REMAINS OF Mr. John Oldham IN VERSE and PROSE.
LONDON: Printed for Jo. Hindmarsh, at the Golden Ball over against the Royal Exchange in Cornhil. 1687.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THE Author of these following Poems being dead, the Publisher thought fit to acquaint the World, that the reason why he exposed them now in Print, was not so much for his own Interest (tho a Bookseller that disclaims Interest for a pretence, will no more be believed now adays, than a thorough paced Fanatick, that pretends he makes a journey to New England purely for Conscience sake) but for securing the reputation of Mr. Oldham; which might otherwise have suffered from worse hands, and out of a desire he has to Print the last Remains of his friend since he had the good fortune to publish his first Pieces.
He confesses that it is the greatest piece of injustice to publish the posthumous Works of Authors, especially such, that we may suppose they had brought to the File and sent out with more advantages into the World, had they not been prevented by untimely death; and therefore assures you he had never presumed to Print these following [Page] Miscellanies, had they not already been countenanced by men of unquestionable repute and esteem.
He is not of the same persuasion with several others of his own profession, that never care how much they lessen the reputation of the Poet, if they can but inhance the value of the Book; that ransack the Studies of the deceased, and Print all that passed under the Author's hands, from Fifteen to Forty, and upwards: and (as the incomparable Mr. Cowley has exprest it) think a rude heap of ill placed Stones a better Monument than a neat Tomb of Marble.
To the MEMORY of Mr. OLDHAM.
FArewel, too little and too lately known,
Whom I began to think and call my own;
For sure our Souls were near ally'd; and thine
Cast in the same Poetick mould with mine.
One common Note on either Lyre did strike,
And Knaves and Fools we both abhorr'd alike:
To the same Goal did both our Studies drive,
The last set out the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
While his young Friend perform'd and won the Race.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing Age have added more?
It might (what Nature never gives the young)
Have taught the numbers of thy native Tongue.
But Satyr needs not those, and Wit will shine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
A noble Error, and but seldom made,
When Poets are by too much force betray'd,
Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime
Still shew'd a quickness; and maturing time
But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of Rhime.
Once more, hail and farewel; farewel thou young,
But ah too short, Marcellus of our Tongue;
Thy Brows with Ivy, and with Laurels bound;
But Fate and gloomy Night encompass thee around.
John Dryden.
Authori Epitaphium.
HOC, ô Viator, marmore conditoe
Charoe recumbunt Exuviae brevem
Viventis (oh! sors dura) vitam,
Praecoce coelum animâ petentis.
Nec praepedita est Mens celeris diù,
Quin Pustularum mille tumoribus
Effloruit, portisque mille
Praepes iter patefecit altum.
Musarum Alumnus jàm fuit, artibus
Instructus almis, quas, studio pio,
Atque aure quàm fidâ repostas,
Oxonii coluit Parentis.
Hîc quadriennis proemia Filii
Dignus recepi, Vellera candida,
Collati Honoris signa, necnon
Innocui simulacra cordis.
Sed manè montis summa cacumina
Ascendit ardens, Pierio jugo
Insedit, atque errore multo
Ipsum Helicona scatere vidit.
Nunc pura veri Flumina perspicit,
Nunc mira Mundi semina concipit,
Pulchrasque primoevi figuras,
In speculo species creante.
At Tu, Viator, Numina poscito,
Ʋt dissolutis reliquits, vaga
Dùm mens remigret, detur—ah! sit
Terra levis, placidusque somnus.
On the Death of Mr. John Oldham, A Pindarique Pastoral Ode.
Stanza I.
UNdoubtedly 'tis thy peculiar Fate,
Ah, miserable Astragon!
Thou art condemn'd alone
To bear the Burthen of a wretched Life,
Still in this howling Wilderness to roam,
While all thy Bosom-friends unkindly go,
And leave thee to lament them here below.
Thy dear Alexis would not stay,
Joy of thy Life, and Pleasure of thine Eyes,
Dear Alexis went away
With an invincible Surprize;
Th' Angel-like Youth early dislik'd this State,
And chearfully submitted to his Fate.
Never did Soul of a Celestial Birth
Inform a purer piece of Earth.
O that 'twere not in vain
To wish what's past might be retriev'd again!
Thy Dotage, thy Alexis, then
Had answer'd all thy Vows and Pray'rs,
And Crown'd with pregnant Joys thy silver Hairs,
Lov'd to this day among the living Sons of Men.
II.
And thou, my Friend, hast left me too,
Menalcas! poor Menalcas! even thou,
[Page]Of whom so loudly Fame has spoke
In the Records of her immortal Book,
Whose disregarded Worth Ages to come
Shall wail with Indignation o'er thy Tomb.
Worthy wert thou to live, as long as Vice
Should need a Satyr, that the frantick Age
Might tremble at the Lash of thy poetick Rage.
Th' untutor'd World in after Times
May live uncensur'd for their Crimes,
Freed from the Dreads of thy reforming Pen,
Turn to old Chaos once again.
Of all th' instructive Bards, whose more than Theban Lyre.
Could savage Souls with manly Thoughts inspire,
Menalcas worthy was to live.
Say, you his Fellow-Shepherds that survive,
Tell me, you mournful Swains,
Has my ador'd Menalcas left behind;
In all these pensive Plains
A gentler Shepherd with a braver mind:
Which of you all did more Majestick Show,
Or wore the Garland on a sweeter Brow?
III.
—But wayward Astragon resolves no more
The Loss of his Menalcas to deplore:
The place to which he wisely is withdrawn
Is altogether blest;
There no Clouds o'erwhelm his Breast,
No Midnight Cares can break his Rest;
For all is everlasting cheerful Dawn.
The Poet's Bliss there shall he long possess,
Perfect Ease and soft Recess;
[Page]The treacherous World no more shall him deceive,
Of Hope and Fortune he has taken Leave:
And now in mighty Triumph does he reign,
(His Head adorn'd with Beams of Light)
O'er the unthinking Rabble's Spire,
And the dull wealthy Fool's disdain.
Thrice happy he that dies the Muses Friend,
He needs no Obelisque, no Pyramid
His sacred Dust to hide;
He needs not for his Memory to provide;
For he might well foresee his Praise can never end.
Thomas Flatman.
In Memory of the Author.
TAke this short summon'd loose unfinisht Verse
Cold as thy Tomb, and sudden as thy Herse;
From my sick Thoughts thou canst no better crave,
Who scarce drag Life, and envy thee thy Grave.
Me Phoebus always faintly did inspire,
And gave my narrow Breast more scanty Fire.
My Hybla Muse through humble Meads sought Spoil,
Collecting little Sweets with mighty Toil;
Yet when some Friend's just Fame did Theme afford,
Her Voice amongst the tow'ring Swans was heard.
In vain for such Attendance now I call,
My Ink o'erflows with Spleen, my Blood with Gall;
[Page]Yet, sweet Alexis, my Esteem of thee
Was equal to thy Worth and Love for me.
Death is thy Gain—that Thought affects me most,
I care not what th' ill-natur'd World has lost.
For Wit with thee expir'd, how shall I grieve?
Who grudge th' ingrateful Age what thou didst leave,
The Tribute of their Verse let others send,
And mourn the Poet gone, I mourn the Friend.
Enjoy thy Fate— thy Predecessors come,
Cowley and Butler to conduct thee home.
Who would not (Butler cries) like me engage
New Worlds of Wit to serve a grateful Age?
For such Rewards what Task will Authors shun?
I pray, Sir, is my Monument begun?
Enjoy thy Fate, thy Voice in Anthems raise;
So well tun'd here on Earth to our Apollo's Praise:
Let me retire, while some sublimer Pen
Performs for thee what thou hast done for Homer and for Ben.
N.T.
On the ensuing Poems of Mr. John Oldham, and the Death of his good Friend the ingenious Author.
OBscure and cloudy did the day appear,
As Heaven design'd to blot it from the year;
The Elements all seem'd to disagree,
At least, I'm sure, they were at strife in me:
[Page]Possest with Spleen, which Melancholy bred,
When Rumor told me that my Friend was dead,
That Oldham honour'd for his early Worth,
Was cropt, like a sweet Blossom from the Earth,
Where late he grew, delighting every Eye
In his rare Garden of Philosophy.
The fatal Sound new Sorrows did infuse,
And all my Griefs were doubled at the News:
For we with mutual Arms of Friendship strove,
Friendship the true and solid part of Love;
And he so many Graces had in store,
That Fame or Beauty could not bind me more.
His Wit in his immortal Verse appears,
Many his Virtues were, tho' few his Years;
Which were so spent as if by Heaven contriv'd,
To lash the Vices of the longer liv'd.
None was more skilful, none more learn'd than he,
A Poet in its sacred Quality:
Inspir'd above, and could command each Passion,
Had all the Wit without the Affectation.
A Calm of Nature still possest his Soul,
No canker'd Envy did his Breast controul:
Modest as Virgins that have never known
The jilting Breeding of the nauseous Town;
And easie as his Numbers that sublime
His lofty Strains, and beautifie his Rhime,
Till the Time's Ignomy inspir'd his Pen,
And rowz'd the drowsie Satyr from his Den;
Then fluttering Fops were his Aversion still,
And felt the Power of his Satyrick Quill.
The Spark whose Noise proclaims his empty Pate,
That struts along the Mall with antick Gate;
Were damn'd by his invective Muse in Shoals.
Who on the Age look'd with impartial Eyes,
And aim'd not at the Person, but the Vice.
To all true Wit he was a constant Friend,
And as he well could judge, could well commend
The mighty Homer he with Care perus'd,
And that great Genius to the World infus'd;
Immortal Virgil, and Lucretius too,
And all the Seeds o'th' Soul his Reason knew:
Like Ovid, could the Ladies Hearts assail,
With Horace sing, and lash with Juvenal.
Unskill'd in nought that did with Learning dwell,
But Pride to know he understood it well.
Adieu thou modest Type of perfect Man;
Ah, had not thy Perfections that began
In Life's bright Morning been eclips'd so soon,
We all had bask'd and wanton'd in thy Noon;
But Fate grew envious of thy growing Fame,
And knowing Heav'n from whence thy Genius came,
Assign'd thee by immutable Decree
A glorious Crown of Immortality,
Snatch'd thee from all thy mourning Friends below,
Just as the Bays were planting on thy Brow.
Thus worldly Merit has the Worlds Regard;
But Poets in the next have their Reward;
And Heaven in Oldham's Fortune seem'd to show,
No Recompence was good enough below:
So to prevent the Worlds ingrateful Crimes,
Enrich'd his Mind, and bid him die betimes.
T. Durfey.
On the Death of Mr. John Oldham.
HEark! is it only my prophetick Fear,
Or some Death's sad Alarum that I hear?
By all my Doubts 'tis Oldham's fatal Knell;
It rings aloud, eternally farewel:
Farewel thou mighty Genius of our Isle,
Whose forward Parts made all our Nation smile,
In whom both Wit and Knowledge did conspire,
And Nature gaz'd as if she did admire
How such few years such Learning could acquire:
Nay seem'd concern'd that we should hardly find
So sharp a Pen, and so serene a Mind.
Oh then lament; let each distracted Breast
With universal Sorrow be possest.
Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, and your Songs give o'er;
For now your lov'd Adonis is no more.
He whom ye tutor'd from his Infant-years,
Cold, pale and ghastly as the Grave appears:
He whom ye bath'd in your lov'd murmuring Stream,
Your daily pleasure, and your mighty Theme
Is now no more; the Youth, the Youth is dead,
The mighty Soul of Poetry is fled;
Fled ere his Worth or Merit was half known;
No sooner seen, but in a Moment gone:
Like to some tender Plant, which rear'd with Care,
At length becomes most fragrant, and most fair;
[Page]Long does it thrive, and long its Pride maintain,
Esteem'd secure from Thunder, Storm or Rain;
Then comes a Blast, and all the Work is vain.
But Oh! my Friend, must we no more rehearse
Thy equal Numbers in thy pleasing Verse?
In Love how soft, in Satyr how severe?
In Passion moving, and in Rage austere!
Virgil in Judgment, Ovid in Delight,
An easie Thought with a Meonian Flight;
Horace in Sweetness, Juvenal in Rage,
And even Biblis must each Heart engage!
Just in his Praises, and what most desire,
Wou'd flatter none for Greatness, Love or Hire;
Humble, though courted, and what's rare to see,
Of wondrous Worth, yet wondrous Modesty.
So far from Oftentation he did seem,
That he was meanest in his own Esteem.
Alas, young man, why wert thou made to be
At once our Glory and our Misery?
Our Misery in losing thee is more
Than could thy Life our Glory be before:
For shou'd a Soul celestial Joys possess,
And straight be banish'd from that Happiness,
Oh, where would be its Pleasure? where its Gain?
The Bliss once tasted but augments the Pain:
So having once so great a Prize in thee,
How much the heavier must our Sorrows be?
For if such Flights were in thy younger Days,
What if thou'dst liv'd, O what had been thy Praise?
Eternal Wreaths of never-dying Bays:
But those are due already to thy Name,
Which stands enroll'd in the Records of Fame;
[Page]And though thy great Remains to Ashes turn,
With lasting Praises we'll supply thy Urn,
Which like Sepulchral Lamps shall ever burn.
But hold! methinks, great Shade, I see thee rove
Through the smooth Path of Plenty, Peace and Love;
Where Ben. salutes the first, o'erjoy'd to see
The Youth that sung his Fame and Memory:
Great Spencer next, with all the learned Train,
Do greet thee in a Panegyrick Strain:
Adonis is the Joy of all the Plain.
Tho. Andrews.
DAMON, an ECLOGUE On the untimely Death of Mr. Oldham.
Corydon. Alexis.
BEneath a dismal Yew the Shepherds sate,
And talk'd of Damon's Muse and Damon's Fate:
Their mutual Lamentations gave them Ease;
For sometimes Melancholy it self does please:
Like Philomel abandon'd to distress,
Yet ev'n their Griefs in Musick they express.
Cor.
I'll sing no more since Verses want a Charm,
The Muses could not their own Damon arm:
[Page]At least I'll touch this useless Pipe no more,
Unless, like Orpheus, I could Shades restore.
A.
Rather, like Orpheus, celebrate your Friend,
And with your Musick Hell it self suspend:
Tax Proserpine of Cruelty and Hate,
And sing of Damon's Muse, and Damon's Fate.
C.
When Damon sung, he sung with such a Grace,
Lord, how the very London-brutes did gaze!
Sharp was his Satyr, nor allay'd with Gall;
'Twas Rage, 'twas generous Indignation all.
A.
Oh had he liv'd, and to Perfection grown,
Not like Marcellus, only to be shown;
He would have charm'd their Sence a nobler way,
Taught Virgins how to sigh, and Priests to pray.
C.
Let Priests and Virgins then to him address,
And in their Songs their Gratitude express,
While we that know the Worth of easie Verse,
Secure the Laurel to adorn his Herse.
A.
Codrus, you know, that sacred Badge does wear,
And 'twere injurious not to leave it there;
But since no Merit can strike Envy dumb,
Do you with Baccar, guard and grace his Tomb.
C.
While you (dear Swain) with unaffected Rhime,
Majestick, sad, and suited to the Time,
His Name to future Ages consecrate,
By praising of his Muse, and mourning of his Fate.
A.
Alas, I never must pretend to this,
My Pipe scarce knows a Tune but what is his:
Let future Ages then for Damon's sake,
From his own Works a just Idaea take.
[Page]Yet then, but like Alcides he'll be shown,
And from his meanest part his Size be known.
C.
'Twill be your Duty then to set it down.
A.
Once and but once (so Heaven and Fate ordain)
I met the gentle Youth upon the Plain,
Kindly, cries he, if You Alexis be,
And though I know you not you must he be;
Too long already we have Strangers been,
This Day, at least, our Friendship must begin.
Let Business, that perverse Intruder, wait,
To be above it is poetical and great.
Then with Assyrian Nard our Heads did shine,
While rich Sabaean Spice exalts the Wine;
Which to a just Degree our Spirits fir'd;
But he was by a greater God inspir'd:
Wit was the Theme, which he did well describe,
With Modesty unusual to his Tribe.
But as with ominous Doubts, and aking Heart,
When Lovers after first Enjoyment part,
Not half content; for this was but a Taste,
And wond'ring how the Minutes flew so fast,
They vow a Friendship that shall ever last.
So we— but oh how much am I accurs'd!
To think that this last Office is my first.
Occasioned by the present Edition of the ensuing Poems, and the Death of the ingenious Author.
CUrs'd be the day when first this Godly Isle
Vile Books, and useless thinking did defile.
In Greek and Latin-Bogs our Time we waste,
When all is Pain and Weariness at best:
Mountains of Whims and Doubts we travel o'er,
While treacherous Fancy dances on before:
Pleas'd with our Danger still we stumble on,
Too late repent, and are too soon undone.
Let Bodley now in its own ruins lie,
By th' common Hangman burnt for Heresie.
Avoid the nasty learned dust, 'twill breed
More Plagues than ever Jakes or Dunghils did.
The want of Dulness will the World undo,
'Tis Learning makes us mad and Rebels too.
Learning, a Jilt which while we do enjoy,
Slily our Rest and Quiet steals away;
That greedily the Blood of Youth receives,
And nought but Blindness and a Dotage gives.
Worse than the Pox, or scolding Woman fly
The awkward Madness of Philosophy.
That Bedlam Bess, Religion never more
Phantastick, pie-ball'd, antick Dresses wore:
Opinion, Pride, Moroseness gives a Fame;
'Tis Folly, christen'd with a modish Name.
[Page]Let dull Divinity no more delight;
It spoils the Man, and makes an Hypocrite.
The chief Professors to Preferment fly,
By Cringe and Scrape, the basest Simony.
The humble Clown will best the Gospel teach,
And inspir'd Ign'rance sounder Doctrines preach.
A way to Heaven mere Nature well does shew,
Which reasoning and Disputes can never know.
Yet still proud Tyrant Sence in Pomp appears,
And claims a Tribute of full threescore Years.
Sew'd in a Sack, with Darkness circl'd round,
Each man must be with Snakes and Monkeys drown'd.
Laborious Folly, and compendious Art,
To waste that Life whose longest Date's too short.
Laborious Folly, to wind up with Pain
What Death unravels soon, and renders vain.
We blindly hurry on in Mystick ways,
Nor wisely tread the Paths of solid Praise.
There's nought deserves one precious drop of sweat,
But Poetry, the noblest Gift of Fate,
Which after Death does a more lasting Life beget.
Not that which sudden, frantick Heats produce,
Where Wine and Pride, not Heaven, shall raise the Muse.
Not that small Stock which does Translators make;
That Trade poor Bankrupt-Poetasters take:
But such, when God his Fiat did express,
And powerful Numbers wrought an Universe.
With such great David tun'd his charming Lyre,
That even Saul and Madness could admire.
With such Great Oldham bravely did excel,
That David's Lamentation sung so well.
[Page] Oldham! the Man that could with Judgment write,
Our Oxford's Glory, and the World's Delight.
Sometimes in boundless keenest Satyr bold,
Sometimes as soft as those Love-tales he told.
That Vice could praise, and Virtue too disgrace;
The first Excess of Wit that e'er did please.
Scarce Cowley such Pindarique soaring knew,
Yet by his Reader still was kept in view.
His Fancy, like Jove's Eagle liv'd above,
And bearing Thunder still would upward move.
Oh noble Kingston! had thy lovely Guest
With a large stock of Youth and Life been blest;
Not all thy Greatness, or thy Vertues store
Had surer Comforts been, or pleased thee more.
But Oh! the date is short of mighty Worth,
And Angels never tarry long on Earth.
His soul, the bright, the pure Etherial Flame
To those lov'd Regions flew, from whence it came.
And spight of what Mankind had long believ'd,
My Creed says only Poets can be sav'd.
That God has only for a number staid,
To stop the breach, which Rebel Angels made.
For none their absence can so well supply;
They are all o'r Scraphick Harmony.
Then, and not that till then the World shall burn
And its base Dross, Mankind their fortune mourn,
While all to their old nothing quick return.
The peevish Critick then shall be asham'd,
And for his Sins of Vanity be damn'd.
T. Wood.
Oxon, May the 26th. 1684.
On the Death of Mr. Oldham, A PASTORAL.
On the Remains of an old blasted Oak
Unmindful of himself Menalcas lean'd;
He sought not now in heat the shades of Trees,
But shun'd the flowing Rivers pleasing bank.
His Pipe and Hook lay scatter'd on the Grass:
Nor fed his Sheep together on the Plain,
Left to themselves they wandred out at large.
In this Lamenting state Young Corydon
(His Friend and Dear Companion of his Hour)
Finding Menalcas, asks him thus the Cause.
Corydon.
Thee have I sought in every shady Grove,
By purling Streams, and in each private Place,
Where we have us'd to sit and talk of Love.
Why do I find thee leaning on an Oak,
By Lightning blasted and by Thunder rent?
What cursed Chance has turn'd thy chearful Mind?
And why wilt thou have woes unknown to me?
But I would Comfort and not chide my Friend:
Tell me thy Grief, and let me bear a Part.
Menalcas.
[Page]Young Astrophel is dead, Dear Astrophel,
He that could Tune so well his charming Pipe:
To hear whose Lays Nymphs left their Crystal Spring,
The Fawns and Dryades forsook the Woods,
And hearing, all were ravish'd: Swiftest Streams
with-held their Course to hear the Heavenly Sound,
And murmur'd, when by following Waves prest on,
The following Waves forcing their Way to hear.
Oft the Fierce wolf pursuing of the Lamb,
Hungry and wildly certain of his Prey,
Left the Pursuit rather than lose the Sound
Of his alluring Pipe: The Harmless Lamb
Forgot his Nature and forsook his Fear,
Stood by the Wolf and listned to the Sound.
He could command a general Peace and Nature would obey.
This Youth, this Youth is dead, the same Disease,
That carried sweet Orinda from the World,
Seiz'd upon Astrophel: Oh Let these Tears
Be offer'd to the Memory of my Friend,
And Let my Speech give way a while to Sighs.
Corydon.
Weep on Menalcas, for his Fate requires
The Tears of all Mankind: General the Loss,
And General be the Grief, except by Fame
I knew him not but surely this is he,
Dead ere he liv'd, yet have new Life from him.
Did he not mourn lamented
Rochester.
Bion's Death;In Verse equal to what Bion wrote?
Menalcas.
Yes this was he (oh that I say he was)
He that could sing the Shepherds deeds so well,
Whether to praise the Good he turn'd his Pen,
Or lasht the egregious Folly of the Bad,
In both he did excell. —
His happy genius bid him take the Pen,
And dictated more fast than he could write,
Sometimes becoming Negligence adorn'd
His Verse, and Nature shew'd they were her own,
Yet Art he us'd, where Art could useful be,
But sweated not to be correctly dull.
Corydon.
Had Fate allow'd his Life a longer thread,
Adding Experience to that wondrous Fraught
of Youthful Vigor, how would he have wrote!
Menalcas.
We wish for Life, not thinking of its Cares,
I mourn his Death, the loss of such a Friend:
But for himself he dyed in the best Hour,
[Page]And carryed with him ev'ry mans Applause.
Youth meets not with Detractions blotting hand,
Nor suffers ought from Envy's canker'd Mind.
Had he known Age, he would have seen the World,
Put on its ugliest but its truest Face:
Malice had watch'd the Droppings of his Pen,
And ignorant Youths, who would for Criticks pass,
Had thrown their scornful Jests upon his Vene,
And censur'd what they did not understand.
Such was not my Dear Astrophel: he's dead,
And I shall quickly follow him, what's Death,
But an eternal Sleep without a Dream?
Wrapt in a lasting Darkness, and exempt
From Hope and Fear, and ev'ry idle Passion.
Corydon.
See thy Complaints have mov'd the pitying Skies,
They mourn the Death of Astrophel in Tears.
Thy Sheep return'd from straying, round they gaze,
And wonder at thy mourning: Drive them Home,
And tempt thy troubled mind with easing Sleep.
To Morrow chearful Light may give thee Comfort.
To the MEMORY of Mr. JOHN OLDHAM.
BUT that 'tis dangerous for Man to be
Too busie with Immutable Decree,
I could, dear Friend, ev'n blame thy cruel Doom,
That lent so much, to be requir'd so soon:
The Flow'rs, in which the Meads are drest so gay,
Altho' they are short liv'd, they live a Day;
Thou, in the Noon of Life wert snatch't away:
Though not before thy Verse had Wonders shown,
And bravely made the Age to come thine own!
The Company of Beauty, Wealth, and Wine,
Were not so charming, not so sweet as thine;
They quickly perish; yours was still the same,
An Everlasting, but a Lambent Flame;
Which something so resistless did impart,
It still through ev'ry Ear, won ev'ry Heart:
Unlike the Wretch that strives to get Esteem,
Nay, thinks it fine and Janty to blaspheme,
And can be witty on no other Theme:
Ah Foolish men, (whom thou did'st still despise)
That must be wicked to be counted wise!
But thy Converse was from this Errour free;
And yet, 'twas ev'ry thing true Wit can be:
None had it, but, ev'n with a Tear, does own,
The Soul of dear Society is gone.
[Page]But while we thus thy Native Sweetness sing,
We ought not to forget thy Native Sting:
Thy Satyr spar'd no Follies, nor no Crimes;
Satyr! the best Reformer of the Times!
How wide shoot they, that strive to blast thy Fame,
By saying, that thy Verse was rough and lame?
They would have Satyr their Compassion move,
And writ so plyant, nicely, and so smooth,
As if the Muse were in a Flux of Love:
But who of Knaves, and Fops, and Fools would sing,
Must Force, and Fire, and Indignation bring;
For 'tis no Satyr, if it has no Sting:
In short, who in that Field would Famous be,
Must think, and write like Juvenal and Thee.
Let others boast of all the Mighty Nine,
To make their Labours with more Lustre shine;
I never had no other Muse but Thee;
Ev'n thou wert all the Mighty Nine to me:
'Twas thy dear Friendship did my Breast inspire,
And warm'd it first with a Poetick Fire;
But 'tis a warmth that does with Thee expire:
For when the Sun is set that guides the Day,
The Traveller must stop, or lose his way.
Robert Gould.
CONTENTS.
- COunterpart to the Satyr against Vertue, Page 1
- Virg. Eclogue VIII. The Enchantment 13
- Ʋpon the Marriage of the Prince of Orange with the Lady Mary 35
- An Ode for an Annversary of Musick on Caecilia's Day 43
- To Madam L. E. upon her Recovery from a fit of Sickness 46
- On the Death of Mrs. Katharine Kingscourt, a Child of excellent Parts and Piety 55
- A Sunday-thought in Sickness 59
- [Page]To the Memory of Mr. Charles Morwent 71
- To the Memory of that worthy Gentleman Mr. Harman Atwood. 115
COUNTERPART TO THE SATYR against VERTƲE. In Person of the Author.
I.
PArdon me, Vertue, whatsoe'er thou art
(For sure thou of the God-head art a part,
And all that is of him must be
The very Deity.)
Pardon, if I in ought did thee blaspheme,
Or injure thy pure Sacred Name:
Accept unfeign'd Repentance, Prayers and Vows,
The best Atonement of my penitent humble Muse,
The best that Heaven requires, or Mankind can produce.
All my Attempts hereafter shall at thy Devotion be,
Ready to consecrate my Ink and very Blood to thee.
Forgive me, ye blest Souls that dwell above,
[Page 2]Where you by its reward the worth of Vertue prove
Forgive (if you can do't) who know no Passion now but Love
And you unhappy happy few,
Who strive with Life, and Humane Miseries below
Forgive me too,
If I in ought disparag'd them, or else discourag'd you
II.
Blest Vertue! whose Almighty Power
Does to our fallen Race restore
All that in Paradise we lost, and more,
Lifts us to Heaven, and makes us be
The Heirs and Image of the Deity.
Soft gentle Yoak! which none but resty Fools refuse,
Which before freedom I would ever chuse.
Easie are all the Bonds that are impos'd by thee;
Easie as those of Lovers are,
(If I with ought less pure may thee compare)
Nor do they force, but only guide our Liberty:
By such soft Ties are Spirits above confin'd;
[Page 3]So gentle is the Chain which them to Good does bind.
Sure Card, whereby this frail and tott'ring Bark we steer
Thro' Life's tempestuous Ocean here;
Thro' all the tossing Waves of Fear,
And dangerous Rocks of black Despair.
Safe in thy Conduct unconcern'd we move,
Secure from all the threatning Storms that blow,
From all Attacks of Chance below,
And reach the certain Haven of Felicity above.
III.
Best Mistris of our Souls! whose Charms and Beauties last,
And are by very Age increast,
By which all other Glories are defac'd.
Thou'rt thy own Dowry, and a greater far
Than All the Race of Woman-kind e'er brought,
Tho' each of them like the first Wife were fraught,
And half the Universe did for her Portion share.
That tawdry Sex, which giddy senseless we
Thro' Ignorance so vainly Deifie,
[Page 4]Are all but glorious Brutes when un-endowed with thee
'Tis Vice alone, the truer Jilt, and worse.
In whose Enjoyment tho' we find
A flitting Pleasure, yet it leaves behind
A Pain and Torture in the Mind,
And claps the wounded Conscience with incurable Remorse,
Or else betrays us to the great Trepans of Humane Kind.
IV.
'Tis Vice, the greater Thraldom, harder Drudgery,
Whereby deposing Reason from its gentle Sway,
(That rightful Sovereign which we should obey)
We undergo a various Tyranny,
And to un-number'd servile Passions Homage pay.
These with Aegyptian Rigor us enslave,
And govern with unlimited command;
They make us endless Toil pursue,
And still their doubled Tasks renew,
To push on our too hasty Fate, and build our Grave,
Or which is worse, to keep us from the Promis'd Land.
[Page 5]Nor may we think our Freedom to retrieve,
We struggle with our heavy Yoak in vain:
In vain we strive to break that Chain,
Unless a Miracle relieve;
Unless th' Almighty Wand enlargement give,
We never must expect Delivery,
Till Death, the universal Writ of Ease, does set us free.
V.
Some sordid Avarice in Vassallage confines,
Like Roman Slaves condemn'd to th' Mines;
These are in its harsh Bridewel lash'd and punished,
And with hard Labour scarce can earn their Bread.
Others Ambition, that Imperious Dame,
Exposes cruelly, like Gladiators, here
Upon the World's Great Theatre.
Thro' Dangers and thro' Blood they wade to Fame,
To purchase grinning Honour and an empty Name,
And some by Tyrant-Lust are Captive led,
And with false Hopes of Pleasure fed;
[Page 6]'Till tir'd with Slavery to their own Desires,
Life's o'er-charg'd Lamp goes out, and in a Snuff expires.
VI.
Consider we the little Arts of Vice,
The Stratagems and Artifice
Whereby she does attract her Votaries:
All those Allurements and those Charms
Which pimp Transgressors to her Arms,
Are but foul Paint, and counterfeit Disguise,
To palliate her own conceal'd Deformities,
And for false empty Joys betray us to true solid Harms.
In vain she would her Dowry boast,
Which clog'd with Legacies we never gain,
But with unvaluable Cost;
Which got we never can retain;
But must the greatest part be lost,
To the great Bubbles, Age or Chance, again.
'Tis vastly over-balanc'd by the Joynture which we make,
In which our lives, our souls, our All is set at stake.
[Page 7]Like silly Indians, foolish we
With a known Cheat, a losing Traffick hold,
Whilst led by an ill-judging Eye,
W' admire a trifling Pageantry,
And merchandize our Jewels and our Gold,
For worthless Glass and Beads, or an Exchange's Frippery.
If we a while maintain th' expensive Trade,
Such mighty Impost on the Cargo's laid,
Such a vast Custom to be paid,
We're forc'd at last like wretched Bankrupts to give out,
Clapt up by Death, and in Eternal Durance shut.
VII.
What art thou, Fame, for which so eagerly we strive?
What art thou but an empty Shade
By the Reflection of our Actions made?
Thou, unlike others, never follow'st us alive;
But, like a Ghost, walk'st only after we are dead.
[Page 8]Posthumous Toy! vain after-Legacy!
Which only ours can be,
When we our selves no more are we!
Fickle as vain! who dost on vulgar Breath depend,
Which we by dear Experience find
More changeable, more veering than th' unconstant Wind.
What art thou, Gold, that cheat'st the Miser's eyes?
Which he does so devoutly idolize;
For whom he all his Rest and Ease does sacrifice.
'Tis Use alone can all thy Value give,
And he from that no Benefit can e'er receive.
Curst Mineral! near Neighb'ring Hell begot,
Which all th' Infection of thy damned Neighbourhood hast brought.
Thou Bawd to Murthers, Rapes & Treachery,
And every greater Name of Villany;
From thee they all derive their Stock and Pedigree.
Thou the lewd World with all its crying Crimes dost store,
hardly wilt allow the Devil the cause of more.
[Page 9]And what is Pleasure which does most beguile?
That Syren which betrays us with a flattering Smile.
We listen to the treacherous Harmony,
Which sings but our own Obsequy.
The Danger unperceiv'd till Death draw nigh;
Till drowning we want Pow'r to 'scape the fatal Enemy.
VIII.
How frantick is the wanton Epicure!
Who a perpetual Surfeit will endure?
Who places all his chiefest Happiness
In the Extravagancies of Excess,
Which wise Sobriety esteems but a Disease?
O mighty envied Happiness to eat!
Which fond mistaken Sots call Great!
Poor Frailty of our Flesh! which we each day
Must thus repair for fear of ruinous decay!
Degrading of our Nature, where vile Brutes are fain
To make and keep up Man!
[Page 10]Which, when the Paradise above we gain,
Heav'n thinks too great an Imperfection to retain!
By each Disease the sickly Joy's destroy'd;
At every Meal it's nauseous and cloy'd,
Empty at best, as when in Dream enjoy'd;
When, cheated by a slumbering Imposture, we
Fancy a Feast, and great Regalio's by;
And think we taste, and think we see,
And riot on imaginary Luxury.
IX.
Grant me, O Virtue, thy more solid lasting Joy;
Grant me the better Pleasures of the Mind,
Pleasures, which only in pursuit of thee we find,
Which Fortune cannot marr, nor Chance destroy.
One Moment in thy blest Enjoyment is
Worth an Eternity of that tumultuous Bliss,
Which we derive from Sense,
Which often cloys, and must resign to Impotence.
Grant me but this, how will I triumph in my happy State?
[Page 11]Above the Changes and Reverse of Fate;
Above her Favours and her Hate.
I'll scorn the worthless Treasures of Peru,
And those of t' other Indies too.
I'll pity Caesar's self with all his Trophies and his Fame,
And the vile brutish Herd of Epicures contemn,
And all the Under-shrievalties of Life not worth a Name.
Nor will I only owe my Bliss,
Like others, to a Multitude,
Where Company keeps up a forced Happiness;
Should all Mankind surcease to live,
And none but individual I survive,
Alone I would be happy, and enjoy my Solitude.
Thus shall my Life in pleasant Minutes wear,
Calm as the Minutes of the Evening are,
And gentle as the motions of the upper Air;
Soft as my Muse, and unconfin'd as she,
When flowing in the numbers of Pindarique liberty.
And when I see pale gastly Death appear,
That grand inevitable Test which all must bear,
[Page 12]Which best distinguishes the blest and wretched here;
I'll smile at all its Horrors, court my welcome Destiny,
And yield my willing Soul up in an easie Sigh;
And Epicures that see shall envy and confess,
That I, and those who dare like me be good, the chiefest Good possess.
Virg. ECLOGUE VIII. The Enchantment.
Poet, Damon, Alpheus, Speakers.
DAmon and Alpheus, the two Shepherds Strains
I mean to tell, and how they charm'd the Plains.
I'll tell their charming Numbers which the Herd,
Unmindful of their Grass, in Throngs admir'd.
At which fierce Savages astonish'd stood,
And every River stopt its list'ning Flood.
For you, Great Sir, whether with Cannons Roar
You spread your Terror to the Holland Shore,
Or with a gentle and a steady hand
In Peace and Plenty rule your Native Land.
Shall ever that auspicious Day appear,
When I your glorious Actions shall declare?
[Page 14]It shall, and I throughout the World rehearse
Their Fame, fit only for a Spencer's Verse.
With you my Muse began, with you shall end:
Accept my Verse that waits on your Command;
And deign this Ivy Wreath a place may find
Among the Laurels which your Temples bind.
'Twas at the time that Night's cool shades with drew
And left the Grass all hung with pearly Dew;
When Damon, leaning on his Oaken Wand,
Thus to his Pipe in gentle Lays complain'd.
D. Arise, thou Morning, and drive on the Day
While wretched I with fruitless words inveigh
Against false Nisa, while the Gods I call
With my last Breath, tho' hopeless to avail,
Tho' they regard not my Complaints at all.
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.
Menalus ever has its warbling Groves,
And talking Pines, it ever hears the Loves
[Page 15]Of Shepherds, and the Notes of Mighty Pan,
The first that would not let the Reeds untun'd remain.
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.
Mopsus weds Nisa, Gods! what Lover e'er
Need after this have reason to despair?
Griffins shall now leap Mares, and the next Age
The Deer and Hounds in Friendship shall engage.
Go, Mopsus, get the Torches ready soon;
Thou, happy Man, must have the Bride anon.
Go, Bridegroom, quickly, the Nut-scramble make,
The Evening-star quits Oeta for thy sake.
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.
How fitly art thou match'd who wast so nice!
Thou haughty Nymph who did'st all else despise!
Who slight'st so scornfully my Pipe, my Herd,
My rough-grown Eye-brows, and unshaven Beard,
And think'st no God does mortal things regard,
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.
[Page 16]I saw thee young, and in thy Beauty's Bloom,
To gather Apples with thy Mother, come,
'Twas in our Hedge-rows, I was there with Pride,
To shew you to the best, and be your Guide.
Then I just entring my twelfth Year was found,
I then could reach the tender Boughs from ground.
Heav'ns! when I saw, how soon was I undone!
How to my heart did the quick Poyson run!
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.
Now I'm convinc'd what Love is; the cold North
Sure in its craggy Mountains brought him forth,
Or Africk's wildest Desarts gave him Birth,
Amongst the Cannibals and Savage Race;
He never of our Kind, or Country was.
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.
Dire Love did once a Mother's Hand embrue
In Childrens Blood; a cruel Mother, thou;
Hard 'tis to say of both which is the worst,
The cruel Mother, or the Boy accurst.
[Page 17]He a curst Boy, a cruel Mother thou;
The Devil a whit to chuse betwixt the two.
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.
Let Wolves by Nature shun the Sheep-folds now:
On the rough Oaks let Oranges now grow:
Let the coarse Alders bear the Daffadill,
And costly Amber from the Thorn distill:
Let Owls match Swans, let Tyt'rus Orpheus be,
In the Woods Orpheus, and Arion on the Sea.
Strike up my Pipe, play me in tuneful Strains
What I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.
Let all the World turn Sea, ye Woods adieu!
To some high Mountain's top I'll get me now,
And thence my self into the Waters throw.
There quench my Flames, and let the cruel She
Accept this my last dying Will and Legacy.
Cease now my Pipe, cease now those warbling Strains
Which I heard sung on the Maenalian Plains.
[Page 18]This Damon's Song; relate ye Muses now
Alpheus Reply: All cannot all things do.
A. Bring Holy Water, sprinkle all around,
And see these Altars with soft Fillets bound:
Male-Frankincense, and juicy Vervain burn,
I'll try if I by Magick force can turn
My stubborn Love: I'll try if I can fire
His frozen Breast: Nothing but Charms are wanting here.
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magick Charms;
Bring home lov'd Daphnis to my longing Arms.
Charms in her wonted Course can stop the Moon,
And from her well-fix'd Orb can call her down.
By Charms the mighty Circe (we are told)
Ʋlysses fam'd Companions chang'd of old.
Snakes, by the Vertue of Enchantment forc'd,
Oft in the Meads with their own Poyson burst.
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magick Charms;
Bring home lov'd Daphnis to my longing Arms.
[Page 19]First, these three several Threads I compass round
Thy Image, thus in Magick Fetters bound:
Then round these Altars thrice thy Image bear:
Odd Numbers to the Gods delightful are.
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magick Charms,
Bring home lov'd Daphnis to my longing Arms.
Go tye me in three knots three Ribands now,
And let the Ribands be of diff'rent Hue:
Go, Amaryllis, tye them strait, and cry,
At the same time, "They're true-love-knots, I tye.
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magick Charms,
Bring home lov'd Daphnis to my longing Arms.
Look how this Clay grows harder, and look how
With the same Fire this Wax doth softer grow;
So Daphnis, let him with my Love do so.
Strow Meal and Salt (for so these Rites require)
And set the crackling Laurel Boughs on fire:
This naughty Daphnis sets my Breast on flame.
And I this Laurel burn in Daphnis Name.
Bring home lov'd Daphnis to my longing Arms.
As a poor Heifer, wearied in the Chase,
Of seeking her lov'd Steer from place to place.
Thro' Woods, thro' Groves, thro' Arable, and Wast,
On some green River's bank lies down at last:
There Lows her Moan, despairing, and forlorn,
And, tho' belated, minds not to return:
Let Daphnis's Case be such, and let not me
Take any Care to give a Remedy.
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magick Charms,
Bring home lov'd Daphnis to my longing Arms
These Garments erst the faithless Traitor left,
Dear Pledges of his Love, of which I'm reft:
Beneath the Threshold these I bury now,
In thee, O Earth; these Pledges Daphnis owe.
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magick Charms,
Bring home lov'd Daphnis to my longing Arms.
Of Maeris I these Herbs and Poysons had,
From Pontus brought: in Pontus store are bred:
With these I've oft seen Maeris Wonders do,
Turn himself Wolf, and to the Forest go:
I've often seen him Fields of Corn displace,
From whence they grew, and Ghosts in Church-yards raise.
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magick Charms,
Bring home lov'd Daphnis to my longing Arms.
Go, Maid, go, bear the Ashes out at door,
And them forthwith into the neighb'ring current pour,
Over thy Head, and don't look back be sure:
I'll try, what these on Daphnis will prevail,
The Gods he minds not, nor my Charms at all.
Bring Daphnis from the Town, ye Magick Charms.
Bring home lov'd Daphnis to my longing Arms.
Behold! the Ashes while we lingring stay,
While we neglect to carry them away,
Have reach'd the Altar, and have fir'd the Wood;
That lyes upon't: Heav'n send it be for good!
[Page 34]Something I know not what's the matter: Hark!
I hear our Lightfoot in the Entry bark.
Shall I believe, or is it only Dream,
Which Lovers fancies are too apt to frame?
Cease now ye Magick Charms, behold him come!
Cease needless Charms, my Daphnis is at home!
UPON THE MARRIAGE OF THE Prince of ORANGE WITH THE Lady MARY.
I.
AS when of old some bright and Heav'nly Dame
A God of equal Majesty did Wed;
Strait thro' the Court above the Tydings spread,
Strait at the News th'immortal Offspring came,
[Page 36]And all the Deities did the High Nuptials grace;
With no less Pomp, no less of Grandeur we
Behold this glad Solemnity,
And all confess an equal Joy,
And all expect as God-like and as great a Race:
Hark how united Shouts our Joys proclaim,
Which rise in Gratitude to Heav'n from whence they came;
Gladsome next those which brought our Royal Exile home,
When he resum'd his long usurped Throne:
Hark how the mighty Vollies rend the Air,
And shake at once the Earth and utmost Sphere;
Hark how the Bell's harmonious Noise
Bear Consort too with humane Joys;
Behold those num'rous Fires, which up and down
Threaten almost new Conflagration to the Town.
Well do these Emblems, mighty Orange, speak thy Fame,
Whose Loudness, Musick, Brightness, all express the same;
In Thunder and in Lightning so approach'd her bed.
II.
Hail happy Pair! kind Heav'ns great Hostages!
Sure Pledges of a firm and lasting Peace!
Call't not a Match, we that low Stile disdain,
Nor will degrade it with a Term so mean;
A League it must be said,
Where Countries thus Espouse, and Nations Wed:
Our Thanks, propitious Destiny!
Never did yet thy Pow'r dispence
A more Plenipotentiary Influence,
Nor Heav'n more sure a Treaty ratifie:
To YOU, our great and gracious Monarch, too
An equal share of Thanks is due,
Nought could this mighty Work produce, but
Heav'n and You.
Let others boast
Of Leagues, which Wars and Slaughter cost;
[Page 38]This Union by no Blood Cemented is,
Nor did its Harmony from Jars and Discords rise.
Not more to your great Ancestor we owe,
By whom two Realms into one Kingdom grow,
He join'd but what Nature had join'd before,
Lands disunited by no parting Shore:
By You to Foreign Countries we're Allied,
You make Us Continent whom Seas and Waves divide.
III.
How well, Brave Prince, do you by prudent Conduct prove
What was denied to mighty Jove,
Together to be Wise and Love?
In this you highest Skill of Choice and Judgment shew,
'Tis here display'd, and here rewarded too;
Others move only by unbridled guideless Heat,
But you mix Love with Policy, Passion with State:
You scorn'd the Painters Hands your Hearts should tye,
Which oft (and here they must) the Original belye,
[Page 39](For how should Art that Beauty undertake,
Which Heav'n would strive in vain again to make?)
Taught by Religion you did better Methods try,
And worship'd not the Image, but the Deity:
Go, envied Prince, your glorious BRIDE receive,
Too great for ought but mighty YORK to give:
She, whom if none must Wed, but those who merit Her,
Monarchs might cease Pretence, and flighted Gods despair:
Think You in Her far greater Conquests gain,
Than all the Pow'rs of France have from your Country ta'ne.
In her fair Arms let your Ambition bounded lie,
And fancy there an Universal Monarchy!
IV.
And you fair Princess, who could thus subdue,
What France with all its Forces could not do,
[Page 40]Enjoy your glorious Prize,
Enjoy the Triumphs of your conqu'ring Eyes:
From Him, and th' Height of your great Mind look down,
And with neglect despise a Throne,
And think't as great to Merit, as to wear a Crown:
Nassau is all which your Desires or Thoughts can frame,
All Titles lodge within that single Name;
A Name, which Mars himself would with Ambition bear,
Prouder in that, than to be call'd the God of War:
To you, great Madam, (if your Joys admit Increase,
If Heav'n has not already set your Happiness
Above its Pow'r to raise)
To You the zealous humble Muse
These solemn Wishes Consecrates and Vows,
And begs you'll not her Offering refuse,
Which not your Want, but her Devotion shews.
V.
May your great Consort still successful prove,
In all his high Attempts, as in your Love;
[Page 41]May he thro' all Attacks of Chance appear
As free from Danger, as he is from Fear;
May neither Sense of Grief, or Trouble know,
But what in Pity you to others show:
May you be fruitful in as numerous Store
Of Princely Births, as She who your great Father bore:
May Heav'n to your just Merits kind
Repeal the ancient Curse on Womankind;
Easie and gentle, as the Labours of the Brain
May yours all prove, and just so free from Pain:
May no rude Noise of War approach your Bed,
But Peace her downy Wings about you spread,
Calm as the Season, when fair Halcyons breed.
May you, and the just owner of your Breast,
Both in as full Content and Happiness be blest,
As the first sinless Pair of old enjoy'd:
Ere Guilt their Innocence and that destroy'd:
Till nothing but Continuance to your Bliss can add,
And you by Heav'n alone be happier made;
[Page 42]Till future Poets who your Lives review,
When they'd their utmost Pitch of Flatt'ry shew,
Shall pray their Patrons may become like you;
Nor know to frame a skilful Wish more great,
Nor think a higher Blessing in the Gift of Fate.
AN ODE For an Anniversary of MUSICK on S. Cecilia's Day.
I.
BEgin the Song, your Instruments advance,
Tune the Voice, and Tune the Flute,
Touch the silent sleeping Lute,
And make the Strings to their own Measures dance.
Bring gentlest Thoughts that into Language glide,
Bring softest Words that into Numbers slide:
Let every Hand and every Tongue
To make the Noble Consort throng.
Let all in one harmonious Note agree
To frame the mighty Song,
For this is Musicks sacred Jubile.
II.
Hark how the wak'ned Strings resound,
And break the yielding Air,
The ravish'd Sense how pleasingly they wound,
And call the listning Soul into the Ear;
Each Pulse beats time, and every Heart,
With Tongue and Fingers bears a part.
By Harmonies entrancing Power,
When we are thus wound up to Ecstasie;
Methinks we mount, methinks we tower,
And seem to antedate our future Bliss on high.
III.
How dull were Life, how hardly worth our care,
But for the Charms that Musick lends!
How faint its Pleasures would appear,
But for the Pleasure which our Art attends!
Without the Sweets of Melody,
To tune our vital Breath,
Who would not give it up to Death,
And in the silent Grave contented lye?
IV.
Musick's the Cordial of a troubled Breast,
The softest Remedy that Grief can find;
The gentle Spell that charms our Care to rest,
And calms the ruffled Passions of the Mind.
Musick does all our Joy refine,
It gives the Relish to our Wine,
'Tis that gives Rapture to our Love,
And Wings Devotion to a pitch Divine;
'Tis our chief Bliss on Earth, and half our Heaven above.
Chorus.
Come then with tuneful Throat and String
The Praises of our Art let's sing;
Let's sing to Blest CECILIA's Fame,
That grac'd this Art, and gave this Day its Name;
With Musick, Wine, and Mirth conspire
To bear a Consort, and make up the Choir.
TO MADAM L. E. Ʋpon her Recovery from a late Sickness.
Madam,
PArdon, that with slow Gladness we so late
Your wish'd return of Health congratulate:
Our Joys at first so throng'd to get abroad,
They hinder'd one another in the crowd;
And now such haste to tell their Message make,
They only stammer what they meant to speak.
You the fair Subject which I am to sing,
To whose kind Hands this humble joy I bring:
Aid me, I beg, while I this Theme pursue,
For I invoke no other Muse but you.
[Page 47]Long time had you here brightly shone below
With all the Rays kind Heaven could bestow.
No envious Cloud e're offer'd to invade
Your Lustre, or compel it to a Shade:
Nor did it yet by any Sign appear,
But that you thoroughout Immortal were.
Till Heaven (if Heaven could prove so cruel) sent
To interrupt the Growth of your content,
As if it grudg'd those Gifts you did enjoy,
And would that Bounty which it gave, destroy:
'Twas since your Excellence did envy move
In those high Powers and made them jealous prove.
They thought these Glories should they still have shin'd
Unsullied, were too much for Woman-kind.
Which might they write as lasting as they're Fair,
Too great for ought but Deities appear:
But Heaven (it may be) was not yet compleat,
And lackt you there to fill your empty Seat.
[Page 48]And when it could not fairly woo you hence,
Turn'd Ravisher, and offer'd Violence.
Sickness did first a formal siege begin,
And by sure slowness try'd your Life to win.
As if by lingring methods Heaven meant
To chase you hence and tire you to consent.
But, thus in vain, Fate did to force resort,
And next by Storm strove to attack the Fort,
A Sleep, dull as your last, did you Arrest,
And all their Magazines of Life possest.
No more the Blood its circling course did run,
But in the Veins, like Isicles, it hung.
No more the Heart (now void of quickning heat)
The tuneful March of vital Motion beat.
Stiffness did into all the Sinews climb,
And a short Death crept cold through every Limb.
All Signs of Life from sight so far withdrew,
'Twas now thought Popery to pray for you.
There might you (were not that sense lost) have seen
How your true Death would have resented been:
A Lethargy, like yours, each Breast did seize,
And all by Sympathy catcht your Disease.
Around you silent Imagery appears,
And nought in the Spectators moves, but Tears.
They pay what Grief were to your Funeral due,
And yet dare hope Heaven would your Life renew.
Mean while, all means, all Drugs prescribed are,
Which the decays of Health, or Strength repair,
Medicines so powerful they new Souls would save,
And Life in long-dead Carcasses retrieve:
But these in vain, they rougher Methods try,
And now you're Martyr'd that you may not die;
Sad Scene of Fate! when Tortures were your gain:
And 'twas a kindness thought to wish you pain!
As if the slackned string of Life run down,
Could only by the Rack be screw'd in tune.
But Heav'n at last (grown conscious that its pow'r
Could scarce what was to die with you restore,)
And loth to see such Glories overcome,
Sent a Post-Angel to repeal your doom;
Strait Fate obey'd the Charge which Heaven sent,
And gave this first dear Proof, it could Repent:
Triumphant Charms! what may not you subdue,
When Fate's your Slave, and thus submits to you!
It now again the new-broke Thread does knit,
And for another Clew her Spindle fit:
And life's hid spark which did unquencht remain,
Caught the fled light and brought it back again:
Thus you reviv'd, and all our Joy with you,
Reviv'd and found their Resurrection too:
Some only griev'd, that what was deathless thought
They saw so near to Fatal ruin brought:
Now crowds of Blessings on that happy hand,
Whose skill could eager Destiny withstand;
Whose learned Pow'r has rescu'd from the Grave,
That Life which 'twas a Miracle to save;
[Page 51]That Life which were it thus untimely lost,
Had been the fairest Spoil Death e'r could boast:
May he henceforth be God of Healing thought,
By whom such good to you and us was brought:
Altars and Shrines to him are justly due,
Who shew'd himself a God by raising you.
But say, fair Saint, for you alone can know,
Whither your Soul in this short flight did go;
Went it to antidate that Happiness,
You must at last (tho late we hope) possess?
Inform us lest we should your Fate belye,
And call that Death which was but Ecstasie,
The Queen of Love (we're told) once let us see:
That Goddesses from Wounds could not be free;
And you by this unwish'd Occasion show
That they like Mortal us can Sickness know:
Pitty! that Heav'n should all its Titles give,
And yet not let you with them ever live.
You'd lack no point that makes a Deity,
If you could like it too Immortal be.
And so you are; half boasts a Deathless State;
Although your frailer Part must yield to Fate.
By every breach in that fair lodging made,
Its blest Inhabitant is more displaid:
In that white Snow which over-spreads your Skin,
We trace the whiter Soul which dwells within;
Which while you through this shining Hue display
Looks like a Star plac'd in the milky way:
Such the bright Bodies of the Blessed are,
When they for Raiment cloath'd with Light appear,
And should you visit now the Seats of Bliss,
You need not wear another form but this.
Never did Sickness in such Pomp appear,
As when it thus your Livery did wear,
Disease it self look'd amiable here.
So Clouds which would obscure the Sun oft gilded be,
And Shades are taught to shine as bright as he.
Grieve not fair Nymph, when in your Glass you trace
The marring Footsteps of a pale Disease.
[Page 53]Regret not that your Cheeks their Roses want,
Which a few Days shall in full store replant,
Which, whilst your Blood withdraws its guilty Red,
Tells that you own no Faults that Blushes need:
The Sun whose Bounty does each Spring restore
What Winter from the rifled Meadows tore,
Which every Morning with an early Ray
Paints the young blushing Cheeks of instant Day:
Whose skill (inimitable here below,)
Limns those gay Clouds which form Heav'ns colour'd Bow,
That Sun shall soon with Interest repay,
All the lost Beauty Sickness snatch'd away.
Your Beams like his shall hourly now advance,
And every Minute their swift Growth enhance.
Mean while (that you no helps of Healths refuse)
Accept these humble Wishes of the Muse:
Which shall not of their just Petition fail,
If she (and she's a Goddess) ought prevail.
May no profane Disease henceforth approach,
This sacred Temple with unhallow'd touch,
Or with rude sacriledge its frame debauch.
May these fair Members always happy be
In as full Strength and well-set Harmony,
As the new Foundress of your Sex could boast,
Ere she by Sin her first Perfection lost:
May Destiny, just to your Merits, twine
All your smooth Fortunes in a Silken Line.
And that you may at Heaven late arrive,
May it to you its largest Bottom give.
May Heaven with still repeated Favours bless,
Till it its Pow'r below its Will confess;
Till Wishes can no more exalt your Fate,
Nor Poets fansie you more fortunate.
ON THE DEATH OF Mrs Katharine Kingscourt, A Child of Excellent Parts and Piety.
SHE did, She did— I saw her mount the Skie,
And with new Whiteness paint the Galaxy.
Heav'n her methought with all its Eyes did view,
And yet acknowledg'd all its Eyes too few.
Methought I saw in Crowds blest Spirits meet,
And with loud Welcomes her Arrival greet;
Which could they grieve, had gone with grief away
To see a Soul more white, more pure than they.
Earth was unworthy such a Prize as this,
Only a while Heav'n let us share the Bliss:
In vain her stay with fruitless Tears we'd woo,
In vain we'd Court, when that our Rival grew.
Thanks, ye kind Powers! who did so long dispense,
(Since you so wish'd her) with her absence thence:
We now resign, to you alone we grant
The sweet Monopoly of such a Saint;
So pure a Saint, I scarce dare call her so,
For fear to wrong her with a Name too low:
Such a Scraphick brightness in her shin'd,
I hardly can believe her Woman-kind.
'Twas sure some noble Being left the Sphere,
Which deign'd a little to inhabit here,
And can't be said to die, but disappear.
Or if she Mortal was and meant to show
The greater skill by being made below;
Sure Heav'n preserv'd her by the fall uncurst,
To tell how all the Sex were form'd at first:
[Page 57]Never did yet so much Divinity
In such a small Compendium crouded lye.
By her we credit what the Learned tell,
That many Angels in one Point can dwell.
More damned Fiends did not in Mary rest,
Than lodg'd of Blessed Spirits in her Breast;
Religion dawn'd so early in her mind,
You'd think her Saint, whilst in the Womb enshrin'd,
Nay, that bright ray which did her Temples paint,
Proclaim'd her clearly, while alive, a Saint.
Scarce had she learnt to lisp Religion's Name,
E'r she by her Example preach'd the same,
And taught her Cradle like the Pulpit to reclaim.
No Action did within her Practice fall
Which for th' Atonement of a Blush could call:
No word of hers e'er greeted any Ear,
But what a dying Saint confest might hear.
Her Thoughts had scarcely ever fully'd been
By the least Foot-steps of Original Sin.
[Page 58]Her Life did still as much Devotion breath
As others do at their last Gasp in Death.
Hence on her Tomb of her let not be said,
So long she liv'd; but thus, so long she pray'd.
A SUNDAY-THOUGHT In Sickness.
LOrd, how dreadful is the Prospect of Death at the remotest Distance! How the smallest Apprehension of it can pall the most gay, airy and brisk Spirits! Even I, who thought I could have been merry in sight of my Coffin, and drink a Health with the Sexton in my own Grave, now tremble at the least Envoy of the King of Terrors. To see but the shaking of my Glass makes me turn pale, and fear is like to prevent and do the Work of my Distemper. All the Jollity of my Humor and Conversation is turn'd on a sudden into shagrin and melancholy, black as Despair, and dark as the Grave. My Soul and Body seem at once laid out, and I fancy all the Plummets of Eternal Night already hanging upon my Temples. But [Page 60] whence proceed these Fears? Certainty they are not idle Dreams, nor the accidental Product of my Disease, which disorders the Brains, and fills 'em with odd Chimaera's. Why should my Soul be averse to its Enlargement? Why should it be content to be knit up in two Yards of Skin, when it may have all the World for its Purliew? 'Tis not that I'm unwilling to leave my Relations and present Friends: I'm parted from the first already, and could be sever'd from both the length of the whole Map, and live with my Body as far distant from them as my Soul must when I'm dead. Neither is it that I'm loth to leave the Delights and Pleasures of the World; some of them I have tried, and found empty, the others covet not, because unknown. I'm confident I could despise 'em all by a Greatness of Soul, did not the Bible oblige me, and Divines tell me, 'tis my Duty. It is not neither that I'm unwilling to go hence before I've Establish'd a Reputation, and something to make me survive my self. I could have been content to be Still-born, and have no more than the Register, or Sexton to [Page 61] tell that I've ever been in the Land of the Living. In Fine, 'tis not from a Principle of Cowardise, which the Schools have called Self-preservation, the poor Effect of Instinct and dull pretence of a Brute as well as me. This Unwillingness therefore, and Aversion to undergo the general Fate, must have a juster Original, and flow from a more important Cause. I'm well satisfied that this other Being within, that moves and actuates my Frame of Flesh and Blood, has a Life beyond it and the Grave; and something in it prompts me to believe its immortality. A Residence it must have somewhere else, when it has left this Carcase, and another State to pass into, unchangeable and everlasting as it self after its Separation. This Condition must be good or bad according to its Actions and Deserts in this Life; for as it owes its Being to some Infinite Power that created it, I well suppose it his Vassal, and oblig'd to live by his Law; and as certainly conclude, that according to the keeping or breaking of that Law, 'tis to be rewarded or punish'd hereafter. This Diversity of Rewards and Punishments, [Page 62] makes the two Places, Heaven and Hell, so often mention'd in Scripture, and talked of in Pulpits: Of the later my Fears too cruelly convince me, and the Anticipation of its Torment, which I already feel in my own Conscience. There is, there is a Hell, and damned Fiends, and a never-dying Worm, and that Sceptick that doubts of it, may find 'em all within my single Breast. I dare not any longer with the Atheist disbelieve them, or think 'em the Clergy's Bugbears, invented as Nurses do frightful Names for their Children, to scare 'em into Quietness and Obedience. How oft have I triumph'd in my unconcern'd and sear'd insensibility? How oft boasted of that unhappy suspected Calm, which, like that of the dead Sea, prov'd only my Curse, and a treacherous Ambush to those Storms, which at present (and will for ever I dread) shipwreck my Quiet and Hopes? How oft have I rejected the Advice of that Bosom-Friend, and drowned its Alarms in the Noise of a tumultuous Debauch, or by stupifying Wine (like some condemn'd Malefactor) arm'd my self against [Page 63] the Apprehensions of my certain Doom? Now, now the Tyrant awakes, and comes to pay at once all Arrears of Cruelty. At last, but too late (like drowning Mariners) I see the gay Monsters, which inveigled me into my Death and Destruction. Oh the gnawing Remorse of a rash unguarded, unconsidering Sinner! Oh how the Ghosts of former Crimes affright my haunted Imagination, and make me suffer a thousand Racks and Martyrdoms! I see, methinks, the Jaws of Destruction gaping wide to swallow me; and I, (like one sliding on Ice) tho I see the Danger, cannot stop from running into it. My Fancy represents to me a whole Legion of Devils, ready to tear me in pieces, numberless as my Sins or Fears; and whither, Alas! whither shall I fly for Refuge? Where shall I retreat and take Sanctuary? Shall I call the Rocks and Mountains to cover me; or bid the Earth yawn wide to its Centre, and take me in? Poor shift of escaping Almighty Justice! Distracting Frenzy! that would make me believe Contradictions, and hope to fly out of the reach of him whose [Page 64] Presence is every where, not excluded Hell it self; for he is there in the effects of his Vengeance. Shall I invoke some Power infinite as that that created me, to reduce me to nothing again, and rid me at once of my Being and all that tortures it? Oh no, 'tis in vain, I must be forced into Being, to keep me fresh for Torment, and retain Sense only to feel Pain. I must be adying to all Eternity, and live ever, to live ever wretched. Oh that Nature had placed me in the Rank of things that have only a bare Existence, or at best, an Animal Life, and never given me a Soul and Reason, which now must contribute to my Misery, and make me envy Brutes and Vegetables! Would the Womb that bare me had been my Prison till now, or I stept out of 't it into my Grave, and saved the Expences and Toil of a long and tedious Journey, where Life affords nothing of Accommodations to invite ones stay. Happy had I been if I had expired with my first Breath, and enter'd the Bill of Mortality as soon as the World: Happy if I had been drowned in my Font, and that Water which was to Regenerate, [Page 65] and give me New Life, had prov'd Mortal in another Sense! I had then died without any Guilt of my own, but what I brought into the World with me, and that too atton'd for; I mean that which I contracted from my first Parents, my unhappiness rather than Fault, inasmuch as I was fain to be born of a Sinning Race: Then I had never enhaunc'd it with acquired Guilt, never added those innumerable Crimes which must make up my Indictment at the Grand Audit. Ungrateful Wretch! I've made my Sins as numerous as those Blessings and Mercies the Almighty Bounty has conferr'd upon me, to oblige and lead me to Repentance. How have I abused and misimployed those Parts and Talents which might have render'd me serviceable to Mankind, and repaid an Interest of Glory to their Donor? How ill do they turn to account which I have made the Patrons of Debauchery, and Pimps and Panders to Vice? How oft have I broke my Vows to my Great Creator, which I would be conscientious of keeping to a [Page 66] silly Woman, a Creature beneath my self? What has all my Religion been but an empty Parade and Shew? Either an useful Hypocrisie taken up for Interest, or a gay specious Formality worn in Complaisance to Custom and the Mode, and as changeable as my Cloaths and their Fashion. How oft have I gone to Church (the place where we are to pay him Homage and Duty) as to an Assignation or Play, only for Diversion; or at best, as I must ere long (for ought I know) with my Soul sever'd from my Body? How I tremble at the Remembrance! as if I could put the Sham upon Heaven, or a God were to be imposed on like my Fellow-Creature: And dare I, convicted of these High Treasons against the King of Glory, dare I expect a Reprieve or Pardon? Has he Thunder, and are not all his Bolts levell'd at my Head, to strike me through the very Centre? Yes, I dare appeal to thee, boundless Pity and Compassion! My own Instances already tells me, that thy Mercy is infinite; for I've done enough to shock [Page 67] Long-sufferance it self, and weary out an Eternal Patience. I beseech thee by thy soft and gentle Attributes of Mercy and Forgiveness, by the last dying Accents of my suffering Deity, have Pity on a poor, humble, prostrate and confessing Sinner: And thou great Ransom of lost Mankind, who offered'st thy self a Sacrifice to attone our Guilt, and redeem our mortgag'd Happiness, do thou be my Advocate, and intercede for me with the Angry Judge.
My Pray'rs are heard, a glorious Light now shone,
And (lo!) An Angel-Post comes hast'ning down:
From Heav'n I see him cut the yielding Air;
So swift, he seems at once both there and here;
So quick, my sight in the pursuit was slow,
And Thought could scarce so soon the Journey go.
No angry Message in his Look appears,
His Face no signs of threatning Vengeance wears.
Comely his shape, of Heavenly Meen and Air,
Kinder than Smiles of beauteous Virgins are.
[Page 68]Such he was seen by the blest Maid of old
When he th' Almighty Infant's Birth foretold.
A mighty Volume in one hand is born,
Whose open'd Leaves the other seems to turn:
Vast Annals of my Sins in Scarlet writ,
But now eras'd, blot our, and cancell'd quite.
Hark how the Heavenly Whisper strikes mine Ear,
Mortal, behold thy Crimes all pardon'd here!
Hail Sacred Envoy of th' Eternal King!
Welcom as the bless'd Tidings thou dost bring.
Welcom as Heav'n from whence thou cam'st but now,
Thus low to thy great God and mine I bow,
And might I here, O might I ever grow,
Fix'd an unmov'd and endless Monument
Of Gratitude to my Creator sent.
TO THE MEMORY OF Mr. Charles Morwent.
A PINDARIQUE.
Ignis utique quo clariùs effulsit, citiùs extinguitur, eripit se aufertque ex oculis subitò perfecta virtus: quicquid est absoluti faciliùs transfluit, & optimi neutiquam diurnant. Cambden. de Phil. Syd.
O celeres hominum bonorum dies. Apul.
LONDON: Printed in the Year 1687.
To the Memory of my Dear Friend, Mr. CHARLES MORWENT: A PINDARIQUE.
Ostendunt terris hunc tantùm fata, nec ultrà
Esse sinunt.—
Virg.
I.
BEst Friend! could my unbounded Grief but rate
With due proportion thy too cruel Fate;
Could I some happy Miracle bring forth,
Great as my Wishes and thy greater Worth,
All Helicon should soon be thine,
And pay a Tribute to thy Shrine.
The learned Sisters all transform'd should be,
No longer nine, but one Melpomene:
Each should into a Niobe relent,
At once thy Mourner and thy Monument,
[Page 72]Each should become
Like the fam'd Memnon's speaking Tomb,
To sing thy well-tun'd Praise;
Nor should we fear their being dumb,
Thou still would'st make 'em vocal with thy Rays.
II.
O that I could distil my vital Juice in Tears!
Or wast away my Soul in sobbing Airs!
Were I all Eyes,
To flow in liquid Elegies:
That every Limb might grieve,
And dying Sorrow still retrieve;
My Life should be but one long mourning day,
And like moist Vapors melt in Tears away.
I'd soon dissolve in one great Sigh,
And upwards fly,
Glad so to be exhal'd to Heav'n and thee.
A Sigh which might well-nigh reverse thy death,
And hope to animate thee with new Breath;
[Page 73]Pow'rful as that which heretofore did give
A Soul to well-form'd Clay, and made it live.
III.
Adieu, blest Soul! whose hasty Flight away
Tells Heaven did ne'er display
Such Happiness to bless the World with stay.
Death in thy Fall betray'd her utmost spite,
And shew'd her shafts most times are levell'd at the white.
She saw thy blooming Ripeness time prevent;
She saw, and envious grew, and straight her arrow sent.
So Buds appearing e'er the Frosts are past,
Nip'd by some unkind Blast,
Wither in Penance for their forward haste.
Thus have I seen a Morn so bright,
So deck'd with all the Robes of Light,
As if it scorn'd to think of Night,
Which a rude Storm e'er Noon did shroud,
And buried all its early Glories in a Cloud.
[Page 74]The day in funeral Blackness mourn'd,
And all to Sighs, and all to Tears it turn'd.
IV.
But why do we thy Death untimely deem;
Or Fate blaspheme?
We should thy full ripe Virtues wrong,
To think thee young.
Fate, when she did thy vigorous Growth behold,
And all thy forward Glories told,
Forgot thy tale of Years, and thought thee old.
The brisk Endowments of thy Mind
Scorning i'th' Bud to be confin'd,
Out-ran thy Age, and left slow Time behind;
Which made thee reach Maturity so soon,
And at first Dawn present a full-spread Noon.
So thy Perfections with thy Soul agree,
Both knew no Non-age, knew no Infancy.
Thus the first Patern of our Race began
His Life in middle-age, at's Birth a perfect Man.
V.
So well thou acted'st in thy Span of Days,
As calls at once for Wonder and for Praise.
Thy prudent Conduct had so learnt to measure
The different whiles of Toil and Leasure,
No time did Action want, no Action wanted Pleasure.
Thy busie Industry could Time dilate,
And stretch the Thread of Fate:
Thy careful Thrift could only boast the Power
To lengthen Minutes, and extend an Hour.
No single Sand could e'er slip by
Without its Wonder, sweet as high:
And every teeming Moment still brought forth
A thousand Rarities of Worth.
While some no other Cause for Life can give,
But a dull Habitude to live:
Thou scorn'dst such Laziness while here beneath,
And Liv'dst that time which others only Breath.
VI.
Next our just Wonder does commence,
How so small Room could hold such Excellence.
Nature was proud when she contriv'd thy Frame,
In thee she labor'd for a Name:
Hence 'twas she lavish'd all her Store,
As if she meant hereafter to be poor,
And, like a Bankrupt, run o'th' Score.
Her curious Hand here drew in Straights and joyn'd
All the Perfections lodge in Humane kind;
Teaching her numerous Gifts to lie
Crampt in a short Epitome.
So Stars contracted in a Diamond shine,
And Jewels in a narrow Point confine
The Riches of an Indian Mine.
Thus subtle Artists can
Draw Nature's larger self within a Span:
A small Frame holds the World, Earth, Heav'ns and all
Shrunk to the scant Dimensions of a Ball.
VII.
Those Parts which never in one Subject dwell,
But some uncommon Excellence foretel,
Like Stars did all constellate here,
And met together in one Sphere.
Thy Judgment, Wit and Memory conspir'd
To make themselves and thee admir'd:
And could thy growing Height a longer Stay have known,
Thou hadst all other Glories, and thy self out-done.
While some to Knowledg by degrees arrive,
Through tedious Industry improv'd,
Thine scorn'd by such pedantick Rules to thrive;
But swift as that of Angels mov'd,
And made us think it was intuitive.
Thy pregnant Mind ne'er struggl'd in its Birth,
But quick, and while it did conceive, brought forth;
The gentle Throes of thy prolifick Brain
Were all unstrain'd, and without Pain.
[Page 78]Thus when Great Jove the Queen of Wisdom bare
So easie and so mild his Travels were.
VIII.
Nor were these Fruits in a rough Soil bestown
As Gems are thick'st in rugged Quarries sown.
Good Nature and good parts so shar'd thy mind,
A Muse and Grace were so combin'd,
'Twas hard to guess which with most Lustre shin'd,
A Genius did thy whole Comportment act,
Whose charming Complaisance did so attract,
As every Heart attack'd.
Such a soft Air thy well-tun'd Sweetness sway'd,
As told thy Soul of Harmony was made;
All rude Affections that Disturbers be,
That mar or disunite Society,
Were Foreiners to thee.
Love only in their stead took up its Rest;
Nature made that thy constant Guest,
And seem'd to form no other Passion for thy Breast.
IX.
This made thy Courteousness to all extend,
And thee to the whole Universe a Friend.
Those which were Strangers to thy native Soil and thee
No Strangers to thy Love could be,
Whose Bounds were wide as all Mortality.
Thy Heart no Island was, disjoyn'd
(Like thy own Nation) from all human kind;
But 'twas a Continent to other Countries fixt
As firm by Love, as they by Earth annext.
Thou scorn'dst the Map should thy Affection guide,
Like theirs who love by dull Geography,
Friends but to whom by Soil they are ally'd:
Thine reach'd to all beside,
To every Member of the World's great Family.
Heav'ns Kindness only claims a Name more general,
Which we the nobler call,
Because 'tis common, and vouchsaf'd to all.
X.
Such thy Ambition of obliging was,
Thou seem'dst corrupted with the very Power to please.
Only to let thee gratifie,
At once did bribe and pay thy Courtesie.
Thy Kindness by Acceptance might be bought,
It for no other Wages sought,
But would its own be thought.
No Suiters went unsatisfy'd away;
But left thee more unsatisfy'd than they.
Brave Titus! thou mightst here thy true Portraicture find,
And view thy Rival in a private mind.
Thou heretofore deserv'dst such Praise,
When Acts of Goodness did compute thy days,
Measur'd not by the Sun's, but thine own kinder Rays.
Thou thought'st each hour out of Life's Journal lost,
Which could not some fresh Favor boast,
And reckon'dst Bounties thy best Clepsydras.
XI.
Some Fools who the great Art of giving want,
Deflower their Largess with too slow a Grant:
Where the deluded Suitor dearly buys
What hardly can defray
The Expence of Importunities,
Or the Suspense of torturing Delay.
Here was no need of tedious Pray'rs to sue,
Or thy too backward Kindness woo.
It moved with no formal State,
Like theirs whose Pomp does for intreaty wait:
But met the swift'st Desires half way;
And Wishes did well-nigh anticipate;
And then as modestly withdrew,
Nor for its due Reward of Thanks would stay.
XII.
Yet might this Goodness to the happy most accrue;
Somewhat was to the miserable due,
Which they might justly challenge too.
[Page 82]Whate'er Mishap did a known Heart oppress,
The same did thine as wretched make;
Like yielding Wax thine did th' Impressions take,
And paint its Sadness in as lively Dress.
Thou could'st afflictions from another Breast translate,
And forein Grief impropriate;
Oft-times our Sorrows thine so much have grown,
They scarce were more our own;
Who seem'd exempt, thou suffer'dst all alone.
XIII.
Our small'st Misfortunes scarce could reach thy Ear,
But made thee give in Alms a Tear;
And when our Hearts breath'd their regret in sighs,
As a just Tribute to their Miseries,
Thine with their mournful Airs did symbolize.
Like Throngs of Sighs did for its Fibres crowd,
And told thy Grief from our each Grief aloud:
Such is the secret Sympathy
We may betwixt two neighb'ring Lutes descry,
[Page 83]If either by unskilful hand too rudely bent
Its soft Complaint in pensive murmurs vent,
As if it did that Injury resent:
Untoucht the other strait returns the Moan,
And gives an Eccho to each Groan.
From its sweet Bowels a sad Note's convey'd,
Like those which to condole are made,
As if its Bowels too a kind Compassion had.
XIV.
Nor was thy goodness bounded with so small extent,
Or in such narrow Limits pent.
Let Female Frailty in fond Tears distill,
Who think that Moisture which they spill
Can yield Relief,
Or shrink the Current of anothers Grief,
Who hope that Breath which they in sighs convey,
Should blow Calamities away.
Thine did a manlier Form express,
And scorn'd to whine at an Unhappiness;
Thou thought'st it still the noblest Pity to redress.
[Page 84]So friendly Angels their Relief bestow
On the unfortunate below,
For whom those purer minds no Passion know:
Such Nature in that generous Plant is found,
Whose every Breach does with a Salve abound,
And wounds it self to cure another's Wound.
In pity to Mankind it sheds its Juice,
Glad with expence of Blood to serve their Use:
First with kind Tears our Maladies bewails,
And after heals;
And makes those very Tears the remedy produce.
XV.
Nor didst thou to thy Foes less generous appear,
(If there were any durst that Title wear.)
They could not offer Wrongs so fast,
But what were pardon'd with like haste;
And by thy acts of Amnesty defac't.
Had he who wish'd the Art how to forget,
Discover'd its new Worth in thee,
He had a double Value on it set,
[Page 85]And justly scorn'd th' ignobler Art of Memory.
No Wrongs could thy great Soul to Grief expose,
'Twas plac'd as much out of the reach of those,
As of material Blows.
No Injuries could thee provoke,
Thy Softness always dampt the stroke:
As Flints on Feather-beds are easiest broke.
Affronts could ne'er thy cool Complexion heat,
Or chafe thy temper from its setled State:
But still thou stoodst unshockt by all,
As if thou hadst unlearnt the Power to hate,
Or, like the Dove, wert born without a Gall.
XVI.
Vain Stoicks who disclaim all Human Sense,
And own no Passions to resent Offence,
May pass it by with unconcern'd Neglect,
And Virtue on those Principles erect,
Where 'tis not a Perfection, but Defect.
Let these themselves in a dull Patience please,
Which their own Statues may possess,
[Page 86]And they themselves when Carcasses.
Thou only couldst to that high pitch arrive,
To court Abuses, that thou mightst forgive:
Wrongs thus in thy Esteem seem'd Courtesie,
And thou the first was e'er oblig'd by Injury.
XVII.
Nor may we think these God-like Qualities
Could stand in need of Votaries,
Which heretofore had challeng'd Sacrifice.
Each Assignation, each Converse
Gain'd thee some new Idolaters.
Thy sweet Obligingness could supple Hate,
And out of it its Contrary create.
Its powerful Influence made Quarrels cease,
And Fewds dissolv'd into a calmer Peace.
Envy resign'd her Force, and vanquish'd Spite
Became thy speedy Proselyte.
Malice could cherish Enmity no more;
And those which were thy Foes before,
Now wish'd they might adore,
[Page 87] Caesar may tell of Nations took,
And Troops by Force subjected to his Yoke:
We read as great a Conquerer in thee,
Who couldst by milder ways all Hearts subdue,
The nobler Conquest of the two;
Thus thou whole Legions mad'st thy Captives be,
And like him too couldst look, and speak thy Victory.
XVIII.
Hence may we Calculate the Tenderness
Thou didst Express
To all, whom thou didst with thy Friendship bless:
To think of Passion by new Mothers bore
To the young Offspring of their Womb,
Or that of Lovers to what they Adore,
Ere Duty it become:
We should too mean Ideas frame,
Of that which thine might justly claim,
And injure it by a degrading Name:
Conceive the tender Care,
Of guardian Angels to their Charge assign'd,
[Page 88]Or think how dear
To Heaven Expiring Martyrs are;
These are the Emblems of thy mind,
The only Types to shew how thou wast kind.
XIX.
On whomsoe'er thou didst confer this Tye
'Twas lasting as Eternity,
And firm as the unbroken Chain of Destiny,
Embraces would faint shadows of your Union show,
Unless you could together grow.
That Union which is from Alliance bred,
Does not so fastly wed,
Tho it with Blood be cemented:
That Link wherewith the Soul and Body's joyn'd,
Which twists the double Nature in Mankind
Only so close can bind.
That holy Fire which Romans to their Vesta paid,
Which they immortal as the Goddess made,
Thy noble Flames most fitly parallel;
For thine were just so pure, and just so durable.
[Page 89]Those feigned Pairs of Faithfulness which claim
So high a place in ancient Fame,
Had they thy better Pattern seen,
They'd made their Friendship more divine
And strove to mend their Characters by thine.
XX.
Yet had this Friendship no advantage been,
Unless 'twere exercis'd within;
What did thy Love to other Objects tie,
The same made thy own Pow'rs agree,
And reconcil'd thy self to thee.
No Discord in thy Soul did rest,
Save what its Harmony increast.
Thy mind did with such regular Calmness move,
As held resemblance with the greater Mind above.
Reason there fix'd its peaceful Throne,
And reign'd alone.
The Will its easie Neck to Bondage gave,
And to the ruling Faculty became a Slave.
[Page 90]The Passions rais'd no Civil Wars,
Nor discompos'd thee with intestine Jars:
All did obey,
And paid Allegiance to its rightful Sway.
All threw their resty Tempers by,
And gentler Figures drew,
Gentle as Nature in its Infancy,
As when themselves in their first Beings grew.
XXI.
Thy Soul within such silent Pomp did keep.
As if Humanity were lull'd asleep.
So gentle was thy Pilgrimage beneath,
Time's unheard Feet scarce makeless noise,
Or the soft Journey which a Planet goes.
Life seem'd all calm as its last Breath.
A still Tranquillity so husht thy Breast,
As if some Halcyon were its Guest,
And there had built her Nest;
It hardly now enjoys a greater Rest.
As that smooth Sea which wears the Name of Peace,
[Page 91]Still with one even Face appears,
And feels no Tides to change it from its place,
No Waves to alter the fair Form it bears:
As that unspotted Sky,
Where Nile does want of Rain supply,
Is free from Clouds, from Storms is ever free.
So thy unvary'd mind was always one,
And with such clear Serenity still shone,
As caus'd thy little World to seem all temp'rate Zone.
XXII.
Let Fools their high Extraction boast,
And Greatness, which no Travel, but their Mothers, cost.
Let 'em extol a swelling Name,
Which theirs by Will and Testament became;
At best but meer Inheritance,
As oft the Spoils as Gift of Chance.
Let some ill-plac't Repute on Scutcheons rear
As fading as the Colors which those bear;
And prize a painted Field,
Which Wealth as soon as Fame can yield.
[Page 92]Thou scorn'dst at such low Rates to purchase Worth,
Nor couldst thou owe it only to thy Birth.
Thy self-born Greatness was above the Power
Of Parents to entail, or Fortune to deflower.
Thy Soul, which like the Sun, Heaven molded bright,
Disdain'd to shine with borrow'd Light.
Thus from himself th' Eternal Being grew,
And from no other Cause his Grandeur drew.
XXIII.
Howe'er if true Nobility
Rather in Souls than in the Blood does lie:
If from thy better part we Measures take,
And that the Standard of our Value make,
Jewels and Stars become low Heraldry
To blazon thee.
Thy Soul was big enough to pity Kings,
And look'd on Empires as poor humble things.
Great as his boundless Mind,
[Page 93]Who thought himself in one wide Globe confin'd,
And for another pin'd.
Great as that Spirit whose large Powers rowl
Thro' the vast Fabrick of this spatious Bowl,
And tell the World as well as Man can boast a Soul.
XXIV.
Yet could not this an Haughtiness beget,
Or thee above the common Level set.
Pride, whose Alloy does best Endowments mar,
(As things most lofty smaller still appear)
With thee did no Alliance bear.
Low Merits oft are by too high Esteem bely'd,
Whose Owners lessen while they raise their Price;
Thine were above the very Guilt of Pride,
Above all others, and thy own Hyperbole:
In thee the wid'st Extreams were joyn'd
The loftiest, and the lowliest Mind.
Thus tho some part of Heav'ns vast Round
Appear but low, and seem to touch the Ground,
[Page 94]Yet 'tis well known almost to bound the Spheres,
'Tis truly held to be above the Stars.
XXV.
While thy brave Mind preserv'd this noble Frame,
Thou stoodst at once secure
From all the Flattery and Obloquy of Fame,
Its rough and gentler Breath were both to thee the same:
Nor this could thee exalt, nor that depress thee lower;
But thou from thy great Soul on both look'dst down
Without the small concernment of a Smile or Frown.
Heav'n less dreads that it should fir'd be
By the weak flitting Sparks that upwards fly,
Less the bright Goddess of the Night
Fears those loud howlings that revile her Light
Than thou Malignant Tongues thy Worth should blast,
Which was too great for Envy's Cloud to overcast.
'Twas thy brave Method to despise Contempt,
And make what was the Fault the Punishment,
[Page 95]What more Assaults could weak Detraction raise,
When thou couldst Saint disgrace,
And turn Reproach to Praise.
So Clouds which would obscure the Sun, oft gilded be,
And Shades are taught to shine as bright as he.
So Diamonds, when envious Night
Would shroud their Splendor, look most bright,
And from its Darkness seem to borrow Light.
XXVI.
Had Heav'n compos'd thy mortal Frame,
Free from Contagion as thy Soul or Fame:
Could Virtue been but Proof against Death's Arms,
Th'adst stood unvanquisht by these Harms,
Safe in a Circle made by thy own Charms.
Fond Pleasure, whose soft Magick oft beguiles
Raw unexperienc'd Souls,
And with smooth Flattery cajoles,
Could ne'er ensnare thee with her Wiles,
Or make thee Captive to her soothing Smiles.
[Page 96]In vain that Pimp of Vice assay'd to please,
In hope to draw thee to its rude Embrace.
Thy Prudence still that Syren past
Without being pinion'd to the Mast:
All its Attempts were ineffectual found;
Heav'n fenc'd thy heart with its own Mound,
And forc'd the Tempter still from that forbidden Ground.
XXVII.
The mad Capricio's of the doating Age
Could ne'er in the same Frenzy thee engage;
But mov'd thee rather with a generous Rage.
Gallants, who their high Breeding prize,
Known only by their Gallanture and Vice,
Whose Talent is to court a fashionable Sin,
And act some fine Transgression with a janty Meen,
May by such Methods hope the Vogue to win.
Let those gay Fops who deem
Their Infamies Accomplishment,
Grow scandalous to get Esteem;
And by Disgrace strive to be eminent.
[Page 97]Here thou disdainst the common Road,
Nor wouldst by ought be woo'd
To wear the vain Iniquities o'th' Mode.
Vice with thy Practice did so disagree,
Thou scarce couldst bear it in thy Theory.
Thou didst such Ignorance 'bove Knowledg prize,
And here to be unskill'd, is to be wise.
Such the first Founders of our Blood,
While yet untempted, stood
Contented only to know Good.
XXVIII.
Virtue alone did guide thy Actions here,
Thou by no other Card thy Life didst steer:
No sly Decoy would serve,
To make thee from its rigid Dictates swerve,
Thy Love ne'er thought her worse
Because thou hadst so few Competitors.
Thou couldst adore her when ador'd by none
Content to be her Votary alone:
[Page 98]When 'twas proscrib'd the unkind World
And to blind Cells, and Grotto's hurl'd,
When thought the Fantom of some crazy Brain,
Fit for grave Anchorets to entertain,
A thin Chimaera, whom dull Gown-Men frame
To gull deluded Mortals with an empty Name.
XXIX.
Thou own'dst no Crimes that shun'd the Light,
Whose Horror might thy Blood affright,
And force it to its known Retreat.
While the pale Cheeks do Penance in their White,
And tell that Blushes are too weak to expiate:
Thy Faults might all be on thy Forehead wore,
And the whole World thy Confessor.
Conscience within still kept Assize,
To punish and deter Impieties:
That inbred Judg, such strict Inspection bore,
So travers'd all thy Actions ore;
Th' Eternal Judge could scarce do more:
[Page 99]Those little Escapades of Vice,
Which pass the Cognizance of most
I'th' Crowd of following Sins forgot and lost,
Could ne'er its Sentence or Arraignment miss:
Thou didst prevent the young desires of ill,
And them in their first Motions kill:
The very thoughts in others unconfin'd
And lawless as the Wind,
Thou couldst to Rule and Order bind.
They durst not any Stamp, but that of Virtue bear,
And free from stain as thy most publick Actions were.
Let wild Debauchees hug their darling Vice,
And court no other Paradise,
Till want of Power
Bids 'em discard the stale Amour,
And when disabled Strength shall force
A short Divorce,
Miscall that weak forbearance Abstinence,
Which wise Morality and better Sence
[Page 100]Stiles but at best a sneaking Impotence.
Thine far a Nobler Pitch did fly
'Twas all free choice, nought of Necessity.
Thou didst that puny Soul disdain
Whose half strain Virtue only can restrain;
Nor wouldst that empty Being own,
Which springs from Negatives alone,
But truly thoughtst it always Virtues Skeleton.
XXX.
Nor didst thou those mean Spirits more approve,
Who Virtue, only for its Dowry love,
Unbrib'd thou didst her sterling self espouse:
Nor wouldst a better Mistris choose.
Thou couldst Affection to her bare Idoea pay,
The first that e'er caress'd her the Platonick way.
To see her in her own Attractions drest,
Did all thy Love arrest,
Nor lack'd there new Efforts to storm thy Brest.
Thy generous Loyalty
Would ne'er a Mercenary be,
[Page 101]But chose to serve her still without a Livery.
Yet wast thou not of Recompence debarr'd,
But countedst Honesty its own Reward;
Thou didst not wish a greater Bliss t' accrue,
For to be good to thee was to be happy too,
That secret Triumph of thy Mind,
Which always thou in doing well didst find,
Were Heaven enough, were there no other Heaven design'd.
XXXI.
What Virtues few possess but by Retail
In gross could thee their Owner call;
They all did in thy single Circle fall.
Thou wast a living System where were wrote
All those high Morals which in Books are sought.
Thy Practice did more Virtues share
Than heretofore the learned Porch e'er knew,
Or in the Stagyrites scant Ethics grew:
Devout thou wast as holy Hermits are,
Which share their time 'twixt Ecstasie and Prayer.
[Page 102]Modest as Infant Roses in their bloom,
Which in a Blush their Lives consume,
So Chast the Dead are only more,
Who lie divorc'd from Objects, and from Power.
So pure, that if blest Saints could be
Taught Innocence, they'd gladly learn of thee.
Thy Virtues height in Heaven alone could grow
Nor to ought else would for Accession owe:
It only now's more perfect than it was below.
XXXII.
Hence, tho' at once thy Soul liv'd here and there,
Yet Heaven alone its Thoughts did share;
It own'd no home, but in the active Sphere.
Its Motions always did to that bright Centre rowl,
And seem'd t' inform thee only on Parole.
Look how the Needle does to its dear North incline,
As wer't not fixt 't would to that Region climb;
Or mark what hidden force
Bids the Flame upwards take its course,
And makes it with that Swiftness rise,
[Page 103]As if'twere wing'd by th' Air thro' which it flies.
Such a strong Virtue did thy Inclinations bend,
And made 'em still to the blest Mansions tend.
That mighty Slave whom the proud Victor's Rage
Shut Pris'ner in a golden Cage,
Condemn'd to glorious Vassalage,
Ne'er long'd for dear Enlargement more,
Nor his gay Bondage with less patience bore,
Than this great Spirit brookt its tedious Stay,
While fetter'd here in brittle Clay,
And wish'd to disengage and fly away.
It vex'd and chaf'd, and still desir'd to be
Releas'd to the sweet Freedom of Eternity.
XXXIII.
Nor were its Wishes long unheard,
Fate soon at its desire appear'd.
And strait for an Assault prepar'd.
A sudden and a swift Disease
First on thy Heart Life's chiefest Fort does seize,
And then on all the Suburb-vitals preys:
[Page 104]Next it corrupts thy tainted Blood,
And scatters Poyson through its purple Flood.
Sharp Aches in thick Troops it sends,
And Pain, which like a Rack the Nerves extends.
Anguish through every Member flies,
And all those inward Gemonies
Whereby frail Flesh in Torture dies.
All the staid Glories of thy Face,
Where sprightly Youth lay checkt with manly Grace,
Are now impair'd,
And quite by the rude hand of Sickness mar'd.
Thy Body where due Symmetry
In just proportions once did lie,
Now hardly could be known,
Its very Figure out of Fashion grown;
And should thy Soul to its old Seat return,
And Life once more adjourn,
'Twould stand amaz'd to see its alter'd Frame,
And doubt (almost) whether its own Carcass were the same.
XXXIV.
And here thy Sickness does new matter raise
Both for thy Virtue and our Praise;
'Twas here thy Picture look'd most neat,
When deep'st in Shades 'twas set,
Thy Virtues only thus could fairer be
Advantag'd by the Foil of Misery.
Thy Soul which hasten'd now to be enlarg'd,
And of its grosser Load discharg'd,
Began to act above its wonted rate,
And gave a Praelude of its next unbody'd State.
So dying Tapers near their Fall,
When their own Lustre lights their Funeral,
Contract their Strength into one brighter Fire,
And in that Blaze triumphantly expire,
So the bright Globe that rules the Skies,
Tho' he gild Heav'n with a glorious Rise,
Reserves his choicest Beams to grace his Set;
And then he looks most great,
And then in greatest Splendor dies.
XXXVI.
Thou sharpest Pains didst with that Courage bear,
And still thy Looks so unconcern'd didst wear:
Beholders seem'd more indispos'd than thee;
For they were sick in Effigie.
Like some well-fashion'd Arch thy Patience stood,
And purchas'd Firmness from its greater Load.
Those Shapes of Torture, which to view in Paint
Would make another faint;
Thou could'st endure in true Reality,
And feel what some could hardly bear to see.
Those Indians who their Kings by Tortures chose,
Subjecting all the Royal Issue to that Test
Could ne'er thy Sway refuse,
If he deserves to reign that suffers best.
Had those fierce Savages thy Patience view'd,
Thou'dst claim'd their Choice alone;
They with a Crown had paid thy Fortitude,
And turn'd thy Death-bed to a Throne.
XXVII.
All those Heroick Pieties,
Whose Zeal to Truth made them its Sacrifice:
Those nobler Scaevola's, whose holy Rage
Did their whole selves in cruel Flames engage,
Who did amidst their Force unmov'd appear,
As if those Fires but lambent were;
Or they had found their Empyreum there.
Might these repeat again their Days beneath,
They'd seen their Fates out-acted by a natural Death,
And each of them to thee resign his Wreath.
In spite of Weakness and harsh Destiny,
To relish Torment, and enjoy a Misery:
So to caress a Doom,
As make its Sufferings Delights become:
So to triumph o'er Sense and thy Disease,
As amongst Pains to revel in soft Ease:
These Wonders did thy Virtues worth enhance,
And Sickness to dry Martyrdom advance.
XXXVIII.
Yet could not all these Miracles stern Fate avert,
Or make't without the Dart.
Only she paus'd a while with Wonder strook,
A while she doubted if that Destiny was thine,
And turn'd o'er again the dreadful Book,
And hop'd she had mistook;
And wish'd she might have cut another Line.
But dire Necessity
Soon cry'd 'twas thee,
And bad her give the fatal Blow.
Strait she obeys, and strait the vital Powers grow
Too weak to grapple with a stronger Foe,
And now the feeble Strife forgoe.
Life's sap'd Foundation every Moment sinks,
And every Breath to lesser compass shrinks;
Last panting Gasps grow weaker each Rebound,
Like the faint Tremblings of a dying Sound:
And doubtful Twilight hovers o'er the Light,
Ready to usher in Eternal Night.
XXXIX.
Yet here thy Courage taught thee to out-brave
All the slight Horrors of the Grave:
Pale Death's Arrest
Ne'er shock'd thy Breast;
Nor could it in the dreadfulst Figure drest.
That ugly Skeleton may guilty Spirits daunt,
When the dire Ghosts of Crimes departed haunt,
Arm'd with bold Innocence thou couldst that Mormo dare,
And on the bare-fac'd King of Terrors stare,
As free from all Effects as from the cause of Fear.
Thy Soul so willing from thy Body went,
As if both parted by Consent.
No Murmur, no Complaining, no Delay,
Only a Sigh, a Groan, and so away.
Death seem'd to glide with Pleasure in,
As if in this Sense too 't had lost her Sting.
Like some well-acted Comedy Life swiftly past,
And ended just so still and sweet at last.
[Page 110]Thou like its Actors, seem'dst in borrow'd Habit here beneath,
And couldst, as easily
As they do that, put off Mortality.
Thou Breathedst out thy Soul as free as common Breath,
As unconcern'd as they are in a feigned Death.
XL.
Go happy Soul, ascend the joyful Sky,
Joyful to shine with thy bright Company:
Go mount the spangled Sphere,
And make it brighter by another Star:
Yet stop not there, till thou advance yet higher,
Till thou art swallow'd quite
In the vast unexhausted Ocean of Delight:
Delight, which there alone in its true Essence is,
Where Saints keep an eternal Carnival of Bliss:
Where the Regalio's of refined Joy,
Which fill, but never cloy,
Where Pleasures ever growing, ever new,
Immortal as thy self, and boundless too.
[Page 111]There may'st thou learned by Compendium grow;
For which in vain below
We so much time, and so much pains bestow.
There may'st thou all Idea's see,
All wonders which in Knowledg be
In that fair beatifick mirror of the Deity.
XLI.
Mean while thy Body mourns in its own Dust,
And puts on Sables for its tender Trust.
Tho' dead, it yet retains some untoucht Grace,
Wherein we may thy Soul's fair Foot-steps trace;
Which no Disease can frighten from its wonted place:
E'en its Deformities do thee become,
And only serve to consecrate thy Doom.
Those marks of Death which did its Surface stain
Now hallow, not profane.
Each Spot does to a Ruby turn;
What soil'd but now, would now adorn.
Those Asterisks plac'd in the Margin of thy Skin
[Page 112]Point out the nobler Soul that dwelt within:
Thy lesser, like the greater World appears
All over bright, all over stuck with Stars.
So Indian Luxury when it would be trim,
Hangs Pearls on every Limb.
Thus amongst ancient Picts Nobility
In Blemishes did lie;
Each by his Spots more honorable grew,
And from their Store a greater Value drew:
Their Kings were known by th' Royal Stains they bore,
And in their Skins their Ermin wore.
XLII.
Thy Blood where Death triumph'd in greatest State,
Whose Purple seem'd the Badge of Tyrant-Fate,
And all thy Body o'er
Its ruling Colours bore:
That which infected with the noxious Ill
But lately help'd to kill,
Whose Circulation fatal grew.
[Page 113]And thro' each part a swifter Ruin threw.
Now conscious, its own Murther would arraign,
And throngs to sally out at every Vein.
Each Drop a fedder than its native Dye puts on,
As if in its own Blushes 'twould its Guilt attone.
A sacred Rubrick does thy Carcass paint,
And Death in every Member writes the Saint.
So Phoebus cloaths his dying Rays each Night,
And blushes he can live no longer to give Light.
LXIII.
Let Fools, whose dying Fame requires to have
Like their own Carcasses a Grave,
Let them with vain Expence adorn
Some costly Urn,
Which shortly, like themselves, to Dust shall turn.
Here lacks no Carian Sepulchre,
Which Ruin shall ere long in its own Tomb interr.
No fond Aegyptian Fabrick built so high
As if 'twould climb the Sky,
And thence reach Immortality.
[Page 114]Thy Virtues shall embalm thy Name,
And make it lasting as the Breath of Fame.
When frailer Brass
Shall moulder by a quick Decrease;
When brittle Marble shall decay,
And to the Jaws of Time become a Prey.
Thy Praise shall live, when Graves shall buried lie,
Till Time it self shall die,
And yield its triple Empire to Eternity.
To the Memory of that worthy Gentleman, Mr. Harman Atwood. PINDARIQUE.
I.
NO, I'll no more repine at Destiny,
Now we poor common Mortals are content to die,
When thee, blest Saint, we cold and breathless see,
Thee, who if ought that's great and brave,
Ought that is excellent might save,
Had justly claim'd Exemption from the Grave,
And cancell'd the black-irreversible Decree.
Thou didst alone such Worth, such Goodness share
As well deserv'd to be immortal here;
Deserve a Life as lasting as the Fame thou art to wear.
At least, why went thy Soul without its Mate?
[Page 116]Why did they not together undivided go?
So went (we're told) the fam'd Illustrious Two.
(Nor could they greater Merits shew,
Altho' the best of Patriarchs that,
And this the best of Prophets was)
Heav'n did alive the blessed Pair translate;
Alive they launch'd into Life's boundless Happiness,
And never past Death's Straights and narrow Seas;
Ne'er enter'd the dark gloomy Thorowfare of Fate.
II.
Long time had the Profession under Scandal lain,
And felt a general tho' unjust Disdain,
An upright Lawyer Contradiction seem'd,
And was at least a Prodigy esteem'd.
If one perhaps did in an Age appear,
He was recorded like some Blazing Star;
And Statues were erected to the wondrous Man,
As heretofore to the strange honest Publican.
To thee the numerous Calling all its thanks should give,
[Page 117]To thee who couldst alone its lost Repute retrieve.
Thou the vast wide extremes didst reconcile,
The first, almost, e'er taught it was not to beguile.
To each thou didst distribute Right so equally,
Ev'n Justice might herself correct her Scales by thee.
And none did now regret
Her once bewail'd Retreat,
Since all enjoy'd her better Deputy.
Henceforth succeeding Time shall bear in mind,
And Chronicle the best of all the kind:
The best e'er since the man that gave
Our suffering God a Grave;
(That God who living no Abode could find,
Tho' he the World had made, and was to save)
Embalming him, he did embalm his Memory,
And make it from Corruption free:
Those Odors kindly lent perfum'd the Breath of Fame,
And fixt a lasting Fragrancy upon his Name;
And rais'd it with his Saviour to an Immortality.
III.
Hence the stale musty Paradox of equal Souls,
That ancient vulgar Error of the Schools,
Avow'd by dull Philosophers and thinking Fools,
Here might they find their feeble Arguments o'erthrown:
Here might the grave Disputers find
Themselves all baffl'd by a single Mind,
And see one vastly larger than their own,
Tho all of theirs were mixt in one.
A Soul as great as e'er vouchsaf'd to be
Inhabiter in low Mortality;
As e'er th' Almighty Artist labour'd to infuse,
Thro' all his Mint he did the brightest chuse;
With his own Image stampt it fair,
And bid it ever the Divine Impression wear;
And so it did, so pure, so well,
We hardly could believe him of the Race that fell:
So spotless still, and still so good,
[Page 119]As if it never lodg'd in Flesh and Blood.
Hence conscious too, how high, how nobly born:
It never did reproach its Birth,
By valuing ought of base or meaner worth,
But look'd on earthly Grandeur with Contempt and Scorn.
IV.
Like his All-great Creator, who
Can only by diffusing greater grow:
He made his chiefest Glory to communicate,
And chose the fairest Attribute to imitate.
So kind, so generous, and so free,
As if he only liv'd in Courtesie.
To be unhappy did his Pity claim,
Only to want it did deserve the same:
Nor lack'd there other Rhetorick than Innocence and Misery.
His unconfin'd unhoarded Store
Was still the vast Exchequer of the poor;
And whatsoe'er in pious Acts went out
He did in his own Inventory put:
[Page 120]For well the wise and prudent Banker knew
His Gracious Sovereign above would all repay,
And all th' expences of his Charity defray;
And so he did, both Principal and Interest too,
And he by holy Prodigality more wealthy grew.
Such, and so universal is the Influence
Which the kind bounteous Sun does here dispense:
With an unwearied indefatigable Race,
He travels round the World each day,
And visits all Mankind, and every place,
And scatters Light and Blessings all the way.
Tho' he each hour new Beams expend,
Yet does he not like wasting Tapers spend.
Tho' he ten thousand years disburse in Light,
The boundless Stock can never be exhausted quite.
V.
Nor was his Bounty stinted or design'd,
As theirs who only partially are kind;
Or give where they Return expect to find:
[Page 121]But like his Soul, its fair Original:
'Twas all in all,
And all in every part,
Silent as his Devotion, open as his Heart.
Brib'd with the Pleasure to oblige and gratifie,
As Air and Sunshine he dispos'd his Kindness free,
Yet scorn'd Requitals, and worse hated Flattery,
And all obsequious Pomp of vain formality.
Thus the Almighty Bounty does bestow
Its Favors on our undeserving Race below;
Confer'd on all its loyal Votaries;
Confer'd alike on its rebellious Enemies.
To it alone our All we owe,
All that we are and are to be,
Each Art and Science to its Liberality,
And this same trifling jingling thing call'd Poetry.
Yet the great Donor does no costly Gratitude require,
No Charge of Sacrifice desire;
Nor are w' expensive Hecatombs to raise,
As heretofore,
[Page 122]To make his Altars float with reeking Gore.
A small Return the mighty Debt and Duty pays,
Ev'n the cheap humble Off'ring of worthless Thanks and Praise.
IV.
But how, blest Saint, shall I thy numerous Virtues sum,
If one or two take up this room?
To what vast Bulk must the full Audit come?
As that bold Hand that drew the fairest Deity,
Had many naked Beauties by,
And took from each a several Grace, and Air, and Line,
And all in one Epitome did joyn
To paint his bright Immortal in a Form Divine:
So must I do to frame thy Character.
I'll think whatever Men can good and lovely call,
And then abridge it all,
And crowd, and mix the various Idaea's there;
And yet at last of a just Praise despair,
Whatever ancient Worthies boast,
[Page 123]Which made themselves and Poets their Describers great,
From whence old Zeal did Gods and Shrines create;
Thou hadst thy self alone engrost,
And all their scatter'd Glories in thy Soul did meet:
And future Ages, when they eminent Virtues see,
(If any after thee
Dare the Pretence of Virtue own,
Without the Fear of being far out-done)
Shall count 'em all but Legacy,
Which from the Strength of thy Example flow,
And thy fair Copy in a less correct Edition show.
VII.
Religion over all did a just Conduct claim,
No false Religion which from Custom came,
Which to its Font and Country only ow'd its Name:
No Issue of devout and zealous Ignorance,
Or the more dull Effect of Chance;
But 'twas a firm well-grounded Piety,
[Page 124]That knew all that it did believe, and why;
And for the glorious Cause durst die,
And durst out-suffer ancient Martyrology.
So knit and interwoven with its being so,
Most thought it did not from his Duty, but his Nature flow.
Exalted far above the vain small Attacks of Wit,
And all that vile gay lewd Buffoons can bring,
Who try by little Railleries to ruin it,
And jeer't into an unreguarded poor defenceless thing,
The Men of Sence who in Confederacy join
To damn Religion, had they view'd but thine,
They'd have confest it pure, confest it all divine,
And free from all Pretences of Imposture or Design.
Pow'rful enough to counter-act lewd Poets and the Stage,
And Proselyte as fast as they debauch the Age;
So good, it might alone a guilty condemn'd World reprieve,
Should a destroying Angel stand
With brandish'd Thunder in his Hand,
[Page 125]Ready the bidden Stroke to give;
Or a new Deluge threaten this and every Land.
VIII.
Religion once a quiet and a peaceful Name,
Which all the Epithets of Gentleness did claim,
Late prov'd the Source of Faction and intestine Jars:
Like the Fair teeming Hebrew, she
Did travel with a wrangling Progeny,
And harbor'd in her Bowels Fewds and Civil Wars.
Surly, uncomplaisant, and rough she grew,
And of a soft and easie Mistris turn'd a Shrew.
Passion and Anger went for marks of Grace,
And looks deform'd and sullen sanctifyed a Face.
Thou first its meek and primitive Temper didst restore,
First shew'dst how men were pious heretofore:
The gall-less Dove, which otherwhere could find no Rest,
Early retreated to its Ark, thy Breast,
And straight the swelling Waves decreast
And straight tempestuous Passions ceast,
[Page 126]Like Winds and Storms where some fair Halcyon builds her Nest.
No overheating Zeal did thee inspire,
But 'twas a kindly gentle Fire,
To warm, but not devour,
And only did refine, and make more pure:
Such is that Fire that makes thy present blest Abode
The Residence and Palace of our God.
And such was that bright unconsuming Flame,
So mild, so harmless and so tame,
Which heretofore ith' Bush to Moses came:
At first the Vision did the wondring Prophet scare,
But when the voice had check'd his needless Fear,
He bow'd and worshipp'd and confest the Deity was there.
IX.
Hail Saint Triumphant! hail Heav'ns happy Guest.
Hail new Inhabitant amongst the blest!
Methinks I see kind Spirits in convoy meet,
And with loud Welcomes thy Arrival greet.
[Page 127]Who, could they grieve, would go with Grief away
To see a Soul more white, more pure than they:
By them thou'rt led on high
To the vast glorious Apartment of the Deity.
Where circulating Pleasures make an endless Round
To which scant Time or Measure sets no Bound,
Perfect unmixt Delights without Alloy,
And whatsoe'er does earthly Bliss annoy,
Which oft does in Fruition Pall and oft'ner Cloy:
Where Being is no longer Life but Extasie,
But one long Transport of unutterable Joy.
A Joy above the boldest flights of daring verse,
And all a Muse unglorifyed can fancy or rehearse:
There happy Thou
From Troubles and the bustling toil of Business free,
From noise and tracas of tumultuous Life below,
Enjoy'st the still and calm Vacation of Eternity.
FINIS.