt put to ſea.
I too had come, had not my parents' ſpies
Stood by, to watch me with ſuſpicious eyes.
How many tedious days and nights are paſt
Since I was ſuffer'd to behold you laſt!
Y [...] ſpightful Gods and Goddeſſes, who keep
Your watery courts within the ſpacious deep,
Why at this time are all the winds broke forth,
Why ſwell the ſeas beneath the furious north?
'Tis ſummer now, when all ſhould be ſerene,
The ſky's unclouded, undiſturb'd the main;
Winter is yet unwilling to appear;
But you invert the ſeaſons of the year.
Yet let me once attain the wiſh'd-for beach,
Out of the now malicious Neptune's reach.
Then blow, ye winds; ye troubled billows, roar,
Roll on your angry waves, and laſh the ſhore;
Ruffle the ſeas, drive the tempeſtuous air,
Be one continued ſtorm to keep me there.
Ah! Hero, when to you my courſe is bent,
I ſeem to ſlide along a ſmooth deſcent.
[258]But, in returning thence, I clamber up,
And ſcale, methinks, ſome lofty mountain's top.
Why, when our ſouls by mutual love are join'd,
Why are we ſunder'd by the ſea and wind?
Either make my Abydos your retreat,
Or let your Seſtos be my much-lov'd ſeat.
This plague of abſence I can bear no more;
Come what can come, I'll ſhortly venture o'er.
Not all the rage of ſeas, nor force of ſtorms,
Nothing but death ſhall keep me from thy arms:
Yet may that death at leaſt ſo friendly prove,
To float me to the coaſt of her I love!
Let not the thought occaſion any fear,
Doubt not I will be ſoon and ſafely there:
But till that time, let this employ your hours,
And ſhew you, that I can be none but yours."
Mean while the veſſel from the land withdrew,
When Heaven took pity on a love ſo true.
The winds to blow, the waves to toſs forbore,
In leaps the raviſh'd youth, and ventures o'er,
With a ſmooth paſſage to the farther ſhore.
Now to the port the proſperous lover drives,
And ſafely after all his toils arrives.
Diſſolv'd in bliſs, he lies the live-long night,
Melts, languiſhes, and dies in vaſt delight.
But that delight my Muſe forbears to ſing,
She knows the weakneſs of her infant wing.
As when the painter ſtrove to draw the chief
Of all the Grecians, in his height of grief;
[259]In every limb the well-ſhap'd piece excell'd,
But, coming to the face, his pencil fail'd:
There modeſtly he ſtaid, and held, for fear
He ſhould not reach the woe he fancied there;
But round the mournful head a veil he threw,
That men might gueſs at what he could not ſhew.
So when our pleaſure riſes to exceſs,
No tongue can tell it, and no pen expreſs.
Love will not have his myſteries reveal'd,
And Beauty keeps the joys it gives conceal'd;
And till thoſe joys my Delia lets me know,
To me they ſhall continue ever ſo.
Ah! Delia, would indulgent Love decree,
Thy faithful ſlave that heaven of bliſs with thee;
What then ſhould be my verſe! what daring flights
Should my Muſe take! reach what coeleſtial heights!
Now in deſpair with drooping notes ſhe ſings,
No dawn of hope to raiſe her on her wings.
In the warm ſpring the warbling birds rejoice,
And in the ſmiling ſun-ſhine tune their voice;
Ba [...]k'd in the beams, they ſtrain their tender throats,
Where chearful light inſpires the charming notes;
Such and ſo charming ſhould my numbers be,
If you, my only light, would ſmile on me.
Your influence would inſpire as moving airs,
And make my ſong as ſoft and ſweet as theirs.
Would you but once auſpiciouſly incline
To raiſe his fame, who only writes for thine;
I'd ſing ſuch notes as none but you could teach,
And none but one who loves like me can reach.
[260]Secure of you, what raptures could I boaſt!
How wretched ſhall I be when you are loſt!
Ah! think what pangs deſpairing lovers prove,
And what a bleſs'd eſtate were mutual love!
How might my ſoul be with your favour rais'd!
And how in pleaſing you myſelf be pleas'd!
With what delight, what tranſport, could I burn,
Did but my flames receive the leaſt return!
How would one tender look, one pitying ſmile,
Or one kind word from you, reward my toil!
It muſt, and would your tendereſt pity move,
Were you but once convinc'd how well I love.
By every Power that reigns and rules on high,
By Love, the mightieſt power of all the ſky;
By your dear ſelf, my laſt great oath, I ſwear,
That neither life nor ſoul are half ſo dear.
What need I theſe ſuperfluous vows repeat,
Already ſigh'd ſo often at your feet?
You know my paſſion is ſincere and true,
I love you to exceſs; you know I do.
No tongue, no pen, can what I feel expreſs,
Ev'n poetry itſelf muſt make it leſs.
You haunt me ſtill where-ever I remove;
There's no retreat ſecure from Fate or Love.
My ſoul from yours no diſtance can divide,
No rocks nor caves can from your preſence hide.
By day your lovely form fills all my ſight,
Nor do I loſe you when I loſe the light;
You are the charming phantom of the night.
[261]Still your dear image dances in my view,
And all my reſtleſs thoughts run ſtill on you.
You only are the ſleeping poet's dream,
And, when awake, you only are his theme.
Were I by ſome yet harder fortune hurl'd
To the remoteſt parts of all the world;
The coldeſt northern clime, the torrid zone,
Should hear me ſing of you, and you alone.
That pleaſing taſk ſhould all my hours employ,
Spent in a charming melancholy joy.
The chorus of the birds, the whiſpering boughs,
And murmuring ſtreams, ſhould join to ſooth my woes.
My thoughts of you ſhould yield a ſad delight,
While joy and grief contend like day and night.
With ſmiles and tears, reſembling ſun and rain,
To keep the pleaſure, I'd endure the pain.
If ſuch content my troubled ſoul could know,
Such ſatisfaction mix'd with ſo much woe;
If but my thoughts could keep my wiſhes warm,
Ah! how would your tranſporting preſence charm!
How pleaſant would theſe pathleſs wilds appear,
Were you alone my kind companion here!
What ſhould I then have left me to deplore?
Oh! what ſociety to wiſh for more?
No country thou art in can deſart be,
And towns are deſolate, depriv'd of thee.
Baniſh'd with thee, I could an exile bear;
Baniſh'd from thee, the baniſhment lies there.
I to ſome lonely iſle with thee could fly,
Where not a creature dwells but thou and I;
[262]Wh [...]re a wide-ſpreading main around us roars,
Beſprinkling with its foam our deſart ſhores;
Where winds and waves in endleſs wars engage,
And high-wrought tides roll with eternal rage;
Where ſhips far off their fearful courſes ſteer,
And no bold veſſel ever ventures near.
Should riſing ſeas ſwell over every coaſt,
Were mankind in a ſecond deluge loſt;
Did only two of all the world ſurvive,
Only one man, one woman, left alive;
And ſhould the Gods that lot to us allow,
Were I Deucalion, and my Pyrtha thou;
Contentedly I ſhould my fate embrace,
And would not beg them to renew our race:
All my moſt ardent wiſhes ſhould implore,
All I ſhould aſk from each indulgent Power,
Would be to keep thee ſafe, and have no more.
Your cruelty occ [...]ſions all my ſmart,
Your kindneſs could reſtore my bleeding heart:
You w [...]rk me to a ſtorm, you make me calm;
You give the wound, and can infuſe the balm.
Of you I boaſt, of you alone complain,
My greateſt pleaſure, and my greateſt pain.
Whene'er you grieve, I can no comfort know;
And when you firſt are pleas'd, I muſt be ſo.
While you are well, there's no diſeaſe I feel;
And I enjoy no health when you are ill.
Whate'er you do, my actions does direct;
Your ſmile can raiſe me, and your frown deject.
[263]Whome'er you love, I by the ſelf-ſame fate
Love too; and hate whatever wretch you hate.
With yours my wiſhes and my paſſions join,
Your humour, and your intereſt, all is mine.
I ſhare in all; nor can my fortunes be
Unhappy, let but Fortune ſmile on thee.
You can preſerve, you only can deſtroy;
Increaſe my ſorrow, or create my joy.
From you, and you alone, my doom I wait,
You are the Star whoſe influence rules my fate.
On yours my being and my life depend,
And mine ſhall laſt no more when yours muſt end.
No toil would be too great, no taſk too hard,
Were you at laſt to be my rich reward.
In ſerving you, I'd ſpend my lateſt breath,
Brave any danger, run on any death.
I live but for your ſake; and when I die,
All I ſhall pray for is, may you be by!
No life like living with thee can delight,
No death can pleaſe like dying in thy ſight.
Oh! when I muſt, by Heaven's ſevere decree,
Be ſnatch'd from all that's dear, be ſnatch'd from thee,
May'ſt thou be preſent to diſp [...]l my fear,
And ſoften with thy charms the pangs I bear!
While on thy lips I pour my panting breath,
Look thee all o'er, and claſp thee cloſe in death;
Sigh out my ſoul upon thy panting breaſt,
And, with a paſſion not to be expreſs'd,
Sink at thy feet into eternal reſt!
A PASTORAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DELIA.
[264]" Quam referent Muſae, vivet; dum robora tellus,
" Dum coelum ſtellas, dum vehet amnis aquas."
TIBULLUS, I. iv. 65.
THYRSIS.
STAY, wretched ſwain, lie here, and here lament;
Preſs not too far your ſtrength already ſpent.
Long has diſtracting ſorrow made you rove
Through every deſart plain and diſmal grove,
Still ſilent with exceſs of grief and love.
Feebly your trembling legs beneath you go,
And bend o'erburdened with their load of woe.
Stay, and this melancholy grotto chooſe,
A proper manſion for a mourning Muſe.
Lay your tir'd limbs extended on the moſs,
And tell the liſtening woods of Delia's loſs:
Here the ſad Muſe need no diſturbance fear,
For not a living thing inhabits here.
Muſick may give your ſorrows ſome relief,
And I, by liſtening to you, ſhare your grief.
DAPHNIS.
What muſick now can my ſad numbers boaſt!
What Muſe invoke! alas! my Muſe is loſt.
Long ſince my uſeleſs pipe was thrown aſide,
My reeds were broke that hour that Delia died.
[265]From her alone their inſpiration came,
She gave the verſe, and was the verſe's theme.
For ever ſhould my ſorrows keep me dumb,
Silent as death, and huſh'd as Delia's tomb,
Did not the force of Love unlock my tongue,
Leſt her dear beauties ſhould remain unſung.
Her charms let every Muſe conſpire to tell,
And, that once done, let every Muſe farewell.
This the laſt tribute of my verſe I bring,
To ſing her death, and then no more to ſing.
Be ſtill, ye winds, or in ſoft whiſpers blow;
Ye purling ſtreams, with gentler murmurs flow;
Let lambs forbear to bleat, and herds to low.
Let all in eaſy mournful numbers move,
Let all be ſoft, and artleſs as my Love.
Oh! ſhe was every way divinely fair,
Charming in perſon, and in ſoul ſincere.
She was, alas! more than the Muſe can tell,
Well worthy love, and was belov'd as well.
She was—alas! theſe tears that ſaying draws,
Oh! 'tis a cruel, killing word—She was!
Now ſhe no more muſt tread the flowery plains,
No more be gaz'd at by admiring ſwains.
No more the choiceſt flowers and daiſies chooſe,
Or pluck the paſture for her tender ewes.
Say, ye poor flocks, how often have ye ſtood,
And from her lovely hands receiv'd your food!
Now ye no more from thoſe fair hands muſt feaſt,
Thoſe hands which gave the flowers a ſweeter taſte.
Mourn her, by whom ye were ſo often fed,
And cry with me, the ſhepherdeſs is dead.
[266]This the laſt tribute of my verſe I bring,
To ſing her death, and then no more to ſing.
Weep for her loſs, relenting Heaven, and keep
Time with our tears! Heaven ſeems apace to weep.
In murmuring drops the mournful rain diſtills,
And fable clouds wrap round the ſides of hills.
The goat forbears to browze, the tender ewe
Will drink no longer of the falling dew.
No morning larks their mounting wings diſplay,
Or chear with warbling airs the duſky day.
On dropping boughs ſad nightingales complain,
Join in my ſongs, but ſing like me in vain.
In doleful notes the murmuring turtles coo,
Each of them ſeems t' have loſt a Delia too.
The melting air in miſts its ſorrows ſhews,
And cold damp ſweat the face of earth bedews.
With tears the River-gods enlarge their ſpring,
Swans in ſad ſtrains on ſwelling waters ſing.
In ſighs the God of Winds his paſſion vents,
And all, all Nature for her loſs laments.
This the laſt tribute of my verſe I bring,
To ſing her death, and then no more to ſing.
How often, on the banks of ſilver Thames,
My eyes on hers, and hers upon the ſtreams,
Has ſhe ſtood liſtening when I told my flames!
How often has a ſudden, ſidelong look,
Seem'd to confeſs her pity when I ſpoke!
Pity I had, though I could never move
In her cold breaſt the leaſt return of love.
[267]Pity from her more welcome did receive,
Than all the love another fair could give.
And it was ſome, ſome ſmall relief to ſee
She lov'd not others, though ſhe lov'd not me.
Say, gentle Thames, how often have I ſtood,
Viewing her dear reflection in your flood!
When on her face I durſt not gaze for fear,
How often have I look'd, and found it there!
How often have I wiſh d my verſe might prove
Smooth as your ſtream, whene'er I writ of Love!
Say, how your courteous waves would never flow
O'er any path where ſhe was us'd to go.
Now let your river, like my eyes, run o'er,
Inſult with fuller tides the deſart ſhore,
And drown thoſe banks where Delia walks no more.
This the laſt tribute of my verſe I bring,
To ſing her death, and then no more to ſing.
Blue violets and bluſhing roſes, fade,
Fold your ſilk leaves, and hang your drooping head,
Shut up your ſweets, and ſeem, like Delia, dead;
Let Spring run backwards, and the vintage blaſt,
Let conſtant ſhowers lay all the country waſte;
Let flames unto the centre downwards tend,
And let the floods, untoſs'd by winds, aſcend;
Let all things change, and wear another face,
Let Nature not appear the ſame ſhe was;
Let fowl to dwell beneath the waters try,
And let the watery herd attempt to fly;
Let wolves protect the flocks upon the plains,
Let baſhful virgins woo diſdainful ſwains;
[268]Let ſavage Death its cruelty purſue,
And, ſince my Delia's dead, let me die too:
This the laſt tribute of my verſe I bring,
To ſing her death, and then no more to ſing.
See, where the God of Love all ſad appears,
His ſmoaking torch extinguiſh'd with his tears.
Well may he weep for his declining power,
His charm is done ſince Delia is no more.
Through her he conquer'd, and through her he reign'd;
Her beauties his decaying ſway ſuſtain'd,
And, ſhe now gone, his empire is diſdain'd.
See, where Diana, with a ſtately train
Of goodly nymphs, deſcends upon the plain;
Each of them weeps, and leans upon her bow,
And mourns her fellow Delia wanting now.
The Goddeſs grieves, to ſee her train decreas'd,
And ſwelling ſighs ſhake every virgin breaſt.
Unhurt they let the ſtags beſide them paſs,
Nor follow boars that tempt them to the chace.
In ſeveral forms of woe their grief they vent,
And all with me for Delia's loſs lament.
This the laſt tribute of my verſe I bring,
To ſing her death, and then no more to ſing.
Look yonder, where the lovely nymph is laid,
I'll go, and on her earth recline my head,
Choak with my ſighs, and haſten to the dead.
Come hither, all ye ſwains, with garlands come,
Pour out your richeſt perfumes on her tomb.
Let myrtles on her grave unplanted grow,
In ready wreaths for every lover's brow.
[269]Let flowers unknown before be daily ſeen
To raiſe their heads above the ſpacious green,
Millions of blooming ſweets her earth ſurround,
And balmy gums diſtill upon the ground;
Here let the tuneful Muſe for ever ceaſe,
To give unutterable ſorrow place;
Let ſighs and ſtreaming tears reſume their courſe,
And my ſad eyes be their eternal ſource:
I'll go, and chooſe ſome melancholy cave,
As undiſturb'd and ſecret as the grave.
I'll feaſt my eyes with nothing fair on earth,
Nor ſhall my ears hear any ſound of mirth.
Farewell, ye charming choiriſters that dwell
In ſacred groves; ye warbling birds, farewell.
Adieu, ye nymphs, adieu ye fellow ſwains,
Ye ſilver ſtreams, ſweet ſwans, and flowery plains.
Farewell, all happy days and ſmiling hours,
Refreſhing valleys and delightful bowers.
Adieu to every grotto, every grove,
Adieu to Poetry, adieu to Love!
PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE.
FROM OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, BOOK I.
NO beauteous nymph could youthful Phoebus move,
Till Daphne's charms inſpir'd him firſt with love;
A virgin, ſprung from Peneus' ſilver ſtream,
Fair as the cryſtal waters whence ſhe came.
[270]No blind effects of chance ſubdued the god,
But juſt revenge which injur'd Cupid ow'd;
For Phoebus ſaw him as his bow he drew,
And, ſcoffing, cry'd, "Thoſe are not arms for you!
To me your quiver and your ſhafts reſign,
They load your ſhoulders, but ſit well on mine;
Your arrows drop from your enervate arm,
And are not ſent with force enough to harm;
But, when I ſhoot, with my unerring hands,
On the fleet ſhaft as fleet a death attends.
Witneſs the monſtrous Python lately ſlain,
Againſt whoſe ſcales your darts had been in vain,
He ſtill had liv'd, and ravag'd all the plain.
In yonder vale by me behold him kill'd,
Shedding his poiſonous gore o'er all the field.
Be you content to kindle amorous fires,
Inſpiring childiſh loves and ſoft deſires;
Attempt not things beyond your feeble powers,
Hold your own empire, and uſurp not ours.
The ſlighted God, in ſhort, replies, by thee,
Let other breaſts be pierc'd, but thine by me.
As human force is conquer'd by divine,
So ſhalt thou find my powers excelling thine."
He ſpoke, and ſpread his wings, and mounted up,
Nor reſted till he reach'd Parnaſſus' top.
From his full quiver all his darts he drew,
And from them all he made his choice of two.
Differing the paſſions which their points create,
The one producing love, the other hate:
[271]With this the beauteous virgin's breaſt he pierc'd;
But he wounds Phoebus deeper with the firſt.
High on the mountain's utmoſt cliff he ſtood,
And took his fatal aim, and ſhot the god:
Swiftly it flies through his envenom'd reins;
Fires all his blood, and poiſons all his veins.
The deadly ſhafts their purpos'd ends obtain;
Work love in him, in her as fierce diſdain.
Her only joy was ranging through the grove,
To ſhun her lovers, and their tales of love.
There the wild boars were wounded with her ſpear;
Her only paſſion was to conquer there.
All her attire was like Diana's train,
Alike her humour in avoiding men.
Her numerous courtiers met with numerous ſlights,
She fled from Hymen and his hated rites:
Oft had her father prompted her to wed,
By fond deſires of future grandſons led:
Oft had he told her, that ſhe ow'd a debt
Of ſmiling nephews, which he hop'd-for yet.
She ſtarts, and thinks ſhe underſtands him wrong,
Nor would have heard it from another tongue.
Then, hanging on her father, thus ſhe pray'd,
" Oh! only lov'd of all your ſex, ſhe ſaid,
Oh! give me leave to live and die a maid!"
He, too indulgent, yields, but yields in vain,
To what ſhe cannot from herſelf obtain;
That matchleſs form was made to be admir'd,
And ſhe is, in her own deſpight, deſir'd:
[272]The youthful Phoebus courts her for his bride,
And loves too fiercely to be long deny'd.
With hopes, he would not for his godhead loſe,
By his own oracles deceiv'd, he wooes.
As fi [...]es in ſpacious fields of ſtubble thrown,
When the firſt blaze of flame is once begun,
The winds with fury drive the torrent on:
So burns the god, and ſo receives the fires,
And ſooths with flattering hopes his fond deſires.
He ſees her hair diſhevel'd on her back,
And part in circles twining round her neck.
" If ſuch their charms diſorder'd thus, he cry'd,
Ah! what if Nature were with Art ſupply'd!"
He ſees her ſparkling eyes, that ſhine like ſtars,
But with an influence far more ſtrong than theirs.
He ſees her balmy lips, and longs to kiſs;
For, oh! he is not ſatisfy'd he ſees.
Her hands and arms fill his unwearied ſight;
He looks on all with wonder and delight.
He ſees her ſnowy thighs, her ſwelling breaſt;
If aught lay hid, he ſtill concludes it beſt:
And yet in vain is all the God can ſay,
The dear, diſdainful virgin will not ſtay,
But flies the ſwifter, as ſhe hears him pray.
" Stay Daphne, ſtay, it is no foe purſues,
I follow not as luſtful Satyrs uſe:
The trembling deer fly from the lion ſo,
The lambs from wolves, each from his mortal foe.
They by their ſwift purſuit their prey deſign;
But love, the tendereſt love, occaſions mine.
[273]Beware, dear maid, leſt any barbarous thorn
Tear thoſe ſoft limbs, too beauteous to be torn.
Rough are the ways you follow with ſuch ſpeed,
Ah! yet beware, be cautious how you tread!
Or ſtay, or do not make ſuch dangerous haſte;
I too will ſtay, or not purſue ſo faſt.
Stay, Daphne, ſtay, ah! whither do you run?
Alas! fond nymph, you know not whom you ſhun [...]
No ruſtic labouring hind, no ſavage ſwain;
I keep no lowing herds upon the plain:
Delphos and Tenedos my rule obey,
In ſeveral iſles I ſeveral ſceptres ſway;
All nations offer incenſe at my ſhrine,
And all thoſe beams that light the world are mine:
Jove does acknowledge me his darling ſon,
And gives me power the greateſt next his own:
I know what Time bears in her teeming womb,
And all that was, and is, and is to come:
I teach ſoft numbers to the mighty Nine,
The wondrous harmony they make is mine:
Sure are the wounds I ſend from every dart,
But Love made ſurer when he pierc'd my heart:
To the ſick earth ſafe remedies I give,
Allotting man a longer time to live;
To me the uſe of every herb is known,
Vain art, alas! ſince Love is cur'd by none!
To all beſides, they do their aid afford,
Unable only to relieve their Lord."
Much more he would have told the flying fair,
But the regardleſs virgin would not hear.
[274]With doubled ſwiftneſs ſhe out-runs the wind,
And leaves his yet unfiniſh'd ſpeech behind.
The winds, that toſs'd her flowing robes abroad,
Shew'd a whole Heaven of beauty to the God.
Her naked limbs to his full view diſplay'd;
The God, the raviſh'd God, ſaw all the maid.
Her every ſtep inflames his fierce deſires,
Her every motion fans the raging fires.
Still the fair nymph grew lovelier as ſhe fled,
Looſe in the air her golden locks were ſpread,
And her cheeks glow'd with an unuſual red.
Th' impatient God admits no more delay,
And throws no more unheeded words away:
Stronger his pliant limbs he ſtrives to move,
Love urges on, he takes new force from love.
So the ſwift greyhound, when his game he views,
With eager ſtretch o'er all the plain purſues;
Now comes ſo near, that he is forc'd to ſtoop,
With the falſe hopes he has to ſnatch her up:
The trembling hare runs on with dreadful doubt,
Whether ſhe is already ſeiz'd or not;
She uſes all her art to help her flight;
And doubles juſt enough to ſcape the bite.
So Daphne flies, wing'd with, her mortal fear;
Wing'd with his love, ſo Phoebus follows her.
But he ſtill gains advantage in the race,
For Love redoubles his impetuous pace.
With arms expanded, he purſues the fair,
And plies his eager feet ſo very near,
She feels his breath warm through her flying hair.
[275]
Now, as her utmoſt force was well-nigh ſpent,
And her o'er-labour'd legs began to faint;
Her courſe to that delightful ſtream ſhe bends,
Which from her father's ſilver urn deſcends:
With moving looks the water ſhe ſurveys,
And thus the ſad and lovely ſuppliant prays:
Oh! ſave me yet, ere I am quite betray'd,
Exert your godhead, and preſerve a maid:
To ſome new form change my too charming ſhape,
Or let me loſe my being, to eſcape!
Immediate grant was given her as ſhe pray'd,
And ſudden numbneſs through her limbs was ſpread;
Thin films o'er all her lovely frame are caſt,
And with cloſe folds they compaſs-in her waiſt;
Her hair to leaves, her arms to branches ſhoot,
Her feet, depriv'd of ſwiftneſs, form the root;
Her beauteous head chang'd to the leafy top,
And yet not wholly, ere the God came up:
For now he ran with more immoderate ſpeed,
But not with haſte enough t' embrace the maid;
[...]till lovely, though of human ſhape bereft,
And he ſtill loves her in the ſhape ſhe 'as left.
He lays his hand upon the new-made plant,
While yet her heart beneath the rind did pant;
He claſp'd her, with the thought of what ſhe 'ad been,
And, oh! he wiſh'd her ſtill the ſame as then;
With the ſame ſcorn his kiſſes ſhe diſdain'd,
Her ſcorn, alas! was all ſhe ſtill retain'd.
" I have thee now, ſuch as thou art, he cry'd,
And thou ſhalt be my tree, though not my bride.
[276]My quiver ſhall be hung upon thy boughs,
And thy dear leaves be wreath'd about my brows.
Thou ſhalt the heads of demi gods adorn,
And be by poets and their heroes worn.
When Caeſar ſhall from vanquiſh'd nations come,
Drawn in his chariot through the ſtreets of Rome;
When to the capitol their ſpoils they bring,
And Io Paeans make th [...] temple ring:
Then, planted at Auguſtus' gilded doors,
Thou, like an houſhold god, ſhalt guard his floors.
And as the treſſes on my youthful head
Keep their firſt luſtre ſtill, and never fade;
The verdant beauty of thy leaves ſhall laſt,
Not to be wither'd by the Winter's blaſt."
Thus the God finiſh'd; and the Laurel bow'd
Her branches down, to thank the bounteous God.
JUPITER AND EUROPA;
FROM OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, BOOK II.
GReatneſs does always our deſires oppoſe,
And Majeſty and Love are mortal foes,
Jove knew too well, it hinder'd the deſign,
He could not compaſs in a form divine.
He caſts his eagle off and royal crown,
And lets his bolts fall to the pavement down.
Diveſted thus, he quits the bleſt abode,
Without one mark left to reveal the God:
[277]He, that was wont to reign, and rule on high,
And ſhake the world with thunder from the ſky,
Of all the Gods the moſt ador'd and fear'd,
Now changes to a bull, and joins the he [...]d.
Large curls adorn'd his front, and hid his cheſt,
Of all he ſeem'd by far the nobleſt beaſt,
By ſomething ſtill diſtinguiſh'd from the reſt;
His whiteneſs did the new fall'n ſnow excel,
While it remains unſullied as it fell;
His horns were ſmall, like glittering jewels bright,
And ſeem'd deſign'd for beauty, more than fight.
His peaceful look no ſigns of fury ſhows.
He wears no marks of terror on his brows.
The royal maid beheld him with delight,
Surpriz'd with pleaſure at th' unuſual ſight:
Yet was her pleaſure firſt allay'd with fear,
Till, by degrees at laſt advancing near,
With flowers more welcome than his heavenly food
(Given by thoſe hands) ſhe fed the raviſh [...]d God.
Softly, with ſecret joy, thoſe hands he preſt,
And too, too eager, to be wholly bleſt,
Hardly, ah! hardly, he forbears the reſt.
Now with large leaps he bounds upon the land,
Anon he rolls along the golden ſand.
As ner fears vaniſh'd, ſhe approach'd the beaſt;
And, venturing farther, ſtroak'd his panting breaſt,
And crown'd his horns with flowers, too venturous at the laſt!
More favours thus th' unwary nymph beſtow'd,
Than ſhe had given him had he ſeem'd a God.
[278]Still daring more, down on his back ſhe ſate;
Alas! ſhe knew not who ſuſtain'd her weight.
Then, then the God roſe with his wiſh'd-for prey,
And, wing'd with his ſucceſs, ſoon reach'd the ſea.
Vain were her cries, all her reſiſtance vain,
While Jove in triumph bore her through the main.
She caſts her eyes on the forſaken coaſt,
Which leſſen'd till the view was wholly loſt:
She ſigh'd, and wept, and look'd deſpairing back,
Yet ſtill ſhe held his horns, ſtill claſp'd his neck;
While with the winds her looſer garments flow'd,
And ſpread a grateful covering o'er the God.
NARCISSUS AND ECHO,
FROM OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, BOOK III.
THE vocal nymph this lovely huntſman view'd,
As he into the toils his prey purſued.
Though of the power of ſpeaking firſt debarr'd,
She could not hold from anſwering what ſhe heard.
The jealous Juno, by her wiles betray'd,
Took this revenge on the deceitful maid:
For, when ſhe might have ſeiz'd her faithleſs Jove,
Often in amorous thefts of lawleſs love,
Her tedious talk would make the Goddeſs ſtay,
And give her rivals time to run away;
Which when ſhe found, ſhe cried, "For ſuch a wrong,
Small be the power of that deluding tongue!"
Immediately the deed confirm'd the threats,
For Echo only what ſhe hears repeats.
[279]
Now at the ſight of the fair youth ſhe glows,
And follows ſilently where-e'er he goes.
The nearer ſhe purſued, the more ſhe mov'd
Through the dear track he trod, the more ſhe lov'd:
Still her approach inflam'd her fierce deſile;
As ſulphurous torches catch the neighbouring fire.
How often would ſhe ſtrive, but ſtrive in vain,
To tell her paſſion, and confeſs her pain!
A thouſand tender things her thoughts ſuggeſt,
With which ſhe would have woo'd, but they, ſuppreſt
For want of ſpeech, lay bury'd in her breaſt.
Begin ſhe could not, but ſhe ſtay'd to wait
Till he ſhould ſpeak, and ſhe his ſpeech repeat.
Now ſeveral ways his young companions gone,
And for ſome time Narciſſus left alone.
" Where are you all?" at laſt ſhe hears him call,
And ſhe ſtrait anſwers him, Where are you all?
Around he lets his wandering eye-ſight roam,
But ſees no creature whence the voice ſhould come:
" Speak yet again, he cries, is any nigh?"
Again the mournful Echo anſwers, I.
" Why come not you?" ſays he; appear in view,
She haſtily returns, Why come not you?
Once more the voice th' aſtoniſh'd huntſman try'd,
Louder he call'd, and louder ſhe reply'd.
" Then let us join," at laſt Narciſſus ſaid:
Then let us join, replied the raviſh'd maid.
Scarce had ſhe ſpoke, when from the woods ſhe ſprung,
And on his neck with cloſe embraces hung.
[280]But he with all his ſtrength unlocks her fold,
And breaks unkindly from her feeble hold.
Then proudly cries, "Life ſhall this breaſt forſake,
Ere you, looſe Nymph, on me your pleaſure take."
On me your pleaſure take, the Nymph replies,
While from her the diſdainful huntſman flies.
Repuls'd, with ſpeed ſhe ſeeks the gloomieſt groves,
And pines to think on her rejected loves;
Alone laments her ill-required flame,
And in the cloſeſt thickets ſhrouds her ſhame.
Her rage to be refus'd yields no relief,
But her fond paſſion is increas'd by grief;
The thoughts of ſuch a ſlight all ſleep ſuppreſs'd,
And kept her languiſhing for want of reſt:
Now pin [...]s ſhe quite away with anxious care,
Her ſkin contracts, her blood diſſolves to air;
Nothing but voice and bones ſhe now retains,
Theſe turn to ſtones, but ſtill the voice remains:
In woods, caves hills, for ever hid ſhe lies,
Heard by all ears, but never ſeen by eyes.
Thus her and other nymphs his proud diſdain
With an unheard-of cruelty h [...]d ſlain:
Many, on mountains and in rivers borne,
Thus periſh'd underneath his haughty ſcorn:
When one, who in their ſufferings bore a ſhare,
With ſuppliant hands addreſs'd this humble prayer:
" Thus may he love himſelf, and thus deſpair!"
Nor were her prayers at an ill hour preferr'd;
Rhamnuſia, the revengeful Goddeſs, heard.
[281]
Nature had plac'd a cryſtal fountain near,
The water deep, but to the bottom clear;
Whoſe ſilver ſpring aſcended gently up,
And bubbled ſoftly to the ſilent top.
The ſurface ſmooth as icy lakes-appear'd,
Unknown by herdſman, undiſturb'd by herd;
No bending tree above its ſurface grows,
Or ſcatters thence its leaves or broken boughs;
Yet at a juſt convenient diſtance ſtood;
All round the peaceful ſpring, a ſtately wood,
Through whole thick tops no ſun could ſhoot his beams,
Nor view his image in the ſilver ſtreams:
Thither, from hunting and the ſcorching heat,
The wearied youth was one day led by Fate.
Down on his face, to drink the ſpring, he lies;
But, as his image in that glaſs he ſpies,
He drinks-in paſſion deeper at his eyes.
His own reflection works his wild deſire;
And he himſelf ſets his own ſelf on fire.
Fix'd as ſome ſtatue, he preſerves his place,
Intent his looks, and motionleſs his face.
Deep through the ſpring his eye-balls dart their beams,
Like midnight ſtars that twinkle in the ſtreams.
His ivory neck the cryſtal mirror ſhows,
His waving hair above the ſurface flows,
His cheeks reflect the lily and the roſe:
His own perfection all his paſſions mov'd,
He loves himſelf, who for himſelf was lov'd;
Who ſeeks, is ſought; who kindles the deſires,
Is ſcorch'd himſelf; who is admir'd, admires:
[282]Oft would he the deceitful ſpring embrace,
And ſeek to faſten on that lovely face;
Oft with his down-thruſt arms he thought to fold
About that neck that ſtill deludes his hold.
He gets no kiſſes from thoſe cozening lips;
His arms graſp nothing, from himſelf he ſlips;
He knows not what he views, and yet purſues
His deſperate love, and burns for what he views.
Catch not ſo fondly at a fleeting ſhade,
And be no longer by yourſelf betray'd;
It borrows all it has from you alone,
And it can boaſt of nothing of its own:
With you it comes, with you it ſtays, and ſo
Would go away, had you the power to go!
Neither for ſleep nor hunger would he move,
But, gazing, ſtill augments his hopeleſs love:
Still o'er the ſpring he keeps his bending head,
Still with that flattering form his eyes he fed,
And ſilently ſurveys the treacherous ſhade.
To the deaf-woods at length his grief he vents,
And in theſe words the wretched youth laments:
" Tell me; ye hills and dales and neighbouring groves,
You that are conſcious of ſo many loves;
Say, have you ever ſeen a lover pine
Like me, or ever known a love like mine?
I know not whence this ſudden flame ſhould come;
I like and ſee, but ſee I know not whom:
What grieves me more, no rocks nor rolling ſeas,
No ſtrong-wall'd cities, nor untrodden ways,
[283]Only a ſlender ſilver ſtream deſtroys,
And caſts the bar between our ſundered joys.
Ev'n he too ſeems to feel an equal flame,
The ſame his paſſion, his deſires the ſame:
As oft as I my longing lips decline
To join with his, his mount to meet with mine.
So near our faces and our mouths approach,
That almoſt to ourſelves we ſeem to touch:
Come forth whoe'er thou art, and do not f [...]y
From one ſo paſſionately fond as I;
I've nothing to deſerve your juſt diſdain,
But have been lov'd, as I love you, in vain.
Yet all the ſigns of mutual love you give,
And my poor hopes in all your actions live:
When in the ſtream our hands I ſtrive to join,
Yours ſtraight aſcend, and half-way graſp at mine,
You ſmile my ſmiles; when I a tear let fall,
You ſhed another, and conſent in all:
And when I ſpeak, your lovely lips appear
To utter ſomething, which I cannot hear.
Alas! 'tis I myſelf; too late I ſee,
My own deceitful ſhade has ruin'd me.
With a mad paſſion for myſelf I 'm curs'd,
And bear about thoſe flames I kindled firſt.
In ſo perplex'd a caſe, what can I do?
Aſk, or be aſk'd? ſhall I be woo'd, or woo?
All that I wiſh, I have; what would I more?
Ah! 'tis my too great plenty makes me poor.
Divide me from myſelf, ye Powers Divine,
Nor let his Being intermix with mine!
[284]All that I love and wiſh for now retake,
A ſtrange requeſt for one in love to make!
I feel my ſtrength decay with inward grief,
And hope to loſe my ſorrows with my life:
Nor would I mourn my own untimely fate,
Where he I love allow'd a longer date:
This makes me at my cruel ſtars repine,
That his much dearer life muſt end with mine."
This ſaid, again he turns his watery face,
And gazes wildly in the cryſtal glaſs,
While ſtreaming tears from his full eye-lids fell,
And, drop by drop, rais'd circles in the well:
The ſeveral rings larger and larger ſpread,
And by degrees diſpers'd the fleeting ſhade;
Which when perceiv'd, "Oh, whither would you go?
He cries, ah! whither, whither, fly you now?
Stay, lovely ſhade, do not ſo cruel prove,
In leaving me, who to diſtraction love:
Let me ſtill ſee what ne'er can be poſſeſs'd,
And with the ſight alone my frenzy feaſt!"
Now, frantic with his grief, his robe he tears,
And tokens of his rage his boſom bears:
The cruel wounds on his pure body ſhow
Like crimſon mingling with the whiteſt ſnow:
Like apples with vermilion circles ſtripe,
Or a fair bunch of grapes not fully ripe.
But, when he looks, and ſees the wounds he made
Writ on the boſom of the charming ſhade;
His ſorrow would admit of no relief,
But all his ſenſe was ſwallow'd in his grief.
[285]
As wax, near any kindled fuel plac'd,
Melts, and is ſenſibly perceiv'd to waſte;
As morning froſts are found to thaw away,
When once the ſun begins to warm the day;
So the fond Youth diſſolves in hopeleſs fires,
And by degrees conſumes in vain deſires:
His lovely cheeks now loſt their white and red,
Diminiſh'd was his ſtrength, his beauty fled;
His body from its juſt proportions fell,
Which the ſcorn'd Echo lately lov'd ſo well.
Yet though her firſt reſentments ſhe retain'd,
And ſtill remembered how ſhe was diſdain'd;
She ſigh'd; and when the wretched lover cried,
" Alas," Alas, the woeful Nymph reply'd:
Then when with cruel blows his hands would wound
His tender breaſt, ſhe ſtill reſtor'd the ſound.
Now hanging o'er the ſpring his drooping head,
With a ſad ſigh theſe dying words he ſaid,
" Ah! boy belov'd in vain!" Through all the plain,
ECHO reſounds, Ah! boy belov'd in vain!"
" Farewell," he cries, and with that word he died;
Farewell, the miſerable Nymph reply'd.
Now pale and breathleſs on the graſs he lies,
For Death had ſhut his ſelf-admiring eyes.
Now wafted over to the Stygian coaſt,
The waters there reflect his wandering ghoſt;
In loud laments his weeping ſiſters mourn,
Which Echo makes the neighbouring hills return.
All ſigns of deſperate grief the nymphs expreſs,
Great is the moan, yet is not Echo's leſs.
* SCYLLA'S PASSION FOR MINOS.
FROM OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, BOOK VIII.
[286]A Tower with ſounding walls erected ſtands,
The ſacred fabric of Apollo's hands.
His harp laid by, the ſtrings their airs diſpenſe,
And vocal ſtones receiv'd their virtue thence.
This Scylla, in the time of peace, aſcends,
And thence her look o'er all the lawns extends;
Now with delight ſhe views the ſpacious town,
Now, pleas'd with dropping little pebbles down,
Strikes a ſweet muſic from the warbling ſtone.
In times of war the ſelf-ſame proſpect yields
The pleaſing horror of the bloody fields.
Long had they now in equal balance hung,
And doubtful victory depended long.
This gave her leiſure to diſcern and know
The ſeveral leaders of the neighbouring foe.
Minos their General moſt of all ſhe knew,
More than a virtuous virgin ought to do:
Whether his helmet glitter'd from afar,
And with its waving feathers threatened war;
[287]Whether his hands his ſhining ſword would weild,
Or his ſtrong arm raiſe his refulgent ſhield;
Whate'er ſhe ſaw him do, ſhe prais'd and lov'd,
And kept him ſtill in view where-e'er he mov'd.
Whene'er he ſho [...]k a ſpear, or caſt a dart,
She knew not which excell'd, his ſtrength or art.
Whene'er he drew a ſhaft, ſhe'd ſwear, that ſo
Ev'n Phoebus would himſelf diſcharge his bow.
But, when his naked viſage he diſclos'd,
His charming face to public view expos'd;
When on his foaming horſe he rode the plains,
Ruling with ſkilful hands the ſtubborn reins;
Then, like tempeſtuous ſeas, her paſſions roll,
Mad her ſick brain, and rack her troubled ſoul.
Happy ſhe calls the courſer which he preſs'd;
Happy the launce he couch'd within his reſt,
Happy the vamplate that ſecur'd his breaſt.
Now would ſhe think of flying to the foe,
And would have gone, had ſhe a way to go.
Now headlong from the tower herſelf have ſent,
And ventur'd life, to reach her lover's tent;
Open the brazen gates when Love inſpir'd,
Or act whate'er the foe ſhe lov'd deſir'd.
Silent ſhe [...]ate with a diſtracted look,
Till paſſion gave her leave, and then ſhe ſpoke:
" In this unhappy war and fatal-ſtrife,
I know not which to yield to, joy or grief.
Though 'tis my fate to love my country's foe,
I had not ſeen him had he not been ſo.
[288]Yet might they let their fierce contentions fall,
And, making peace, make me the pledge for all.
Minos and I once join'd, our wars might ceaſe,
And that alliance fix a laſting peace.
Well might your mother's charms a God ſubdue,
If ever ſhe could charm, dear Youth, like you!
Happy! thrice happy! had I wings to fly
To yonder tents where the lov'd foe does lie!
I'd tell the dear diſturber of my reſt
All that I feel, could it he all expreſs'd,
And pour my ſoul into the charmer's breaſt;
Give all I can to make him once my own,
All he ſhould aſk; all—but my father's crown:
This love ſh [...]ll ceaſe, theſe fierce deſires ſhall die,
[...]re I by treachery my wiſh enjoy
Yet, when a generous foe diſputes the field,
It is not ſafeſt to reſiſt, but yield.
The tragic deſtiny of his darling ſon
Has brought at laſt theſe fatal miſchiefs on:
In a juſt cauſe his vengeful ſword he draws;
Strong is his army, to maintain his cauſe.
Needs muſt my charming hero proſperous prove,
Then let him owe his conqueſt to my love:
Thus thouſands will be ſav'd, who elſe muſt bleed,
And daily periſh, if the wars proceed.
Minos will thus be ſafe, and I be bleſt;
Elſe he may chance to periſh with the reſt:
Some raſh unknowing hand his ſpear may dart,
Againſt my too, too venturous hero's heart;
[289]For who without concern his wounds could ſee?
Or who would wound him, if he knew 't was he?
'Tis then reſolv'd; leſt ſuch a chance ſhould fall
On him I love ſo well, I 'll hazard all.
My country and myſelf one gift I'll join,
And make the merit of his conqueſt mine.
To will is nothing, when we can't fulfil,
For wretched want of power, the things we will.
The gates are kept with a ſufficient'guard,
And every night my father ſees them barr'd.
'Tis he deſtroys my bliſs; 'tis him I fear;
Would he were with the dead, or I were there!
Might I, not injuring him, my bliſs purſue?
Indulgent Gods! but why invoke I you?
We, our own Gods, have power ourſelves to bleſs,
And from ourſelves derive our own ſucceſs.
The only way to proſper is to dare,
For Fortune liſtens not to lazy prayer.
Others, inflam'd with ſuch a fierce deſire,
Have forc'd through all to quench their raging fire.
Shall any other then more reſolute prove,
Through fire and ſword I'd force my way to love.
Yet to aſſiſt me here, I need not call
For fire, or ſword; my father's hair* is all.
That, that muſt crown my joys, and make me bleſt,
Beyond whatever elſe can be poſſeſs'd,
Beyond what can be by my words expreſs'd."
CEYX AND HALCYONE;
FROM OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, BOOK XI.
[290]Ceyx, the ſon of Lucifer and king of Trachis a city in Theſſaly, having been alarmed by ſeveral prodigies, pre⯑pares to go and conſult Apollo's oracle at Claros*, to learn the will of Heaven, and receive the Gods' inſtructions. His voyage; the deſcription of a ſtorm and ſhipwreck: the de⯑ſcription of the God of Sleep and his palace; the lamen⯑tation of Halcyone, the daughter of Aeolus and wife to Ceyx, for the loſs of her huſband, with the change of both into ſea-fowls, called after her name Halcyous; are the ſubjects of the following verſes, beginning with her ſpeech to her huſband, to diſſuade him from his in⯑tended voyage.
" HOW are you chang'd of late, my Love! how grown
So tir'd of me, ſo preſſing to be gone!
What have I done, to make my lord remove
So far from her, who once had all his love?
Is your Halcyone no longer dear?
Or, to whatever place your courſe you ſteer,
Can you enjoy yourſelf, and ſhe not there?
Yet if you went by land 't were ſome relief,
For all that would torment me then were grief.
But now, at once with grief and fear oppreſt,
A thouſand anxious thoughts deſtroy my reſt,
And not on [...] dawn of comfort chears my breaſt.
[291]The faithleſs ſeas are what, alas! I fear
I muſt not let my Ceyx venture there.
Oft have I heard their troubled waters roar,
And ſeen their foaming waves ſurmount the ſhore;
Oft ſeen the wreck come floating to the coaſt,
And venturous wretches by their folly loſt.
Nor have I ſeldom ſad inſcriptions read
On marble tombs, which yet inclos'd no dead.
Let me alone, my Ceyx be believ'd,
And be not by your flattering hopes deceiv'd.
Truſt not the ſeas, although my father binds
Within his rocky caves the ſtruggling winds.
If once broke looſe, nought can their rage reſtrain,
They ſweep o'er all the earth, ſwell all the main;
Drive clouds on clouds by an abortive birth,
From their dark wombs flaſhing the thunder forth;
More, more than what my feeble words expreſs,
Which only repreſent their fury leſs.
Let me perſuade, for I have ſeen them rage,
Seen all the wars the fighting winds could wage.
Did you, like me, their ſtern encounters know,
As daring as you are, you would not go.
If all this fail to move your ſtubborn mind,
And you will go, oh! leave not me behind;
Take me along, let me your fortunes ſhare,
There's nought too hard for love like mine to bear.
In ſtorms and calms together let us keep,
Together brave the dangers of the deep;
The grant of this my flattering love aſſures,
Which knows no joys and feels no griefs but yours."
[292]
Thus ſpoke the lovely queen, all drown'd in tears,
Nor was her huſband's paſſion leſs than hers;
Yet would he not his firſt reſolves recall,
Nor, ſuffering her to venture, hazard all.
He ſaid whate'er he fancy'd might abate
Her griefs, although his own were full as great.
Yet all in vain he labour'd to remove
The tender fears of her prophetic love.
Still the ſame ſighs from her heav'd heart ariſe,
And the ſame ſtreams ſtill bubble at her eyes.
All this ſucceeding not, "My love, he cry'd,
(The laſt beſt ſpeech that could be then apply'd)
To you ſhould Ceyx' abſence tedious ſeem,
Believe that yours is not leſs ſo to him;
For by my father's brighteſt fires I ſwear,
By your dear ſelf, believe, my mournful dear,
Ere twice the moon renews her blunted horns,
If deſtiny permits, your love returns."
This juſt ſuffic'd to eaſe her troubled heart,
And of her many cares diſpel a part.
And now he bids them launch without delay,
While ſhe took truce with grief, to ſail away.
That laſt command awak'd her ſleeping fears,
And ſhe again ſeem'd all diſſolv'd in tears.
Around his neck her circling arms ſhe threw,
And, mix'd with ſighs, forc'd-out a faint adieu.
Then, as he left her hold, too feeble grown
(Robb'd of her dear ſupport) to ſtand alone,
The laſt ſad pangs, at parting, ſunk her down.
[293]Th' impatient ſeamen call upon their lord,
And almoſt bear him thence by force aboard.
Then, having fix'd their oars, begin to ſweep,
And cleave with well-tim'd ſtrokes the yielding deep.
Faintly her opening eyes the ſhip ſurvey,
Which bears her lord and her laſt hopes away.
In their own tears her trembling eye-balls ſwim.
Which hinder'd not but ſhe diſtinguiſh'd him:
Too diſtant now for words, aloft he ſtands
On the tall deck, and ſhe upon the ſands
Wafts her laſt farewell with her lifted hands.
Then, as the ſhip drove farther from the coaſt,
And that dear object in the crowd was loſt;
The flying bark her following eyes purſue:
That gone, the ſails employ'd her lateſt view.
All out of ſight, ſhe ſeeks the widow'd bed
Where Ceyx and herſelf ſo oft were laid:
But now, half fill'd, the ſad remembrance mov'd
Of the dear man who made the whole belov'd.
By this, the gathering winds began to blow,
Their uſeleſs oars the joyful ſeamen ſtow;
Then hoiſt their yards, while, looſen'd from the maſts,
The wide-ſtretch'd ſails receive the coming blaſts.
DESCRIPTION OF A STORM, AND SHIPWRECK.
Now, far from either ſhore, they plough'd their way,
And all behind them and before was ſea;
When with the growing night the winds roſe high,
And ſwelling ſeas preſag'd a tempeſt nigh.
Aloud the ma [...]ter crie [...], " [...]url all the ſails;
No longer ſpread, to catch the flying gales."
[294]But his commands are borne unheard away,
Drown'd in the roar of a far louder ſea.
Yet of themſelves their taſks the ſailors know,
And are by former ſtorms inſtructed now.
Some to the maſts the ſtruggling canvaſs bind,
And leave free paſſage to the raging wind.
Some ſtop the leaks, while ſome the billows caſt
Back on the ſea, which rolls them back as faſt.
Thus in confuſion they their parts perform,
While fighting winds increaſe th' impetuous ſtorm.
Amaz'd the pilot ſees the waves come on
Too thick and faſt for his weak ſkill to ſhun.
On every ſide the threatening billows fall,
And art is a [...] a loſs to ſcape them all.
The cries of men, the rattling of the ſhrouds,
Fl [...]ods daſh'd on floods, and clouds encountering clouds,
Fierce winds beneath, above a thundering ſky,
Unite their rage to work the tempeſt high.
Vaſt billows after bil [...]ows tumbling come,
And rolling ſeas grow white with angry foam;
To mountainous heights the ſwelling ſurges riſe,
Waves pil'd on waves ſeem equal with the ſkies;
Now, ruſhing headlong with a rapid force,
Look black as Hell, to which they bend their courſe.
The ſhip on riſing ſeas is lifted up,
And now ſeems ſeated on a mountain top,
Surveying thence the Stygian lakes that flow,
And roll their diſtant waters far below;
Now downwards with the tumbling billows driven,
From Hell's profoundeſt depth looks up to Heaven.
[295]Waves after waves the ſhatter'd veſſel cruſh,
All ſides alike they charge, on all they ruſh.
While with a noiſe th' aſſaulting billows roar,
As loud as battering rams that force a tower.
As lions, fearleſs and ſecure from harms,
Ruſh with prodigious rage on pointed arms;
Chaf'd, if repuls'd, they run the fiercer on,
And laſh themſelves to fury as they run:
So roll the ſeas, with ſuch reſiſtleſs force,
And gather ſtrength in their impetuous courſe:
Now ſtart the planks, and leave the veſſel's ſides
Wide open, to receive the conquering tides;
In at the breach the raging waters come,
All preſſing to purſue their conqueſt home.
Fierce Neptune now, who long alone had ſtrove
(As if too weak himſelf) ſeeks aid from Jove.
Whole Heaven diſſolves in one continued rain,
Deſcending in a deluge to the main,
Whoſe mounting billows toſs it back again:
Seeming by turns each other to ſupply;
The ſky the ſeas, and now the ſeas the ſky.
Showers join with waves, and pour in torrents down,
And all the floods of Heaven and Earth grow one.
No glimpſe of light is ſeen, no ſparkles fly
From friendly ſtars through the benighted ſky.
Double the horror of the night is grown,
The tempeſt's darkneſs added to her own:
Till thundering clouds ſtrike out a diſmal light,
More dreadful than the depth of blackeſt night.
[296]Upwards the waves, to catch the flames, aſpire,
And all the rolling ſurges ſeem on fire.
Now o'er the hatches, mad with rage, they tower,
And ſtrive, poſſeſs'd of them, to conquer more:
As a brave ſoldier, whom the ſtrong deſire
And burning thirſt of glory ſet on fire,
With more than common ardor in his breaſt
And higher hopes, ſpurr'd farther than the reſt,
Oft ſcales in vain a well-defended town,
But mounts at length, and leaps victorious down;
Alone, of all, the dreadful ſhock abides,
While thouſand others periſh by his ſides:
So the tenth billow, rolling from afar,
More vigorous than the reſt, maintains the war:
Now gains the deck, and, with ſucceſs grown bold,
Pours thence in triumph down, and ſacks the hold:
Part, ſtill without, the batter'd ſides aſſail,
And where that led the way, attempt to ſcale.
A [...] in a town, already half poſſeſs'd
By foes within it, and without it preſs'd,
All tremble, of their laſt defence bereft,
And ſee no hope of any ſafety left:
No aid their oft ſucceſsful arts can boaſt;
At once their courage, and their ſkill, is loſt.
Helpleſs, they ſee the raging waters come;
Each threatens death, and each preſents a tomb:
One mourns his fate in loud complaints and tears;
Another, more aſtoniſh'd, quite forbears
From ſighs or words too faint to tell his fears.
[297]This calls them bleſs'd who funeral rites receive,
Poſſeſs'd in quiet of a peaceful grave:
This rears his ſuppliant hands unto the ſky,
And vainly looks to what he cannot ſpy:
This thinks upon the friends he left behind,
And his (now orphan) children rack his mind;
Halcyone alone could Ceyx ſtir,
His anxious thought ran all alone on her.
One farewell view of her was all his care,
And yet he then rejoic'd ſhe was not there.
For a laſt look, fain would he turn his eyes
On her abode, but knows not where it lies.
The ſeas ſo whirl, with ſuch prodigious might,
While pitchy clouds, obſcuring Heaven from ſight,
Increaſe the native-horror of the night.
Now ſplits the maſt, by furious whirlwinds torn,
And now the rudder to the ſeas is borne.
A billow, with thoſe ſpoils encourag'd, rides
Aloft in triumph o'er the lower tides.
Thence, as ſome God had pluck'd up rocks, and thrown
Whole mountains on the main, ſhe tumbles down;
Down goes the ſhip, with her unhappy freight,
Unable to ſuſtain the preſſing weight.
Part of her men along with her are borne,
Sunk in a gulph whence they muſt ne'er return.
Part catch at planks, in hopes to float to ſhore,
Or ſtem the tempeſt till its rage were o'er.
Ev'n Ceyx, of the like ſupport poſſeſt,
Swims, undiſtinguiſh'd now, among the reſt;
[298]To his wife's father and his own prefers
His ardent vows for help, which neither hears;
To both repeats his ſtill-neglected prayer,
Calls oft on both, but oftener calls on her.
The more his danger grew, the more it brought
Her dear remembrance to his reſtleſs thought,
Whoſe dying wiſh was, that the friendly ſtream
Would roll him to thoſe coaſts whence late he came,
To her dear hands, to be interr'd by them.
Still, as the ſeas a breathing ſpace afford,
Haleyone rehears'd forms every word.
Half of her name his lips now ſinking ſound.
When the remaining half in him was drown'd.
An huge black arch of waters, which had hung
High in the gloomy air, and threatened long,
Bu [...]ſting aſunder, hurls the dreadful heap
All on his head, and drives him down the deep.
His father Lucifer, that diſmal night,
Sought to retire, to ſhun the tragic ſight.
But, ſince he could not leave his deſtin'd ſphere,
Drew round the blackeſt clouds to veil him there.
Meanwhile his wife counts every tedious hour,
And knew not yet ſhe was a wife no more;
But works two robes againſt his wiſh'd return,
To be by her and her dear Ceyx worn.
She pays her vows to every power divine,
But pays them frequenteſt at Juno's ſhrine;
Bribes every goddeſs at a mighty coſt
Of precious gums, but ſtill bribes her at moſt.
[299]Vain were the gifts ſhe offer'd in her fane,
She made her [...]aded altars ſmoak in vain;
Where for his life and ſafe return ſhe pray'd,
Who was already loſt, already dead.
" Let me again, ſhe cry'd, my Ceyx ſee;
And, while away, by your ſevere decree,
Let him give none the love that's due to me!
Let none, ſhe pray'd, before me be preferr'd!"
And this alone of all her prayers was heard.
The pitying Goddeſs would no more receive
Vows for that ſuccour which ſhe could not give;
But from her altar ſhakes her awful hand,
And gives her faithful his this command:
" Haſte quickly where the drowſy God of Sleep,
Remote from day, does his dark manſions keep,
Tell him, I bid him in a dream reveal
To ſad Haleyone, how Ceyx fell.
All her misfortunes in her ſleep unfold,
And by the viſion let her loſs be told."
Thus ſpeaks the Queen of Heaven; nor Iris ſtays
To make reply; but, as ſhe ſpeaks, obeys.
Straight in a thouſand-colour'd robe array'd,
And all her orient bow o'er Heaven diſplay'd,
Downwards ſhe ſlides, to find the dark abode,
And bear her meſſage to the ſlothful God.
DESCRIPTION OF THE GOD OF SLEEP, AND HIS PALACE.
Near the Cimmerians, hid from human ſight,
Lies a vaſt hollow cave, all void of light;
[300]Where, deep in earth, the God his court maintains,
And, undiſturb'd, in eaſe and ſilence reigns;
Not ſeen by Phoebus at his morning riſe,
Nor at mid-day with his moſt piercing eyes,
Nor when at evening he deſcends the ſkies.
Thick gloomy miſts come ſteaming from the ground,
And the fog ſpreads a duſky twilight round;
No creſted fowls foretell the day's return,
Nor with ſhrill notes call forth the ſpringing morn;
No watchful dogs the ſecret entry keep,
Nor geeſe more watchful guard the court of Sleep;
No tame nor ſavage beaſt dwells there, no breeze
Shakes the ſtill boughs, or whiſpers through the trees;
No voice of man is heard, no human call
Sounds through the cave; deep ſilence reigns o'er all.
Yet from the rock a ſilver ſpring flows down,
Which, purling o'er the ſtones, glides gently on;
Her eaſy ſtreams with pleaſing murmurs creep,
At once inviting and aſſiſting Sleep.
At the cave's mouth ſpring pregnant poppies up,
And hide the entrance with their baleful top;
Whoſe drowſy juice affords the nightly birth
Of all the Sleep diffus'd and ſhed on earth.
No guards the paſſage to this court ſecure,
No jarring hinge ſuſtains a creaking door:
Yet in the midſt, with fable coverings ſpread,
High, but unſhaken, ſtands a downy bed.
Where his ſoft limbs the ſlothful Monarch lays,
Diſſolv'd in endleſs luxury and eaſe.
[301]Fantaſtic dreams lie ſcatter'd on the ground,
And compaſs him in various figures round;
More numerous than the ſands that bind the ſeas,
Or ears of ſtanding corn, or leaves on trees.
But Iris, now arriv'd, divinely bright;
Fills all the palace with unuſual light.
Her garments, flowing with diffuſive beams,
Gild the dark cell, and chace the frighted Dreams:
Away they fly, to leave her paſſage clear,
And ſhun the glories which they cannot bear.
The God, his eye-lids ſtruggling to unlooſe,
Seal'd by his deep unbroken ſlumbers cloſe,
Half way his head uprears with ſluggiſh pain,
Which heavily anon ſinks down again.
Frequent attempts without ſucceſs he makes,
But, at the laſt, with long endeavour, wakes.
Half rais'd, and half reclining in his bed,
And leaning on his hands his nodding head,
With faultering words, he aſks the heavenly fair,
What meſſage from her Goddeſs brought her there?
At once the God and Goddeſs ſhe obeys,
Delivering her commands in words like theſe:
" Thou Peace of mind, thou moſt propitious Power,
Thou meekeſt Deity that men adore!
Thou, who giv'ſt eaſe to every troubled breaſt,
And ſet'ſt tir'd limbs and feveriſh ſouls at reſt!
Thou, at whoſe preſence cares and ſorrows flee,
Under whoſe guard the fetter'd ſlave is free,
Lovers, the worſt of ſlaves, ſtill finding eaſe in thee!
[302]Send thou a Dream, aſſuming Ceyx' form,
Like him appearing ſhipwreck'd in a ſtorm;
From whoſe pale lips his widow'd queen may know
His certain loſs, and her as certain woe."
Here ends the ſhining Nymph, who dares not ſtay
For farther words, but flies in haſte away.
She feels the thickening miſts begin to riſe,
And conquering Sleep ſteal o'er her yielding eyes.
Thence by her painted bow her courſe ſhe bends,
And the ſame way ſhe came again aſeends.
Around his drowſy offſpring goes the God,
And chuſes Morpheus from among the crowd.
None can like him a perfect man expreſs,
His ſpeech and mien, his a [...]ion and his dreſs:
For he alone in human ſhape appears;
While the leſs noble forms a ſecond wears,
Of ſnakes, or birds, of lions, or of bears.
Still there's a third, ſtill meaner in degree,
Which ſhews a field, a river, or a tree;
Of things inanimate preſents the ſcene,
Hills, valleys, ſhips or houſes, earth or main.
Theſe three to generals, kings, or courts belong;
More vulgar Dreams wait the more vulgar throng.
The f [...]rſt of th [...]ſe their monarch ſets at large,
Diſpatch'd to Trach [...]s, on Thaumantia's charge;
Then ſtaggering he returns, and ſeeks his bed,
In whoſe ſoft down he ſinks his drooping head;
Again, his eye-lids are with ſleep oppreſt,
And the whole God diſſolves again to reſt.
[303]
Swift as a thought, and ſecret as the night,
Morpheus on noiſeleſs pinions takes his flight;
His ſleeting wings their ſilent courſe purſue,
Soft as the liquid air they travel'd through;
Who, now arriv'd, lays-by his uſeleſs plumes,
And Ceyx' form in his own court aſſumes:
Naked he ſtood, as late bereav'd of life,
Cloſe by the bed of his unhappy wife;
His hair ſtill dropping ſeem'd, ſtill wet his beard,
Still ſhivering with the cold all his pale frame appear'd;
When, with a mournful geſture, o'er the bed
Penſively hanging his dejected head,
All drown'd in well-diſſembling tears, he ſaid:
" Is not your Ceyx, wretched woman, known?
Is he ſo alter'd, or forgot ſo ſoon?
Turn here, Halcyone, behold him loſt,
Or, in your Ceyx' ſtead, behold his ghoſt.
To the relentleſs Gods in vain you pray'd,
You are deceiv'd, alas! and I am dead.
Surpriz'd by ſtorms in the Aegean ſea,
Which caſt my life and all my hopes away;
Where, as I call'd on thy lov'd name, my breath,
With half thy name pronounc'd, was ſtopt in death.
This from no doubtful meſſenger you hear,
'Tis I who tell it, I who periſh'd there.
Ariſe and weep, now let your eyes run o'er,
Your once-lov'd Ceyx is, alas! no more!
Let a few tears be to my memory paid,
And, as you lov'd me living, mourn ſhe dead."
[304]
He ſpeaks, and adds to theſe his doleful words
A voice, ſhe too well knew, expreſs'd her lord's.
The ſame the geſture of his hands appears,
Unforc'd his action, and unfeign'd his tears.
She, frighted with the viſion, ſighs and weeps,
Torn with moſt mortal anguiſh as ſhe ſleeps;
Then ſtretches out her arms to hold him there,
Which came back empty through the yielding air.
" Stay, ſtay, ſhe cries, ah! whither would you now?
We 'll go together, if again you go."
With her own voice, and her dead huſband's ſight,
Starting, ſhe leaves her dream, but not her fright.
Awak'd, ſhe turns her fearful eyes around,
And looks for him who could no more be found.
For now her maids, rais'd with her ſhrieks, were come,
And with their lamps enlighten'd all the room.
Not ſeeing what ſhe ſought, enrag'd, ſhe tare
At once her face, her habit, and her hair.
When aſk'd the cauſe whence ſuch deſpair ſhould ſpring,
And what ſad loſs could ſuch diſtraction bring;
She wrings her hands, and beats her panting breaſt,
Long ſilent, with a load of ſorrow preſt,
But thus, at laſt, her cruel loſs confeſt:
" There's no Halcyone, ah! none, ſhe cry'd;
With Ceyx, dearer than herſelf, ſhe died.
Now let no ſounds of comfort reach my car,
All mention of a future hope forbear,
Leave me, oh! leave me to my juſt deſpair.
Ah! theſe, theſe eyes, my ſhipwreck'd lord did ſee
And knew too well it could be none but he.
[305]Theſe hands I ſtretch'd, in hopes to make him ſtay,
But from theſe hands he ſlid unfelt away;
No mo [...]tal graſp could hold his fleeting ghoſt,
And I a ſecond time my Ceyx loſt.
He look'd not with the ſame majeſtic grace
As when he liv'd, nor ſhone his awful face
With the peculiar glories of his heavenly race.
His eyes were fix'd, and all their fires gone out,
No longer roll'd their ſparkling beams about;
The colour from his faded cheek was fled,
And all his beauty with himſelf lay dead,
Retaining nought of all, except the ſhade;
Retaining ſtill, though all the reſt was gone,
Too much, alas! to make his ſhadow known.
Pale, wan, and meagre, by the bed he ſtood,
His hair ſtill dropping with the briny flood.
Here, here in this, ah! this unhappy place,
'Twas here he ſtood"—ſhe cry'd, and ſought to trace,
But found no footſteps of his airy pace.—
" Oh! this my too preſaging ſoul divin'd,
When you forſook me to purſue the wind.
But, ſince compell'd by rigorous Fate you went,
And this was deſtin'd for the ſad event;
Oh! that together we had put to ſea,
That ſo with you it might have ſwallow'd me!
Abſent, I'm loſt; and ah! though not with you,
Yet am I wreck'd, yet am I ruin'd too.
Oh! I were ſprung from a moſt ſavage kind,
My ſoul as barbarous as the ſeas or wind,
If I, now you are gone, ſhould wiſh to ſtay behind.
[306]No, Ceyx, no; my much-lov'd lord, I come;
And though not laid together in a tomb,
Though far from mine your floating corſe is borne,
Nor with my aſhes mingled in an urn;
Yet on one marble ſhall our names be told,
And the ſame ſtone ſhall both our ſtories hold,
Where ages yet unborn with praiſe ſhall read
How I diſdain'd to live when you were dead."
Here, choak'd with grief, ſhe the ſad tale gave o'er,
Her ſwelling ſorrows would permit no more;
Sobs, mingling with her words, their accents part,
And ſighs fly faſter from her throbbing heart.
Now dawns the day, when ſhe with fearful haſte
Goes to that ſhore where ſhe had ſeen him laſt.
There while ſhe ſtood, reflecting on her loſs,
Forgetting nought that might augment her woes.
" Here he took leave, ſhe cry'd; and here, ſhe ſaid,
Unwilling to be gone, again he ſtaid;
He gave me here, alas! the laſt embrace;
Then launch'd from this, ah! this unhappy place."
While all that paſt ſhe labour'd to recall,
Severely for herſelf remembering all;
And, while around her watery eyes ſurvey
The wave-beat coaſt and the ſtill-troubled ſea,
Something ſhe ſpies from far come floating on,
Though at the firſt too diſtant to be known;
Which, as the tide drove nearer to the coaſt,
Preſents a man in a late ſhipwreck loſt.
She pities him, whom yet ſhe does not know,
And mourns his fate, ſince Ceyx periſh'd ſo;
[307]Pities his wife, if he a wife had left,
Like her of all ſhe reckon'd dear bereft.
Now floating nearer to the fatal ſhore,
She eyes him more diſtinctly than before,
While all her hopes diminiſh, all her fears grow more.
Apace her beating heart begins to pant,
And all at once her ſinking ſpirits faint.
Now on the beach by toſſing billows thrown,
The corſe was to her ſad confuſion known,
Herſelf the wife ſhe mourn'd, the man her own.
" 'Tis he, ſhe cry'd, my dear, my ſhipwreck'd lord,
Whom I but too, too juſtly, have deplor'd!"
Then, with her hands ſtretch'd to him where he lay,
She ſaid what grief would give her leave to ſay:
" Fed with falſe hopes, have I your abſence borne!
And is it thus, ah! thus, that you return?
And do I live, and you bereav'd of life?
Ah! wretched man, but more, more wretched wife!"
Far in the ſea a pier erected ſtood,
To break the rapid fury of the flood.
Thither (almoſt beyond belief) ſhe ſprings,
Borne through the yielding air on new-grown wings;
Along the ſurface of the ſea ſhe flies,
And wonders at her own unuſual cries;
Now, hovering o'er his pale and bloodleſs corſe,
In new-found notes laments her ſad divorce;
Now, ſtooping, perches on his watery face,
And gives him with her bill a ſtrange embrace;
Whether he felt it, or the circling flood
Then chanc'd to move him, is not yet allow'd;
[308]Yet he took ſenſe from her tranſporting touch
(Ev'n on the dead the force of love is ſuch).
Aloft his now reviving head he rears,
And m [...]unts on pinions which reſemble hers.
Both chang'd to birds, their wings together move,
A [...]d [...] [...]ght remain'd unchang'd, except their love.
In cloſe embraces as before they join'd,
And now o'er ſeas produce and ſpread their kind.
Seven days ſhe ſits upon her floating neſt,
While each rude blaſt, impriſon'd and ſuppreſt
Cloſe in its cavern, leaves the ſea at reſt.
Then every ſail may ſafely truſt the deep,
While all the winds lie huſh'd, the waves aſleep.
TIBULLUS, BOOK I. EL. I.
LET others add to their increaſing ſtore,
Till their full coffers can receive no more;
Let them plough land on land, and field on field,
And reap whate'er the teeming earth can yield;
Whom neighbouring foes in conſtant terror keep,
Diſturb their labours, and diſtract their ſleep:
Me may my poverty preſerve from ſtrife,
In ſloth [...]ul ſafety, and an eaſy life;
While my ſmall houſe ſhields off the winter ſky,
And daily fires my glowing hearth ſupply;
While the due ſeaſon yields me ripen'd corn,
And cluſter'd grapes my loadened vines adorn;
[309]While with delight my country wealth I view,
And my pleas'd hands their willing taſks purſue,
Still, as one vine decays, to plant a new!
Here I repine not to advance the prong,
And cl [...]i [...] and drive the ſluggiſh herds along;
Nor am aſham'd to lift a tender lamb,
On the cold ground, forſaken of her dam.
Duly the annual feſtivals I keep,
To purge my ſhepherd, and to cleanſe my ſheep,
To pay the uſual offerings of a ſwain
To the propitious Goddeſs of the plain,
Whom I adore, however ſhe appears,
A ſtock, or ſtone, whatever form ſhe wears.
To all our country deities I ſhew
Religious zeal, and give to all their due;
The firſt fair product of the fertile earth,
To the kind power whoſe favour brings it forth;
To Ce [...]es garlands of the ripeſt corn,
Which, hung in wreaths, her temple gates adorn;
Pears, apples, on Priapus are beſtow'd,
My garden fruits given to my garden God.
You too, my La [...]es, ſhall your gifts receive,
And ſhare the little that I've left to give:
Once in full tides you knew my fortunes ſlow,
Bu [...] at their loweſt ebb you ſee them now:
I then had large and numerous lands to boaſt,
Your care is leſſen'd now, as they are loſt:
Then a fat calf a victim us'd to fall;
Now from my little flock a lamb is all;
[310]That ſtill ſhall bleed, and for the reſt atone,
And that you ſtill may challenge as your own;
Round which our youth ſhall pray, "Ye Powers Divine,
Bleſs with your ſmiles our labours, and aſſign
Fields full of corn, a vintage full of wine!
Hear us, ye kind propitious Lares, hear;
Nor ſlight our preſents, nor reject our prayer!
Take the ſmall offerings of as ſmall a board,
Nor ſcorn the drink our earthen cups afford!
Whoſe uſe at firſt from country ſhepherds came,
And Nature firſt inſtructed them to frame!"
Let from my ſlender folds the thieves abſtain!
They ought not to attempt ſo poor a ſwain.
I do not beg to have my wealth reſtor'd,
Again of large eſtates the reſtleſs lord.
All my ambition is alone to ſave
The little all my fortune pleas'd to leave;
Nor ſhall I e'er repine, while Fate allows
A little corn and wine, a little houſe,
And a ſmall bed for pleaſure and repoſe.
How am I raviſh'd, in my Delia's arms
To lie, and liſten to the winter ſtorms!
Securely in my little cottage ſtow'd,
Hear the bleak winds and tempeſt ſing abroad!
And while around whole Nature ſeems to weep,
By the ſoft falling rain be lull'd aſleep!
This be my fate, this all my wiſh'd for bliſs,
And I can live, ye Gods! content with this.
[311]
Let others by their toils their fortunes raiſe,
They merit wealth, who ſeek it through the ſeas.
Pleas'd with my ſmall but yet ſufficient ſtore,
I would not take their pains to purchaſe more;
I would not dwell on the tempeſtuous main,
Nor make their voyages to meet their gain;
But, ſafe at home, ſtretch'd on a graſſy bed,
Where the trees caſt a cool refreſhing ſhade,
Free from the mid-day heat, recline my head;
Cloſe by the banks of a clear river lie,
And hear the ſilver ſtream glide murmuring by.
Oh! rather periſh all the mines of gold,
And all the riches Earth and Ocean hold;
Than any maid ſhould my long abſence mourn,
Or grow impatient for my wiſh'd return.
You, my Meſſala, in the field delight,
War is your province, all your pride to fight.
From ſea and land, crown'd with ſucceſs you come,
And bring your far-fetch'd ſpoils in triumph home;
While I, detain'd by Delia's conquering charms,
Enjoy no honours, and endure no harms.
I, who from all ambitious thoughts am free,
Or all, my Delia, are to live with thee;
With thee to lengthen out my ſlothful days,
Wrapt in ſafe quiet and inglorious eaſe,
Alike deſpiſing infamy and praiſe.
With thee, I could myſelf to work apply,
Submit to any toil, ſo thou we [...]t by:
With my own hands my own poſſeſſions till,
Drive my own herds, ſo thou wert with me ſtill.
[312]With thee, no drudgery would uneaſy be,
All would be ſoften'd with the ſight of thee;
And if my longing arms might thee embrace,
Though on the cold hard earth, or rugged graſs,
The mighty pleaſure would endear the place.
Who can in ſofteſt down be reckon'd bleſt,
Whoſe unſucceſsful love deſtroys his reſt?
When, nor the purple coverings of his bed,
Nor the fair plumes that nod above his head,
Nor all his ſpacious fields, nor pleaſant houſe,
Nor purling ſtreams, can lull him to repoſe?
What fooliſh brave, allow'd by thee to taſte,
Thy balmy breath, to preſs thy panting breaſt,
Rifle thy ſweets, and run o'er all thy charms,
And melt thy beauties in his burning arms,
Would quit the vaſt delights which thou could'ſt yield,
For all the honours of the duſty field?
Let ſuch as he his high-priz'd wars purſue,
And, conquering the [...]e, leave me to conquer you:
Let him, adorn'd i [...] all the pomp of war,
Sit on his prancing horſe, and ſhine afar;
Proud, when the crowd aſſembles to behold
His troops in poliſh'd ſteel, himſelf in gold.
At my laſt hour, all I ſhall wiſh to ſee,
All I ſhall love to look on, will be thee.
Cloſe by my death-bed may my Delia ſtand,
That I may graſp her with my fainting hand,
Breathe on her lips my laſt expiring ſighs,
And, full of her dea [...] image, ſhut my eyes.
[313]Then, Delia, you'll relent, and mourn my fate,
And then be kind, but kind, alas! too late.
On my pale lips print an unfelt embrace,
And, mingling tears with kiſſes, bathe my face.
From your full eyes the flowing tears will ſtream,
And be, like me, loſt in the funeral flame.
I know you'll weep, and make this rueful moan;
You are not flint, you are not perfect ſtone.
Wrong not my ghoſt, my Delia, but forbear
From this unprofitable grief, and ſpare
Your tender cheeks, and golden locks of hair.
In the mean time, let us ou [...] joys improve,
Spend all our hours, our years, our lives, in love.
Grim Death purſues us with impatient haſte,
And age, its fure forerunner, comes too faſt.
The ſwe [...]ts of life are then no more enjoy'd,
And Love, the life of all, is firſt deſtroy'd.
That firſt departs from our declining years,
From weak decrepid limbs and hoary hairs.
Now, let us now enjoy the full delight,
While vigorous youth can raiſe it to the height;
While we can ſtorm a ſtubborn damſel's door,
And with our quarrels make our pleaſure more.
I am the general here, and this my war;
And in this fight to conquer, all my care.
All other battles hence, all other arms,
Go carry wounds to thoſe who covet harms;
Give them the dear-bought wealth their wars can yield,
With all the bloody harveſt of the field;
[314]While I at home my much-lov'd eaſe ſecure,
Contented with my ſmall, but certain ſtore,
Above the fear of want, or fond deſire of more,
TIBULLUS, BOOK II. EL. IV.
I See the chains ordain'd me to receive,
And the fair maid whoſe charms have won her ſlave.
No more my native freedom can I boaſt,
But all my once-lov'd liberty is loſt.
Yet why ſuch heavy fetters muſt I wear?
And why obey a miſtreſs ſo ſevere?
Why muſt I drag ſuch a perplexing chain,
Which tyrant Love will never looſe again?
Whether I merit her eſteem or ſcorn,
Offending or deſerving, ſtill I burn.
Ah! cruel maid! theſe ſcorching flames remove,
Extinguiſh mine, or teach yourſelf to love.
Oh! rather than endure the pains I feel,
How would I chuſe, ſo to ſhake off my ill,
To grow a ſenſeleſs ſtone, fix'd on a barren hill;
Or a bl [...]ak rock, amidſt the ſeas be ſet,
By raging winds and rolling billows beat!
For now in torment I ſupport the light,
And in worſe torment waſte the lingering night.
My crowding griefs on one another roll,
And give no truce to my diſtracted ſ [...]ul;
No ſuccour now from ſacred verſe I find,
Nor can their God himſelf compoſe my mind.
[315]The greedy maid will nought but gold receive,
And that, alas! is none of mine to give.
Hence, hence, unprofitable Muſe, remove;
Hence, if you cannot aid me in my love.
No battles now my mournful lines recite,
I ſing not how the Roman legions fight:
Nor how the ſun performs his daily race,
Nor how the moon at night ſupplies his place.
All that I wiſh the charms of verſe may prove,
Is for a free acceſs to her I love;
For that alone is all my conſtant care;
Be gone, ye Muſes, if ye fail me there.
But I by rapine muſt my gifts procure,
Or lie unheard, unpitied, at her door;
Or from the ſhrines of Gods the trophies bear,
And what I rob from Heaven preſent to her:
Treat her, at other Goddeſſes expence and coſt;
But treat her at the charge of Venus moſt;
Her chiefly ſhall my daring hands invade,
I to this miſery am by her betray'd;
She gave me firſt this mercenary maid.
O, to all ages let him ſtand accurſt,
Whoe'er began this trade in loving firſt!
Whoe'er made ſilly Nymphs their value know,
Who will not yield without their purchaſe now!
He was the fatal cauſe of all this ill,
And brought up cuſtoms we continue ſtill.
Hence firſt the doors of miſtreſſes were barr'd,
And howling dogs appointed for their guard.
[316]But, if you bring the price, the mighty rate,
At which her beauties by herſelf are ſet;
The bars unloos'd, lay open every door,
And ev'n the conſcious maſtiffs bark no more.
Whate'er unwary inconſiderate God
Beauty on mercenary maids beſtow'd;
How ill to ſuch was the vaſt preſent given,
Who fell th' invaluable gift of Heaven!
Oh, how unworthily were ſuch endow'd!
With ſo much ill, confounding ſo much good!
From hence our quarrels and our ſtrifes commence,
All our diſſentions take their ſpring from hence.
Hence 'tis ſo few to Cupid's altars move,
And without zeal approach the ſhrines of [...]ove.
But you, who thus his ſacred rights prophane,
And ſhut his votaries out for ſordid gain;
May ſtorms and fire your ill-got wealth purſue,
And what you took from us retake from you!
While we with pleaſure ſee the flames aſpire,
And not a man attempts to quench the fire!
Or, may you haſte to your eternal home,
And no fond youth, no mournful lover, come,
To pay the laſt ſad ſervice at your tomb;
While the kind generous ſhe, who ſcorn'd to prize,
Or rate herſelf at leſs than joys for joys;
Though ſhe her liberal pleaſures ſhould out-live,
And reach an age unfit to take or give;
Yet, when ſhe dies, ſhe ſhall not die unmourn'd,
Nor on her funeral pile unwept be burn'd:
[317]But ſome old man, who knew her in her bloom,
With reverence of their paſt delights ſhall come,
And with an annual garland crown her tomb.
Then ſhall he wiſh her, in her endleſs night,
Her ſleep may pleaſing be, her earth be light.
All this, my cruel Fair, is truth I tell,
But what will unregarded truth avail?
Love, his own way, his empire will maintain,
And have no laws preſcrib'd him how to reign.
He rules with too, too abſolute a ſway;
And we muſt, in our own deſpight, obey.
Should my fair tyrant, Nemeſis, command
Her humbled ſlave to ſell his native land,
All, at her order, ſhould convert to gold,
Nor houſe nor houſehold-god remain unſold.
Take the moſt baneful ſimples Circe us'd,
Or mad Medea in her bowls infus'd;
Gather the deadlieſt herbs and rankeſt weeds
The magic country of Theſſalia breeds;
Mingle the ſureſt poiſons in my cup,
And, let my Love command, I'll drink them up.
TIBULLUS, BOOK IV. ELEG. XIII.
NO other maid my ſettled faith ſhall move,
No other miſtreſs ſhall ſupplant your love.
My flames were ſeal'd with this auſpicious vow,
That which commenc'd them then, confirms them now.
[318]In you alone my conſtant pleaſure lies,
For you alone ſeem pleaſing in my eyes.
Oh! that you ſeem'd to none but me divine!
Let others look with other eyes than mine!
Then might I, of no rival youth afraid,
All to myſelf enjoy my charming maid.
I'm not ambitious of the public voice,
To ſpeak your beauties, or applaud my choice;
None of their envious praiſes are deſir'd,
I would not have the Nymph I love admir'd.
He that is wiſe will not his bliſs proclaim,
Nor truſt it to the laviſh tongue of Fame;
But a ſafe ſilent privacy eſteem,
Which gives him joys unknown to all but him.
To woods and wilds I could with thee remove,
Secure of life when once ſecure of love;
To wait on thee could deſart paths explore,
Where ne'er human footſtep trod before;
Peace of my ſoul, and charmer of my cares,
Thou courage of my heart, thou conqueror of my fears;
Diſpoſer of my days, unerring light,
And ſafe conductreſs in my darkeſt night;
Thou, who alone art all I wiſh to ſee,
Thou, who alone art all the world to me!
Should the bright Dames of Heaven, the Wives of Gods,
To court my bed, forſake their bleſt abodes;
With all their charms endeavouring to divert
My fix'd affections, and eſtrange my heart;
[319]To thee, vain rivals all the train ſhould prove,
Vain ſuit the glorious nymphs to me ſhould move,
Who would not change thee for the Queen of Love.
All this I ſwear by all the Powers Divine,
But ſwear by Juno moſt, becauſe ſhe's thine.
Fool that I am! to let you know your power!
On this confeſſion, you'll inſult the more;
In fiercer flames make your poor vaſſal burn,
And treat your ſuppliant ſlave with greater ſcorn.
But take it all, all that I can confeſs,
And oh! believe me, that I feel no leſs.
To thee, my fate entirely I reſign;
My love, and life, and all my ſoul, is thine.
You know, my cruel Fair, you know my pains,
And, pleas'd and proud, you ſee me drag your chains.
But, if to Venus I for ſuccour flee.
She'll end your tyrant reign, and reſcue me.
A FAREWELL TO POETRY*.
AS famiſh'd men, whom pleaſing dreams delude,
Seem to grow full with their imagin'd food;
Appeaſe their hunger, and indulge their taſte,
With fancied dainties, while their viſions laſt;
[320]Till ſome rude hand breaks up the flattering ſcene;
Awaken'd with regret, they ſtarve again:
So the falſe Muſe prepares her vainer feaſts,
And ſo ſhe treats her diſappointed gueſts:
She promiſes vaſt things, immortal fame,
Vaſt honour, vaſt applauſe, a deathleſs name;
But, well awake, we find it all a dream.
Soft tales ſhe tells with an enchanting tongue,
And lul [...]s our ſouls with the bewitching ſong:
How ſhe, alone, makes heroes truly great;
How, dead long ſince, ſhe keeps them living yet;
Shews her Parnaſſus like a flowery grove,
Fair and delightful as the bowers above;
The fitteſt place for Poetry and Love.
We hunt the pleaſures through the fairy coaſt,
Till in our fruitleſs ſearch ourſelves are loſt.
So the great artiſt drew the lively ſcene,
Where hungry birds ſnatch'd at the grapes in vain.
Tir'd with the chace, I give the phantom o'er,
And am reſolv'd to be deceiv'd no more.
Thus the fond youth, who long in vain has ſtrove
With the fierce pangs of unſucceſsful love;
With joy, like mine, breaks the perplexing chain;
Freed, by ſome happy chance, from all his pain,
With joy like mine he grows himſelf again.
A HYMN, BY THE SAME, ABOUT AN HOUR BEFORE HIS DEATH, WHEN IN GREAT PAIN*.
[321]TO thee, my God, though late, at laſt I turn;
Not for my ſufferings, but my ſins I mourn.
For all my crimes thy mercy I implore,
And to thoſe mercies thou haſt ſhewn before,
Add, Lord, thy grace, that I may ſin no more.
I beg thy goodneſs to prolong my breath,
And give me life, but to prepare for death.
Pardon, O pardon my tranſgreſſions paſt;
Lord, I repent; let my repentance laſt:—
Let me again this mortal race begin,
Let me live on, but not live on to ſin:—
Which if thy heavenly wiſdom find unfit,
Thy will be done, I humbly do ſubmit.
But let thy ſovereign mercy bear the ſway,
Let juſtice throw the flaming ſword away,
Or man can ne'er abide the dreadful day.
O, by the croſs and paſſion of thy Son,
Whoſe ſacred death the life of man begun,
By that dear blood which our redemption coſt,
And by the coming of the Holy Ghoſt;
Deliver us amidſt the life to come,
In the laſt hour, and at the day of doom!
AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND;
[322]TO you; dear youth, now baniſh'd from the ſwains,
Your rural friend, in rural notes, complains;
From my bleſt groves, thoſe long-lov'd manſions, hurl'd,
Urg'd by misfortunes, I muſt view the world;
But with as much regret to ſee it fly,
As they to leave it who are doom'd to die.
[323]From theſe dear ſhades unwillingly I go,
As men condemn'd to viſit ſhades below.
Since my late ills, which will be ever new,
Still freſh misfortunes your loſt friend purſue.
Amaſia's fall ſtruck me to deep deſpair,
And now Fate's utmoſt malice I can bear.
[324]Inur'd to ſtorms, now let the billows roar,
With full-ſpread ſails I'll ſhun the lazy ſhore,
He who has o [...]ce been wreck'd—
Has f [...]lt the worſt, and cannot ſuffer more.
Juſt o'er my head the breaking clouds have gone,
The bolts have ſtruck; then ſure their fury 's done,
I fear no flaſhes now—let the heavens thunder on.
By grave acquaintance, whom the world calls friends,
I am advis'd to quit my purpos'd ends.
But now, long planted in the Muſes land,
I can no other language underſtand.
All worldly gains beyond my reach muſt prove,
For I am bent on Poetry and Love.
Should frowning Heaven its uſual ſtorms abate
(Which I can't think without a wrong to Fate),
My joys would grow, as now my ſorrows, great.
But ſhould no fortunes, no ſucceſs, attend
The bold aſpiring fondneſs of your friend;
Truſt me, no diſappointment ſhall I find,
Nor be deceiv'd, unleſs the Gods grow kind.
In vain you move me with your charming ſtrain,
And tell of fancy'd, generous nymphs, in vain.
The Britiſh beauties ſure have noble ſouls,
But ſtill 'tis gold, 'tis gold, my friend, controls.
No charming Fair will hear the ſuppliant ſue,
Who ſp [...]aks not golden words—'tis gold muſt woe,
And all deſpair, who want it, all—but you.
Oh, ſhould ſ [...]me beauty, in her heavenly bloom,
To the embraces of your Sylvius come;
[325]Some bright, dear maid, fram'd of a nobler mould,
Who ſcorns to ſell her charms for ſordid gold,
Above her ſex's meaneſt pride, and generouſly bold;
Bleſt by our nuptials, ſure, we both ſhould grow,
I, though the huſband, ſtill the lover too;
A miſtreſs ſo divine ſhould be for ever ſo:
My loftieſt Muſe ſhould ſing her matchleſs fame,
The fires of Love ſhould yield my fancy flame,
She ſhould for ever live—
Nam'd my Amaſia, and adorn the name.
Give my reſpects to thoſe few friends we know:
To thoſe few friends whom I found always ſo
My real ſervice and chief thoughts commend:
Who ſerves no miſtreſs, beſt can ſerve his friend.
Borne on m [...] Muſe's wings, I haſte to you,
Leave theſe low vales, and glory's heights purſue.
Adieu, my friend—
Adieu, dear ſhades, adieu!
TO THE LORD CUTTS*.
LET ſome with ſervile mean devices bow,
And bend their ſouls, as well as bodies, low;
Flatter the great, cringe deep, to gain eſteem,
And by their own diſhono [...]r, honour them;
By wiles like theſe, new [...] [...]ours poorly claim;
I pay your Lordſhip but what 's paid by fame.
'Tis through your merits, not my own, I chooſe
Thus to ſalute you by my riſing Muſe;
[326]Not fawning low like others muſt ſhe ſue,
She muſt fly up to pay reſpect to you.
Let others ſpread their patrons feathers far,
The toys of peace your laurels ſpread through war.
Some pride in wreaths, which bolder arms have made,
But your own conquering hands have deckt your head.
To you, my Lord, a double crown is due,
At once the Hero and the Poet too.
Since Naſſau's actions ſtill remain untold,
While Dryden lives, immortal; yet he's old.
'Tis you, we hope, will make them far ador'd,
And ſerve him with your pen, as well as ſword;
Beyond his trumpet's clangors make them known,
Name Naſſau's acts, and all muſt know your own.
With powers unequal, I the taſk reſign,
A taſk too great for any ſtrength—but thine.
What other genius can our Sovereign chooſe?
War's your delight, Bellona is your Muſe.
Your pen and ſword with like ſucceſs you wield,
Fam'd through your ſtudy, glorious through the field.
With the ſame vigour and impulſe of thought,
Now may you write, as through the plains you fought.
In the attempt, though my weak genius fail,
Be pleas'd at leaſt to recommend my zeal.
Unknown, this favour dare I humbly claim,
Unknown to you, my Lord, unknown to fame.
I, like thoſe ſoldiers which in war you led,
Diſdain to fear, while I have you my head;
Your well-rais'd greatneſs my ſucceſs ſecures,
I grow aſſur'd of fame, by truſting yours.
[327]Great both in arts and arms; our Jove, in you,
Secures his lightning, and his thunder too.
Thus, ſhould your judgment my preſumption blame,
Pleas'd ſhall this Semele expire in flame;
To you, my Lord, moſt fit, this ſuit I move,
You, who are plac'd at the right hand of Jove.
SONG,
ONLY tell her that I love,
Leave the reſt to Her and Fate;
Some kind planet from above
May perhaps her pity move;
Lovers on their ſtars muſt wait;
Only tell her that I love.
[328]Why, oh, why ſhould I deſpair?
Mercy's pictur'd in her eye:
If ſhe once vouchſafe to hear,
Welcome Hope, and welcome Fear.
She's too good to let me die;
Why, oh, why ſhould I deſpair?
ELEGY ON THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.
[329]DEEP waters ſilent roll; ſo grief like mine
Tears never can relieve, nor words define.
Stop then, ſtop your vain ſource, weak ſprings of grief,
Let tears flow from their eyes whom tears relieve.
They from their heads ſhew the light trouble there,
Could my heart weep, its ſorrows 'twould declare:
When drops of blood, my heart, thou'ſt loſt; thy pride,
The cauſe of all thy hopes and fears, thy guide!
He would have led thee right in Wiſdom's way,
And 'twas thy fault whene'er thou went'ſt aſtray:
And ſince thou ſtray'd'ſt when guided and led on,
Thou wilt be ſurely loſt now left alone.
It is thy Elegy I write, not his;
He lives immortal and in higheſt bliſs.
[330]But thou art dead, alas! my heart, thou'rt dead:
He lives, that lovely ſoul for ever fled,
But thou 'mongſt crowds on earth art buried.
Great was thy loſs, which thou canſt ne'er expreſs,
Nor was th' inſenſible dull nation's leſs;
He civiliz'd the rude, and taught the young,
Made fools grow wiſe; ſuch artful magic hung
Upon his uſeful kind inſtructing tongue.
His lively wit was of himſelf a part,
Not, as in other men, the work of art;
For, though his learning like his wit was great,
Yet ſure all learning came below his wit;
As God's immediate gifts are better far
Than thoſe we borrow from our likeneſs here,
He was—but I want words, and ne'er can tell,
Yet this I know, he did mankind excell.
He was what no man ever was before,
Nor can indulgent nature give us more,
For, to make him, ſhe exhauſted all her ſtore.
AGAINST THE FEAR OF DEATH.
SINCE all muſt certainly to death reſign,
Why ſhould we make it dreadful, or repine?
How vain is fear, where nothing can prevent
The loſs, which he that loſes can't lament?
The fear of Death is by our folly brought,
We fly th' acquaintance of it in a thought;
From ſomething into nothing is a change
Grown terrible, by making it ſo ſtrange.
[331]We always ſhould remember, Death is ſure;
What grows familiar moſt, we beſt endure:
For life and death ſucceed like night and day,
And neither gives increaſe, nor brings decay.
No more or leſs by what takes birth or dies,
And the ſame maſs the teeming world ſupplies.
From death we roſe to life; 'tis but the ſame,
Through life again to paſs from whence we came.
With ſhame we ſee our paſſions can prevail,
Where reaſon, certainty, and virtue fail.
Honour, that empty name, can death deſpiſe,
Scorn'd Love to Death as to a refuge flies,
And ſorrow waits for death with longing eyes.
Hope triumphs o'er the thought of Death and Fate,
Cheats fools, and flatters the unfortunate.
Perhaps, deceiv'd by luſt-ſupplying wealth,
Now-enjoy'd pleaſures, and a preſent health,
We fear to loſe what a ſmall time muſt waſte,
Till life itſelf grows the diſeaſe at [...]aſt:
Begging for life, we beg for more decay,
And to be long a dying only pray.
No juſt and temperate thought can tell us why
We ſhould fear death, or grieve for them that die;
The time we leave behind is ours no more,
Nor our concern, than time that was before.
'Twere a fond ſight, if thoſe that ſtay behind
For the ſame paſſage, waiting for a wind
To drive them to their port; ſhould on the ſhore
Lamenting ſtand, for thoſe that went before.
We all muſt paſs through Death's dead ſea of night,
To reach the haven of eternal light.
A PARAPHRASE FROM THE FRENCH*.
[332]IN grey-hair'd Celia's wither'd arms
As mighty Lewis lay,
She cry'd, "If I have any charms,
My deareſt, let's away!
For you, my love, is all my fear,
Hark how the drums do rattle;
Alas, ſir! what ſhould you do here
In dreadful day of battle?
Let little Orange ſtay and fight,
For danger's his diverſion;
The wiſe will think you in the right,
Not to expoſe your perſon:
Nor vex your thoughts how to repair
The ruins of your glory:
You ought to leave ſo mean a care
To thoſe who pen your ſtory.
Are not Boileau and Corneille paid
For panegyric writing?
They know how heroes may be made
Without the help of fighting.
When foes too ſaucily approach
'Tis beſt to leave them fairly;
Put ſix good horſes in your coach,
And carry me to Marly.
Let Bouflers, to ſecure your fame,
Go take ſome town, or buy it;
Whilſt you, great ſir, at Noſtredame,
Te Deum ſing in quiet!"
Appendix A CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.
[333]- ECLOGUES of VIRGIL,
- I. By Mr. John Caryll. Page 1
- II. By Mr. Nahum Tate. 7
- —By Mr. Thomas Creech. 11
- III. By the ſame. 14
- VII. By Mr. William Adams. 21
- VIII. By Mr. Stafford. 25
- X. By the ſame. 29
- —By Sir William Temple, Bart. 33
- Virgil's O Fortunatos, &c. By the ſame. 39
- Horace, Book I. Sat. I. By the ſame. 44
- On Mrs. Philipps's Death. By the ſame. 50
- On my Lady Gifford's Loory. By the ſame. 54
- Ariſtaeus, from Virgil's Georgicks, Book IV. By the ſame. 58
- Horace, Book IV. Ode VII. By the ſame. 76
- Horace, Book I. Ode XIII. By the ſame. 77
- Upon the Approach of the Shore at Harwich, Janu⯑ary 1668. By the ſame. 78
- Horace, Book III. Ode XXIX. By the ſame. 82
- Horace, Book I. Part of Ep. II. By the ſame. 86
- Tibullus, Lib. IV. El. II. By the ſame. 87
- Song, from Marriage A-la-mode. By Mr. Dryden. 88
- Song, from Tyrannic Love. By the ſame. 89
- On the Death of Prince Henry and Princeſs Mary. By the ſame. 90
- On the Marriage of K. Charles II. By the ſame. 92
- [334]Horace, Book I. Sat. VIII. By Mr. Stafford. 93
- The Death of Camilla. By the ſame. 96
- To my Heart. 103
- Cato's Anſwer to Labienus, from the Ninth Book of Lucan. By Mr. Wolſeley. 105
- On the Prince's going to England, with an Army to reſtore the Government, 1688. By the ſame. 107
- Song. By the ſame. 108
- Anſwered by Mr. Wharton. ibid.
- A Prologue to Satyr. 109
- Song of Baſſet. By Sir George Etherege. 113
- To the Earl of Middleton. By the ſame. 114
- A Second Epiſtle. By the ſame. 118
- The Cup, from Anacreon. By Mr. John Oldham. 119
- Ode on St. Cecilia's Day. By the ſame. 122
- Paſtoral on the Death of Mr. Oldham. 124
- Remedy of Love. By John Evelyn, Eſq. 127
- On Virtue, to Mr. S. G. By the ſame. 132
- To Envy, from Ovid. By the ſame. 134
- Martial, Book VIII. Epig. LVI. By the ſame. 136
- Horace, Book I. Ode VIII. By the ſame. 137
- The Puniſhment. By the ſame. 138
- Part of Ajax's Speech, from Ovid. By the ſame. 139
- Sanazarius in Venice. By the ſame. 140
- Written on a Lady's Maſk. By the ſame. ibid.
- Elegy on Dean Crofts. By Matthew Stevenſon. 141
- A Prologue. By Major Aſton. 143
- Ovid, de Triſt. Book I. El. XI. 145
- Elegy on Dr. Whitaker. By Mr. Joſeph Hall. 148
- Ad Carolum Regem. By Sir John Cotton. 153
- [335]On Mr. H. Dickinſon's Tranſlation of Pere Simon's Critical Hiſtory. 154
- Horti Arlingtoniani. By Mr. Charles Dryden. 156
- The ſame, tranſlated by Mr. Samuel Boyſe. 161
- To the Nightingale coming in the Spring. 168
- Song. 175
- On the King's Houſe building at Wincheſter. 176
- On the Death of Melantha. 180
- The Court Proſpect. By Mr. Charles Hopkins. 183
- Deſcription of a Battle. 193
- Deſcription of the Goddeſs of Peace and her Palace. 196
- To Charles Earl of Dorſet. By the ſame. 201
- To Walter Moyle, Eſq. By the ſame. 202
- To Antho [...] Hammond, Eſq. By the ſame. 204
- To C. C. Eſq. By the ſame. 208
- To Mrs. Mohun, on her Recovery. By the ſame. 209
- To a Lady. By the ſame. 210
- To the ſame Lady. 212
- To Dr. Gibbons. By the ſame. 214
- To Mr. Congreve. By the ſame. 216
- To Mr. Yalden. By the ſame. 218
- Song. By the ſame. 220
- Sanazarius on Venice. By the ſame. 221
- Cato's Character, from the Second Book of Lucan. By the ſame. ibid.
- The Hiſtory of Love. In a Letter to a Lady. By the ſame. 222
- Admiration. 227
- Deſire. 230
- Hope. 233
- [336]Jealouſy. 237
- Deſpair. 244
- The Parting. 250
- Abſence. 255
- Paſtoral Elegy on the Death of Delia. By the ſame. 264
- Phoebus and Daphne. From Ovid. 269
- Jupiter and Europa. From the ſame. 276
- Narciſſus and Echo. From the ſame. 278
- Scylla's Paſſion for Minos. From the ſame. 268
- Ceyx and Halcyone. From the ſame. 290
- Deſcription of a Storm and Shipwreck. 293
- Deſcription of the God of Sleep and his Palace. 299
- Tibullus, Book I. El. I By the ſame. 308
- Tibullus, Book II. El. IV. By the ſame. 314
- Tibullus, Book IV. El. XIII. By the ſame. 317
- Farewell to Poetry. By the ſame. 319
- Hymn. By the ſame. 321
- Epiſtle to a Friend. By Mr. John Hopkins. 322
- To the Lord Cutts. By the ſame. 325
- Song, by Lord Cutts. 327
- Elegy on the Earl of Rocheſter. By Mrs. Wharton. 329
- Againſt the Fear of Death. By Sir Robert Howard. 330
- To Lewis XIV. A Paraphraſe from the French (ſuppoſed to be by Mr. Prior). 332
THE END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
Notes
*
John Caryll, Eſq was probably a Suſſex man, and wrote two plays, "The Engliſh Princeſs, or the Death of Richard III, 1667," quarto; and "Sir Salomon, or the Cautious Coxcomb, 1671," quarto. It may be conjectured that he was of the Roman Catholic perſuaſion, being ſecre⯑tary to Queen Mary the wife of James the Second, and one who followed the fortunes of his abdicating maſter. How long he continued in this ſervice is unknown, but he was in England in the reign of Queen Anne, and recommended the ſubject of Mr. Pope's "Rape of the Lock" to that au⯑thor, who on its publication addreſſed it to him. He was alive in 1717, and at that time muſt have been a very old man. See three of his Letters in "Additions to Pope," vol. II. p. 114. R.
*
The reader may be pleaſed to obſerve, that Virgil, un⯑der the name of Tityrus, perſonates himſelf, newly ſaved by the favour of Auguſtus Caeſar, from the general calamity of his Mantuan neighbours; whoſe lands were taken from them, and divided amongſt the veteran ſoldiers, for having been dipt (as may be preſumed) in the ſame guilt with their borderers of Cremo [...]a; who, in the civil wars, joined with Caſſius and Brutus. Theſe Mantuans are likewiſe perſonated by Meliboeus; as alſo by Amaryllis the city of Rome, by Galatea that of Mantua, are repreſented. The drift of this E [...]logue is to celebrate the munificence of Auguſtus towards Virgil, whom he makes his tutelar God; and the better to ſet this off, he brings in Meliboeus, [...] his Mantuan neigh⯑bours, pathetically relating their own deplorable condition, and at the ſame time magnifying the felicity of Tityrus. This his exemption from the common calamity of his coun⯑trymen, Virgil ſhadows over with the allegory of a ſlave re⯑covering his liberty. And becauſe ſlaves did not commonly uſe to be infranchiſed till age had made them uſeleſs for la⯑bour; to follow the trope, he makes himſelf an old man, as by the Candidior Barba, and the Fortunate Senex, ſuffici⯑ently appears; though, in reality, Virgil at that time was young, and then firſt made known to Auguſtus by the re⯑commendation of his verſes, and of his friends Varus and Maecenas. CARYLL.
*
Born about the middle of the reign of king Charles II. in the kingdom of Ireland, where he received his education. He was made poet laureat to king William, upon the death of Shadwell, and held that place till the acceſſion of George I. on whom he lived to write the firſt birth-day ode, which is executed with unuſual ſpirit. He was a man of good-nature, great probity, and competent learning; but ſo extremely modeſt, that he was never able to make his fortune, or to raiſe himſelf above neceſſity. The earl of Dorſet was his patron; but the chief uſe he made of him was, to ſcreen himſelf from the perſecution of his creditors. He died in the Mint, Auguſt 12, 1716; and was ſucceeded in the laurel by Mr. Euſden. He was the author of nine dramatic per⯑formances, a great number of poems, and of a verſion of the Pſalms in conjunction with Dr. Nicholas Brady. He was a man of wit and parts, yet not thought to poſſeſs any very great genius, as being deficient in what is its firſt character⯑iſtic, namely, invention. Thus far the Biographical Dicti⯑onary.—His miſcellaneous poems are enumerated by Jacob, who ſays, Tate's poem on the Death of Queen Anne, which was one of the laſt, is ‘"one of the beſt poems he ever wrote."’ His ſhare in the "Second Part of Abſalom and Achitophel" is far from inconſiderable; and may be ſeen in the Engliſh Poets, vol. XIII. p. 160. He publiſhed alſo "Memorials for the Learned, collected out of eminent Au⯑thors in Hiſtory, &c. 1686," 8vo. and his "Propoſal for regulating of the Stage and Stage Plays, Feb. 6, 1698," is among Biſhop Gibſon's MSS. in the Lambeth Library. N.
*
The ſhepherd Corydon woos Alexis; but finding he could not prevail, he reſolves to follow his affairs, and forget his paſſion. CREECH.
†
See an account of Mr. Creech, vol. I. p. 230. N.
*
Menalcas and Dametas upbraid each other with their faults; by and by they challenge one another, and pipe for a wager. Palaemon, coming that way by chance, is choſen judge; he hears them pipe, but cannot determine the con⯑troverſy. CREECH.
*
This paſſage, with Neſtor's cup in Homer, is admirably illuſtrated in Mr. Clarke's Connexion of Clarke on Coins, p. 223. N.
*
A ſpecies of the willow-tree. N.
*
This gentleman's memory is preſerved by "Fifteen Diſcourſes occaſionally delivered before the Univerſity of Oxford. By William Adams, M.A. late ſtudent of Chriſt Church, and rector of Staunton upon Wye in Here⯑fordſhire. Publiſhed by Henry Sacheverell, D.D. 1716." This volume, of which a ſecond edition was publiſhed the ſame year, is inſcribed to Richard Hopton, eſq. knight of the ſhire for the county of Hereford, to whom Mr. Adams had been tutor at Chriſt Church; an employment be appears to have been well qualified for diſcharging. In his younger years he gave many admirable ſpecimens of his polite genius, in his accurate performances in Poetry and Oratory; and had afterwards the honour to be choſen his maſter Dr. Buſby's firſt Catachetical Lecturer in Oxford. To anſwer the pious and charitable deſign of that great founder of learning, he bent the whole courſe of his ſtudies to Divinity, of which he is ſaid to have drawn out a comprehenſive and uſeful plan which at his death he directed his executors to deſtroy, with all his MSS. except the volume of Diſcourſes, which appeared by his expreſs injunction. In the Catalogue of Oxford Gra⯑duates there are three Chriſt-Church men of the name of Will [...]am Adams, each of them M.A. and all nearly of the ſame ſtanding. N.
*
Another tranſlation of this Eclogue is in vol. I. p. 21, by Mr. W. Bowles. N.
†
Moſt probably Mr. Richard Stafford of Magdalen Hall, Oxford, where he took the degree of B.A. Oct. 27, 1681; and afterwards of M.A. ‘"He went to one of the Tem⯑ples to ſtudy the Law, and is now a frequent writer."’ Wood, Fa [...]i, II. 217; Wood mentions only one of his pieces, "Of Happineſs," &c. 4to. 1689. There was a thin 8vo volume of poems publiſhed in 1721 by a Mr. P. Stafford. N.
*
Sir William's favourite ſiſter, a lady of uncommon merit and goodneſs, and companion to him in all his foreign embaſſies. She was addreſſed by Sir W. Giffard; who dying during the courtſhip, he begged the young lady to bear his name; and, to enable him to leave her his eſtate as a proof of his affection, ſhe was married to him on his death-bed; by which means ſhe became entitled to his large eſtate; and, that ſhe might not ſhew herſelf unworthy of his eſteem, ſhe made a vow (though in her tender youth) never to marry any other man, but to live his widow: and this ſhe faithfully performed. She died in 1722, at the age of 84. An old-faſhioned monument with an epitaph, which ſeems to have been deſigned by Sir W. Temple in his life-time, is erected in Weſtminſter Abbey, ‘"To himſelf, and thoſe moſt dear to him; to his moſt beloved daughter; to his moſt beloved wife; and to Martha Giffard his beſt of ſiſters."’ N.
†
‘"Sir William Temple was deſcended from a younger branch of a family of that name, ſeated at Temple Hall in Leiceſterſhire. His grandfather was ſecretary to the unfor⯑tunate earl of Eſſex, favourite of queen Elizabeth, and his father was Sir John Temple, maſter of the rolls in Ireland. He was as much above the common level of politicians, as he was above the herd of authors. He diſplayed his great abi⯑lities in ſeveral important treaties and negotiations, the moſt conſiderable of which was the bringing to a happy concluſion the famous triple league betwixt England, Sweden, and Hol⯑land. This alliance, though the moſt prudent ſtep ever taken by Charles II. was ſoon defeated by the Cabal, a ſet of men who were as great a diſgrace to their country, as Sir William Temple was an honour to it. He was ſtrongly ſoli⯑cited to go over to Holland, in order to break that league which he had a little before concluded: but he was too much a patriot to yield to any ſolicitations of that kind; and choſe to retire into the country, where he was much better employed in writing his excellent "Obſervations on the Uni⯑ted Provinces," and other elegant works. Few authors have been more read, or more juſtly admired, than Sir Wil⯑liam Temple. He diſplays his great knowledge of book [...] and men in an elegant, eaſy, and negligent ſtyle, much like the language of genteel converſation. His vanity ofter prompts him to ſpeak of himſelf; but he and Montaigne a [...] never more pleaſing than when they dwell on that difficul [...] ſubject. It is a happy circumſtance for his readers, that ſ [...] polite and learned a writer was alſo a vain one: they a [...] great gainers by his foible. He is ſometimes inaccurate but his inaccuracies eſcape us unſeen, or are very little at⯑tended to. We can eaſily forgive a little incorrectneſs o [...] drawing in the paintings of a Correggio, when there is ſo m [...]ch beauty and grace t [...] atone for it. He died in January 1691, in his ſeventieth year."’ Thus far from Granger.—Sir William's Poſthumous Works were publiſhed by Dr. Swift; who is ſuppoſed to have written the Life. A good edition [...] them was printed in 1770, in four volumes 8vo. Th [...] [...]mber of his poems being ſmall, he is but little known a [...] a poet, though ſurely ſome of them are very beautiful. I have by accident a thin volume, in 8vo. without title or date, with MS. corrections, formerly belonging to Lady Giffard, which there is great reaſon to believe was printed only for private uſe and never publiſhed, whence the reader will be gratified with ſome poems which may not improperly be called original. N.
*
Georg. II. 458, & ſeqq.
*
Mrs. Catharine Philipps, better known by the poetical name of Orinda, was the daughter of John Fowler, merchant▪ and born in London, 1631, as Wood and Ballard (in 1633 ac⯑cording to Jacob); was married to James Philipps, of the Priory of Cardigan, eſq. about the year 1647; and died in Fleet-ſtreet, in the month of June, 1664. Her poems, in⯑cluding two tragedies, "Horace" and "Pompey," both tranſ⯑lated from Corneille, were collected in a folio volume, and afterwards reprinted in octavo. She was alſo the writer of [...] volume of Letters (publiſhed many years after her death) [...] Sir Charles Cotterel, intituled, "Letters from Orinda to P [...] ⯑liarchus;" which have been much admired. Mrs. Philipps was as much famed for her friendſhip, as [...] her poetry; and had the good fortune to be equally eſteem [...] by the beſt poet and the beſt divine of her age. Dr. Jeremy Taylor addreſſed his diſcourſe "on the nature and effects of friendſhip" to this lady; and Mr. Cowley has celebrated her memory, in an Ode particularly diſtinguiſhed by the very learned and ſagacious editor of his "Select Works."—The induſtrious Mr. Langbaine ſays, ‘"ſhe was one that equalled the Leſbian Sappho, and Roman Sulpicia: as they were praiſed by Horace, Martial, Auſonius, and other antient poets; ſo was this lady commended by the earls of Orrery and Roſcommon, by Cowley, Flatman, and other eminent poets."’ Sir John Denham added a fifth act to her tragedy of "Horace," which was performed at court by per⯑ſons of quality, in 1678. In the prologue, ſpoken by the duke of Monmouth, it was obſerved, that The commendation ſhe received from Lord Roſcommon is thus handſomely returned by Mrs. Philipps: ‘"Lord Roſcommon is certainly one of the moſt promiſing young noblemen in Ire⯑land. He has paraphraſed a Pſalm admirably; and a ſcene of Paſtor Fido very finely, in ſome places much better than Sir Richard Fanſhaw. This was undertaken merely [...] compliment to me, who happened to ſay that it was the be [...] ſcene in Italian, and the worſt in Engliſh. He was only two hours about it.’ It begins thus: From theſe lines, which are ſince ſomewhat mended, it ap⯑pears that he did not think a work of two hours fit to en⯑dure the eye of criticiſm without reviſal. When Mrs. Phi⯑lipps was in Ireland, ſome ladies, that had ſeen her tranſlation of Pompey, reſolved to bring it on the ſtage at Dublin; and, to promote their deſign, Lord Roſcommon gave them a prologue, and Sir Edward Dering an epilogue; "which," ſays ſhe, ‘"are the beſt performances of thoſe kinds I eve [...] ſaw."’ If this is not criticiſm, it is at leaſt gratitude▪ The thought of bringing Caeſar and Pompey into Ireland▪ the only country over which Caeſar never had any power▪ is lucky.—I need not point out the part of theſe remarks for which I am indebted to Lord Roſcommon's incomparab [...] Biographer. N.
" Orinda's works, with courtly graces ſtor'd,
" True ſenſe in nice expreſſions will afford."
Dr. King, vol. III. p. [...]
" While a woman Horace did tranſlate,
" Horace did riſe above a Roman ſtate."
" Dear happy groves, and you the dark retreat
" Of ſilent horrour, Reſt's eternal ſeat."
*
From the deſcription, perhaps a ſpecies of ſinging par⯑rot. N.
*
From the French badin, a perſon full of play. N.
†
Q. ſhagreen? N.
*
Ariſtaeus was ſon of Cyrene, daughter to one of the an⯑cient kings of Arcadia; and by Apollo as was believed or at leaſt reported. His birth was concealed, and he was ſent to be privately brought up among the ſhepherds of Arcadia; where, grown a man, he applied himſelf wholly to the cares and ſtores of a country life, in all which he ſucceeded, ſo as to grow renowned for his knowledge and wealth. He was eſteemed the firſt inventor of cheeſe, oil, and honey, or rather of the art of hiving bees, which before were wild, and their ſtocks found only by chance and in hollow trees. For this he was worſhiped among the Arcadians as ſon of Apollo, and as other inventors of things neceſſary or moſt uſeful to hu⯑man life. He fell in love with Eurydice newly eſpouſed to Or⯑pheus; and by his purſuit of her was the occaſion of her death, being bitten by a ſnake as ſhe fled from him. This was followed by the death of Orpheus after a long and incu⯑rable grief, whereupon Ariſtaeus was by the nymphs, com⯑panions of Eurydice, plagued in all his ſtores, but moſt of all in his bees, of which he was fondeſt, till he loſt them all, and was in deſpair ever to recover them: but, by the advice of his mother and of Proteus, to whom ſhe ſent him, he came to find out both the true cauſe of his loſs, and means of retrieving it. TEMPLE.
*
This poem is printed from Dr. Swift's edition. In Lady Giffard's copy there are ſome ſmall variations, which I hav [...] noticed in p. 80. N.
*
VARIATIONS IN LADY GIFFARD'S COPY.The corrections, I believe, were made by Dr. Swift. N.
" To the wild beaſts, and wilder men, that prey
" Upon whatever chances in their way."
†
VARIATIONS IN LADY GIFFARD'S COPY.The corrections, I believe, were made by Dr. Swift. N.
" Their famiſh'd hinds, oppreſs'd by cruel lords,
" Flea'd with hard taxes, aw'd with ſoldiers' ſwords,"
‡
VARIATIONS IN LADY GIFFARD'S COPY. The corrections, I believe, were made by Dr. Swift. N.
" With the good beef that their own fields have bred,"
*
well, in Lady G's copy.
†
ſilent, ibid.
*
There are ſeveral excellent ſongs in his "King Ar⯑thur;" which ſhould have been copied, but that they are ſo interwoven with the ſtory of the drama that it would be improper to ſeparate them. There is alſo a ſong in "Love "in a Nunnery;" and another in "The Duke of Guiſe" but neither of them worth tranſcribing. N.
*
From "Threni Cantabrigienſes in Funere duorum Prin⯑cipum, Henrici Gloceſtrenſis, & Mariae Arauſionenſis, ſ [...] ⯑reniſſimi Regis Caroli II. Fratris & Sororis. Cantab. 1661." For copies of this and the following poem I am indebted to a volume in the Lambeth Library, 39. 6. 13. fol. moſt ob⯑ligingly communicated by Dr. Ducarel.—The Reader will not be diſpleaſed at being preſented with two Latin poems (though perhaps of no ſuperior excellence) by ſo capital a writer. By the ſecond of them it appears that in 1662 he had the degree of B.A. and had obtained a fellowſhip; though neither of thoſe academical honours attended has name in 1661. One of his earlieſt productions (written in 1650, the year he went to College) is already printed in vol. I. p. 181. with a prologue and two epilogues to "The Duke of Guiſe," none of which are in any edition of his works. If theſe poems had come to light before the publication of Dr. Johnſon's excellent Life of Dryden, that judicious Biographer would certainly have made ſome alteration in the following paragraph:—‘"At the univerſity he does not appear to have been eager of poetical diſtinction, or to have laviſhed his early wit either on fictitious ſubjects or publick occaſions. He pro⯑bably conſidered that he who purpoſed to be an author, ought firſt to be a ſtudent. He obtained, whatever was the reaſon, no fellowſhip in the College. Why he was excluded, cannot now be known, and it is vain to gueſs; had he thought him⯑ſelf injured, he knew how to complain. In the Life of Pl [...]tarch he mentions his education in the College with gra⯑titude; but in a prologue at Oxford, he has theſe lines: It was not till the death of Cromwell, in 1658, that he became a publick candidate for fame, by publiſhing Heroick Stanza [...] on the late Lord Protector; which, compared with the verſes of Sprat and Waller on the ſame occaſion, were ſuf⯑ficient to raiſe great expectations of the riſing poet."’ I had not ſeen theſe poems when the note in vol. I. p. 181. was printing N.
Oxford to him a dearer name ſhall be
Than his own mother-univerſity;
Thebes did his rude unknowing youth engage:
He chooſes Athens in his riper age.
*
From the "Epithalamia Cantabrigienſia in Nuptias au⯑ſpicatiſſimas ſereniſſimi Regis Caroli II. Britanniarum Mo⯑narchae, & illuſtriſſimae Principis Catharinae, potentiſſimi Regis Luſitaniae ſororis unicae, Cantab. 1662." N.
*
Of whom ſee above, p. 29. N.
*
See another imitat [...] of this paſſage of Lucan, by lord Lyttelton, Engliſh Po [...] vol. LVI. p. 96. N.
†
See vol. I. p. [...] H [...] father publiſhed a religious treatiſe in 1691, called "The Mount of Spirits." N.
*
See vol. I. p. 192.
*
Charles Middleton, the ſecond earl of that title, and baron Clairmont, was ſecretary of ſtate for Scotland from the year 1684 to the Revolution; when he followed king James into France, and was attainted by the Scots parliament in 1695. He married lady Catharine daughter of Robert earl of Cardigan, by whom he had two ſons, John lord Clair⯑mont, and Charles Middleton, eſq who were both taken at ſea by admiral Byng, in the deſcent which the French in⯑tended upon Scotland in 1708; but, by the queen's orders, they were ſoon releaſed, and died in France without iſſue. Their father was alſo aboard in that armament. He had two daughters; lady-Elizabeth, wife of Edward, ſon of James earl of Perth; and lady Mary, wife of ſir John Gifford, knight.—‘"He is one of the pleaſanteſt companions in the world."’ Macky.—‘"Sir William Temple told me, he was a very valuable man; and a good ſcholar I once ſaw him."’ SWIFT, MS.—In Harl. MSS. are ſeveral of his letters to the earl of Oxford; in one of which, 1729, he thus recommends the chevalier Ramſay: ‘"To a great deal of erudition he joins as many and great good qualities as I ever met in any man."’ In another, he tells lord Oxford, who wiſhed to exchange ſome literary curioſities with the French king, ‘"You are too modeſt; and that is not the way to deal with the people of this country."’—An affecting ſtory of the honourable Charles Middleton (ſecond ſon of the earl) is related by the counteſs of Pomfret, in Duncombe's collection of Letters, vol. II. p. 125. 2d edit. N.
†
See Dryden's Letters to ſir G. Etherege at Ratiſbon, Engliſh Poets, vol. XIV. p. 131. N.
*
Spenſer.
†
"Ode on the works of Ben Jonſon, 1678." N.
‡
Lord Rocheſter, in "A Paſtoral, in imitation of Moſ⯑chus." N.
*
Dryden.—This and the two following lines are wanting in the copy prefixed to Oldham's Remains. N.
*
Son of the great natural philoſopher, and born at Sayes-Court near Deptford, upon the 14th of January 1654, and was there educated with great care. He was ſent to Oxford in the year 1666, where he remained in the houſe of Dr. Bathurſt, then preſident of Trinity-college, before he was admitted a gentleman-commoner, which was in Eaſter-term 1688. It is not clear at what time he left Oxford; but Mr. Wood ſeems to be poſitive that he took no degree there, but returned to his father's houſe, and proſecuted his ſtudies under his directions. It is ſuppoſed, however, that, during his reſidence in Trinity-college, he wrote that elegant Greek poem, which is prefixed to the ſecond edition of the Sylva; and is a noble proof of the ſtrength of his genius and won⯑derful progreſs in learning in the early part of his life. He diſcovered his proficiency ſoon afterwards, both in the ancient and modern languages, by his elegant tranſlations; as well as his intimate acquaintance with the Muſes, in ſome original poems, which were much admired. His works will be mentioned preſently. He married Martha, daugh⯑ter and co-heireſs of Richard Spencer, eſq and, having a head as well turned for buſineſs as ſtudy, became one of the commiſſioners of the revenue in Ireland. He would pro⯑bably have been advanced to higher employments, if he had lived; but he died at his houſe in London, upon the 24th of March 1698, in the 45th year of his age. He was father of the late ſir John Evelyn, who was born at Sayes-Court upon the 2d of March 1681, and created a baronet by letters patent, bearing date July 30th, 1713. This gentleman's productions in the literary way were, 1. "Of Gardens, four books, firſt written in Latin verſe by Renatus Ra⯑pinus, and now made Engliſh by John Evelyn, eſq" 1673, 8vo. Conſidering how much he muſt have been obliged to hear of gardens and plantations, we need not wonder that he ſhould employ himſelf upon this ſubject. His father an⯑nexed the ſecond book of this tranſlation to his Sylva. 2. "The life of Alexander the Great, tranſlated from the Greek of Plutarch." This was printed in the fourth volume of Plutarch's Lives by ſeveral hands. 3. "The hiſtory of the grand viſiers, Mahomet and Achmet Co⯑progli; of the three laſt grand ſeigniors, their ſultanas, and chief favourites; with the moſt ſecret intrigues of the ſeraglio." 1677, 8vo. This was a tranſlation from the French, and has been eſteemed an entertaining and in⯑ſtructive hiſtory. He was alſo author of ſeveral occaſional poems, the beſt of which are here preſerved. N.
*
‘"I like not ſuch grinning honour as Sir Walter hath."’ Shakſpeare, 1 Henry IV. vol. V. p. 416. ed. 1778. N.
*
A younger ſon of ſir John Crofts of Teddington in Bedfordſhire; at firſt a commoner of Lincoln College, Ox⯑ford; afterwards fellow of All Souls, and M.A. and be⯑neficed; but, ſuffering for the royal cauſe, retired to Ox⯑ford, where he was created D.D. June 23, 1646. After the Reſtoration, by the intereſt of his brother, William lord Crofts of Sexham (an extinct title), he obtained the deanry of Norwich, where he was inſtalled, Aug. 7, 1660; he died July 27, 1670; and was buried in the cathedral. N.
†
Author of "Norfolk Drollery; or, a compleat col⯑lection of the neweſt ſongs, jovial poems, and catches, &c. 1673." His head was engraved by Gaywood, with the following inſcription, preſerved in Mr. Walpole's Ca⯑talogue of engravers: Theſe lines have miſled Mr. Granger, who too haſtily con⯑cluded that the facetious author muſt of courſe have been a dramatic writer. His "Merry Play" was evidently no other than his "Norfolk Drollery." Though very poſſibly he poſſeſſed a ‘"ſhare of that vanity which adheres to human nature,"’ his poems are certainly introduced by two modeſt dedications; one, to the moſt virtuous and ingenious Madam Mary Hunt, of Sharington Hall; the other, to his noble friend Thomas Brown, eſq of Elſing Hall. N.
" The printer's profit, not my pride,
" Hath this idea ſignified;
" For he puſh'd out the merry play,
" And Mr. Gaywood made it gay."
*
Whoſe hiſtory is given in 2 Kings, c.xi. N.
†
Poſſibly James Aſton of St. John's College, Oxford, whom Wood and Walker deſcribe as ‘"a captain in the king's army, and afterwards as a ſufferer for his majeſty's cauſe;"’ but who, after the Reſtoration, became well beneficed, and in April 1682 canon of Wells. He is certainly, however, ‘"the little Aſton"’ of Lord Mulgrave's ſatirical "Epiſtle to Julian," Engliſh Poets, vol. XIV. p. 157. N.
*
After having continued long in favour at the court of Auguſtus, he fell under that Emperor's diſpleaſure in the fif⯑tieth year of his age. He ſays, in ſeveral parts of his works, the cauſes of his miſery were two: his having com⯑poſed books on the Art of Love, and his having ſeen ſomething. He does not tell what it was he ſaw; but gives us to under⯑ſtand, that his books contributed leſs to his diſgrace than that did: and on his complaining to Love, that, after labouring to enlarge his empire, he obtained nothing for his reward but baniſhment, Love anſwers, And in his ſecond book De Triſtibus, l. ii. ver. 103, he com⯑pares himſelf to unfortunate Actaeon, who had undeſignedly ſeen Diana naked, and ſuffered for it. Various attempts have been made to conjecture what he ſaw; but it ſtill re⯑mains an uncertainty. N.
" Utque hoc, ſic utinam defendere caetera poſſes:
" Scis aliud, quod te laeſerit, eſſe magis."
De Ponto, l. iii. ep. 3.
*
King's profeſſor, and maſter of St. John's College, Cam⯑bridge; he died in 1595. This clegy was annexed to the "Carmen Funebre Caroli Horni, 1596." N.
†
The reader is here preſented with a beautiful poem, at preſent entirely unknown, by the ingenious and learned di⯑vine who early in life diſtinguiſhed himſelf by his "Virgi⯑demiarum, Satires in ſix books, 1597" (reprinted at Oxford 1753, 8vo). He was born and educated at Aſhby-de-la-Zouch; and at 15 was ſent to Emanuel College, Cambridge, where he regularly obtained his degrees and a fellowſhip, and read the rhetoric lecture in the public ſchools for two years with great applauſe. In the prologue to the "Virgi⯑demiarum," he calls himſelf the firſt ſatyriſt in the Eng⯑liſh language; About 1596 he was preſented to the rectory of Halſted in Suffolk, and ſoon after married a wiſe with whom he lived happily 49 years. In 1605, he accompanied ſir Edward Bacon to the Spa, where he compoſed his ſecond "Century of Meditations." In 1612, he took the degree of D.D. obtained the donative of Waltham Holy Croſs in Eſſex, and a little before had been made chaplain to prince Henry; was made a prebendary of the collegiate church of Wolve [...]hamp⯑ton; dean of Worceſter, whilſt abſent in France on an em⯑baſſy with lord Hay, in 1616; attended the king into Scot⯑land as chaplain in 1617; and was ſent to the ſynod of Dort in 1618, where he preached an admired Latin ſermon. He re⯑fuſed the biſhoprick of Glouceſter in 1624; accepted that of E [...]eter in 1627; and in November 1641 was tranſlated to Norwich. He was committed to the Tower on the 30th of Ja⯑nuary, whence in June 1642 he was releaſed on giving 5000l. bail. Withdrawing to Norwich, he lived there in tolerable quiet till April 1643. But then, the order for ſequeſtering no⯑torious delinquents being paſſed, in which he was included by name, all his rents were ſtopped, and he had nothing to live on but what the parliament allowed him; all the while ſuffering the greateſt inconveniences, which he has given an account of in a piece, intitled his "Hard Meaſure." In the year 1647, he retired to a little eſtate, which he rented at Higham near Norwich; and in this retirement he ended his life on the 8th of September 1656, in the 82d year of his age. He was buried in the church-yard of that pariſh with⯑out any memorial: for in his will he has this paſſage, ‘"I do not hold God's houſe a meet repoſitory for the dead bodies of the greateſt faints."’ He is univerſally allowed to have been a man of great wit and learning, and of as great meekneſs, modeſty, and piety. He was ſo great a lover of ſtudy, that he earneſtly wiſhed his health would have al⯑lowed him to do it even to exceſs. His works, beſides the Satires above-mentioned, make in all five volumes in folio and quarto; and ‘"are filled, ſays Mr. Bayle, with fine thoughts, excellent morality, and a great deal of piety."’ His writings ſhew, that he was very zealous againſt popery; neither was he more favourable to thoſe who ſeparated from the mother-church without an extreme neceſſity. He la⯑mented the diviſions of proteſtants, and wrote ſomething with a view of putting an end to them. N.
" I firſt adventure; follow me who liſt,
" And be the ſecond Engliſh ſatyriſt."
*
See "Carmen Natalitium ad Cunas illuſtriſſimae Principis Elizabethae decantatum per humiles Cantabrigiae Muſas, 1635." N.
*
Sir John Cotton bart. of Landwade and Maddingley, of whom ſee vol. I. p. 139. He was grandfather to the preſent Sir John. In the printed Baronettage, the poet's father (the firſt baronet of the family) is called Sir John; in the Cam⯑bridge Verſes he is called Thomas. N.
†
See a poem by Otway, Engliſh Poets, vol. XI. p. 137. N.
*
Of whom, ſee vol. I. p. 56.
*
Son of Joſeph Boyſe, a Diſſenting miniſter of great eminence in Dublin (who was one of the 16 children of Mr. Matthew Boyſe of Leeds) well known by his controverſial writings againſt Abp. King.—Samuel was born in 1708, and received his education at Dublin; at 18, he was ſent to the univerſity of Glaſgow; and, marrying before he was 20, returned to Dublin with his wife, where the conduct of neither was commendable. The huſband, who had no graces of perſon and fewer ſtill of converſation, paſſed his time in abject trifling; the wife, in intrigue: and their extrava⯑gance reduced his father to indigence. In 1731 young Boyſe reſided at Edinburgh, where he publiſhed a volume of poems, addreſſed to the counteſs of Egleton, the patroneſs of all men of wit. Here alſo Mr. Boyſe particularly diſtinguiſhed him⯑ſelf by an elegy, called "The Tears of the Muſes," on the death of the viſcounteſs Stormont; which introduced him to the noble viſcount; and alſo to the dutcheſs of Gordon, who had engaged for him an office in the cuſtoms, which he loſt by an unpardonable remiſſneſs. The dutcheſs ſent him to London with recommendations to Mr. Pope and the lord chancellor King. He went to Twickenham; but, the po [...] not being at home, he never repeated the viſit; by the peer he was moſt graciouſly received. From this period he wrote many poems; but thoſe, though excellent in their kind (and ſuf⯑ficient, it is ſaid, to have filled at leaſt ſix volumes) were loſt to the world, by being introduced with no advantage. He had ſo ſtrong a propenſity to groveling, that his acquaintance were generally of ſuch a caſt as could be of no ſervice to him; and thoſe in higher life he addreſſed by letters, not having ſufficient confidence or politeneſs to converſe familiarly with them; a freedom to which he was intitled by the power of his genius. His genius was not confined to poetry only; but he had a taſte for painting, muſic, and heraldry, with the latter of which he was well acquainted. Many of his poems are in the Gent. Mag. ſigned Y. and Alceus. In 1743 he publiſhed his "Albion's Triumph," an ode on the battle of Dettingen; and in or about 1745 wrote an admirable poem called "The Deity," which Mr. Pope declared, on its publication, contained many lines of which he ſhould not be aſhamed. It was alſo commended by the late Henry Field⯑ing, who gave a quotation from it, (ſee Tom Jones, B. vii. [...]. 1.) and at the ſame time very juſtly ſtyled it a noble on [...] This unfortunate man, by addicting himſelf to low vices, among which were gluttony and extravagance, rendered him⯑ſelf ſo contemptible and wretched, that he frequently was without the leaſt ſubſiſtence for days together. After ſquan⯑ [...]ring away in a dirty manner any money which he acquired, he has been known to pawn all his apparel; and in that ſtate was frequently confined to his bed, ſitting up with his arms through holes in a blanket, writing verſes in order to procure the means of exiſtence. It ſeems hardly credible, but it is cer⯑tainly true, that he was more than once in that deplorable [...]ituation, and to the end of his life never derived any advan⯑ [...]ge from the experience of his paſt ſufferings. A late col⯑ [...]ector of poems (Mr. Giles) ſays, he was informed by Mr. [...]by the bookſeller, that this unhappy man at laſt was [...]nd dead in his bed, with a pen in his hand, and in the [...] of writing, in the ſame manner as above deſcribed. He [...]ed in Shoe-Lane, in May, 1749, and was buried at the ex⯑ [...]ce of the pariſh. See Gent. Mag. 1779, p. 32; and [...]ber's Lives of the Poets, vol. V. p. 160. N.
*
The houſe and gardens were ſituated at the North E [...] corner of the Green Park, where Arlington-ſtreet ſtands. N.
*
The Green-houſe.
*
The earl had been lord chamberlain to K. Charles the Second, who made him a baron in 1661, and an earl in 1672. He died in 1685. N.
†
Henry Fitzroy the firſt duke of Grafton married lady Iſabella, the earl of Arlington's only child and heir. N.
*
London, in the Plot-time.
*
On or near the ſcite of King Arthur's Caſtle, king Charles II. in 1683 laid the foundation of a magnificent royal palace, only the ſhell of which was finiſhed. A cupola was deſigned 30 feet higher than the roof, which would have been ſeen at ſea; and a ſtreet was intended leading from the Weſt end of the chathedral to the centre of the front. The length of the whole is 328 feet. A park was alſo projected ten miles in circumference; but the death of the king pre⯑vented the progreſs and execution of this noble plan. The palace is at preſent converted into a commodious priſon for French priſoners of war. See Warton's Deſcription of Win⯑cheſter, p. 11. N.
*
About the year 1079, biſhop Walkelyne began the pre⯑ſent edifice, on the ſ [...]ite of an older; and finiſhed the tower, the choir, the tranſept, and probably the Weſt end. The whole was nobly improved by William of Wykeham (the munificent founder of New College, Oxford) in 1394; and by biſhop Fox, the pious founder of Corpus Chriſ [...]i College in Oxford, who was biſhop of Wincheſter from 1502 to 1528. See Warton, p. 69, & ſeqq. N.
*
The firſt ſtone was laid March 26, 1387, near a ſchool in which Wykeham, when a boy, was educated; and the building was completed March 28, 1393. By the firſt char⯑ter a warden and 70 ſcholars were eſtabliſhed; by a ſecond, 10 fellows and the officers of the choir. See Warton, p. 68. N.
*
Son of Ezekiel biſhop of Londonderry (who married the lady Araminta one of the 4 daughters of John lord Robartes of Truro afterwards earl of Radnor). He was born at Exeter; but, his father being taken chaplain to Ireland by lord Ro⯑bartes when lord lieutenant in 1669, our poet received the early part of his education at Trinity College, Dublin; and afterwards was a ſtudent at Cambridge. On the rebellion in Ireland in 1688, he returned thither, and exerted his early valour in the cauſe of his country, religion, and liberty. When public tranquillity was reſtored, he came again into England, and fell into an acquaintance with gentlemen of the beſt wit, whoſe age and genius were moſt agreeable to his own. In 1694 he publiſhed ſome "Epiſtolary Poems and Tranſlations," which will all be inſerted in this volume; and in 1695 he ſhewed his genius as a dramatic writer by "Pyrrhus king of Egypt," a tragedy, to which Mr. Con⯑greve wrote the epilogue (ſee Engliſh Poets, vol. XXIX. p. 84). He publiſhed that year "The Hiſtory of Love," a connexion of ſelect fables from Ovid's Metamorphoſes, 1695; which, by the ſweetneſs of his numbers and eaſineſs of his thoughts, procured him conſiderable reputation. With Mr. Dryden in particular he became a great favourite. He after⯑wards publiſhed the "Art of Love," which, Jacob ſays, ‘"added to his fame, and happily brought him acquainted with the earl of Dorſet and other perſons of diſtinction, who were fond of his company, through the agreeableneſs of his temper and the pleaſantry of his converſation. It was in his power to have made his fortune in any ſcene of life; but he was always more ready to ſerve others than mindful of his own affairs; and, by the exceſſes of hard drinking, and a too paſſionate fondneſs for the fair ſex, he died a martyr to the cauſe in the 36th year of his age."’ I ſhall preſerve in this collection an admirable Hymn ‘"writ⯑ten about an hour before his death, when in great pain."’ His "Court-Proſpect," in which many of the principal no⯑bility are very handſomely complimented, is called by Jacob ‘"an excellent piece;"’ and of his other poems he adds, ‘"that they are all remarkable for the purity of their diction, and the harmony of their numbers."’ Mr. Hopkins was alſo the author of two other tragedies; "Boadicea Queen of Britain," 1697; and "Friendſhip improved, or the Female Warrior," with a humorous prologue, comparing a poet to a merchant, a compariſon which will hold in moſt part [...]culars except that of accumulating wealth. Our author, who was at Londonderry when this tragedy came out, in⯑ſcribed it to Edward Coke of Norfolk, eſquire, in a dedica⯑tion, dated Nov. 1. 1699, ſo modeſt and pathetic that I am perſuaded I ſhall ſtand excuſed if I print it at full length:
"The greateſt, and indeed almoſt the only, advantage a poet reaps from what he writes, is the opportunities he meets with of making himſelf known to the beſt and greateſt men of his age. A play is firſt made public in the theatre; and when it comes to the preſs, if any one has ſpoken kindly and favourably of it in the repreſentation, the poet chooſes him for his patron, he having before (according to the author's conſtruction) choſen him for his poet. The diſtance I am at from the city, and even from the kingdom too, will keep me ignorant for ſome time what ſucceſs this play (which I humbly offer to your patronage) may meet with. If the town is pleaſed with it, I ſhall be pleaſed with myſelf for pleaſing them; if they condemn it, I ſhall be apt to conclude ſo many in the right, rather than my ſingle ſelf. You ſaw it in manuſcript; and I have this early and auſpicious advantage, that you approve of it. Boadicea pleaſed them; and I received a very great additional ſatisfaction, when I underſtood how particularly it pleaſed you. I will not go to compare that play and this together, nor follow the cuſtom of reckoning the laſt per⯑formance beſt, and ſhewing the greateſt fondneſs of the youngeſt brat. The rhyme was the only thing that recom⯑mended that; and, for aught I know, the only thing too that can recommend this. I could wiſh for ſomething diſtin⯑guiſhing in it, becauſe it is ſacred to you, and I ſhould de⯑ſire to be known to you at advantage. If the pains in writ⯑ing will endear it to you, it coſt me much more than the former. It has ſome ſort of deſign beſides (ſuch as it is); but I was never very guilty of plotting. I can hardly keep the characters in my play from being as honeſt and ſincere as I would be myſelf in a dedication. A vicious character diſturbs me while I draw it, and it grates me to delineate a villain. 'Tis certain no poet can excite any paſſion in ano⯑ther, if he does not feel it firſt in himſelf. Who then will chooſe to deſcribe diſcontent, envy, or revenge, when they may have ſuch fair fields as honour and virtue to range in? All there is bright before them, and the flight the Muſe takes the [...] [...]s heavenwards. Such characters, artfully and juſtly drawn, will excite the good and great to be patrons; and ſuch patrons as you, Sir, will ſoon teach poets to draw ſuch characters. You are endowed with all the bleſſings of Nature and Fortune; and you are as liberal of the gifts of the latter to others, as ſhe has been to you. So great is your eſtate, it would be unwieldy to have it more; and ſuch good uſe is made of it, that Envy does not wiſh it leſs. It is not conſumed in vain and ſuperfluous equipage; but laid out in maintaining the old, open Engliſh hoſpitality. Deſert in want is ſup⯑plied; and Honeſty in diſtreſs is ſuccoured and ſuſtained; great without titles, and good above greatneſs; rich, rather to others than yourſelf; and ſeeming only as your own ſtew⯑ard. Your inclinations and endeavours are the general good of mankind; and none ever went from you diſſatisfied; delighted in obliging others, and pleaſed to ſee them pleaſed with your bounty. Wiſhing the welfare of all men, and ſpeaking well of all men, is a ſure way to meet with an uni⯑verſal return of good will and good wiſhes. He doubly en⯑joys his fortune, who has it wiſhed double by all that know him. Among the prayers of others, accept of the praiſes of the poet; humbly and heartily, though feebly, offered. I now begin to experience how much the mind may be influenced by the body. My Muſe is confined, at preſent, to a weak and ſickly tenement; and the winter ſeaſon will go near to over-bear her, together with her houſhold. There are ſtorms and tempeſts to beat her down, or froſts to bind her [...] and kill her; and ſhe has no friend on her ſide but youth to bear her through; if that can ſuſtain the attack, and hold out till ſpring comes to relieve me, one uſe I ſhall make of farther life ſhall be to ſhew how much I am, Sir, your moſt devoted humble ſervant, CHARLES HOPKINS."
His feelings were prophetic; he died, I believe, in the courſe of that winter. N.
*
The fate of this eminent (but unfortunate) prelate was extremely ſingular. He was born at Sandford in Devonſhire; became choiriſter of Magdalen College, Oxford, in 1649, at the age of about 16; was educated under Preſbyterian a [...]d Independent diſcipline; and about the time of the Re⯑ſtoration became aſſiſtant to Dr. Spurſtow of Hackney. He was afterwards elected preacher at one of the city churches; but the biſhop of London refuſed to admit him, as he was a popular preacher among the Fanatics. He then obtained St. Mary's church at Exeter, was countenanced by biſhop Ward, and much admired for the comelineſs of his perſon and ele⯑gance of preaching. The lord Robartes in particular was ſo pleaſed with him that he gave him one of his daughters in marriage, took him chaplain to Ireland in 1669, gave him the deanry of Raphoe, and recommended him ſo effectually to his ſucceſſor lord Berkeley, that he was conſecrated biſhop of Raphoe October 27, 1671, and tranſlated to Londonderry in 1681. Driven thence by the forces under the earl of Tyrconnel in 1688, he retired into England, and was elected miniſter of Aldermanbury in September 1689, where he died on the 19th of June 1690. He publiſhed expoſitions on the Lord's Prayer and Ten Commandments, and five ſingle Sermons. N.
*
From the manner in which this painter is mentioned, he appears to have been a perſon of eminence in his profeſ⯑ſion. His name, however, occurs neither in Mr. Walpole's valuable work, nor in Mr. Pilkington's. N.
*
The great lord Somers. N.
*
The duke of Somerſet was chancellor of Cambridge. N.
*
Which the reader will find deſcribed in a future poem. N.
*
This compliment, it muſt be acknowledged, is extended to the verge of indecency. N.
*
This painter (ſee p. 189) is twice called by Dryden D [...]i. He died Oct. 22, 174 [...], at the age of 90. N.
†
To this accompliſhed lady Mr. Hopkins inſcribed his Hiſtory of Love (ſee p. 222). She has been already men⯑ [...]oned, p. 167, as daughter of the earl of Arlington. N.
*
‘"Of the earl of Dorſet the character has been drawn ſo largely and ſo elegantly by Prior [Engliſh Poets, vol. XXX. p. 9.] to whom he was familiarly known, that nothing can be added by a caſual hand.—He was a man whoſe elegance and judgement were univerſally confeſſed, and whoſe bounty to the learned and witty was generally known."’ Dr. JOHNSON.—To this ſhort but comprehenſive eulogy, it would be preſumption to think of adding. N.
*
This ingenious writer was born in Cornwall, 1672. After paſſing ſome years at Oxford, he was removed to the Temple, where he entered deeply into the nobler parts of the law; ‘("for there was a drudgery, ſays Mr. Hammond, in the law-lucrative, which he could not ſubmit to.")’ Here firſt he formed an intimacy with Dryden, Hammond, Hop⯑kins, and other contemporary wits. He was for ſome time a member of parliament, where he always acted a very ho⯑nourable and diſintereſted part; and afterwards retired to his ſeat at Bake in Cornwall, where he applied himſelf very diligently to ſtudy; and died June 9, 1721. Two volumes of his poſt humous writings were publiſhed in 1726; and thoſe he had printed in his life-time were collected in 1727 by his friend Mr. Hammond, who wrote his Life. N.
*
To this gentleman Mr. Hopkins inſcribed his "Epiſto⯑lary Poems and Tranſlations," in a dedication worth pre⯑ſerving: ‘"The following verſes ought in juſtice to be yours, ſince not only the beſt part of them were made at your houſe, but they were made deſignedly for you, ſo that this is not a de⯑ [...]ication written to a book, but a book written to a dedication; which, however, is the niceſt part a writer has to manage; for the moſt deſerving men are the moſt averſe to be told ſo, and what would pleaſe all their friends and acquaintance would diſpleaſe themſelves; which makes the poet at a loſs whether to diſſatisfy one or many, his readers or his patron. But, ſince I have already found it eaſier to you to oblige, than to receive thanks for an obligation; to do no violence to your modeſty, I muſt do one to my own juſtice, and deſiſt from a theme which I could ſo willingly enlarge upon, but you ſo unwillingly read. I ſhall ſay little of the following eſſays, either of the originals I tranſlated them from, or the tranſlations: one thing in general I find from my own experi⯑ence; that where there is moſt life and ſpirit in the author, the tranſlator is carried on with the greater vigour and vi⯑vacity, as a man ſwims faſter in a ſtream than a ſtanding water; but where the original is flat and low, the tranſlator muſt be at the pains to raiſe him; ſo that the beſt things are the eaſieſt to be done, and the dulleſt the moſt difficult. It were preſumption in one of my years, to pretend to give an account of the authors whom I have choſen, or their works; to commend their excellences, or condemn their faults: and of the two, I dare venture to ſay the leaſt of Ovid; when he himſelf, and all that he has written, have been already ſo well and ſo fully treated of in Mr. Dryden's preface before his epiſtles. But I cannot chooſe but wonder, that a book ſo extremely delightful, ſo ſoft and ſweet, as Tibullus, has lain ſo long unattempted; but there is a friend of ours, whom I hope he has been all along reſerved for, and then he will be in the beſt hands he could have fallen into. Of the three ele⯑gies that I have ventured on, the firſt, from toward the middle to the end, and the whole third, pleaſed me infinitely; the ſecond I did merely for the ſake of the laſt ten or twelve lines. Tibullus moſt, certainly, have felt all he wrote, for he could never have feigned ſo much paſſion ſo well; and I am apt to believe it was not his poetry made him ſo fond and tender a lover, but rather his love that made him ſo ſweet and excellent a poet. Were it not that I ſhould take him out of better hands, I would have attempted to have engliſhed him all; for I flatter myſelf with a fancy, that, in ſome things, I am ſomewhat of his temper; and how far ſhort ſo⯑ever I come or him in his poetry, I reſemble him but too nearly in ſome other circumſtances. I was almoſt running into a complaint, that would have been both unjuſt and in⯑grateful; for, ſince I knew you, all occaſion of complaint has been taken from me. Your acquaintance would have been of itſelf ſufficient to endear you to any man; but your favours to me began with, and even out-ran, your acquaintance. I dare not proceed, though on a ſubject which I am very loth to leave; permit me to add only this, that ſince moſt who ever wrote have ſometimes ſtood in need of favours from other men, and ſince the ſame fortune has attended me, I am glad, however, that it threw me on you to receive them, than whom I know none I could have been more willingly ob⯑liged to for them. I am, Sir, your moſt affectionate, obliged, humble ſervant, CHARLES HOPKINS."’
Of Mr. Hammond as a poet, I ſhall have occaſion to ſpeak hereafter; of his ſon, the incomparable author of the "Love Elegies," much may be hoped for from Dr. Johnſon. N.
*
See Gent. Mag. 1779, p. 231. N.
*
The above initials I have not been able to diſcover. N.
*
This is, I believe, Dr. W. Gibbons, who died March 25, 172 [...]. He ſucceeded Ratcliffe in his attendance on queen Anne when ſhe was diſguſted by the behaviour of the latter. He is characterized in the Diſpenſary, under the name of M [...]mil [...]o. See what Ratcliffe ſaid of him, Life of Rat⯑cliffe, p. 32. R.
†
There are two poems expreſſive of gratitude to this phyſician in the "Works of the Muſes," by Mr. John Hopkins. N.
*
Tranſlated by Creech. N.
*
The celebrated dean of Chriſt-Church. N.
*
See Mr. Evelyn's imitation of theſe lines above, p. 140. N.
* The imitation is here extremely evident. N.
" Thy foreſt, Windſor! and thy green retreats,
" At once the Monarch's and the Muſe's ſeats,
" Invite my lays."
POPE.
*
An imitation of part of the Fourth Book of Ovid's Me⯑tamorphoſes, Book IV. N.
*
From Ovid's Metamorphoſes, Book X. N.
*
From Ovid's Metamorphoſes, Book X. N.
*
From Ovid's Metamorphoſes, Book X. N.
*
See this burleſqued, Engliſh Poets, vol. XX. p. 332. N.
*
From Ovid's Metamorphoſes, Book X. N.
*
Achilles had a long time lain diſguiſed like a woman, in the court of Nicomedes king of B [...]thynia, making uſe of that habit the better to carry on his amours with Deidamia, Nicomedes's daughter: but he was at laſt diſcovered by the ſubtilty of Ulyſſes; who putting a ſword into his hands, which he wielded too dextrouſly for a woman, ſo betrayed him, and carried him to the Trojan war; the Greeks having been warned by the Oracle, that Troy ſhould never be taken unleſs Achilles aſſiſted at the ſiege. HOPKINS.
*
In imitation of Ovid, Ep. XVIII. "Leander to Hero." N.
*
The ſtory of "Salmacis and Hermaphroditus," from the Fourth Book of Ovid, and that of "Cinyras and Myrrha," from the Tenth Book, are purpoſely omitted: no elegance of numbers can atone for groſs indecency. N.
*
"Opus eſt mihi crine paterno." Ovid, Met. viii. 78. The expreſſion is explained by the commentators, ‘"to betray the ſecret counſels of her father."’ N.
*
"Ad Clarium parat ire Deum." Ovid, Met. xi. 413. N.
*
See our Author's own account of the tranſlations from Tibulius, above, p. 225. N.
*
Firſt printed in "The Monthly Miſcellany," February, 1692-3, with the following introduction by Mr. P. Motteux: ‘"An ingenious gentleman ſeems to bid adieu to his Muſe in the following lines: but, ſpight of his angry fit, I hope that he is too much in love with her to be in earneſt."’ Mr. Hopkins continued to write till within a few hours of his death, as will appear by the poem which next follows. N.
*
Firſt printed in "The Student," 1751. N.
*
Another ſon of the good biſhop of Londonderry; born Jan. 1, 1675. Like his elder brother, his poetry was princi⯑pally on ſubjects of Love; like him too, his proſpects in life appear to have terminated unfortunately. He publiſhed in 1698 "The Triumphs of Peace, or the Glories of Naſſau; a pindarie poem occaſioned by the concluſion of the peace between the Confederacy and France; written at the time of his grace the duke of Ormond's entrance into Dublin." ‘"The deſign of this poem, the author ſays in his preface, begins, after the method of Pindar, to one great man, and riſes to another; firſt touches the duke, then celebrates the actions of the king, and ſo returns to the praiſes of the duke again."’—But the principal performance of Mr. J. Hopkins was "Amaſia, or the Works of the Muſes, a collection of poems in three volumes, 1700." Each of theſe little vo⯑lumes is divided into three books, and each book is inſcribed to ſome beautiful patroneſs; amongſt whom the dutcheſs of Grafton ſtands foremoſt. The laſt book is inſcribed "To the memory of Amaſia," whom he addreſſes throughout theſe volumes in the character of Sylvius. There is a vein of ſeriouſneſs, if not of poetry, runs through the whole perform⯑ance. Many of Ovid's ſtories are very decently imitated; ‘"moſt of them, he ſays, have been very well performed by my brother, and publiſhed ſome years ſince; mine were written in another kingdom before I knew of his."’ In one of his dedi⯑cations he tells the lady Olimpia Robartes, ‘"Your ladyſhip's father, the late earl of Radnor, when governor of Ireland, was the kind patron to mine: he raiſed him to the firſt ſteps by which he afterwards aſcended to the dignities he bore; to thoſe, which rendered his labours more conſpi [...]uous, and ſet in a more advantageous light thoſe living merits, which now make his memory beloved. Theſe, and yet greater temporal honours, your family heaped on him, by making even me in ſome ſort related and allied to you, by his inter-marriage with your ſiſter the lady Araminta. How imprudent a vanity is it in me to boaſt a father ſo meritorious! how may I be aſhamed to prove myſelf his ſon, by poetry, that only qualification he ſo much excelled in, but yet eſteemed no excellence. I bring but a bad proof of birth, laying my claim in that only thing he would not own. Theſe are, however, Madam, but the products of immaturer years; and riper age may, I hope, bring forth more ſolid works."’—I have never ſeen any other of his writings; nor have been able to collect any farther particulars of his life, but have a portrait of him under his poetical name of Sylvius. N.
*
Of whom, ſee p. 327. N.
*
A ſoldier of moſt hardy bravery in king William's wars. He was ſon of Richard Cutts, eſq. of Matching in Eſſex, where the family were ſettled about the time of Henry the ſixth, and had a great eſtate. He entered early into the ſer⯑vice of the duke of Monmouth, was aid-de-camp to the Duke of Lorrain in Hungary, and ſignalized himſelf in a very extraordinary manner at the taking of Buda by the Im⯑perialiſts in 1686; which important place had been for near a century and a half in the hands of the Turks. Mr. Ad⯑diſon, in a Latin poem worthy of the Auguſtan age, (Muſae Anglicanae, Vol. II. p. 2,) plainly hints at Mr. Cutts's diſ⯑tinguiſhed bravery at that ſiege. Returning to England at the Revolution, he had a regiment of foot; was created Baron of Gowran in Ireland, Dec. 6, 1699; appointed Governor of the Iſle of Wight, April 14, 1693; was made a Major-ge⯑neral; and, when the aſſaſſination project was diſcovered, 1695-6, was captain of the King's guard. He was Colonel of the Coldſtream, or ſecond regiment of guards, in 1701; when Mr. Steele, who was indebted to his intereſt for a mili⯑tary commiſſion, inſcribed to him his firſt work, "The Chriſtian Hero." On the Acceſſion of Queen Anne, he was made a Lieutenant-general of the forces in Holland; Commander in Chief of the forces in Ireland, under the Duke of Ormond, March 23, 1704-5; and afterwards one of the Lords Juſtices of that kingdom, to keep him out of the way of action, a circumſtance which broke his heart. He died at Dublin, Jan. 26, 1706-7, and is buried there in the cathedral of Chriſt Church. He wrote a poem on the Death of Q. Mary (which is printed among the Court Poems); and publiſhed, in 1687, "Poetical Exerciſes, written upon ſeveral occaſions, and dedicated to her royal highneſs Mary princeſs of Orange; licenſed March 23, 1686-7, Roger L'Eſtrange." It contains, beſides the dedi⯑cation ſigned J. Cutts, verſes to that princeſs; a poem on wiſdom, another to Mr Waller on his commending it; ſeven more copies of verſes (one of them called "La Muſe Cava⯑lier," which has been aſcribed to Lord Peterborough, and as ſuch mentioned by Mr. Walpole in the liſt of that nobleman's writings) and eleven ſongs; the whole compoſing but a very thin volume; which is by no means ſo ſcarce as Mr. Wal⯑pole ſuppoſes it to be. The author ſpeaks of having more pieces by him. N.
*
See ſome particular of this lady, vol. I. p. 51. And ſee, in the Engliſh Poets, vol. VIII. p. 183, Mr. Waller's verſes on the Elegy here printed; and in p. 229, another copy on Mrs. Wharton's "Paraphraſe on the Lord's Prayer." His two cantos of Divine Poeſy, p. 223, were "occaſioned upon ſight of the 53d chapter of Iſaiah, turned into verſe "by Mrs. Wharton." Her "Verſes to Mr. Waller" are mentioned by Ballard; and her tranſlation of "Penelope to Ulyſſes" is printed in Tonſon's edition of Ovid's Epiſtles. In 1681, ſhe was in France on account of her health, as appears from ſeveral letters to her huſband; about 1682, ſhe held a correſpondence by letters with Dr. Gilbert Burnet, many of which are made public. Dr. Burnet wrote ſeveral poems, which he ſent her. She died at Adderbury, Oct. 29, 1685; and was buried at Winchenden. N.
*
Of whom, ſee vol. I. p. 154. N.
*
This poem has been aſcribed to Mr. Prior. N.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4776 A select collection of poems with notes biographical and historical pt 2. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5C3A-D