Poems By the most deservedly Admired Mrs Katherine Philips: The matchless Orinda. To which is added Monsieur Corneille's Pompey & Horace Tragedies. With several other Translations out of French |
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Mr. Francis Finch, the Excellent Palæmon.
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72
Mr. Francis Finch, the Excellent Palæmon.
This is confest Presumption, for had IAll that rich stock of Ingenuity
Which I could wish for this, yet-would it be
Palæmon's blot, a pious Injury.
But as no Votaries are scorn'd when they
The meanest Victim in Religion pay;
Not that the Pow'r they worship needs a Gum,
But that they speak their thanks for all with some:
So though the most contemptible of all
That do themselves Palæmon's Servants call,
I know that Zeal is more than Sacrifice,
(For God did not the Widow's Mite despise,)
And that Palæmon hath Divinity,
And Mercy is his highest property:
He that doth such transcendent Merit own,
Must have imperfect Offerings or none.
He's one rich Lustre which doth Rayes dispense,
As Knowledge will when set in Innocence.
For Learning did select his noble breast,
Where (in her native Majesty) to rest;
Free from the Tyranny and Pride of Schools,
Who have confin'd her to Pedantick Rules;
And that gentiler Errour which does take
Offence at Learning for her Habit's sake:
Palæmon hath redeem'd her, who may be
Esteem'd himself an University;
And yet so much a Gentleman, that he
Needs not (though he enjoys) a Pedigree.
Sure he was built and sent to let us know
What man completed could both be and do.
Freedom from Vice is in him Nature's part,
Without the help of Discipline or Art.
He's his own Happiness and his own Law,
Whereby he keeps Passion and Fate in awe.
73
His genius had anticipated both.
Had all men been Palæmons, Pride had ne're
Taught one man Tyranny, the other Fear;
Ambition had been full as Monstrous then
As this ill World doth render Worthy men.
Had men his Spirit, they would soon forbear
Groveling for dirt, and quarrelling for air.
Were his harmonious Soul diffus'd in all,
We should believe that men did never fall.
It is Palæmon's Soul that hath engrost
Th'ingenuous candour that the World hath lost;
Whose one mind seats him quiet, safe and high,
Above the reach of Time or Destiny.
'Twas he that rescu'd gasping Friendship when
The Bell toll'd for her Funeral with men:
'Twas he that made Friends more then Lovers burn,
And then made Love to sacred Friendship turn:
'Twas he turn'd Honour inward, set her free
From Titles and from Popularity.
Now fix'd to Vertue she begs Praise of none,
But's Witness'd and Rewarded both at home.
And in his breast this Honour's so enshrin'd,
As the old Law was in the Ark confin'd:
To which Posterity shall all consent,
And less dispute then Acts of Parliament
He's our Original, by whom we see
How much we fail, and what we ought to be.
But why do I to Copy him pretend?
My Rymes but libel whom they would commend.
'Tis true; but none can reach what's set so high:
And though I miss, I've noble Company:
For the most happy language must confess,
It doth obscure Palæmon, not express.
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