POEMS TO THE MEMORY Of that Incomparable POET Edmond Waller Esquire.
By Several Hands.
LONDON, Printed for Ioseph Knight, and Francis Saunders, at the Blew Anchor, in the lower Walk of the New Exchange. 1688.
To the Memory of my Noble Friend, Mr. VValler.
NOT Sleep, beneath the Shade in Flow'ry Fields,
To th' weary Traveller more Pleasure yeilds;
Nor, to asswage his Thirst, the living Spring,
I'th' heat of Summer, more delight does bring;
Than unto me thy well Tun'd Numbers do,
In which thou dost both please and profit too.
Born in a Clime where Storms and Tempests grow;
Far from the Place where Helicon does flow:
The Muses travel'd far to bless thy Sight,
And taught thee how to Think, and how to Write.
Th'
Hesiod.
Ascraean Shepherd tells us he indeedHad seen them dancing, while his Flocks did feed.
Not Petrarch's Laura, nor bright Stella's Fame,
Shall longer live than Sacharissa's Name.
[Page 2]Thou do'st not write like those, who brand the Times,
And themselves most, with sharp Satyrick Rhimes:
Nor does thy Muse, with smutty Verses, tear
The modest Virgin's chast and tender Ear.
Free from their Faults, what e're thy Muse indites,
Not Ovid, nor Tibullus softer writes.
The choice of tuneful Words t'express our Thought,
By thy Example we have first been taught.
Our English
Cowley
Virgil, and our Pindar too,In this ('tis said) some negligence did shew.
I'le add but this, lest while I think to raise
Thy worth, I kindly injure thee with Praise;
Thy Verses have a Genius, and must
Live until all things crumble into Dust.
Sir John Cotton, Bar.
Poems, &c.
Upon my Noble Friend, Mr. Waller.
THough I can add but little to his Name,
Whose Muse hath giv'n him such immortal Fame;
Yet, in the Crowd of those who dress his Hearse,
I come to pay the Tribute of a Verse.
Athens and Rome, when Learning flourish'd most,
Could never such a Finish'd Poet boast:
Whose matchless softness in the English Tongue
Out-does what Horace, or Anacreon Sung.
Judgment does some to Reputation raise;
And for Invention others wear the Baies:
He possest both, with such a Talent still.
As shew'd not only force of Wit, but Skill.
[Page 2]So faultless was his Muse, 'tis hard to know
If he did more to Art, or Nature owe.
Read where you will, he's Musick all along,
And his Sense easie, as his Thought is strong.
Some striving to be Clear, fall Flat and Low;
And when they think to mount, obscure they grow.
He is not darker for his lofty Flight;
Nor does his Easiness depress his Height;
But still pespicuous, wheresoere he fly,
And, like the Sun, is brightest, when he's high.
Ladies admire, and taste his gentle Vein,
Which does the greatest Statesmen entertain.
His Verses do all sorts of Readers warm,
Philosophers instruct, and Women charm.
Nor did he all Men in his Verse out-do,
But gave the Law in Conversation too:
He tun'd the Company where ere he came,
Still leaving with them something of his Flame.
[Page 3]He seem'd by Nature made for every thing,
And could harangue, and talk, as well as sing;
Persuade in Council, and Assemblies lead;
Now make them bold, and then as much afraid:
Give them his Passions, make them of his Mind;
And their Opinion change, as he inclin'd.
The English he hath to Perfection brought;
And we to speak are by his Measures taught.
Those very Words, which are in Fashion now,
He brought in Credit half an Age ago.
Thus Petrarch mended the Italian Tongue:
And now they speak the Language which he sung.
They both like Honour to their Countries do;
Their Saints they both inimitably woe.
They both alike Eternity do give;
And Sacharissa shall with Laura live.
Sir THO. HIGGONS.
On Mr. Waller.
WAller is dead; and lofty Number's lost.
Now English Verse (with nothing left to boast)
May hobble on, and vex goods Pindar's Ghost.
What was it Three and Eighty Years to live?
Short is this Boon to what the Muses give:
They so Insur'd his Immortality,
That scarce he knew, in any kind, to dye.
Two Ages he the Sacred Garland bore;
Peerless in this, and Prince of that before.
Rare Genius, his; alike their Glory made,
In glittering Courts, and in the Country Shade.
There, by four Kings belov'd, how high he shone!
Inseparable Jewel of the Crown;
Yet thence no borrow'd Heat, or Lustre got,
Warm of himself; and Sun he wanted not.
[Page 5]And if the Diamond stood hard Fortunes shock,
Thanks to his old Hereditary Rock.
For all the Court, for all the Muses Snares;
Our Journals also tell his publick Cares.
From Iames to Iames, they count him ore and ore,
In four Successive Reigns, a Senator.
On him, amidst the legislative Throng,
Their Eyes, and Ears, and every Heart they hung.
Within those Walls if we Apollo knew,
Less could he warm, nor throw a Shaft so true.
What Life, what Lightning blanch'd around the Chair?
(It was no House, if Waller was not there:)
And that Respect still to his Speech, or Nods,
As he had come from Councils of the Gods.
How would he tune their contradicting Notes?
With ready Wit facilitate the Votes?
As in his Verse, so ev'ry where display
An Air of something Great, and something Gay?
[Page 6]And, like Amphion, when he form'd a Town,
Put Life in ev'ry Stock, and ev'ry Stone?
Oh! had he liv'd one Meeting more to Sit,
How would the Times his generous Mind have hit?
What he so long contested for, in vain,
Set loose from all Ecclesiastick Chain,
VVith Transport he would find Religion, free,
And now no longer a Monopoly.
Watch Home, and Harbour; nay, shut up the Sea:
But who shall ere with Heav'n our Traffick stay?
Or there erect a Block-house in the way?
Our stubborn Body is not us'd so ill;
It must no Rack (that foreign Engine) feel;
And yet they bring poor Conscience to the Wheel.
Error they scourge; so Children whip their Top;
The certain only, means to keep it up.
Thus would he play, and many a pointed Jest
Still fling against the persecuting Beast.
[Page 7]Easie to run in endless Histories;
Tracing a Life of one who never dyes.
How he the Orbs of Courts and Councils mov'd:
But, Muses, how he Sung, and how he Lov'd.
VVhat Spirit fills his Verse, your Care defines;
Amongst the Stars how Sacharissa shines:
How still her Altars fume with Sacrifice,
VVhen gone are all the Goddesses of Greece.
Language and VVit he rais'd to such an height,
VVe should suspect, with him, the Empire's Fate,
Did not Auspicious Iames support the Weight.
This Northern Speech refin'd to that degree,
Soft France we scorn, nor envy Italy:
But for a fit Comparison must seek
In Virgil's Latin, or in Homer's Greek.
Anger is mad; and Choler, mere Disease:
His Muse sought what was sweet, & what would please:
[Page 8]Still led where Natures beauteous Rays entice;
Not touching vile Deformities, or Vice.
Here no Chimera skips, no Goblin frights;
No Satyr's here, nor Monster else, that bites.
Sweetness his very Vinegar allaid;
And all his Snakes in Ladies Bosom play'd.
Nature rejoic'd beneath his charming power;
His lucky hand made every thing a Flower.
So every Shrub to Iessamin improves;
And rudest Holts, to goodly Myrtle Groves.
Some, from a Sprig he carelesly had thrown,
Have furnish'd a whole Garden of their own.
Some, by a Spark that from his Chariot came,
Take Fire, and blaze, and raise a deathless Name.
Others a luckless Imitation try;
And, whilst they soar, and whilst they venture high,
Flutter and flounce, but have not Wing to fly.
[Page 9]Some, in loose Words their empty Fancies bind,
Which whirl about, with Chaff, before the Wind.
Here, brave Conceits in the Expression fail:
There, big the Words, but with no Sense at all.
Still Waller's Sense might Waller's Language trust;
Both pois'd, and always bold, and always just.
None ere may reach that strange Felicity,
Where Thoughts are easie, Verse so sweet, and free,
Yet not descend one Step from Majesty.
T. RYMER.
Monsieur St. Euremon. 1684.
WAller, qui ne sent rien des Maux de la vieillesse.
Dont la vivacité fait honte aux jeunes Gens;
S'attache â la Beauté pour vivre plus long temps,
Et ce qu'on nomeroit dans un autre foiblesse,
Est en ce rare Esprit une sage tendresse,
Qui le fait resister à l'injure des Ans.
In English, by T. R.
VAin Gallants, look on Waller, and despair:
He, only he, may boast the Grand Receit;
Of Fourscore Years he never feels the weight:
Still in his Element, when with the Fair;
There gay, and fresh, drinks in the rosie Air:
There happy, he enjoys his leisure hours;
Nor thinks of Winter, whilst amidst the Flowers.
Vpon the Inimitable Mr. VValler.
THE Witty, and the Brave, survive the Tomb;
Poets, and Heroes, Death it self o'recome:
By what they write, or act, Immortal made,
They only change their World, but are not Dead.
Waller can never dye, of Life secure
As long as Fame, or aged Time, endure.
A Tree of Life is Sacred Poetry;
Whoe're has leave to tast, can never dye.
Many Pretenders to the Fruit there be.
Who, against Nature's Will do pluek the Tree;
They nibble, and are Damn'd: But only those
Have Life, who are by partial Nature chose.
VValler was Nature's Darling, free to tast
Of all her Store; The Master of the Feast:
[Page 12]Not like old Adam, stinted in his Choice,
But Lord of all the spatious Paradise.
Mysteriously the Bounteous Gods were kind,
And in his Favour Contradictions joyn'd.
Honest and Just, yet Courted by the Great;
A Poet, yet a Plentiful Estate:
Witty, yet Wise; Unenvi'd, and yet Prais'd;
And shew'd the Age could be with Merit pleas'd.
Malice and Spite, to Virtue certain Foes,
Were dumb to him, nor durst his Fame oppose;
Those cruel VVolves he tam'd, their Rage disarm'd,
And, with his tuneful Song, like Orpheus charm'd.
To Love, or Business, both he was enclin'd,
Could counsel Senates, or make Virgins kind;
The Factious, with persuasive Rhetorick, move,
Or teach disdainful Fair ones how to love;
The stubborn of each Sex, to Reason bring:
Like Cato he could Speak, like Ovid Sing.
[Page 13]Our British Kings are rais'd above the Hearse,
Immortal made, in his immortal Verse.
No more are Mars and Iove Poetick Theams,
But the two peaceful Charleses, and Great Iames.
Iulia, and Delia, do no more delight,
But Sacharissa now is only bright.
Nor can the Paphian Goddess longer move;
But Gloriana is the Queen of Love.
The Father of so many Gods is he,
He must himself be sure some Deity.
Minerva and Apollo shall submit,
And VValler be the only God of VVit.
This equal Rise be to his Merit given,
On Earth the King, the God of Verse in Heaven.
GEORGE GRANVILLE.
On the Death of Mr. VValler.
AH! had thy Body lasted, as thy Name,
Secure of Life, as now thou art of Fame;
Thou had'st more Ages than old Nestor seen:
Nor had thy Phaebus more immortal been.
To thee alone we are beholden more
Than all the Poets of the Times before.
Thy Muse, inspir'd with a Genteeler Rage,
Did first refine the Genius of our Age.
In thee a clear and female Softness shin'd,
VVith Masculine Vigour, Force, and Judgment joyn'd.
You, in soft Strains, for Courts and Ladies, sung,
So natural your Thought, so sweet your Song,
The gentle Sex did still partake your Flame,
And all the Coyness of your Mistress blame;
[Page 15]Still mov'd with you, did the same Passions find,
And vow'd that Sacharissa was unkind.
Oh! may the VVorld ne're lose so brave a Flame;
May one succeed in Genius, and in Fame.
May, from thy Urn, some Phoenix, VValler, rise,
VVhom the admiring VVorld, like thee, may prize;
May he, in thy immortal Numbers, sing,
And paint the Glories of our matchless King:
Oh! may his Verse of mighty VValler taste,
And mend the coming Age, as you the last.
VVithin that Sacred Pile where Kings do come,
Both to receive their Crowns, and find a Tomb,
There is a lonely Isle; which holy Place
The lasting Monuments of Poets grace.
Thither, amongst th'inspired Train, convey,
And, in their Company, his Ashes lay:
Let him with Spencer and great Cowley be,
He, who is much the greatest of the Three.
[Page 16]Thô there so many Crowns and Mitres lye,
(For Kings, and Saints, as well as we, must dye)
Those venerable VValls were never blest,
Since their Foundation, with a nobler Guest.
VVith them, great Soul, thou shalt Immortal live,
And, in thy deathless Numbers Fate survive:
Fresh, as thy Sacharissa's Beauty, still
Thy Bays shall grow, which Time can never kill.
Far as our conqu'ring British Lyon roars,
Far as the Poles, or the remotest Shores,
Where're is known or heard the English Name,
The distant World shall hear of VValler's Fame.
Thou only shalt with Natures self expire,
And all the World, in the supreamest Fire;
When Horace and fam'd Virgil dye, when all
That's Great, or Noble, shall together fall.
BEVILL HIGGONS.
On the Death of E. Waller, Esq
HOW, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring
(Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering?
I, who by Toils of Sickness, am become
Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb?
While every soft, and every tender Strain
Is ruffl'd, and ill-natur'd grown with Pain.
But, at thy Name, my languisht Muse revives,
And a new Spark in the dull Ashes strives.
I hear thy tuneful Verse, thy Song Divine;
And am Inspir'd by every charming Line.
But, Oh! —
What Inspiration, at the second hand,
Can an Immortal Elegie Command?
Unless, like Pious Offerings, mine should be
Made Sacred, being Consecrate to thee.
[Page 18]Eternal, as thy own Almighty Verse,
Should be those Trophies that adorn thy Hearse.
The Thought Illustrious, and the Fancy Young;
The Wit Sublime, the Iudgment Fine, and Strong;
Soft, as thy Notes to Sacharissa sung.
Whilst mine, like Transitory Flowers, decay,
That come to deck thy Tomb a short-liv'd Day.
Such Tributes are, like Tenures, only fit
To shew from whom we hold our Right to Wit.
Hail, wondrous Bard, whose Heav'n-born Genius first
My Infant Muse, and Blooming Fancy Nurst.
With thy soft Food of Love I first began,
Then fed on nobler Panegyrick Strain,
Numbers Seraphic! and, at every View,
My Soul extended, and much larger grew:
Where e're I Read, new Raptures seiz'd my Blood;
Methought I heard the Language of a God.
[Page 19]Long did the untun'd World in Ign'rance stray,
Producing nothing that was Great and Gay,
Till taught, by thee, the true Poetick way.
Rough were the Tracts before, Dull, and Obscure;
Nor Pleasure, nor Instruction could procure.
Their thoughtless Labour could no Passion move;
Sure, in that Age, the Poets knew not Love:
That Charming God, like Apparitions, then
Was only talk'd on, but ne're seen by Men:
Darkness was o're the Muses Land displaid,
And even the Chosen Tribe unguided straid.
Till, by thee rescu'd from th'Egyptian Night,
They now look up, and view the God of Light,
That taught them how to Love, and how to Write;
And to Enhance the Blessing which Heav'n lent,
When for our great Instructor thou wert sent.
Large was thy Life, but yet thy Glories more;
And, like the Sun, did still dispense thy Power,
Producing somthing wondrous every hour:
And, in thy Circulary Course, didst see
The very Life and Death of Poetry.
Thou saw'st the Generous Nine neglected lie,
None listning to their Heav'nly Harmony;
The VVorld being grown to that low Ebb of Sense,
To disesteem the noblest Excellence;
And no Encouragement to Prophets shewn,
Who in past Ages got so great Renown.
Though Fortune Elevated thee above
Its scanty Gratitude, or fickle Love;
Yet, sullen with the VVorld, untir'd by Age,
Scorning th'unthinking Crowd, thou quit'st the Stage.
A. BEHN.
On the Death of Mr. VValler.
THô ne're so Base, or never so Sublime,
All Human things must be the Spoil of Time:
Poet and Heroe with the rest must go;
Their Fame may mount, their Dust must lie as low.
Thus mighty Waller is, at last, expir'd,
VVith Cowley, from a vitious Age retir'd,
As much Lamented, and as much Admir'd.
Long we enjoy'd him; on his tuneful Tongue
All Ears and Hearts with the same Rapture hung,
As his on lovely Chloris while she Sung!
His Style does so much Strength and Sweetness bear,
Hear it but once, and you'd for ever hear!
Various his Subjects, yet they joyntly warm,
All Spirit, Life, and every Line a Charm:
[Page 22]Correct throughout, so exquisitely penn'd,
VVhat he had Finish'd nothing else could mend.
Now, in soft Notes, like dying Swans, h'ed Sing,
Now tow'r aloft, like Eagles on the Wing;
Speak of adventrous Deeds in such a Strain,
As all but Milton would attempt in vain;
And only there, where his rap't Muse does tell
How in th'Aetherial War th'Apostate Angels fell.
His Labours, thus, peculiar Glory claim,
As writ with somthing more than Mortal Flame:
VVit, Judgment, Fancy, and a Heat Divine,
Throughout each part, throughout the whole does shine:
Th'Expression clear, the Thought sublime, and high,
No flut'ring, but with even wing he glides along the Skie.
Here the two bold contending Fleets are found,
The mighty Rivals of the watery Round;
[Page 23]In Smoak and Flame involv'd, they could not Fight
VVith so much Force and Fire as he does Write.
Here Galatea mourns; In such sad Strains
Poor Philomel her wretched Fate complains.
Here Fletcher and Immortal Iohnson shine,
Deathless, preserv'd in his Immortal Line.
But where, O mighty Bard, where is that He,
Surviving now, to do the same for Thee?
At such a Theam my conscious Muse retires,
Unable to attempt thy Praise, she silently admires.
VVhether for Peaceful Charles, or Warlike Iames,
His Lyre was Strung, the Muses dearest Theams:
VVhether of Loves Success, when in the Eyes
Of the kind Nymph the conscious Glances rise,
When, blushing, she breaths short, and with constraint denies;
Whether he paint the Lover's restless Care,
Or Sacharissa, the disdainful Fair;
The only She his Verse could never move;
But sure she stopt her Ears, and shut her Eyes,
He could not else have miss'd the Heav'nly Prize.)
All this is manag'd with that Strength of Wit,
So Happily, So Smoothly, Courtly writ,
As nothing but himself could e're have done;
And we no more must hope now he (great King of Verse) is gone.
Nor did Old Age damp the Poetick Flame,
Loaded with Fourscore Years, 'twas still the same.
Some we may see, who in their Youth have writ
Good Sense, at Fifty take their leave of Wit,
Chimaera's and incongruous Fables feign,
Tedious, Insipid, Impudent, and Vain:
But he knew no Decay; the Sacred Fire,
Bright to the last, did with himself expire.
[Page 25]Such was the Man, whose Loss we now deplore,
Such was the Man, but we should call him more.
Immortal in himself, we need not strive
To keep his Sacred Memory alive.
Just, Loyal, Brave, Obliging, Gen'rous, Kind;
The English he has, to the height refin'd,
And the best Standard of it leaves (his Legacy) behind.
To Mr. Riley, Drawing Mr. VValler's Picture.
NOT Flesh and Blood can Riley's Pride confine,
He must be adding still some Ray Divine;
Nor is content when he true Likeness shows,
Unless that Glory also Crown the Brows.
This Subject, Riley, this (for long has he
Scow'rd the bright Roads of Immortality)
New Rapture wants: no human Touch can reach
His Lawrels, and Poetick Triumphs pitch.
On Face and Out-side stay thy bold Design;
'Tis Sacred, 'tis Apollo's all within.
Thou may'st slight Sketches of the Surface shew,
Not vex the Mine, whence God-like Treasures flow.
None went away without her Golden Ball;
The Gods of old were not so liberal.
How many, free from Fate, enjoy his Song,
Drink Nectar, ever Gay, and ever Young?
Thô to thy Genius no Attempt is vain,
Think not to draw the Poet, but the Man.
Yet, Riley, thus thou endless Fame must share;
His Generous Pen thy Pencil shall prefer,
It draw him Man, and he make it a Star.
T. R.
FINIS.