Thalia Rediviva :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thalia Rediviva

The Pass-times and Diversions of a Countrey-muse, In Choice Poems on several Occasions. With Some Learned Remains of the Eminent Eugenius Philalethes. Never made Publick till now [by Henry Vaughan]

Vaughan, Henry (1622-1695)

[section]

[dedication]

To Mr. Henry Vaughan the Silurist: upon these and his former Poems.

Upon the Ingenious Poems of his Learned Friend, Mr. Henry Vaughan the Silurist.

To the ingenious Author of Thalia Rediviva.

To my worthy Friend, Mr. Henry Vaughan the Silurist.

Choice POEMS on several occasions.

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------ Nec erubuit sylvas habitare Thalia.
Virgil.

TO THE Most Honourable and truly Noble HENRY Lord Marquis and Earl of WORCESTER, &c.

To Mr. Henry Vaughan the Silurist: upon these and his former Poems.

Had I ador'd the Multitude, and thence
Got an Antipathy to wit and sence,
And hugg'd that Fate, in hope the World would grant
'Twas good Affection to the Ignorant:
Yet the least Ray of thy bright fancy seen
I had converted, or excuseless been.
For each Birth of thy Muse to after-times
Shall expiate for all this Ages Crimes.
First shines thy Amoret, twice crown'd by thee:
Once by thy Love, next by thy Poetrie;
Where thou the best of Unions dost dispense
Truth cloath'd in Wit, and Love in Innocence.
So that the muddie Lover may learn here,
No Fountains can be sweet, that are not clear.
There Juvenal, by thee reviv'd declares
How flat man's Joys are, and how mean his Cares,
And wisely doth upbraid the World, that they
Should such a value for their ruine pay.

But when thy sacred Muse diverts her Quill
The Landskip to design of Sions Hill,
As nothing else was worthy her, or thee:
So we admire almost t' Idolatrie.
What savage Breast would not be rap'd to find
Such Jewels in such Cabinets enshrin'd?
Thou fill'd with joys (too great to see or count:)
Descend'st from thence, like Moses from the Mount,
And with a candid, yet unquestion'd awe
Restorst the Golden Age, when Verse was Law.

Instructing us, thou so secur'st thy Fame,
That nothing can disturb it, but my name.
Nay I have hopes, that standing so near thine
'Twill loose its dross, and by degrees refine.
Live! till the disabused World consent
All Truths of Use, of Strength or Ornament
Are with such Harmony by thee display'd
As the whole World was first by number made;
And from the charming rigour thy Muse brings
Learn, there's no pleasure but in serious things!

Upon the Ingenious Poems of his Learned Friend, Mr. Henry Vaughan the Silurist.

Fairly design'd! to charm our Civil Rage
With Verse, and plant Bayes in an Iron Age.
But hath steel'd Mars so ductible a Soul,
That Love and Poesie may it controule?
Yes: brave Tyrtæus, as we read of old,
The Grecian Armies, as he pleas'd cou'd mold;
They march'd to his high Numbers, and did fight
With that instinct and rage, which he did write.
When he fell lower, they would strait retreat,
Grow soft and calm: and temper their bold heat.
Such Magick is in Vertue! See hear a young
Tyrtæus too, whose sweet persuasive Song
Can lead our Spirits any way, and move
To all Adventures: either War or Love.

Then veil the bright Etesia, that choice She,
Lest Mars, (Timander's Friend) his Rival be.
So fair a Nymph, drest by a Muse so neat,
Might warm the North, and thaw the frozen Gete.

Tho. Powel, D. D.

To the ingenious Author of Thalia Rediviva.

Ode I.

[Where Reverend Bards of old have sate]

Where Reverend Bards of old have sate
And sung the pleasant enterludes of Fate,
Thou takest the hereditary shade
Which Natures homely Art had made,
And thence thou giv'st thy Muse her swing, and she
Advances to the Galaxie;
There with the sparkling Cowley she above
Does hand in hand in graceful Measures move.
We groveling Mortals gaze below,
And long in vain to know
Her wondrous paths, her wondrous flight
In raine; alas! we grope,
In vain we use our earthly Telescope,
We'r blinded by an intermedial night:
Thine Eagle-Muse can only face
The fiery Coursers in their race,
While with unequal paces we do try
To bear her train aloft, and keep her company.

II. [The loud harmonious Mantuan]

The loud harmonious Mantuan
Once charm'd the world, and here's the Uscan Swan
In his declining years does chime,
And challenges the last remains of Time.
Ages run on, and soon give o're,
They have their Graves as well as we,
Time swallows all that's past and more,

Yet time is swallow'd in eternity:
This is the only profits Poets see.
There thy triumphant Muse shall ride in state
And lead in Chains devouring Fate;
Claudian's bright Phœnix she shall bring
Thee an immortal offering;
Nor shall my humble tributary Muse
Her homage and attendance too refuse,
She thrusts her self among the Crowd
And joyning in th' applause she strives to clap aloud.

III. [Tell me no more that Nature is severe]

Tell me no more that Nature is severe
Thou great Philosopher!
Lo she has laid her vast Exchequer here.
Tell me no more that she has sent
So much already she is spent;
Here is a vast America behind
Which none but the great Silurist could find.
Nature her last edition was the best,
As big, as rich as all the rest
So will we here admit
Another world of Wit.
No rude or savage fancy here shall stay
The travailing Reader in his way,
But every coast is clear: go where he will
Vertu's the road Thalia leads him still:
Long may she live, and wreath thy sacred head
For this her happy resurrection from the dead.

N. W. Jes. Coll. Oxon.

To my worthy Friend, Mr. Henry Vaughan the Silurist.

See what thou wert! by what Platonick round
Art thou in thy first youth and Glories found!
Or from thy Muse does this Retrieve accrue,
Do's she which once inspir'd thee, now renew!
Bringing thee back those Golden years which time
Smooth'd to thy Lays and polisht with thy Rhyme.
Nor i'st to thee alone she do's convey
Such happy change, but bountiful as day
On whatsoever Reader she do's shine
She makes him like thee, and for ever thine.

And first thy manu'al op'ning gives to see
Ecclipse and suff'rings burnish Majesty,
Where thou so artfully the draught hast made
That we best read the lustre in the shade,
And find our Sov'raign greater in that shroud:
So Lightning dazzles from its night and cloud;
So the first Light himself has for his Throne
Blackness, and Darkness his Pavilion.

Who can refuse thee company, or stay,
By thy next charming summons forc'd away,
If that be force which we can so resent
That only in its joys 'tis violent:
Upward thy Eagle bears us e're aware
Till above Storms and all tempestuous Air
We radiant Worlds with their bright people meet,
Leaving this little All beneath our feet.
But now the pleasure is too great to tell,
Nor have we other bus'ness than to dwell
As on the hallow'd Mount th' Apostles meant
To build and fix their glorious banishment.
Yet we must know and find thy skilful Vein
Shall gently bear us to our homes again;

By which descent thy former flight's impli'd
To be thy extasie and not thy pride.
And here how well do's the wise Muse demeane
Her self, and fit her song to ev'ry Scene!
Riot of Courts, the bloody wreaths of War,
Cheats of the Mart, and clamours of the Bar,
Nay, life it self thou dost so well express
Its hollow Joyes, and real Emptiness,
That Dorian Minstrel never did excite,
Or raise for dying so much appetite.

Nor does thy other softer Magick move
Us less thy fam'd Etesia to love;
Where such a Character thou giv'st that shame
Nor envy dare approach the Vestal Dame:
So at bright Prime Idea's none repine,
They safely in th' Eternal Poet shine.

Gladly th' Assyrian Phœnix now resumes
From thee this last reprizal of his Plumes;
He seems another more miraculous thing
Brighter of Crest, and stronger of his Wing;
Proof against Fate in spicy Urns to come,
Immortal past all risque of Martyrdome.

Nor be concern'd, nor fancy thou art rude
T' adventure from thy Cambrian solitude,
Best from those lofty Cliffs thy Muse does spring
Upwards, and boldly spreads her Cherub-wing.

So when the Sage of Memphis would converse
With boding Skies, and th' Azure Universe,
He climbs his starry Pyramid, and thence
Freely sucks clean prophetique influence,
And all Serene, and rap't and gay he pries
Through the Æthereal volum's Mysteries,
Loth to come down, or ever to know more
The Nile's luxurious, but dull foggy shore.

I. W. A. M. Oxon.

Choice POEMS on several occasions.

To his Learned Friend and Loyal Fellow-Prisoner, Thomas Powel of Cant. Doctor of Divinity.

If sever'd Friends by Sympathy can joyn,
And absent Kings be honour'd in their coin;
May they do both, who are so curb'd! but we
Whom no such Abstracts torture, that can see
And pay each other a full self-return,
May laugh, though all such Metaphysics burn.

'Tis a kind Soul in Magnets, that attones
Such two hard things as Iron are and Stones,
And in their dumb compliance we learn more
Of Love, than ever Books could speak before.
For though attraction hath got all the name,
As if that power but from one side came,
Which both unites; yet, where there is no sence,
There is no Passion, nor Intelligence:
And so by consequence we cannot state
A Commerce, unless both we animate.
For senseless things, though ne'r so call'd upon,
Are deaf, and feel no Invitation;

But such as at the last day shall be shed
By the great Lord of Life into the Dead.

'Tis then no Heresie to end the strife
With such rare Doctrine as gives Iron life.

For were it otherwise (which cannot be,
And do thou judge my bold Philosophie:)
Then it would follow that if I were dead,
Thy love, as now in life, would in that Bed
Of Earth and darkness warm me, and dispense,
Effectual informing Influence.
Since then 'tis clear, that Friendship is nought else
But a Joint, kind propension: and excess
In none, but such whose equal easie hearts
Comply and meet both in their whole and parts:
And when they cannot meet, do not forget
To mingle Souls, but secretly reflect
And some third place their Center make, where they
Silently mix, and make an unseen stay:
Let me not say (though Poets may be bold,)
Thou art more hard than Steel, than Stones more cold,
But as the Mary-gold in Feasts of Dew
And early Sun-beams, though but thin and few
Unfolds its self, then from the Earths cold breast
Heaves gently, and salutes the hopeful East:
So from thy quiet Cell, the retir'd Throne
Of thy fair thoughts, which silently bemoan
Our sad distractions, come: and richly drest
With reverend mirth and manners, check the rest
Of loose, loath'd men! why should I longer be
Rack't 'twixt two Ev'ls? I see and cannot see.

Thalia Rediviva.

The King Disguis'd.

[_]

Written about the same time that Mr. John Cleveland wrote his.

A king and no King! Is he gone from us,
And stoln alive into his Coffin thus?
This was to ravish Death, and so prevent
The Rebells treason and their punishment.
He would not have them damn'd, and therefore he
Himself deposed his own Majesty.
Wolves did pursue him, and to fly the Ill
He wanders (Royal Saint!) in sheep-skin still.
Poor, obscure shelter! if that shelter be
Obscure, which harbours so much Majesty.
Hence prophane Eyes! the mysterie's so deep,
Like Esdras books, the vulgar must not see't.

Thou flying Roll, written with tears and woe,
Not for thy Royal self, but for thy Foe:
Thy grief is prophecy, and doth portend.
Like sad Ezekiel's sighs, the Rebells end.

Thy robes forc'd off, like Samuel's when rent,
Do figure out anothers Punishment.
Nor grieve thou hast put off thy self a while,
To serve as Prophet to this sinful Isle;
These are our days of Purim, which oppress
The Church, and force thee to the Wilderness.
But all these Clouds cannot thy light confine,
The Sun in storms and after them, will shine.
Thy day of life cannot be yet compleat,
'Tis early sure; thy shadow is so great.

But I am vex'd, that we at all can guess
This change, and trust great Charles to such a dress.
When he was first obscur'd with this coarse thing,
He grac'd Plebeians, but prophan'd the King.
Like some fair Church, which Zeal to Charcoals burn'd,
Or his own Court now to an Ale-house turn'd.

But full as well may we blame Night, and chide
His wisdom, who doth light with darkness hide:
Or deny Curtains to thy Royal Bed,
As take this sacred cov'ring from thy Head.
Secrets of State are points we must not know;
This vizard is thy privy Councel now,

Thou Royal Riddle, and in every thing
The true white Prince, our Hieroglyphic King!
Ride safely in his shade, who gives thee Light:
And can with blindness thy pursuers smite.
O may they wonder all from thee as farr
As they from peace are, and thy self from Warr!
And wheresoe're thou do'st design to be
With thy (now spotted) spottles Majestie,
Be sure to look no Sanctuary there,
Nor hope for safety in a temple, where

Buyers and Sellers trade: O strengthen not
With too much trust the Treason of a Scot!

The Eagle

'Tis madness sure; And I am in the Fitt,
To dare an Eagle with my unfledg'd witt.
For what did ever Rome or Athens sing
In all their Lines, as loftie as his wing?
He that an Eagles Powers would rehearse
Should with his plumes first feather all his Verse.

I know not, when into thee I would prie,
Which to admire, thy Wing first: or thine Eye;
Or whether Nature at thy birth design'd
More of her Fire for thee, or of her Wind.
When thou in the clear Heights and upmost Air
Do'st face the Sun, and his dispersed Hair,
Ev'n from that distance thou the Sea do'st spie
And sporting in its deep, wide Lap the Frie.
Not the least Minoe there, but thou can'st see;
Whole Seas are narrow spectacles to thee.

Nor is this Element of water here
Below, of all thy miracles the sphere.
If Poets ought may add unto thy store,
Thou hast in Heav'n of wonders many more.
For when just Jove to Earth his thunder bends
And from that bright, eternal Fortress sends
His louder vollies: strait this Bird doth fly
To Ætna, where his Magazine doth lye:
And in his active Talons brings him more
Of ammunition, and recruits his store.
Nor is't a low, or easie Lift. He soares
'Bove Wind and Fire; gets to the Moon, and pores

With scorn upon her duller face; for she
Gives him but shadows and obscurity.
Here much displeas'd, that any thing like night
Should meet him in his proud and loftie flight,
That such dull Tinctures should advance so farr,
And rival in the glories of a star:
Resolv'd he is a nobler Course to try
And measures out his voyage with his Eye.
Then with such furie he begins his flight,
As if his Wings contended with his sight.
Leaving the Moon, whose humble light doth trade
With Spotts, and deals most in the dark and shade:
To the day's Royal Planet he doth pass
With daring Eyes, and makes the Sun his glass.
Here doth he plume and dress himself, the Beams
Rushing upon him, like so many Streams;
While with direct looks he doth entertain
The thronging flames, and shoots them back again.
And thus from star to star he doth repaire
And wantons in that pure and peaceful air.
Sometimes he frights the starrie Swan, and now
Orion's fearful Hare and then the Crow.
Then with the Orbe it self he moves, to see
Which is more swift th' Intelligence or He.
Thus with his wings his body he hath brought
Where man can travell only in a thought.

I will not seek, rare bird, what Spirit 'tis
That mounts thee thus; I'le be content with this;
To think, that Nature made thee to express
Our souls bold Heights in a material dress.

To Mr. M. L. upon his reduction of the Psalms into Method.

SIR,

You have oblig'd the Patriarch. And tis known
He is your Debtor now, though for his own.
What he wrote, is a Medley. We can see
Confusion trespass on his Piety.
Misfortunes did not only Strike at him;
They charged further, and oppress'd his pen.
For he wrote as his Crosses came, and went
By no safe Rule, but by his Punishment.
His quill mov'd by the Rod; his witts and he
Did know no Method, but their Misery.

You brought his Psalms now into Tune. Nay, all
His measures thus are more than musical.
Your Method and his Aires are justly sweet,
And (what's Church-musick right) like Anthems meet.
You did so much in this, that I believe
He gave the Matter, you the form did give.
And yet I wish you were not understood,
For now 'tis a misfortune to be good!

Why then, you'l say, all I would have, is this,
None must be good, because the time's amiss.
For since wise Nature did ordain the Night,
I would not have the Sun to give us Light.
Whereas this doth not take the Use away:
But urgeth the Necessity of day.
Proceed to make your pious work as free,
Stop not your seasonable charity.
Good works despis'd, or censur'd by bad times,
Should be sent out to aggravate their Crimes.

They should first Share and then Reject our store:
Abuse our Good, to make their Guilt the more.
'Tis Warr strikes at our Sins, but it must be
A Persecution wounds our Pietie.

To the pious memorie of C. W. Esquire who finished his Course here, and made his Entrance into Immortality upon the 13 of September, in the year of Redemption 1653.

Now, that the publick Sorrow doth subside,
And those slight tears which Custom Springs, are dried;
While all the rich & out-side-Mourners pass
Home from thy Dust to empty their own Glass:
I (who the throng affect not, nor their state:)
Steal to thy grave undress'd, to meditate
On our sad loss, accompanied by none,
An obscure mourner that would weep alone.

So when the world's great Luminary setts,
Some scarce known Star into the Zenith gets,
Twinkles and curls a weak but willing spark:
As Gloworms here do glitter in the dark.
Yet, since the dimmest flame that kindles there,
An humble love unto the light doth bear,
And true devotion from an Hermits Cell
Will Heav'ns kind King as soon reach and as well
As that which from rich Shrines and Altars flyes
Lead by ascending Incense to the Skies:
'Tis no malicious rudeness, if the might
Of love makes dark things wait upon the bright,
And from my sad retirements calls me forth
The Just Recorder of thy death and worth.

Long did'st thou live (if length be measured by
The tedious Reign of our Calamity:)
And Counter to all storms and changes still
Kept'st the same temper, and the self same will.
Though trials came as duly as the day,
And in such mists, that none could see his way:
Yet thee I found still virtuous, and saw
The Sun give Clouds: and Charles give both the Law.
When private Interest did all hearts bend
And wild dissents the public peace did rend:
Thou neither won, nor worn wer't still thy self;
Not aw'd by force, nor basely brib'd with pelf.

What the insuperable stream of times
Did dash thee with, those Suff'rings were, not Crimes.
So the bright Sun Ecclipses bears; and we
Because then passive, blame him not, should he
For inforc'd shades, and the Moon's ruder veile
Much nearer us, than him; be Judg'd to fail?
Who traduce thee, so erre. As poisons by
Correction are made Antidotes, so thy
Just Soul did turn ev'n hurtful things to Good;
Us'd bad Laws so, they drew not Tears, nor Blood.
Heav'n was thy Aime, and thy great rare Design
Was not to Lord it here, but there to shine.
Earth nothing had, could tempt thee. All that e're
Thou pray'dst for here, was Peace; and Glory there.
For though thy Course in times long progress fell
On a sad age, when Warr and open'd Hell
Licens'd all Artes and Sects, and made it free
To thrive by fraud and blood and blasphemy:
Yet thou thy just Inheritance di'dst by
No sacrilege, nor pillage multiply;

No rapine swell'd thy state: no bribes, nor fees
Our new oppressors best Annuities.
Such clean, pure hands had'st thou! And for thy heart
Man's secret region and his noblest part;
Since I was privy to't, and had the Key
Of that faire Room, where thy bright Spirit lay:
I must affirm, it did as much surpass
Most I have known, as the clear Sky doth glass.
Constant and kind, and plain and meek and Mild
It was, and with no new Conceits defil'd.
Busie, but sacred thoughts (like Bees) did still
Within it stirr, and strive unto that Hill,
Where redeem'd Spirits evermore alive
After their Work is done, ascend and Hive.
No outward tumults reach'd this inward place,
'Twas holy ground: where peace, and love and grace
Kept house: where the immortal restles life
In a most dutiful and pious strife
Like a fix'd watch, mov'd all in order, still;
The Will serv'd God, and ev'ry Sense the Will!

In this safe state death mett thee. Death which is
But a kind Usher of the good to bliss.
Therefore to Weep because thy Course is run,
Or droop like Flow'rs, which lately lost the Sun:
I cannot yield, since faith will not permitt,
A Tenure got by Conquest to the Pitt.
For the great Victour fought for us, and Hee
Counts ev'ry dust, that is lay'd up of thee.
Besides, Death now grows decrepit and hath
Spent the most part both of its time and wrath.
That thick, black night which mankind fear'd, is torn
By Troops of Stars, and the bright day's Forlorn.

The next glad news (most glad unto the Just!)
Will be the Trumpet's summons from the dust.
Then Ile not grieve; nay more, I'le not allow
My Soul should think thee absent from me now.
Some bid their Dead good night! but I will say
Good morrow to dear Charles! for it is day.

In Zodiacum Marcelli Palingenii.

It is perform'd! and thy great Name doth run
Through ev'ry Sign an everlasting Sun.
Not Planet-like, but fix'd; and we can see
Thy Genius stand still in his Apogie.
For how canst thou an Aux eternal miss,
Where ev'ry House thine Exaltation is?
Here's no Ecclyptic threatens thee with night,
Although the wiser, few take in thy light.
They are not at that glorious pitch, to be
In a Conjunction with Divinitie.
Could we partake some oblique Ray of thine,
Salute thee in a Sextile, or a Trine,
It were enough; but thou art flown so high,
The Telescope is turn'd a Common Eye.
Had the grave Chaldee liv'd thy Book to see,
He had known no Astrologie, but thee;
Nay more, (for I believ't,) thou shouldst have been
Tutor to all his Planets, and to him.
Thus whosoever reads thee, his charm'd sense
Proves captive to thy Zodiac's influence.
Were it not foul to erre so, I should look
Here for the Rabbins universal Book:

And say, their fancies did but dream of thee,
When first they doted on that mystery.
Each line's a via lactea, where we may
See thy fair steps, and tread that happy way
Thy Genius lead thee in. Still I will be
Lodg'd in some Sign, some Face and some Degree
Of thy bright Zodiac, Thus I'le teach my Sense
To move by that, and thee th' Intelligence.

To Lysimachus, the Author being with him in London.

Saw not, Lysimachus, last day, when wee
Took the pure Air in its simplicity,
And our own too: how the trim'd Gallants went
Cringing, & past each step some Complement?
What strange, phantastic Diagrams they drew
With Legs and Arms; the like we never knew
In Euclid, Archimed: nor all of those
Whose learned lines are neither Verse nor Prose?
What store of Lace was there? how did the Gold
Run in rich Traces, but withall made bold
To measure the proud things, and so deride
The Fops with that, which was part of their pride?
How did they point at us, and boldly call,
As if we had been Vassals to them all,
Their poor Men-mules sent thither by hard fate
To yoke our selves for their Sedans and State?
Of all ambitions, this was not the least,
VVhose drift translated man into a beast.
VVhat blind discourse the Heroes did afford?
This Lady was their Friend, and such a Lord.

How much of Blood was in it? one could tell
He came from Bevis and his Arundel;
Morglay was yet with him, and he could do
More feats with it, than his old Grandsire too.

Wonders my Friend at this? what is't to thee,
Who canst produce a nobler Pedigree,
And in meer truth affirm thy Soul of kin
To some bright Star, or to a Cherubin?
When these in their profuse moods spend the night
With the same sins, they drive away the light,
Thy learned thrift puts her to use; while she
Reveals her firy Volume unto thee;
And looking on the separated skies
And their clear Lamps with careful thoughts & eyes
Thou break'st through Natures upmost rooms & bars
To Heav'n, and there conversest with the Stars.

Well fare such harmless, happy nights that be
Obscur'd with nothing but their privacie:
And missing but the false world's glories, do
Miss all those vices, which attend them too!
Fret not to hear their ill-got, ill-giv'n praise;
Thy darkest nights outshine their brightest dayes.

On Sir Thomas Bodley's Library; the Author being then in Oxford.

Boast not proud Golgotha: that thou can'st show
The ruines of mankind, and let us know
How fraile a thing is flesh! though we see there
But empty Skulls, the Rabbins still live here.
They are not dead, but full of Blood again,
I mean the Sense, and ev'ry Line a Vein.

Triumph not o're their Dust; whoever looks
In here, shall find their Brains all in their Books.

Nor is't old Palestine alone survives,
Athens lives here, more than in Plutarch's lives.
The stones which sometimes danc'd unto the strain
Of Orpheus, here do lodge his muse again.
And you the Roman Spirits, learning has
Made your lives longer, than your Empire was.
Cæsar had perish'd from the World of men,
Had not his Sword been rescu'd by his pen.
Rare Seneca! how lasting is thy breath?
Though Nero did, thou could'st not bleed to Death.
How dull the expert Tyrant was, to look
For that in thee, which lived in thy Book?
Afflictions turn our Blood to Ink, and we
Commence when Writing, our Eternity.
Lucilius here I can behold, and see
His Counsels and his Life proceed from thee.
But what care I to whom thy Letters be?
I change the Name, and thou do'st write to me;
And in this Age, as sad almost as thine,
Thy stately Consolations are mine.
Poor Earth! what though thy viler dust enrouls
The frail Inclosures of these mighty Souls?
Their graves are all upon Record; not one
But is as bright, and open as the Sun.
And though some part of them obscurely fell
And perish'd in an unknown, private Cell:
Yet in their books they found a glorious way
To live unto the Resurrection-day.

Most noble Bodley! we are bound to thee
For no small part of our Eternity.

Thy treasure was not spent on Horse and Hound,
Nor that new Mode, which doth old States confound.
Thy legacies another way did go:
Nor were they left to those would spend them so.
Thy safe, discreet Expence on us did flow;
Walsam is in the mid'st of Oxford now.
Th' hast made us all thine Heirs: whatever we
Hereafter write, 'tis thy Posterity.
This is thy Monument! here thou shalt stand
Till the times fail in their last grain of Sand.
And wheresoe're thy silent Reliques keep,
This Tomb will never let thine honour sleep.
Still we shall think upon thee; all our fame
Meets here to speak one Letter of thy name.
Thou can'st not dye! here thou art more than safe
Where every Book is thy large Epitaph.

The importunate Fortune, written to Doctor Powel of Cantre.

For shame desist, why should'st thou seek my fall?
It cannot make thee more Monarchical.
Leave off; thy Empire is already built;
To ruine me were to inlarge thy guilt,
Not thy Prerogative. I am not he
Must be the measure to thy victory.
The Fates hatch more for thee; 'twere a disgrace
If in thy Annals I should make a Clause.
The future Ages will disclose such men,
Shall be the glory, and the end of them.
Nor do I flatter. So long as there be
Descents in Nature, or Posterity,

There must be Fortunes; whether they be good,
As swimming in thy Tide and plenteous Flood,
Or stuck fast in the shallow Ebb, when we
Miss to deserve thy gorgeous charity.
Thus, Fortune, the great World thy period is;
Nature and you are Parallels in this.

But thou wilt urge me still. Away, be gone;
I am resolv'd, I will not be undone.
I scorn thy trash and thee: nay more, I do
Despise my self, because thy Subject too.
Name me Heir to thy malice, and I'le be;
Thy hate's the best Inheritance for me.
I care not for your wondrous Hat and Purse:
Make me a Fortunatus with thy Curse.
How careful of my self then should I be,
Were I neglected by the world and thee?
Why do'st thou tempt me with thy dirty Ore,
And with thy Riches make my Soul so poor?
My Fancy's pris'ner to thy Gold and thee,
Thy favours rob me of my liberty.
I'le to my Speculations. Is't best
To be confin'd to some dark narrow chest
And Idolize thy Stamps, when I may be
Lord of all Nature, and not slave to thee?
The world's my Palace. I'le contemplate there,
And make my progress into ev'ry Sphere.
The Chambers of the Air are mine; those three
Well furnish'd Stories my possession be.
I hold them all in Capite, and stand
Propt by my Fancy there. I scorn your Land,
It lies so far below me. Here I see
How all the Sacred Stars do circle me.

Thou to the Great giv'st rich Food, and I do
VVant no Content; I feed on Manna too.
They have their Tapers; I gaze without fear
On flying Lamps, and flaming Comets here.
Their wanton flesh in Silks and Purple Shrouds,
And Fancy wraps me in a Robe of Clouds.
There some delicious beauty they may woo,
And I have Nature for my Mistris too.

But these are mean; the Archtype I can see,
And humbly touch the hem of Majestie.
The power of my Soul is such, I can
Expire, and so analyse all that's man.
First my dull Clay I give unto the Earth,
Our common Mother, which gives all their birth.
My growing Faculties I send as soon
VVhence first I took them, to the humid Moon.
All Subtilties and every cunning Art
To witty Mercury I do impart.
Those fond Affections which made me a slave
To handsome Faces, Venus thou shalt have.
And saucy Pride (if there was ought in me,)
Sol, I return it to thy Royalty.
My daring Rashness and Presumptions be
To Mars himself an equal Legacy.
My ill-plac'd Avarice (sure 'tis but small;)
Jove, to thy Flames I do bequeath it all.
And my false Magic, which I did believe,
And mystic Lyes to Saturn I do give.
My dark Imaginations rest you there,
This is your grave and Superstitious Sphære.

Get up my dismtangled Soul, thy fire
Is now refin'd & nothing left to tire,

Or clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flight
Hath brought me to the Empyrean light.
I am a sep'rate Essence, and can see
The Emanations of the Deitie,
And how they pass the Seraphims, and run
Through ev'ry Throne and Domination.
So rushing through the Guard, the Sacred streams
Flow to the neighbour Stars, and in their beams
(A glorious Cataract!) descend to Earth
And give Impressions unto ev'ry birth.
VVith Angels now and Spirits I do dwell.
And here it is my Nature to do well,
Thus, though my Body you confined see,
My boundless thoughts have their Ubiquitie.
And shall I then forsake the Stars and Signs
To dote upon thy dark and cursed Mines?
Unhappy, sad exchange! what, must I buy
Guiana with the loss of all the skie?
Intelligences shall I leave, and be
Familiar only with mortalitie?
Must I know nought, but thy Exchequer? shall
My purse and fancy be Symmetrical?
Are there no Objects left but one? must we
In gaining that, lose our Varietie?

Fortune, this is the reason I refuse
Thy Wealth; it puts my Books all out of use.
'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind
Is big with speculation, when I find
My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess
There is no Blessing to an Emptiness!
The Species of all things to me resort
And dwell then in my breast, as in their port.

Then leave to Court me with thy hated store,
Thou giv'st me that, to rob my Soul of more.

To I. Morgan of White-hall Esq; upon his sudden Journey and succeeding Marriage.

So from our cold, rude World, which all things tires
To his warm Indies the bright sun retires.
Where in those provinces of Gold and spice
Perfumes his progress: pleasures fill his Eyes.
Which so refresh'd in their return convey
Fire into Rubies, into Chrystalls day;
And prove, that Light in kinder Climates can
Work more on senseless Stones, than here on man.

But you, like one ordain'd to shine, take in
Both Light and Heat: can Love and Wisdom spin
Into one thred, and with that firmly tye
The same bright Blessings on posterity;
Which so intail'd, like Jewels of the Crown,
Shall with your Name descend still to your own.

When I am dead, and malice or neglect
The worst they can upon my dust reflect,
(For Poets yet have left no names, but such
As men have envied, or despis'd too much;)
You above both (and what state more excells
Since a just Fame like Health, nor wants, nor swells?)
To after ages shall remain Entire,
And shine still spottles, like your planets Fire.
No single lustre neither; the access
Of your fair Love will yours adorn and bless;
Till from that bright Conjunction, men may view
A Constellation circling her and you:

So two sweet Rose-buds from their Virgin-beds
First peep and blush, then kiss and couple heads;
Till yearly blessings so increase their store
Those two can number two and twenty more,
And the fair Bank (by heav'ns free bounty Crown'd)
With choice of Sweets and Beauties doth abound;
Till time, which Familys like Flowers far spreads;
Gives them for Garlands to the best of heads.
Then late posterity (if chance, or some
Weak Eccho, almost quite expir'd and dumb
shall tell them, who the Poet was, and how (know)
He liv'd and lov'd thee too; which thou do'st
Strait to my grave will Flowers and spices bring
With Lights and Hymns, and for an Offering
There vow this truth; That Love (which in old times
Was censur'd blind, and will contract worse Crimes
If hearts mend not; did for thy sake in me
Find both his Eyes, and all foretell and see.

FIDA: Or The Country-beauty: to Lysimachus.

Now I have seen her; And by Cupid
The young Medusa made me stupid!
A face, that hath no Lovers stain,
Wants forces, and is near disdain.
For every Fop will freely peep
At Majesty that is asleep.
But she (fair Tyrant!) hates to be
Gaz'd on with such impunity.
Whose prudent Rigor bravely bears
And scorns the trick of whining tears:

Or sighs, those false All-arms of grief,
Which kill not, but afford relief.
Nor is it thy hard fate to be
Alone in this Calamity,
Since I who came but to be gone,
Am plagu'd for meerly looking on.

Mark from her forhead to her foot
What charming Sweets are there to do't.
A Head adorn'd with all those glories
That Witt hath shadow'd in quaint stories:
Or pencill with rich colours drew
In imitation of the true.

Her Hair lay'd out in curious Setts
And Twists, doth shew like silken Nets,
Where (since he play'd at Hitt or Miss:)
The God of Love her pris'ner is,
And fluttering with his skittish Wings
Puts all her locks in Curls and Rings.

Like twinkling Stars her Eyes invite
All gazers to so sweet a light,
But then two arched Clouds of brown
stand o're, and guard them with a frown.

Beneath these rayes of her bright Eyes
Beautie's rich Bed of blushes lyes.
Blushes, which lightning-like come on,
Yet stay not to be gaz'd upon;
But leave the Lilies of her Skin
As fair as ever, and run in:
Like swift Salutes (which dull paint scorn,)
Twixt a white noon, and Crimson Morne.

What Corall can her Lips resemble?
For hers are warm, swell, melt and tremble:

And if you dare contend for Red,
This is alive, the other dead.

Her equal Teeth (above, below:)
All of a Cise, and Smoothness grow.
Where under close restraint and awe
(Which is the Maiden, Tyrant law:)
Like a cag'd, sullen Linnet, dwells.
Her Tongue, the Key to potent spells.

Her Skin, like heav'n when calm and bright,
Shews a rich azure under white,
With touch more soft than heart supposes,
And Breath as sweet as new blown Roses.

Betwixt this Head-land and the Main,
Which is a rich and flowry Plain:
Lyes her fair Neck, so fine and slender
That (gently) how you please, 'twill bend her.

This leads you to her Heart, which ta'ne
Pants under Sheets of whitest Lawn,
And at the first seems much distrest,
But nobly treated, lyes at rest.

Here like two Balls of new fall'n snow,
Her Breasts, Loves native pillows grow;
And out of each a Rose-bud Peeps
Which Infant beauty sucking, sleeps.

Say now my Stoic, that mak'st soure faces
At all the Beauties and the Graces,
That criest unclean! though known thy self
To ev'ry coorse, and dirty shelfe:
Could'st thou but see a piece like this,
A piece so full of Sweets and bliss:

In shape so rare, in Soul so rich,
Would'st thou not swear she is a witch?

Fida forsaken.

Fool that I was! to believe blood
While swoll'n with greatness, then most good;
And the false thing, forgetful man:
To trust more than our true God, Pan,
Such swellings to a dropsie tend,
And meanest things such great ones bend.

Then live deceived! and Fida by
That life destroy fidelity.
For living wrongs will make some wise,
While death chokes lowdest Injuries:
And skreens the faulty, making Blinds
To hide the most unworthy minds.

And yet do what thou can'st to hide
A bad trees fruit will be describ'd.
For that foul guilt which first took place
In his dark heart, now damns his face:
And makes those Eyes, where life should dwell,
Look like the pits of Death and Hell.

Bloud, whose rich purple shews and seals
Their faith in Moors, in him reveals
A blackness at the heart, and is
Turn'd Inke, to write his faithlesness.
Only his lips with bloud look red,
As if asham'd of what they sed.

Then, since he wears in a dark skin
The shadows of his hell within,
Expose him no more to the light,
But thine own Epitaph thus write.
Here burst, and dead and unregarded
Lyes Fida's heart! O well rewarded!

To the Editor of the matchless Orinda.

Long since great witts have left the Stage
Unto the Drollers of the age,
And noble numbers with good sense
Are like good works, grown an offence.
While much of verse (worse than old story,)
Speaks but Jack-Pudding, or John-Dory.
Such trash-admirers made us poor,
And Pyes turn'd Poets out of door.
For the nice Spirit of rich verse
Which scorns absurd and low commerce,
Although a flame from heav'n, if shed
On Rooks or Daws: warms no such head.
Or else the Poet, like bad priest,
Is seldom good, but when opprest:
And wit, as well as piety
Doth thrive best in adversity;
For since the thunder left our air
Their Laurels look not half so fair.

However 'tis 'twere worse than rude
Not to profess our gratitude
And debts to thee, who at so low
An Ebbe do'st make us thus to flow:

And when we did a Famine fear,
Hast blest us with a fruitful year.
So while the world his absence mourns
The glorious Sun at last returns,
And with his kind and vital looks
Warms the cold Earth and frozen brooks:
Puts drowsie nature into play
And rids impediments away,
Till Flow'rs and Fruits and spices through
Her pregnant lap get up and grow.
But if among those sweet things, we
A miracle like that could see
Which nature brought but once to pass:
A Muse, such as Orinda was,
Phœbus himself won by these charms
Would give her up into thy arms;
And recondemn'd to kiss his Tree,
Yield the young Goddess unto thee.

Upon sudden news of the much lamented death of Judge Trevers.

Learning and Law your Day is done,
And your work too; you may be gone!
Trever, that lov'd you, hence is fled:
And Right, which long lay Sick is dead.
Trever! whose rare and envied part
Was both a wise and winning heart,
Whose sweet civilitys could move
Tartars and Goths to noblest love.

Bold Vice and blindness now dare act,
And (like the gray groat,) pass, though crack't;

While those sage lips lye dumb and cold,
VVhose words are well-weigh'd and tried gold.
O how much to descreet desires
Differs pure Light from foolish fires!
But nasty Dregs out last the Wine,
And after Sun-set Gloworms shine.

To Etesia (for Timander,) the first Sight.

What smiling Star in that fair Night,
Which gave you Birth gave me this Sight.
And with a kind Aspect tho keen
Made me the Subject: you the Queen?
That sparkling Planet is got now
Into your Eyes, and shines below;
Where nearer force, and more acute
It doth dispence, without dispute,
For I who yesterday did know
Loves fire no more, than doth cool Snow
with one bright look am since undone;
Yet must adore and seek my Sun.

Before I walk'd free as the wind,
And if but stay'd (like it,) unkind.
I could like daring Eagles gaze
And not be blinded by a face;
For what I saw, till I saw thee,
Was only not deformity.
Such shapes appear (compar'd with thine,)
In Arras, or a tavern-sign,
And do but mind me to explore
A fairer piece, that is in store.

So some hang Ivy to their Wine,
To signify, there is a Vine.

Those princely Flow'rs (by no storms vex'd,)
Which smile one day, and droop the next:
The gallant Tulip and the Rose,
Emblems which some use to disclose
Bodyed Idea's: their weak grace
Is meer imposture to thy face.
For nature in all things, but thee,
Did practise only Sophistry;
Or else she made them to express
How she could vary in her dress:
But thou wert form'd, that we might see
Perfection, not Variety.

Have you observ'd how the Day-star
Sparkles and smiles and shines from far:
Then to the gazer doth convey
A silent, but a piercing Ray?
So wounds my love, but that her Eys
Are in Effects, the better Skys.
A brisk bright Agent from them Streams
Arm'd with no arrows, but their beams,
And with such stillness smites our hearts,
No noise betrays him, nor his darts.
He working on my easie Soul
Did soon persuade, and then controul;
And now he flyes (and I conspire)
Through all my blood with wings of fire,
And when I would (which will be never)
With cold despair allay the fever:
The spiteful thing Etesia names,
And that new-fuells all my flames.

The Character, to Etesia

Go catch the Phœnix, and then bring
A quill drawn for me from his wing.
Give me a Maiden-beautie's Bloud,
A pure, rich Crimson, without mudd:
In whose sweet Blushes that may live,
Which a dull verse can never give.
Now for an untouch'd, spottles white,
For blackest things on paper write;
Etesia at thine own Expence
Give me the Robes of innocence.

Could we but see a Spring to run
Pure Milk, as sometimes Springs have done,
And in the Snow-white streams it sheds
Carnations wash their bloudy heads.
While ev'ry Eddy that came down
Did (as thou do'st,) both smile and frown.
Such objects and so fresh would be
But dull Resemblances of thee.

Thou art the dark worlds Morning-star,
Seen only, and seen but from far;
Where like Astronomers we gaze
Upon the glories of thy face,
But no acquaintance more can have,
Though all our lives we watch and Crave.
Thou art a world thy self alone,
Yea three great worlds refin'd to one.
Which shews all those, and in thine Eyes
The shining East, and Paradise.

Thy Soul (a Spark of the first Fire,)
Is like the Sun, the worlds desire;

And with a nobler influence
Works upon all, that claim to sense;
But in Summers hath no fever,
And in frosts is chearful ever.

As Flowr's, besides their curious dress
Rich odours have, and Sweetnesses.
Which tacitely infuse desire
And ev'n oblige us to admire:
Such and so full of innocence
Are all the Charms, thou do'st dispence;
And like fair Nature, without Arts
At once they seize, and please our hearts.
O thou art such, that I could be
A lover to Idolatry!
I could, and should from heav'n stray,
But that thy life shews mine the way,
And leave a while the Diety,
To serve his Image here in thee.

To Etesia looking from her Casement at the full Moon.

See you that beauteous Queen, which no age tames?
Her Train is Azure, set with golden flames.
My brighter fair, fix on the East your Eyes,
And view that bed of Clouds, whence she doth rise.
Above all others in that one short hour
Which most concern'd in, she had greatest pow'r.
This made my Fortunes humorous as wind,
But fix'd Affections to my constant mind.
She fed me with the tears of Starrs, and thence
I suck'd in Sorrows with their Influence.

To some in smiles, and store of light she broke:
To me in sad Eclipses still she spoke.
She bent me with the motion of her Sphere,
And made me feel, what first I did but fear.

But when I came to Age, and had o'regrown
Her Rules, and saw my freedom was my own,
I did reply unto the Laws of Fate,
And made my Reason, my great Advocate:
I labour'd to inherit my just right;
But then (O hear Etesia!) lest I might
Redeem my self, my unkind Starry Mother
Took my poor Heart, and gave it to another.

To Etesia parted from him, and looking back.

O subtile Love! thy Peace is War;
It wounds and kills without a scar:
It works unknown to any sense,
Like the Decrees of Providence,
And with strange silence shoots me through:
The Fire of Love doth fall like Snow.

Hath she no Quiver, but my Heart?
Must all her Arrows hit that part?
Beauties like Heav'n, their Gifts should deal
Not to destroy us, but to heal.

Strange Art of Love! that can make sound,
And yet exasperates the wound;
That look she lent to ease my heart,
Hath pierc't it, and improv'd the smart.

To Etesia going beyond Sea.

Go, if you must! but stay—and know
And mind before you go, my vow.
To ev'ry thing, but Heav'n and you,
With all my Heart, I bid Adieu!
Now to those happy Shades I'le go
Where first I saw my beauteous Foe.
I'le seek each silent path, where we
Did walk, and where you sate with me
I'le sit again, and never rest
Till I can find some flow'r you prest.
That near my dying Heart I'le keep,
And when it wants Dew, I will weep:
Sadly I will repeat past Joyes,
And Words, which you did sometimes voice:
I'le listen to the Woods, and hear
The Eccho answer for you there.
But famish'd with long absence I
Like Infants left, at last shall cry,

And Tears (as they do Milk) will sup
Until you come, and take me up.

Etesia absent.

Love, the Worlds Life! what a sad death
Thy absence is? to lose our breath
At once and dye, is but to live
Inlarg'd, without the scant reprieve
Of Pulse and Air: whose dull returns
And narrow Circles the Soul mourns.

But to be dead alive, and still
To wish, but never have our will:
To be possess'd, and yet to miss;
To wed a-true but absent bliss:
Are lingring tortures, and their smart
Dissects and racks and grinds the Heart!
As Soul and Body in that state
Which unto us seems separate,
Cannot be said to live, until
Reunion; which dayes fulfill
And slow-pac'd seasons: So in vain
Through hours and minutes (Times long train,)
I look for thee, and from thy sight,
As from my Soul, for life and light.
For till thine Eyes shine solon me,
Mine are fast-clos'd and will not see.

Translations.

Some Odes of the Excellent and Knowing Severinus, Englished.

Metrum 12. Lib. 3.

Happy is he, that with fix'd Eyes
The Fountain of all goodness spies!
Happy is he, that can break through
Those Bonds, which tie him here below!

The Thracian Poet long ago
Kind Orpheus, full of tears and wo
Did for his lov'd Euridice
In such sad Numbers mourn, that he
Made the Trees run in to his mone,
And Streams stand still to hear him grone.
The Does came fearless in one throng
With Lyons to his mournful Song,
And charm'd by the harmonious sound
The Hare stay'd by the quiet Hound.

But when Love heightned by despair
And deep reflections on his Fair
Had swell'd his Heart, and made it rise
And run in Tears out at his Eyes:
And those sweet Aires, which did appease
Wild Beasts, could give their Lord no case;
Then vex'd, that so much grief and Love
Mov'd not at all the gods above,

With desperate thoughts and bold intent,
Towards the Shades below he went;
For thither his fair Love was fled,
And he must have her from the dead.
There in such Lines, as did well suit
With sad Aires and a Lovers Lute,
And in the richest Language drest
That could be thought on, or exprest.
Did he complain, whatever Grief,
Or Art, or Love (which is the chief,
And all innobles,) could lay out;
In well-tun'd woes he dealt about.
And humbly bowing to the Prince
Of Ghosts, begg'd some Intelligence
Of his Euridice, and where
His beauteous Saint resided there.
Then to his Lutes instructed grones
He sigh'd out new melodious mones;
And in a melting charming strain
Begg'd his dear Love to life again.

The Music flowing through the shade
And darkness, did with ease invade
The silent and attentive Ghosts;
And Cerberus, which guards those coasts
With his lowd barkings, overcome
By the sweet Notes, was now struck dumb.
The Furies, us'd to rave and howl
And prosecute each guilty Soul,
Had lost their rage, and in a deep
Transport did most profusely weep.
Ixion's wheel stopt, and the curst
Tantalus almost kill'd with thirst,

Though the Streams now did make no haste,
But waited for him, none would taste.
That Vultur, which fed still upon
Tityus his liver, now was gone
To feed on Air, and would not stay
Though almost famish'd, with her prey.

Won with these wonders, their fierce Prince
At last cry'd out, We yield! and since
Thy merits claim no less, take hence
Thy Consort for thy Recompence.
But, Orpheus, to this law we bind
Our grant, you must not look behind,
Nor of your fair Love have one Sight,
Till out of our Dominions quite.

Alas! what laws can Lovers awe?
Love is it self the greatest Law!
Or who can such hard bondage brook
To be in Love, and not to Look?
Poor Orpheus almost in the light
Lost his dear Love for one short fight;
And by those Eyes, which Love did guide,
What he most lov'd unkindly dyed!

This tale of Orpheus and his Love
Was meant for you, who ever move
Upwards, and tend into that light,
Which is not seen by mortal sight.
For if, while you strive to ascend,
You droop, and towards Earth once bend
Your seduc'd Eyes, down you will fall
Ev'n while you look, and forfeit all.

Metrum 2. Lib. 3.

What fix'd Affections, and lov'd Laws
(which are the hid, magnetic Cause;
Wise Nature governs with, and by
What fast, inviolable tye
The whole Creation to her ends
For ever provident she bends:
All this I purpose to rehearse
In the sweet Airs of solemn Verse.

Although the Lybian Lyons should
Be bound with chains of purest Gold,
And duely fed, were taught to know
Their keepers voice, and fear his blow:
Yet, if they chance to taste of bloud,
Their rage which slept, stirr'd by that food
In furious roarings will awake,
And fiercely for their freedom make.
No chains, nor bars their fury brooks,
But with inrag'd and bloody looks
They will break through, and dull'd with fear
Their keeper all to pieces tear.

The Bird, which on the Woods tall boughs
Sings sweetly, if you Cage or house,
And out of kindest care should think
To give her honey with her drink,
And get her store of pleasant meat,
Ev'n such as she delights to Eat:
Yet, if from her close prison she
The shady-groves doth chance to see,
Straitway she loaths her pleasant food
And with sad looks longs for the Wood.

The wood, the wood alone she loves!
And towards it she looks and moves:
And in sweet notes (though distant from,)
Sings to her first and happy home!

That Plant, which of it self doth grow
Upwards, if forc'd, will downwards bow;
But give it freedom, and it will
Get up, and grow erectly still.

The Sun, which by his prone descent
Seems westward in the Evening bent,
Doth nightly by an unseen way
Haste to the East, and bring up day.

Thus all things long for their first State,
And gladly to't return, though late.
Nor is there here to any thing
A Course allow'd, but in a Ring;
Which, where it first began, must end:
And to that Point directly tend.

Metrum 6 Lib. 4.

Who would unclouded see the Laws
Of the supreme, eternal Cause,
Let him with careful thoughts and eyes
Observe the high and spatious Skyes.
There in one league of Love the Stars
Keep their old peace, and shew our wars.
The Sun, though flaming still and hot,
The cold, pale Moon annoyeth not.
Arcturus with his Sons (though they
See other stars go a far way,
And out of sight,) yet still are found
Near the North-pole, their noted bound.

Bright Hesper (at set times) delights
To usher in the dusky nights:
And in the East again attends
To warn us, when the day ascends,
So alternate Love supplys
Eternal Courses still, and vies
Mutual kindness; that no Jars
Nor discord can disturb the Stars.

The same sweet Concord here below
Makes the fierce Elements to flow
And Circle without quarrel still,
Though temper'd diversly; thus will
The Hot assist the Cold: the Dry
Is a friend to Humidity.
And by the Law of kindness they
The like relief to them repay.
The fire, which active is and bright,
Tends upward, and from thence gives light.
The Earth allows it all that space
And makes choice of the lower place;
For things of weight hast to the Center
A fall to them is no adventure.

From these kind turns and Circulation
Seasons proceed and Generation.
This makes the Spring to yield us flow'rs,
And melts the Clouds to gentle show'rs.
The Summer thus matures all seeds
And ripens both the Corn and weeds.
This brings on Autumn, which recruits
Our old, spent store with new fresh fruits.
And the cold Winters blastring Season
Hath snow and storms for the same reason.

This temper and wise mixture breed
And bring forth ev'ry living seed.
And when their strength and substance spend
(For while they live, they drive and tend
Still to a change,) it takes them hence
And shifts their dress; and to our sense
Their Course is over, as their birth:
And hid from us, they turn to Earth.

But all this while the Prince of life
Sits without loss, or change, or strife:
Holding the Rains, by which all move;
(And those his wisdom, power, Love
And Justice are;) And still what he
The first life bids, that needs must be,
And live on for a time; that done
He calls it back, meerly to shun
The mischief, which his creature might
Run into by a further flight.
For if this dear and tender sense
Of his preventing providence
Did not restrain and call things back:
Both heav'n and earth would go to wrack.
And from their great preserver part,
As blood let out forsakes the Heart
And perisheth; but what returns
With fresh and Brighter spirits burns.

This is the Cause why ev'ry living
Creature affects an endless being.
A grain of this bright love each thing
Had giv'n at first by their great King;
And still they creep (drawn on by this:)
And look back towards their first bliss.

For otherwise, it is most sure,
Nothing that liveth could endure:
Unless it's Love turn'd retrograde
Sought that first life, which all things made.

Metrum 3. Lib. 4.

If old tradition hath not fail'd,
Ulysses, when from Troy he sail'd,
Was by a tempest forc'd to land
Where beauteous Circe did command.
Circe, the daughter of the Sun,
Which had with Charms and Herbs undone
Many poor strangers, and could then
Turn into Beasts, the bravest Men.
Such Magic in her potions lay
That whosoever past that way
And drank, his shape was quickly lost;
Some into Swine she turn'd, but most
To Lyons arm'd with teeth and claws;
Others like Wolves, with open Jaws
Did howl; But some (more savage) took
The Tiger's dreadful shape and look.

But wise Ulysses by the Aid
Of Hermes, had to him convey'd
A Flow'r, whose virtue did suppress
The force of charms, and their success.
While his Mates drank so deep, that they
Were turn'd to Swine, which fed all day
On Mast, and humane food had left,
Of shape and voice at once bereft.
Only the Mind (above all charms,)
Unchang'd, did mourn those monstrous harms.

O worthless herbs, and weaker Arts
To change their Limbs, but not their Hearts
Mans life and vigor keep within,
Lodg'd in the Center, not the Skin.
Those piercing charms and poysons, which
His inward parts taint and bewitch,
More fatal are, than such, which can
Outwardly only spoile the man.
Those change his shape and make it foul;
But these deform and kill his soul.

Metrum 6. Lib. 3.

All sorts of men, that live on Earth,
Have one beginning and one birth.
For all things there is one Father,
Who lays out all, and all doth gather.
He the warm Sun with rays adorns,
And fils with brightness the Moon's horns.
The azur'd heav'ns with stars he burnish'd
And the round world with creatures furnish'd.
But Men (made to inherit all,)
His own Sons he was pleas'd to call,
And that they might be so indeed,
He gave them Souls of divine seed.
A noble Offspring surely then
Without distinction, are all men.

O why so vainly do some boast
Their Birth and Blood, and a great Hoste
Of Ancestors, whose Coats and Crests
Are some rav'nous Birds or Beasts!
If Extraction they look for
And God, the great Progenitor:

No man, though of the meanest state
Is base, or can degenerate;
Unless to Vice and lewdness bent
He leaves and taints his true descent.

The old man of Verona out of Claudian.

Fælix, qui propriis ævum transegit in arvis,
Una domus puerum &c.

Most happy man! who in his own sweet fields
Spent all his time, to whom one Cottage yields
In age and youth a lodging: who grown old
Walks with his staff on the same soil and mold
Where he did creep an infant, and can tell
Many fair years spent in one quiet Cell!
No toils of fate made him from home far known,
Nor forreign waters drank, driv'n from his own.
No loss by Sea, no wild lands wastful war
Vex'd him; not the brib'd Coil of growns at bar.
Exempt from cares, in Cities never seen
The fresh field-air he loves, and rural green.
The years set turns by fruits, not Consuls knows;
Autumn by apples: May by blossom'd boughs.
Within one hedg his Sun doth set and rise,
The world's wide day his short Demeasnes comprise.
Where he observes some known, concrescent twig
Now grown an Oak, and old, like him, and big.
Verona he doth for the Indies take,
And as the red Sea counts Benacus lake.
Yet are his limbs and strength untir'd, and he
A lusty Grandsire three descents doth see.

Travel and sail who will, search sea, or shore;
This man hath liv'd, and that hath wander'd more.

The Sphere of Archimedes out of Claudian.

Jupiter in parvo cum cerneret æthera vitro
Risit, & ad superos &c.

When Jove a heav'n of small glass did behold,
He smil'd, and to the Gods these words he told.
Comes then the power of mans Art to this?
In a frail Orbe my work new acted is.
The poles decrees, the fate of things: God's laws
Down by his Art old Archimedes draws.
Spirits inclos'd the sev'ral Stars attend,
And orderly the living work they bend.
A feigned Zodiac measures out the year,
Ev'ry new month a false Moon doth appear.
And now bold industry is proud, it can
Wheel round its world, and rule the Stars by man.
Why at Salmoneus thunder do I stand?
Nature is rivall'd by a single hand.

The Phœnix out of Claudian.

Oceani summo circumfluus æquore lucus
Trans Indos, Eurumque viret &c,

A grove there grows round with the Sea confin'd
Beyond the Indies, and the Eastern wind.
Which, as the Sun breaks forth in his first beam,
Salutes his steeds, and hears him whip his team.

When with his dewy Coach the Eastern Bay
Crackles, whence blusheth the approaching day;
And blasted with his burnish'd wheels, the night
In a pale dress doth vanish from the light.

This the blest Phœnix Empire is, here he
Alone exempted from mortality,
Enjoys a land, where no diseases raign;
And ne'r afflicted, like our world, with pain.
A Bird most equal to the Gods, which vies
For length of life and durance, with the skyes;
And with renewed limbs tires ev'ry age,
His appetite he never doth asswage
With common food. Nor doth he use to drink
When thirsty, on some River's muddy brink.
A purer, vital heat shot from the Sun
Doth nourish him, and airy sweets that come
From Tethis lap, he tasteth at his need;
On such abstracted Diet doth he feed.

A secret Light there streams from both his Eyes
A firy hue about his cheeks doth rise.
His Crest grows up into a glorious Star
Giv'n t' adorn his head, and shines so far.
That piercing through the bosom of the night
It rends the darkness with a gladsome light.
His thighs like Tyrian scarlet, and his wings
(More swift than Winds are,) have skie-colour'd rings
Flowry and rich: and round about inroll'd
Their utmost borders glister all with gold.
Hee's not conceiv'd, nor springs he from the Earth,
But is himself the Parent, and the birth.
None him begets; his fruitful death reprieves
Old age, and by his funerals he lives.

For when the tedious Summer's gone about
A thousand times: so many Winters out,
So many Springs: and May doth still restore
Those leaves, which Autumn had blown off before;
Then prest with years his vigour doth decline
Foil'd with the number; as a stately Pine
Tir'd out with storms, bends from the top & height
Of Causacus, and falls with its own weight:
Whose part is torn with dayly blasts, with Rain
Part is consum'd, and part with Age again.
So now his Eyes grown dusky, fail to see
Far off, and drops of colder rheums there be
Fall'n slow and dreggy from them; such in sight
The cloudy Moon is, having spent her light.
And now his wings, which used to contend
With Tempests, scarce from the low Earth ascend.
He knows his time is out! and doth provide
New principles of life; herbs he brings dried
From the hot hills, and with rich spices frames
A Pile shall burn, and Hatch him with its flames.
On this the weakling sits; salutes the Sun
With pleasant noise, and prays and begs for some
Of his own fire, that quickly may restore
The youth and vigour, which he had before.
Whom soon as Phœbus spyes, stopping his rayns,
He makes a stand and thus allayes his pains.
O thou that buriest old age in thy grave,
And art by seeming funerals to have
A new return of life! whose custom 'tis
To rise by ruin, and by death to miss.
Ev'n death it self: a new beginning take,
And that thy wither'd body now forsake!

Better thy self by this thy change! This sed,
He shakes his locks, and from his golden head
Shoots one bright beam, which smites with vital fire
The willing bird; to burn is his desire,
That he may live again: he's proud in death,
And goes in haste to gain a better breath.
The spicie heap fir'd with cœlestial rays
Doth burn the aged Phœnix, when strait stays
The Chariot of th' amazed Moon; the pole
Resists the wheeling, swift Orbs, and the whole
Fabric of Nature at a stand remains,
Till the old bird a new, young being gains.
All stop and charge the faithful flames, that they
Suffer not nature's glory to decay.

By this time, life which in the ashes lurks
Hath fram'd the Heart, and taught new bloud new works;
The whole heap stirs, and ev'ry part assumes
Due vigour; th' Embers too are turn'd to plumes.
The parent in the Issue now revives,
But young and brisk; the bounds of both these lives
With very little space between the same,
Were parted only by the middle flame.

To Nilus strait he goes to consecrate
His parents ghoste; his mind is to translate
His dust to Egypt. Now he hastes away
Into a distant land, and doth convey
The ashes in a turf. Birds do attend
His Journey without number, and defend
His pious flight like to a guard; the sky
Is clouded with the Army, as they fly.
Nor is there one of all those thousands dares
Affront his leader: they with solomn cares

Attend the progress of their youthful king;
Not the rude hawk, nor th' Eagle that doth bring
Arms up to Jove, fight now; lest they displease;
The miracle enacts a common peace.
So doth the Parthian lead from Tigris side
His barbarous troops, full of a lavish pride
In pearls and habit, he adorns his head
With royal tires: his steed with gold is lead.
His robes, for which the scarlet fish is sought,
With rare Assyrian needle work are wrought.
And proudly reigning o're his rascal bands,
He raves and triumphs in his large Commands.

A City of Egypt famous in all lands
For rites, adores the Sun, his temple stands
There on a hundred pillars by account
Dig'd from the quarries of the Theban mount.
Here, as the Custom did require (they say,)
His happy parents dust down he doth lay;
Then to the Image of his Lord he bends
And to the flames his burden strait commends.
Unto the Altars thus he destinates
His own Remains: the light doth gild the gates;
Perfumes divine the Censers up do send:
While th' Indian odour doth it self extend
To the Pelusian fens, and filleth all
The men it meets with the sweet storm. A gale
To which compar'd, Nectar it self is vile:
Fills the seav'n channels of the misty Nile.

O happy bird! sole heir to thy own dust!
Death, to whose force all other Creatures must
Submit, saves thee. Thy ashes make thee rise;
'Tis not thy nature, but thy age that dies.

Thou hast seen All! and to the times that run
Thou art as great a witness, as the Sun.
Thou saw'st the deluge, when the sea outvied
The land, and drown'd the mountains with the tide.
What year the stragling Phaeton did fire
The world, thou know'st. And no plagues can conspire
Against thy life; alone thou do'st arise
Above mortality; the Destinies
Spin not thy days out with their fatal Clue;
They have no Law, to which thy life is due.

Pious thoughts and Ejaculations.

To his Books.

Bright books! the perspectives to our weak sights:
The clear projections of discerning lights.
Burning and shining Thoughts; man's posthume day:
The track of fled souls, and their Milkie-way.
The dead alive and busie, the still voice
Of inlarg'd Spirits, kind heav'ns white Decoys.
Who lives with you, lives like those knowing flow'rs,
Which in commerce with light, spend all their hours:
Which shut to Clouds, and shadows nicely shun;
But with glad haste unveil to kiss the Sun.
Beneath you all is dark and a dead night;
Which whoso lives in, wants both health and sight.

By sucking you, the wise (like Bees) do grow
Healing and rich, though this they do most slow:
Because most choicely, for as great a store
Have we of Books, as Bees of herbs, or more.
And the great task to try, then know the good:
To discern weeds, and Judge of wholsome Food.
Is a rare, scant performance; for Man dyes
Oft e're 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flyes.
But you were all choice Flow'rs, all set and drest
By old, sage florists, who well knew the best.
And I amidst you all am turn'd a weed!
Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed.
Then thank thy self wild fool, that would'st not be
Content to know—what was to much for thee!

Looking back.

Fair, shining Mountains of my pilgrimage,
And flow'ry Vales, whose flow'rs were stars:
The days and nights of my first, happy age;
An age without distast and warrs:
When I by thoughts ascend your Sunny heads,
And mind those sacred, midnight Lights:
By which I walk'd, when curtain'd Rooms and Beds
Confin'd, or seal'd up others sights:

O then how bright
And quick a light
Doth brush my heart and scatter night;
Chasing that shade
Which my sins made,
While I so spring, as if I could not fade!

How brave a prospect is a bright Back-side!
Where flow'rs and palms refresh the Eye:
And days well spent like the glad East abide,
Whose morning-glories cannot dye!

The Shower.

Waters above! eternal Springs!
The dew, that silvers the Doves wings!
O welcom, welcom to the sad:
Give dry dust drink; drink that makes glad!
Many fair Ev'nings, many Flowr's
Sweeten'd with rich and gentle showers
Have I enjoy'd, and down have run
Many a fine and shining Sun;
But never till this happy hour
Was blest with such an Evening-shower!

Discipline.

Fair prince of life, lights living well!
Who hast the keys of death and hell!
If the mule man despise thy day,
Put chains of darkness in his way.
Teach him how deep, how various are
The Councels of thy love and care.
When Acts of grace and a long peace
Breed but rebellion and displease;
Then give him his own way and will,
Where lawless he may run until
His own choice hurts him, and the sting
Of his foul sins full sorrows bring.
If Heav'n and Angels, hopes and mirth
Please not the mole so much as Earth:

Give him his Mine to dig, or dwell;
And one sad Scheme of hideous hell.

The Ecclipse.

Whither, O whither did'st thou fly
When I did grieve thine holy Eye?
When thou did'st mourn to see me lost,
And all thy Care and Councels crost.
O do not grieve where e'er thou art!
Thy grief is an undoing smart.
Which doth not only pain, but break
My heart, and makes me blush to speak.
Thy anger I could kiss, and will:
But (O!) thy grief, thy grief doth kill.

Affliction.

O come, and welcom! Come, refine;
For Moors if wash'd by thee, will shine.
Man blossoms at thy touch; and he
When thou draw'st blood, is thy Rose-tree.
Crosses make strait his crooked ways,
And Clouds but cool his dog-star days.
Diseases too, when by thee blest,
Are both restoratives and rest.

Flow'rs that in Sun-shines riot still,
Dye scorch'd and sapless; though storms kill.
The fall is fair ev'n to desire,
Where in their sweetness all expire.
O come, pour on! what calms can be
So fair as storms, that appease thee?

Retirement.

Fresh fields and woods! the Earth's fair face,
God's foot-stool, and mans dwelling-place.
I ask not why the first Believer
Did love to be a Country liver?
Who to secure pious content
Did pitch by groves and wells his tent;
Where he might view the boundless skie,
And all those glorious lights on high:
With flying meteors, mists and show'rs,
Subjected hills, trees, meads and Flow'rs:
And ev'ry minute bless the King
And wise Creatour of each thing.

I ask not why he did remove
To happy Mamre's holy grove,
Leaving the Citie's of the plain
To Lot and his successless train?
All various Lusts in Cities still
Are found; they are the Thrones of Ill.
The dismal Sinks, where blood is spill'd,
Cages with much uncleanness fill'd.
But rural shades are the sweet fense
Of piety and innocence.
They are the Meek's calm region, where
Angels descend, and rule the sphere:
Where heav'n lyes Leiguer, and the Dove
Duely as Dew, comes from above.
If Eden be on Earth at all,
'Tis that, which we the Country call.

The Revival.

Unfold, unfold! take in his light,
Who makes thy Cares more short than night.
The Joys, which with his Day-star rise,
He deals to all, but drowsy Eyes:
And what the men of this world miss,
Some drops and dews of future bliss.

Hark! how his winds have chang'd their note,
And with warm whispers call thee out.
The frosts are past, the storms are gone:
And backward life at last comes on.
The lofty groves in express Joyes
Reply unto the Turtles voice,
And here in dust and dirt, O here
The Lilies of his love appear!

The Day-spring.

Early, while yet the dark was gay,
And gilt with stars, more trim than day:
Heav'ns Lily, and the Earth's chast Rose:

S. Mark c. 1. v. 35.

The green, immortal BRANCH arose;
And in a solitary place
Bow'd to his father his bless'd face.

If this calm season pleas'd my Prince,
Whose fullness no need could evince,
Why should not I poor, silly sheep
His hours, as well as practice keep?
Not that his hand is tyed to these,
From whom time holds his transient Lease:

But mornings, new Creations are,
When men all night sav'd by his Care,
Are still reviv'd; and well he may
Expect them grateful with the day.
So for that first drawght of his hand,
Which finish'd heav'n and sea and land,

Job. c. 38. v. 7.

The Sons of God their thanks did bring,
And all the Morning-stars did sing.
Besides, as his part heretofore
The firstlings were of all, that bore:
So now each day from all he saves,
Their Soul's first thoughts and fruits he craves.
This makes him daily shed and shower
His graces at this early hour;
Which both his Care and Kindness show,
Chearing the good: quickning the slow.
As holy friends mourn at delay,
And think each minute an hour's stay:
So his divine and loving Dove
With longing throws doth heave and move,
And soare about us, while we sleep:
Sometimes quite through that lock doth peep,
And shine; but always without fail
Before the slow Sun can unveile,
In new Compassions breaks like light,
And Morning-looks, which scatter night.

And wilt thou let thy creature be
When thou hast watch'd, asleep to thee?
Why to unwellcome, loath'd surprises
Do'st leave him, having left his vices?
Since these, if suffer'd, may again
Lead back the living, to the slain.

O change this Scourge! or, if as yet
None less will my transgressions fit:
Dissolve, dissolve! death cannot do
What I would not submit unto.

The Recovery.

I

Fair Vessell of our daily light, whose proud
And previous glories gild that blushing Cloud:
Whose lively fires in swift projections glance
From hill to hill, and by refracted chance
Burnish some neighbour-rock, or tree, and then
Fly off in coy and winged flams agen:
If thou this day
Hold on thy way,
Know, I have got a greater light than thine;
A light, whose shade and back-parts make thee shine.
Then get thee down: then get thee down;
I have a Sun now of my own.

II

Those nicer livers, who without thy Rays
Stirr not abroad, those may thy lustre praise: (know!)
And wanting light (light, which no wants doth
To thee (weak shiner!) like blind Persians bow;
But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head,
From his own bright, eternal Eye doth shed
One living Ray,
There thy dead day
Is needless, and man to a light made free,
Which shews what thou can'st neither shew, nor see.

Then get thee down, Then get thee down;
I have a Sun now of my own.

The Nativity.

[_]

Written in the year 1656.

Peace? and to all the world? sure, one
And he the prince of peace, hath none.
He travels to be born, and then
Is born to travel more agen.
Poor Galile! thou can'st not be
The place for his Nativity.
His restless mother's call'd away,
And not deliver'd, till she pay.

A Tax? 'tis so still! we can see
The Church thrive in her misery;
And like her head at Bethlem, rise
When she opprest with troubles, lyes.
Rise? should all fall, we cannot be
In more extremities than he.
Great Type of passions! come what will,
Thy grief exceeds all copies still.
Thou cam'st from heav'n to earth, that we
Might go from Earth to Heav'n with thee.
And though thou found'st no welcom here,
Thou did'st provide us mansions there.
A stable was thy Court, and when
Men turn'd to beasts; Beasts would be Men.
They were thy Courtiers, others none;
And their poor Manger was thy Throne.
No swadling silks thy Limbs did fold,
Though thou could'st turn thy Rags to gold.

No Rockers waited on thy birth,
No Cradles stirr'd: nor songs of mirth;
But her chast Lap and sacred Brest
Which lodg'd thee first, did give thee rest.

But stay: what light is that doth stream,
And drop here in a gilded beam?
It is thy Star runs page, and brings
Thy tributary Eastern Kings.
Lord! grant some Light to us, that we
May with them find the way to thee.
Behold what mists eclipse the day:
How dark it is! shed down one Ray
To guide us out of this sad night,
And say once more, Let there be Light.

The true Christmas.

So stick up Ivie and the Bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.
Green will remind you of the spring,
Though this great day denies the thing.
And mortifies the Earth and all
But your wild Revels, and loose Hall.
Could you wear Flow'rs, and Roses strow
Blushing upon your breasts warm Snow,
That very dress your lightness will
Rebuke, and wither at the Ill.
The brightness of this day we owe
Not unto Music, Masque nor Showe:
Nor gallant furniture, nor Plate;
But to the Manger's mean Estate.
His life while here, as well as birth,
Was but a cheek to pomp and mirth;

And all mans greatness you may see
Condemn'd by his humility.

Then leave your open house and noise,
To welcom him with holy Joys,
And the poor Shepherd's watchfulness:
Whom light and hymns from Heav'n did bless.
What you abound with, cast abroad
To those that want, and ease your loade.
Who empties thus, will bring more in;
But riot is both loss and Sin.
Dress finely what comes not in sight,
And then you keep your Christmas right.

The Request.

O thou! who did'st deny to me
This world's ador'd felicity,
And ev'ry big, imperious lust,
Which fools admire in sinful Dust;
With those fine, subtile twists, that tye
Their bundles of foul gallantry:
Keep still my weak Eyes from the shine
Of those gay things, which are not thine,
And shut my Ears against the noise
Of wicked, though applauded Joys.
For thou in any land hast store
Of shades and Coverts for thy poor,
Where from the busie dust and heat,
As well as storms, they may retreat.
A Rock, or Bush are douny beds,
When thou art there crowning their heads
With secret blessings: or a Tire
Made of the Comforter's live-fire.

And when thy goodness in the dress
Of anger, will not seem to bless:
Yet do'st thou give them that rich Rain,
Which as it drops, clears all again.

O what kind Visits daily pass
'Twixt thy great self and such poor grass,
With what sweet looks doth thy love shine
On those low Violets of thine!
While the tall Tulip is accurst,
And Crowns Imperial dye with thirst.
O give me still those secret meals,
Those rare Repasts, which thy love deals!
Give me that Joy, which none can grieve,
And which in all griefs doth relieve.
This is the portion thy Child begs,
Not that of rust, and rags and dregs.

The World.

Can any tell me what it is? can you,
That wind your thoughts into a Clue
To guide out others, while your selves stay in,
And hug the Sin?
I, who so long have in it liv'd,
That if I might,
In truth I would not be repriev'd:
Have neither sight,
Nor sense that knows
These Ebbs and Flows.
But since of all, all may be said,
And likelines doth but upbraid.
And mock the Truth, which still is lost
In fine Conceits, like streams in a sharp frost:
I will not strive, nor the Rule break
Which doth give Loosers leave to speak.
Then false and foul World, and unknown
Ev'n to thy own:
Here I renounce thee, and resign
Whatever thou can'st say, is thine.

Thou art not Truth; for he that tries
Shall find thee all deceit and lyes.
Thou art not friendship; for in thee
'Tis but the bait of policy.
Which, like a Viper lodg'd in Flow'rs,
Its venom through that sweetness pours.
And when not so, then always 'tis
A fadeing paint; the short-liv'd bliss
Of air and Humour: out and in
Like Colours in a Dolphin's skin.
But must not live beyond one day,
Or Convenience; then away.
Thou art not Riches; for that Trash
Which one age hoords, the next doth wash
And so severely sweep away;
That few remember, where it lay.
So rapid streams the wealthy-land
About them, have at their command:
And shifting channels here restore,
There break down, what they bank'd before.
Thou art not Honour; for those gay
Feathers will wear, and drop away;
And princes to some upstart line
Give new ones, that are full as fine.
Thou art not pleasure; for thy Rose
Upon a thorn doth still repose;
Which if not cropt, will quickly shed;
But soon as cropt, grows dull and dead.

Thou art the sand, which fills one glass,
And then doth to another pass;
And could I put thee to a stay,
Thou art but dust! then go thy way,

And leave me clean and bright, though poor;
Who stops thee, doth but dawb his floor,
And Swallow-like, when he hath done,
To unknown dwellings must be gone!

Welcom pure thoughts and peaceful hours
Inrich'd with Sunshine and with show'rs;
Welcom fair hopes and holy Cares,
The not to be repented shares
Of time and business: the sure rode
Unto my last and lov'd Abode!
O supreme Bliss!
The Circle, Center and Abyss
Of blessings, never let me miss
Nor leave that Path, which leads to thee:
Who art alone all things to me!
I hear, I see all the long day
The noise and pomp of the broad way;
I note their Course and proud approaches:
Their silks, perfumes and glittering Coaches.
But in the narrow way to thee
I observe only poverty.
And despis'd things: and all along
The ragged, mean and humble throng
Are still on foot, and as they go,
They sigh and say; Their Lord went so!

Give me my staff then, as it stood
When green and growing in the Wood.
(Those stones, which for the Altar serv'd,
Might not be smooth'd, nor finely carv'd:)
With this poor stick I'le pass the Foord
As Jacob did; and thy dear word.

As thou hast dress'd it: not as Witt
And deprav'd tastes have poyson'd it:
Shall in the passage be my meat,
And none else will thy Servant eat.
Thus, thus and in no other sort
Will I set forth, though laugh'd at for't;
And leaving the wise World their way,
Go through; though Judg'd to go astray.

The Bee.

From fruitful beds and flowry borders
Parcell'd to wastful Ranks and Orders.
Where state grasps more than plain Truth needs
And wholesome Herbs are starv'd by Weeds:
To the wild Woods I will be gone,
And the course Meals of great Saint John.

When truth and piety are mist
Both in the Rulers and the Priest;
When pity is not cold, but dead,
And the rich eat the Poor like bread;
While factious heads with open Coile
And force first make, then share the spoile:
To Horeb then Elias goes,
And in the Desart grows the Rose.
Hail Christal Fountains and fresh shades,
Where no proud look invades.
No busie worldling hunts away
The sad Retirer all the day:
Haile happy harmless solitude,
Our Sanctuary from the rude
And scornful world: the calm recess
Of faith, and hope and holiness!

Here something still like Eden looks,
Hony in Woods, Julips in Brooks:
And Flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled Sweets
With a chast kiss the cool dew greets.
When the toyls of the Day are done
And the tir'd world sets with the Sun,
Here flying winds and flowing Wells
Are the wise, watchful Hermits Bells;
Their buisie murmurs all the night
To praise or prayer do invite,
And with an awful sound arrest
And piously employ his breast.

When in the East the Dawn doth blush,
Here cool, fresh Spirits the air brush;
Herbs (strait) get up, Flow'rs peep and spread:
Trees whisper praise, and bow the head.
Birds from the shades of night releast
Look round about, then quit the neast,
And with united gladness sing
The glory of the morning's King.
The Hermit hears, and with meek voice
Offers his own up, and their Joys:
Then prays, that all the world may be
Blest with as sweet an unity.

If sudden storms the day invade,
They flock about him to the shade:
Where wisely they expect the end,
Giving the tempest time to spend;
And hard by shelters on some bough
Hilarion's servant, the sage Crow.

O purer years of light, and grace!
The diff'rence is great, as the space

'Twixt you and us: who blindly run
After false-fires, and leave the Sun.
Is not fair Nature of her self
Much richer than dull paint, or pelf?
And are not streams at the Spring-head
More sweet than in carv'd Stone, or Lead?
But fancy and some Artist's tools
Frame a Religion for fools.

The truth, which once was plainly taught,
With thorns and briars now is fraught.
Some part is with bold Fables spotted,
Some by strange Comments wildly blotted:
And discord (old Corruption's Crest,)
With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest.
So Snow, which in its first descents
A whiteness, like pure heav'n presents,
When touch'd by Man is quickly soil'd
And after trodden down, and spoil'd:

O lead me, where I may be free
In truth and Spirit to serve thee!
Where undisturb'd I may converse
With thy great self, and there rehearse
Thy gifts with thanks, and from thy store
Who art all blessings, beg much more!
Give me the Wisdom of the Bee,
And her unwearied Industry:
That from the wild Gourds of these days
I may extract Health and thy praise;
Who can'st turn darkness into light,
And in my weakness shew thy might!

Suffer me not in any want
To seek refreshment from a Plant.

Thou did'st not set! since all must be
Pluck'd up, whose growth is not from thee.
'Tis not the garden and the Bowrs,
Nor fense and forms that give to flow'rs
Their wholsomness: but thy good will,
Which truth and pureness purchase still.

Then since corrupt man hath driv'n hence
Thy kind and saving Influence,
And Balm is no more to be had
In all the Coasts of Gilead:
Go with me to the shade and cell,
Where thy best Servants once did dwell.
There let me know thy Will, and see
Exil'd Religion own'd by thee.
For thou can'st turn dark Grots to Halls,
And make Hills blossome like the vales:
Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs
And fresh delights for all sad hours:
Till from them, like a laden Bee,
I may fly home, and hive with thee.

To Christian Religion.

Farewel thou true and tried Refection
Of the still poor and meek Election!
Farewel Souls Joy, the quickning health
Of Spirits, and their secret wealth!
Farewel my Morning-star, the bright
And dawning looks of the true Light!
O blessed shiner! tell me whither
Thou will be gone, when night comes hither?
A Seer, that observ'd thee in
Thy Course, and watch'd the growth of Sin,

Hath giv'n his Judgment and foretold,
That West-ward hence thy Course will hold:
And when the day with us is done,
There fix, and shine a glorious Sun.
O hated shades and darkness! when
You have got here the Sway agen,
And like unwholsome fogs withstood
The light, and blasted all that's good:
Who shall the happy shepherds be
To watch the next Nativity
Of Truth and brightness, and make way
For the returning, rising day?
O! what year will bring back our bliss,
Or who shall live, when God doth this?

Thou Rock of Ages, and the Rest
Of all, that for thee are opprest!
Send down the Spirit of thy truth,
That Spirit, which the tender Youth
And first growths of thy Spouse did spread
Through all the world, from one small head!
Then, if to blood we must resist
Let thy mild Dove, and our high Priest
Help us, when man proves false, or frowns,
To bear the Cross, and save our Crowns:
O! honour those, that honour thee!
Make Babes to still the Enemy:
And teach an Infant of few days
To perfect by his death, thy praise!
Let none defile what thou did'st wed,
Nor tear the garland from her head:
But chast and chearful let her dye,
And pretious in the Bridegrooms Eye!

So to thy glory, and her praise
These last shall be her brightest dayes.

Revel. Chap. last, vers. 17. The Spirit and the Bride say, Come.

DAPHNIS.

An Elegiac Eclogue.

The Interlocutors, Damon, Menalcas.
Da.
What clouds, Menalcas, do oppress thy brow?
Flow'rs in a Sunshine never look so low.
Is Nisa still cold Flint? or have thy Lambs
Met with the Fox by straying from their Dams?

Men.

Ah! Damon, no; my Lambs are safe, & she
Is kind, and much more white than they can be.
But what doth life, when most serene, afford
Without a worm, which gnaws her fairest gourd?
Our days of gladness are but short reliefs,
Giv'n to reserve us for enduring griefs.
So smiling Calms close Tempests breed, wch break
Like spoilers out, and kill our flocks, when weak.

I heard last May (and May is still high Spring,)
The pleasant Philomel her Vespers sing.

The green wood glitter'd with the golden Sun
And all the West like Silver shin'd; not one
Black cloud, no rags, nor spots did stain
The Welkins beauty: nothing frown'd like rain;
But e're night came, that Scene of fine sights turn'd
To fierce dark showrs; the Air with lightnings burn'd;
The woods sweet Syren rudely thus opprest,
Gave to the Storm her weak and weary Breast.
I saw her next day on her last cold bed;
And Daphnis so, just so is Daphnis dead!

Da.
So Violets, so doth the Primrose fall,
At once the Springs pride and its funeral.
Such easy sweets get off still in their prime,
And stay not here, to wear the soil of Time.
While courser Flow'rs (which none would miss, if past;
To scorching Summers, and cold Autumns last.

Men.
Souls need not time, the early forward things
Are always fledg'd, and gladly use their Wings,
Or else great parts, when injur'd quit the Crowd,
To shine above still, not behind the Cloud.
And is't not just to leave those to the night,
That madly hate, and persecute the light?
Who doubly dark, all Negroes do exceed,
And inwardly are true black Moores indeed.

Da,

The punishment still manifests the Sin,
As outward signs shew the disease within.
While worth opprest mounts to a nobler height,
And Palm-like bravely overtops the weight.

So where swift Isca from our lofty hills
With lowd farewels descends, and foming fills
A wider Channel, like some great port-vein,
With large rich streams to feed the humble plain:
I saw an Oak, whose stately height and shade
Projected far, a goodly shelter made,
And from the top with thick diffused Boughs
In distant rounds grew, like a Wood-nymphs house.
Here many Garlands won at Roundel-lays
Old shepheards hung up in those happy days,
With knots and girdles, the dear spoils and dress
Of such bright maids, as did true lovers bless.
And many times had old Amphion made
His beauteous Flock acquainted with this shade;
A Flock, whose fleeces were as smooth and white
As those, the wellkin shews in Moonshine night.
Here, when the careless world did sleep, have I
In dark records and numbers noblie high
The visions of our black, but brightest Bard
From old Amphion's mouth full often heard;
With all those plagues poor shepheards since have known,
And Ridles more, which future times must own.
While on his pipe young Hylas plaid, and made
Musick as solemn as the song and shade.
But the curs'd owner from the trembling top
To the firm brink, did all those branches lop,
And in one hour what many years had bred,
The pride and beauty of the plain lay dead.
The undone Swains in sad songs mourn'd their loss,
While storms & cold winds did improve the Cross.
But Nature, which (like vertue) scorns to yield
Brought new recruits and succours to the Field;

For by next Spring the check'd Sap wak'd from sleep
And upwards still to feel the Sun did creep,
Till at those wounds, the hated Hewer made,
There sprang a thicker and a fresher shade.

Men.
So thrives afflicted Truth! and so the light,
When put out, gains a value from the Night.
How glad are we, when but one twinkling Star
Peeps betwixt clouds, more black than is our Tar?
And Providence was kind, that order'd this
To the brave Suff'rer should be solid bliss;
Nor is it so till this short life be done,
But goes hence with him, and is still his Sun.

Da.

Come Shepherds then, and with your greenest Bays
Refresh his dust, who lov'd your learned Lays.
Bring here the florid glories of the Spring,
And as you strew them pious Anthems sing,
Which to your children and the years to come
May speak of Daphnis, and be never dumb.
While prostrate I drop on his quiet Urn
My Tears, not gifts; and like the poor, that mourn
With green, but humble Turfs; write o're his Hearse
For false, foul Prose-men this fair Truth in Verse.

“Here Daphnis sleeps! & while the great watch goes
“Of loud and restless Time, takes his repose.
“Fame is but noise, all Learning but a thought:
“Which one admires, another sets at nought.
“Nature mocks both, and Wit still keeps adoe;
“but Death brings knowledge and assurance too.

Men.
Cast in your Garlands, strew on all the flow'rs
Which May with smiles, or April feeds with show'rs.
Let this days Rites as stedfast as the Sun
Keep pace with Time, and through all Ages run.
The publick character and famous Test
Of our long sorrows and his lasting rest;
And when we make procession on the plains,
Or yearly keep the Holyday of Swains,
Let Daphnis still be the recorded name
And solemn honour of our feasts and fame.
For though the Isis and the prouder Thames
Can shew his reliques lodg'd hard by their streams,
And must for ever to the honour'd name
Of Noble Murrey chiefly owe that fame:
Yet, here his Stars first saw him, and when fate
Beckon'd him hence, it knew no other date.
Nor will these vocal Woods and Valleys fail,
Nor Isca's lowder Streams this to bewail,
But while Swains hope and Seasons change, will glide
With moving murmurs, because Daphnis di'd.

Da.
A fatal sadness, such as still foregoes,
Then runs along with publick plagues and woes,
Lies heavy on us, and the very light
Turn'd Mourner too, hath the dull looks of Night.
Our vales like those of Death, a darkness shew
More sad than Cypress, or the gloomy Yew,
And on our hills, where health with height complied,
Thick drowsie Mists hang round and there reside.
Not one short parcel of the tedious year
In its old dress and beauty doth appear;

Flowr's hate the Spring, and with a sullen bend
Thrust down their Heads, which to the Root still tend,
And though the Sun like a cold Lover, peeps
A little at them, still the Days-eye sleeps.
But when the Crab and Lion with acute
And active Fires their sluggish heat recruit,
Our grass straight russets, and each scorching day
Drinks up our Brooks as fast as dew in May.
Till the sad Heardsman with his Cattel faints,
And empty Channels ring with loud Complaints.

Men.
Heaven's just displeasure & our unjust ways
Change Natures course, bring plagues dearth and decays.
This turns our lands to Dust, the skies to Brass,
Makes old kind blessings into curses pass.
And when we learn unknown and forraign Crimes,
Brings in the vengeance due unto those Climes.
The dregs and puddle of all ages now
Like Rivers near their fall, on us do flow.
Ah happy Daphnis! who, while yet the streams
Ran clear & warm (though but with setting beams,)
Got through: and saw by that declining light
His toil's and journey's end before the Night.

Da.

A night, where darkness lays her chains and Bars,
And feral fires appear instead of Stars.
But he along with the last looks of day
Went hence, and setting (Sun-like) past away.
What future storms our present sins do hatch
Some in the dark discern, and others watch;

Though foresight makes no Hurricane prove mild;
Fury that's long fermenting, is most wild.

But see, while thus our sorrows we discourse,
Phœbus hath finish't his diurnal course.
The shades prevail, each Bush seems bigger grown:
Darkness (like State,) makes small things swell and frown.
The Hills and Woods with Pipes and Sonnets round
And bleating sheep our Swains drive home, resound.

Men.
What voice from yonder Lawn tends hither? heark!
'Tis Thyrsis calls, I hear Lycanthe bark.
His Flocks left out so late, and weary grown
Are to the Thickets gone, and there laid down.

Da.
Menalcas, haste to look them out, poor sheep
When day is done, go willingly to sleep.
And could bad Man his time spend, as they do,
He might go sleep, or die, as willing too.

Men.
Farewel kind Damon! now the Shepheards Star
With beauteous looks smiles on us, though from far.
All creatures that were favourites of day
Are with the Sun retir'd and gone away.
While feral Birds send forth unpleasant notes,
And night (the Nurse of thoughts,) sad thoughts promotes.
But Joy will yet come with the morning-light,
Though sadly now we bid good night!

Da.
good night!