University of Virginia Library

[Elegies and Eulogies.]

ON MR. JOHN FLETCHERS WORKS

So shall we joy, when all whom Beasts and Worms
Had turn'd to their own substances and forms,
Whom Earth to Earth, or Fire hath chang'd to Fire,
We shall behold more then at first entire;
As now we do, to see all thine thy own
In this thy Muses Resurrection,
Whose scatter'd parts, from thy own race, more wounds
Hath suffer'd then Acteon from his Hounds;
Which first their Brains, and then their Bellies fed,
And from their excrements new Poets bred.
But now thy Muse enraged from her Urn
Like Ghosts of Murdered bodies does return
T'accuse the Murderers, to right the Stage,
And undeceive the long abused Age,
Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy wit
Gives not more Gold then they give dross to it:
Who not content like Felons to Purloyn,
Adde treason to it, and debase thy Coyn.
But whither am I straid? I need not raise
Trophies to thee from other mens dispraise;
Nor is thy Fame on lesser ruines built,
Nor needs thy juster Title the foul guilt
Of Eastern Kings, who to secure their reign,
Must have their Brothers, Sons, and Kindred slain.
Then was wits Empire at the Fatal height,
When labouring and sinking with its weight,
From thence a Thousand lesser Poets sprung
Like petty Princes from the fall of Rome;
When Johnson, Shakespear, and thy self did sit,
And sway'd in the triumvirate of wit—
Yet what from Johnson's oyl and sweat did flow,
Or what more easie Nature did bestow
On Shakespear's gentler Muse, in thee full grown
Their graces both appear, yet so, that none
Can say here Nature ends, and Art begins,
But mixt like th'Elements and born like twins,
So interweav'd, so like, so much the same,
None, this meer Nature, that meer Art can name:
'Twas this the Antients mean't; Nature and Skill
Are the two tops of their Parnassus Hill.

TO SIR RICHARD FANSHAW UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF PASTOR FIDO

Such is our Pride, our Folly, or our Fate,
That few but such as cannot write, Translate.
But what in them is want of Art, or voice,
In thee is either Modesty or Choice.
Whiles this great piece, restor'd by thee doth stand
Free from the blemish of an Artless hand.
Secure of Fame, thou justly dost esteem
Less honour to create, than to redeem.
Nor ought a Genius less than his that writ,
Attempt Translation; for transplanted wit,
All the defects of air and soil doth share,
And colder brains like colder Climates are:
In vain they toil, since nothing can beget
A vital spirit, but a vital heat.
That servile path thou nobly dost decline
Of tracing word by word, and line by line.
Those are the labour'd births of slavish brains,
Not the effects of Poetry, but pains;
Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords
No flight for thoughts, but poorly sticks at words.
A new and nobler way thou dost pursue
To make Translations and Translators too.
They but preserve the Ashes, thou the Flame,
True to his sense, but truer to his fame.
Foording his current, where thou find'st it low
Let'st in thine own to make it rise and flow;
Wisely restoring whatsoever grace
It lost by change of Times, or Tongues, or Place.
Nor fetter'd to his Numbers, and his Times,
Betray'st his Musick to unhappy Rimes,
Nor are the nerves of his compacted strength
Stretch'd and dissolv'd into unsinnewed length:
Yet after all, (lest we should think it thine)
Thy spirit to his circle dost confine.
New names, new dressings, and the modern cast,
Some Scenes some persons alter'd, had out-fac'd
The world, it were thy work; for we have known
Some thank't and prais'd for what was less their own.
That Masters hand which to the life can trace
The airs, the lines, and features of a face,
May with a free and bolder stroke express
A varyed posture, or a flatt'ring Dress;
He could have made those like, who made the rest,
But that he knew his own design was best.

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE LORD HASTINGS

Reader, preserve thy peace: those busie eyes
Will weep at their own sad Discoveries;
When every line they adde, improves thy loss,
Till, having view'd the whole, they sum a Cross,
Such as derides thy Passions best relief,
And scorns the succours of thy easie Grief.
Yet lest thy Ignorance betray thy name
Of Man and Pious; read, and mourn: the shame
Of an exemption from just sense, doth show
Irrational, beyond excessive Wo.
Since Reason then can priviledge a Tear,
Manhood, uncensur'd, pay that Tribute here
Upon this Noble Urn. Here, here remains
Dust far more precious then in India's veins:
Within these cold embraces ravisht lies
That which compleats the Ages Tyrannies;
Who weak to such another Ill appear:
For, what destroys our Hope, secures our Fear.
What Sin unexpiated in this Land
Of Groans, hath guided so severe a hand?
The late Great Victim that your Altars knew,
You angry gods, might have excus'd this new
Oblation; and have spar'd one lofty Light
Of Vertue, to inform our steps aright:
By whose Example good, condemned we
Might have run on to kinder Destiny.
But as the Leader of the Herd fell first,
A Sacrifice to quench the raging thirst
Of inflam'd Vengeance for past Crimes: so none
But this white fatted Youngling could atone,
By his untimely Fate, that impious Stroke
That sullied Earth, and did Heaven's pity choke.
Let it suffice for us, that we have lost,
In Him, more then the widow'd World can boast
In any lump of her remaining Clay.
Fair as the grey-ey'd Morn, He was: the Day,
Youthful, and climbing upwards still, imparts
No haste like that of his increasing Parts:
Like the Meridian-beam, his Vertues light
Was seen; as full of comfort, and as bright.
Ah that that Noon had been as fix'd as clear! But He,
That onely wanted Immortality
To make him perfect, now submits to night;
In the black bosom of whose sable Spight,
He leaves a cloud of Flesh behinde, and flies,
Refin'd, all Ray and Glory, to the Skies.
Great saint shine there in an eternal Sphere,
And tell those Powers to whom thou now drawst neer,
That, by our trembling Sense, in Hastings dead,
Their Anger, and our ugly Faults, are read:
The short lines of whose Life did to our eyes,
Their Love and Majestie epitomize.
Tell them whose stern Decrees impose our Laws,
The feasted Grave may close her hollow Jaws.
Though Sin search Nature, to provide her here
A second Entertainment half so dear;
She'll never meet a Plenty like this Herse,
Till Time present her with the Universe.

A PANEGYRICK ON HIS EXCELLENCY, THE LORD GENERAL GEORGE MONCK

If England's bleeding story may transmit
One Renown'd Name to Time, Yours must be it:
Who with such Art dost heal, that we resound,
Next to our Cure, the glory of our Wound.
Thou sav'st three shatter'd KINGDOMS gasping Life,
Yet from our desperate Gangrene keep'st thy Knife.
And though each searching Weapon rallied stand,
And all Fates keen Artilery wait at hand:
Thou curb'st those Terrors from inflicting harms;
Swords are Thy Instruments, but not Thy Armes.
Thou with Thy Pause and Treaty rout'st Thy Foes;
And Thy tame Conference a Conquest growes.
With the Great Fabius then advance Thy Bayes,
Who sinking Rome restor'd by wise Delayes.
Let other Victors count their Dead, and lay
Sad Wreaths of conscious Lawrel, where they slay,
Whilest thou alone Dry Trophies dost assume;
They know to Kill, but Thou to Overcome.
Hence, though some foming spleens and working hates
Make Thee the Sampson to our Citie Gates;
At length Thou introducest cooler Votes,
To be the temper to impetuous Throats.
Choosing that safe Sobriety of thy way,
Not to Eject their fury, but Allay.
With like inspired Prudence didst Thou guide
Thy doubtful Answers, when their fears apply'd
Their subt'lest Emissaries to disclose,
Which strugling Cause thy Courage would oppose.
When though Thy innocent brest resolved stood
The steady Bulwark of the General Good;
Thy then unripe Affairs left them such scope,
That who deserv'd no help, might still have hope.
The Superstitious thus return'd of old
From their consulted Oracles, that unfold
Two-handed Fates, which when they false appear,
Delphos spoke true, false the Interpreter.
Apollo's awful Tripos would not lye,
Yet the Receivers sense might mis-apply.
So thy Consultors from their proud hopes fell:
They gave Delusion, Thou gav'st Oracle.
Hence secret trains and snares Thy steps pursue;
So dangerous 'mongst the False 'tis to be True.
Return, Return! and shroud Thy envy'd Name,
In those glad Roofs thy sole Arme skreen'd from flame.
Thus threatned TROY no stronger Fortress seeks
Than her Palladium, 'gainst the trecherous Greeks.
And that Palladium ne're was seen no more,
When once by Rapine from the Temple tore.
What she to Troy, Troy did to her become,
And was the Pallas to Palladium.
Thence did their mutual Protections start;
Together both, neither were safe apart.
So Thou without Us safe canst hardly be,
And we despise all safety without Thee.
Return, Return! Enshrine Thy Glories here;
Thou, whom both Seas and Shore do love and fear.
'Midst Triumphs great, like those, Thy Valor stood,
Whilst Hollands faithless Gore did stain the Floud:
When Thy bold Shot made their proud Vessels creep,
And cleanse their guilty Navie in the Deep.
Let Land and Waters yet thy Deeds proclaime,
Till Nature mints more Elements for Thy FAME.

ON MR ABRAHAM COWLEY

HIS DEATH AND BURIAL AMONGST THE ANCIENT POETS

Old Chaucer, like the morning Star,
To us discovers day from far,
His light those Mists and Clouds dissolv'd,
Which our dark Nation long involv'd;
But he descending to the shades,
Darkness again the Age invades.
Next (like Aurora) Spencer rose,
Whose purple blush the day foreshows;
The other three, with his own fires,
Phœbus, the Poets God, inspires;
By Shakespear's, Johnson's, Fletcher's lines,
Our Stages lustre Rome's outshines:
These Poets neer our Princes sleep,
And in one Grave their Mansion keep;
They liv'd to see so many days,
Till time had blasted all their Bays:
But cursed be the fatal hour
That pluckt the fairest, sweetest flower
That in the Muses Garden grew,
And amongst wither'd Lawrels threw.
Time, which made them their Fame outlive,
To Cowly scarce did ripeness give.
Old Mother Wit, and Nature gave
Shakespear and Fletcher all they have;
In Spencer, and in Johnson, Art,
Of slower Nature got the start;
But both in him so equal are,
None knows which bears the happy'st share;
To him no Author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own;
He melted not the ancient Gold,
Nor with Ben Johnson did make bold
To plunder all the Roman stores
Of Poets, and of Orators:
Horace his wit, and Virgil's state,
He did not steal, but emulate,
And when he would like them appear,
Their Garb, but not their Cloaths, did wear:
He not from Rome alone, but Greece,
Like Jason brought the Golden Fleece;
To him that Language (though to none
Of th'others) as his own was known.
On a stiff gale (as Flaccus sings)
The Theban Swan extends his wings,
When through th'ætherial Clouds he flies,
To the same pitch our Swan doth rise;
Old Pindar's flights by him are reacht,
When on that gale his wings are stretcht;
His fancy and his judgment such,
Each to the other seem'd too much,
His severe judgment (giving Law)
His modest fancy kept in awe:
As rigid Husbands jealous are,
When they believe their Wives too fair.
His English stream so pure did flow,
As all that saw, and tasted, know.
But for his Latin vein, so clear,
Strong, full, and high it doth appear,
That were immortal Virgil here,
Him, for his judge, he would not fear;
Of that great Portraicture, so true
A Copy Pencil never drew.
My Muse her Song had ended here,
But both their Genii strait appear,
Joy and amazement her did strike,
Two Twins she never saw so like.
'Twas taught by wise Pythagoras,
One Soul might through more Bodies pass;
Seeing such Transmigration here,
She thought it not a Fable there.
Such a resemblance of all parts,
Life, Death, Age, Fortune, Nature, Arts,
Then lights her Torch at theirs, to tell,
And shew the world this Parallel,
Fixt and contemplative their looks,
Still turning over Natures Books:
Their works chast, moral, and divine,
Where profit and delight combine;
They guilding dirt, in noble verse
Rustick Philosophy rehearse;
When Heroes, Gods, or God-like Kings
They praise, on their exalted wings,
To the Celestial orbs they climb,
And with the Harmonious sphears keep time;
Nor did their actions fall behind
Their words, but with like candour shin'd,
Each drew fair Characters, yet none
Of these they feign'd, excels their own;
Both by two generous Princes lov'd,
Who knew, and judg'd what they approv'd:
Yet having each the same desire,
Both from the busie throng retire,
Their Bodies to their Minds resign'd,
Car'd not to propagate their Kind:
Yet though both fell before their hour,
Time on their off-spring hath no power,
Nor fire, nor fate their Bays shall blast,
Nor Death's dark vail their day o'recast.

ON THE EARL OF STRAFFORD'S TRYAL AND DEATH

Great Strafford! worthy of that Name, though all
Of thee could be forgotten, but thy fall,
Crusht by Imaginary Treasons weight,
Which too much Merit did accumulate:
As Chymists Gold from Brass by fire would draw,
Pretexts are into Treason forg'd by Law.
His Wisdom such, at once it did appear
Three Kingdoms wonder, and three Kingdoms fear;
Whilst single he stood forth, and seem'd, although
Each had an Army, as an equal Foe.
Such was his force of Eloquence, to make
The Hearers more concern'd than he that spake;
Each seem'd to act that part, he came to see,
And none was more a looker on than he:
So did he move our passion, some were known
To wish for the defence, the Crime their own.
Now private pity strove with publick hate,
Reason with Rage, and Eloquence with Fate:
Now they could him, if he could them forgive;
He's not too guilty, but too wise to live;
Less seem those Facts which Treasons Nick-name bore,
Than such a fear'd ability for more.
They after death their fears of him express.
His Innocence, and their own guilt confess.
Their Legislative Frenzy they repent;
Enacting it should make no President.
This Fate he could have scap'd, but would not lose
Honour for Life, but rather nobly chose
Death from their fears, then safety from his own,
That his last Action all the rest might crown.

TO THE HONOURABLE EDWARD HOWARD ESQ; UPON HIS POEM OF THE BRITISH PRINCES

What mighty Gale hath rais'd a flight so strong?
So high above all vulgar eyes? so long?
One single rapture, scarce it self confines,
Within the limits, of four thousand lines,
And yet I hope to see this noble heat
Continue, till it makes the piece compleat,
That to the latter Age it may descend,
And to the end of time, its beams extend,
When Poesie joyns profit, with delight,
Her Images, should be most exquisite,
Since man to that perfection cannot rise,
Of always virt'ous, fortunate, and wise:
Therefore, the patterns man should imitate,
Above the life our Masters should create.
Herein, if we consult with Greece, and Rome,
Greece (as in warre) by Rome was overcome,
Though mighty raptures, we in Homer find,
Yet like himself, his Characters were blind:
Virgil's sublimed eyes not only gaz'd,
But his sublimed thoughts to heaven were rais'd.
Who reads the Honors, which he paid the Gods
Would think he had beheld their bless'd abodes,
And that his Hero, might accomplish'd be,
From divine blood, he draws his Pedigree,
From that great Judge your Judgment takes its law,
And by the best Original, does draw
Bonduca's Honor, with those Heroes time
Had in oblivion wrapt, his sawcy crime,
To them and to your Nation you are just,
In raising up their glories from the dust,
And to Old England you that right have done,
To shew, no story nobler, than her own.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JUDGE CROOKE

This was the Man! the Glory of the Gown
Just to Himself, his Country and the Crown!
The Atlas of our Liberty; as high
In this own Fame as others Infamy.
Great by his vertues, greate by others Crimes,
The best of Judges in the Worst of Times.
He was the first who happily did sound
Unfathomd Royalty and felt the Ground;
Yet happier to behold that dawning Ray,
Shot from himself, become a perfect Day;
To hear his Judgment so authentic grown,
The Kingdoms voice the Eccho to his own.
Nor did he speak, but live the Laws; altho
From his sage Mouth grave oracles did flow,
Who knew his Life Maxims might thence derive
Such as the Law to Law itself might give.
Who saw him on the Bench would think the name
Of Friendship or Affection never came
Within his thoughts: who saw him thence might know
He never had nor could deserve a Foe;
Only assuming Rigor with his Gown,
And with his Purple laid his Rigor down.
Him nor Respect nor Disrespect could move;
He knew no Anger, nor his Place no Love.
So mixd the Stream of all his Actions ran,
So much a Judge so much a Gentleman;
Who durst be just when justice was a crime,
Yet durst no more even in too just a Time;
Not hurried by the highest Movers force
Against his proper and resolved course;
But when our World did turn, so kept his Ground
He seemd the Axe on which the Wheel went round.
Whose Zeal was warm when all to Ice did turn,
Yet was but warm when all the World did burn.
No ague in Religion eer inclin'd
To this or that Extream his fixed Mind.
Rest, happy Soul, till the Worlds last assize,
When calld by thy Creator thou shalt rise,
With thy Redeemer in Commission joynd
To sit upon the Clouds and judge Mankind.