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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Prevention!
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 | The poems of George Daniel |  |
Prevention!
Twas Late and Cold; when with a mightie FlamePossest, I, to my quiet Studie came;
Rich in a high-pitch'd Rapture, well-compos'd
In every Facultie: my thoughts dispos'd
In sober Contemplation, of a Brave
Designe in witt, a Fancie which might save
A Name to Honour, and almost create
Eternitie, and Time anticipate.
Qvicke forméd in each part; soe strong, soe pure,
I could not wish a better; and Ime sure
The pregnant Age, a richer could not boast;
Which surelie might, (had Poesie bene lost),
Have rais'd a liveing flame, but (oh, the Sad
Curse of Posteritie) when now I had
Survaied it true, in all Dimension,
85
Had kist with humble Reverence, which then
I thought vnrivall'd Mine, and kist agen;
I had the rich Idea in my braine,
Soe livelie fitt, so prest to entertaine
My willing Qvill, and had my pen soe neare,
I thought it done; but was prevented here.
The harvest of my Time, in which I thought
To reare my liveing Name, now fell to nought;
ffor busie, how to thawe my Iet, to Inke,
It fled my thought before I ought could thinke:
That Peice for which I thought from future Times
T' have gained whole Hecatombes of Tribute Rhimes,
Lost in a Cloud, I know not how, nor where,
Nor doth a Member of that forme appeare.
Starrs inauspicious never knew to Crosse
Our prosperous Muses with a greater Losse;
When, manie years hence, I this verse shall read,
'Twill Splitt my soule with greife, when I am dead:
Deprived Posteritie shall teare this Sheet,
Distracted in the ffate, to thinke how great
A flame might once have warm'd 'em. I could teare
A Rheme to Atomes, and all Qvills forsweare,
While I repeat it. Had the greedie fflame
Snatcht all my Trifles, and but left my Name
This Trophie, I had stood above all rage
Of present Malice, or an ignorant Age.
This glorious fruite! halfe-ripened! to be lost,
86
Has raised in me a fire of Rage, to thawe
The Articke Circle, and make void all Lawe
Of winter, to the Russian. I could melt
Those ever Rocks of Ice, which never felt
One ray to warme them; make a Sea to fflow
Within the Continent of Alpine Snow.
But I am blind in Furie, and transgress,
All modest rules; loosing, in Emptiness
Of Passion, future Glories; and almost,
In Error, has my fantasie more lost,
Then late, in Accident; Yet will I Charme
Thy Subtle power, fearing a future harme.
Let Winter dwell vpon the Island Shore,
And with his breath bind Shallow waters ore;
Fetter, in Gviues of Christall, the full Streams
Of Tanais or Volgha; whilst our Thames
Runs with vntroubled waters, in a Cleare
And even Course. Thou hast noe Title here;
Why on my Standish, Tirant, didst thou fall?
Thou hast not right to freeze an Vrinall;
Doth not the bright-haird God in glorie Shine
(Throughout this Ile to crush all Power of thine)
Phebus, assistant to all brave designe?
Ah then, why did he suffer this of mine
To perish? sure Hee is not as of old
(When Witt Succeeded) antique Poets told,
Soe much a freind vnto the harmonie
87
Either he never was, or he has lost,
Latelie, the Soveraigntie which they All boast.
Or if he be the nourisher of witt,
Why would he suffer Ice to smother it?
Noe! Phebus is my foe, or he has Swore,
Since Ionson Dyed, t' allow his Heirs, noe more:
I know not what to Iudge; but if I live,
Ile trye this Fancie fled, how to revive.
| The poems of George Daniel | |