 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
372
Sir William Davenant
To Mr. Cotton.
I
Unlucky fire, which though from Heaven deriv'd,Is brought too late, like Cordials to the Dead,
When all are of their Sovereign Sence depriv'd,
And Honour, which my rage should warm, is fled.
II
Dead to Heroick Song this Isle appears,The Antient Musick of victorious Verse,
They tast no more than he his Dirges hears,
Whose useless Mourners sing about his Herse.
III
Yet shall this sacred Lamp in Prison burn,And through the darksome Ages hence invade
The wondering World, like that in Tully's Urn,
Which, though by Time conceal'd, was not decay'd.
373
IV
And Charles, in that more civil Century,When this shall wholly fill the voice of Fame,
The busie Antiquaries then will try
To find amongst their Monarchs coin, thy Name.
V
Much they will bless thy Virtue, by whose fireI'll keep my Laurel warm, which else would fade,
And, thus inclos'd, think me of Natures Quire,
Which still sings sweetest in the shade.
VI
To Fame, who rules the World, I lead thee now,Whose solid Power the thoughtful understand,
Whom, though too late, weak Princes to her bow,
The People serve, and Poets can command.
VII
And Fame, the only Judge of Empire past,Shall to Verona lead thy Fancies Eyes,
Where Night so black a Robe on Nature cast,
As Nature seem'd affraid of her disguise.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |