The poems of George Daniel ... From the original mss. in the British Museum: Hitherto unprinted. Edited, with introduction, notes, and illustrations, portrait, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart: In four volumes |
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 | The poems of George Daniel |  |
129
The Author;
Scriptorum chorus omnis, amat nemus, et fugit vrbe's.
Thus calmly did the Antique Poets frame
Felicitie, and gloried in the name
Of Grove-frequenters; thus old Orpheus sate
By fatall Hebrus, when his suddaine fate
(Convai'd by franticke women) did Surprize
Him, in the flight of Sacred Extasies.
How much vnsafe is Solitude! what Ioye
Has Groves or Cities? but Each Equallye
Capable in Idea. Not the Lire
Which Phebus strung (Phebus was Orpheus' Sire,)
And gave it him, nor his owne verse, nor voice—
Sweet as his Mother's—(for noe other choice
Might ever equall't,) could at all deterre
These possest Beldams, from the Massacre.
That voice which taught disperséd Trees to move
Into an orderlie and well-pitch'd Grove;
Stopt headie Currents, and made them run sweet;
Gave centred Rocks a Life, & mountains feet;
Not voice, nor Harpe, which brought againe to Life
From Hell, Euridice, his ravisht wife;
And did soe Charme Hell's treeple-headed Hound,
Hee could not vse one tongve or tooth, to wound,
Or wonder, at our Poet; what nor Hell
Nor Furies durst Attempt, (I Shame to tell,)
Women must Act; but Women none durst doe
A crime soe impious, soe vnequall too;
But Lust & wine in women can produce
Such monsters onlie; be it their excuse.
The water (yet proud) Sings, (if Fame not Lye,)
And runs to him, a Constant Elegie.
Such was the fate of Orpheus.—Calme my verse
And softer Numbers Spin, whilst I reherse
Titirus sitting vnder Beechie Shade,
Pleasing his Fancie, in the Ioy he made.
For soe he made it his; as what might want
There to delight or please, his verse did plant.
Here, oft (more pleas'd then in Augustus Shine)
Hee did enioy himselfe, and here vntwine
The Clewe he twisted there: thus Hee in groves.
Next, see in-imitable Colin, moves
Our Admiration; Hee, poore Swaine, in bare
And thin-Set Shades did Sing; whil'st (ah) noe care
Was had of all his Numbers; numbers which
Had they bene sung of old, who knowes how rich
A Fame had Crown'd him? Had he livéd when.
Phillip's Great Son (that prodigie of men)
Spread like Aurora in the Easterne light;
Hee had not wish'd a Homer for to write
His Storie; but ev'n Peleus' Son had sate
A step below in Fame as well as Fate.
But Hee, poor Man! in an vngratefull Age
Neglected lived; still borne downe by the Rage
Of Ignorance. For 'tis an Easier Thing
To make Trees Leape, and Stones selfe-burthens bring
(As once Amphion to the walls of Thæbes,)
Then Stop the giddie Clamouring of Plebs;
Hee poorlie Dyéd, (but vertue cannot Dye)
And scarce had got a Bed, in Death to lye;
Had not a noble Heroe made a Roome,
Hee'd bene an Epitaph without a Tombe.
For that Hee could not want, whilst verse or witt
Could move a wing, they'd bene obliged to it;
Or Say, the bankrupt Age could none Afford:
Hee left a Stocke sufficient, on Record.
Felicitie, and gloried in the name
Of Grove-frequenters; thus old Orpheus sate
By fatall Hebrus, when his suddaine fate
(Convai'd by franticke women) did Surprize
Him, in the flight of Sacred Extasies.
How much vnsafe is Solitude! what Ioye
Has Groves or Cities? but Each Equallye
Capable in Idea. Not the Lire
Which Phebus strung (Phebus was Orpheus' Sire,)
And gave it him, nor his owne verse, nor voice—
Sweet as his Mother's—(for noe other choice
Might ever equall't,) could at all deterre
These possest Beldams, from the Massacre.
That voice which taught disperséd Trees to move
Into an orderlie and well-pitch'd Grove;
Stopt headie Currents, and made them run sweet;
Gave centred Rocks a Life, & mountains feet;
Not voice, nor Harpe, which brought againe to Life
From Hell, Euridice, his ravisht wife;
130
Hee could not vse one tongve or tooth, to wound,
Or wonder, at our Poet; what nor Hell
Nor Furies durst Attempt, (I Shame to tell,)
Women must Act; but Women none durst doe
A crime soe impious, soe vnequall too;
But Lust & wine in women can produce
Such monsters onlie; be it their excuse.
The water (yet proud) Sings, (if Fame not Lye,)
And runs to him, a Constant Elegie.
Such was the fate of Orpheus.—Calme my verse
And softer Numbers Spin, whilst I reherse
Titirus sitting vnder Beechie Shade,
Pleasing his Fancie, in the Ioy he made.
For soe he made it his; as what might want
There to delight or please, his verse did plant.
Here, oft (more pleas'd then in Augustus Shine)
Hee did enioy himselfe, and here vntwine
The Clewe he twisted there: thus Hee in groves.
Next, see in-imitable Colin, moves
Our Admiration; Hee, poore Swaine, in bare
And thin-Set Shades did Sing; whil'st (ah) noe care
Was had of all his Numbers; numbers which
Had they bene sung of old, who knowes how rich
A Fame had Crown'd him? Had he livéd when.
Phillip's Great Son (that prodigie of men)
Spread like Aurora in the Easterne light;
Hee had not wish'd a Homer for to write
131
A step below in Fame as well as Fate.
But Hee, poor Man! in an vngratefull Age
Neglected lived; still borne downe by the Rage
Of Ignorance. For 'tis an Easier Thing
To make Trees Leape, and Stones selfe-burthens bring
(As once Amphion to the walls of Thæbes,)
Then Stop the giddie Clamouring of Plebs;
Hee poorlie Dyéd, (but vertue cannot Dye)
And scarce had got a Bed, in Death to lye;
Had not a noble Heroe made a Roome,
Hee'd bene an Epitaph without a Tombe.
For that Hee could not want, whilst verse or witt
Could move a wing, they'd bene obliged to it;
Or Say, the bankrupt Age could none Afford:
Hee left a Stocke sufficient, on Record.
Let me, then, vnder my owne Shades content,
Admire their Flights. Hee who lives Innocent
Is wise Enough. Where Innocence and Witt
Combine, what wonders in that brest are mett?
The Trumpet's Clangor, nor the ratling drum,
Noises of warre, nor the more troublesome
Rage of the Souldier, nor the Golden Spundge,
Where Harpies licke the Iuice, nor all the plundge
Of Apprehension; shakes or enters on
The temper of that true Complexion.
Vertue is ever Safe, and wee may See
Loyaltie prizéd, and depress'd Maiestie
Enthroned, as glorious as wee whilome have.
These, wee may see; if not, the well-met grave
Will shew vs more. Hee who considers that
A Losse, is ignorant to value Fate.
Admire their Flights. Hee who lives Innocent
Is wise Enough. Where Innocence and Witt
Combine, what wonders in that brest are mett?
The Trumpet's Clangor, nor the ratling drum,
Noises of warre, nor the more troublesome
Rage of the Souldier, nor the Golden Spundge,
Where Harpies licke the Iuice, nor all the plundge
Of Apprehension; shakes or enters on
The temper of that true Complexion.
Vertue is ever Safe, and wee may See
132
Enthroned, as glorious as wee whilome have.
These, wee may see; if not, the well-met grave
Will shew vs more. Hee who considers that
A Losse, is ignorant to value Fate.
Bring out the Engine quicklie, to vndoe
The Partie; triumph in the overthrow
Of Truth and Iustice. You the seamles Coat
Have torne; and dipt the Fleece without a Spott,
In Cisternes of Profanesse. Ring the Bells!
Y'have done, y'have done the worke. Hee happie dwells,
Who more remote may looke vpon the Age
As his owne Mirror, and applye the Rage
Of Tumults to his Passions; Rebells all
To monarch Reason. These things when I call
Vnto my private, then I easilie See
Monarchs are Men; each Man's one Monarchie.
The Partie; triumph in the overthrow
Of Truth and Iustice. You the seamles Coat
Have torne; and dipt the Fleece without a Spott,
In Cisternes of Profanesse. Ring the Bells!
Y'have done, y'have done the worke. Hee happie dwells,
Who more remote may looke vpon the Age
As his owne Mirror, and applye the Rage
Of Tumults to his Passions; Rebells all
To monarch Reason. These things when I call
Vnto my private, then I easilie See
Monarchs are Men; each Man's one Monarchie.
Phlegme, my Complexion, here has plunged me in
A Qvick-sand, to disorder the Designe
Of my first Thoughts; and all what I have said
Is but a Ramble, from a Running head:
Perhaps a Rheugme. For 'tis vnnaturall
In the most Sangvine, nere to run at All.
Who knowes Witt, knowes somewhat of Madnes Still
(Distempers not, but) tempers the best Qvill.
Man in his little world, is more, by much,
Then the great world; who knowes Him, knowes him Such;
A Composition of the same mixt Stuffe,
Which who can temper but is Wise Enough.
A Qvick-sand, to disorder the Designe
Of my first Thoughts; and all what I have said
Is but a Ramble, from a Running head:
Perhaps a Rheugme. For 'tis vnnaturall
In the most Sangvine, nere to run at All.
Who knowes Witt, knowes somewhat of Madnes Still
(Distempers not, but) tempers the best Qvill.
Man in his little world, is more, by much,
133
A Composition of the same mixt Stuffe,
Which who can temper but is Wise Enough.
1.6.4.7.
| The poems of George Daniel | |