The Victory of Death or, The Fall of Beauty. A Visionary Pindarick-Poem, Occasion'd by the Ever to be deplor'd Death of the Right Honourable the Lady Cutts. By Mr John Hopkins |
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 | The Victory of Death |  |
To the truly Honourable The Lord CUTTS.
Infandum Regina jubes renovare dolorem.
A Modern Wit, (so swift his Notions ran)
Describ'd the Patron first, then nam'd the Man,
Whose wide spread Character high rais'd in Fame,
Did the great Dorset to the World proclaim.
Here I, my Lord, might diff'rent Tracks pursue,
And praise as great a Dorset—but by naming you.
Let others—for poor Gain the first resign,
And seek new Patrons, you alone are mine.
My Muse feels native Pride, and flatters none,
But once enjoying you, she's yours alone.
Yours—for 'tis you, my Lord, she dares to boast,
The most a Courtier, yet above it most.
Thus, well distinguish'd from the rest of Men,
You flight the Feather, but command the Pen,
With this my willing Temper does comply;
Wholly my Patron, you, as much your Poet, I.
Strait would my Genius flag, nor could I raise
To Undesert a Pile of sordid Praise.
I cannot bend too low my suppliant Mould,
Nor flatter Fortune's Sons for servile Gold.
Unaw'd, my Muse, to seek your Favour flies,
Resolv'd to perish, or resolv'd to rise.
Blest is her Choice, grown conscious now of You,
At once our Horace and Mecœnas too.
'Tis here, her firm Allegiance she assures,
No proud Superiour your Desert endures,
The Field of Wit, as well as War is yours.
Whilst you protect me, who shall dare destroy!
Not the Palladium better guarded Troy.
I fear no Force illnatur'd Criticks raise,
I have their Envy, and despise their Praise,
What here I offer, you alone can claim,
An Angel couch'd in Florimena's Name,
And sure 'tis yours, to guard your Lady's Fame.
To you alone her Character is due,
As she alive belong'd alone to you.
But no one Sphere has Phœbus Rays confin'd;
Her radiant Lustre shone on all Mankind.
Her Fame from Flatt'ry, my chast Muse secures,
She was what Woman could be— she was yours.
This, to end all Debates, of force may serve,
Who could charm Cutts, indeed must all deserve.
She must be more—tho' to a wonder fair;
Possest of double Pow'rs, who conquers there.
Forgive, my Lord, the transports of my Mind,
This you would pardon, could you search behind.
I give but little from so vast a store,
All I can keep, I do; but that ran ore,
And 'tis with racking Pain I must refrain from more.
You and your Merits dash the Poet's Hand,
You slight our Praise, yet those our Praise command.
Take then, this Gift alone; you can't refuse,
But grant the Suit,—'tis Florimena sues.
Verse is the Muses Present; free, receive,
Tho' I, my Lord, thus unexpected give.
My humble Genius no great State assumes,
Nor sends to tell she will, before she comes
My Visit now your Presence dares demand,
I bring your bright lov'd Charmer in my Hand.
Your Florimena sure will welcome grow,
She would indeed, could she be truly so.
O could my Verse the Nymph from Shades retrieve,
And give her Life, who makes my Numbers live!
Then should my Muse all charming to you fly,
Could she boast truly that she should not dye.
Hower', my candid Patron, gracious take,
And prize the Picture for the Person's sake.
In this, my Lord, my purpos'd End I find;
I slight all Censures, if your Judgment's kind.
My Muse courts you alone, and here assures
At once the Poem, and the Poet—
Describ'd the Patron first, then nam'd the Man,
Whose wide spread Character high rais'd in Fame,
Did the great Dorset to the World proclaim.
And praise as great a Dorset—but by naming you.
Let others—for poor Gain the first resign,
And seek new Patrons, you alone are mine.
My Muse feels native Pride, and flatters none,
But once enjoying you, she's yours alone.
Yours—for 'tis you, my Lord, she dares to boast,
The most a Courtier, yet above it most.
Thus, well distinguish'd from the rest of Men,
You flight the Feather, but command the Pen,
With this my willing Temper does comply;
Wholly my Patron, you, as much your Poet, I.
Strait would my Genius flag, nor could I raise
I cannot bend too low my suppliant Mould,
Nor flatter Fortune's Sons for servile Gold.
Unaw'd, my Muse, to seek your Favour flies,
Resolv'd to perish, or resolv'd to rise.
Blest is her Choice, grown conscious now of You,
At once our Horace and Mecœnas too.
'Tis here, her firm Allegiance she assures,
No proud Superiour your Desert endures,
The Field of Wit, as well as War is yours.
Whilst you protect me, who shall dare destroy!
Not the Palladium better guarded Troy.
I fear no Force illnatur'd Criticks raise,
I have their Envy, and despise their Praise,
An Angel couch'd in Florimena's Name,
And sure 'tis yours, to guard your Lady's Fame.
To you alone her Character is due,
As she alive belong'd alone to you.
But no one Sphere has Phœbus Rays confin'd;
Her radiant Lustre shone on all Mankind.
Her Fame from Flatt'ry, my chast Muse secures,
She was what Woman could be— she was yours.
This, to end all Debates, of force may serve,
Who could charm Cutts, indeed must all deserve.
She must be more—tho' to a wonder fair;
Possest of double Pow'rs, who conquers there.
Forgive, my Lord, the transports of my Mind,
This you would pardon, could you search behind.
All I can keep, I do; but that ran ore,
And 'tis with racking Pain I must refrain from more.
You and your Merits dash the Poet's Hand,
You slight our Praise, yet those our Praise command.
Take then, this Gift alone; you can't refuse,
But grant the Suit,—'tis Florimena sues.
Verse is the Muses Present; free, receive,
Tho' I, my Lord, thus unexpected give.
My humble Genius no great State assumes,
Nor sends to tell she will, before she comes
My Visit now your Presence dares demand,
I bring your bright lov'd Charmer in my Hand.
Your Florimena sure will welcome grow,
She would indeed, could she be truly so.
And give her Life, who makes my Numbers live!
Then should my Muse all charming to you fly,
Could she boast truly that she should not dye.
Hower', my candid Patron, gracious take,
And prize the Picture for the Person's sake.
In this, my Lord, my purpos'd End I find;
I slight all Censures, if your Judgment's kind.
My Muse courts you alone, and here assures
At once the Poem, and the Poet—
Yours.
1
THE VICTORY OF DEATH.
I.
Come all ye Muses, mourning come,The beauteous, matchless Florimena dead!
The best, the loveliest Muse is fled:
2
As silent, and as dead as she.
Hurl them, ah hurl them to the ground,
Let Cypress Boughs alone be worn,
Cypress must your Heads adorn.
Pull off your Wreaths of Lawrel now,
The Lawrel withers on the Muses Brow.
From your pale Temples be they rudely torn,
Throw down your Lyres, on them, her Crown.
Let ev'ry weeping Muse throw down,
Stifling the Musick of the Lyre,
Let them be strow'd ore Florimena's Tomb,
And as the dying Tunes expire,
Let no melodious Harmony be found,
3
II.
Your gladsome Notes, late tun'd to Joys,I must not here awake,
My Grief all Melody destroys,
And my own Discord must my Musick make.
Let ev'ry Muse as chast appear,
As the fair Saint, for whom they now come here.
Not on Parnassus airy Heads
In dancing measures shall ye move,
Or flow'ry Lawns, or fragrant Meads,
In any spreading Bow'r, or Grove,
Or where your wanton Fancy leads,
4
But, silent, hear of Death, the fatal Death of Love.
III.
No more your Musick I require,Your Voice is useless, useless is your Lyre,
I want no Ayres to fan a raging Fire.
My Soul a hov'ring Cloud appears,
Within it, gloomy Seeds it bears,
The strugling Flashes of my Thought,
Through their own Gloom to Light are brought,
My Sighs are Winds, my Show'rs are Tears,
My jars of Grief burst out in dismal Moans,
5
My op'ning Mind displays the awful Scene,
See, see, the beauteous Heav'n—dead Florimena lies within.
IV.
Behold, ye Daughters, sprung from Jove;(Which us'd, in former Flights, to move
Swift as his Lightnings from above,)
To the Elyzian Shades repair,
Their noiseless Pinions cut the Air,
In mourning Clouds, see, they come slowly down,
Those Wings, which oft so swift have flown,
Dampt with their Tears, are heavy grown.
6
And rather seem to fall, than fly.
Behold, they bend to Albion's Shore,
The Clouds in Showrs shed all their store,
And Albion's chalky Cliffs are shadow'd ore.
As when the Sun through darken'd Skies is gone,
Fleeting ore Hills, Shades are seen passing on.
So here, ore us we see the Shadows run,
Since Florimena's clouded ore—Fair Florimena—Britain's Sun.
7
V.
Low as my Thought can place the Scene,Their darksome Course the Muses bend,
Low, wond'rous low, confus'd they fall,
And in thick Night descend,
Down, round a spacious, gloomy Grove beneath,
Close set with aged Cypress Trees,
(Which each with shiv'ring Horror sees,)
With flutt'ring Wings, their Journey past,
Disorderly they light at last;
Amaz'd they view the dismal Grove,
Unlike the Scenes they view'd above,
Ah! far unlike the Bowr's of Love.
With trembling Eyes they look within,
8
Depriv'd of Voice, depriv'd of Breath,
They find these Mansions are the Courts of Death.
No Ray of their bright God can here
Amidst this solid Gloom appear,
Their melancholy Thoughts to chear.
As interposing Bodies cloud his radiant Light,
So is their Lustre here eclips'd by Death's oreshadowing Night.
VI.
Above their head they view the Forrest bare,Ill-boding Birds, instead of Leaves they see
Sit croaking on their tops, and cov'ring every Tree.
9
The shatt'ring Branches, and molest the shade.
Murmurs, and Sighs make all the Breezes there,
The Musick which the Goddess Death delights alone to hear.
Thro' all the Vale no blooming Plant appears,
The deadly Soil nought but rank Poysons bears.
And ev'n those unripen'd lye
Scatter'd beneath the Trees, and dye.
Here hoary Winter reigns thro' all the Year;
Spread ore with Tombs, and Graves, the spacious Field
Does a vast Crop of Death, and dire Destruction yield.
So dread a Burthen does it bear,
10
The Vale resounds thro'out with Moans,
And streams of Blood, opprest with Bones,
Instead of softer Murmurs, make complaint in Groans.
VII.
Within the awful Grove, a Temple stands,Long built by Fate's unalterable Hands;
Round is its shape; four Iron Gates appear,
To let in all—for all must enter here.
Not in one posture do they ever stand,
But as the dreadful Goddess please,
They open, or they shut with ease,
Whene'r she lifts her sacred Wand,
11
Old Age and Pains are Porters to the Doors,
And (Goddess Death!) they make the whole Creation yours.
The Gates with putrid Rust are overspread,
And all besmear'd with Blood of Lovers dead.
The more the rusty Iron crumbles down,
The Gates are still the stronger grown.
Their Wickets, of themselves, clap to, and open fast,
And flakes of clotted Gore they throw
Off with their aged Rust below,
Thus, by their own decay, they do for ever last.
12
VIII.
Death's Servants all in black appear,The Liv'ry of their Queen they wear,
And mournful black the Walls of those Apartments bear.
Here pitchy Tapers cast their Shades,
And a thick Wreath of Smoak, in Clouds, ore all the Temple spreads.
The Goddess self, behind her gloomy Shrine,
Does her grim Head upon her Arm recline.
Behold, two Images before her stand,
The greatest mortal Beauty, here,
Upon her left, does pale appear,
The greatest mortal Warriour on the other hand,
Above her Head Diseases bear
13
Dark is her Shrine, her Crown alone
Glares with a glim'ring Dread, and lights her sultry Throne.
IX.
No precious Stones within this Crown are worn,But, fixt at top, a Scull it bore,
Oreflowing with black, putrid Gore,
And dire, discolour'd, sulph'rous Flame does all its Parts adorn.
Diseases hov'ring ore her Throne,
Infected by each other, tumble down.
Fast does the one upon the other drop,
And by their Fall, the tott'ring Crown they prop.
14
Her pale, wan Lips they flutter ore,
Her blasting Breath does all their Pains restore,
And thus, ev'n Death it self revives.
X.
Behold, the Images are nearer plac'tAnd now the Goddess sets them close at last.
See—Florimena—ore the Head,
May of the lovely, female, fair be read.
In Characters of black that Name is understood,
See—ore the other's Head, a Name
Renown'd ore all the Coasts of Fame,
Behold, 'tis character'd in Blood.
15
Who ev'n in gloomy shades of Death shall ever be ador'd.
XI.
Heavens! How the awful Goddess stares!Behold her fiery Eyes, see how their Lightning glares.
See what a storm of sulphrous Breath she pours,
Reluctant Fires, and rowling Smoak,
From her wide Jaws in flashes broke.
See, see, towards the Fair she moves,
Blasts all her happy Days, her tender Hours,
Blasts, with the noysome Breath, which from her came,
16
And blasts her Hero's fondest Loves.
XII.
Behold her Scepter, dread with Iron rust,(Whose pond'rous Load none else can bear,)
No longer lies beneath her Throne,
(Death's Scepter buried deep in Dust,)
Aloft, with pain she lifts,—and shakes in Air.
Inrag'd she pounds on Carcasses, and Bones,
Distorted Looks in Flashes fly,
Her very Scepter trembles,—and her Crown
Sway'd by the Weight, seems tott'ring down.
And now the frowning Goddess swells and groans,
17
The lovely, loving Images she parts,
Heaves up her Scepter, now relents,
And strait the threaten'd stroak repents,
But soon again, her Rage does glow,
She leaps,—and bounds,—and strikes the Blow,
The very Image of the Hero starts;
Loud on her own dread Name Death proudly calls,
Heavens! Now the stroak is giv'n,—and Florimena falls.
18
XIII.
This must be all but visionary Dream,Which thus my Thoughts, thro' Indigestion frame.
This killing Object cannot be,
A Death, which makes me almost dye to see.
This wild Chimæra but in fancy lyes,
'Tis then but fancy too that Florimena dyes.
Fancy!—Alas! Too well I know,
(Whate'r against my Soul may flow)
My willing Mind would never fancy so.
Not all the Rage of cruel War,
The mighty Hero's Soul could move;
19
'Tis worse than Death,—not Life he loses, but he loses Love.
XIV.
And now another Scene appears,Death's Temple opens, and within,
The dreadful, bloody Altar's seen.
To which, the lovely Corps her Priestess bears.
Off'rings of Skulls, and Bones she brings,
The sacred Load into the Flame she flings,
And the great Conquest of her Monarch sings.
The eager Flames the Prey destroy,
The ghastly Priestess grins a Smile,
Pleas'd with the Ruin of the charming Pile,
20
The sacred Altar where the Priestess stood,
Still blushes for her Crime, while she grows drunk with Blood.
XV.
The Monster Death is blind we know,She had not else us'd Florimena so.
See, see, the beauteous Charmer lyes,
And in the Flames expires;
A Sacrifice to Death she's made,
While yet no living Off'ring to great Love she paid,
To Love, who mourns his now extinguish'd Fires.
Hark, thro' the Courts of Death a dismal sound
21
Hark, Florimena is the Name,
Swiftly the Noise in Ecchoes flyes,
The Ecchoes fainter the lov'd Noise proclaim,
And ev'n the very Name of Florimena dyes.
Rise, Muses, rise, your flight prepare,
Quit the black Mansions of this Realm of Night,
Prepare, make haste, prepare your flight,
And cut the upper Air.
Now Florimena does your Labours claim,
I'll raise a lasting Monument of aiery Fame.
Swift with the Name round the Creation fly,
And bear it kindly to the starry Sky,
While Heaven and Stars shall last—fair Florimena shall not dye.
22
XVI.
To others aiery, Fame shall be(Blest Saint) a solid Monument to thee.
Rais'd of the strongest, and the loftiest Verse,
Which shall thy real Praise rehearse,
Built by thy weeping Poet's hands,
Firm as Death's Throne it self, the Pile for ever stands.
The Throne of Death shall from thy Tomb arise,
Her Empire's fixt, where Florimena lyes.
Fam'd shall it stand, when Ages shall be past;
My Grief alone shall here inspire,
My clowdy Grief shall flash out Fire.
23
Death now, since thou art seiz'd, may seize the Muses too;
This Mausoleum shall for ever last.
The Muses Harmony would now appear
But jarring Discord, should they raise it here.
Let them not dare to strike their Lyre,
Unless the sound make all, who hear, expire.
In decent Mourning be you only seen,
Mourn Florimena dead,—fair Florimena was the Muses Queen.
XVII.
I now all Aid you bring besides, refuse,You Muses, here your selves would want a Muse.
24
I sing with sorrow now fair Florimena's Praise.
Wither, ye Laurels, on the Poets Brow,
An Air of mourning thro' my Lines shall pass,
Since they can only tell that Florimena was.
She was indeed all we could wish her now.
Well may our Tears to her a Tribute fall,
To Florimena—she deserves them all.
To her,—who, when alive, blest ev'ry sight,
To her alone, who crown'd the use of light.
Tho' now in Death's dark, gloomy night she lyes,
Our Tears are Off'rings due,—alive, we offer'd up our Eyes.
25
XVIII.
Our Sorrow now, more than our Love we find,Sorrow, tho always weeping, is not blind,
Tho Love it self wants Eyes, too plain we see,
Help'd by its Flames, what our Misfortunes be.
Too fierce is Passion's raging Fire;
In vain, alas! in vain we strive,
By Sorrow's streams to make its sparks expire,
Tears quench not burning Love, but keep it more alive.
Whate'r bright Hymen's Lamps have Pow'r to do,
26
XIX.
Behold, Queen Sorrow in a Mist appears,A dusky Robe of foggy Clouds she wears;
Drawn by wing'd Sighs, see how she slowly glides,
A smoaking Torch she bears, extinguish'd, in her Hands.
Pity and Love attend her Chariot's sides,
Still in one Posture, leaning low, she lies,
Fair is her Face, but blubber'd are her Cheeks, and blear'd her Eyes.
Her dewy Crown is set with largest Tears;
Above, her awful Mother, Silence, stands,
And ore her Head,
27
Pourtray'd with inwrought Images of Ears;
The Banners of her Foe she bears.
Inly the troubled Goddess, Sorrow, moans,
Like Sybil's Priestesses she swells,
And, ere she sighs, that she will sigh, foretels:
Or like the Sea, by late past Storms opprest,
Heaves slowly up her panting Breast,
And heavily she groans.
The Matron Silence hates the Noise she made,
For she reigns only when her Daughter Sorrow's dead.
28
XX.
Come, Goddess, come, thy Ayres infuse,A charming Eloquence Affliction bears,
My Helicon shall be compos'd of Tears.
Throw off thy sad Expressive, Matron Silence, now,
Unlock thy Tongue, unlock thy Brow,
Like melting Canens mourning for her Love,
Breath out in sighs fair Florimena's Name
Your Being to her Death you owe,
Teach me in melancholy Ayres to move,
And fix her charming Praise in Fame,
Of Florimena's Merits shall I boast,
The Earth shall know, tho dear the Knowledge cost,
Know only, Paradise, and find it lost.
29
Come, thou inspiring Sorrow, thou my Muse.
XXI.
Sad shall the weeping World her Vertues know,When she was griev'd, she made all others so.
Such Softness her Affliction wore,
Thy self, great Goddess, could not move us more,
Like Influence in her Tears, as in her Eyes she bore.
Whene'r she wept, the World in floods she found,
And (with another Deluge) all the Globe lay drown'd.
30
That Plaints and Wailings could afford Relief,
The Sluces of my Eyes should ope,
And I would rowl in an impetuous flood of Grief.
Yes, let me plunge, behold, I go,
Her Praise shall bear me up in Fancy's Main,
Now, now I rise, now Thoughts, like Seas,
Insult, and dash me; there a Billow plays,
And now my Sorrow sinks me down again.
31
XXII.
The mighty Artist, when his Skill excell'd,Drawing the Greek in all his height of Woe,
The Form, the Limbs, and Posture, just, did show,
But, at the Face, he found the Pencil fail'd;
A mourning Vail ore that he wisely drew,
So, Florimena, must thy Painter do;
For could I run your num'rous Vertues ore,
Tell if your Hero's Griefs, or your lov'd Charms were more,
It were impossible to paint your Beauty too.
32
XXIII.
Beyond that Greek's, this Hero's Grief appears,He lost the best of Wives, and Hope of glorious Heirs.
Lovely as Glory's self, the Nymph he view'd, Bright as his Arms------
Not Glory's self with greater Toils was woo'd,
His Tears he paid this Fair, the other only had his Blood.
Ah! who successfully can paint
So dread a Warriour, and so sweet a Saint!
Terrour and Beauty in this Pair combin'd;
Well, mortal Artists here may make a stand,
When Heav'n it self can scarce renew its hand;
33
In quest of this, and this alone we rove,
If he had triumph'd more in War, or she, in Love.
XXIV.
When fam'd for wond'rous Conquests, wond'rous Charms,No Pride this conq'ring, killing Beauty knew,
But mildly, like her Lord, she look'd on those she did subdue.
Grown, by her Trophies, great enough to yield,
To him, victorious still in every Field,
Her self, the dearest Prize, surrender'd to his Arms.
If any Pride this brightest Fair could move,
34
Proud of submitting to this Conq'rour, more
Than of all Captives she had made before.
Her Judgment, not her Scorn, all else denies,
His Sword alone she found was pointed as her Eyes.
XXV.
Strange Pow'r of charming!—his Submission gains,He conquers thus, and triumphs through his Chains.
And yet alone, he doubts of Conquest here,
This mildest Foe knew how to raise his Fear.
Against this Chief whole show'rs of Darts did move,
Many were lodg'd within his manly Breast,
35
He felt the thrilling Dart of strong victorious Love.
That, did his Senses, and his Thoughts controul,
Those pierc'd his Body only, that, his Soul.
But now no Balm can cure his wounded Heart,
For cruel, trayt'rous Love with Death has chang'd his Dart.
XXVI.
Great is the force of Paint, yet it deniesThe skilful Touches of the Artist's Thought;
No Imag'ry from Colours can be brought
To shew enough the Griefs of his,—or Beauties of her Eyes.
36
Forests, and Rocks, and Herds along,
In spight of Nature's settled Law,
To hear, all ravish'd, his delightful Song.
The charming Poet softly plays,
They leap, and dance, and time his Lays,
No Rocks so hard but he could move,
And soften with his Ayres of Love,
This Sense had Herds,------but Florimena's Charms
Had rais'd them with more fierce Alarms,
Far greater would their Transports be,
And only seeing (Fair) they would have follow'd thee.
37
XXVII.
As, happy Martyrs Visions shewThe Joys of Heav'n, which none till Death must view,
So I, inlighten'd by thy Beauty's Flame,
See all the Extasies that Thought can frame.
Like the great, immov'd Painter, I conceive,
Such ravishing Idea's here,
My Pencil would my Soul deceive,
No fixt Proportion would the Painting bear,
But I at once should ramble ev'ry where.
O Sorrow, here thy Curtain place,
Draw a black Veil ore this too beauteous Face.
To thee, alas! unhappily I run
38
XXVIII.
Like Lightning, shining was her Beauty view'd,From a fair Sky produc'd, without a Cloud.
A while the glitt'ring Blessing strikes our Eyes.
From Heav'n its purest Flashes came,
A heav'nly, yet destroying Flame,
Which only robs us of our Sight, and dies.
The short liv'd Comfort shews our Fears,
And strait again it disappears,
Thro' darkest Gloom it brings us Light,
Its Life conducts us to our Death,
And guides us to black Shades beneath,
The momentary View it chears,
39
To pass, like fleeting Thought, away, and leave more solid Night.
The World lies clad in Darkness, when 'tis gone,
Storms, and fierce Show'rs descend, and strait, rolls the loud Thunder on.
XXIX.
Nor was it Beauty in this Nymph alone,Which made her conqu'ring Warriour's Soul her own.
Tho wond'rous Magick in soft Glances lies.
Had it been true that Lovers, and that Love were blind,
This bright, victorious Fair had triumph'd in his Mind.
Not all his Love from Looks the Hero drew,
40
At once a Venus, and Minerva too.
Let meaner Beauties only boast,
Their tuneful Voices Pow'r to move,
They find, that when they charm the most,
Those Swains, whose Fires before did glow,
A little ravish'd, own a Love,
Their Breath can to that Height the Burnings blow.
But Florimena's Ayres much more could do,
They rais'd the Fire, and kept it flaming too.
XXX.
This Nymph's each Gesture had some Grace that charm'd,She could not look, or speak, or move,
41
And the Beholders of all Sense disarm'd.
Her Glances (still so bright they flew)
Or struck admiring Lovers blind,
Or all their Senses to their Eyes confin'd,
That they could only view.
Or if she sung,—(Oh Heav'ns! what Man can bear
The very Thought of so divine an Ayre.)
Methinks young Love, with hov'ring Spirits flies
Around her charming Lips, and basks about her Eyes.
No God from the sweet Spheres such Transports drew,
So soft, so melting soft her Voice, and yet so piercing too.
42
XXXI.
Each Note excessive Transport brings,And still she charms the more, the more she sings.
Hark, how pleas'd Eccho does the Tunes restore,
The Eccho soft returns the Ayres,
And seems to listen, and has Fears,
Left any other Eccho hears.
Her coy Narcissus here the Maid had mov'd,
Returning Florimena's Song,
The charming Youth she would have drawn along,
Not the reflection of a Face, but Voice he would have lov'd.
43
In every part—Musick the lovely Florimena wore,
In every part of her soft Frame,—and she was Harmony all ore.
XXXII.
The Sweets of Hybla from her Breath did flow,And her fair, lovely Cheeks did with fresh Beauty glow.
Devouring Death luxurious now I see;
(Strange! That no Art, not its own Charms, can save
Beauty, almost immortal, from the Grave!)
He blasts the blooming Fruit, and he destroys the Tree.
44
Beauty in hers could not be surer seen, than Wonder in our own.
So lovely fair!—if such a thing there be
As Beauty's self,—'twas Florimena,— and 'twas only she.
XXXIII.
But now, that Sun of Beauty, and of Love,Shines in an other Radiant Sphere above,
Tho' nought could clowd her clear, Meridian Light,
When the short space was ended, which she run,
And the bright Task of radiant Day was done,
45
Night, and thick Darkness ore the Globe we find,
While smaller Beauties, by her absence, here,
Like Stars with fainter Light appear.
Which can't orecome those Clouds, which she has left behind.
Such were the Beauties Florimena wore,
The Stars themselves were not in Number more.
Scarce the Nymph's other Merits can I trace, Transported so,
With the aërial Images I grow,
Of all the blushing Glories in her beauteous Face.
My Pencil fond does of that Stroak appear,
And who,—ah! who would stir, that could dwell ever here?
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XXXV.
Too lovely Face to be exprest in Paint,Thou, the most charming Shrine of the most charming Saint.
Seraphick Beauty reign'd thro' out the whole,
In all such wondrous Sweetness was display'd,
Divine in Body, more divine in Soul,
The one on purpose for the other made.
Now may we mourn, since Florimena's dead,
The second, but more fair, Astræa fled.
The first by Strife, and impious Wars was driven,
But this, when all her Pray'rs were heard,
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Flew pleas'd, and calmly up to her own native Heaven.
XXXVI.
She fled indeed a blest Astræa there,But left, alas! no Florimena here.
All that we good, divine, and lovely call,
Name but that Word,—it comprehends them all.
Her Darts could every Gazer hit,
One shooting Glance alone could move,
(With lambent Fires of inoffensive Love,)
She had the Flames of Beauty, and the Warmth of Wit.
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Her Fancy, and her Thought, were clear, and charming as her Eyes.
XXXVII.
Her Frame, all Sweets, which Love desires, could boast,In her possession the blest Hero knew
The force of Beauty, and of Passion too,
She was most lovely, and she lov'd the most.
The transport of her mortal Charms,
(If such the smallest Charm of hers could be,)
Had been too vast a Prize for any other's Arms,
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She prov'd, by all her Actions, Love could see,
He had,—and he deserv'd them all,
He only lovely to her Eyes did seem,
Fondly, and dear she lov'd,—as fondly was belov'd by him.
XXXVIII.
Soft were the Flames their glowing Bosoms bore,Such bright, such pleasing Likeness in them lay,
Such equal Influence too they wore,
As those fair Beams, which in her Eyes did play.
Him did this Nymph to all Mankind prefer,
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As dear as her own charming Eyes,
Those Myrtles which her Love made grow,
He valu'd high, as his own Lawrel-Bough,
And of all Womankind he burnt alone for her,
Her, in whose soft Embrace such Bliss was given,
He prest a Goddess, and he thought himself in Heaven.
XXXIX.
As her bright Form beyond all else could move,So she excell'd in the extreamest Love.
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Were kindled in her fond Desires,
Soft, as the thoughts of Angels, was her Soul
As free from looseness, as 'tis now above.
To the blest Partner of her Flame,
She gave it up entire;—for him its Wishes came;
He had it, and enjoy'd it whole,
She gave her Soul, her Love, the dearest store,
She kindly gave her self, gave all,—and wish'd to give him more.
XL.
Whate'r soft, female Beauty could bestow,In Tides of flowing Joys did rowl,
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Of most celestial Happiness did fall;
She too possest it most, when so she gave it all.
But ah! That Rival, Death, with horrid Charms,
Has snatch'd her pale, and ghastly from her Lover's Arms.
He, cruel Monster, does the World controul.
No want of Beauty here her Ruine prov'd.
Death was too much with her Attractions mov'd,
And the grim Tyrant forc'd her, but because he lov'd.
53
XLI.
See where the lovely Charmer lyes,(Ah! Goddess Sorrow! break your flight,
Too much already am I mov'd with this too mournful Sight.)
See, see, the fairest Work that Heaven has made,
The fairest Blossom of the fair,
That ere blest mortal Eyes,
The Work of Heaven, its choicest Care,
By an untimely, fatal Blast,
Ere half the Bloom even of her youth is past,
(O hard Decree of Fate!) must fade.
Why, tell me why! Was such a heavenly Fire
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If, soon as it begun to raise
Its glowing Brightness to a Blaze,
The self-same am'rous Breeze, which did so gently blow,
Should by some whirl of Chance, so rudely make its Flames expire!
See, Goddess Sorrow, see fair Florimena dead,
Weep, weep, till thou art blind,—beat fast thy Breast, and gnash thy Teeth, and knock thy Head.
XLII.
Prest by the Hand of Fate, I knewAll other Mortals lay,
And when he please to grasp us fast,
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But never thought that Florimena too,
Must sure as vulgar Crowds decay,
How in the Dust can so much Beauty lye!
Strange! that a thing so sacred, so divine, could dye!
XLIII.
Mark, Sorrow, mark the saddest Scene display'd,Black as thy dismal Fancy ever lay'd.
Here must thy gloomy, vast Idea's swell,
Heave, heave, thy panting, tho' capacious Breast,
For the reception of such Pomp of Woe, as cannot be exprest;
Inspire me with thy self,—tho' not even thou canst half the Horrour tell.
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This stroke of Fate, 'tis Florimena dyes,
I mark too well the mournful Scene,
I see thou shedst thy plenteous store,
And Sorrow's flowing Eyes are delug'd ore.
There, all that's lov'd, all that is lovely lyes,
I gaze on the afflicting sight,—Death's dismal Torches glaring in my Eyes.
XLIV.
There the all—beauteous Nymph in Pangs appears,See, by the Taper's glimmering light,
I view the now amazing Sight;
Behold, the sickly Taper hides its Fires,
The sickly Taper too almost expires.
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Since the most radiant Florimena's Eyes,
Depriv'd of Lustre, now are languid grown,
Let weaker Lights henceforth no more be shown,
Drown, drown them all with flowing Tears,
For soon the lovely Charmer dies,
And like the setting Summer's Sun,
She, who was Light it self, and Brightness—strait must to dark shades be gone.
XLV.
See, where the Nymph's victorious Lord appears,See how that Victor now lies bath'd in Tears!
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See, on her Breast he leans his Head,
Dying almost, left Florimena should, alas! be dead,
And with more tort'ring Pain than hers he groans.
Unman'd, and void of Courage, rob'd of all,
Sunk with a load of Grief, down prostrate does he fall,
Call oft on Heav'n,—and oft — on Florimena call.
XLVI.
Behold, (Oh! killing Scene!) her dying Care,Was now to offer up her latest, grateful Pray'r,
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She sues for Mercy, and she clears with Heav'n.
Pleas'd would she go, but still Remorse does find,
On the account of her afflicted Love;
Tho flying to the Seats of blissful Joys above,
She grieves to leave him, lost in Woe, behind.
Now his lov'd Hand in hers she presses fast,
A look ah! too, too languishing does cast,
And catching thick at breath—
Close clasps him to her Soul, and breaths these Words the last.
XLVII.
Now all my Joys, those Dreams of Life, are gone,And Night, the lasting Night of Death is drawing on.
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My Strength decaying shews my Passion great,
What puts the Light out, raises more the Heat;
I dye, but dying thine, —Ah! happy ever prove,
I lose my Lover, but preserve my Love.
Sustain me, bear me, bear me in thy Arms,
Thou best—thou dearest—
Oh! adieu—
O thou, my Lord— my Love,—thou all ore Charms,
Take the last Pledge thy dying own can give,
No longer now alas! no more I live—
Another last farewel I must renew,
Dear Man!—(there they embrac'd) and faint, she murmur'd—Be thou true.
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XLVIII.
Here ceas'd the Nymph,—and gasping now she lies,Lock'd are the Charms of her soft Voice, and clos'd her Eyes.
In haste the Hero starts, and spurns the ground,
Catches her faster and aloud he crys,
(Plung'd in deep floods of Woe, which dash him round,)
Stay, Charmer, stay, together will we go,
Yes,—by our tend'rest Loves, it must, it shall be so.
Dread and amazing does this Object seem,
Here, Death is even terrible to him.
Now the last Pang from her fair Bosom flies,
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XLIX.
Whither, ah! whither does this Vision lead?Ore Lawns, methinks, and Meads I rove,
On scatter'd, dismal Yew, and Cypress boughs I tread.
See, see, within a spacious Grove,
A mourning Hearse, all deckt with white, appears,
Within, an open Coffin lies,
Which holds the loveliest Fair that ere bless'd human Eyes.
See, at its side a gallant Chief does stand,
His Cask, and Truncheon at his Feet he throws,
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Tears off his wreaths of Laurel from his Brow,
His useless, and unvalu'd Laurels now,
The sacred Crowns disdainfully he tears,
And leans his pensive Head upon his Hand,
A view he takes of all his Blessings fled,
Fixt are his Looks, — and as he lov'd her living, he adores her dead.
L.
Those lovely Breasts the Warriour does behold,Like Snow congeal'd, stiff in Death's Frost, and cold.
Those Breasts, which still the living Nymph could shew,
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No more the Hero must those Seats possess,
No more delightful Transports must he know,
No more their Sweets must all his Longings bless,
Nor on her charming Lips must he find Pleasures grow.
Her Eyes no more must with bright Motions roul,
No more divine Impulses of fierce Love must move the Warriour's Soul.
So much, alas! this loving Pair was one,
All his dear Sweets he sees, with Florimena, gone.
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LI.
When all the Rage of horrid War was ore,In which, a constant, prosp'rous share he bore,
From all its Heat, and madding Fire,
In happy, spreading, fragrant Groves,
He wish'd at last to crown the tend'rest Loves,
And for a while retire,
Supinely laid,
Beneath some verdant, cooling shade,
Whose Ayres might Thoughts of calmer Joys inspire.
The Thund'rer so, when the rash Youth had burn'd
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Seeing the Boy was headlong hurl'd,
Now visiting the Meads and Bow'rs,
Perceiv'd a Nymph, and brighter Flames he bore,
Than those which scorch'd the Globe, and burn'd his Skies before.
With her he spent some pleasing Hours;
No more the Ruines, which were made he mourn'd,
But from that Heav'n, back to his own return'd.
LII.
Behold the God of Love upon the Plain;Not far from hence, behold his Train,
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See, in his Hand a Torch he bears,
Extinguish'd with his flowing Tears.
The beauteous Cytherea there comes on,
She rends her Locks, and beats her Breast,
With all the signs of real Griefs exprest,
And mourns the fairer Cytherea gone.
Thro' ev'ry Bow'r, and ev'ry Grove,
Wild, and distracted does she rove,
Wild as the Forests where she runs—and mourns the Fall of Beauty, and of Love.
LIII.
See, where the pensive Cupid weeping stands,See, how he wrings his little Hands,
Beholds his slighted Quiver from him thrown,
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Hark, on his Mother sadly does he call,
He holds a deadly, piercing Dart,
And shrill he cries, and points it at his Heart,
And threatens there to fall.
On those fair Banks the Loves prepare their Seat,
And all lament lost Florimena's Fate;
Those Streams to Helicon belong,
Those vocal Streams, whose murm'ring Voice
Raise an harmonious, melancholy Noise,
And of themselves pour forth a mournful Song,
Weeping whole Floods, as they glide down along.
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LIV.
Behold, alas! the Hero now you see,Striving the former Flames to trace
Of Florimena's lovely Face;
Behold—he looks—almost as motionless, and dead as she.
To whom his Story shall he now prepare?
And taste the greatest Pleasures of successful War.
Ah! how uncertain are our Blessings here,
When all that's brave, and great, and soft, and heav'nly Fair,
Must stoop to sudden Chance, and in a moment disappear.
Why in the Field did he such Wonders show?
Why did this Chief immortal Honours gain?
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The shining Mistress of his Arms was not immortal too.
LV.
Behold, Queen Sorrow now in haste is fled,And all the other mournful Train
Departing fast, are scatter'd ore the Plain,
The warlike Lover too rears up, once more, his Head.
See, see, another Scene the Prospect yields,
Behold the peaceful, blest Elyzian Fields.
Mark all the shades, what preparation there
They make, to welcome to their Groves,
This far renown'd, and celebrated Fair!
The loveliest Nymph — that ever crown'd the most exalted Loves.
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See, see those Angels in that Cloud descend,
Their course to Florimena's Grove they bend,
See now, how smiling swift they all alight,
Their Fellow-Angel up they bear,
Bright as themselves, bright as she late shone here;
The Scenes of Mourning quickly disappear;
The Hero bows, his pious Thanks are giv'n,
She waves a flying Farewel in the Air,
And on her dear-lov'd Chief she gazes till she enters Heav'n.
FINIS.
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THE MUSE To the PATRON.
Tempora mutantur, & nos mutamur in illis.
—Hæc olim meminisse juvabit.
—Hæc olim meminisse juvabit.
Behold, my Son, these mourning Robes I use,
To shew my Grief for your departed Muse.
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Your Muse, your Mistress, and your Wife in one.
I, who have long been woo'd, and won by you,
Sue in my turn,—then hear me while I sue.
The Soul should seldom with its Wants comply,
Who faintly asks, but teaches to deny.
Still should Wit's Cause be pleaded by the fair,
The rising Poet is the Muses care.
'Tis you, whose Bays with branching Laurels grow,
My best-lov'd Son, the Muse addresses now.
Beneath their shade, as a secure retreat,
Afford my new-born Child an humble Seat,
Fenc'd from the rude Insults of an impending Fate.
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Yet now he sues to be no longer so.
Or first, or last, all do my Charms despise,
I make them witty oft, but seldom wise.
'Tis true, in Numbers still he feels Delight,
He has a Genius: Born, and loves to write,
But he repines, that Custom ill has made
A lib'ral Art a mercenary Trade.
None, but immortal Dryden, nobly vain,
Great in his fancy'd Empire of Disdain,
Felt Rage enough, and Courage only to sustain.
But here this tend'rer Off-spring faintly sings,
With infant Voice, and flys with feebler Wings.
Approaching Storms he dreads, nor can he bear
The furious Blasts of a malignant Air.
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Or rather boast it but for you alone.
By you, and only you, (my Heir) 'twas given,
That Mankind knows me to be sprung from Heaven.
You, whose sublimest Genius reach'd the height,
Whence first I flew, and track'd my sacred flight.
Wisely to you does my new Off-spring sue,
Of all Mankind, he would serve chiefly you.
If Verse has Charms, 'tis now they must prevail,
Too well he knows all lost, if here he fail.
You 'tis he claims, nor shall he poorly strive
For any other Patron—Cutts alive.
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But hold,—I find I must not dare to raise,
Nor clap my joyful Wings to spread your Praise.
The bashful Poet does my Suppliant stand,
And gently checks me with his trembling Hand.
So pure his Flames.—And they who love the best,
Know what they feel can never be exprest.
Warm are his Thoughts, as warm his new Desires,
Yet bear no vain, or vast, ambitious Fires.
To you, his gen'rous Patron, lost, he flies,
On you builds humble Hopes, on you relies.
Nor rose his Wishes, since they first began,
Above the Poet, or beneath the Man.
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'Tis here his nobler Expectation stands.
He would your Favours from your Choice derive,
Pleas'd, he receives what you are pleas'd to give.
But if your gen'rous Temper doubts to choose,
The Poet's Mind lyes open to the Muse.
Most fond he courts what you can best bestow,
For most he serves himself, in serving you.
Not that his Merits any Claim can boast,
But Favours nere in grateful Souls are lost.
All have their prosp'rous Hours, he courts the Time;
Want of Success is ever charg'd a Crime;
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He asks of Heaven, and when it grants, gives Praise.
Let not the happy view his Wreck with Scorn,
He was, like them, to flowing Plenty born.
His Scene of Life seem'd all serene as theirs,
With blooming Fortunes in his blooming Years.
Then flourishing Joys did on his Senses fall;
But—when War's Thunder broke, it blasted all.
On you, my Son, he owns his Hope must stand,
Nor would be rais'd by any vulgar Hand.
Tho' I, the Muse, thro' wilful Tracks have hurl'd,
And snatch'd him hence to my aërial World,
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Who bore up pale the trembling Youth above,
And fixt his happy Seat, plac'd in the Courts of Jove.
FINIS.
| The Victory of Death | |