POETICAL WORKS
OF
EDMUND WALLER
AND
SIR JOHN DENHAM.
WITH MEMOIR AND DISSERTATION,
BY THE
REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN.
M.DCCC.LVII.
THE
LIFE OF EDMUND WALLER.
It is too true, after all, that the lives of poets are not, in general,
very interesting. Could we, indeed, trace the private workings of their
souls, and read the pages of their mental and moral development, no
biographies could be richer in instruction, and even entertainment, than
those of our greater bards. The inner life of every true poet must be
poetical. But in proportion to the romance of their souls' story, is
often the commonplace of their outward career. There have been poets,
however, whose lives are quite as readable and as instructive as their
poetry, and have even shed a reflex and powerful interest on their
writings. The interest of such lives has, in general, proceeded either
from the extraordinary misfortunes of the bard, or from his extremely
bad morals, or from his strange personal idiosyncrasy, or from his being
involved in the political or religious conflicts of his age. The life of
Milton, for instance, is rendered intensely interesting from his
connexion with the public affairs of his critical and solemn era. The
life of Johnson is made readable from his peculiar conformation of body,
his bear-like manners, his oddities, and his early struggles. You devour
the life of Gifford, not because he was a poet, but because he was a
shoemaker; and that of Byron, more on account of his vices, his peerage,
and his domestic unhappiness, than for the sake of his poetry. And in
Waller, too, you feel some supplemental interest, because he united what
are usually thought the incompatible characters of a poet and a
political plotter, and very nearly reached the altitudes of the gallows
as well as those of Parnassus.
March 1605 was the date, and Coleshill, in Hertfordshire, the place, of
the birth of our poet. He was of an ancient and honourable family
originally from Kent, some members of which were distinguished for their
wealth and others for the valour with which, at Agincourt and elsewhere,
they fought the battles of their country. Robert Waller, the poet's
father, inherited from Edmund, _his_ father, the lands of Beaconsfield,
in Bucks, and other territory in Hertfordshire. These had been in 1548-9
left by Francis Waller, in default of issue by his own wife, to his
brothers Thomas and Edmund, but Thomas dying, Edmund inherited the
whole. Robert, on receiving his estates, quitted the profession of the
law, to which he had attached himself, and spent the rest of his life
chiefly at Beaconsfield, employed in the manly business and healthy
amusements of a country gentleman. He died in August 1616, and left a
widow and a son--the son, Edmund, being eleven years of age. It was at
Beaconsfield. We need hardly remind our readers, that a far greater
Edmund--Edmund Burke--spent many of his days. It was there that he
composed his latest and noblest works, the "Reflections on the French
Revolution," and the "Letters on a Regicide Peace;" and there he
surrendered to the Creator one of the subtlest, strongest, brightest,
and best of human souls. Shortly after Burke's death, the house of
Beaconsfield was burnt down, and no trace of it is now, we believe,
extant.
Mrs. Waller's brother, William, was the father of John Hampden. His
wife, Elizabeth Cromwell, the aunt of the great Oliver, was, however,
and continued to the end, a violent Royalist; and Cromwell, although he
treated both her and her son with kindness, and on the terms of their
relationship, was so provoked at hearing that she carried on a secret
correspondence with the Stewart party, that he confined her under a very
strict watch in the house of her daughter, Mrs. Price, whose husband was
on the side of the Parliament. It is exceedingly probable that from the
"mother's milk" of early prejudice was derived that spirit of
partisanship which distinguished alike the writings and the life of the
poet. It is possible, too, that contact with men so far above moral
heroism and rugged mental force as Cromwell and Hampden, instead of
exciting emulation, led to envy, and that his divergence from their
political path sprung more from personal feeling than from principle.
He was educated, first, at the grammar school of Market, Wickham; then
at Eton; and, in fine, at King's College, Cambridge. Accounts vary as to
his proficiency--one Bigge, who had been his school-fellow at Wickham,
told Aubrey that he never expected Waller to have become such an eminent
poet, and that he used to write his exercises for him. Others, on the
contrary, have alleged that it was the fame of his scholarship which led
to his election for Agmondesham, a borough in Bucks, when he was only
sixteen years of age. This story, so far as his premature learning goes,
seems rather apocryphal; but certain it is, that when scarcely eighteen,
he had become M.P. for the above-mentioned borough. The parliament in
which he found himself, was one of those subservient and cringing
assemblies which James I. was wont to summon to sit till they had voted
the supplies, and then contemptuously to dismiss. It met in November
1621, and after passing a resolution in support of their privileges,
which James tore out of the Journals with his own hand, and granting the
usual supplies, was dissolved on the 6th of January 1622. Waller was
probably as silent and servile as any of his neighbours. He began,
however, to feel his way as a courtier, and overheard some curious and
not very canonical talk of James with his lords and bishops, the record
of which reminds you of some of the richer scenes of the "Fortunes of
Nigel." The next parliament was not called till 1624, when Waller was
not elected. The electors of Agmondesham, who had, meantime, obtained
fuller privileges, chose two matured members to represent them, and the
precocious boy lost his seat.
Waller's "political and poetical life began nearly together." It was in
his eighteenth year that he wrote his first poetical piece--that on the
escape of Prince Charles from a tempest on his return from Spain. It is
a tissue of smooth and musical mediocrity. It shews a kind of stunted
prematurity. The perfection which is attained by a single effort is
generally a poor and tame one. This poem of Waller's, like several of
his others, has all that merit which arises from the absence of fault,
and all that fault which arises from the absence of merit--of high
poetic merit, we mean, for in music it is equal to any of his poems.
Much has been said about the model which he followed in his
versification, the majority of critics tracing in it an imitation of
Fairfax's Tasso. The fact seems to be that Waller, with a good ear, had
a very limited theory of verse. He worshipped smoothness, and sought it
at every hazard. He preferred the Jacob of a soft flowing commonplace to
the rough hairy Esau of a strong originality, cumbered with its own
weight and richness. We think that this excessive love of the soft, and
horror at the rude, materially weakened his genius. The true theory of
versification lies in variety, and in accommodation to the necessities
and fluctuations of the thought. The "Paradise Lost," written in
Waller's rhyme, would have been as ridiculous as Waller's love to
Saccharissa expressed in Milton's blank verse. The school before Waller
were too rugged, but surely there is a medium between the roughness of
Donne, and the honied monotony of the author of the "Summer Islands."
The practice of running the lines into one another, severely condemned
by Johnson, and systematically shunned by Waller, has often been
practised with success by poets far greater than either--such as Shelley
and Coleridge. It is remarkable that Dryden, while he praised, did not
copy our poet's manner, but gave himself freer scope. Pope, on the other
hand, pushed his love of uniform tinkle and unmitigated softness to
excess, and transferred this kind of luscious verse from small poems,
where it is often a merit, to large ones, where it is a mistake. In his
"Iliad," for instance, the fierce ire of Achilles, the dignified
resentment of Agamemnon, the dull courage of Ajax, the chivalrous
sentiment of Hector, the glowing energy of Diomede, the veteran wisdom
of Nestor, the grief of Andromache, the love of Helen, the jealousy of
Juno, and the godlike majesty of Jupiter, are all expressed in the same
sweet and monotonous melody--a verse called "heroic," by courtesy, or on
the principle of contradiction, like _lucus a non lucendo_. In Waller,
however, his poems being all, without exception, rather short, you never
think of quarrelling with his uniformity of manner; and rise from his
lines as from a liberal feast of hot-house grapes, thankful, but feeling
that a _few more_ would have turned satisfaction into nausea. Yet you
feel, too, that perhaps his selection of small themes, and the
consequent curbing of his powers, have sprung from his fastidiousness in
the matter of versification. The sermons, the satires, the speeches, the
odes, and the didactic poems of the fastidious are generally _short_,
and do not, therefore, fully mirror the amplitude, or express the energy
of their genius. To his poem on the escape of Prince Charles, succeeded
that on the Prince, and two or three others of a similar kind; all
finding their inspiration, not as yet in that love of others which
animated his amatory effusions, but in that love to himself and his own
interest which marks the incipient courtier, who is beginning, in
Shakspeare's thought, to hang his knee upon "hinges," that it may bend
more readily to power. Yet his case shews that there is a certain
incompatibility between the profession of a courtier and that of a poet.
He often began his panegyrics with much fervour, but the fit passed, or
his fastidious taste produced disgust at what he had written, and it was
either not finished, or was delayed till the interest of the occasion
had passed away.
After the death of James I., Charles called a new parliament in 1625,
and in it Waller took his place for Chipping-Wycombe, a borough in
Buckinghamshire. This parliament met in London, but was adjourned to
Oxford on account of the Plague. In Oxford, it proved refractory to the
king's wishes, and refusing to grant him a tithe of the supplies which
he demanded, was summarily dismissed. Waller was not re-elected in 1626,
when the next parliament was summoned, but secured his return for
Agmondesham in March 1627. He appears to have been in these years a
silent senator, taking little interest or share in the debates, but
retiring from them to offer the quit-rent of his versicles--a laureate
without salary, and yet not probably much more sincere than laureates
generally are; for although his loyalty was undoubted, his expressions
of it in rhyme are often hyperbolical to a degree.
In his twenty-sixth year, he married an heiress, the daughter of Mr.
Banks, a wealthy London citizen. In this there was nothing singular but
the fact, that he, as yet obscure, distanced a rival of great influence,
whose suit was supported by royalty--namely, Mr. Crofts, afterwards
Baron Crofts--gave rather a romantic and adventurous air to the match.
He retired soon after to Beaconsfield, where he spent some happy years
in the enjoyment of domestic society, pursuing, too, his studies under
the direction of Morley, afterwards Bishop of Winchester, a
distinguished scholar of the time, who resided with him. During this
period he is said to have read many poets, but to have written little
poetry. Although the king, jealous of his subjects, had, in 1632, by a
most absurd and arbitrary decree, commanded all the lords and gentry in
the kingdom to reside on their own estates, Waller did not at the time
consider this an exceeding hardship. Indeed, his feelings were on no
subject, and under no pressure of circumstances, either very profound or
very lasting.
His wife died after having borne him a son and a daughter--a son, who
did not long survive his mother; and a daughter, who became afterwards
Mrs. Dormer of Oxfordshire. From under this calamity Waller, yet only
thirty years of age, rebounded with characteristic elasticity. He came
back, nothing both, to the society he had left, and was soon known to be
in quest of a fair lady, whom he has made immortal by the sobriquet of
Saccharissa. She was the eldest daughter of the Earl of Leicester, and
her name was the Lady Dorothy Sidney. This lady was counted beautiful.
Her father was absent in foreign parts. She lived almost alone in
Penshurst. It added to her charms, at least in a poetical eye, that she
was descended from Sir Philip Sidney; a man whose name, as the flower of
chivalry and the soul of honour, is still "like ointment poured forth"
in the estimation of the world--whose death rises almost to the dignity
and grandeur of a martyrdom--and who has left in his "Arcadia" a
quaintly decorated, conceived, and unequally chiselled, but true, rich,
and magnificent monument of his genius. In spite, however, of all
Waller's tender ditties, of the incense he offered up--not only to
Dorothy, but to her sister Lady Lucy, and even to her maid Mrs.
Braughton--his goddess was inexorable, and not only rejected, but
spurned him from her feet. The poet bore this disappointment, as all
poets, Dante hardly excepted, have borne the same: he transferred his
affections to another, who, indeed, ere Saccharissa-like the sun had set
in the west, had risen like the moon in the east of her lover's
admiration, and soon, although only for a short time, possessed the sky
alone. This was his Amoret, who is said to have been Lady Sophia Murray.
The Juliet, however, was not one whit more placable than the Rosalind--
she, too, rejected his suit; and this rejection threw Waller, not into
despair or melancholy, but into a wide sea of miscellaneous flirtations,
with we know not how many Chlorises, Sylvias, Phyllises, and Flavias,
all which names stood, it seems, for real persons, and testified to a
universality in the poet's affections which is rather ludicrous than
edifying. His heart was as soft, and shallower than his verse.
Saccharissa married Lord Spencer, afterwards the Earl of Sunderland, who
was killed at the battle of Newbury. After his death, she was united to
a Mr. Robert Smythe; and she now lies at Brinton, in Northamptonshire,
while her picture continues, from the walls of the gallery at Penshurst,
to shed down the soft, languishing, and voluptuous smile which had
captivated the passions, if it could hardly be said to have really
touched the heart, of her poetical admirer. He not very long after his
twofold rejection, consoled himself by marrying a second wife. Her name
was Breaux or Bresse; and all we know of her is, that she bore and
brought up a great many children.
In 1639, the urgencies of the times compelled Charles to call a new
parliament, and it was decreed that politics instead of love and song
should now for a time engross our poet. And there opened up to him
unquestionably a noble field of patriotic exertion had he been fully
adapted for its cultivation--his firmness been equal to his eloquence,
and his sincerity to his address--had he been more of a Whig in the good
old Hampden sense, and less of a trimmer. As it is, he cuts, on the
whole, a doubtful figure, and is no great favourite with the partisans
of either of the great contending parties. He was again elected member
for Agmondesham, and when the question came before the House, whether
the supplies demanded by Strafford should be granted, or the grievances
complained of by the Commons should be first redressed, he delivered an
oration, trying with considerable dexterity to steer a medium course
between the two sides. In this speech, while contending for the
constitutional principle advocated by the Commons, and expressing great
attachment to his Majesty's person, he maintained that the chief blame
of the king's obnoxious measures lay with his clerical advisers, and
concluded by moving that the House should first consider the grievances,
and then grant the royal demand. Charles, who had personally requested
Waller to second the motion for instantly granting the supplies, was
not, we imagine, particularly pleased with his "volunteer" laureate's
conduct; and his temporary defection did not tend to allay the royal
fury at the parliament, which burst out forthwith in an act of sudden
and wrathful dismissal.
This session, called from its extreme brevity the Short Parliament,
ended in May. In November met that memorable assembly, destined not to
separate till it had outlived a monarchy and a hierarchy, and seen a
brewer's son take the sceptre instead of the descendant of a hundred
kings, the Long Parliament. Waller, again member for Agmondesham, had
made himself popular by his speech in the beginning of the year, and was
chosen by the Commons to manage the prosecution of Judge Crawley for
advising the levy of ship-money. He conducted the case with talent,
acuteness, and moderation. Soon after, however, as the gulph widened
between the king and the parliament, his position became extremely
awkward. His understanding on the whole was with the parliament,
although he did not approve of some of their measures, but his heart was
with the royal cause. He first of all, along with a others (whose
example was imitated by Fox and his party during the French Revolution),
retired from parliament, but in consequence of the permission or request
of the king, he speedily resumed his seat. When Charles put himself in a
warlike attitude in August 1642, Waller sent him a present of a thousand
broad pieces. Still his plausible language, the tone of moderation which
he preserved, and his connexion with Cromwell and Hampden, rendered the
popular party unwilling to believe him a traitor to their cause, and he
was appointed, after the battle at Edgehill, one of the commissioners
who met at Oxford to treat of peace. Here, it is said, that one of those
compliments which cost the subtle Charles so little (Waller was last in
being presented to the king, and his Majesty told him, "Though last, you
are not the lowest nor the least in my favour"), gained over Waller, and
suggested to him the scheme of his famous plot. We do not think so
little of our hero's intellect, or so much of his heart, as to credit
this story. Though not aged, he was by far too old to be caught with
such chaff. He knew, too, before, Charles' private sentiments towards
him, and we incline with some of his biographers to suppose that these
words of royalty were simply the signal to Waller to fire the train
which the king knew right well had already been prepared.
Poets are in general poor politicians and miserable plotters. They
seldom, even in verse or fiction, manage a state plot well. Scott, at
least, has completely failed in his treatment of the Popish plot in
"Peveril," and they always bungle it in reality. They are either too
unsuspicious or too scheming, too shallow or too profound. That mixture
of transparency and craft, of simplicity and subtlety, requisite to all
deep schemes, and which Poe (himself a confused compound of the genius,
the simpleton, and the scoundrel) has so admirably exemplified in the
"Purloined Letter," is not often competent to men of imagination and
impulse. Waller was not a very creative spirit; but here he was true to
his class, and failed like a very poet. He had a brother-in-law named
Tomkins, clerk of the Queen's Council, and possessed of much influence
in the city. Consulting together on national affairs, it struck them
simultaneously that energetic measures might yet save the court. They
saw, or thought they saw, a reaction in favour of the royal cause, and
they determined to try and unite the royalists together in a peaceful
but strong combination against the parliament. They appointed
confidential agents to make out, in the different parishes and wards,
lists of those persons who were or were not friendly to their cause; and
to secure secresy, they prohibited more than three of their party from
meeting in one place, and no individual was to reveal the design to more
than two others. Lord Conway, fresh from Ireland, joined the
confederacy, and probably the counsels of such an ardent soldier served
to modify the original purpose, and to give it a military colour.
Meanwhile, Sir Nicholas Crispe, a bolder spirit than Waller, had
organised a different scheme in favour of Charles. He had, when a
merchant in the city, procured a loan of £100,000 for the king; he had
then raised and taken the command of a regiment; he had obtained from
Charles a commission of array, which Lady Aubigny, ignorant of its
contents, was to deliver to a gentleman in London. Crispe's plan was
bold and comprehensive. He intended to remove the king's children to a
place of safety, to enlist soldiers, collect magazines, and raise monies
by contribution, to release the prisoners committed by the parliament,
to arrest some of the leading members in both Houses, to issue
declarations, and whenever the conspiracy was ripe, to raise flags at
Temple Bar, the Exchange, and other central spots.
It was impossible that two such plots could escape collision with each
other--or that either should be long concealed. On the 31st May 1643, a
fast-day, Pym is seated in St. Margaret's Church, hearing sermon. A
messenger enters and gives him a letter. He reads hastily--communicates
its intelligence in whispers to those beside him, and hurries out. No
time is lost. Pym and his party could not trifle now though they would,
and would not though they could. Waller and Tomkins are seized that
night in their houses, and overwhelmed with fear, confess everything. It
is suspected that Waller was betrayed by his sister, Mrs. Price, who was
married to a zealous parliamentarian. A strange story is told, that one
Goode, her chaplain, had stolen some of his papers, and would have got a
hold of them all, had not Waller, having DREAMED that his sister was
perfidious, risen and secured the rest. Clarendon, on the other hand,
says that the discovery was made by a servant of Tomkins, who acted as a
spy for the parliament. At all events, they were found out, and, in
their terror and pusillanimity, they betrayed their associates. The Duke
of Portland and Lord Conway were instantly arrested. Lady Aubigny, too,
was imprisoned, but contrived to make her escape to the Hague. Even the
Earl of Northumberland was involved in the charges which now issued in a
trembling torrent from the lips of the detected conspirator, who
confessed a great deal that could not have been discovered, and offered
to reveal the private conversations of ladies of rank, and to betray all
and sundry who were in the slightest degree connected with the plot.
Tomkins had somehow got possession of Crispe's commission of array,
which he had buried in the garden, but which was now, on his
information, dug up. Never did a conspiracy fall to pieces more rapidly,
completely, and, for the conspirators, more disgracefully.
This discovery proves a windfall to the parliamentary party. Pym hies to
the citizens and apprises them, in one breath, at once of their danger
and their signal deliverance. The Commons draw up a vow and covenant,
expressing their detestation of all such conspiracies, and appoint a day
of thanksgiving for the escape of the nation. Meanwhile Waller and
Portland are confronted, when the one repeats his charge and Portland
denies it. Conway, too, maintains his innocence, and as Waller is the
only evidence against either him or Portland, both are, after a long
imprisonment, admitted to bail. Tomkins, Chaloner (the agent of Crispe),
Hassel (the king's courier between Oxford and London), Alexander Hampden
(Waller's cousin), and some subordinate conspirators, are arraigned
before a Council of War. Waller feigns himself so ill with remorse of
conscience, that his trial is put off that he "may recover his
understanding." Hassel dies the night before the trial. Tomkins and
Chaloner are hanged before their own doors. Hampden escapes punishment,
but is retained in prison, where he dies; and the subordinates just
referred to (Blinkorne and White) are pardoned. Northumberland, owing to
his rank, is only once examined before the Lords. Those whose names were
inserted in the commission of array are treated as malignants, and their
estates seized.
Waller, having received some respite, employed the time in petitioning,
flattering, bribing, confessing, beseeching, and in the exercise of
every other art by which a mean, cowardly spirit seeks to evade death.
He appealed from the military jurisdiction to the House of Commons, and
was admitted to plead his cause at their bar. His speech was humble,
conciliating, and artful, but failed to gain the object. He was expelled
from the House, and soon after was sisted before the Court of War, and
condemned to die. He was reprieved, however, by Essex, and at the end of
a year's imprisonment, the sentence was commuted into a fine of £10,000,
and banishment for life. He was sent to "recollect himself in another
country." He had previously expended, it is said, £30,000 in bribes.
Waller's conduct in this whole matter was a mixture of cowardice and
meanness. Recollecting his poetical temperament, and the well-known
stories of Demosthenes at Cheronea, and Horace at Philippi, we are not
disposed to be harsh on his cowardice, but we have no excuse for his
meanness. It discovers a want of heart, and an infinite littleness of
soul. We can hardly conceive him to have possessed a drop of the blood
of Hampden or Cromwell in his veins, and cease to wonder why two
high-spirited ladies of rank should have spurned the homage of a poetic
poltroon, whom instinctively they seem to have known to be such, even
before he proved it to the world.
"Infamous, and _not_ contented," Waller repairs to the Continent, first
to Rouen, then to Switzerland and Italy, in company with his friend
Evelyn, and, in fine, settles for a season in Paris. Here he keeps open
table for the banished royalists, as well as for the French wits, till
his means are impaired by his liberality. A middling poet, a pitiful
politician, a fickle dangler in affairs of love, Waller was an admirable
_host_, and not only gave good dinners and suppers, but flavoured them
delicately with compliment and repartee. In Paris he recovered his tone
of spirits, and, had his money lasted, might have remained there till
his dying day. But fines and bribes had exhausted his patrimony, and he
was compelled first to sell a property in Bedfordshire, worth more than
£1,000 a-year, then to part with his wife's jewels, and in fine to sell
the last of these, which he called "the rump jewel." His family, too,
had increased, and added to his incumbrances. His favourite was a
daughter, Margaret, born in Rouen, who acted as his amanuensis. At last,
through the intercession of his brother-in-law, Scroope, he was
permitted to return to England. This was on the 13th of January 1652.
During all his residence on the Continent, he had continued to amuse
himself with poetry, "in which," says Johnson, "he sometimes speaks of
the rebels and their usurpation, in the natural language of an honest
man." If this mean that Waller, when he uttered such sentiments, was,
for the nonce, sincere, it is quite true; but if the Doctor means that
Waller was, speaking generally, an honest man, it is not true; and Dr.
Johnson repeatedly signifies, in other parts of his life, that he does
not believe it to be true. He speaks, for instance, of the "exorbitance
of his adulation," of his "having lost the esteem of all parties," and
says, "It is not possible to read without some contempt and indignation,
poems ascribing the highest degree of _power_ and _piety_ to Charles the
First, and then transferring the same _power_ and _piety_ to Oliver
Cromwell." In keeping with this, Bishop Burnet asserts, that "in the
House he was only concerned to say what should make him applauded, and
never laid the business of the House to heart."
Waller, returning, found his mother still alive at Beaconsfield, where
Cromwell sometimes visited her; and when she talked in favour of the
royal cause, would throw napkins at her, and say that he would not
dispute with his aunt, although afterwards, as we have seen, her spirit
of political intrigue compelled him to make her a prisoner in her own
house. The poet took up his residence near her at Hall-barn, a house of
his own erection, and on the walls of which he hung up a picture of
Saccharissa, whence he hoped, it may be, draw consolation for the past,
and inspiration for the future. Here Cromwell, who probably despised
Waller in his heart, as often men of action despise men of mere literary
ability, especially when that ability is not transcendent, but whose cue
it was to conciliate all men according to their respective positions and
capabilities, paid great attention to his kinsman. Waller found Cromwell
well acquainted with the ancient historians, and they conversed a good
deal on such topics. It is said, that when Waller jeered him on his
using the peculiar phraseology of the Puritans in his conversation with
them, the Protector answered, "Cousin Waller, I must talk to these men
in their own way;" an anecdote which is sometimes quoted as if it proved
that Cromwell had no religion; whereas it only proved that he had at
heart no cant. It was not as if he had privately avowed infidelity to
his kinsman. Cromwell found _cant_ prevalent on his stage, just as any
great actor of that century found _rant_ on his, and, like the actor, he
used it occasionally as a means of gaining his own lofty ends, and as a
foil to his own genuine earnestness and power.
The Protector, however, seems to have profoundly impressed even Waller's
light and fickle mind; and the panegyric which he produced on him in
1654, is not only the ablest, but seems the sincerest of his
productions. He had hitherto been writing about women, courtiers, and
kings; but now he had to gird up his loins and write on a man. The piece
is accordingly as masculine in style, as it is just in appreciation;
and, with the exception of Milton's glorious sketch in the "Defensio pro
populo Anglicano," and Carlyle's lecture in his "Heroes and
Hero-worship," it is, perhaps, the best encomium ever pronounced on the
Lord Protector of England--almost worthy of Cromwell's unrivalled merits
and achievements, and more than worthy of Waller's powers. It is said,
that when twitted with having written a better panegyric on Cromwell
than a congratulation to Charles II., he wittily replied, "You should
remember that poets succeed better in fiction than in truth." Perhaps in
this he spoke ironically; certainly the fact was the reverse of his
words. It is because he has spoken truth in the first, and fiction in
the second, of productions, that the first is incomparably the better
poem. Sketches of character taken from the life are better than those
where imagination operates on hearsays and on recorded actions. And
certainly few men had a better opportunity than Waller of seeing in
private and in undress, and with an eye in which native sagacity was
sharpened by prejudices, partly for, partly against, the Man of that
century--a man in whom we recognise a union of Roman, Hebrew, and
English qualities--the faith of the Jew, the firmness of the Roman, and
the homespun simplicity of the Englishman of his own age--in purpose and
in powers "an armed angel on a battle-day;" in manners a plain blunt
corporal; and in language always a stammerer, and sometimes a buffoon;
the middle-class man of his time, with the merits and the defects of his
order, but touched with an inspiration as from heaven, lifting him far
above all the aristocracy, and all the royalty, and all the literature
of his period; who found his one great faculty--inflamed and consecrated
commonsense--to be more than equal to the subleties, and brilliancies,
and wit, and eloquence, and taste, and genius, of his thousand
opponents--whose crown was a branch of English oak, his sceptre a strong
sapling of the same, his throne a mound of turf--who economised matters
by being at once king and king's jester, and whose mere _clenched fist_,
held up at home or across the waters, saved millions of money, awed
despots, encouraged freedom in every part of the world, and had nearly
established a pure form of Christianity over Great Britain--who gave his
country a model of excellence as a man, and as a ruler, simple, severe,
ruggedly picturesque, and stupendously original, and solitary as one of
the primitive rocks--whose eloquence was uneven and piercing as the
forked lightning, which is never so terrible as when it falls to pieces
--and highest praise of all, whose deeds and character were so great in
their sublime simplicity, that the poet, who afterwards sung the
hierarchies of heaven, and the anarchies of hell, was fain to sit a
humble secretary, recording the thoughts and actions of Cromwell, and
felt afterwards that he had been as nobly employed when defending his
grand defiance of evil and arbitrary power, as when he did
"Assert Eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to man."
We have seen pictured representations of Cromwell and Milton seated
together at the council-table, in which the painter wished more than to
insinuate that Milton was the superior being; but in our judgment the
advantage was on the other side, and the poet seemed to bear only that
relation and proportion to the Protector which the eloquent Raphael, the
"affable archangel," the bard of the war in heaven, does to the Gabriel
or the Michael, whose tremendous sword mingled in and all but decided
the fray. And we thought what a junction were that of the two powers--of
the sword and the pen, the actor and the recorder, the man to do, and
the poet to sing! Waller in his panegyric sees and shews in a few lines
Cromwell's relation to Britain, and that of both to the world:--
"Heaven that has placed this island to give law,
To balance Europe, and her states to awe,
In this conjunction does on Britain smile,
_The greatest leader and the greatest isle_."
He saw that in Cromwell, and in Cromwell alone, had the power of Britain
come to a point: IT was made, if not to be the governor to be the
moderator of the earth, and HE was sent to govern it, to condense its
scattered energies, to awe down its warring factions, and to wield all
its forces to one good and great end. In him for the first time had the
wild island, the Bucephalus of the West, found a rider able, by backing,
bridling, and curbing him, to give due direction and momentum to his
fury, force, and speed.
He has scattered some other precious particles of thought in this poem,
such as:--
"Lords of the world's great waste, the ocean, we
Whole forests send to reign upon the sea."
"The Caledonians, arm'd with want and cold."
"The states, changed by you,
Changed like the world's great scene, when without noise,
The rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys."
"Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse,
_And every conqueror creates a Muse_."
When Cromwell died, Waller again lifted up his pen, and indited a short
lamentation over his loss. After the Restoration, he was one of the
first to read a poetical recantation of his errors in verses addressed
to Charles II. In 1661 he was returned to parliament for Hastings, in
Sussex, and sat afterwards at various times for Chipping-Wycombe, and
Saltash. In parliament, he was rather famed for his lively sallies of
wit, than for his logic, sense, or earnestness. In private, his spirits,
even without the aid of wine,--which he never drank,--continued to a
great age unusually buoyant. As he advanced in life he became more
religious, and intermixed a vein of devotion with his verse. When
eighty-two, he bought a small estate in Coleshill, near his native
place, desirous, he said, "to die, like the stag, where he was roused."
His wish, however, was not granted. Seized with tumours in his legs, he
went to Windsor to consult Sir Charles Scarborough, then waiting on the
king. Sir Charles, at Waller's request to know the "meaning" of these
swellings, told him that they showed that his "blood would no longer
run." On this the poet quietly repeated a passage from Virgil, and
returned to Beaconsfield to die. Having received the sacrament, and
shared it with his children, and expressed his faith in Christianity, he
expired on the 21st of October 1687. He was buried in the churchyard of
Beaconsfield. He left five sons and eight daughters. His eldest son
being an imbecile, Edmund, his second, inherited the estates, and having
joined the party of the Prince of Orange, sat for Agmondesham for some
years, but became ultimately a Quaker. The fortunes of the rest of his
family are not particularly interesting, and need not be related.
As a character, our opinion of Waller has been already indicated. He was
indecisive, vacillating, with more wit than judgment, and with more
judgment than earnestness. In that age of high hearts, stormy passions,
and determined purpose, he looks helpless and not at home, like a
butterfly in an eagle's eyrie. A gifted, accomplished, and apparently an
amiable man, he was a feeble, and almost a despicable character. The
parliament seem to have thought him hardly worth hanging. Cromwell bore
with him only as a kinsman, and respected him only as a scholar. Charles
II. liked to laugh at his jokes, and to Saville his company was as good
as an additional bottle of wine. His only chance of fame as a man of
action arose from his connexion with the plot, which, however, in its
issue covered him with infamy, as all bad things bungled, inevitably do
to those who attempt them.
Although he unquestionably in some points improved our correctness of
style and our versification, there is not much to be said either for or
against his poetry. It is as a whole a mass of smooth and easy, yet
systematic, trifling. Nine-tenths of it does not rise above mediocrity,
and the tenth that remains is more distinguished by grace than by
grandeur or depth. His lines on Cromwell we have already characterised.
It may seem odd, but in his verses on the head of a stag, which Johnson
singles out as bad, we see more of the soul of poetry than in any of his
other productions.
Let our readers, if they will not be convinced by our assertion, listen
to some of these lines:--
"So we some antique hero's strength,
Learn by his lance's weight and length--
As these vast beams express the beast
Whose shady brows alive they dress'd.
Such game, while yet the world was new,
The mighty Nimrod did pursue;
What huntsman of our feeble race
Or dogs dare such a monster chase?
* * * * *
Oh, fertile head, which every year
Could such a CROP of WONDER bear!"
In his amorous and complimentary ditties, he is often very successful.
So, too, is he in much of his "Divine Poetry," particularly the lines at
the end, beginning with--
"The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,"
Lets in new light through chinks which time hath made.
These contain a thought, so far as we remember, new and highly poetical.
We may close by saying a few words on a question which Dr. Johnson has
started in his "Life of Waller" in reference to sacred poetry. That
great and good man, our readers remember, maintains that the ideas of
the Christian theology are too simple for eloquence, too sacred for
fiction, and too majestic for ornament, and "that faith, thanksgiving,
repentance, and supplication," are all unsusceptible of poetical
treatment. He grants that the doctrines of religion may be defended in a
didactic poem, and that a poet may not only describe God's works in
nature, but may trace them up to nature's God. But he asserts that
"contemplative piety, or the intercourse between God and the human soul,
cannot be poetical." It is curious to remember that, up to Johnson's
time, the best poetry in the world had been sacred. There had been the
poetry of the Bible, in which truth of the deepest import was expressed,
now in "eloquence," now in "fiction," and now in language most
gorgeously "ornamented," and in which "Faith" in Isaiah, "Thanksgiving"
in Moses, "Penitence" in David, and "Supplication" in Jeremiah, had
uttered themselves in sublime, or lively, or subdued, or tender strains
--the poetry of the "Divine Commedia," of the "Jerusalem Delivered," of
the "Faery Queen," of the "Paradise Lost" and "Paradise Regained," of
the "Night-Thoughts," of "Smart's David," all poetry, let it be
observed, not defending religion merely, or confining itself to the
praise of God's lower works, but entering into the depths of divine
contemplation, into the very adyta of the heavenly temple. And it is no
less interesting to recollect that in spite of Dr. Johnson's sage
diction, sacred poetry of a very high order has, since his day,
abounded. Cowper has extracted it from "the intercourse between God and
the human soul;" Montgomery has made now "the supplication," and now the
"thanksgiving," of the poor negro ring in every ear, and vibrate through
every heart; Coleridge has expressed, in his sounding and splendid
measures, at one time his "faith," and at another his "repentance;"
Pollok has with true, although unequal steps, followed Milton and Dante,
both into the heaven of heavens, and into the gloom of Gehenna; and
Wordsworth, Southey, Croly, Milman, Trench, Keble, and a host more have,
by their noble religious hymns, shamed the wisdom of the Sadducee, and
darkened the glory of the song of the sceptic. Why argue about
principles while we can appeal to facts? Why shew either the
probabilities against, or the probabilities for, good sacred poetry,
while we see it before us, gushing from a thousand springs, and
gladdening every corner of the church and of the world?
Dr. Johnson says, "Whatever is great, desirable, or tremendous, is
comprised in the name of the Supreme Being. Omnipotence cannot be
exalted. Infinity cannot be amplified. Perfection cannot be improved."
All this is as true as it is pointedly expressed; but though true, it is
nothing to the purpose--nay, bears as much against prayer as against
poetry. What meant the Psalmist when he said, "My soul doth magnify the
Lord?" Did he aspire to exalt Omnipotence or to amplify perfection? No;
but only first to shew his own feeling of their magnitude; and, again,
to raise himself a step toward an approximately adequate conception of
the Most High. So in religious poetry. We cannot add to, or exalt God,
but we can raise ourselves up nearer to Him, and attain, if not a full
understanding, a deeper feeling of the elements of His surpassing
excellence and glory. Indeed, as the highest poetry (in Milton, for
instance) blossoms into prayer, so the truest prayer, often by
insensible gradation, becomes poetry.
Dr. Johnson says, that "of sentiments purely religious, the most simple
expression is the most sublime." True, and hence, the best religious
poetry is at once sublime and simple. He adds, "Poetry loses its lustre
and its power, because it is applied to the decoration of something more
excellent than itself." On this principle, poets should never sing of
God's works in nature--of the ocean, or the sun, or the stars--no, nor
of the heroic achievements of man's courage, or of the self-sacrifices
of his love--for are not all these more excellent than poetry? Dr
Johnson's theory would hush the "New Song" itself, and perpetuate that
silence which was once in heaven "for half-an-hour."
Long before the Doctor vented this paradox, Cowley, in his preface to
his poems, had written the following eloquent and memorable sentences on
this subject:--"When I consider how many bright and magnificent subjects
Scripture affords, and proffers, as it were, to poesy, in the wise
managing and illustrating whereof the glory of God Almighty might be
joined with the singular utility and noblest delight of mankind, it is
not without grief and indignation that I behold that divine science
employing all her inexhaustible riches of wit and eloquence, either in
the wicked and beggarly flattering of great persons, or the unmanly
idolising of foolish women, or the wretched affectation of scurril
laughter, or the confused dreams of senseless fables and metamorphoses.
Amongst all holy and consecrated things which the devil ever stole and
alienated from the service of the Deity--as altars, temples, sacrifices,
prayers, and the like--there is none that he so universally and so long
usurped as poetry. It is time to recover it out of the tyrant's hands,
and to restore it to the kingdom of God, who is the Father of it. It is
time to baptize it in Jordan, for it will never become clean by bathing
in the waters of Damascus.
"What can we imagine more proper for the ornaments of wit and learning
in the story of Deucalion than in that of Noah? Why will not the actions
of Samson afford as plentiful matter as the Labours of Hercules?
(Perhaps from this Milton took the hint of writing his "Samson
Agonistes.") Why is not Jephtha's daughter as good a woman as Iphigenia?
and the friendship of David and Jonathan more worthy celebration than
that of Theseus and Pirithous? Does not the passage of Moses and the
Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetic variety
than the voyages of Ulysses and Aeneas? Are the obsolete, threadbare
tales of Thebes and Troy half so well stored with great, heroical, and
supernatural actions (since verse will needs find or make such), as the
wars of Joshua, of the Judges, of David, and divers others? Can all the
transformations of the gods give such copious hints to flourish and
expatiate on as the true miracles of Christ, or of His prophets and
apostles? What do I instance in these few particulars? All the books in
the Bible are either already most admirable and exalted pieces of
poetry, or are the best materials in the world for it.
"Yet," he adds with great judiciousness, "though they be so proper in
themselves to be made use of for this purpose, none but a good artist
will know how to do it, neither must we think to cut and polish diamonds
with so little pains and skill as we do marble. He who can write a
profane poem well, may write a divine one better; but he who can do that
but ill, will do this much worse, and so far from elevating poesy will
but abase divinity. The same fertility of invention--the same wisdom of
disposition--the same judgment in observance of decencies--the same
lustre and vigour of elocution--the same modesty and majesty of number--
briefly, the same kind of habit--is required in both, only this latter
allows better stuff, and therefore would look more deformedly drest in
it."
The errors of a great author are often more valuable than his sound
sentiments; because they tend, by the reaction they provoke, and the
replies they elicit, to dart new light upon the opposite truths. And so
it has been with this dogma of the illustrious Lexicographer. It has led
to some admirable rejoinders from such pens as those of Montgomery, and
of Christopher North, which have not only rebutted Johnson's objections,
but have directed public attention more strongly to the general theme,
and served to shed new light upon the nature and province of religious
poetry.
CONTENTS.
WALLER'S POEMS.
MISCELLANEOUS:--
Of the Danger His Majesty (being Prince) Escaped in the Road at St
Andero.
Of His Majesty's receiving the News of the Duke of Buckingham's Death
On the Taking of Sallè
Upon His Majesty's Repairing of St. Paul's
The Countess of Carlisle in Mourning
In Answer to One who writ a Libel against the Countess of Carlisle
Of her Chamber
Thyrsis, Galatea
On my Lady Dorothy Sidney's Picture
At Penshurst
Of the Lady who can Sleep when she Pleases
Of the Misreport of her being Painted
Of her Passing through a Crowd of People
The Story of Phoebus and Daphne, applied
On the Friendship betwixt Saccharissa and Amoret
At Penshurst
The Battle of the Summer Islands
Of the Queen
The Apology of Sleep, for not Approaching the Lady who can do anything
but Sleep when she Pleases
Puerperium
A La Malade
Upon the Death of my Lady Rich
Of Love
For Drinking of Healths
Of my Lady Isabella, Playing on the Lute
Of Mrs. Arden
Of the Marriage of the Dwarfs
Love's Farewell
From a Child
On a Girdle
The Fall
Of Sylvia
The Bud
On the Discovery of a Lady's Painting
Of Loving at First Sight
The Self-Banished
A Panegyric to my Lord Protector, of the Present Greatness, and Joint
Interest, of His Highness, and this Nation
On the Head of a Stag
The Miser's Speech, in a Masque
Chloris and Hylas, made to a Saraband
In Answer of Sir John Suckling's Verses
An Apology for having Loved Before
The Night-Piece; or, a Picture Drawn in the Dark
On the Picture of a Fair Youth, Taken after he was Dead
On a Brede of Divers Colours, Woven by Four Ladies
Of a War with Spain, and Fight at Sea
Upon the Death of the Lord Protector
On St. James's Park, as lately Improved by His Majesty
Of Her Royal Highness, Mother to the Prince of Orange; and of her
Portrait, Written by the Late Duchess of York, while she Lived with her
Upon Her Majesty's New Buildings at Somerset House
Of a Tree Cut in Paper
Verses to Dr. George Rogers, on his Taking the Degree of Doctor of Physic
at Padua, in the Year 1664
Instructions to a Painter, for the Drawing of the Posture and Progress
of His Majesty's Forces at Sea, under the Command of His Highness-Royal;
together with the Battle and Victory obtained over the Dutch, June 3,
1665
Of English Verse
These Verses were Writ in the Tasso of Her Royal Highness
The Triple Combat
Upon our Late Loss of the Duke of Cambridge
Of the Lady Mary, Princess of Orange
Upon Ben Johnson
On Mr. John Fletcher's Plays
Upon the Earl of Roscommon's Translation of Horace, 'De Arte Poetica;'
and of the Use of Poetry
On the Duke of Monmouth's Expedition into Scotland in the Summer
Solstice
Of an Elegy made by Mrs. Wharton on the Earl of Rochester
Of Her Majesty, on New-Year's Day, 1683
Of Tea, Commended by Her Majesty
Of the Invasion and Defeat of the Turks, in the Year 1683
A Presage of the Ruin of the Turkish Empire; Presented to His Majesty
King James II. on His Birthday
EPISTLES:--
To the King, on His Navy
To Mr. Henry Lawes, who had then newly set a Song of mine in the Year
1635
The Country to my Lady Carlisle
To Phyllis
To the Queen-Mother of France, upon Her Landing
To Vandyck
To my Lord of Leicester
To Mrs. Braughton, Servant to Saccharissa
To my Young Lady Lucy Sydney
To Amoret
To my Lord of Falkland
To my Lord Northumberland, upon the Death of his Lady
Lord Admiral, of his late Sickness and Recovery
To the Queen, occasioned upon sight of Her Majesty's Picture
To Amoret
To Phyllis
To Sir William Davenant, upon his Two First Books of Gondibert
To my Worthy Friend, Mr. Wase, the Translator of Gratius
To a Friend, on the different Success of their Loves
To Zelinda
To my Lady Morton, on New-Year's Day, at the Louvre in Paris
To a Fair Lady, Playing with a Snake
To his Worthy Friend Master Evelyn, upon his Translation of 'Lucretius.'
To his Worthy Friend Sir Thomas Higgons, upon his Translation of 'The
Venetian Triumph'
To a Lady Singing a Song of his Composing
To the Mutable Fair
To a Lady, from whom he Received a Silver Pen
To Chloris
To a Lady in Retirement
To Mr. George Sandys, on his Translation of some Parts of the Bible
To the King, upon His Majesty's Happy Return
To a Lady, from whom he Received the Copy of the Poem entitled, 'Of a
Tree Cut in Paper,' which for many years had been Lost
To the Queen, upon Her Majesty's Birthday, after Her happy Recovery from
a Dangerous Sickness
To Mr. Killigrew, upon his Altering his Play, 'Pandora,' from a Tragedy
into a Comedy, because not Approved on the Stage
To a Person of Honour, upon his Incomparable, Incomprehensible Poem,
entitled, 'The British Princes,'
To a Friend of the Author, a Person of Honour, who lately Writ a
Religious Book, entitled, 'Historical Applications, and Occasional
Meditations, upon several Subjects
To the Duchess of Orleans, when she was taking Leave of the Court at
Dover
To Chloris
To the King
To the Duchess, when he Presented this Book to Her Royal Highness
To Mr. Creech, on his Translation of 'Lucretius'
SONGS:--
Stay, Phoebus
Peace, Babbling Muse
Chloris! Farewell
To Flavia
Behold the Brand of Beauty Toss'd
While I Listen to thy Voice
Go, Lovely Rose
Sung by Mrs. Knight to Her Majesty, on Her Birthday
Song
PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUE:--
Prologue for the Lady-Actors, Spoken before King Charles II
Prologue to the 'Maid's Tragedy'
Epilogue to the 'Maid's Tragedy,' Spoken by the the King
Another Epilogue to the 'Maid's Tragedy,' Designed upon the first
Alteration of the Play, when the King only was left Alive
EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, AND FRAGMENTS:--
Under a Lady's Picture
Of a Lady who Writ in Praise of Mira
To One Married to an Old Man
An Epigram on a Painted Lady with ill Teeth
Epigram upon the Golden Medal
Written on a Card that Her Majesty tore at Ombre
To Mr. Granville (now Lord Lansdowne), on his Verses to King James II
Long and Short Life
Translated out of Spanish
Translated out of French
Some Verses of an Imperfect Copy, Designed for a Friend, on his
Translation of Ovid's 'Fasti'
On the Statue of King Charles I., at Charing Cross, in the Year 1674
Pride
Epitaph on Sir George Speke
Epitaph on Colonel Charles Cavendish
Epitaph on the Lady Sedley
Epitaph to be Written under the Latin Inscription upon the Tomb of the
only Son of the Lord Andover
Epitaph Unfinished
DIVINE POEMS:--
Of Divine Love
Of the Fear of God
Of Divine Poesy
On the Paraphrase of the Lord's Prayer, Written by Mrs. Wharton
Some Reflections of his upon the Several Petitions in the same Prayer
On the Foregoing Divine Poems
DENHAM'S POEMS.
LIFE OF SIR JOHN DENHAM
POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.
Cooper's Hill
The Destruction of Troy, an Essay on the 2d Book of Virgil's Eneis
On the Earl of Stafford's Trial and Death
On my Lord Croft's and my Journey into Poland
On Mr. Thomas Killigrew's Return from Venice, and Mr. William Murrey's
from Scotland
To Sir John Mennis
Natura Naturata
Sarpedon's Speech to Glaucus, in the Twelfth Book of Homer
Friendship and Single Life, against Love and Marriage
On Mr. Abraham Cowley, his Death, and Burial amongst the Ancient Poets
A Speech against Peace at the Close Committee
To the Five Members of the Honourable House of Commons, the humble
Petition of the Poets
A Western Wonder
A Second Western Wonder
A Song
On Mr. John Fletcher's Works
To Sir Richard Fanshaw, upon his Translation of 'Pastor Fido'
To the Hon. Edward Howard, on 'The British Princes'
An Occasional Imitation of a Modern Author upon the Game of Chess
The Passion of Dido for Aeneas
Of Prudence
Of Justice
The Progress of Learning
Elegy on the Death of Helfry Lord Hastings, 1650
Of Old Age
THE POETICAL WORKS
OF
EDMUND WALLER
WALLER'S POETICAL WORKS.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
OF THE DANGER HIS MAJESTY [BEING PRINCE] ESCAPED IN THE ROAD AT ST
ANDERO.[1]
Now bad his Highness bid farewell to Spain,
And reach'd the sphere of his own power--the main;
With British bounty in his ship he feasts
Th' Hesperian princes, his amazed guests,
To find that watery wilderness exceed
The entertainment of their great Madrid.
Healths to both kings, attended with the roar
Of cannons, echo'd from th'affrighted shore,
With loud resemblance of his thunder, prove
Bacchus the seed of cloud-compelling Jove; 10
While to his harp divine Arion sings[2]
The loves and conquests of our Albion kings.
Of the Fourth Edward was his noble song,
Fierce, goodly, valiant, beautiful, and young;
He rent the crown from vanquish'd Henry's head,
Raised the White Rose, and trampled on the Red;
Till love, triumphing o'er the victor's pride,
Brought Mars and Warwick to the conquer'd side:
Neglected Warwick (whose bold hand, like Fate,
Gives and resumes the sceptre of our state) 20
Woos for his master; and with double shame,
Himself deluded, mocks the princely dame,
The Lady Bona, whom just anger burns,
And foreign war with civil rage returns.
Ah! spare your swords, where beauty is to blame;
Love gave th'affront, and must repair the same;
When France shall boast of her, whose conqu'ring eyes
Have made the best of English hearts their prize;
Have power to alter the decrees of Fate,
And change again the counsels of our state. 30
What the prophetic Muse intends, alone
To him that feels the secret wound is known.
With the sweet sound of this harmonious lay,
About the keel delighted dolphins play,
Too sure a sign of sea's ensuing rage,
Which must anon this royal troop engage;
To whom soft sleep seems more secure and sweet,
Within the town commanded by our fleet.
These mighty peers placed in the gilded barge,
Proud with the burden of so brave a charge, 40
With painted oars the youths begin to sweep
Neptune's smooth face, and cleave the yielding deep;
Which soon becomes the seat of sudden war
Between the wind and tide that fiercely jar.
As when a sort[3] of lusty shepherds try
Their force at football, care of victory
Makes them salute so rudely breast to breast, 47
That their encounter seems too rough for jest;
They ply their feet, and still the restless ball,
Toss'd to and fro, is urged by them all:
So fares the doubtful barge 'twixt tide and winds,
And like effect of their contention finds.
Yet the bold Britons still securely row'd;
Charles and his virtue was their sacred load;
Than which a greater pledge Heaven could not give,
That the good boat this tempest should outlive.
But storms increase, and now no hope of grace
Among them shines, save in the Prince's face;
The rest resign their courage, skill, and sight,
To danger, horror, and unwelcome night. 60
The gentle vessel (wont with state and pride
On the smooth back of silver Thames to ride)
Wanders astonish'd in the angry main,
As Titan's car did, while the golden rein
Fill'd the young hand of his adventurous son,[4]
When the whole world an equal hazard run
To this of ours, the light of whose desire
Waves threaten now, as that was scared by fire.
Th' impatient sea grows impotent, and raves,
That, night assisting, his impetuous waves 70
Should find resistance from so light a thing;
These surges ruin, those our safety bring.
Th' oppress'd vessel doth the charge abide,
Only because assail'd on every side;
So men with rage and passion set on fire,
Trembling for haste, impeach their mad desire.
The pale Iberians had expired with fear,
But that their wonder did divert their care,
To see the Prince with danger moved no more
Than with the pleasures of their court before; 80
Godlike his courage seem'd, whom nor delight
Could soften, nor the face of death affright.
Next to the power of making tempests cease,
Was in that storm to have so calm a peace.
Great Maro could no greater tempest feign,
When the loud winds usurping on the main,
For angry Juno labour'd to destroy
The hated relics of confounded Troy;
His bold Aeneas, on like billows toss'd
In a tall ship, and all his country lost, 90
Dissolves with fear; and both his hands upheld,
Proclaims them happy whom the Greeks had quell'd
In honourable fight; our hero, set
In a small shallop, Fortune in his debt,
So near a hope of crowns and sceptres, more
Than ever Priam, when he flourish'd, wore;
His loins yet full of ungot princes, all
His glory in the bud, lets nothing fall
That argues fear; if any thought annoys
The gallant youth, 'tis love's untasted joys, 100
And dear remembrance of that fatal glance,
For which he lately pawn'd his heart[5] in France;
Where he had seen a brighter nymph than she[6]
That sprung out of his present foe, the sea.
That noble ardour, more than mortal fire,
The conquer'd ocean could not make expire;
Nor angry Thetis raise her waves above
Th' heroic Prince's courage or his love;
'Twas indignation, and not fear he felt,
The shrine should perish where that image dwelt.
Ah, Love forbid! the noblest of thy train 111
Should not survive to let her know his pain;
Who nor his peril minding, nor his flame,
Is entertain'd with some less serious game,
Among the bright nymphs of the Gallic court,
All highly born, obsequious to her sport;
They roses seem, which in their early pride
But half reveal, and half their beauties hide;
She the glad morning, which her beams does throw
Upon their smiling leaves, and gilds them so; 120
Like bright Aurora, whose refulgent ray
Foretells the fervour of ensuing day,
And warns the shepherd with his flocks retreat
To leafy shadows from the threaten'd heat.
From Cupid's string, of many shafts that fled
Wing'd with those plumes which noble Fame had shed,
As through the wond'ring world she flew, and told
Of his adventures, haughty, brave, and bold,
Some had already touch'd the royal maid,
But Love's first summons seldom are obey'd; 130
Light was the wound, the Prince's care unknown,
She might not, would not, yet reveal her own.
His glorious name had so possess'd her ears,
That with delight those antique tales she hears
Of Jason, Theseus, and such worthies old,
As with his story best resemblance hold.
And now she views, as on the wall it hung,
What old Musæus so divinely sung;
Which art with life and love did so inspire,
That she discerns and favours that desire, 140
Which there provokes th'advent'rous youth to swim,
And in Leander's danger pities him;
Whose not new love alone, but fortune, seeks
To frame his story like that amorous Greek's.
For from the stern of some good ship appears
A friendly light, which moderates their fears;
New courage from reviving hope they take,
And climbing o'er the waves that taper make,
On which the hope of all their lives depends,
As his on that fair Hero's hand extends. 150
The ship at anchor, like a fixed rock,
Breaks the proud billows which her large sides knock;
Whose rage restrainèd, foaming higher swells,
And from her port the weary barge repels,
Threat'ning to make her, forcèd out again,
Repeat the dangers of the troubled main.
Twice was the cable hurl'd in vain; the Fates
Would not be movèd for our sister states;
For England is the third successful throw,
And then the genius of that land they know, 160
Whose prince must be (as their own books devise)
Lord of the scene where now his danger lies.
Well sung the Roman bard, 'All human things
Of dearest value hang on slender strings.'
Oh, see the then sole hope, and, in design
Of Heaven, our joy, supported by a line!
Which for that instant was Heaven's care above
The chain that's fixèd to the throne of Jove,
On which the fabric of our world depends;
One link dissolved, the whole creation ends. 170
[1] 'St. Andero': St. Andrews. He had newly abandoned his suit
for the Infanta.--
[2] 'Arion sings': Alluding to the deliverance of Charles I., on his
return from Spain, from a violent storm in the Bay of Biscay,
October 1623.
[3] 'Sort': a company.
[4] 'Adventurous son': Phaeton.
[5] Henrietta, afterwards Queen.
[6] Venus.
OF HIS MAJESTY'S RECEIVING THE NEWS OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM'S
So earnest with thy God! can no new care,
No sense of danger, interrupt thy prayer?
The sacred wrestler, till a blessing given,
Quits not his hold, but halting conquers Heaven;
Nor was the stream of thy devotion stopp'd,
When from the body such a limb was lopp'd,
As to thy present state was no less maim,
Though thy wise choice has since repair'd the same.
Bold Homer durst not so great virtue feign
In his best pattern:[2] of Patroclus slain, 10
With such amazement as weak mothers use,
And frantic gesture, he receives the news.
Yet fell his darling by th'impartial chance
Of war, imposed by royal Hector's lance;
Thine, in full peace, and by a vulgar hand
Torn from thy bosom, left his high command.
The famous painter[3] could allow no place
For private sorrow in a prince's face:
Yet, that his piece might not exceed belief,
He cast a veil upon supposed grief. 20
'Twas want of such a precedent as this
Made the old heathen frame their gods amiss.
Their Phoebus should not act a fonder part
For the fair boy,[4] than he did for his heart;
Nor blame for Hyacinthus' fate his own,
That kept from him wish'd death, hadst thou been known.
He that with thine shall weigh good David's deeds,
Shall find his passion, nor his love, exceeds: 28
He cursed the mountains where his brave friend died,
But let false Ziba with his heir divide;
Where thy immortal love to thy bless'd friends,
Like that of Heaven, upon their seed descends.
Such huge extremes inhabit thy great mind,
Godlike, unmoved, and yet, like woman, kind!
Which of the ancient poets had not brought
Our Charles's pedigree from Heaven, and taught
How some bright dame, compress'd by mighty Jove,
Produced this mix'd Divinity and Love?
[1] 'Buckingham's death': Buckingham was murdered by Felton at
Portsmouth, on the 23d of August 1628, while equipping a fleet for
the relief of Rochelle. Lord Lindsey succeeded him. The king was at
prayers when the news arrived, and had the resolution to disguise
his emotion till they were over.
[2] 'Pattern': Achilles.
[3] 'Painter': Timanthes in his picture of Iphigenia.
[4] 'Fair boy': Cyparissus.
ON THE TAKING OF SALLÈ.[1]
Of Jason, Theseus, and such worthies old,
Light seem the tales antiquity has told;
Such beasts and monsters as their force oppress'd,
Some places only, and some times, infest.
Sallè, that scorn'd all power and laws of men,
Goods with their owners hurrying to their den,
And future ages threat'ning with a rude
And savage race, successively renew'd;
Their king despising with rebellious pride,
And foes profess'd to all the world beside; 10
This pest of mankind gives our hero fame,
And through the obliged world dilates his name.
The prophet once to cruel Agag said,
'As thy fierce sword has mothers childless made,
So shall the sword make thine;' and with that word
He hew'd the man in pieces with his sword.
Just Charles like measure has return'd to these 17
Whose Pagan hands had stain'd the troubled seas;
With ships they made the spoiled merchant mourn;
With ships their city and themselves are torn.
One squadron of our winged castles sent,
O'erthrew their fort, and all their navy rent;
For, not content the dangers to increase,
And act the part of tempests in the seas,
Like hungry wolves, those pirates from our shore
Whole flocks of sheep, and ravish'd cattle bore.
Safely they might on other nations prey--
Fools to provoke the sovereign of the sea!
Mad Cacus so, whom like ill fate persuades,
The herd of fair Alcmena's seed invades, 30
Who for revenge, and mortals' glad relief,
Sack'd the dark cave and crush'd that horrid thief.
Morocco's monarch, wond'ring at this fact,
Save that his presence his affairs exact,
Had come in person to have seen and known
The injured world's revenger and his own.
Hither he sends the chief among his peers,
Who in his bark proportion'd presents bears,
To the renown'd for piety and force,
Poor captives manumised, and matchless horse.[2] 40
[1] 'Sallè': Sallè, a town of Fez, given to piracy, was taken and
destroyed in 1632 by the army of the Emperor of Morocco, assisted by
some English vessels.
[2] 'Horse': the Emperor of Morocco, in gratitude to Charles, sent him a
present of Barbary horses, and three hundred manumitted Christian
slaves.--
UPON HIS MAJESTY'S REPAIRING OF ST PAUL'S.[1]
That shipwreck'd vessel which th'Apostle bore,
Scarce suffer'd more upon Melita's shore,
Than did his temple in the sea of time,
Our nation's glory, and our nation's crime.
When the first monarch[2] of this happy isle,
Moved with the ruin of so brave a pile,
This work of cost and piety begun,
To be accomplish'd by his glorious son,
Who all that came within the ample thought
Of his wise sire has to perfection brought; 10
He, like Amphion, makes those quarries leap
Into fair figures from a confused heap;
For in his art of regiment is found
A power like that of harmony in sound.
Those antique minstrels, sure, were Charles-like kings,
Cities their lutes, and subjects' hearts their strings,
On which with so divine a hand they strook,
Consent of motion from their breath they took:
So all our minds with his conspire to grace
The Gentiles' great Apostle, and deface 20
Those state-obscuring sheds, that like a chain
Seem'd to confine and fetter him again;
Which the glad saint shakes off at his command,
As once the viper from his sacred hand:
So joys the aged oak, when we divide
The creeping ivy from his injured side.
Ambition rather would affect the fame
Of some new structure, to have borne her name.
Two distant virtues in one act we find,
The modesty and greatness of his mind; 30
Which, not content to be above the rage,
And injury of all-impairing age,
In its own worth secure, doth higher climb,
And things half swallow'd from the jaws of Time
Reduce; an earnest of his grand design,
To frame no new church, but the old refine;
Which, spouse-like, may with comely grace command,
More than by force of argument or hand.
For doubtful reason few can apprehend,
And war brings ruin where it should amend; 40
But beauty, with a bloodless conquest finds
A welcome sovereignty in rudest minds.
Not aught which Sheba's wond'ring queen beheld
Amongst the works of Solomon, excell'd
His ships and building; emblems of a heart
Large both in magnanimity and art.
While the propitious heavens this work attend,
Long-wanted showers they forget to send;
As if they meant to make it understood
Of more importance than our vital food. 50
The sun, which riseth to salute the quire
Already finished, setting shall admire
How private bounty could so far extend:
The King built all, but Charles the western end.[3]
So proud a fabric to devotion given,
At once it threatens and obliges Heaven!
Laomedon, that had the gods in pay,
Neptune, with him that rules the sacred day,[4]
Could no such structure raise: Troy wall'd so high,
Th' Atrides might as well have forced the sky. 60
Glad, though amazed, are our neighbour kings,
To see such power employ'd in peaceful things;
They list not urge it to the dreadful field;
The task is easier to destroy than build.
... Sic gratia regum
Pieriis tentam modis...--HORACE.
[1] 'St. Paul's': these repairs commenced in the spring of 1633.
[2] 'Monarch': King James I.
[3] 'Western end': the western end, built at Charles' own expense,
consisted of a splendid portico, built by Inigo Jones.
[4] 'Sacred day': Apollo.
THE COUNTESS OF CARLISLE IN MOURNING.[1]
When from black clouds no part of sky is clear,
But just so much as lets the sun appear,
Heaven then would seem thy image, and reflect
Those sable vestments, and that bright aspect.
A spark of virtue by the deepest shade
Of sad adversity is fairer made;
Nor less advantage doth thy beauty get,
A Venus rising from a sea of jet!
Such was th'appearance of new-formed light,
While yet it struggled with eternal night. 10
Then mourn no more, lest thou admit increase
Of glory by thy noble lord's decease.
We find not that the laughter-loving dame[2]
Mourn'd for Anchises; 'twas enough she came
To grace the mortal with her deathless bed,
And that his living eyes such beauty fed;
Had she been there, untimely joy, through all
Men's hearts diffused, had marr'd the funeral.
Those eyes were made to banish grief: as well
Bright Phoebus might affect in shades to dwell, 20
As they to put on sorrow: nothing stands,
But power to grieve, exempt from thy commands.
If thou lament, thou must do so alone;
Grief in thy presence can lay hold on none.
Yet still persist the memory to love
Of that great Mercury of our mighty Jove,
Who, by the power of his enchanting tongue,
Swords from the hands of threat'ning monarchs wrung.
War he prevented, or soon made it cease, 29
Instructing princes in the arts of peace;
Such as made Sheba's curious queen resort
To the large-hearted Hebrew's famous court.
Had Homer sat amongst his wond'ring guests,
He might have learn'd at those stupendous feasts,
With greater bounty, and more sacred state,
The banquets of the gods to celebrate.
But oh! what elocution might he use,
What potent charms, that could so soon infuse
His absent master's love into the heart
Of Henrietta! forcing her to part 40
From her loved brother, country, and the sun,
And, like Camilla, o'er the waves to run
Into his arms! while the Parisian dames
Mourn for the ravish'd glory; at her flames
No less amazed than the amazèd stars,
When the bold charmer of Thessalia wars
With Heaven itself, and numbers does repeat,
Which call descending Cynthia from her seat.
[1] 'Mourning': Carlisle was a luxurious liver, and died in 1636, poor,
but, like many spendthrifts, popular. He had represented Prince
Charles at his marriage with Princess Henrietta at Paris.
[2] 'Dame': Venus.
IN ANSWER TO ONE WHO WRIT A LIBEL AGAINST THE COUNTESS OF CARLISLE.
1 What fury has provoked thy wit to dare,
With Diomede, to wound the Queen of Love?
Thy mistress' envy, or thine own despair?
Not the just Pallas in thy breast did move
So blind a rage, with such a diff'rent fate;
He honour won, where thou hast purchased hate.
2 She gave assistance to his Trojan foe;
Thou, that without a rival thou may'st love,
Dost to the beauty of this lady owe,
While after her the gazing world does move.
Canst thou not be content to love alone?
Or is thy mistress not content with one?
3 Hast thou not read of Fairy Arthur's shield,
Which, but disclosed, amazed the weaker eyes
Of proudest foes, and won the doubtful field?
So shall thy rebel wit become her prize.
Should thy iambics swell into a book,
All were confuted with one radiant look.
4 Heaven he obliged that placed her in the skies;
Rewarding Phoebus, for inspiring so
His noble brain, by likening to those eyes
His joyful beams; but Phoebus is thy foe,
And neither aids thy fancy nor thy sight,
So ill thou rhym'st against so fair a light.
OF HER CHAMBER.
They taste of death that do at heaven arrive;
But we this paradise approach alive.
Instead of death, the dart of love does strike,
And renders all within these walls alike.
The high in titles, and the shepherd, here
Forgets his greatness, and forgets his fear.
All stand amazed, and gazing on the fair,
Lose thought of what themselves or others are;
Ambition lose, and have no other scope, 9
Save Carlisle's favour, to employ their hope.
The Thracian[1] could (though all those tales were true
The bold Greeks tell) no greater wonders do;
Before his feet so sheep and lions lay,
Fearless and wrathless while they heard him play.
The gay, the wise, the gallant, and the grave,
Subdued alike, all but one passion have;
No worthy mind but finds in hers there is
Something proportion'd to the rule of his;
While she with cheerful, but impartial grace,
(Born for no one, but to delight the race 20
Of men) like Phoebus so divides her light,
And warms us, that she stoops not from her height.
[1] 'Thracian': Orpheus.--
THYRSIS, GALATEA.[1]
THYRSIS.
As lately I on silver Thames did ride,
Sad Galatea on the bank I spied;
Such was her look as sorrow taught to shine,
And thus she graced me with a voice divine.
GALATEA.
You that can tune your sounding strings so well,
Of ladies' beauties, and of love to tell,
Once change your note, and let your lute report
The justest grief that ever touch'd the Court.
THYRSIS.
Fair nymph! I have in your delights no share, 9
Nor ought to be concerned in your care;
Yet would I sing if I your sorrows knew,
And to my aid invoke no Muse but you.
GALATEA.
Hear then, and let your song augment our grief,
Which is so great as not to wish relief.
She that had all which Nature gives, or Chance,
Whom Fortune join'd with Virtue to advance
To all the joys this island could afford,
The greatest mistress, and the kindest lord;
Who with the royal mix'd her noble blood,
And in high grace with Gloriana[2] stood; 20
Her bounty, sweetness, beauty, goodness, such,
That none e'er thought her happiness too much;
So well-inclined her favours to confer,
And kind to all, as Heaven had been to her!
The virgin's part, the mother, and the wife,
So well she acted in this span of life,
That though few years (too flew, alas!) she told,
She seem'd in all things, but in beauty, old.
As unripe fruit, whose verdant stalks do cleave
Close to the tree, which grieves no less to leave 30
The smiling pendant which adorns her so,
And until autumn on the bough should grow;
So seem'd her youthful soul not eas'ly forced,
Or from so fair, so sweet a seat divorced.
Her fate at once did hasty seem and slow;
At once too cruel, and unwilling too.
THYRSIS.
Under how hard a law are mortals born! 37
Whom now we envy, we anon must mourn;
What Heaven sets highest, and seems most to prize,
Is soon removed from our wond'ring eyes!
But since the Sisters[3] did so soon untwine
So fair a thread, I'll strive to piece the line.
Vouchsafe, sad nymph! to let me know the dame,
And to the Muses I'll commend her name;
Make the wide country echo to your moan,
The list'ning trees and savage mountains groan.
What rock's not movèd when the death is sung
Of one so good, so lovely, and so young?
GALATEA.
'Twas Hamilton!--whom I had named before,
But naming her, grief lets me say no more. 50
[1] 'Galatea': the lady here mourned was the Duchess of Hamilton, a
niece of Buckingham; she died in 1638.
[2] 'Gloriana': Queen Henrietta.
[3] 'Sisters': Parcæ--
ON MY LADY DOROTHY SIDNEY'S PICTURE.[1]
Such was Philoclea, and such Dorus' flame!
The matchless Sidney, that immortal frame
Of perfect beauty on two pillars placed,
Not his high fancy could one pattern, graced
With such extremes of excellence, compose;
Wonders so distant in one face disclose!
Such cheerful modesty, such humble state,
Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate
As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see 9
Inviting fruit on too sublime a tree.
All the rich flowers through his Arcadia found,
Amazed we see in this one garland bound.
Had but this copy (which the artist took
From the fair picture of that noble book)
Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends had jarr'd,
And, rivals made, th'ensuing story marr'd.
Just nature, first instructed by his thought,
In his own house thus practised what he taught;
This glorious piece transcends what he could think,
So much his blood is nobler than his ink![2] 20
[1] 'Dorothy Sidney': see Life for an account of 'Saccharissa.'
[2] 'Philoclea and Dorus': the reader may turn for these names and their
histories, to the glorious, flowery wilderness of the 'Arcadia.'
Sidney was granduncle to Dorothy.
AT PENSHURST.
Had Dorothea lived when mortals made
Choice of their deities, this sacred shade
Had held an altar to her power, that gave
The peace and glory which these alleys have;
Embroider'd so with flowers where she stood,
That it became a garden of a wood.
Her presence has such more than human grace,
That it can civilise the rudest place;
And beauty too, and order, can impart,
Where nature ne'er intended it, nor art. 10
The plants acknowledge this, and her admire,
No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre;
If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd,
They round about her into arbours crowd;
Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand,
Like some well-marshall'd and obsequious band.
Amphion so made stones and timber leap
Into fair figures from a confused heap;
And in the symmetry of her parts is found
A power like that of harmony in sound. 20
Ye lofty beeches, tell this matchless dame,
That if together ye fed all one flame,
It could not equalise the hundredth part
Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart!
Go, boy, and carve this passion on the bark
Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark
Of noble Sidney's birth; when such benign,
Such more than mortal-making stars did shine,
That there they cannot but for ever prove
The monument and pledge of humble love; 30
His humble love whose hope shall ne'er rise higher,
Than for a pardon that he dares admire.
OF THE LADY WHO CAN SLEEP WHEN SHE PLEASES.[1]
No wonder sleep from careful lovers flies,
To bathe himself in Saccharissa's eyes.
As fair Astraæ once from earth to heaven,
By strife and loud impiety was driven;
So with our plaints offended, and our tears,
Wise Somnus to that paradise repairs;
Waits on her will, and wretches does forsake,
To court the nymph for whom those wretches wake.
More proud than Phoebus of his throne of gold 9
Is the soft god those softer limbs to hold;
Nor would exchange with Jove, to hide the skies
In dark'ning clouds, the power to close her eyes;
Eyes which so far all other lights control,
They warm our mortal parts, but these our soul!
Let her free spirit, whose unconquer'd breast
Holds such deep quiet and untroubled rest,
Know that though Venus and her son should spare
Her rebel heart, and never teach her care,
Yet Hymen may in force his vigils keep,
And for another's joy suspend her sleep. 20
[1] She is said to have been like Dudu--
'Large, and languishing, and lazy,
Yet of a beauty that might drive you crazy.'
OF THE MISREPORT OF HER BEING PAINTED.
As when a sort of wolves infest the night
With their wild howlings at fair Cynthia's light,
The noise may chase sweet slumber from our eyes,
But never reach the mistress of the skies;
So with the news of Saccharissa's wrongs,
Her vexed servants blame those envious tongues;
Call Love to witness that no painted fire
Can scorch men so, or kindle such desire;
While, unconcern'd, she seems moved no more
With this new malice than our loves before; 10
But from the height of her great mind looks down
On both our passions without smile or frown.
So little care of what is done below
Hath the bright dame whom Heaven affecteth so!
Paints her, 'tis true, with the same hand which spreads
Like glorious colours through the flow'ry meads,
When lavish Nature, with her best attire, 17
Clothes the gay spring, the season of desire;
Paints her, 'tis true, and does her cheek adorn
With the same art wherewith she paints the morn;
With the same art wherewith she gildeth so
Those painted clouds which form Thaumantias' bow.
OF HER PASSING THROUGH A CROWD OF PEOPLE.
As in old chaos (heaven with earth confused,
And stars with rocks together crush'd and bruised)
The sun his light no further could extend
Than the next hill, which on his shoulders lean'd;
So in this throng bright Saccharissa fared,
Oppress'd by those who strove to be her guard;
As ships, though never so obsequious, fall
Foul in a tempest on their admiral.
A greater favour this disorder brought
Unto her servants than their awful thought 10
Durst entertain, when thus compell'd they press'd
The yielding marble of her snowy breast.
While love insults,[1] disguised in the cloud,
And welcome force, of that unruly crowd.
So th'am'rous tree, while yet the air is calm,
Just distance keeps from his desired palm;[2]
But when the wind her ravish'd branches throws
Into his arms, and mingles all their boughs,
Though loth he seems her tender leaves to press, 19
More loth he is that friendly storm should cease,
From whose rude bounty he the double use
At once receives, of pleasure and excuse.
[1] 'Insults': exults.
[2] 'Palm': Ovalle informs us that the palm-trees in Chili have this
wonderful property, that they never will bear any fruit but when
they are planted near each other; and when they find one standing
barren by itself, if they plant another, be it never so small (which
they call the female), it will become prolific.--FENTON.
THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE,[1] APPLIED.
Thyrsis, a youth of the inspirèd train,
Fair Saccharissa loved, but loved in vain;
Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy!
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use!
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads;
Invoked to testify the lover's care,
Or form some image of his cruel fair. 10
Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; and now approaching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain;
All, but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.[1] 20
[1] 'Daphne': Ovid's _Metamorphoses_, b. i.
ON THE FRIENDSHIP BETWIXT SACCHARISSA AND AMORET.
1 Tell me, lovely, loving pair!
Why so kind, and so severe?
Why so careless of our care,
Only to yourselves so dear?
2 By this cunning change of hearts,
You the power of Love control;
While the boy's deluded darts
Can arrive at neither soul.
3 For in vain to either breast
Still beguilèd Love does come,
Where he finds a foreign guest,
Neither of your hearts at home.
4 Debtors thus with like design,
When they never mean to pay,
That they may the law decline,
To some friend make all away.
5 Not the silver doves that fly,
Yoked in Cytherea's car;
Not the wings that lift so high,
And convey her son so far;
6 Are so lovely, sweet, and fair,
Or do more ennoble love;
Are so choicely match'd a pair,
Or with more consent do move.
AT PENSHURST.[1]
While in this park I sing, the list'ning deer
Attend my passion, and forget to fear;
When to the beeches I report my flame,
They bow their heads, as if they felt the same.
To gods appealing, when I reach their bowers
With loud complaints, they answer me in showers.
To thee a wild and cruel soul is given,
More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heaven!
Love's foe profess'd! why dost thou falsely feign
Thyself a Sidney? from which noble strain 10
He sprung,[2] that could so far exalt the name
Of love, and warm our nation with his flame;
That all we can of love, or high desire,
Seems but the smoke of am'rous Sidney's fire.
Nor call her mother, who so well does prove
One breast may hold both chastity and love.
Never can she, that so exceeds the spring
In joy and bounty, be supposed to bring
One so destructive. To no human stock
We owe this fierce unkindness, but the rock, 20
That cloven rock produced thee, by whose side
Nature, to recompense the fatal pride
Of such stern beauty, placed those healing springs,[3]
Which not more help, than that destruction, brings.
Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stone,
I might, like Orpheus, with my num'rous moan
Melt to compassion; now, my trait'rous song
With thee conspires to do the singer wrong;
While thus I suffer not myself to lose 29
The memory of what augments my woes;
But with my own breath still foment the fire,
Which flames as high as fancy can aspire!
This last complaint th'indulgent ears did pierce
Of just Apollo, president of verse;
Highly concerned that the Muse should bring
Damage to one whom he had taught to sing,
Thus he advised me: 'On yon aged tree
Hang up thy lute, and hie thee to the sea,
That there with wonders thy diverted mind
Some truce, at least, may with this passion find.' 40
Ah, cruel nymph! from whom her humble swain
Flies for relief unto the raging main,
And from the winds and tempests does expect
A milder fate than from her cold neglect!
Yet there he'll pray that the unkind may prove
Bless'd in her choice; and vows this endless love
Springs from no hope of what she can confer,
But from those gifts which Heaven has heap'd on her.
[1] 'Penshurst': his farewell verses to Dorothy.
[2] 'Sprung': Sir Philip Sidney.
[3] 'Springs': Tunbridge Wells.
THE BATTLE OF THE SUMMER ISLANDS.[1]
CANTO I.
What fruits they have, and how Heaven smiles
Upon these late-discovered isles.
Aid me, Bellona! while the dreadful fight
Betwixt a nation and two whales I write.
Seas stain'd with gore I sing, advent'rous toil!
And how these monsters did disarm an isle.
Bermuda, wall'd with rocks, who does not know?
That happy island where huge lemons grow,
And orange-trees, which golden fruit do bear,
Th' Hesperian garden boasts of none so fair;
Where shining pearl, coral, and many a pound,
On the rich shore, of ambergris is found. 10
The lofty cedar, which to heaven aspires,
The prince of trees! is fuel to their fires;
The smoke by which their loaded spits do turn,
For incense might on sacred altars burn;
Their private roofs on od'rous timber borne,
Such as might palaces for kings adorn.
The sweet palmettos a new Bacchus yield,[2]
With leaves as ample as the broadest shield,
Under the shadow of whose friendly boughs
They sit, carousing where their liquor grows. 20
Figs there unplanted through the fields do grow,
Such as fierce Cato did the Romans show,
With the rare fruit inviting them to spoil
Carthage, the mistress of so rich a soil.
The naked rocks are not unfruitful there,
But, at some constant seasons, every year,
Their barren tops with luscious food abound,
And with the eggs of various fowls are crown'd.
Tobacco is the worst of things, which they
To English landlords, as their tribute, pay. 30
Such is the mould, that the bless'd tenant feeds
On precious fruits, and pays his rent in weeds.
With candied plantains, and the juicy pine,
On choicest melons, and sweet grapes, they dine,
And with potatoes fat their wanton swine.
Nature these cates with such a lavish hand
Pours out among them, that our coarser land
Tastes of that bounty, and does cloth return,
Which not for warmth, but ornament, is worn;
For the kind spring, which but salutes us here, 40
Inhabits there, and courts them all the year.
Ripe fruits and blossoms on the same trees live;
At once they promise what at once they give.
So sweet the air, so moderate the clime,
None sickly lives, or dies before his time.
Heaven sure has kept this spot of earth uncursed,
To show how all things were created first.
The tardy plants in our cold orchards placed,
Reserve their fruit for the next age's taste;
There a small grain in some few months will be 50
A firm, a lofty, and a spacious tree.
The palma-christi, and the fair papà,
Now but a seed (preventing nature's law),
In half the circle of the hasty year
Project a shade, and lovely fruits do wear.
And as their trees in our dull region set,
But faintly grow, and no perfection get,
So, in this northern tract, our hoarser throats
Utter unripe and ill-constrained notes,
While the supporter of the poets' style, 60
Phoebus, on them eternally does smile.
Oh! how I long my careless limbs to lay
Under the plantain's shade, and all the day
With am'rous airs my fancy entertain,
Invoke the Muses, and improve my vein!
No passion there in my free breast should move,
None but the sweet and best of passions, love.
There while I sing, if gentle love be by, 68
That tunes my lute, and winds the string so high,
With the sweet sound of Saccharissa's name
I'll make the list'ning savages grow tame.--
But while I do these pleasing dreams indite,
I am diverted from the promised fight.
[1] 'Summer Islands': the Bermudas, which received the name of the
Summer Islands, or more properly, Somers' Islands, from Sir George
Somers, who was cast away on the coast early in the seventeenth
century, and established a colony there.
[2] 'Bacchus yield': from the palmetto, a species of palm in the West
Indies, is extracted an intoxicating drink.
CANTO II.
Of their alarm, and how their foes
Discover'd were, this Canto shows.
Though rocks so high about this island rise,
That well they may the num'rous Turk despise,
Yet is no human fate exempt from fear,
Which shakes their hearts, while through the isle they hear
A lasting noise, as horrid and as loud
As thunder makes before it breaks the cloud.
Three days they dread this murmur, ere they know 80
From what blind cause th'unwonted sound may grow.
At length two monsters of unequal size,
Hard by the shore, a fisherman espies;
Two mighty whales! which swelling seas had toss'd,
And left them pris'ners on the rocky coast.
One as a mountain vast, and with her came
A cub, not much inferior to his dam.
Here in a pool, among the rocks engaged,
They roar'd like lions caught in toils, and raged.
The man knew what they were, who heretofore 90
Had seen the like lie murder'd on the shore;
By the wild fury of some tempest cast,
The fate of ships, and shipwreck'd men, to taste.
As careless dames, whom wine and sleep betray
To frantic dreams, their infants overlay:
So there, sometimes, the raging ocean fails,
And her own brood exposes; when the whales
Against sharp rocks, like reeling vessels quash'd,
Though huge as mountains, are in pieces dash'd;
Along the shore their dreadful limbs lie scatter'd, 100
Like hills with earthquakes shaken, torn, and shatter'd.
Hearts, sure, of brass they had, who tempted first
Rude seas that spare not what themselves have nursed.
The welcome news through all the nation spread,
To sudden joy and hope converts their dread;
What lately was their public terror, they
Behold with glad eyes as a certain prey;
Dispose already of th'untaken spoil,
And as the purchase of their future toil,
These share the bones, and they divide the oil. 110
So was the huntsman by the bear oppress'd,
Whose hide he sold--before he caught the beast!
They man their boats, and all their young men arm
With whatsoever may the monsters harm;
Pikes, halberts, spits, and darts that wound so far,
The tools of peace, and instruments of war.
Now was the time for vig'rous lads to show
What love, or honour, could incite them to;
A goodly theatre! where rocks are round
With rev'rend age, and lovely lasses, crown'd. 120
Such was the lake which held this dreadful pair,
Within the bounds of noble Warwick's share:[1]
Warwick's bold Earl! than which no title bears
A greater sound among our British peers;
And worthy he the memory to renew,
The fate and honour to that title due,
Whose brave adventures have transferr'd his name, 127
And through the new world spread his growing fame.--
But how they fought, and what their valour gain'd,
Shall in another Canto be contain'd.
[1] 'Warwick's share': Robert Rich, Earl of Warwick, possessed a portion
of the Bermudas, which bore his name. He was a jolly sailor in his
habits, although a Puritan in his profession.
CANTO III.
The bloody fight, successless toil,
And how the fishes sack'd the isle.
The boat which, on the first assault did go,
Struck with a harping-iron the younger foe;
Who, when he felt his side so rudely gored,
Loud as the sea that nourished him he roar'd.
As a broad bream, to please some curious taste,
While yet alive, in boiling water cast,
Vex'd with unwonted heat he flings about
The scorching brass, and hurls the liquor out;
So with the barbed jav'lin stung, he raves,
And scourges with his tail the suffering waves. 140
Like Spenser's Talus with his iron flail,
He threatens ruin with his pond'rous tail;
Dissolving at one stroke the batter'd boat,
And down the men fall drenched in the moat;
With every fierce encounter they are forced
To quit their boats, and fare like men unhorsed.
The bigger whale like some huge carrack lay,
Which wanteth sea-room with her foes to play;
Slowly she swims; and when, provoked, she would
Advance her tail, her head salutes the mud; 150
The shallow water doth her force infringe,
And renders vain her tail's impetuous swinge;
The shining steel her tender sides receive,
And there, like bees, they all their weapons leave.
This sees the cub, and does himself oppose
Betwixt his cumber'd mother and her foes;
With desp'rate courage he receives her wounds,
And men and boats his active tail confounds.
Their forces join'd, the seas with billows fill,
And make a tempest, though the winds be still. 160
Now would the men with half their hopèd prey
Be well content, and wish this cub away;
Their wish they have: he (to direct his dam
Unto the gap through which they thither came)
Before her swims, and quits the hostile lake,
A pris'ner there but for his mother's sake.
She, by the rocks compell'd to stay behind,
Is by the vastness of her bulk confined.
They shout for joy! and now on her alone
Their fury falls, and all their darts are thrown. 170
Their lances spent, one, bolder than the rest,
With his broad sword provoked the sluggish beast;
Her oily side devours both blade and haft,
And there his steel the bold Bermudan left.
Courage the rest from his example take,
And now they change the colour of the lake;
Blood flows in rivers from her wounded side,
As if they would prevent the tardy tide,
And raise the flood to that propitious height,
As might convey her from this fatal strait. 180
She swims in blood, and blood does spouting throw
To heaven, that heaven men's cruelties might know.
Their fixed jav'lins in her side she wears,
And on her back a grove of pikes appears;
You would have thought, had you the monster seen
Thus dress'd, she had another island been:
Roaring she tears the air with such a noise,
As well resembled the conspiring voice
Of routed armies, when the field is won, 189
To reach the ears of her escapèd son.
He, though a league removèd from the foe,
Hastes to her aid; the pious Trojan[1] so,
Neglecting for Creusa's life his own,
Repeats the danger of the burning town.
The men, amazèd, blush to see the seed
Of monsters human piety exceed.
Well proves this kindness, what the Grecian sung,
That love's bright mother from the ocean sprung.
Their courage droops, and hopeless now, they wish
For composition with th'unconquered fish; 200
So she their weapons would restore again,
Through rocks they'd hew her passage to the main.
But how instructed in each other's mind?
Or what commerce can men with monsters find?
Not daring to approach their wounded foe,
Whom her courageous son protected so,
They charge their muskets, and, with hot desire
Of fell revenge, renew the fight with fire;
Standing aloof, with lead they bruise the scales,
And tear the flesh of the incensèd whales. 210
But no success their fierce endeavours found,
Nor this way could they give one fatal wound.
Now to their fort they are about to send
For the loud engines which their isle defend;
But what those pieces framed to batter walls,
Would have effected on those mighty whales,
Great Neptune will not have us know, who sends
A tide so high that it relieves his friends.
And thus they parted with exchange of harms;
Much blood the monsters lost, and they their arms. 220
[1] 'Trojan': Aeneas.
OF THE QUEEN.
The lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to build
Her humble nest, lies silent in the field;
But if (the promise of a cloudless day)
Aurora smiling bids her rise and play,
Then straight she shows 'twas not for want of voice,
Or power to climb, she made so low a choice;
Singing she mounts; her airy wings are stretch'd
T'wards heaven, as if from heaven her note she fetch'd.
So we, retiring from the busy throng,
Use to restrain the ambition of our song; 10
But since the light which now informs our age
Breaks from the Court, indulgent to her rage,
Thither my Muse, like bold Prometheus, flies,
To light her torch at Gloriana's eyes;
Those sov'reign beams which heal the wounded soul,
And all our cares, but once beheld, control!
There the poor lover that has long endured
Some proud nymph's scorn, of his fond passion cured,
Fares like the man who first upon the ground
A glow-worm spied, supposing he had found 20
A moving diamond, a breathing stone;
For life it had, and like those jewels shone;
He held it dear, till by the springing day
Inform'd, he threw the worthless worm away.
She saves the lover as we gangrenes stay,
By cutting hope, like a lopp'd limb, away;
This makes her bleeding patients to accuse
High Heaven, and these expostulations use:
'Could Nature then no private woman grace,
Whom we might dare to love, with such a face, 30
Such a complexion, and so radiant eyes,
Such lovely motion, and such sharp replies?
Beyond our reach, and yet within our sight,
What envious power has placed this glorious light?'
Thus, in a starry night, fond children cry
For the rich spangles that adorn the sky,
Which, though they shine for ever fixed there,
With light and influence relieve us here.
All her affections are to one inclined;
Her bounty and compassion to mankind; 40
To whom, while she so far extends her grace,
She makes but good the promise of her face;
For Mercy has, could Mercy's self be seen,
No sweeter look than this propitious queen.
Such guard, and comfort, the distressed find
From her large power, and from her larger mind,
That whom ill Fate would ruin, it prefers,
For all the miserable are made hers.
So the fair tree whereon the eagle builds,
Poor sheep from tempests, and their shepherds, shields; 50
The royal bird possesses all the boughs,
But shade and shelter to the flock allows.
Joy of our age, and safety of the next!
For which so oft thy fertile womb is vex'd;
Nobly contented, for the public good,
To waste thy spirits and diffuse thy blood,
What vast hopes may these islands entertain,
Where monarchs, thus descended, are to reign?
Led by commanders of so fair a line,
Our seas no longer shall our power confine. 60
A brave romance who would exactly frame,
First brings his knight from some immortal dame,
And then a weapon, and a flaming shield,
Bright as his mother's eyes, he makes him wield.
None might the mother of Achilles be,
But the fair pearl and glory of the sea;[1]
The man to whom great Maro gives such fame,[2]
From the high bed of heavenly Venus came;
And our next Charles, whom all the stars design
Like wonders to accomplish, springs from thine. 70
[1] 'Sea': Thetis
[2] 'Maro': Aeneas
THE APOLOGY OF SLEEP,
FOR NOT APPROACHING THE LADY WHO CAN DO ANYTHING BUT SLEEP WHEN SHE
PLEASES.
My charge it is those breaches to repair
Which Nature takes from sorrow, toil, and care;
Rest to the limbs, and quiet I confer
On troubled minds; but nought can add to her
Whom Heaven, and her transcendent thoughts have placed
Above those ills which wretched mortals taste.
Bright as the deathless gods, and happy, she
From all that may infringe delight is free;
Love at her royal feet his quiver lays,
And not his mother with more haste obeys. 10
Such real pleasures, such true joys' suspense,
What dream can I present to recompense?
Should I with lightning fill her awful hand,
And make the clouds seem all at her command;
Or place her in Olympus' top, a guest
Among the immortals, who with nectar feast;
That power would seem, that entertainment, short
Of the true splendour of her present Court,
Where all the joys, and all the glories, are 19
Of three great kingdoms, sever'd from the care.
I, that of fumes and humid vapours made,
Ascending, do the seat of sense invade,
No cloud in so serene a mansion find,
To overcast her ever-shining mind,
Which holds resemblance with those spotless skies,
Where flowing Nilus want of rain supplies;
That crystal heaven, where Phoebus never shrouds
His golden beams, nor wraps his face in clouds.
But what so hard which numbers cannot force?
So stoops the moon, and rivers change their course. 30
The bold Mæonian[1] made me dare to steep
Jove's dreadful temples in the dew of sleep;
And since the Muses do invoke my power,
I shall no more decline that sacred bower
Where Gloriana their great mistress lies;
But, gently taming those victorious eyes,
Charm all her senses, till the joyful sun
Without a rival half his course has run;
Who, while my hand that fairer light confines,
May boast himself the brightest thing that shines. 40
[1] 'Mæonian': Homer.
PUERPERIUM.[1]
1 You gods that have the power
To trouble and compose
All that's beneath your bower,
Calm silence on the seas, on earth impose.
2 Fair Venus! in thy soft arms
The God of Rage confine;
For thy whispers are the charms
Which only can divert his fierce design.
3 What though he frown, and to tumult do incline?
Thou the flame
Kindled in his breast canst tame,
With that snow which unmelted lies on thine.
4 Great goddess! give this thy sacred island rest;
Make heaven smile,
That no storm disturb us while
Thy chief care, our halcyon, builds her nest.
5 Great Gloriana! fair Gloriana!
Bright as high heaven is, and fertile as earth,
Whose beauty relieves us,
Whose royal bed gives us
Both glory and peace,
Our present joy, and all our hopes' increase.
[1] 'Puerperium ': Fenton conjectures that this poem was written in
1640, when the Queen was delivered of her fourth son, the Duke of
Gloucester.
A LA MALADE.
Ah, lovely Amoret! the care
Of all that know what's good or fair!
Is heaven become our rival too?
Had the rich gifts conferr'd on you
So amply thence, the common end
Of giving lovers--to pretend?
Hence, to this pining sickness (meant
To weary thee to a consent
Of leaving us) no power is given 9
Thy beauties to impair; for heaven
Solicits thee with such a care,
As roses from their stalks we tear,
When we would still preserve them new
And fresh, as on the bush they grew.
With such a grace you entertain,
And look with such contempt on pain,
That languishing you conquer more,
And wound us deeper than before.
So lightnings which in storms appear,
Scorch more than when the skies are clear. 20
And as pale sickness does invade
Your frailer part, the breaches made
In that fair lodging, still more clear
Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.
So nymphs o'er pathless mountains borne,
Their light robes by the brambles torn
From their fair limbs, exposing new
And unknown beauties to the view
Of following gods, increase their flame
And haste to catch the flying game. 30
UPON THE DEATH OF MY LADY RICH.[1]
May those already cursed Essexian plains,
Where hasty death and pining sickness reigns,
Prove all a desert! and none there make stay,
But savage beasts, or men as wild as they!
There the fair light which all our island graced,
Like Hero's taper in the window placed,
Such fate from the malignant air did find, 7
As that exposed to the boist'rous wind.
Ah, cruel Heaven! to snatch so soon away
Her for whose life, had we had time to pray,
With thousand vows and tears we should have sought
That sad decree's suspension to have wrought.
But we, alas! no whisper of her pain
Heard, till 'twas sin to wish her here again.
That horrid word, at once, like lightning spread,
Struck all our ears--The Lady Rich is dead!
Heart-rending news! and dreadful to those few
Who her resemble, and her steps pursue;
That death should license have to rage among
The fair, the wise, the virtuous, and the young! 20
The Paphian queen from that fierce battle borne,
With gored hand, and veil so rudely torn,
Like terror did among th'immortals breed,
Taught by her wound that goddesses may bleed.
All stand amazed! but beyond the rest
th'heroic dame whose happy womb she bless'd,[2]
Moved with just grief, expostulates with Heaven,
Urging the promise to th'obsequious given,
Of longer life; for ne'er was pious soul
More apt t'obey, more worthy to control. 30
A skilful eye at once might read the race
Of Caledonian monarchs in her face,
And sweet humility; her look and mind
At once were lofty, and at once were kind.
There dwelt the scorn of vice, and pity too,
For those that did what she disdain'd to do;
So gentle and severe, that what was bad,
At once her hatred and her pardon had.
Gracious to all; but where her love was due, 39
So fast, so faithful, loyal, and so true,
That a bold hand as soon might hope to force
The rolling lights of heaven, as change her course.
Some happy angel, that beholds her there,
Instruct us to record what she was here!
And when this cloud of sorrow's overblown,
Through the wide world we'll make her graces known.
So fresh the wound is, and the grief so vast,
That all our art and power of speech is waste.
Here passion sways, but there the Muse shall raise
Eternal monuments of louder praise. 50
There our delight, complying with her fame,
Shall have occasion to recite thy name,
Fair Saccharissa!--and now only fair!
To sacred friendship we'll an altar rear
(Such as the Romans did erect of old),
Where, on a marble pillar, shall be told
The lovely passion each to other bare,
With the resemblance of that matchless pair.
Narcissus to the thing for which he pined
Was not more like than yours to her fair mind, 60
Save that she graced the several parts of life,
A spotless virgin, and a faultless wife.
Such was the sweet converse 'twixt her and you,
As that she holds with her associates now.
How false is hope, and how regardless fate,
That such a love should have so short a date!
Lately I saw her, sighing, part from thee;
(Alas that that the last farewell should be!)
So looked Astræa, her remove design'd,
On those distressed friends she left behind. 70
Consent in virtue knit your hearts so fast,
That still the knot, in spite of death, does last;
For as your tears, and sorrow-wounded soul,
Prove well that on your part this bond is whole,
So all we know of what they do above,
Is that they happy are, and that they love.
Let dark oblivion, and the hollow grave,
Content themselves our frailer thoughts to have;
Well-chosen love is never taught to die,
But with our nobler part invades the sky. 80
Then grieve no more that one so heavenly shaped
The crooked hand of trembling age escaped;
Rather, since we beheld her not decay,
But that she vanish'd so entire away,
Her wondrous beauty, and her goodness, merit
We should suppose that some propitious spirit
In that celestial form frequented here,
And is not dead, but ceases to appear.
[1] 'Lady Rich': she was the daughter of the Earl of Devonshire, and
married to the heir of the Earl of Warwick.
[2] 'Womb she blessed': the Countess of Devonshire, a very old woman,
the only daughter of Lord Bruce, descended from Robert the Bruce.
OF LOVE.
Anger, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes;
And sorrow, too, finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief;
So every passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep; 10
Postures which render him despised,
Where he endeavours to be prized.
For women (born to be controll'd)
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the gen'rous steed oppress'd,
Not kneeling did salute the beast;
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tamed th'unruly horse. 20
Unwisely we the wiser East
Pity, supposing them oppress'd
With tyrants' force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil and kill:
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should some brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses, bright and young,
And beckons to the willing dame,
Preferr'd to quench his present flame, 30
Behold as many gallants here,
With modest guise and silent fear,
All to one female idol bend,
While her high pride does scarce descend
To mark their follies, he would swear
That these her guard of eunuchs were,
And that a more majestic queen,
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.
All this with indignation spoke,
In vain I struggled with the yoke 40
Of mighty Love; that conqu'ring look,
When next beheld, like lightning strook
My blasted soul, and made me bow
Lower than those I pitied now.
So the tall stag, upon the brink
Of some smooth stream about to drink,
Surveying there his armed head, 47
With shame remembers that he fled
The scorned dogs, resolves to try
The combat next; but if their cry
Invades again his trembling ear,
He straight resumes his wonted care,
Leaves the untasted spring behind,
And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind.
FOR DRINKING OF HEALTHS.
Let brutes and vegetals, that cannot think,
So far as drought and nature urges, drink;
A more indulgent mistress guides our sp'rits,
Reason, that dares beyond our appetites;
(She would our care, as well as thirst, redress),
And with divinity rewards excess.
Deserted Ariadne, thus supplied,
Did perjured Theseus' cruelty deride;
Bacchus embraced, from her exalted thought
Banish'd the man, her passion, and his fault. 10
Bacchus and Phoebus are by Jove allied,
And each by other's timely heat supplied;
All that the grapes owe to his rip'ning fires
Is paid in numbers which their juice inspires.
Wine fills the veins, and healths are understood
To give our friends a title to our blood;
Who, naming me, doth warm his courage so,
Shows for my sake what his bold hand would do.
OF MY LADY ISABELLA, PLAYING ON THE LUTE.
Such moving sounds from such a careless touch!
So unconcern'd herself, and we so much!
What art is this, that with so little pains
Transports us thus, and o'er our spirits reigns?
The trembling strings about her fingers crowd,
And tell their joy for every kiss aloud.
Small force there needs to make them tremble so;
Touch'd by that hand, who would not tremble too?
Here Love takes stand, and while she charms the ear,
Empties his quiver on the list'ning deer. 10
Music so softens and disarms the mind,
That not an arrow does resistance find.
Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize,
And acts herself the triumph of her eyes:
So Nero once, with harp in hand, survey'd
His flaming Rome, and as it burn'd he play'd.
OF MRS ARDEN.[1]
Behold, and listen, while the fair
Breaks in sweet sounds the willing air,
And with her own breath fans the fire
Which her bright eyes do first inspire.
What reason can that love control,
Which more than one way courts the soul?
So when a flash of lightning falls
On our abodes, the danger calls
For human aid, which hopes the flame 9
To conquer, though from heaven it came;
But if the winds with that conspire,
Men strive not, but deplore the fire.
[1] 'Mrs. Arden': some suggest that this lady was probably either a maid
of honour, or a gentlewoman of the bed-chamber to King Charles the
First's Queen.
OF THE MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS.[1]
Design, or chance, makes others wive;
But Nature did this match contrive;
Eve might as well have Adam fled,
As she denied her little bed
To him, for whom Heaven seemed to frame,
And measure out, this only dame.
Thrice happy is that humble pair,
Beneath the level of all care!
Over whose heads those arrows fly
Of sad distrust and jealousy; 10
Secured in as high extreme,
As if the world held none but them.
To him the fairest nymphs do show
Like moving mountains, topp'd with snow;
And every man a Polypheme
Does to his Galatea seem;
None may presume her faith to prove;
He proffers death that proffers love.
Ah, Chloris! that kind Nature thus
From all the world had severed us; 20
Creating for ourselves us two,
As love has me for only you!
[1] 'Dwarfs': Gibson and Shepherd, each three feet ten inches in height.
They were pages at Court, and Charles I. gave away the female
infinitesimal.
LOVE'S FAREWELL.
1 Treading the path to nobler ends,
A long farewell to love I gave,
Resolved my country, and my friends,
All that remain'd of me should have.
2 And this resolve no mortal dame,
None but those eyes could have o'erthrown;
The nymph I dare not, need not name,
So high, so like herself alone.
3 Thus the tall oak, which now aspires
Above the fear of private fires,
Grown and design'd for nobler use,
Not to make warm, but build the house,
Though from our meaner flames secure,
Must that which falls from heaven endure.
FROM A CHILD.
Madam, as in some climes the warmer sun
Makes it full summer ere the spring's begun,
And with ripe fruit the bending boughs can load,
Before our violets dare look abroad;
So measure not by any common use
The early love your brighter eyes produce.
When lately your fair hand in woman's weed
Wrapp'd my glad head, I wish'd me so indeed,
That hasty time might never make me grow
Out of those favours you afford me now; 10
That I might ever such indulgence find,
And you not blush, nor think yourself too kind;
Who now, I fear, while I these joys express,
Begin to think how you may make them less.
The sound of love makes your soft heart afraid,
And guard itself, though but a child invade,
And innocently at your white breast throw
A dart as white-a ball of new fallen snow.
ON A GIRDLE.
That which her slender waist confined,
Shall now my joyful temples bind;
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.
It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer.
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move!
A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair;
Give me but what this ribband bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.
THE FALL.
See! how the willing earth gave way,
To take th'impression where she lay.
See! how the mould, as both to leave
So sweet a burden, still doth cleave
Close to the nymph's stain'd garment. Here
The coming spring would first appear,
And all this place with roses strow,
If busy feet would let them grow.
Here Venus smiled to see blind chance
Itself before her son advance, 10
And a fair image to present,
Of what the boy so long had meant.
'Twas such a chance as this, made all
The world into this order fall;
Thus the first lovers, on the clay,
Of which they were composéd, lay;
So in their prime, with equal grace,
Met the first patterns of our race.
Then blush not, fair! or on him frown,
Or wonder how you both came down; 20
But touch him, and he'll tremble straight,
How could he then support your weight?
How could the youth, alas! but bend,
When his whole heaven upon him lean'd?
If aught by him amiss were done,
'Twas that he let you rise so soon.
OF SYLVIA.
1 Our sighs are heard; just Heaven declares
The sense it has of lovers' cares;
She that so far the rest outshined,
Sylvia the fair, while she was kind,
As if her frowns impair'd her brow,
Seems only not unhandsome now.
So, when the sky makes us endure
A storm, itself becomes obscure.
2 Hence 'tis that I conceal my flame,
Hiding from Flavia's self her name,
Lest she, provoking Heaven, should prove
How it rewards neglected love.
Better a thousand such as I,
Their grief untold, should pine and die;
Than her bright morning, overcast
With sullen clouds, should be defaced.
THE BUD.
1 Lately on yonder swelling bush,
Big with many a coming rose,
This early bud began to blush,
And did but half itself disclose;
I pluck'd it, though no better grown,
And now you see how full 'tis blown.
2 Still as I did the leaves inspire,
With such a purple light they shone,
As if they had been made of fire,
And spreading so, would flame anon.
All that was meant by air or sun,
To the young flower, my breath has done.
3 If our loose breath so much can do,
What may the same in forms of love,
Of purest love, and music too,
When Flavia it aspires to move?
When that, which lifeless buds persuades
To wax more soft, her youth invades?
ON THE DISCOVERY OF A LADY'S PAINTING.
1 Pygmalion's fate reversed is mine;[1]
His marble love took flesh and blood;
All that I worshipp'd as divine,
That beauty! now 'tis understood,
Appears to have no more of life
Than that whereof he framed his wife.
2 As women yet, who apprehend
Some sudden cause of causeless fear,
Although that seeming cause take end,
And they behold no danger near,
A shaking through their limbs they find,
Like leaves saluted by the wind:
3 So though the beauty do appear
No beauty, which amazed me so;
Yet from my breast I cannot tear
The passion which from thence did grow;
Nor yet out of my fancy raze
The print of that supposèd face.
4 A real beauty, though too near,
The fond Narcissus did admire:
I dote on that which is nowhere;
The sign of beauty feeds my fire.
No mortal flame was e'er so cruel
As this, which thus survives the fuel!
[1] 'Mine': Ovid, _Met_. x.
OF LOVING AT FIRST SIGHT.
1 Not caring to observe the wind,
Or the new sea explore,
Snatch'd from myself, how far behind
Already I behold the shore!
2 May not a thousand dangers sleep
In the smooth bosom of this deep?
No; 'tis so reckless and so clear,
That the rich bottom does appear
Paved all with precious things; not torn
From shipwreck'd vessels, but there born.
3 Sweetness, truth, and every grace
Which time and use are wont to teach,
The eye may in a moment reach,
And read distinctly in her face.
4 Some other nymphs, with colours faint,
And pencil slow, may Cupid paint,
And a weak heart in time destroy;
She has a stamp, and prints the boy:
Can, with a single look, inflame
The coldest breast, the rudest tame.
THE SELF-BANISHED.
1 It is not that I love you less,
Than when before your feet I lay;
But to prevent the sad increase
Of hopeless love, I keep away.
2 In vain, alas! for everything
Which I have known belong to you,
Your form does to my fancy bring,
And makes my old wounds bleed anew.
3 Who in the spring, from the new sun,
Already has a fever got,
Too late begins those shafts to shun,
Which Phoebus through his veins has shot;
4 Too late he would the pain assuage,
And to thick shadows does retire;
About with him he bears the rage,
And in his tainted blood the fire.
5 But vow'd I have, and never must
Your banish'd servant trouble you;
For if I break, you may mistrust
The vow I made--to love you too.
A PANEGYRIC TO MY LORD PROTECTOR,
OF THE PRESENT GREATNESS, AND JOINT INTEREST, OF HIS HIGHNESS, AND THIS
NATION.[1]
1 While with a strong and yet a gentle hand,
You bridle faction, and our hearts command,
Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe,
Make us unite, and make us conquer too;
2 Let partial spirits still aloud complain,
Think themselves injured that they cannot reign,
And own no liberty but where they may
Without control upon their fellows prey.
3 Above the waves as Neptune show'd his face,
To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race,
So has your Highness, raised above the rest,
Storms of ambition, tossing us, repress'd.
4 Your drooping country, torn with civil hate,
Restored by you, is made a glorious state;
The seat of empire, where the Irish come,
And the unwilling Scots, to fetch their doom.
5 The sea's our own; and now all nations greet,
With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet;
Your power extends as far as winds can blow,
Or swelling sails upon the globe may go.
6 Heaven (that hath placed this island to give law,
To balance Europe, and her states to awe),
In this conjunction doth on Britain smile;
The greatest leader, and the greatest isle!
7 Whether this portion of the world were rent,
By the rude ocean, from the continent,
Or thus created, it was sure design'd
To be the sacred refuge of mankind.
8 Hither th'oppressed shall henceforth resort,
Justice to crave, and succour, at your court;
And then your Highness, not for ours alone,
But for the world's Protector shall be known.
9 Fame, swifter than your winged navy, flies
Through every land that near the ocean lies,
Sounding your name, and telling dreadful news
To all that piracy and rapine use.
10 With such a chief the meanest nation bless'd,
Might hope to lift her head above the rest;
What may be thought impossible to do
By us, embraced by the sea and you?
11 Lords of the world's great waste, the ocean, we
Whole forests send to reign upon the sea,
And every coast may trouble, or relieve;
But none can visit us without your leave.
12 Angels and we have this prerogative,
That none can at our happy seats arrive;
While we descend at pleasure, to invade
The bad with vengeance, and the good to aid.
13 Our little world, the image of the great,
Like that, amidst the boundless ocean set,
Of her own growth hath all that Nature craves,
And all that's rare, as tribute from the waves.
14 As Egypt does not on the clouds rely,
But to the Nile owes more than to the sky;
So what our earth, and what our heaven denies,
Our ever constant friend, the sea, supplies.
15 The taste of hot Arabia's spice we know,
Free from the scorching sun that makes it grow;
Without the worm, in Persian silks we shine;
And, without planting, drink of every vine.
16 To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs;
Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims;
Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow;
We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.
17 Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds;
Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds;
Rome, though her eagle through the world had flown,
Could never make this island all her own.
18 Here the Third Edward, and the Black Prince, too,
France-conqu'ring Henry flourish'd, and now you;
For whom we stay'd, as did the Grecian state,
Till Alexander came to urge their fate.
19 When for more worlds the Macedonian cried,
He wist not Thetis in her lap did hide
Another yet; a world reserved for you,
To make more great than that he did subdue.
20 He safely might old troops to battle lead,
Against th'unwarlike Persian and the Mede,
Whose hasty flight did, from a bloodless field,
More spoils than honour to the victor yield.
21 A race unconquer'd, by their clime made bold,
The Caledonians, arm'd with want and cold,
Have, by a fate indulgent to your fame,
Been from all ages kept for you to tame.
22 Whom the old Roman wall so ill confined,
With a new chain of garrisons you bind;
Here foreign gold no more shall make them come;
Our English iron holds them fast at home.
23 They, that henceforth must be content to know
No warmer regions than their hills of snow,
May blame the sun, but must extol your grace,
Which in our senate hath allowed them place.
24 Preferr'd by conquest, happily o'erthrown,
Falling they rise, to be with us made one;
So kind Dictators made, when they came home,
Their vanquish'd foes free citizens of Rome.
25 Like favour find the Irish, with like fate,
Advanced to be a portion of our state;
While by your valour and your bounteous mind,
Nations, divided by the sea, are join'd.
26 Holland, to gain your friendship, is content
To be our outguard on the Continent;
She from her fellow-provinces would go,
Rather than hazard to have you her foe.
27 In our late fight, when cannons did diffuse,
Preventing posts, the terror and the news,
Our neighbour princes trembled at their roar;
But our conjunction makes them tremble more.
28 Your never-failing sword made war to cease;
And now you heal us with the acts of peace;
Our minds with bounty and with awe engage,
Invite affection, and restrain our rage.
29 Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won,
Than in restoring such as are undone;
Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear,
But man alone can, whom he conquers, spare.
30 To pardon willing, and to punish loth,
You strike with one hand, but you heal with both;
Lifting up all that prostrate lie, you grieve
You cannot make the dead again to live.
31 When fate, or error, had our age misled,
And o'er this nation such confusion spread,
The only cure, which could from Heaven come down,
Was so much power and piety in one!
32 One! whose extraction from an ancient line
Gives hope again that well-born men may shine;
The meanest in your nature, mild and good,
The noblest rest secured in your blood.
33 Oft have we wonder'd how you hid in peace
A mind proportion'd to such things as these;
How such a ruling sp'rit you could restrain,
And practise first over yourself to reign.
34 Your private life did a just pattern give,
How fathers, husbands, pious sons should live;
Born to command, your princely virtues slept,
Like humble David's, while the flock he kept.
35 But when your troubled country called you forth,
Your flaming courage, and your matchless worth,
Dazzling the eyes of all that did pretend,
To fierce contention gave a prosp'rous end.
36 Still as you rise, the state, exalted too,
Finds no distemper while 'tis changed by you;
Changed like the world's great scene! when, without noise,
The rising sun night's vulgar light destroys.
37 Had you, some ages past, this race of glory
Run, with amazement we should read your story;
But living virtue, all achievements past,
Meets envy still, to grapple with at last.
38 This Cæsar found; and that ungrateful age,
With losing him went back to blood and rage;
Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke,
But cut the bond of union with that stroke.
39 That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars
Gave a dim light to violence and wars,
To such a tempest as now threatens all,
Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall.
40 If Rome's great senate could not wield that sword,
Which of the conquer'd world had made them lord;
What hope had ours, while yet their power was new,
To rule victorious armies, but by you?
41 You! that had taught them to subdue their foes,
Could order teach, and their high sp'rits compose;
To every duty could their minds engage,
Provoke their courage, and command their rage.
42 So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane,
And angry grows, if he that first took pain
To tame his youth approach the haughty beast,
He bends to him, but frights away the rest.
43 As the vex'd world, to find repose, at last
Itself into Augustus' arms did cast;
So England now does, with like toil oppress'd,
Her weary head upon your bosom rest.
44 Then let the Muses, with such notes as these,
Instruct us what belongs unto our peace;
Your battles they hereafter shall indite,
And draw the image of our Mars in fight;
45 Tell of towns storm'd, of armies overrun,
And mighty kingdoms by your conduct won;
How, while you thunder'd, clouds of dust did choke
Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke.
46 Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse,
And every conqueror creates a Muse.
Here, in low strains, your milder deeds we sing;
But there, my lord! we'll bays and olive bring,
47 To crown your head; while you in triumph ride
O'er vanquish'd nations, and the sea beside;
While all your neighbour princes unto you,
Like Joseph's sheaves,[2] pay reverence, and bow.
[1] Written about 1654.
[2] 'Joseph's sheaves': Gen. xxxvii.
ON THE HEAD OF A STAG.
So we some antique hero's strength
Learn by his lance's weight and length,
As these vast beams express the beast
Whose shady brows alive they dress'd.
Such game, while yet the world was new,
The mighty Nimrod did pursue.
What huntsman of our feeble race,
Or dogs, dare such a monster chase,
Resembling, with each blow he strikes, 9
The charge of a whole troop of pikes?
O fertile head! which every year
Could such a crop of wonder bear!
The teeming earth did never bring
So soon, so hard, so huge a thing;
Which might it never have been cast
(Each year's growth added to the last),
These lofty branches had supplied
The earth's bold sons' prodigious pride;
Heaven with these engines had been scaled,
When mountains heap'd on mountains fail'd. 20
THE MISER'S SPEECH.
IN A MASQUE.
Balls of this metal slack'd At'lanta's pace,
And on the am'rous youth[1] bestow'd the race;
Venus (the nymph's mind measuring by her own),
Whom the rich spoils of cities overthrown
Had prostrated to Mars, could well advise
Th' advent'rous lover how to gain the prize.
Nor less may Jupiter to gold ascribe;
For, when he turn'd himself into a bribe,
Who can blame Danaë[2], or the brazen tower,
That they withstood not that almighty shower 10
Never till then did love make Jove put on
A form more bright, and nobler than his own;
Nor were it just, would he resume that shape,
That slack devotion should his thunder 'scape.
'Twas not revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong, 15
Those ass's ears on Midas' temples hung,
But fond repentance of his happy wish,
Because his meat grew metal like his dish.
Would Bacchus bless me so, I'd constant hold
Unto my wish, and die creating gold.
[1] 'Am'rous youth': Hippomenes.
[2] Transcriber's note: The original text has a single dot over the
second "a" and another over the "e", rather than the more
conventional diaresis shown here.
CHLORIS AND HYLAS.
MADE TO A SARABAND.
CHLORIS.
Hylas, O Hylas! why sit we mute,
Now that each bird saluteth the spring?
Wind up the slacken'd strings of thy lute,
Never canst thou want matter to sing;
For love thy breast does fill with such a fire,
That whatsoe'er is fair moves thy desire.
HYLAS.
Sweetest! you know, the sweetest of things
Of various flowers the bees do compose;
Yet no particular taste it brings
Of violet, woodbine, pink, or rose; 10
So love the result is of all the graces
Which flow from a thousand sev'ral faces.
CHLORIS.
Hylas! the birds which chant in this grove,
Could we but know the language they use,
They would instruct us better in love,
And reprehend thy inconstant Muse;
For love their breasts does fill with such a fire, 17
That what they once do choose, bounds their desire.
HYLAS.
Chloris! this change the birds do approve,
Which the warm season hither does bring; 20
Time from yourself does further remove
You, than the winter from the gay spring;
She that like lightning shined while her face lasted,
The oak now resembles which lightning hath blasted.
IN ANSWER OF SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S VERSES.
CON.
Stay here, fond youth! and ask no more; be wise;
Knowing too much long since lost Paradise.
PRO.
And, by your knowledge, we should be bereft
Of all that Paradise which yet is left.
CON.
The virtuous joys thou hast, thou wouldst should still
Last in their pride; and wouldst not take it ill
If rudely from sweet dreams, and for a toy,
Thou waked; he wakes himself that does enjoy.
PRO.
How can the joy, or hope, which you allow
Be styled virtuous, and the end not so? 10
Talk in your sleep, and shadows still admire!
'Tis true, he wakes that feels this real fire;
But--to sleep better; for whoe'er drinks deep
Of this Nepenthe, rocks himself asleep.
CON.
Fruition adds no new wealth, but destroys,
And while it pleaseth much, yet still it cloys.
Who thinks he should be happier made for that,
As reasonably might hope he might grow fat
By eating to a surfeit; this once past,
What relishes? even kisses lose their taste. 20
PRO.
Blessings may be repeated while they cloy;
But shall we starve, 'cause surfeitings destroy?
And if fruition did the taste impair
Of kisses, why should yonder happy pair,
Whose joys just Hymen warrants all the night,
Consume the day, too, in this less delight?
CON.
Urge not 'tis necessary; alas! we know
The homeliest thing that mankind does is so.
The world is of a large extent we see,
And must be peopled; children there must be: 30
So must bread too; but since there are enow
Born to that drudgery, what need we plough?
PRO.
I need not plough, since what the stooping hine[1]
Gets of my pregnant land must all be mine;
But in this nobler tillage 'tis not so;
For when Anchises did fair Venus know,
What interest had poor Vulcan in the boy,
Famous Aeneas, or the present joy?
CON.
Women enjoy'd, whate'er before they've been, 39
Are like romances read, or scenes once seen;
Fruition dulls or spoils the play much more
Than if one read, or knew the plot before.
PRO.
Plays and romances read and seen, do fall
In our opinions; yet not seen at all,
Whom would they please? To an heroic tale
Would you not listen, lest it should grow stale?
CON.
'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear;
Heaven were not heaven, if we knew what it were.
PRO.
If 'twere not heaven if we knew what it were,
'Twould not be heaven to those that now are there. 50
CON.
And as in prospects we are there pleased most,
Where something keeps the eye from being lost,
And leaves us room to guess; so here, restraint
Holds up delight, that with excess would faint.
PRO.
Restraint preserves the pleasure we have got,
But he ne'er has it that enjoys it not.
In goodly prospects, who contracts the space,
Or takes not all the bounty of the place?
We wish remov'd what standeth in our light,
And nature blame for limiting our sight; 60
Where you stand wisely winking, that the view
Of the fair prospect may be always new.
CON.
They, who know all the wealth they have, are poor;
He's only rich that cannot tell his store.
PRO.
Not he that knows the wealth he has is poor,
But he that dares not touch, nor use, his store.
[1] 'Hine': hind.
AN APOLOGY FOR HAVING LOVED BEFORE.
1 They that never had the use
Of the grape's surprising juice,
To the first delicious cup
All their reason render up;
Neither do, nor care to know,
Whether it be best or no.
2 So they that are to love inclined,
Sway'd by chance, not choice or art,
To the first that's fair, or kind,
Make a present of their heart;
'Tis not she that first we love,
But whom dying we approve.
3 To man, that was in th'ev'ning made,
Stars gave the first delight,
Admiring, in the gloomy shade,
Those little drops of light;
Then at Aurora, whose fair hand
Removed them from the skies,
He gazing t'ward the east did stand,
She entertain'd his eyes.
4 But when the bright sun did appear,
All those he 'gan despise;
His wonder was determined there,
And could no higher rise;
He neither might, nor wished to know
A more refulgent light;
For that (as mine your beauties now)
Employ'd his utmost sight.
THE NIGHT-PIECE;
OR, A PICTURE DRAWN IN THE DARK.
Darkness, which fairest nymphs disarms,
Defends us ill from Mira's charms;
Mira can lay her beauty by,
Take no advantage of the eye,
Quit all that Lely's art can take,
And yet a thousand captives make.
Her speech is graced with sweeter sound
Than in another's song is found!
And all her well-placed words are darts,
Which need no light to reach our hearts. 10
As the bright stars and Milky Way,
Show'd by the night, are hid by day;
So we, in that accomplish'd mind,
Help'd by the night, new graces find,
Which, by the splendour of her view,
Dazzled before, we never knew.
While we converse with her, we mark
No want of day, nor think it dark;
Her shining image is a light
Fix'd in our hearts, and conquers night. 20
Like jewels to advantage set,
Her beauty by the shade does get;
There blushes, frowns, and cold disdain,
All that our passion might restrain,
Is hid, and our indulgent mind
Presents the fair idea kind.
Yet, friended by the night, we dare
Only in whispers tell our care;
He that on her his bold hand lays,
With Cupid's pointed arrows plays; 30
They with a touch (they are so keen!)
Wound us unshot, and she unseen.
All near approaches threaten death;
We may be shipwreck'd by her breath;
Love, favour'd once with that sweet gale,
Doubles his haste, and fills his sail,
Till he arrive where she must prove
The haven, or the rock, of love.
So we th'Arabian coast do know
At distance, when the spices blow; 40
By the rich odour taught to steer,
Though neither day nor stars appear.
ON THE PICTURE OF A FAIR YOUTH,
TAKEN AFTER HE WAS DEAD.
As gather'd flowers, while their wounds are new,
Look gay and fresh, as on the stalk they grew;
Torn from the root that nourish'd them, awhile
(Not taking notice of their fate) they smile,
And, in the hand which rudely pluck'd them, show
Fairer than those that to their autumn grow;
So love and beauty still that visage grace;
Death cannot fright them from their wonted place.
Alive, the hand of crooked Age had marr'd,
Those lovely features which cold Death has spared.
No wonder then he sped in love so well,
When his high passion he had breath to tell;
When that accomplish'd soul, in this fair frame,
No business had but to persuade that dame,
Whose mutual love advanced the youth so high,
That, but to heaven, he could no higher fly.
ON A BREDE OF DIVERS COLOURS,
WOVEN BY FOUR LADIES.
Twice twenty slender virgin-fingers twine
This curious web, where all their fancies shine.
As Nature them, so they this shade have wrought,
Soft as their hands, and various as their thought;
Not Juno's bird when, his fair train dispread,
He woos the female to his painted bed,
No, not the bow, which so adorns the skies,
So glorious is, or boasts so many dyes.
OF A WAR WITH SPAIN, AND FIGHT AT SEA.[1]
Now, for some ages, had the pride of Spain
Made the sun shine on half the world in vain;
While she bid war to all that durst supply
The place of those her cruelty made die.
Of Nature's bounty men forebore to taste,
And the best portion of the earth lay waste.
From the new world, her silver and her gold
Came, like a tempest, to confound the old;
Feeding with these the bribed electors' hopes,
Alone she gives us emperors and popes; 10
With these accomplishing her vast designs,
Europe was shaken with her Indian mines.
When Britain, looking with a just disdain
Upon this gilded majesty of Spain,
And knowing well that empire must decline,
Whose chief support and sinews are of coin,
Our nation's solid virtue did oppose
To the rich troublers of the world's repose.
And now some months, encamping on the main,
Our naval army had besiegèd Spain; 20
They that the whole world's monarchy design'd,
Are to their ports by our bold fleet confined;
From whence our Red Cross they triumphant see,
Riding without a rival on the sea.
Others may use the ocean as their road,
Only the English make it their abode,
Whose ready sails with every wind can fly,
And make a cov'nant with th'inconstant sky;
Our oaks secure, as if they there took root, 29
We tread on billows with a steady foot.
Meanwhile the Spaniards in America,
Near to the line the sun approaching saw,
And hoped their European coasts to find
Clear'd from our ships by the autumnal wind;
Their huge capacious galleons stuff'd with plate,
The lab'ring winds drive slowly t'wards their fate.
Before St. Lucar they their guns discharge
To tell their joy, or to invite a barge;
This heard some ships of ours (though out of view),
And, swift as eagles, to the quarry flew; 40
So heedless lambs, which for their mothers bleat,
Wake hungry lions, and become their meat.
Arrived, they soon begin that tragic play,
And with their smoky cannons banish day;
Night, horror, slaughter, with confusion meets,
And in their sable arms embrace the fleets.
Through yielding planks the angry bullets fly,
And, of one wound, hundreds together die;
Born under diff'rent stars, one fate they have,
The ship their coffin, and the sea their grave! 50
Bold were the men which on the ocean first
Spread their new sails, when shipwreck was the worst;
More danger now from man alone we find
Than from the rocks, the billows, or the wind.
They that had sail'd from near th'Antarctic Pole,
Their treasure safe, and all their vessels whole,
In sight of their dear country ruin'd be,
Without the guilt of either rock or sea!
What they would spare, our fiercer art destroys,
Surpassing storms in terror and in noise. 60
Once Jove from Ida did both hosts survey,
And, when he pleased to thunder, part the fray;
Here, heaven in vain that kind retreat should sound,
The louder cannon had the thunder drown'd.
Some we made prize; while others, burn'd and rent,
With their rich lading to the bottom went;
Down sinks at once (so Fortune with us sports:)
The pay of armies, and the pride of courts.
Vain man! whose rage buries as low that store,
As avarice had digg'd for it before; 70
What earth, in her dark bowels, could not keep
From greedy hands, lies safer in the deep,
Where Thetis kindly does from mortals hide
Those seeds of luxury, debate, and pride.
And now, into her lap the richest prize
Fell, with the noblest of our enemies;
The Marquis[2](glad to see the fire destroy
Wealth that prevailing foes were to enjoy)
Out from his flaming ship his children sent,
To perish in a milder element; 80
Then laid him by his burning lady's side,
And, since he could not save her, with her died.
Spices and gums about them melting fry,
And, phoenix-like, in that rich nest they die;
Alive, in flames of equal love they burn'd,
And now together are to ashes turn'd;
Ashes! more worth than all their fun'ral cost,
Than the huge treasure which was with them lost.
These dying lovers, and their floating sons,
Suspend the fight, and silence all our guns; 90
Beauty and youth about to perish, finds
Such noble pity in brave English minds,
That (the rich spoil forgot, their valour's prize,)
All labour now to save their enemies.
How frail our passions! how soon changèd are 95
Our wrath and fury to a friendly care!
They that but now for honour, and for plate,
Made the sea blush with blood, resign their hate;
And, their young foes endeav'ring to retrieve,
With greater hazard than they fought, they dive. 100
With these, returns victorious Montague,
With laurels in his hand, and half Peru.
Let the brave generals divide that bough,
Our great Protector hath such wreaths enow;
His conqu'ring head has no more room for bays;
Then let it be as the glad nation prays;
Let the rich ore forthwith be melted down,
And the state fix'd by making him a crown;
With ermine clad, and purple, let him hold
A royal sceptre, made of Spanish gold. 110
[1] 'Fight at sea': see any good English History, under date 1656.
[2] 'Marquis': of Badajos, viceroy of Mexico.
UPON THE DEATH OF THE LORD PROTECTOR.
We must resign! Heaven his great soul does claim
In storms, as loud as his immortal fame;
His dying groans, his last breath, shakes our isle,
And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile;
About his palace their broad roots are toss'd
Into the air.[1]--So Romulus was lost!
New Rome in such a tempest miss'd her king,
And from obeying fell to worshipping.
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead, 9
With ruin'd oaks and pines about him spread;
The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear
On his victorious head, lay prostrate there;
Those his last fury from the mountain rent:
Our dying hero from the Continent
Ravish'd whole towns: and forts from Spaniards reft
As his last legacy to Britain left.
The ocean, which so long our hopes confined,
Could give no limits to his vaster mind;
Our bounds' enlargement was his latest toil,
Nor hath he left us pris'ners to our isle; 20
Under the tropic is our language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath received our yoke.
From civil broils he did us disengage,
Found nobler objects for our martial rage;
And, with wise conduct, to his country show'd
The ancient way of conquering abroad.
Ungrateful then! if we no tears allow
To him, that gave us peace and empire too.
Princes, that fear'd him, grieve, concern'd to see
No pitch of glory from the grave is free. 30
Nature herself took notice of his death,
And, sighing, swell'd the sea with such a breath,
That, to remotest shores her billows roll'd,
The approaching fate of their great ruler told.
[1] 'The air': a tremendous tempest blew over England (not on the day),
but a day or two before Cromwell's death. It was said that something
of the same sort, along with an eclipse of the sun, took place on
the removal of Romulus.
ON ST JAMES'S PARK, AS LATELY IMPROVED BY HIS MAJESTY.[1]
Of the first Paradise there's nothing found;
Plants set by Heaven are vanish'd, and the ground;
Yet the description lasts; who knows the fate
Of lines that shall this paradise relate?
Instead of rivers rolling by the side
Of Eden's garden, here flows in the tide;
The sea, which always served his empire, now
Pays tribute to our Prince's pleasure too.
Of famous cities we the founders know;
But rivers, old as seas, to which they go, 10
Are Nature's bounty; 'tis of more renown
To make a river, than to build a town.
For future shade, young trees upon the banks
Of the new stream appear in even ranks;
The voice of Orpheus, or Amphion's hand,
In better order could not make them stand;
May they increase as fast, and spread their boughs,
As the high fame of their great owner grows!
May he live long enough to see them all
Dark shadows cast, and as his palace tall! 20
Methinks I see the love that shall be made,
The lovers walking in that am'rous shade;
The gallants dancing by the river side;
They bathe in summer, and in winter slide.
Methinks I hear the music in the boats,
And the loud echo which returns the notes;
While overhead a flock of new-sprung fowl
Hangs in the air, and does the sun control,
Dark'ning the sky; they hover o'er, and shroud 29
The wanton sailors with a feather'd cloud.
Beneath, a shoal of silver fishes glides,
And plays about the gilded barges' sides;
The ladies, angling in the crystal lake,
Feast on the waters with the prey they take;
At once victorious with their lines, and eyes,
They make the fishes, and the men, their prize.
A thousand Cupids on the billows ride,
And sea-nymphs enter with the swelling tide,
From Thetis sent as spies, to make report,
And tell the wonders of her sovereign's court. 40
All that can, living, feed the greedy eye,
Or dead, the palate, here you may descry;
The choicest things that furnish'd Noah's ark,
Or Peter's sheet, inhabiting this park;
All with a border of rich fruit-trees crown'd,
Whose loaded branches hide the lofty mound,
Such various ways the spacious alleys lead,
My doubtful Muse knows not what path to tread.
Yonder, the harvest of cold months laid up,
Gives a fresh coolness to the royal cup; 50
There ice, like crystal firm, and never lost,
Tempers hot July with December's frost;
Winter's dark prison, whence he cannot fly,
Though the warm spring, his enemy, draws nigh.
Strange! that extremes should thus preserve the snow,
High on the Alps, or in deep caves below.
Here, a well-polished Mall gives us the joy
To see our Prince his matchless force employ;
His manly posture, and his graceful mien,
Vigour and youth in all his motions seen; 60
His shape so lovely and his limbs so strong,
Confirm our hopes we shall obey him long.
No sooner has he touch'd the flying ball, 63
But 'tis already more than half the Mall;
And such a fury from his arm has got,
As from a smoking culv'rin it were shot.[2]
Near this my Muse, what most delights her, sees
A living gallery of aged trees;
Bold sons of earth, that thrust their arms so high,
As if once more they would invade the sky. 70
In such green palaces the first kings reign'd,
Slept in their shades, and angels entertain'd;
With such old counsellors they did advise,
And, by frequenting sacred groves, grew wise.
Free from th'impediments of light and noise,
Man, thus retired, his nobler thoughts employs.
Here Charles contrives th'ordering of his states,
Here he resolves his neighb'ring princes' fates;
What nation shall have peace, where war be made,
Determined is in this oraculous shade; 80
The world, from India to the frozen north,
Concern'd in what this solitude brings forth.
His fancy objects from his view receives;
The prospect thought and contemplation gives.
That seat of empire here salutes his eye,
To which three kingdoms do themselves apply;
The structure by a prelate[3] raised, Whitehall,
Built with the fortune of Rome's capitol;
Both, disproportion'd to the present state
Of their proud founders, were approved by Fate. 90
From hence he does that antique pile[4] behold,
Where royal heads receive the sacred gold;
It gives them crowns, and does their ashes keep;
There made like gods, like mortals there they sleep;
Making the circle of their reign complete,
Those suns of empire! where they rise, they set.
When others fell, this, standing, did presage
The crown should triumph over popular rage;
Hard by that House,[5] where all our ills were shaped,
Th' auspicious temple stood, and yet escaped. 100
So snow on Aetna does unmelted lie,
Whence rolling flames and scatter'd cinders fly;
The distant country in the ruin shares;
What falls from heaven the burning mountain spares.
Next, that capacious Hall[6] he sees, the room
Where the whole nation does for justice come;
Under whose large roof flourishes the gown,
And judges grave, on high tribunals, frown.
Here, like the people's pastor he does go,
His flock subjected to his view below; 110
On which reflecting in his mighty mind,
No private passion does indulgence find;
The pleasures of his youth suspended are,
And made a sacrifice to public care.
Here, free from court compliances, he walks,
And with himself, his best adviser, talks;
How peaceful olives may his temples shade,
For mending laws, and for restoring trade;
Or, how his brows may be with laurel charged,
For nations conquer'd and our bounds enlarged. 120
Of ancient prudence here he ruminates,
Of rising kingdoms, and of falling states;
What ruling arts gave great Augustus fame,
And how Alcides purchased such a name.
His eyes, upon his native palace[7] bent,
Close by, suggest a greater argument.
His thoughts rise higher, when he does reflect
On what the world may from that star expect
Which at his birth appear'd,[8] to let us see
Day, for his sake, could with the night agree; 130
A prince, on whom such diff'rent lights did smile,
Born the divided world to reconcile!
Whatever Heaven, or high extracted blood
Could promise, or foretell, he will make good;
Reform these nations, and improve them more,
Than this fair park, from what it was before.
[1] See 'Macaulay.'
[2] Pall Mall derived its name from a particular game at bowls, in which
Charles II. excelled.
[3] 'Prelate': Cardinal Wolsey.
[4] 'Antique pile': Westminster Abbey.
[5] 'House': House of Commons.
[6] 'Hall': Westminster Hall.
[7] 'Palace': St. James's Palace, where Charles II. was born.
[8] 'Birth appeared ': it seems a new star appeared in the heavens at
the birth of the king.
OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, MOTHER TO THE PRINCE OF ORANGE;[1]
AND OF HER PORTRAIT, WRITTEN BY THE LATE DUCHESS OF YORK, WHILE SHE
LIVED WITH HER.
Heroic nymph! in tempests the support,
In peace the glory of the British Court!
Into whose arms the church, the state, and all
That precious is, or sacred here, did fall.
Ages to come, that shall your bounty hear,
Will think you mistress of the Indies were;
Though straiter bounds your fortunes did confine,
In your large heart was found a wealthy mine;
Like the bless'd oil, the widow's lasting feast,
Your treasure, as you pour'd it out, increased. 10
While some your beauty, some your bounty sing,
Your native isle does with your praises ring;
But, above all, a nymph of your own train[2]
Gives us your character in such a strain,
As none but she, who in that Court did dwell,
Could know such worth, or worth describe so well.
So while we mortals here at heaven do guess,
And more our weakness, than the place, express,
Some angel, a domestic there, comes down,
And tells the wonders he hath seen and known. 20
[1] 'Prince of Orange': Mary, Princess of Orange, and sister to Charles
II.
[2] 'Train': Lady Anne Hyde, daughter of the Earl of Clarendon, and
afterwards Duchess of York, and mother of Queen Mary and Queen Anne.
UPON HER MAJESTY'S NEW BUILDINGS AT SOMERSET HOUSE.[1]
Great Queen! that does our island bless
With princes and with palaces;
Treated so ill, chased from your throne,
Returning you adorn the Town;
And, with a brave revenge, do show
Their glory went and came with you.
While peace from hence and you were gone,
Your houses in that storm o'erthrown,
Those wounds which civil rage did give,
At once you pardon, and relieve. 10
Constant to England in your love,
As birds are to their wonted grove,
Though by rude hands their nests are spoil'd,
There the next spring again they build.
Accusing some malignant star,
Not Britain, for that fatal war,
Your kindness banishes your fear,
Resolved to fix for ever here.[2]
But what new mine this work supplies?
Can such a pile from ruin rise? 20
This, like the first creation, shows
As if at your command it rose.
Frugality and bounty too
(Those diff'ring virtues), meet in you;
From a confined, well-managed store,
You both employ and feed the poor.
Let foreign princes vainly boast
The rude effects of pride, and cost
Of vaster fabrics, to which they
Contribute nothing but the pay; 30
This, by the Queen herself design'd,
Gives us a pattern of her mind;
The state and order does proclaim
The genius of that Royal Dame.
Each part with just proportion graced,
And all to such advantage placed,
That the fair view her window yields,
The town, the river, and the fields,
Ent'ring, beneath us we descry,
And wonder how we came so high. 40
She needs no weary steps ascend;
All seems before her feet to bend;
And here, as she was born, she lies;
High, without taking pains to rise.
[1] 'Somerset House': Henrietta, Queen-mother, who returned to England
in 1660, and lived in Somerset House, which she greatly improved.
[2] 'Ever here': she left, however, in 1665.
OF A TREE CUT IN PAPER.
Fair hand! that can on virgin paper write,
Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white;
Whose travel o'er that silver field does show
Like track of leverets in morning snow.
Love's image thus in purest minds is wrought,
Without a spot or blemish to the thought.
Strange, that your fingers should the pencil foil,
Without the help of colours or of oil!
For though a painter boughs and leaves can make,
'Tis you alone can make them bend and shake;
Whose breath salutes your new-created grove,
Like southern winds, and makes it gently move.
Orpheus could make the forest dance; but you
Can make the motion and the forest too.
VERSES TO DR GEORGE ROGERS,
ON HIS TAKING THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHYSIC AT PADUA, IN THE YEAR 1664.
When as of old the earth's bold children strove,
With hills on hills, to scale the throne of Jove,
Pallas and Mars stood by their sovereign's side,
And their bright arms in his defence employ'd;
While the wise Phoebus, Hermes, and the rest,
Who joy in peace, and love the Muses best,
Descending from their so distemper'd seat,
Our groves and meadows chose for their retreat.
There first Apollo tried the various use 9
Of herbs, and learn'd the virtues of their juice,
And framed that art, to which who can pretend
A juster title than our noble friend,
Whom the like tempest drives from his abode,
And like employment entertains abroad?
This crowns him here, and in the bays so earn'd,
His country's honour is no less concern'd,
Since it appears not all the English rave,
To ruin bent; some study how to save;
And as Hippocrates did once extend
His sacred art, whole cities to amend; 20
So we, great friend! suppose that thy great skill,
Thy gentle mind, and fair example will,
At thy return, reclaim our frantic isle,
Their spirits calm, and peace again shall smile.
INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER,
FOR THE DRAWING OF THE POSTURE AND PROGRESS OF HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES AT
SEA, UNDER THE COMMAND OF HIS HIGHNESS-ROYAL; TOGETHER WITH THE BATTLE
AND VICTORY OBTAINED OVER THE DUTCH, JUNE 3, 1665.[1]
First draw the sea, that portion which between
The greater world and this of ours is seen;
Here place the British, there the Holland fleet,
Vast floating armies! both prepared to meet.
Draw the whole world, expecting who should reign,
After this combat, o'er the conquer'd main.
Make Heaven concern'd, and an unusual star 7
Declare th'importance of th'approaching war.
Make the sea shine with gallantry, and all
The English youth flock to their Admiral,
The valiant Duke! whose early deeds abroad,
Such rage in fight, and art in conduct show'd.
His bright sword now a dearer int'rest draws,
His brother's glory, and his country's cause.
Let thy bold pencil hope and courage spread,
Through the whole navy, by that hero led;
Make all appear, where such a Prince is by,
Resolved to conquer, or resolved to die.
With his extraction, and his glorious mind,
Make the proud sails swell more than with the wind; 20
Preventing cannon, make his louder fame
Check the Batavians, and their fury tame.
So hungry wolves, though greedy of their prey,
Stop when they find a lion in their way.
Make him bestride the ocean, and mankind
Ask his consent to use the sea and wind;
While his tall ships in the barr'd channel stand,
He grasps the Indies in his armed hand.
Paint an east wind, and make it blow away
Th' excuse of Holland for their navy's stay; 30
Make them look pale, and, the bold Prince to shun,
Through the cold north and rocky regions run.
To find the coast where morning first appears,
By the dark pole the wary Belgian steers;
Confessing now he dreads the English more
Than all the dangers of a frozen shore;
While from our arms security to find,
They fly so far, they leave the day behind.
Describe their fleet abandoning the sea,
And all their merchants left a wealthy prey; 40
Our first success in war make Bacchus crown,
And half the vintage of the year our own.
The Dutch their wine, and all their brandy lose,
Disarm'd of that from which their courage grows;
While the glad English, to relieve their toil,
In healths to their great leader drink the spoil.
His high command to Afric's coast extend,
And make the Moors before the English bend;
Those barb'rous pirates willingly receive
Conditions, such as we are pleased to give. 50
Deserted by the Dutch, let nations know
We can our own and their great business do;
False friends chastise, and common foes restrain,
Which, worse than tempests, did infest the main.
Within those Straits, make Holland's Smyrna fleet
With a small squadron of the English meet;
Like falcons these, those like a numerous flock
Of fowl, which scatter to avoid the shock.
There paint confusion in a various shape;
Some sink, some yield; and, flying, some escape. 60
Europe and Africa, from either shore,
Spectators are, and hear our cannon roar;
While the divided world in this agree,
Men that fight so, deserve to rule the sea.
But, nearer home, thy pencil use once more,
And place our navy by the Holland shore;
The world they compass'd, while they fought with Spain,
But here already they resign the main;
Those greedy mariners, out of whose way
Diffusive Nature could no region lay, 70
At home, preserved from rocks and tempests, lie,
Compell'd, like others, in their beds to die.
Their single towns th'Iberian armies press'd;
We all their provinces at once invest;
And, in a month, ruin their traffic more
Than that long war could in an age before.
But who can always on the billows lie?
The wat'ry wilderness yields no supply.
Spreading our sails, to Harwich we resort,
And meet the beauties of the British Court. 80
Th' illustrious Duchess, and her glorious train
(Like Thetis with her nymphs), adorn the main.
The gazing sea-gods, since the Paphian Queen
Sprung from among them, no such sight had seen.
Charm'd with the graces of a troop so fair,
Those deathless powers for us themselves declare,
Resolved the aid of Neptune's court to bring,
And help the nation where such beauties spring;
The soldier here his wasted store supplies,
And takes new valour from the ladies' eyes. 90
Meanwhile, like bees, when stormy winter's gone,
The Dutch (as if the sea were all their own)
Desert their ports, and, falling in their way,
Our Hamburg merchants are become their prey.
Thus flourish they, before th'approaching fight;
As dying tapers give a blazing light.
To check their pride, our fleet half-victuall'd goes,
Enough to serve us till we reach our foes;
Who now appear so numerous and bold,
The action worthy of our arms we hold. 100
A greater force than that which here we find,
Ne'er press'd the ocean, nor employ'd the wind.
Restrain'd a while by the unwelcome night,
Th' impatient English scarce attend the light.
But now the morning (heaven severely clear!)
To the fierce work indulgent does appear;
And Phoebus lifts above the waves his light,
That he might see, and thus record, the fight.
As when loud winds from diff'rent quarters rush, 109
Vast clouds encount'ring one another crush;
With swelling sails so, from their sev'ral coasts,
Join the Batavian and the British hosts.
For a less prize, with less concern and rage,
The Roman fleets at Actium did engage;
They, for the empire of the world they knew,
These, for the Old contend, and for the New.
At the first shock, with blood and powder stain'd,
Nor heaven, nor sea, their former face retain'd;
Fury and art produce effects so strange,
They trouble Nature, and her visage change. 120
Where burning ships the banish'd sun supply,
And no light shines, but that by which men die,
There York appears! so prodigal is he
Of royal blood, as ancient as the sea,
Which down to him, so many ages told,
Has through the veins of mighty monarchs roll'd!
The great Achilles march'd not to the field
Till Vulcan that impenetrable shield,
And arms, had wrought; yet there no bullets flew,
But shafts and darts which the weak Phrygians threw, 130
Our bolder hero on the deck does stand
Exposed, the bulwark of his native land;
Defensive arms laid by as useless here,
Where massy balls the neighb'ring rocks do tear.
Some power unseen those princes does protect,
Who for their country thus themselves neglect.
Against him first Opdam his squadron leads,
Proud of his late success against the Swedes;
Made by that action, and his high command,
Worthy to perish by a prince's hand. 140
The tall Batavian in a vast ship rides,
Bearing an army in her hollow sides;
Yet, not inclined the English ship to board,
More on his guns relies than on his sword;
From whence a fatal volley we received;
It miss'd the Duke, but his great heart it grieved;
Three worthy persons from his side it tore,
And dyed his garment with their scatter'd gore.
Happy! to whom this glorious death arrives,
More to be valued than a thousand lives! 150
On such a theatre as this to die,
For such a cause, and such a witness by!
Who would not thus a sacrifice be made,
To have his blood on such an altar laid?
The rest about him struck with horror stood,
To see their leader cover'd o'er with blood.
So trembled Jacob, when he thought the stains
Of his son's coat had issued from his veins.
He feels no wound but in his troubled thought;
Before, for honour, now, revenge he fought; 160
His friends in pieces torn (the bitter news
Not brought by Fame), with his own eyes he views.
His mind at once reflecting on their youth,
Their worth, their love, their valour, and their truth,
The joys of court, their mothers, and their wives,
To follow him abandon'd--and their lives!
He storms and shoots, but flying bullets now,
To execute his rage, appear too slow;
They miss, or sweep but common souls away;
For such a loss Opdam his life must pay. 170
Encouraging his men, he gives the word,
With fierce intent that hated ship to board,
And make the guilty Dutch, with his own arm,
Wait on his friends, while yet their blood is warm.
His winged vessel like an eagle shows,
When through the clouds to truss a swan she goes;
The Belgian ship unmoved, like some huge rock 177
Inhabiting the sea, expects the shock.
From both the fleets men's eyes are bent this way,
Neglecting all the business of the day;
Bullets their flight, and guns their noise suspend;
The silent ocean does th'event attend,
Which leader shall the doubtful victory bless,
And give an earnest of the war's success;
When Heaven itself, for England to declare,
Turns ship, and men, and tackle, into air.
Their new commander from his charge is toss'd,
Which that young prince[2] had so unjustly lost,
Whose great progenitors, with better fate,
And better conduct, sway'd their infant state. 190
His flight t'wards heaven th'aspiring Belgian took,
But fell, like Phaëton, with thunder strook;
From vaster hopes than his he seemed to fall,
That durst attempt the British Admiral;
From her broad sides a ruder flame is thrown
Than from the fiery chariot of the sun;
That bears the radiant ensign of the day,
And she the flag that governs in the sea.
The Duke (ill pleased that fire should thus prevent
The work which for his brighter sword he meant), 200
Anger still burning in his valiant breast,
Goes to complete revenge upon the rest.
So on the guardless herd, their keeper slain,
Rushes a tiger in the Libyan plain.
The Dutch, accustom'd to the raging sea,
And in black storms the frowns of heaven to see,
Never met tempest which more urged' their fears.
Than that which in the Prince's look appears.
Fierce, goodly, young! Mars he resembles, when 209
Jove sends him down to scourge perfidious men;
Such as with foul ingratitude have paid
Both those that led, and those that gave them aid.
Where he gives on, disposing of their fates,
Terror and death on his loud cannon waits,
With which he pleads his brother's cause so well,
He shakes the throne to which he does appeal.
The sea with spoils his angry bullets strow,
Widows and orphans making as they go;
Before his ship fragments of vessels torn,
Flags, arms, and Belgian carcasses are borne; 220
And his despairing foes, to flight inclined,
Spread all their canvas to invite the wind.
So the rude Boreas, where he lists to blow,
Makes clouds above, and billows fly below,
Beating the shore; and, with a boist'rous rage,
Does heaven at once, and earth, and sea engage.
The Dutch, elsewhere, did through the wat'ry field
Perform enough to have made others yield;
But English courage, growing as they fight,
In danger, noise, and slaughter, takes delight; 230
Their bloody task, unwearied still, they ply,
Only restrain'd by death, or victory.
Iron and lead, from earth's dark entrails torn,
Like showers of hail from either side are borne;
So high the rage of wretched mortals goes,
Hurling their mother's bowels at their foes!
Ingenious to their ruin, every age
Improves the arts and instruments of rage.
Death-hast'ning ills Nature enough has sent,
And yet men still a thousand more invent! 240
But Bacchus now, which led the Belgians on,
So fierce at first, to favour us begun;
Brandy and wine (their wonted friends) at length
Render them useless, and betray their strength.
So corn in fields, and in the garden flowers,
Revive and raise themselves with mod'rate showers;
But overcharged with never-ceasing rain,
Become too moist, and bend their heads again.
Their reeling ships on one another fall,
Without a foe, enough to ruin all. 250
Of this disorder, and the favouring wind,
The watchful English such advantage find,
Ships fraught with fire among the heap they throw,
And up the so-entangled Belgians blow.
The flame invades the powder-rooms, and then,
Their guns shoot bullets, and their vessels men.
The scorch'd Batavians on the billows float,
Sent from their own, to pass in Charon's boat.
And now, our royal Admiral success
(With all the marks of victory) does bless; 260
The burning ships, the taken, and the slain,
Proclaim his triumph o'er the conquer'd main.
Nearer to Holland, as their hasty flight
Carries the noise and tumult of the fight,
His cannons' roar, forerunner of his fame,
Makes their Hague tremble, and their Amsterdam;
The British thunder does their houses rock,
And the Duke seems at every door to knock.
His dreadful streamer (like a comet's hair,
Threatening destruction) hastens their despair; 270
Makes them deplore their scatter'd fleet as lost,
And fear our present landing on their coast.
The trembling Dutch th'approaching Prince behold,
As sheep a lion leaping tow'rds their fold;
Those piles, which serve them to repel the main,
They think too weak his fury to restrain.
'What wonders may not English valour work, 277
Led by th'example of victorious York?
Or what defence against him can they make,
Who, at such distance, does their country shake?
His fatal hand their bulwarks will o'erthrow,
And let in both the ocean, and the foe;'
Thus cry the people;--and, their land to keep,
Allow our title to command the deep;
Blaming their States' ill conduct, to provoke
Those arms, which freed them from the Spanish yoke.
Painter! excuse me, if I have a while
Forgot thy art, and used another style;
For, though you draw arm'd heroes as they sit,
The task in battle does the Muses fit; 290
They, in the dark confusion of a fight,
Discover all, instruct us how to write;
And light and honour to brave actions yield,
Hid in the smoke and tumult of the field,
Ages to come shall know that leader's toil,
And his great name, on whom the Muses smile;
Their dictates here let thy famed pencil trace,
And this relation with thy colours grace.
Then draw the Parliament, the nobles met,
And our great Monarch high above them set; 300
Like young Augustus let his image be,
Triumphing for that victory at sea,
Where Egypt's Queen,[3] and Eastern kings o'erthrown,
Made the possession of the world his own.
Last draw the Commons at his royal feet,
Pouring out treasure to supply his fleet;
They vow with lives and fortunes to maintain
Their King's eternal title to the main;
And with a present to the Duke, approve 309
His valour, conduct, and his country's love.
[1] See History of England.
[2] 'Young prince': Prince of Orange.
[3] 'Egypt's Queen': Cleopatra.
OF ENGLISH VERSE.
1 Poets may boast, as safely vain,
Their works shall with the world remain:
Both, bound together, live or die,
The verses and the prophecy.
2 But who can hope his line should long
Last in a daily changing tongue?
While they are new, envy prevails;
And as that dies, our language fails.
3 When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art;
Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.
4 Poets that lasting marble seek,
Must carve in Latin, or in Greek;
We write in sand, our language grows,
And like the tide, our work o'erflows.
5 Chaucer his sense can only boast;
The glory of his numbers lost!
Years have defaced his matchless strain;
And yet he did not sing in vain.
6 The beauties which adorn'd that age,
The shining subjects of his rage,
Hoping they should immortal prove,
Rewarded with success his love.
7 This was the gen'rous poet's scope;
And all an English pen can hope,
To make the fair approve his flame,
That can so far extend their fame.
8 Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate,
If it arrive but at the date
Of fading beauty; if it prove
But as long-lived as present love.
THESE VERSES WERE WRIT IN THE TASSO OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS.
Tasso knew how the fairer sex to grace,
But in no one durst all perfection place.
In her alone that owns this book is seen
Clorinda's spirit, and her lofty mien,
Sophronia's piety, Erminia's truth,
Armida's charms, her beauty, and her youth.
Our Princess here, as in a glass, does dress
Her well-taught mind, and every grace express.
More to our wonder than Rinaldo fought,
The hero's race excels the poet's thought.
THE TRIPLE COMBAT.[1]
When through the world fair Mazarin had run,
Bright as her fellow-traveller, the sun,
Hither at length the Roman eagle flies,
As the last triumph of her conqu'ring eyes.
As heir to Julius, she may pretend
A second time to make this island bend;
But Portsmouth, springing from the ancient race
Of Britons, which the Saxon here did chase,
As they great Cæsar did oppose, makes head,
And does against this new invader lead. 10
That goodly nymph, the taller of the two,
Careless and fearless to the field does go.
Becoming blushes on the other wait,
And her young look excuses want of height.
Beauty gives courage; for she knows the day
Must not be won the Amazonian way.
Legions of Cupids to the battle come,
For Little Britain these, and those for Rome.
Dress'd to advantage, this illustrious pair
Arrived, for combat in the list appear. 20
What may the Fates design! for never yet
From distant regions two such beauties met.
Venus had been an equal friend to both,
And vict'ry to declare herself seems loth;
Over the camp, with doubtful wings, she flies,
Till Chloris shining in the fields she spies.
The lovely Chloris well-attended came,
A thousand Graces waited on the dame;
Her matchless form made all the English glad, 29
And foreign beauties less assurance had;
Yet, like the Three on Ida's top, they all
Pretend alike, contesting for the ball;
Which to determine, Love himself declined,
Lest the neglected should become less kind.
Such killing looks! so thick the arrows fly!
That 'tis unsafe to be a stander-by.
Poets, approaching to describe the fight,
Are by their wounds instructed how to write.
They with less hazard might look on, and draw
The ruder combats in Alsatia; 40
And, with that foil of violence and rage,
Set off the splendour of our golden age;
Where Love gives law, Beauty the sceptre sways,
And, uncompell'd, the happy world obeys.
[1] 'Triple combat': the Duchess of Mazarin was a divorced demirep, who
came to England with some designs on Charles II., in which she was
counteracted by the Duchess of Portsmouth.
UPON OUR LATE LOSS OF THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.[1]
The failing blossoms which a young plant bears,
Engage our hope for the succeeding years;
And hope is all which art or nature brings,
At the first trial, to accomplish things.
Mankind was first created an essay;
That ruder draught the Deluge wash'd away.
How many ages pass'd, what blood and toil,
Before we made one kingdom of this isle!
How long in vain had nature striven to frame
A perfect princess, ere her Highness came!
For joys so great we must with patience wait;
'Tis the set price of happiness complete.
As a first fruit, Heaven claim'd that lovely boy;
The next shall live, and be the nation's joy.
[1] 'Duke of Cambridge': The Duke of York's second son by Mary d'Este.
He died when he was only a month old, November 1677.
OF THE LADY MARY, PRINCESS OF ORANGE.[1]
1 As once the lion honey gave,
Out of the strong such sweetness came;
A royal hero, no less brave,
Produced this sweet, this lovely dame.
2 To her the prince, that did oppose
Such mighty armies in the field,
And Holland from prevailing foes
Could so well free, himself does yield.
3 Not Belgia's fleet (his high command)
Which triumphs where the sun does rise,
Nor all the force he leads by land,
Could guard him from her conqu'ring eyes.
4 Orange, with youth, experience has;
In action young, in council old;
Orange is, what Augustus was,
Brave, wary, provident, and bold.
5 On that fair tree which bears his name,
Blossoms and fruit at once are found;
In him we all admire the same,
His flow'ry youth with wisdom crown'd!
6 Empire and freedom reconciled
In Holland are by great Nassau;
Like those he sprung from, just and mild,
To willing people he gives law.
7 Thrice happy pair! so near allied
In royal blood, and virtue too!
Now love has you together tied,
May none this triple knot undo!
8 The church shall be the happy place
Where streams, which from the same source run,
Though divers lands a while they grace,
Unite again, and are made one.
9 A thousand thanks the nation owes
To him that does protect us all;
For while he thus his niece bestows,
About our isle he builds a wall;
10 A wall! like that which Athens had,
By th'oracle's advice, of wood;
Had theirs been such as Charles has made,
That mighty state till now had stood.
[1] 'Princess of Orange': The Princess Mary was married to the Prince of
Orange at St. James's, in November 1677.
UPON BEN JONSON.
Mirror of poets! mirror of our age!
Which her whole face beholding on thy stage,
Pleased and displeased with her own faults, endures
A remedy like those whom music cures.
Thou hast alone those various inclinations
Which Nature gives to ages, sexes, nations;
So tracèd with thy all-resembling pen,
That whate'er custom has imposed on men,
Or ill-got habit (which deforms them so,
That scarce a brother can his brother know) 10
Is represented to the wond'ring eyes
Of all that see, or read, thy comedies.
Whoever in those glasses looks, may find
The spots return'd, or graces, of his mind;
And by the help of so divine an art,
At leisure view, and dress, his nobler part.
Narcissus, cozen'd by that flatt'ring well,
Which nothing could but of his beauty tell,
Had here, discov'ring the deformed estate
Of his fond mind, preserved himself with hate. 20
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad
In flesh and blood so well, that Plato had
Beheld, what his high fancy once embraced,
Virtue with colours, speech, and motion graced.
The sundry postures of thy copious Muse
Who would express, a thousand tongues must use;
Whose fate's no less peculiar than thy art;
For as thou couldst all characters impart,
So none could render thine, which still escapes,
Like Proteus, in variety of shapes; 30
Who was nor this nor that; but all we find,
And all we can imagine, in mankind.
ON MR JOHN FLETCHER'S PLAYS.
Fletcher! to thee we do not only owe
All these good plays, but those of others too;
Thy wit repeated does support the stage,
Credits the last, and entertains this age.
No worthies, form'd by any Muse but thine,
Could purchase robes to make themselves so fine.
What brave commander is not proud to see
Thy brave Melantius in his gallantry?
Our greatest ladies love to see their scorn
Outdone by thine, in what themselves have worn; 10
Th' impatient widow, ere the year be done,
Sees thy Aspasia weeping in her gown.
I never yet the tragic strain essay'd,
Deterr'd by that inimitable Maid;[1]
And when I venture at the comic style,
Thy Scornful Lady seems to mock my toil.
Thus has thy Muse at once improved and marr'd
Our sport in plays, by rend'ring it too hard!
So when a sort of lusty shepherds throw
The bar by turns, and none the rest outgo 20
So far, but that the best are measuring casts,
Their emulation and their pastime lasts;
But if some brawny yeoman of the guard
Step in, and toss the axletree a yard,
Or more, beyond the furthest mark, the rest
Despairing stand; their sport is at the best.
[1] 'Inimitable Maid': the _Maid's Tragedy_, the joint production
of Beaumont and Fletcher.
UPON THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON'S TRANSLATION OF HORACE, 'DE ARTE POETICA;'
AND OF THE USE OF POETRY.
Rome was not better by her Horace taught,
Than we are here to comprehend his thought;
The poet writ to noble Piso there;
A noble Piso does instruct us here,
Gives us a pattern in his flowing style,
And with rich precepts does oblige our isle:
Britain! whose genius is in verse express'd,
Bold and sublime, but negligently dress'd.
Horace will our superfluous branches prune, 10
Give us new rules, and set our harp in tune;
Direct us how to back the winged horse,
Favour his flight, and moderate his force.
Though poets may of inspiration boast,
Their rage, ill-govern'd, in the clouds is lost.
He that proportion'd wonders can disclose,
At once his fancy and his judgment shows.
Chaste moral writing we may learn from hence,
Neglect of which no wit can recompense.
The fountain which from Helicon proceeds,
That sacred stream! should never water weeds, 20
Nor make the crop of thorns and thistles grow,
Which envy or perverted nature sow.
Well-sounding verses are the charm we use,
Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse;
Things of deep sense we may in prose unfold,
But they move more in lofty numbers told.
By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids,
We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades.
The Muses' friend, unto himself severe,
With silent pity looks on all that err; 30
But where a brave, a public action shines,
That he rewards with his immortal lines.
Whether it be in council or in fight,
His country's honour is his chief delight;
Praise of great acts he scatters as a seed,
Which may the like in coming ages breed.
Here taught the fate of verses (always prized
With admiration, or as much despised),
Men will be less indulgent to their faults,
And patience have to cultivate their thoughts. 40
Poets lose half the praise they should have got,
Could it be known what they discreetly blot;
Finding new words, that to the ravish'd ear
May like the language of the gods appear,
Such as, of old, wise bards employ'd, to make
Unpolish'd men their wild retreats forsake;
Law-giving heroes, famed for taming brutes,
And raising cities with their charming lutes;
For rudest minds with harmony were caught,
And civil life was by the Muses taught. 50
So wand'ring bees would perish in the air,
Did not a sound, proportion'd to their ear,
Appease their rage, invite them to the hive,
Unite their force, and teach them how to thrive,
To rob the flowers, and to forbear the spoil,
Preserved in winter by their summer's toil;
They give us food, which may with nectar vie,
And wax, that does the absent sun supply.
ON THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH'S EXPEDITION INTO SCOTLAND IN THE SUMMER
SOLSTICE.
Swift as Jove's messenger (the winged god),
With sword as potent as his charmed rod,
He flew to execute the King's command,
And in a moment reach'd that northern land,
Where day contending with approaching night,
Assists the hero with continued light.
On foes surprised, and by no night conceal'd,
He might have rush'd; but noble pity held
His hand a while, and to their choice gave space,
Which they would prove, his valour or his grace. 10
This not well heard, his cannon louder spoke,
And then, like lightning, through that cloud he broke.
His fame, his conduct, and that martial look,
The guilty Scots with such a terror strook,
That to his courage they resign the field,
Who to his bounty had refused to yield.
Glad that so little loyal blood it cost,
He grieves so many Britons should be lost;
Taking more pains, when he beheld them yield,
To save the flyers, than to win the field; 20
And at the Court his int'rest does employ,
That none, who 'scaped his fatal sword, should die.
And now, these rash bold men their error find,
Not trusting one beyond his promise kind;
One! whose great mind, so bountiful and brave,
Had learn'd the art to conquer and to save.
In vulgar breasts no royal virtues dwell;
Such deeds as these his high extraction tell,
And give a secret joy to him that reigns,
To see his blood triumph in Monmouth's veins; 30
To see a leader whom he got and chose,
Firm to his friends, and fatal to his foes.
But seeing envy, like the sun, does beat,
With scorching rays, on all that's high and great,
This, ill-requited Monmouth! is the bough
The Muses send to shade thy conqu'ring brow.
Lampoons, like squibs, may make a present blaze;
But time and thunder pay respect to bays.
Achilles' arms dazzle our present view,
Kept by the Muse as radiant and as new 40
As from the forge of Vulcan first they came;
Thousands of years are past, and they the same;
Such care she takes to pay desert with fame!
Than which no monarch, for his crown's defence,
Knows how to give a nobler recompence.
OF AN ELEGY MADE BY MRS WHARTON[1] ON THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.
Thus mourn the Muses! on the hearse
Not strewing tears, but lasting verse,
Which so preserve the hero's name,
They make him live again in fame.
Chloris, in lines so like his own,
Gives him so just and high renown,
That she th'afflicted world relieves,
And shows that still in her he lives;
Her wit as graceful, great, and good;
Allied in genius, as in blood.[2]
His loss supplied, now all our fears
Are, that the nymph should melt in tears.
Then, fairest Chloris! comfort take,
For his, your own, and for our sake,
Lest his fair soul, that lives in you,
Should from the world for ever go.
[1] 'Mrs. Wharton': the daughter, and co-heiress with the Countess of
Abingdon, of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in Oxfordshire.
[2] 'In blood': the Earl of Rochester's mother was Mrs. Wharton's grand
aunt.
OF HER MAJESTY, ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY, 1683.
What revolutions in the world have been,
How are we changed since we first saw the Queen!
She, like the sun, does still the same appear,
Bright as she was at her arrival here!
Time has commission mortals to impair,
But things celestial is obliged to spare.
May every new year find her still the same
In health and beauty as she hither came!
When Lords and Commons, with united voice,
Th' Infanta named, approved the royal choice;[1]
First of our Queens whom not the King alone,
But the whole nation, lifted to the throne.
With like consent, and like desert, was crown'd
The glorious Prince[2] that does the Turk confound.
Victorious both! his conduct wins the day,
And her example chases vice away;
Though louder fame attend the martial rage,
'Tis greater glory to reform the age.
[1] 'Royal choice': a royal message, announcing the king's intention to
marry the Infanta of Portugal, was delivered in Parliament in May
1661.
[2] 'Prince': John Sobieski, king of Poland.
OF TEA, COMMENDED BY HER MAJESTY.
Venus her myrtle, Phoebus has his bays;
Tea both excels, which she vouchsafes to praise.
The best of Queens, and best of herbs, we owe
To that bold nation which the way did show
To the fair region where the sun does rise,
Whose rich productions we so justly prize.
The Muse's friend, tea does our fancy aid,
Repress those vapours which the head invade,
And keeps that palace of the soul serene,
Fit on her birth-day to salute the Queen.
OF THE INVASION AND DEFEAT OF THE TURKS, IN THE YEAR 1683.[1]
The modern Nimrod, with a safe delight
Pursuing beasts, that save themselves by flight,
Grown proud, and weary of his wonted game,
Would Christians chase, and sacrifice to fame.
A prince, with eunuchs and the softer sex
Shut up so long, would warlike nations vex,
Provoke the German, and, neglecting heaven,
Forget the truce for which his oath was given.
His Grand Vizier, presuming to invest
The chief imperial city of the west, 10
With the first charge compell'd in haste to rise,
His treasure, tents, and cannon, left a prize;
The standard lost, and janizaries slain,
Render the hopes he gave his master vain.
The flying Turks, that bring the tidings home,
Renew the memory of his father's doom;
And his guard murmurs, that so often brings
Down from the throne their unsuccessful kings.
The trembling Sultan's forced to expiate
His own ill-conduct by another's fate. 20
The Grand Vizier, a tyrant, though a slave,
A fair example to his master gave;
He Bassa's head, to save his own, made fly,
And now, the Sultan to preserve, must die.
The fatal bowstring was not in his thought,
When, breaking truce, he so unjustly fought;
Made the world tremble with a numerous host,
And of undoubted victory did boast.
Strangled he lies! yet seems to cry aloud, 29
To warn the mighty, and instruct the proud,
That of the great, neglecting to be just,
Heaven in a moment makes a heap of dust.
The Turks so low, why should the Christians lose
Such an advantage of their barb'rous foes?
Neglect their present ruin to complete,
Before another Solyman they get?
Too late they would with shame, repenting, dread
That numerous herd, by such a lion led;
He Rhodes and Buda from the Christians tore,
Which timely union might again restore. 40
But, sparing Turks, as if with rage possess'd,
The Christians perish, by themselves oppress'd;
Cities and provinces so dearly won,
That the victorious people are undone!
What angel shall descend to reconcile
The Christian states, and end their guilty toil?
A prince more fit from heaven we cannot ask
Than Britain's king, for such a glorious task;
His dreadful navy, and his lovely mind,
Give him the fear and favour of mankind; 50
His warrant does the Christian faith defend;
On that relying, all their quarrels end.
The peace is sign'd,[2] and Britain does obtain
What Rome had sought from her fierce sons in vain.
In battles won Fortune a part doth claim,
And soldiers have their portion in the same;
In this successful union we find
Only the triumph of a worthy mind.
'Tis all accomplish'd by his royal word,
Without unsheathing the destructive sword; 60
Without a tax upon his subjects laid,
Their peace disturb'd, their plenty, or their trade.
And what can they to such a prince deny,
With whose desires the greatest kings comply?
The arts of peace are not to him unknown;
This happy way he march'd into the throne;
And we owe more to Heaven than to the sword,
The wish'd return of so benign a lord.
Charles! by old Greece with a new freedom graced,
Above her antique heroes shall be placed. 70
What Theseus did, or Theban Hercules,
Holds no compare with this victorious peace,
Which on the Turks shall greater honour gain,
Than all their giants and their monsters slain:
Those are bold tales, in fabulous ages told;
This glorious act the living do behold.
[1] 'Year 1683': see History.
[2] 'Peace is signed': the Peace of Nimeguen.
A PRESAGE OF THE RUIN OF THE TURKISH EMPIRE;
PRESENTED TO HIS MAJESTY KING JAMES II. ON HIS BIRTHDAY.
Since James the Second graced the British throne,
Truce, well observed, has been infring'd by none;
Christians to him their present union owe,
And late success against the common foe;
While neighb'ring princes, both to urge their fate,
Court his assistance, and suspend their hate.
So angry bulls the combat do forbear,
When from the wood a lion does appear.
This happy day peace to our island sent,
As now he gives it to the Continent. 10
A prince more fit for such a glorious task,
Than England's king, from Heaven we cannot ask;
He, great and good! proportion'd to the work,
Their ill-drawn swords shall turn against the Turk.
Such kings, like stars with influence unconfined,
Shine with aspect propitious to mankind;
Favour the innocent, repress the bold,
And, while they flourish, make an age of gold.
Bred in the camp, famed for his valour, young;
At sea successful, vigorous, and strong; 20
His fleet, his array, and his mighty mind,
Esteem and rev'rence through the world do find.
A prince with such advantages as these,
Where he persuades not, may command a peace.
Britain declaring for the juster side,
The most ambitious will forget their pride;
They that complain will their endeavours cease,
Advised by him, inclined to present peace,
Join to the Turk's destruction, and then bring
All their pretences to so just a king. 30
If the successful troublers of mankind,
With laurel crown'd, so great applause do find,
Shall the vex'd world less honour yield to those
That stop their progress, and their rage oppose?
Next to that power which does the ocean awe,
Is to set bounds, and give ambition law.
The British monarch shall the glory have,
That famous Greece remains no longer slave;
That source of art and cultivated thought!
Which they to Rome, and Romans hither brought. 40
The banish'd Muses shall no longer mourn,
But may with liberty to Greece return;
Though slaves (like birds that sing not in a cage),
They lost their genius, and poetic rage;
Homers again, and Pindars, may be found,
And his great actions with their numbers crown'd.
The Turk's vast empire does united stand;
Christians, divided under the command
Of jarring princes, would be soon undone,
Did not this hero make their int'rest one; 50
Peace to embrace, ruin the common foe,
Exalt the Cross, and lay the Crescent low.
Thus may the Gospel to the rising sun
Be spread, and flourish where it first began;
And this great day, (so justly honour'd here!)
Known to the East, and celebrated there.
Hæc ego longævus cecini tibi, maxime regum!
Ausus et ipse manu juvenum tentare laborem.--VIRG.
EPISTLES.
TO THE KING, ON HIS NAVY.
Where'er thy navy spreads her canvas wings,
Homage to thee, and peace to all she brings;
The French and Spaniard, when thy flags appear,
Forget their hatred, and consent to fear.
So Jove from Ida did both hosts survey,
And when he pleased to thunder, part the fray.
Ships heretofore in seas like fishes sped,
The mightiest still upon the smallest fed;
Thou on the deep imposest nobler laws,
And by that justice hast removed the cause 10
Of those rude tempests, which for rapine sent,
Too oft, alas! involved the innocent.
Now shall the ocean, as thy Thames, be free
From both those fates, of storms and piracy.
But we most happy, who can fear no force
But winged troops, or Pegasean horse.
'Tis not so hard for greedy foes to spoil
Another nation, as to touch our soil.
Should Nature's self invade the world again,
And o'er the centre spread the liquid main, 20
Thy power were safe, and her destructive hand
Would but enlarge the bounds of thy command;
Thy dreadful fleet would style thee lord of all,
And ride in triumph o'er the drowned ball;
Those towers of oak o'er fertile plains might go,
And visit mountains where they once did grow.
The world's Restorer once could not endure
That finish'd Babel should those men secure,
Whose pride design'd that fabric to have stood
Above the reach of any second flood; 30
To thee, his chosen, more indulgent, he
Dares trust such power with so much piety.
TO MR HENRY LAWES,[1] WHO HAD THEN NEWLY SET A SONG OF MINE IN THE YEAR
1635.
Verse makes heroic virtue live;
But you can life to verses give.
As when in open air we blow,
The breath, though strain'd, sounds flat and low;
But if a trumpet take the blast,
It lifts it high, and makes it last:
So in your airs our numbers dress'd,
Make a shrill sally from the breast
Of nymphs, who, singing what we penn'd,
Our passions to themselves commend; 10
While love, victorious with thy art,
Governs at once their voice and heart.
You by the help of tune and time,
Can make that song that was but rhyme.
Noy[2] pleading, no man doubts the cause;
Or questions verses set by Lawes.
As a church window, thick with paint,
Lets in a light but dim and faint;
So others, with division, hide
The light of sense, the poet's pride: 20
But you alone may proudly boast
That not a syllable is lost;
The writer's and the setter's skill
At once the ravish'd ears do fill.
Let those which only warble long,
And gargle in their throats a song,
Content themselves with Ut, Re, Mi:[3]
Let words, and sense, be set by thee.
[1] 'Lawes': an eminent musical composer, who composed the music for
Milton's Comus.
[2] 'Noy': Attorney-General to Charles I., had died in 1635. By a
poetical licence Waller represents him still pleading.
[3] 'Ut, Re, Mi': Lawes opposed the Italian music.
THE COUNTRY TO MY LADY CARLISLE.[1]
1 Madam, of all the sacred Muse inspired,
Orpheus alone could with the woods comply;
Their rude inhabitants his song admired,
And Nature's self, in those that could not lie:
Your beauty next our solitude invades,
And warms us, shining through the thickest shades.
2 Nor ought the tribute, which the wond'ring Court
Pays your fair eyes, prevail with you to scorn
The answer and consent to that report
Which, echo-like, the country does return:
Mirrors are taught to flatter, but our springs
Present th'impartial images of things.
3 A rural judge disposed of beauty's prize;
A simple shepherd was preferr'd to Jove;
Down to the mountains from the partial skies,
Came Juno, Pallas, and the Queen of Love,
To plead for that which was so justly given
To the bright Carlisle of the court of heaven.
4 Carlisle! a name which all our woods are taught,
Loud as their Amaryllis, to resound;
Carlisle! a name which on the bark is wrought
Of every tree that's worthy of the wound.
From Phoebus' rage our shadows and our streams
May guard us better than from Carlisle's beams.
[1] 'Lady Carlisle': the Lady Lucy Percy, daughter of the Earl of
Northumberland, married against her father's wishes to the Earl of
Carlisle. She was a wit and _intriguante_.
TO PHYLLIS.
Phyllis! 'twas love that injured you,
And on that rock your Thrysis threw;
Who for proud Celia could have died,
While you no less accused his pride.
Fond Love his darts at random throws,
And nothing springs from what he sows;
From foes discharged, as often meet
The shining points of arrows fleet,
In the wide air creating fire,
As souls that join in one desire. 10
Love made the lovely Venus burn
In vain, and for the cold youth[1] mourn,
Who the pursuit of churlish beasts
Preferr'd to sleeping on her breasts.
Love makes so many hearts the prize
Of the bright Carlisle's conqu'ring eyes,
Which she regards no more than they
The tears of lesser beauties weigh.
So have I seen the lost clouds pour
Into the sea an useless shower; 20
And the vex'd sailors curse the rain
For which poor shepherds pray'd in vain.
Then, Phyllis, since our passions are
Govern'd by chance, and not the care,
But sport of heaven, which takes delight
To look upon this Parthian fight
Of love, still flying, or in chase,
Never encount'ring face to face;
No more to Love we'll sacrifice,
But to the best of deities; 30
And let our hearts, which Love disjoin'd,
By his kind mother be combin'd.
[1] 'Cold youth ': Adonis.
TO THE QUEEN-MOTHER OF FRANCE, UPON HER LANDING.[1]
Great Queen of Europe! where thy offspring wears
All the chief crowns; where princes are thy heirs;
As welcome thou to sea-girt Britain's shore,
As erst Latona (who fair Cynthia bore)
To Delos was; here shines a nymph as bright,
By thee disclosed, with like increase of light.
Why was her joy in Belgia confined?
Or why did you so much regard the wind?
Scarce could the ocean, though enraged, have toss'd
Thy sov'reign bark, but where th'obsequious coast 10
Pays tribute to thy bed. Rome's conqu'ring hand
More vanquished nations under her command
Never reduced. Glad Berecynthia so
Among her deathless progeny did go;
A wreath of towers adorn'd her rev'rend head,
Mother of all that on ambrosia fed.
Thy godlike race must sway the age to come,
As she Olympus peopled with her womb.
Would those commanders of mankind obey
Their honour'd parent, all pretences lay 20
Down at your royal feet, compose their jars,
And on the growing Turk discharge these wars;
The Christian knights that sacred tomb should wrest
From Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East;
Our England's Prince, and Gallia's Dolphin, might
Like young Rinaldo and Tancredi fight;
In single combat by their swords again
The proud Argantes and fierce Soldan slain;
Again might we their valiant deeds recite,
And with your Tuscan Muse[2] exalt the fight. 30
[2] 'Her landing': Mary de Medicis, widow of Henry IV., and mother of
the King of France, and of the Queens of England and Spain, coming
to England in 1638, was very ill received by the people, and forced
ultimately to leave the country.
[2] 'Tuscan Muse': Tasso.
TO VANDYCK.[1]
Rare Artisan, whose pencil moves
Not our delights alone, but loves!
From thy shop of beauty we
Slaves return, that enter'd free.
The heedless lover does not know
Whose eyes they are that wound him so;
But, confounded with thy art,
Inquires her name that has his heart.
Another, who did long refrain,
Feels his old wound bleed fresh again 10
With dear remembrance of that face,
Where now he reads new hope of grace:
Nor scorn nor cruelty does find,
But gladly suffers a false wind
To blow the ashes of despair
From the reviving brand of care.
Fool! that forgets her stubborn look
This softness from thy finger took.
Strange! that thy hand should not inspire
The beauty only, but the fire; 20
Not the form alone, and grace,
But act and power of a face.
Mayst thou yet thyself as well,
As all the world besides, excel!
So you th'unfeigned truth rehearse
(That I may make it live in verse),
Why thou couldst not at one assay,[2]
The face to aftertimes convey,
Which this admires. Was it thy wit
To make her oft before thee sit? 30
Confess, and we'll forgive thee this;
For who would not repeat that bliss,
And frequent sight of such a dame
Buy with the hazard of his fame?
Yet who can tax thy blameless skill,
Though thy good hand had failed still,
When Nature's self so often errs?
She for this many thousand years 38
Seems to have practised with much care,
To frame the race of women fair;
Yet never could a perfect birth
Produce before to grace the earth,
Which waxèd old ere it could see
Her that amazed thy art and thee.
But now 'tis done, oh, let me know
Where those immortal colours grow,
That could this deathless piece compose!
In lilies? or the fading rose?
No; for this theft thou hast climb'd higher
Than did Prometheus for his fire. 50
[1] 'Vandyck': some think this refers to a picture of Saccharissa, by
Vandyck, in Hall-Barn.
[2] 'Assay': attempt.
TO MY LORD OF LEICESTER.[1]
1 Not that thy trees at Penshurst groan,
Oppressed with their timely load,
And seem to make their silent moan,
That their great lord is now abroad:
They to delight his taste, or eye,
Would spend themselves in fruit, and die.
2 Not that thy harmless deer repine,
And think themselves unjustly slain
By any other hand than thine,
Whose arrows they would gladly stain;
No, nor thy friends, which hold too dear
That peace with France which keeps thee there.
3 All these are less than that great cause
Which now exacts your presence here,
Wherein there meet the divers laws
Of public and domestic care.
For one bright nymph our youth contends,
And on your prudent choice depends.
4 Not the bright shield of Thetis' son[2]
(For which such stern debate did rise,
That the great Ajax Telamon
Refused to live without the prize),
Those Achive peers did more engage
Than she the gallants of our age.
5 That beam of beauty, which begun
To warm us so when thou wert here,
Now scorches like the raging sun,
When Sirius does first appear.
Oh, fix this flame! and let despair
Redeem the rest from endless care.
[1] 'Lord of Leicester': Saccharissa's father. He was employed at this
time in foreign service.
[2] 'Thetis' son': Achilles.
TO MRS BRAUGHTON, SERVANT TO SACCHARISSA.
Fair fellow-servant! may your gentle ear
Prove more propitious to my slighted care
Than the bright dame's we serve: for her relief
(Vex'd with the long expressions of my grief)
Receive these plaints; nor will her high disdain
Forbid my humble Muse to court her train.
So, in those nations which the sun adore,
Some modest Persian, or some weak-eyed Moor,
No higher dares advance his dazzled sight,
Than to some gilded cloud, which near the light 10
Of their ascending god adorns the east,
And, gracèd with his beams, outshines the rest.
Thy skilful hand contributes to our woe,
And whets those arrows which confound us so.
A thousand Cupids in those curls do sit
(Those curious nets!) thy slender fingers knit.
The Graces put not more exactly on
Th' attire of Venus, when the ball she won,
Than Saccharissa by thy care is dress'd,
When all our youth prefers her to the rest. 20
You the soft season know when best her mind
May be to pity, or to love, inclined:
In some well-chosen hour supply his fear,
Whose hopeless love durst never tempt the ear
Of that stern goddess. You, her priest, declare
What offerings may propitiate the fair;
Rich orient pearl, bright stones that ne'er decay,
Or polish'd lines, which longer last than they;
For if I thought she took delight in those,
To where the cheerful morn does first disclose, 30
(The shady night removing with her beams),
Wing'd with bold love, I'd fly to fetch such gems.
But since her eyes, her teeth, her lip excels
All that is found in mines or fishes' shells,
Her nobler part as far exceeding these,
None but immortal gifts her mind should please.
The shining jewels Greece and Troy bestow'd
On Sparta's queen,[1] her lovely neck did load,
And snowy wrists; but when the town was burn'd,
Those fading glories were to ashes turn'd; 40
Her beauty, too, had perished, and her fame,
Had not the Muse redeemed them from the flame.
[1] 'Sparta's queen': Helen.
TO MY YOUNG LADY LUCY SIDNEY.[1]
1 Why came I so untimely forth
Into a world which, wanting thee,
Could entertain us with no worth
Or shadow of felicity?
That time should me so far remove
From that which I was born to love!
2 Yet, fairest blossom! do not slight
That age which you may know so soon;
The rosy morn resigns her light
And milder glory to the noon;
And then what wonders shall you do,
Whose dawning beauty warms us so?
3 Hope waits upon the flow'ry prime;
And summer, though it be less gay,
Yet is not look'd on as a time
Of declination or decay;
For with a full hand that does bring
All that was promised by the spring.
[1] 'Lady Lucy Sidney': the younger sister of Lady Dorothea; afterwards
married to Sir John Pelham.
TO AMORET.[1]
Fair! that you may truly know
What you unto Thyrsis owe,
I will tell you how I do
Saccharissa love and you.
Joy salutes me, when I set
My bless'd eyes on Amoret;
But with wonder I am strook, 7
While I on the other look.
If sweet Amoret complains,
I have sense of all her pains;
But for Saccharissa I
Do not only grieve, but die.
All that of myself is mine,
Lovely Amoret! is thine;
Saccharissa's captive fain
Would untie his iron chain,
And, those scorching beams to shun,
To thy gentle shadow run.
If the soul had free election
To dispose of her affection, 20
I would not thus long have borne
Haughty Saccharissa's scorn;
But 'tis sure some power above,
Which controls our wills in love!
If not love, a strong desire
To create and spread that fire
In my breast, solicits me,
Beauteous Amoret! for thee.
'Tis amazement more than love,
Which her radiant eyes do move; 30
If less splendour wait on thine,
Yet they so benignly shine,
I would turn my dazzled sight
To behold their milder light;
But as hard 'tis to destroy
That high flame, as to enjoy;
Which how eas'ly I may do,
Heaven (as eas'ly scaled) does know!
Amoret! as sweet and good
As the most delicious food, 40
Which, but tested, does impart
Life and gladness to the heart.
Saccharissa's beauty's wine,
Which to madness doth incline;
Such a liquor as no brain
That is mortal can sustain.
Scarce can I to heaven excuse
The devotion which I use
Unto that adorèd dame;
For 'tis not unlike the same 50
Which I thither ought to send;
So that if it could take end,
'Twould to heaven itself be due
To succeed her, and not you,
Who already have of me
All that's not idolatry;
Which, though not so fierce a flame,
Is longer like to be the same.
Then smile on me, and I will prove
Wonder is shorter-liv'd than love. 60
[1] 'Amoret': see 'Life.'
TO MY LORD OF FALKLAND.[1]
Brave Holland leads, and with him Falkland goes:
Who hears this told, and does not straight suppose
We send the Graces and the Muses forth
To civilise and to instruct the north?
Not that these ornaments make swords less sharp;
Apollo bears as well his bow as harp;[2]
And though he be the patron of that spring,
Where, in calm peace, the sacred virgins sing,
He courage had to guard th'invaded throne 9
Of Jove, and cast th'ambitious giants down.
Ah, noble friend! with what impatience all
That know thy worth, and know how prodigal
Of thy great soul thou art (longing to twist
Bays with that ivy which so early kiss'd
Thy youthful temples), with what horror we
Think on the blind events of war and thee!
To fate exposing that all-knowing breast
Among the throng, as cheaply as the rest;
Where oaks and brambles (if the copse be burn'd)
Confounded lie, to the same ashes turn'd. 20
Some happy wind over the ocean blow
This tempest yet, which frights our island so!
Guarded with ships, and all the sea our own,
From heaven this mischief on our heads is thrown.
In a late dream, the genius of this land,
Amazed, I saw, like the fair Hebrew, stand,
When first she felt the twins begin to jar,[3]
And found her womb the seat of civil war.
Inclined to whose relief, and with presage
Of better fortune for the present age, 30
Heaven sends, quoth I, this discord for our good,
To warm, perhaps, but not to waste our blood;
To raise our drooping spirits, grown the scorn
Of our proud neighbours, who ere long shall mourn
(Though now they joy in our expected harms)
We had occasion to resume our arms.
A lion so with self-provoking smart
(His rebel tail scourging his nobler part)
Calls up his courage; then begins to roar,
And charge his foes, who thought him mad before. 40
[1] 'Lord of Falkland': referring to the unsuccessful expedition of
Charles I. against Scotland in 1639, frustrated by the cowardice or
treachery of Lord Holland.
[2] 'Bow as harp': Horace, Ode iv., lib. 3.
[3] 'Twins begin to jar': Gen. xxv. 22.
TO MY LORD NORTHUMBERLAND, UPON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY.[1]
To this great loss a sea of tears is due;
But the whole debt not to be paid by you.
Charge not yourself with all, nor render vain
Those show'rs the eyes of us your servants rain.
Shall grief contract the largeness of that heart,
In which nor fear, nor anger, has a part?
Virtue would blush if time should boast (which dries,
Her sole child dead, the tender mother's eyes)
Your mind's relief, where reason triumphs so
Over all passions, that they ne'er could grow 10
Beyond their limits in your noble breast,
To harm another, or impeach your rest.
This we observed, delighting to obey
One who did never from his great self stray;
Whose mild example seemed to engage
Th' obsequious seas, and teach them not to rage.
The brave Aemilius, his great charge laid down
(The force of Rome, and fate of Macedon),
In his lost sons did feel the cruel stroke
Of changing fortune, and thus highly spoke 20
Before Rome's people: 'We did oft implore,
That if the heavens had any bad in store
For your Aemilius, they would pour that ill
On his own house, and let you flourish still.'
You on the barren seas, my lord, have spent
Whole springs and summers to the public lent;
Suspended all the pleasures of your life,
And shorten'd the short joy of such a wife;
For which your country's more obligèd than 29
For many lives of old less happy men.
You, that have sacrificed so great a part
Of youth, and private bliss, ought to impart
Your sorrow too, and give your friends a right
As well in your affliction as delight.
Then with Aemilian courage bear this cross,
Since public persons only public loss
Ought to affect. And though her form and youth,
Her application to your will, and truth,
That noble sweetness, and that humble state
(All snatch'd away by such a hasty fate!) 40
Might give excuse to any common breast,
With the huge weight of so just grief oppress'd;
Yet let no portion of your life be stain'd
With passion, but your character maintain'd
To the last act. It is enough her stone
May honour'd be with superscription
Of the sole lady who had power to move
The great Northumberland to grieve, and love.
[1] 'His lady': the Lady Anne Cecil, daughter of the Earl of Salisbury.
See a previous note.
TO MY LORD ADMIRAL, OF HIS LATE SICKNESS AND RECOVERY.
With joy like ours the Thracian youth invades
Orpheus, returning from th'Elysian shades;
Embrace the hero, and his stay implore;
Make it their public suit he would no more
Desert them so, and for his spouse's sake,
His vanish'd love, tempt the Lethean lake.
The ladies, too, the brightest of that time
(Ambitious all his lofty bed to climb),
Their doubtful hopes with expectation feed, 9
Who shall the fair Eurydice succeed:
Eurydice! for whom his numerous moan
Makes list'ning trees and savage mountains groan;
Through all the air his sounding strings dilate
Sorrow, like that which touch'd our hearts of late.
Your pining sickness, and your restless pain,
At once the land affecting, and the main,
When the glad news that you were admiral
Scarce through the nation spread,[1] 'twas feared by all
That our great Charles, whose wisdom shines in you,
Would be perplexed how to choose anew. 20
So more than private was the joy and grief,
That at the worst it gave our souls relief,
That in our age such sense of virtue lived,
They joy'd so justly, and so justly grieved.
Nature (her fairest light eclipsèd) seems
Herself to suffer in those sharp extremes;
While not from thine alone thy blood retires,
But from those cheeks which all the world admires.
The stem thus threaten'd, and the sap in thee,
Droop all the branches of that noble tree! 30
Their beauty they, and we our love suspend;
Nought can our wishes, save thy health, intend.
As lilies overcharged with rain, they bend
Their beauteous heads, and with high heaven contend;
Fold thee within their snowy arms, and cry--
'He is too faultless, and too young, to die!'
So like immortals round about thee they
Sit, that they fright approaching death away.
Who would not languish, by so fair a train
To be lamented, and restored again? 40
Or, thus withheld, what hasty soul would go,
Though to the blest? O'er young Adonis so
Fair Venus mourn'd, and with the precious shower
Of her warm tears cherish'd the springing flower.
The next support, fair hope of your great name,
And second pillar of that noble frame,
By loss of thee would no advantage have,
But step by step pursue thee to the grave.
And now relentless Fate, about to end
The line which backward does so far extend 50
That antique stock, which still the world supplies
With bravest spirits, and with brightest eyes,
Kind Phoebus, interposing, bid me say,
Such storms no more shall shake that house; but they,
Like Neptune, and his sea-born niece,[1] shall be
The shining glories of the land and sea;
With courage guard, and beauty warm, our age,
And lovers fill with like poetic rage.
[1] 'Nation spread': the Earl of Northumberland, appointed Lord High
Admiral in the year 1638.
TO THE QUEEN, OCCASIONED UPON SIGHT OF HER MAJESTY'S PICTURE.[2]
Well fare the hand, which to our humble sight
Presents that beauty, which the dazzling light
Of royal splendour hides from weaker eyes,
And all access, save by this art, denies.
Here only we have courage to behold
This beam of glory; here we dare unfold
In numbers thus the wonders we conceive; 7
The gracious image, seeming to give leave,
Propitious stands, vouchsafing to be seen;
And by our Muse saluted Mighty Queen,
In whom th'extremes of power and beauty move,
The Queen of Britain and the Queen of Love!
As the bright sun (to which we owe no sight
Of equal glory to your beauty's light)
Is wisely placed in so sublime a seat,
T' extend his light, and moderate his heat;
So, happy 'tis you move in such a sphere,
As your high Majesty with awful fear
In human breasts might qualify that fire,
Which, kindled by those eyes, had flamèd higher 20
Than when the scorched world like hazard run,
By the approach of the ill-guided sun.
No other nymphs have title to men's hearts,
But as their meanness larger hope imparts;
Your beauty more the fondest lover moves
With admiration than his private loves;
With admiration! for a pitch so high
(Save sacred Charles his) never love durst fly.
Heaven, that preferr'd a sceptre to your hand,
Favour'd our freedom more than your command; 30
Beauty had crown'd you, and you must have been
The whole world's mistress, other than a Queen.
All had been rivals, and you might have spared,
Or kill'd, and tyrannised, without a guard;
No power achieved, either by arms or birth,
Equals love's empire both in heaven and earth.
Such eyes as yours on Jove himself have thrown
As bright and fierce a lightning as his own;
Witness our Jove, prevented by their flame
In his swift passage to th'Hesperian dame; 40
When, like a lion, finding, in his way
To some intended spoil, a fairer prey,
The royal youth pursuing the report
Of beauty, found it in the Gallic court;
There public care with private passion fought
A doubtful combat in his noble thought:
Should he confess his greatness, and his love,
And the free faith of your great brother[3] prove;
With his Achates breaking through the cloud
Of that disguise which did their graces shroud;[4] 50
And mixing with those gallants at the ball,
Dance with the ladies, and outshine them all;
Or on his journey o'er the mountains ride?--
So when the fair Leucothoë he espied,
To check his steeds impatient Phoebus yearn'd,
Though all the world was in his course concern'd.
What may hereafter her meridian do,
Whose dawning beauty warm'd his bosom so?
Not so divine a flame, since deathless gods
Forbore to visit the defiled abodes 60
Of men, in any mortal breast did burn;
Nor shall, till piety and they return.
[1] 'Sea-born niece': Venus.
[2] 'Majesty's picture': Henrietta, daughter of Henry IV., married by
proxy to Charles I. in Paris, 1st May 1625. Marriages made in May
are said to be unlucky--_this_ certainly was.
[3] 'Great brother': Louis XIII., King of France.
[4] 'Graces shroud': 'Achates,' the Duke of Buckingham.
TO AMORET.
1 Amoret! the Milky Way
Framed of many nameless stars!
The smooth stream where none can say
He this drop to that prefers!
2 Amoret! my lovely foe!
Tell me where thy strength does lie?
Where the pow'r that charms us so?
In thy soul, or in thy eye?
3 By that snowy neck alone,
Or thy grace in motion seen,
No such wonders could he done;
Yet thy waist is straight and clean
As Cupid's shaft, or Hermes' rod,
And pow'rful, too, as either god.
TO PHYLLIS.
Phyllis! why should we delay
Pleasures shorter than the day?
Could we (which we never can!)
Stretch our lives beyond their span,
Beauty like a shadow flies,
And our youth before us dies.
Or would youth and beauty stay,
Love hath wings, and will away.
Love hath swifter wings than Time,
Change in love to heaven does climb. 10
Gods, that never change their state,
Vary oft their love and hate.
Phyllis! to this truth we owe
All the love betwixt us two.
Let not you and I inquire
What has been our past desire;
On what shepherds you have smiled,
Or what nymphs I have beguiled;
Leave it to the planets too, 19
What we shall hereafter do;
For the joys we now may prove,
Take advice of present love.
TO SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT, UPON HIS TWO FIRST BOOKS OF GONDIBERT.[1]
WRITTEN IN FRANCE.
Thus the wise nightingale that leaves her home,
Her native wood, when storms and winter come,
Pursuing constantly the cheerful spring,
To foreign groves does her old music bring.
The drooping Hebrews' banish'd harps, unstrung,
At Babylon upon the willows hung;
Yours sounds aloud, and tells us you excel
No less in courage, than in singing well;
While, unconcern'd, you let your country know
They have impoverish'd themselves, not you; 10
Who, with the Muses' help, can mock those fates
Which threaten kingdoms, and disorder states.
So Ovid, when from Cæsar's rage he fled,
The Roman Muse to Pontus with him led;
Where he so sung, that we, through pity's glass,
See Nero milder than Augustus was.
Hereafter such, in thy behalf, shall be
Th' indulgent censure of posterity.
To banish those who with such art can sing,
Is a rude crime, which its own curse doth bring; 20
Ages to come shall ne'er know how they fought,
Nor how to love, their present youth be taught.
This to thyself.--Now to thy matchless book,
Wherein those few that can with judgment look,
May find old love in pure fresh language told,
Like new-stamp'd coin made out of angel-gold.
Such truth in love as th'antique world did know,
In such a style as courts may boast of now;
Which no bold tales of gods or monsters swell,
But human passions, such as with us dwell. 30
Man is thy theme; his virtue or his rage
Drawn to the life in each elaborate page.
Mars nor Bellona are not namèd here,
But such a Gondibert as both might fear;
Venus had here, and Hebe, been outshined
By the bright Birtha and thy Rhodalind.
Such is thy happy skill, and such the odds
Betwixt thy worthies and the Grecian gods!
Whose deities in vain had here come down,
Where mortal beauty wears the Sovereign crown; 40
Such as of flesh compos'd, by flesh and blood,
Though not resisted, may be understood.
[1] 'Sir William Davenant': Davenant fled to France in fear of the
displeasure of the Parliament, and there wrote the two first cantos
of _Gondibert_.
TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MR WASE, THE TRANSLATOR OF GRATIUS.[1]
1 Thus, by the music, we may know
When noble wits a-hunting go,
Through groves that on Parnassus grow.
2 The Muses all the chase adorn;
My friend on Pegasus is borne;
And young Apollo winds the horn.
3 Having old Gratius in the wind,
No pack of critics e'er could find,
Or he know more of his own mind.
4 Here huntsmen with delight may read
How to choose dogs for scent or speed,
And how to change or mend the breed;
5 What arms to use, or nets to frame,
Wild beasts to combat or to tame;
With all the myst'ries of that game.
6 But, worthy friend! the face of war
In ancient times doth differ far
From what our fiery battles are.
7 Nor is it like, since powder known,
That man, so cruel to his own,
Should spare the race of beasts alone.
8 No quarter now, but with the gun
Men wait in trees from sun to sun,
And all is in a moment done.
9 And therefore we expect your next
Should be no comment, but a text
To tell how modern beasts are vex'd.
10 Thus would I further yet engage
Your gentle Muse to court the age
With somewhat of your proper rage;
11 Since none does more to Phoebus owe,
Or in more languages can show
Those arts which you so early know.
[1] 'Mr. Wase': Wase was a fellow of Cambridge, tutor to Lord Herbert,
and translator of Grathis on 'Hunting,' a very learned man.
TO A FRIEND, ON THE DIFFERENT SUCCESS OF THEIR LOVES.[1]
Thrice happy pair! of whom we cannot know
Which first began to love, or loves most now;
Fair course of passion! where two lovers start,
And run together, heart still yoked with heart;
Successful youth! whom love has taught the way
To be victorious in the first essay.
Sure love's an art best practisèd at first,
And where th'experienced still prosper worst!
I, with a different fate, pursued in vain
The haughty Cælia, till my just disdain 10
Of her neglect, above that passion borne,
Did pride to pride oppose, and scorn to scorn.
Now she relents; but all too late to move
A heart directed to a nobler love.
The scales are turn'd, her kindness weighs no more
Now, than my vows and service did before.
So in some well-wrought hangings you may see
How Hector leads, and how the Grecians flee;
Here, the fierce Mars his courage so inspires,
That with bold hands the Argive fleet he fires; 20
But there, from heaven the blue-eyed virgin[2] falls,
And frighted Troy retires within her walls;
They that are foremost in that bloody race,
Turn head anon, and give the conqu'rors chase.
So like the chances are of love and war,
That they alone in this distinguish'd are,
In love the victors from the vanquish'd fly;
They fly that wound, and they pursue that die.
[1] 'Their loves': supposed to be Alexander Hampden, involved with
Waller in the plot. See 'Life'
[2] 'Blue-eyed virgin': Minerva.
TO ZELINDA.[1]
Fairest piece of well-form'd earth!
Urge not thus your haughty birth;
The power which you have o'er us lies
Not in your race, but in your eyes.
'None but a prince!'--Alas! that voice
Confines you to a narrow choice.
Should you no honey vow to taste,
But what the master-bees have placed
In compass of their cells, how small
A portion to your share would fall! 10
Nor all appear, among those few,
Worthy the stock from whence they grew.
The sap which at the root is bred
In trees, through all the boughs is spread;
But virtues which in parents shine,
Make not like progress through the line.
'Tis not from whom, but where, we live;
The place does oft those graces give.
Great Julius, on the mountains bred,
A flock perhaps, or herd, had led. 20
He that the world subdued,[2] had been
But the best wrestler on the green.
'Tis art and knowledge which draw forth
The hidden seeds of native worth;
They blow those sparks, and make them rise
Into such flames as touch the skies.
To the old heroes hence was given
A pedigree which reached to heaven;
Of mortal seed they were not held, 29
Which other mortals so excell'd.
And beauty, too, in such excess
As yours, Zelinda! claims no less.
Smile but on me, and you shall scorn,
Henceforth, to be of princes born.
I can describe, the shady grove
Where your loved mother slept with Jove;
And yet excuse the faultless dame,
Caught with her spouse's shape and name.
Thy matchless form will credit bring
To all the wonders I shall sing. 40
[1] 'Zelinda': referring to a novel where the lady, a princess, refuses
a lover, saying, 'I will have none but a prince!'
[2] 'World subdued': Alexander.
TO MY LADY MORTON, ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY,[1]
AT THE LOUVRE IN PARIS.
Madam! new years may well expect to find
Welcome from you, to whom they are so kind;
Still as they pass, they court and smile on you,
And make your beauty, as themselves, seem new.
To the fair Villiers we Dalkeith prefer,
And fairest Morton now as much to her;
So like the sun's advance your titles show,
Which as he rises does the warmer grow.
But thus to style you fair, your sex's praise,
Gives you but myrtle, who may challenge bays; 10
From armed foes to bring a royal prize,
Shows your brave heart victorious as your eyes.
If Judith, marching with the gen'ral's head,
Can give us passion when her story's read,
What may the living do, which brought away,
Though a less bloody, yet a nobler prey;
Who from our flaming Troy, with a bold hand,
Snatch'd her fair charge, the Princess, like a brand?
A brand! preserved to warm some prince's heart,
And make whole kingdoms take her brother's part. 20
So Venus, from prevailing Greeks, did shroud
The hope of Rome, and saved him in a cloud.
This gallant act may cancel all our rage,
Begin a better, and absolve this age.
Dark shades become the portrait of our time;
Here weeps Misfortune, and there triumphs Crime!
Let him that draws it hide the rest in night;
This portion only may endure the light,
Where the kind nymph, changing her faultless shape,
Becomes unhandsome, handsomely to 'scape, 30
When through the guards, the river, and the sea,
Faith, beauty, wit, and courage, made their way.
As the brave eagle does with sorrow see
The forest wasted, and that lofty tree
Which holds her nest about to be o'erthrown,
Before the feathers of her young are grown,
She will not leave them, nor she cannot stay,
But bears them boldly on her wings away;
So fled the dame, and o'er the ocean bore
Her princely burthen to the Gallic shore. 40
Born in the storms of war, this royal fair,
Produced like lightning in tempestuous air,
Though now she flies her native isle (less kind,
Less safe for her than either sea or wind!)
Shall, when the blossom of her beauty's blown,
See her great brother on the British throne;
Where peace shall smile, and no dispute arise,
But which rules most, his sceptre, or her eyes.
[1] 'New-year's day': Lady Morton, daughter of Sir Edward Villiers,
niece of the Duke of Buckingham, and wife of Lord Douglas, of
Dalkeith, one of the most celebrated beauties of her day. She
accompanied the Princess Henrietta in disguise to Paris. Waller,
then in France, wrote these lines in 1650.
TO A FAIR LADY, PLAYING WITH A SNAKE.
1 Strange! that such horror and such grace
Should dwell together in one place;
A fury's arm, an angel's face!
2 'Tis innocence, and youth, which makes
In Chloris' fancy such mistakes,
To start at love, and play with snakes.
3 By this and by her coldness barr'd,
Her servants have a task too hard;
The tyrant has a double guard!
4 Thrice happy snake! that in her sleeve
May boldly creep; we dare not give
Our thoughts so unconfined a leave.
5 Contented in that nest of snow
He lies, as he his bliss did know,
And to the wood no more would go.
6 Take heed, fair Eve! you do not make
Another tempter of this snake;
A marble one so warm'd would speak.
TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND MASTER EVELYN,[1] UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF
'LUCRETIUS.'
Lucretius, (with a stork-like fate,
Born, and translated, in a state)
Comes to proclaim, in English verse,
No Monarch rules the universe;
But chance, and atoms, make this All
In order democratical,
Where bodies freely run their course,
Without design, or fate, or force.
And this in such a strain he sings,
As if his Muse, with angels' wings, 10
Had soar'd beyond our utmost sphere,
And other worlds discover'd there;
For his immortal, boundless wit,
To Nature does no bounds permit,
But boldly has removed those bars
Of heaven, and earth, and seas, and stars,
By which they were before supposed,
By narrow wits, to be enclosed,
Till his free Muse threw down the pale,
And did at once dispark them all. 20
So vast this argument did seem,
That the wise author did esteem
The Roman language (which was spread
O'er the whole world, in triumph led)
A tongue too narrow to unfold
The wonders which he would have told.
This speaks thy glory, noble friend!
And British language does commend;
For here Lucretius whole we find,
His words, his music, and his mind. 30
Thy art has to our country brought
All that he writ, and all he thought.
Ovid translated, Virgil too,
Show'd long since what our tongue could do;
Nor Lucan we, nor Horace spared;
Only Lucretius was too hard.
Lucretius, like a fort, did stand 37
Untouch'd, till your victorious hand
Did from his head this garland bear,
Which now upon your own you wear:
A garland made of such new bays,
And sought in such untrodden ways,
As no man's temples e'er did crown,
Save this great author's, and your own!
[1] 'Master Evelyn': the well-known author of 'Sylva,' translated the
first book of Lucretius, 'De Rerum Natura.'
TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND SIR THOMAS HIGGONS,[1]
UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF 'THE VENETIAN TRIUMPH.'
The winged lion's not so fierce in fight
As Liberi's hand presents him to our sight;
Nor would his pencil make him half so fierce,
Or roar so loud, as Businello's verse;
But your translation does all three excel,
The fight, the piece, and lofty Businel.
As their small galleys may not hold compare
With our tall ships, whose sails employ more air;
So does th'Italian to your genius vail,
Moved with a fuller and a nobler gale. 10
Thus, while your Muse spreads the Venetian story,
You make all Europe emulate her glory;
You make them blush weak Venice should defend
The cause of Heaven, while they for words contend;
Shed Christian blood, and pop'lous cities raze,
Because they're taught to use some different phrase.
If, list'ning to your charms, we could our jars
Compose, and on the Turk discharge these wars,
Our British arms the sacred tomb might wrest 19
From Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East;
And then you might our own high deeds recite,
And with great Tasso celebrate the fight.
[1] 'Sir T. Higgons': a knight of some note, who translated the
'Venetian Triumph,' an Italian poem by Businello, addressed to
Liberi, the painter.
TO A LADY
SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING.
1 Chloris! yourself you so excel,
When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought,
That, like a spirit, with this spell
Of my own teaching, I am caught.
2 That eagle's fate[1] and mine are one,
Which, on the shaft that made him die,
Espied a feather of his own,
Wherewith he wont to soar so high.
3 Had Echo, with so sweet a grace,
Narcissus' loud complaints return'd,
Not for reflection of his face,
But of his voice, the boy had burn'd.
[1] 'Eagle's fate': Byron copies this thought in his verses on Kirke
White
TO THE MUTABLE FAIR.
Here, Cælia! for thy sake I part
With all that grew so near my heart;
The passion that I had for thee,
The faith, the love, the constancy!
And, that I may successful prove,
Transform myself to what you love.
Fool that I was! so much to prize
Those simple virtues you despise;
Fool! that with such dull arrows strove,
Or hoped to reach a flying dove; 10
For you, that are in motion still,
Decline our force, and mock our skill;
Who, like Don Quixote, do advance
Against a windmill our vain lance.
Now will I wander through the air,
Mount, make a stoop at every fair;
And, with a fancy unconfined
(As lawless as the sea or wind),
Pursue you wheresoe'er you fly,
And with your various thoughts comply. 20
The formal stars do travel so,
As we their names and courses know;
And he that on their changes looks,
Would think them govern'd by our books;
But never were the clouds reduced
To any art; the motions used
By those free vapours are so light,
So frequent, that the conquer'd sight
Despairs to find the rules that guide
Those gilded shadows as they slide; 30
And therefore of the spacious air,
Jove's royal consort had the care;
And by that power did once escape,
Declining bold Ixion's rape;
She with her own resemblance graced
A shining cloud, which he embraced.
Such was that image, so it smiled
With seeming kindness which beguiled
Your Thyrsis lately, when he thought
He had his fleeting Cælia caught. 40
'Twas shaped like her, but, for the fair,
He fill'd his arms with yielding air.
A fate for which he grieves the less,
Because the gods had like success;
For in their story one, we see,
Pursues a nymph, and takes a tree;
A second, with a lover's haste,
Soon overtakes whom he had chased,
But she that did a virgin seem,
Possess'd, appears a wand'ring stream; 50
For his supposed love, a third
Lays greedy hold upon a bird,
And stands amazed to find his dear
A wild inhabitant of the air.
To these old tales such nymphs as you
Give credit, and still make them new;
The am'rous now like wonders find
In the swift changes of your mind.
But, Cælia, if you apprehend
The Muse of your incensèd friend, 60
Nor would that he record your blame,
And make it live, repeat the same;
Again deceive him, and again,
And then he swears he'll not complain;
For still to be deluded so,
Is all the pleasure lovers know;
Who, like good falc'ners, take delight,
Not in the quarry, but the flight.
TO A LADY,
FROM WHOM HE RECEIVED A SILVER PEN.
1 Madam! intending to have tried
The silver favour which you gave,
In ink the shining point I dyed,
And drench'd it in the sable wave;
When, grieved to be so foully stain'd,
On you it thus to me complain'd.
2 'Suppose you had deserved to take
From her fair hand so fair a boon,
Yet how deservèd I to make
So ill a change, who ever won
Immortal praise for what I wrote,
Instructed by her noble thought?
3 'I, that expressed her commands
To mighty lords, and princely dames,
Always most welcome to their hands,
Proud that I would record their names,
Must now be taught an humble style,
Some meaner beauty to beguile!'
4 So I, the wronged pen to please,
Make it my humble thanks express
Unto your ladyship, in these:
And now 'tis forcèd to confess
That your great self did ne'er indite,
Nor that, to one more noble, write.
TO CHLORIS.
Chloris! since first our calm of peace
Was frighted hence, this good we find,
Your favours with your fears increase,
And growing mischiefs make you kind.
So the fair tree, which still preserves
Her fruit and state while no wind blows,
In storms from that uprightness swerves,
And the glad earth about her strows
With treasure, from her yielding boughs.
TO A LADY IN RETIREMENT.
1 Sees not my love how time resumes
The glory which he lent these flowers?
Though none should taste of their perfumes,
Yet must they live but some few hours:
Time what we forbear devours!
2 Had Helen, or the Egyptian Queen,[1]
Been ne'er so thrifty of their graces,
Those beauties must at length have been
The spoil of age, which finds out faces
In the most retirèd places.
3 Should some malignant planet bring
A barren drought, or ceaseless shower,
Upon the autumn or the spring,
And spare us neither fruit nor flower;
Winter would not stay an hour.
4 Could the resolve of love's neglect
Preserve you from the violation
Of coming years, then more respect
Were due to so divine a fashion,
Nor would I indulge my passion.
[1] 'Egyptian Queen': Cleopatra.
TO MR GEORGE SANDYS,[1]
ON HIS TRANSLATION OF SOME PARTS OF THE BIBLE.
1 How bold a work attempts that pen,
Which would enrich our vulgar tongue
With the high raptures of those men
Who, here, with the same spirit sung
Wherewith they now assist the choir
Of angels, who their songs admire!
2 Whatever those inspirèd souls
Were urgèd to express, did shake
The aged deep and both the poles;
Their num'rous thunder could awake
Dull earth, which does with Heaven consent
To all they wrote, and all they meant.
3 Say, sacred bard! what could bestow
Courage on thee to soar so high?
Tell me, brave friend! what help'd thee so
To shake off all mortality?
To light this torch, thou hast climb'd higher
Than he who stole celestial fire.[2]
[1] 'Sandys,' besides his 'Ovid,' which Pope read and relished in his
boyhood, versified some of the poetical parts of the Bible.
[2] 'Celestial fire': Prometheus.
TO THE KING,
UPON HIS MAJESTY'S HAPPY RETURN.
The rising sun complies with our weak sight,
First gilds the clouds, then shows his globe of light
At such a distance from our eyes, as though
He knew what harm his hasty beams would do.
But your full majesty at once breaks forth
In the meridian of your reign. Your worth,
Your youth, and all the splendour of your state,
(Wrapp'd up, till now, in clouds of adverse fate!)
With such a flood of light invade our eyes,
And our spread hearts with so great joy surprise, 10
That if your grace incline that we should live,
You must not, sir! too hastily forgive.
Our guilt preserves us from th'excess of joy,
Which scatters spirits, and would life destroy.
All are obnoxious! and this faulty land,
Like fainting Esther, does before you stand,
Watching your sceptre. The revolted sea
Trembles to think she did your foes obey.
Great Britain, like blind Polypheme, of late,
In a wild rage, became the scorn and hate 20
Of her proud neighbours, who began to think
She, with the weight of her own force, would sink.
But you are come, and all their hopes are vain;
This giant isle has got her eye again.
Now she might spare the ocean, and oppose
Your conduct to the fiercest of her foes.
Naked, the Graces guarded you from all
Dangers abroad; and now your thunder shall.
Princes that saw you, diff'rent passions prove,
For now they dread the object of their love; 30
Nor without envy can behold his height,
Whose conversation was their late delight.
So Semele, contented with the rape
Of Jove disguisèd in a mortal shape,
When she beheld his hands with lightning fill'd,
And his bright rays, was with amazement kill'd.
And though it be our sorrow, and our crime,
To have accepted life so long a time
Without you here, yet does this absence gain
No small advantage to your present reign; 40
For, having view'd the persons and the things,
The councils, state, and strength of Europe's kings,
You know your work; ambition to restrain,
And set them bounds, as Heaven does to the main.
We have you now with ruling wisdom fraught,
Not such as books, but such as practice, taught.
So the lost sun, while least by us enjoy'd,
Is the whole night for our concern employ'd;
He ripens spices, fruits, and precious gums,
Which from remotest regions hither comes. 50
This seat of yours (from th'other world removed)
Had Archimedes known, he might have proved
His engine's force, fix'd here; your power and skill
Make the world's motion wait upon your will.
Much suffring monarch! the first English born
That has the crown of these three nations worn!
How has your patience, with the barb'rous rage
Of your own soil, contended half an age?
Till (your tried virtue, and your sacred word,
At last preventing your unwilling sword) 60
Armies and fleets which kept you out so long,
Own'd their great sov'reign, and redress'd his wrong;
When straight the people, by no force compell'd,
Nor longer from their inclination held,
Break forth at once, like powder set on fire,
And, with a noble rage, their king require.
So th'injured sea, which from her wonted course,
To gain some acres, avarice did force,
If the new banks, neglected once, decay,
No longer will from her old channel stay; 70
Raging, the late got land she overflows,
And all that's built upon't to ruin goes.
Offenders now, the chiefest, do begin
To strive for grace, and expiate their sin.
All winds blow fair, that did the world embroil;
Your vipers treacle yield, and scorpions oil.
If then such praise the Macedonian[1] got,
For having rudely cut the Gordian knot,
What glory's due to him that could divide
Such ravell'd interests; has the knot untied, 80
And without stroke so smooth a passage made,
Where craft and malice such impeachments laid?
But while we praise you, you ascribe it all
To His high hand, which threw the untouch'd wall
Of self-demolish'd Jericho so low;
His angel 'twas that did before you go,
Tamed savage hearts, and made affections yield,
Like ears of corn when wind salutes the field.
Thus, patience-crown'd, like Job's, your trouble ends,
Having your foes to pardon, and your friends; 90
For, though your courage were so firm a rock,
What private virtue could endure the shock?
Like your Great Master, you the storm withstood,
And pitied those who love with frailty show'd.
Rude Indians, tort'ring all the royal race,
Him with the throne and dear-bought sceptre grace
That suffers best. What region could be found, 97
Where your heroic head had not been crown'd?
The next experience of your mighty mind
Is, how you combat Fortune, now she's kind.
And this way, too, you are victorious found;
She flatters with the same success she frown'd.
While to yourself severe, to others kind,
With pow'r unbounded, and a will confined,
Of this vast empire you possess the care,
The softer parts fall to the people's share.
Safety, and equal government, are things
Which subjects make as happy as their kings.
Faith, Law, and Piety, (that banished train!)
Justice and Truth, with you return again. 110
The city's trade, and country's easy life,
Once more shall flourish without fraud or strife.
Your reign no less assures the ploughman's peace,
Than the warm sun advances his increase;
And does the shepherds as securely keep
From all their fears, as they preserve their sheep.
But, above all, the Muse-inspirèd train
Triumph, and raise their drooping heads again!
Kind Heaven at once has, in your person, sent
Their sacred judge, their guard, and argument. 120
Nec magis expressi vultus per ahenea signa,
Quam per vatis opus mores, animique, virorum
Clarorum apparent.... HOR.
[1] 'Macedonian': Alexander.
TO A LADY,
FROM WHOM HE RECEIVED THE COPY OF THE POEM ENTITLED 'OF A TREE CUT IN
PAPER,' WHICH FOR MANY YEARS HAD BEEN LOST.
Nothing lies hid from radiant eyes;
All they subdue become their spies.
Secrets, as choicest jewels, are
Presented to oblige the fair;
No wonder, then, that a lost thought
Should there be found, where souls are caught.
The picture of fair Venus (that
For which men say the goddess sat)
Was lost, till Lely from your book
Again that glorious image took.
If Virtue's self were lost, we might
From your fair mind new copies write.
All things but one you can restore;
The heart you get returns no more.
TO THE QUEEN, UPON HER MAJESTY'S BIRTHDAY,
AFTER HER HAPPY RECOVERY FROM A DANGEROUS SICKNESS.[1]
Farewell the year! which threaten'd so
The fairest light the world can show.
Welcome the new! whose every day,
Restoring what was snatch'd away
By pining sickness from the fair,
That matchless beauty does repair
So fast, that the approaching spring
(Which does to flow'ry meadows bring
What the rude winter from them tore)
Shall give her all she had before. 10
But we recover not so fast
The sense of such a danger past;
We that esteem'd you sent from heaven,
A pattern to this island given,
To show us what the bless'd do there,
And what alive they practised here,
When that which we immortal thought,
We saw so near destruction brought,
Felt all which you did then endure,
And tremble yet, as not secure. 20
So though the sun victorious be,
And from a dark eclipse set free,
The influence, which we fondly fear,
Afflicts our thoughts the following year.
But that which may relieve our care
Is, that you have a help so near
For all the evil you can prove,
The kindness of your royal love;
He that was never known to mourn,
So many kingdoms from him torn, 30
His tears reserved for you, more dear,
More prized, than all those kingdoms were!
For when no healing art prevail'd,
When cordials and elixirs fail'd,
On your pale cheek he dropp'd the shower,
Revived you like a dying flower.
[1] 'Dangerous sickness': the Queen of Charles II. These verses belong
to the year 1663.
TO MR KILLIGREW,[1]
UPON HIS ALTERING HIS PLAY, 'PANDORA,' FROM A TRAGEDY INTO A COMEDY,
BECAUSE NOT APPROVED ON THE STAGE.
Sir, you should rather teach our age the way
Of judging well, than thus have changed your play;
You had obliged us by employing wit,
Not to reform Pandora, but the pit;
For as the nightingale, without the throng
Of other birds, alone attends her song,
While the loud daw, his throat displaying, draws
The whole assemblage of his fellow-daws;
So must the writer, whose productions should
Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould;
Whilst nobler fancies make a flight too high
For common view, and lessen as they fly.
[1] 'Mr. Killigrew': a gentleman usher to Charles II., and one of the
playwrights of the period.
TO A PERSON OF HONOUR,
UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE, INCOMPREHENSIBLE POEM, ENTITLED, 'THE BRITISH
PRINCES.'[1]
Sir! you've obliged the British nation more
Than all their bards could ever do before,
And, at your own charge, monuments as hard
As brass or marble to your fame have rear'd;
For, as all warlike nations take delight
To hear how their brave ancestors could fight,
You have advanced to wonder their renown, 7
And no less virtuously improved your own;
That 'twill be doubtful whether you do write,
Or they have acted, at a nobler height.
You of your ancient princes, have retrieved
More than the ages knew in which they lived;
Explain'd their customs and their rights anew,
Better than all their Druids ever knew;
Unriddled those dark oracles as well
As those that made them could themselves foretell.
For as the Britons long have hoped, in vain,
Arthur would come to govern them again,
You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone,
And in your poem placed him on his throne. 20
Such magic power has your prodigious pen
To raise the dead, and give new life to men,
Make rival princes meet in arms and love,
Whom distant ages did so far remove;
For as eternity has neither past
Nor future, authors say, nor first nor last,
But is all instant, your eternal Muse
All ages can to any one reduce.
Then why should you, whose miracles of art
Can life at pleasure to the dead impart, 30
Trouble in vain your better-busied head,
T'observe what times they lived in, or were dead?
For since you have such arbitrary power,
It were defect in judgment to go lower,
Or stoop to things so pitifully lewd,
As use to take the vulgar latitude;
For no man's fit to read what you have writ,
That holds not some proportion with your wit;
As light can no way but by light appear,
He must bring sense that understands it here. 40
[1] 'The British Princes': an heroic poem, by the Hon. Edward Howard,
was universally laughed at. See our edition of 'Butler.'
TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR,
A PERSON OF HONOUR, WHO LATELY WRIT A RELIGIOUS BOOK, ENTITLED,
'HISTORICAL APPLICATIONS, AND OCCASIONAL MEDITATIONS, UPON SEVERAL
SUBJECTS.'[1]
Bold is the man that dares engage
For piety in such an age!
Who can presume to find a guard
From scorn, when Heaven's so little spared?
Divines are pardon'd; they defend
Altars on which their lives depend;
But the profane impatient are,
When nobler pens make this their care;
For why should these let in a beam
Of divine light to trouble them, 10
And call in doubt their pleasing thought,
That none believes what we are taught?
High birth and fortune warrant give
That such men write what they believe;
And, feeling first what they indite,
New credit give to ancient light.
Amongst these few, our author brings
His well-known pedigree from kings.[2]
This book, the image of his mind,
Will make his name not hard to find; 20
I wish the throng of great and good
Made it less eas'ly understood!
[1] 'Several subjects': supposed to be Lord Berkeley. It contained
testimonies of celebrated men to the value of religion.
[2] 'Pedigree from kings': the Earl of Berkeley was descended from the
royal house of Denmark.
TO THE DUCHESS OF ORLEANS,
WHEN SHE WAS TAKING LEAVE OF THE COURT AT DOVER.[1]
That sun of beauty did among us rise;
England first saw the light of your fair eyes;
In English, too, your early wit was shown;
Favour that language, which was then your own,
When, though a child, through guards you made your way;
What fleet or army could an angel stay?
Thrice happy Britain! if she could retain
Whom she first bred within her ambient main.
Our late burnt London, in apparel new,
Shook off her ashes to have treated you; 10
But we must see our glory snatch'd away,
And with warm tears increase the guilty sea;
No wind can favour us; howe'er it blows,
We must be wreck'd, and our dear treasure lose!
Sighs will not let us half our sorrows tell,--
Fair, lovely, great, and best of nymphs, farewell!
[1] 'Court at Dover': the Duchess of Orleans, the youngest daughter of
Charles I., came to England on the 14th May 1670, on a political
mission.
TO CHLORIS.
Chloris! what's eminent, we know
Must for some cause be valued so;
Things without use, though they be good,
Are not by us so understood.
The early rose, made to display
Her blushes to the youthful May,
Doth yield her sweets, since he is fair,
And courts her with a gentle air.
Our stars do show their excellence
Not by their light, but influence;
When brighter comets, since still known
Fatal to all, are liked by none.
So your admirèd beauty still
Is, by effects, made good or ill.
TO THE KING.
Great Sir! disdain not in this piece to stand,
Supreme commander both of sea and land.
Those which inhabit the celestial bower,
Painters express with emblems of their power;
His club Alcides, Phoebus has his bow,
Jove has his thunder, and your navy you.
But your great providence no colours here
Can represent, nor pencil draw that care,
Which keeps you waking to secure our peace,
The nation's glory, and our trade's increase; 10
You, for these ends, whole days in council sit,
And the diversions of your youth forget.
Small were the worth of valour and of force,
If your high wisdom governed not their course;
You as the soul, as the first mover you,
Vigour and life on every part bestow;
How to build ships, and dreadful ordnance cast,
Instruct the artists, and reward their haste.
So Jove himself, when Typhon heaven does brave,
Descends to visit Vulcan's smoky cave, 20
Teaching the brawny Cyclops how to frame
His thunder, mix'd with terror, wrath, and flame.
Had the old Greeks discover'd your abode,
Crete had not been the cradle of their god;
On that small island they had looked with scorn,
And in Great Britain thought the Thunderer born.
TO THE DUCHESS,
WHEN HE PRESENTED THIS BOOK TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS.
Madam! I here present you with the rage,
And with the beauties of a former age;
Wishing you may with as great pleasure view
This, as we take in gazing upon you.
Thus we writ then: your brighter eyes inspire
A nobler flame, and raise our genius higher.
While we your wit and early knowledge fear,
To our productions we become severe;
Your matchless beauty gives our fancy wing,
Your judgment makes us careful how we sing. 10
Lines not composed, as heretofore, in haste,
Polish'd like marble, shall like marble last,
And make you through as many ages shine,
As Tasso has the heroes of your line.
Though other names our wary writers use,
You are the subject of the British Muse;
Dilating mischief to yourself unknown,
Men write, and die of wounds they dare not own.
So the bright sun burns all our grass away,
While it means nothing but to give us day. 20
TO MR CREECH,
ON HIS TRANSLATION OF 'LUCRETIUS.'[1]
What all men wish'd, though few could hope to see,
We are now bless'd with, and obliged by thee.
Thou, from the ancient, learned Latin store,
Giv'st us one author, and we hope for more.
May they enjoy thy thoughts!--Let not the stage
The idlest moment of thy hours engage;
Each year that place some wondrous monster breeds,
And the wits' garden is o'errun with weeds.
There, Farce is Comedy; bombast called strong;
Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song. 10
'Tis hard to say they steal them now-a-days;
For sure the ancients never wrote such plays.
These scribbling insects have what they deserve,
Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve.
That Spenser knew, that Tasso felt before;
And death found surly Ben exceeding poor.
Heaven turn the omen from their image here!
May he with joy the well-placed laurel wear!
Great Virgil's happier fortune may he find,
And be our Cæsar, like Augustus, kind! 20
But let not this disturb thy tuneful head;
Thou writ'st for thy delight, and not for bread;
Thou art not cursed to write thy verse with care;
But art above what other poets fear.
What may we not expect from such a hand,
That has, with books, himself at free command?
Thou know'st in youth, what age has sought in vain;
And bring'st forth sons without a mother's pain.
So easy is thy sense, thy verse so sweet,
Thy words so proper, and thy phrase so fit, 30
We read, and read again; and still admire
Whence came this youth, and whence this wondrous fire!
Pardon this rapture, sir! but who can be
Cold, and unmoved, yet have his thoughts on thee?
Thy goodness may my several faults forgive,
And by your help these wretched lines may live.
But if, when view'd by your severer sight,
They seem unworthy to behold the light,
Let them with speed in deserv'd flames be thrown!
They'll send no sighs, nor murmur out a groan; 40
But, dying silently, your justice own.
[1] 'Lucretius': this piece is not contained in Anderson, or the edition
of 1693.
SONGS.
STAY, PHOEBUS!
1 Stay, Phoebus! stay;
The world to which you fly so fast,
Conveying day
From us to them, can pay your haste
With no such object, nor salute your rise,
With no such wonder as De Mornay's eyes.
2 Well does this prove
The error of those antique books,
Which made you move
About the world; her charming looks
Would fix your beams, and make it ever day,
Did not the rolling earth snatch her away.
PEACE, BABBLING MUSE!
1 Peace, babbling Muse!
I dare not sing what you indite;
Her eyes refuse
To read the passion which they write.
She strikes my lute, but, if it sound,
Threatens to hurl it on the ground;
And I no less her anger dread,
Than the poor wretch that feigns him dead,
While some fierce lion does embrace
His breathless corpse, and lick his face;
Wrapp'd up in silent fear he lies,
Torn all in pieces if he cries.
CHLORIS! FAREWELL.
1 Chloris! farewell. I now must go;
For if with thee I longer stay,
Thy eyes prevail upon me so,
I shall prove blind, and lose my way.
2 Fame of thy beauty, and thy youth,
Among the rest, me hither brought;
Finding this fame fall short of truth,
Made me stay longer than I thought.
3 For I'm engaged by word and oath,
A servant to another's will;
Yet, for thy love, I'd forfeit both,
Could I be sure to keep it still.
4 But what assurance can I take,
When thou, foreknowing this abuse,
For some more worthy lover's sake,
Mayst leave me with so just excuse?
5 For thou mayst say, 'twas not thy fault
That thou didst thus inconstant prove;
Being by my example taught
To break thy oath, to mend thy love.
6 No, Chloris! no: I will return,
And raise thy story to that height,
That strangers shall at distance burn,
And she distrust me reprobate.
7 Then shall my love this doubt displace,
And gain such trust, that I may come
And banquet sometimes on thy face,
But make my constant meals at home.
TO FLAVIA.
1 'Tis not your beauty can engage
My wary heart;
The sun, in all his pride and rage,
Has not that art;
And yet he shines as bright as you,
If brightness could our souls subdue.
2 'Tis not the pretty things you say,
Nor those you write,
Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey:
For that delight,
The graces of a well-taught mind,
In some of our own sex we find.
3 No, Flavia! 'tis your love I fear;
Love's surest darts,
Those which so seldom fail him, are
Headed with hearts;
Their very shadows make us yield;
Dissemble well, and win the field.
BEHOLD THE BRAND OF BEAUTY TOSS'D!
1 Behold the brand of beauty toss'd!
See how the motion does dilate the flame!
Delighted Love his spoils does boast,
And triumph in this game.
Fire, to no place confined,
Is both our wonder and our fear;
Moving the mind,
As lightning hurlèd through the air.
2 High heaven the glory does increase
Of all her shining lamps, this artful way;
The sun in figures, such as these,
Joys with the moon to play;
To the sweet strains they advance,
Which do result from their own spheres,
As this nymph's dance
Moves with the numbers which she hears.
WHILE I LISTEN TO THY VOICE.
1 While I listen to thy voice,
Chloris! I feel my life decay;
That powerful noise
Calls my fleeting soul away.
Oh! suppress that magic sound,
Which destroys without a wound.
2 Peace, Chloris! peace! or singing die,
That together you and I
To heaven may go;
For all we know
Of what the blessed do above,
Is, that they sing, and that they love.
GO, LOVELY ROSE!
1 Go, lovely Rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
2 Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
3 Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
4 Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
SUNG BY MRS KNIGHT TO HER MAJESTY,
ON HER BIRTHDAY.
This happy day two lights are seen,
A glorious saint, a matchless queen;[1]
Both named alike, both crown'd appear,
The saint above, th'Infanta here.
May all those years which Catherine
The martyr did for heaven resign,
Be added to the line
Of your bless'd life among us here!
For all the pains that she did feel,
And all the torments of her wheel,
May you as many pleasures share!
May heaven itself content
With Catherine the Saint!
Without appearing old,
An hundred times may you,
With eyes as bright as now,
This welcome day behold!
[1] 'Matchless queen': Queen Catherine was born on the day set apart in
the calendar for the commemoration of the martyrdom of St.
Catherine.
SONG.
1 Say, lovely dream! where couldst thou find
Shades to counterfeit that face?
Colours of this glorious kind
Come not from any mortal place.
2 In heaven itself thou sure wert dress'd
With that angel-like disguise:
Thus deluded am I bless'd,
And see my joy with closèd eyes.
3 But, ah! this image is too kind
To be other than a dream;
Cruel Saccharissa's mind
Never put on that sweet extreme!
4 Fair dream! if thou intend'st me grace,
Change that heavenly face of thine;
Paint despised love in thy face,
And make it to appear like mine.
5 Pale, wan, and meagre let it look,
With a pity-moving shape,
Such as wander by the brook
Of Lethe, or from graves escape.
6 Then to that matchless nymph appear,
In whose shape thou shinest so;
Softly in her sleeping ear,
With humble words, express my woe.
7 Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride,
Thus surprisèd she may fall;
Sleep does disproportion hide,
And, death resembling, equals all.
PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.
PROLOGUE FOR THE LADY-ACTORS.
SPOKEN BEFORE KING CHARLES II.
Amaze us not with that majestic frown,
But lay aside the greatness of your crown!
And for that look which does your people awe,
When in your throne and robes you give them law,
Lay it by here, and give a gentler smile,
Such as we see great Jove's in picture, while
He listens to Apollo's charming lyre,
Or judges of the songs he does inspire.
Comedians on the stage show all their skill,
And after do as Love and Fortune will. 10
We are less careful, hid in this disguise;
In our own clothes more serious and more wise.
Modest at home, upon the stage more bold,
We seem warm lovers, though our breasts be cold;
A fault committed here deserves no scorn,
If we act well the parts to which we're born.
PROLOGUE TO THE 'MAID'S TRAGEDY.'[1]
Scarce should we have the boldness to pretend
So long-renown'd a tragedy to mend,
Had not already some deserved your praise
With like attempt. Of all our elder plays
This and _Philaster_ have the loudest fame;
Great are their faults, and glorious is their flame.
In both our English genius is express'd; 7
Lofty and bold, but negligently dress'd.
Above our neighbours our conceptions are;
But faultless writing is th'effect of care.
Our lines reform'd, and not composed in haste,
Polished like marble, would like marble last.[2]
But as the present, so the last age writ;
In both we find like negligence and wit.
Were we but less indulgent to our faults,
And patience had to cultivate our thoughts,
Our Muse would flourish, and a nobler rage
Would honour this than did the Grecian stage.
Thus says our author, not content to see
That others write as carelessly as he; 20
Though he pretends not to make things complete,
Yet, to please you, he'd have the poets sweat.
In this old play, what's new we have express'd
In rhyming verse, distinguish'd from the rest;
That as the Rhone its hasty way does make
(Not mingling waters) through Geneva's lake,
So having here the different styles in view,
You may compare the former with the new.
If we less rudely shall the knot untie,
Soften the rigour of the tragedy, 30
And yet preserve each person's character,
Then to the other this you may prefer.
'Tis left to you: the boxes and the pit,
Are sov'reign judges of this sort of wit.
In other things the knowing artist may
Judge better than the people; but a play,
(Made for delight, and for no other use)
If you approve it not, has no excuse.
[1] 'Maid's Tragedy': Waller altered this tragedy without success.
[2] 'Marble last': these lines occur in a previous poem.
EPILOGUE TO THE 'MAID'S TRAGEDY.'
SPOKEN BY THE KING.
The fierce Melantius was content, you see,
The king should live; be not more fierce than he;
Too long indulgent to so rude a time,
When love was held so capital a crime,
That a crown'd head could no compassion find,
But died--because the killer had been kind!
Nor is't less strange, such mighty wits as those
Should use a style in tragedy like prose.
Well-sounding verse, where princes tread the stage,
Should speak their virtue, or describe their rage. 10
By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids,
We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades;
And verses are the potent charms we use,
Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse.
When next we act this tragedy again,
Unless you like the change, we shall be slain.
The innocent Aspasia's life or death,
Amintor's too, depends upon your breath.
Excess of love was heretofore the cause;
Now if we die, 'tis want of your applause. 20
ANOTHER EPILOGUE TO THE 'MAID'S TRAGEDY.'
DESIGNED UPON THE FIRST ALTERATION OF THE PLAY, WHEN THE KING ONLY WAS
LEFT ALIVE.
Aspasia bleeding on the stage does lie,
To show you still 'tis the Maid's Tragedy.
The fierce Melantius was content, you see,
The king should live; be not more fierce than he;
Too long indulgent to so rude a time,
When love was held so capital a crime,
That a crown'd head could no compassion find,
But died--because the killer had been kind!
This better-natured poet had reprieved
Gentle Amintor too, had he believed 10
The fairer sex his pardon could approve,
Who to ambition sacrificed his love.
Aspasia he has spared; but for her wound
(Neglected love!) there could no salve be found.
When next we act this tragedy again,
Unless you like the change, I must be slain.
Excess of love was heretofore the cause;
Now if I die, 'tis want of your applause.
EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, AND FRAGMENTS.
UNDER A LADY'S PICTURE.
Such Helen was! and who can blame the boy[1]
That in so bright a flame consumed his Troy?
But had like virtue shined in that fair Greek,
The am'rous shepherd had not dared to seek
Or hope for pity; but with silent moan,
And better fate, had perished alone.
[1] Paris.
OF A LADY WHO WRIT IN PRAISE OF MIRA.
While she pretends to make the graces known
Of matchless Mira, she reveals her own;
And when she would another's praise indite,
Is by her glass instructed how to write.
TO ONE MARRIED TO AN OLD MAN.
Since thou wouldst needs (bewitch'd with some ill charms!)
Be buried in those monumental arms,
All we can wish is, may that earth lie light
Upon thy tender limbs! and so good night.
AN EPIGRAM ON A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL TEETH.
Were men so dull they could not see
That Lyce painted; should they flee,
Like simple birds, into a net
So grossly woven and ill set,
Her own teeth would undo the knot,
And let all go that she had got.
Those teeth fair Lyce must not show
If she would bite; her lovers, though
Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes,
Are disabused when first she gapes;
The rotten bones discover'd there,
Show 'tis a painted sepulchre.
EPIGRAM UPON THE GOLDEN MEDAL.[1]
Our guard upon the royal side!
On the reverse our beauty's pride!
Here we discern the frown and smile,
The force and glory of our isle.
In the rich medal, both so like
Immortals stand, it seems antique;
Carved by some master, when the bold
Greeks made their Jove descend in gold,
And Danaë[2] wond'ring at their shower,
Which, falling, storm'd her brazen tower.
Britannia there, the fort in vain
Had batter'd been with golden rain;
Thunder itself had fail'd to pass;
Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
[1] 'Golden Medal': it is said that a Miss Stewart, the favourite of the
unprincipled king, is the original of the figure of Britannia on the
medals to which the poet here alludes.
[2] Transcriber's note: The original text has a single dot over the
second "a" and another over the "e", rather than the more
conventional diaresis shown here.
WRITTEN ON A CARD THAT HER MAJESTY TORE AT OMBRE.
The cards you tear in value rise;
So do the wounded by your eyes.
Who to celestial things aspire,
Are by that passion raised the higher.
TO MR GRANVILLE (NOW LORD LANSDOWNE),
ON HIS VERSES TO KING JAMES II.
An early plant! which such a blossom bears,
And shows a genius so beyond his years;
A judgment! that could make so fair a choice;
So high a subject to employ his voice;
Still as it grows, how sweetly will he sing
The growing greatness of our matchless king!
LONG AND SHORT LIFE.
Circles are praised, not that abound
In largeness, but th'exactly round:
So life we praise that does excel
Not in much time, but acting well.
TRANSLATED OUT OF SPANISH.
Though we may seem importunate,
While your compassion we implore;
They whom you make too fortunate,
May with presumption vex you more.
TRANSLATED OUT OF FRENCH.
Fade, flowers! fade, Nature will have it so;
'Tis but what we must in our autumn do!
And as your leaves lie quiet on the ground,
The loss alone by those that loved them found;
So in the grave shall we as quiet lie,
Miss'd by some few that loved our company;
But some so like to thorns and nettles live,
That none for them can, when they perish, grieve.
SOME VERSES OF AN IMPERFECT COPY, DESIGNED FOR A FRIEND, ON HIS
TRANSLATION OF OVID'S 'FASTI.'
Rome's holy-days you tell, as if a guest
With the old Romans you were wont to feast.
Numa's religion, by themselves believed,
Excels the true, only in show received.
They made the nations round about them bow,
With their dictators taken from the plough;
Such power has justice, faith, and honesty!
The world was conquer'd by morality.
Seeming devotion does but gild a knave,
That's neither faithful, honest, just, nor brave;
But where religion does with virtue join,
It makes a hero like an angel shine.
ON THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES I., AT CHARING CROSS, IN THE YEAR 1674.
That the First Charles does here in triumph ride,
See his son reign where he a martyr died,
And people pay that rev'rence as they pass,
(Which then he wanted!) to the sacred brass,
Is not the effect of gratitude alone,
To which we owe the statue and the stone;
But Heaven this lasting monument has wrought,
That mortals may eternally be taught
Rebellion, though successful, is but vain,
And kings so kill'd rise conquerors again.
This truth the royal image does proclaim,
Loud as the trumpet of surviving Fame.
PRIDE.
Not the brave Macedonian youth[1] alone,
But base Caligula, when on the throne,
Boundless in power, would make himself a god,
As if the world depended on his nod.
The Syrian king[2] to beasts was headlong thrown,
Ere to himself he could be mortal known.
The meanest wretch, if Heaven should give him line,
Would never stop till he were thought divine.
All might within discern the serpent's pride,
If from ourselves nothing ourselves did hide.
Let the proud peacock his gay feathers spread,
And woo the female to his painted bed;
Let winds and seas together rage and swell--
This Nature teaches, and becomes them well.
'Pride was not made for men;'[3] a conscious sense
Of guilt, and folly, and their consequence,
Destroys the claim, and to beholders tells,
Here nothing but the shape of manhood dwells.
[1] 'Macedonian youth': Alexander.
[2] 'Syrian king': Nebuchadnezzar.
[3] 'For men': Ecclus. x. 18.
EPITAPH ON SIR GEORGE SPEKE.
Under this stone lies virtue, youth,
Unblemish'd probity, and truth,
Just unto all relations known,
A worthy patriot, pious son;
Whom neighb'ring towns so often sent
To give their sense in Parliament;
With lives and fortunes trusting one
Who so discreetly used his own.
Sober he was, wise, temperate, 9
Contented with an old estate,
Which no foul avarice did increase,
Nor wanton luxury make less.
While yet but young his father died,
And left him to a happy guide;
Not Lemuel's mother with more care
Did counsel or instruct her heir,
Or teach with more success her son
The vices of the time to shun.
An heiress she; while yet alive,
All that was hers to him did give; 20
And he just gratitude did show
To one that had obliged him so;
Nothing too much for her he thought,
By whom he was so bred and taught.
So (early made that path to tread,
Which did his youth to honour lead)
His short life did a pattern give
How neighbours, husbands, friends, should live.
The virtues of a private life
Exceed the glorious noise and strife 30
Of battles won; in those we find
The solid int'rest of mankind.
Approved by all, and loved so well,
Though young, like fruit that's ripe, he fell.
EPITAPH ON COLONEL CHARLES CAVENDISH.[1]
Here lies Charles Ca'ndish; let the marble stone
That hides his ashes make his virtue known.
Beauty and valour did his short life grace,
The grief and glory of his noble race!
Early abroad he did the world survey,
As if he knew he had not long to stay;
Saw what great Alexander in the East,
And mighty Julius conquer'd in the West;
Then, with a mind as great as theirs, he came
To find at home occasion for his fame; 10
Where dark confusion did the nations hide,
And where the juster was the weaker side.
Two loyal brothers took their sov'reign's part,
Employ'd their wealth, their courage, and their art;
The elder[2] did whole regiments afford;
The younger brought his conduct and his sword.
Born to command, a leader he begun,
And on the rebels lasting honour won.
The horse, instructed by their general's worth,
Still made the king victorious in the north. 20
Where Ca'ndish fought, the Royalists prevail'd;
Neither his courage nor his judgment fail'd.
The current of his vict'ries found no stop,
Till Cromwell came, his party's chiefest prop.
Equal success had set these champions high,
And both resolved to conquer or to die.
Virtue with rage, fury with valour strove;
But that must fall which is decreed above!
Cromwell, with odds of number and of fate,
Removed this bulwark of the church and state; 30
Which the sad issue of the war declared,
And made his task, to ruin both, less hard.
So when the bank, neglected, is o'erthrown,
The boundless torrent does the country drown.
Thus fell the young, the lovely, and the brave;--
Strew bays and flowers on his honoured grave!
[1] 'Charles Cavendish': younger son of the Earl of Devonshire, and
brother of Lady Rich; slain in 1643 at Gainsborough, fighting on the
king's side, in the twenty-third year of his age.
[2] 'The elder': afterwards Earl of Devonshire.
EPITAPH ON THE LADY SEDLEY.[1]
Here lies the learned Savil's heir,
So early wise, and lasting fair,
That none, except her years they told,
Thought her a child, or thought her old.
All that her father knew or got,
His art, his wealth, fell to her lot;
And she so well improved that stock,
Both of his knowledge and his flock,
That wit and fortune, reconciled
In her, upon each other smiled. 10
While she to every well-taught mind
Was so propitiously inclined,
And gave such title to her store,
That none, but th'ignorant, were poor.
The Muses daily found supplies,
Both from her hands and from her eyes.
Her bounty did at once engage,
And matchless beauty warm their rage.
Such was this dame in calmer days,
Her nation's ornament and praise! 20
But when a storm disturb'd our rest,
The port and refuge of the oppress'd.
This made her fortune understood,
And look'd on as some public good.
So that (her person and her state,
Exempted from the common fate)
In all our civil fury she
Stood, like a sacred temple, free.
May here her monument stand so,
To credit this rude age! and show
To future times, that even we
Some patterns did of virtue see;
And one sublime example had
Of good, among so many bad.
[1] 'Lady Sedley': daughter of Sir Henry Savil, provost of Eton, and who
married Sir John Sedley.
EPITAPH,
TO BE WRITTEN UNDER THE LATIN INSCRIPTION UPON THE TOMB OF THE ONLY SON
OF THE LORD ANDOVER.[1]
'Tis fit the English reader should be told,
In our own language, what this tomb does hold.
'Tis not a noble corpse alone does lie
Under this stone, but a whole family.
His parents' pious care, their name, their joy,
And all their hope, lies buried with this boy;
This lovely youth! for whom we all made moan,
That knew his worth, as he had been our own.
Had there been space and years enough allow'd,
His courage, wit, and breeding to have show'd, 10
We had not found, in all the num'rous roll
Of his famed ancestors, a greater soul;
His early virtues to that ancient stock
Gave as much honour, as from thence he took.
Like buds appearing ere the frosts are past,
To become man he made such fatal haste,
And to perfection labour'd so to climb,
Preventing slow experience and time,
That 'tis no wonder Death our hopes beguiled; 19
He's seldom old that will not be a child.
[1] 'Lord Andover': the eldest son of the Earl of Berkshire.
EPITAPH UNFINISHED.
Great soul! for whom Death will no longer stay,
But sends in haste to snatch our bliss away.
O cruel Death! to those you take more kind,
Than to the wretched mortals left behind!
Here beauty, youth, and noble virtue shined,
Free from the clouds of pride that shade the mind.
Inspirèd verse may on this marble live,
But can no honour to thy ashes give--
DIVINE POEMS.[1]
OF DIVINE LOVE.
A POEM IN SIX CANTOS.
Floriferis ut apes in saltibus omnia libant,
Sic nos Scripturæ depascimur aurea dicta;
Aurea! perpetua semper dignissima vita!
Nam divinus amor cum coepit vociferari,
Diffugiunt animi terrores.... _Lucretius_, lib. iii.
Exul eram, requiesque mihi, non fama, petita est,
Mens intenta suis ne foret usque malis:
Namque ubi mota calent sacra mea pectora Musa,
Altior humano spiritua ille malo est.
OVID. _De Trist_. lib. iv. el. I.
ARGUMENTS.
I. Asserting the authority of the Scripture, in which this love is
revealed.--II. The preference and love of God to man in the creation.--
III. The same love more amply declared in our redemption.--IV. How
necessary this love is to reform mankind, and how excellent in itself.--
V. Showing how happy the world would be, if this love were universally
embraced.--VI. Of preserving this love in our memory, and how useful
the contemplation thereof is.
[1] These were Waller's latest poems, composed when he was eighty-two.
CANTO I.
The Grecian Muse has all their gods survived,
Nor Jove at us, nor Phoebus is arrived;
Frail deities! which first the poets made,
And then invoked, to give their fancies aid.
Yet if they still divert us with their rage,
What may be hoped for in a better age,
When not from Helicon's imagined spring,
But Sacred Writ, we borrow what we sing?
This with the fabric of the world begun,
Elder than light, and shall outlast the sun. 10
Before this oracle, like Dagon, all
The false pretenders, Delphos, Ammon, fall;
Long since despised and silent, they afford
Honour and triumph to th'Eternal Word.
As late philosophy[1] our globe has graced,
And rolling earth among the planets placed,
So has this book entitled us to heaven,
And rules to guide us to that mansion given;
Tells the conditions how our peace was made,
And is our pledge for the great Author's aid. 20
His power in Nature's ample book we find,
But the less volume does express his mind.
This light unknown, bold Epicurus taught
That his bless'd gods vouchsafe us not a thought,
But unconcern'd let all below them slide,
As fortune does, or human wisdom, guide.
Religion thus removed, the sacred yoke,
And band of all society, is broke.
What use of oaths, of promise, or of test,
Where men regard no God but interest? 30
What endless war would jealous nations tear,
If none above did witness what they swear?
Sad fate of unbelievers, and yet just,
Among themselves to find so little trust!
Were Scripture silent, Nature would proclaim,
Without a God, our falsehood and our shame.
To know our thoughts the object of his eyes,
Is the first step t'wards being good or wise;
For though with judgment we on things reflect,
Our will determines, not our intellect. 40
Slaves to their passion, reason men employ
Only to compass what they would enjoy.
His fear to guard us from ourselves we need,
And Sacred Writ our reason does exceed;
For though heaven shows the glory of the Lord,
Yet something shines more glorious in His Word;
His mercy this (which all His work excels!)
His tender kindness and compassion tells;
While we, inform'd by that celestial Book,
Into the bowels of our Maker look. 50
Love there reveal'd (which never shall have end,
Nor had beginning) shall our song commend;
Describe itself, and warm us with that flame
Which first from heaven, to make us happy, came.
[1] 'Late philosophy': that of Copernicus.