Olor Iscanus A Collection of some Select Poems, and Translations, Formerly written by Mr. Henry Vaughan Silurist. Published by a Friend |
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To the most Excellently accomplish'd, Mrs K. Philips. |
 | Olor Iscanus |  |
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To the most Excellently accomplish'd, Mrs K. Philips.
Say wittie fair one, from what Sphere
Flow these rich numbers you shed here?
For sure such Incantations come
From thence, which strike your Readers dumbe.
A strain, whose measures gently meet
Like Virgin-lovers, or times feet,
Where language Smiles, and accents rise
As quick, and pleasing as your Eyes,
The Poem smooth, and in each line
Soft as your selfe, yet Masculine;
Where not Coorse trisles blot the page
With matter borrow'd from the age,
But thoughts as Innocent, and high
As Angels have, or Saints that dye.
Flow these rich numbers you shed here?
For sure such Incantations come
From thence, which strike your Readers dumbe.
A strain, whose measures gently meet
Like Virgin-lovers, or times feet,
Where language Smiles, and accents rise
As quick, and pleasing as your Eyes,
The Poem smooth, and in each line
Soft as your selfe, yet Masculine;
Where not Coorse trisles blot the page
With matter borrow'd from the age,
But thoughts as Innocent, and high
As Angels have, or Saints that dye.
These Raptures when I first did see
New miracles in Poetrie,
And by a hand, their good would misse
His Bayes and Fountaines but to kisse,
My weaker Genius (crosse to fashion)
Slept in a silent admiration,
A Rescue, by whose grate disguise
Pretenders oft have past for wise,
And yet as Pilgrims humbly touch
Those Shrines to which they bow so much,
And Clouds in Courtship flock, and run
To be the Mask unto the Sun,
So I concluded, It was true
I might at distance worship you
A Persian Votarie, and say
It was your light shew'd me the way.
So Lodestones guide the duller Steele,
And high perfections are the Wheele
Which moves the lesse, for gifts divine
Are strung upon a Vital line
Which touched by you, Excites in all
Affections Epidemicall.
And this made me (a truth most fit)
Adde my weak Eccho to your wit,
Which pardon, Lady, for Assayes
Obscure as these might blast your Bayes,
As Common hands soyle Flowres, and make
That dew they wear, weepe the mistake.
But I'le wash off the staine, and vow
No Lawrel growes, but for your Brow.
New miracles in Poetrie,
And by a hand, their good would misse
His Bayes and Fountaines but to kisse,
My weaker Genius (crosse to fashion)
Slept in a silent admiration,
A Rescue, by whose grate disguise
Pretenders oft have past for wise,
And yet as Pilgrims humbly touch
Those Shrines to which they bow so much,
And Clouds in Courtship flock, and run
To be the Mask unto the Sun,
So I concluded, It was true
I might at distance worship you
A Persian Votarie, and say
It was your light shew'd me the way.
So Lodestones guide the duller Steele,
And high perfections are the Wheele
29
Are strung upon a Vital line
Which touched by you, Excites in all
Affections Epidemicall.
And this made me (a truth most fit)
Adde my weak Eccho to your wit,
Which pardon, Lady, for Assayes
Obscure as these might blast your Bayes,
As Common hands soyle Flowres, and make
That dew they wear, weepe the mistake.
But I'le wash off the staine, and vow
No Lawrel growes, but for your Brow.
| Olor Iscanus | |