_As bright as Heav’n, of Angel-hue;_
_The softest Nature ever made,_
_Whom I with Sighs and Vows pursue._
_Oh, tell me, charming Prophetess!_
_Shall I this lovely Maid possess?_
_A thousand Rivals do obstruct my Way;_
_A thousand Fears they do create:_
_They throng about her all the Day,_
_Whilst I at awful Distance wait._
_Say, Will the lovely Maid so fickle prove,_
_To give my Rivals Hope, as well as Love?_
_She has a thousand Charms of Wit,_
_With all the Beauty Heav’n e’er gave:_
_Oh! let her not make use of it,_
_To flatter me into the Slave._
_Oh! tell me Truth, to ease my Pain;_
_Say rather, I shall die by her Disdain._
_The MODESTY of_ IRIS.
I perceive, fair _Iris_, you have a mind to tell me, I have entertain’d
you too long with a Discourse on your self. I know your Modesty makes
this Declaration an Offence, and you suffer me, with Pain, to unveil
those Treasures you would hide. Your Modesty, that so commendable
a Virtue in the Fair, and so peculiar to you, is here a little too
severe. Did I flatter you, you should blush: Did I seek, by praising
you, to shew an Art of speaking finely, you might chide. But, O _Iris_,
I say nothing but such plain Truths, as all the World can witness are
so: And so far I am from Flattery, that I seek no Ornament of Words.
Why do you take such Care to conceal your Virtues? They have too much
Lustre, not to be seen, in spight of all your Modesty: Your Wit, your
Youth, and Reason, oppose themselves against this dull Obstructer of
our Happiness. Abate, O _Iris_, a little of this Virtue, since you
have so many others to defend your self against the Attacks of your
Adorers. You your self have the least Opinion of your own Charms: and
being the only Person in the World, that is not in love with ‘em, you
hate to pass whole Hours before your _Looking-Glass_; and to pass your
Time, like most of the idle Fair, in dressing, and setting off those
Beauties, which need so little Art. You more wise, disdain to give
those Hours to the Fatigue of Dressing, which you know so well how to
employ a thousand ways. The Muses have blest you, above your Sex; and
you know how to gain a Conquest with your Pen, more absolutely than all
the industrious Fair, who trust to Dress and Equipage.
I have a thousand Things to tell you more, but willingly resign my
Place to _Damon_, that faithful Lover; he will speak more ardently than
I: For let a Glass use all its Force, yet, when it speaks its best, it
speaks but coldly.
If my Glass, O charming _Iris_, have the good Fortune (which I could
never entirely boast) to be believ’d, ‘twill serve at least to convince
you I have not been so guilty of Flattery, as I have a thousand Times
been charg’d. Since then my Passion is equal to your Beauty (without
Comparison, or End) believe, O lovely Maid! how I sigh in your Absence;
and be persuaded to lessen my Pain, and restore me to my Joys: for
there is no Torment so great, as the Absence of a Lover from his
Mistress; of which this is the _Idea_.
The Effects of Absence from what we love.
_Thou one continu’d Sigh! all over Pain!_
_Eternal Wish! but Wish, alas, in vain!_
_Thou languishing, impatient Hoper on;_
_A busy Toiler, and yet still undone!_
_A breaking Glimpse of distant Day,_
_Inticing on, and leading more astray!_
_Thou Joy in Prospect, future Bliss extreme;_
_Never to be possess’d, but in a Dream!_
_Thou fab’lous Goddess, which the ravisht Boy_
_In happy Slumbers proudly did enjoy;_
_But waking, found an airy Cloud he prest;_
_His Arms came empty to his panting Breast._
_Thou Shade, that only haunt’st the Soul by night;_
_And when thou shouldst inform thou fly’st the Sight:_
_Thou false_ Idea _of the thinking Brain,_ }
_That labours for the charming Form in vain:_ }
_Which if by chance it catch, thou’rt lost again._ }
POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS:
WITH A VOYAGE TO THE
ISLAND OF LOVE.
To the Right Honourable, JAMES, Earl of _Salisbury_, Viscount
_Cramborn_, and Baron of _Islington_.
My Lord,
Who should one celibrate with Verse and Song, but the Great, the Noble
and the Brave? where dedicate an _Isle of Love_, but to the Gay, the
Soft and Young? and who amongst Men can lay a better claim to these
than Your Lordship? who like the Sun new risen with the early Day,
looks round the World and sees nothing it cannot claim an interest in
(for what cannot Wit, Beauty, Wealth and Honour claim?) The violent
storms of Sedition and Rebellion are hush’d and calm’d; black Treason
is retir’d to its old abode, the dark Abyss of Hell; the mysterious
Riddles of Politick Knaves and Fools, which so long amused and troubled
the World’s repose, are luckily unfolded; and Your Lordship is saluted
at Your first coming forth, Your first setting out for the glorious
and happy Race of Life, by a Nation all glad, gay and smiling; and
you have nothing before you but a ravishing prospect of eternal Joys,
and everlasting inviting Pleasures, and all that Love and Fortune can
bestow on their darling Youth, attend You in the noble pursuit; and
nothing can prevent Your being the most happy of her Favourites, but
a too eager flight, a too swift speed o’er the charming flowry Meads
and Plains that lie in view, between Your setting out and the end
of Your glorious Chase. A long and illustrious race of Nobility has
attended Your great Name, but none I believe ever came into the World
with Your Lordship’s advantages; amongst which, my Lord, ‘tis not the
least that You have the glory to be truly Loyal, and to be adorn’d
with those excellent Principles, which render Nobility so absolutely
worth the Veneration which is paid ‘em; ‘tis those, my Lord, and not
the Title that make it truly great: Grandeur in any other serves but
to point ‘em out more particularly to the World, and shew their Faults
with the greater magnitude, and render ‘em more liable to contempt
and that Reward which justly persues Ingratitude; nor is it, my Lord,
the many unhappy Examples this Age has produc’d that has deterr’d you
from herding with the busie Unfortunates, and bringing Your powerful
aid to their detestable cause, but a noble Honesty in Your Nature, a
Generosity in Your Soul. That even part of Your Education had the good
fortune not to be able to corrupt; no Opinion cou’d bypass You, no
Precedent debauch You; though all the fansied Glories of Power were
promis’d You, though all the Contempt thrown on good and brave Men,
all the subtile Arguments of the old Serpent, were us’d against the
best of Kings and his illustrious Successor, still You were unmov’d;
Your young stout Heart with a Gallantry and Force unusual resisted
and defied the gilded Bait, laugh’d at the industrious Politicks
of the busie Wise, and stubbornly Loyal, contemn’d the Counsels of
the Grave. Go on, my Lord, advance in Noble resolution, grow up in
strength of Loyalty, settle it about Your Soul, root it there like the
first Principles of Religion, which nothing ever throughly defaces,
and which in spight of even Reason the Soul retains, whatever little
Debaucheries the Tongue may commit; You that are great, are born the
Bulwarks of sacred Majesty, its defence against all the storms of Fate,
the Safety of the People in the Supporters of the Throne; and sure none
that ever obey’d the Laws of God and the Dictates of Honour ever paid
those Duties to a Sovereign that more truly merited the Defence and
Adorations of his People than this of ours; and tis a blessing (since
we are oblig’d to render it to the worst of Tyrant Kings) that we have
one who so well justifies that intire Love and Submission we ought to
pay him. You, my Lord, are one whom Thousands of good Men look up to
with wondrous Veneration and Joy, when ‘tis said Your Lordship amongst
Your other Vertues is Loyal too, a true Tory! (a word of Honour now,
the Royal Cause has sanctified it,) and though Your Lordship needs
no encouragement to a good that rewards it self, yet I am confident
You are not onely rank’d in the esteem of the best of Monarchs, but
we shall behold you as one of our Preservers, and all _England_ as
one of its great Patrons, when Ages that shall come shall find Your
noble Name inroll’d amongst the Friends to Monarchy in an Age of so
villainous Corruption: Yes, my Lord, they will find it there and bless
You. ‘Tis this, my Lord, with every other Grace and Noble Vertue that
adorns You, and gives the World such promises of Wonders in You, that
makes me ambitious to be the first in the Croud of Your Admirers, that
shall have the honour to celibrate Your great Name. Be pleased then, my
Lord, to accept this Little Piece, which lazy Minutes begot and hard
Fate has oblig’d me to bring forth into the censuring World, to which
if any thing can reconcile it, ‘twill be the glory it has to bear Your
Noble Name in the front, and to be Patronized by so great and good a
Man: Permit but my Zeal for Your Lordship to attone for the rest of my
Faults, and Your Lordship will extremely oblige,
My Lord,
Your Lordship’s most Humble,
and most Obedient Servant,
_A. BEHN._
To Mrs. BEHN, on the publishing her Poems.
_Madam,_
Long has Wit’s injur’d Empire been opprest
By Rhiming Fools, this Nations common Jest,
And sunk beneath the _weight_ of heavy _stafes_,
In _Tory Ballads_ and _Whig Epitaphs_;
The _Ogs_ and _Doegs_ reign’d, nay _Baxter’s_ zeal,
Has not been wanting too in writing _Ill_;
Yet still in spight of what the dull can doe,
‘Tis here _asserted_ and _adorn’d_ by you.
This Book come forth, their credit must decay,
Ill Spirits vanish at th’approach of day:
And justly we before your envy’d _feet_,
There where our _Hearts_ are due our _Pens_ submit;
Ne’er to resume the baffled things again,
Unless in Songs of _Triumph_ to thy Name;
Which are out-done by every _Verse_ of thine, }
Where thy own _Fame_ does with more lustre shine, }
Than all that we can give who in thy _Praises_ join. }
Fair as the face of Heaven, when no thick _Cloud_
Or darkning _Storm_ the glorious prospect shroud;
In all its beauteous parts shines thy bright style,
And beyond Humane Wit commends thy skill;
With all the _thought_ and _vigour_ of our Sex
The moving _softness_ of your own you mix.
The _Queen_ of Beauty and the _God_ of Wars }
Imbracing lie in thy due temper’d Verse, }
_Venus_ her sweetness and the force of _Mars_. }
Thus thy luxuriant Muse her pleasure takes,
As _God_ of old in _Eden’s_ blissful walks;
The Beauties of her new Creation view’d,
Full of content She sees that it is _good_.
Come then you inspir’d _Swains_ and join your Verse,
Though all in vain to add a Fame to hers;
But then your Song will best _Apollo_ please,
When it is fraight with this his _Favourite’s_ praise.
Declare how when her learned Harp she strung,
Our joyfull _Island_ with the Musick rung;
Descending _Graces_ left their Heavenly seat,
To take their place in every Line she writ;
Where sweetest Charms as in her Person smile,
Her Face’s Beauty’s copy’d in her style.
Say how as she did her just skill improve
In the best Art and in soft Tales of Love.
Some well sung Passion with success she crown’d,
The melting Virgins languish’d at the sound.
And envying Swains durst not the Pipe inspire,
They’d nothing then to doe but to _admire_.
_Shepherds_ and _Nymphs_, to _Pan_ direct-your Prayer, }
If peradventure he your Vows will hear, }
To make you _sing_, and make you _look_ like her. }
But, _Nymphs_ and _Swains_, your hopes are all in vain,
For such bright _Eyes_, and such a tunefull _Pen_.
How many of her Sex spend half their days,
To catch some _Fool_ by managing a Face?
But she secure of _charming_ has confin’d
Her wiser care t’.adorn_ and _dress_ the Mind.
_Beauty_ may fade, but everlasting _Verse_
Exempts the better portion from the _Hearse_.
The matchless _Wit_ and _Fancy_ of the Fair,
Which moves our _envy_ and our Sons _despair_.
Long they shall live a _monument_ of her _Fame_,
And to _Eternity_ extend her _Name_;
While After-times deservedly approve
The choicest object of this Ages Love.
For when they reade, ghessing how far she charm’d,
With that bright _Body_ with such _Wit_ inform’d;
They will give _heed_ and _credit_ to our Verse,
When we the _Wonders_ of her _Face_ rehearse.
_J. Cooper._
_Buckden, Nov._ 25.
1683.
_To_ ASTRÆA, _on her Poems_.
‘Tis not enough to reade and to admire, }
Thy sacred Verse does nobler thoughts inspire, }
Striking on every breast Poetick fire: }
The God of Wit attends with chearfull Rays,
Warming the dullest Statue into praise.
Hail then, delight of Heaven and pride of Earth,
Blest by each Muse at thy auspicious birth;
Soft Love and Majesty have fram’d thy Mind,
To shew the Beauties of both Sexes join’d:
Thy Lines may challenge, like young _David’s_ face,
A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace;
Thy tender notions in loose numbers flow,
With a strange power to charm where e’er they go:
And when in stronger sounds thy voice we hear,
At all the skilfull points you arm’d appear.
Which way so’er thou dost thy self express,
We find thy Beauty out in every dress;
Such work so gently wrought, so strongly fine,
Cannot be wrought by hands all Masculine.
In vain proud Man weak Woman wou’d controul,
No Man can argue now against a Woman’s Soul.
_J. C._
_To the excellent Madam_ Behn, _on her Poems_.
‘Twas vain for Man the Laurels to persue,
(E’en from the God of Wit bright _Daphne_ flew)
Man, Whose course compound damps the Muses fire,
It does but touch our Earth and soon expire;
While in the softer kind th’.therial flame,
Spreads and rejoices as from Heaven it came:
This _Greece_ in _Sappho_, in _Orinda_ knew
Our Isle; though they were but low types to you;
But the faint dawn to your illustrious day,
To make us patient of your brighter Ray.
Oft may we see some wretched story told;
In ductile sense spread thin as leaves of Gold.
You have ingrost th’inestimable Mine; }
Which in well polisht Numbers you refine, }
While still the solid Mass shines thick in every Line. }
Yet neither sex do you surpass alone, }
Both in your Verse are in their glory shown, }
Both _Phæbus_ and _Minerva_ are your own. }
While in the softest dress you Wit dispense,
With all the Nerves of Reason and of Sense.
In mingled Beauties we at once may trace
A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace.
No wonder ‘tis the _Delphian_ God of old
Wou’d have his Oracles by Women told.
But oh! who e’er so sweetly could repeat
Soft lays of Love, and youths delightfull heat?
If Love’s Misfortunes be your mournfull Theme,
No dying Swan on fair _Cayster’s_ stream,
Expires so sweet, though with his numerous Moan,
The fading Banks and suffering Mountains groan.
If you the gentle Passions wou’d inspire,
With what resistless Charms you breathe desire?
No Heart so savage, so relentless none,
As can the sweet Captivity disown:
Ah, needs must she th’unwary Soul surprise,
Whose Pen sheds Flames as dangerous as her Eyes.
_J. Adams._
_To the Authour, on her Voyage to the Island of Love._
To speak of thee no Muse will I invoke,
Thou onely canst inspire what shou’d be spoke;
For all their wealth the Nine have given to thee,
Thy rich and flowing stream has left them dry:
_Cupid_ may throw away his useless Darts,
Thou’st lent him one will massacre more Hearts
Than all his store, thy Pen disarms us so,
We yield our selves to the first beauteous Foe;
The easie softness of thy thoughts surprise,
And this new way Love steals into our Eyes;
Thy gliding Verse comes on us unawares,
No rumbling Metaphors alarm our Ears,
And puts us in a posture of defence;
We are undone and never know from whence.
So to th’ _Assyrian_ Camp the Angel flew,
And in the silent Night his Millions slew.
Thou leadst us by the Soul amongst thy Loves,
And bindst us all in thy inchanting Groves;
Each languishes for thy _Aminta’s_ Charms,
Sighs for thy fansied Raptures in her Armes,
Sees her in all that killing posture laid,
When _Love_ and fond _Respect_ guarded the sleeping Maid,
Persues her to the very Bower of Bliss,
Times all the wrecking joys and thinks ‘em his;
In the same Trance with the young pair we lie,
And in their amorous Ecstasies we die.
You Nymphs, who deaf to Love’s soft lays have been,
Reade here, and suck the sweet destruction in:
Smooth is the stream and clear is every thought,
And yet you cannot see with what you’re caught;
Or else so very pleasing is the Bait,
With careless heed you play and leap at it:
She poisons all the Floud with such an art,
That the dear Philter trickles to the Heart,
With such bewitching pleasure that each sup
Has all the joys of life in every drop.
I see the Banks with Love-sick Virgins strow’d,
Their Bosoms heav’d with the young fluttering Gods;
Oh, how they pant and struggle with their pain!
Yet cannot wish their former health again:
Within their Breasts thy warmth and spirit glows,
And in their Eyes thy streaming softness flows;
Thy Raptures are transfus’d through every vein,
And thy blest hour in all their heads does reign;
The Ice that chills the Soul thou dost remove,
And meltst it into tenderness and Love;
The flints about their Hearts dance to thy lays,
Till the quick motion sets ‘em on a Blaze.
_Orpheus_ and you the stones do both inspire,
But onely you out of those flints strike fire,
Not with a sudden Spark, a short liv’d Blaze,
Like Womens Passions in our Gilting days;
But what you fire burns with a constant flame,
Like what you write, and always is the same.
Rise, all ye weeping Youth, rise and appear,
Whom gloomy Fate has damn’d to black Despair;
Start from the ground and throw your Mourning by,
Loves great _Sultana_ says you shall not die:
The dismal dark half year is over past,
The Sea is op’d, the Sun shines out at last,
And Trading’s free, the storms are husht as death,
Or happy Lovers ravisht out of breath;
And listen to _Astræa’s_ Harmony,
Such power has elevated Poetry.
_T. C._
_To the Lovely Witty_ ASTRÆA_, on her Excellent Poems._
Oh, wonder of thy Sex! Where can we see,
Beauty and Knowledge join’d except in thee?
Such pains took Nature with your Heav’nly Face,
Form’d it for Love, and moulded every Grace;
I doubted first and fear’d that you had been
Unfinish’d left like other She’s within:
I see the folly of that fear, and find
Your Face is not more beauteous than your Mind:
Whoe’er beheld you with a Heart unmov’d,
That sent not sighs, and said within he lov’d?
I gaz’d and found, a then, unknown delight,
Life in your looks, and Death to leave the sight.
What joys, new Worlds of joys has he possest,
That gain’d the sought-for welcome of your Breast?
Your Wit wou’d recommend the homeliest Face,
Your Beauty make the dullest Humour please;
But where they both thus gloriously are join’d,
All Men submit, you reign in every Mind.
What Passions does your Poetry impart? }
It shews th’unfathom’d thing a Woman’s Heart, }
Tells what Love is, his Nature and his Art, }
Displays the several Scenes of Hopes and Fears,
Love’s Smiles, his Sighs, his Laughing and his Tears.
Each Lover here may reade his different Fate,
His Mistress kindness or her scornfull hate.
Come all whom the blind God has led astray,
Here the bewildred Youth is shew’d his way:
Guided by this he may yet love and find
Ease in his Heart, and reason in his Mind.
Thus sweetly once the charming _W----lr_ strove
In Heavenly sounds to gain his hopeless Love:
All the World list’ned but his scornfull Fair,
Pride stopt her ears to whom he bent his prayer.
Much happier you that can’t desire in vain,
But what you wish as soon as wish’d obtain.
_Upon these and other Excellent Works of the Incomparable_ ASTRÆA.
Ye bold Magicians in Philosophy,
That vainly think (next the Almighty three)
The brightest _Cherubin_ in all the Hierarchy
Will leave that Glorious Sphere
And to your wild inchantments will appear;
To the fond summons of fantastick Charms,
As Barbarous and inexplicable Terms:
As those the trembling Sorcerer dreads,
When he the Magick Circle treads:
And as he walks the Mystick rounds,
And mutters the detested sounds,
The _Stygian_ fiends exalt their wrathfull heads;
And all ye bearded Drudges of the Schools,
That sweat in vain to mend predestin’d fools,
With senseless Jargon and perplexing Rules;
Behold and with amazement stand,
Behold a blush with shame and wonder too,
What Divine Nature can in Woman doe.
Behold if you can see in all this fertile Land
Such an Anointed head, such an inspired hand.
II.
Rest on in peace, ye blessed Spirits, rest,
With Imperial bliss for ever blest:
Upon your sacred Urn she scorns to tread,
Or rob the Learned Monuments of the dead:
Nor need her Muse a foreign aid implore,
In her own tunefull breast there’s wonderous store.
Had she but flourisht in these times of old,
When Mortals were amongst the Gods inrolld,
She had not now as Woman been Ador’d,
But with Diviner sacrifice Implor’d;
Temples and Altars had preserv’d her name
And she her self been thought Immortal as her fame.
III.
Curst be the balefull Tongue that dares abuse
The rightfull offspring of her God-like Muse:
And doubly Curst be he that thinks her Pen
Can be instructed by the best of men.
The times to come (as surely she will live,
As many Ages as are past,
As long as Learning, Sense, or wit survive,
As long as the first principles of Bodies last.)
The future Ages may perhaps believe
One soft and tender Arm cou’d ne’er atchieve
The wonderous deeds that she has done
So hard a prize her Conqu’ring Muse has won.
But we that live in the great Prophetesses days
Can we enough proclaim her praise,
We that experience every hour
The blest effects of her Miraculous power?
To the sweet Musick of her charming tongue,
In numerous Crowds the ravisht hearers throng:
And even a Herd of Beasts as wild as they
That did the _Thracian_ Lyre obey,
Forget their Madness and attend her song.
The tunefull Shepherds on the dangerous rocks
Forsake their Kinds and leave their bleating Flocks,
And throw their tender Reeds away,
As soon as e’er her softer Pipe begins to play.
No barren subject, no unfertile soil
Can prove ungratefull to her Muses Toil,
Warm’d with the Heavenly influence of her Brain,
Upon the dry and sandy plain,
On craggy Mountains cover’d o’er with Snow,
The blooming Rose and fragrant Jes’min grow:
When in her powerful Poetick hand,
She waves the mystick wand,
Streight from the hardest Rocks the sweetest numbers flow.
IV.
Hail bright _Urania_! _Erato_ hail!
_Melpomene_, _Polymnia_, _Euterpe_, hail!
And all ye blessed powers that inspire
The Heaven-born Soul with intellectual fire;
Pardon my humble and unhallow’d Muse,
If she too great a veneration use,
And prostrate at your best lov’d Darling’s feet
Your holy Fane with sacred honour greet:
Her more than _Pythian_ Oracles are so divine,
You sure not onely virtually are
Within the glorious Shrine,
But you your very selves must needs be there.
The _Delian_ Prophet did at first ordain,
That even the mighty Nine should reign,
In distant Empires of different Clime;
And if in her triumphant Throne,
She rules those learned Regions alone,
The fam’d _Pyerides_ are out-done by her omnipotent Rhime.
In proper Cells her large capacious Brain
The images of all things does contain,
As bright almost as were th’.deas laid,
In the last model e’er the World was made.
And though her vast conceptions are so strong,
The powerfull eloquence of her charming tongue
Does, clear as the resistless beams of day,
To our enlightned Souls the noble thoughts convey
Well chosen, well appointed, every word
Does its full force and natural grace afford;
And though in her rich treasury,
Confus’d like Elements great Numbers lie,
When they their mixture and proportion take,
What beauteous forms of every kind they make!
Such was the Language God himself infus’d,
And such the style our great Forefather us’d,
From one large stock the various sounds he fram’d,
And every Species of the vast Creation nam’d.
While most of our dull Sex have trod
In beaten paths of one continued Road,
Her skilfull and well manag’d Muse
Does all the art and strength of different paces use:
For though sometimes with slackned force,
She wisely stops her fleetest course,
That slow but strong Majestick pace
Shews her the swiftest steed of all the chosen Race.
V.