[Poems on Several Occasions with A Pastoral to which is added A Discourse of Life] [by John Tutchin] |
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To the Memory of Mr. JOHN OLDHAM. |
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 | [Poems on Several Occasions with A Pastoral |  |
13
To the Memory of Mr. JOHN OLDHAM.
When some great Prince, or greater Poet dies,
He spends his tears in vain, who vainly cries.
All, soon or late, Life's glimmering Lamp bequeath
Unto the Fatal Puff of gloomy Death:
Mark yon bold Mortal now, that threats the Skies,
How soon he's Born, and how soon he Dies!
Whil'st we of Life and endless pleasures prate,
Death whets his Scythe, and hastes the Sands of Fate:
But sure our Oldham should his stroak survive,
And to th' ungrateful Age his blessings give:
Much better Fate fresh Laurels would bestow,
And kindly took him from his toils below.
Scarce can the greatest Cowley get from me
A praise, when thy immortal Verse I see;
Crashaw and Cowley both did live in thee.
Let the dull Fools admire the golden Ore,
And 'midst their pompous boasts be always Poor:
I in thy praise immortal Notes will prove,
Such as I whilome wrote in Mirth and Love.
Ah! would to God I had the Pen that wrote
Of all the toils the fam'd Achilles sought;
Of all the valiant Acts that e're were done,
By brave King Priam, or King Priam's Son;
The kindest Verse that Princes Courts adorn,
Or God-like Poets sing beneath the Morn:
Each charming Note did with true praise agree;
My much lov'd Oldham, should be kept for thee.
He spends his tears in vain, who vainly cries.
All, soon or late, Life's glimmering Lamp bequeath
Unto the Fatal Puff of gloomy Death:
Mark yon bold Mortal now, that threats the Skies,
How soon he's Born, and how soon he Dies!
Whil'st we of Life and endless pleasures prate,
Death whets his Scythe, and hastes the Sands of Fate:
But sure our Oldham should his stroak survive,
And to th' ungrateful Age his blessings give:
Much better Fate fresh Laurels would bestow,
And kindly took him from his toils below.
Scarce can the greatest Cowley get from me
A praise, when thy immortal Verse I see;
Crashaw and Cowley both did live in thee.
14
And 'midst their pompous boasts be always Poor:
I in thy praise immortal Notes will prove,
Such as I whilome wrote in Mirth and Love.
Ah! would to God I had the Pen that wrote
Of all the toils the fam'd Achilles sought;
Of all the valiant Acts that e're were done,
By brave King Priam, or King Priam's Son;
The kindest Verse that Princes Courts adorn,
Or God-like Poets sing beneath the Morn:
Each charming Note did with true praise agree;
My much lov'd Oldham, should be kept for thee.
Phillis laments thy fall, and weeps, thee gone,
And sadly in her Alcove sits alone:
She vows, no more the wonted Song shall please,
Now you, blest Man, your joyful Notes do cease:
She hates the giddy Crowd, the noisie Town,
And on some baleful Grotto sits her down;
Bites her red Lips, and tears her aubourn Hair;
She courts wild Frenzie, and, as mad, Despair:
Let Desarts be my home, in Caves my Bed;
Let the sad Yew, she cryes, adorn my Head:
Ye wieldy Satyrs my companions be,
And in the shady Groves come mourn with me.
But how shall I, blest Soul! my grief express,
Whose mournful accents are confin'd to Verse.
Should I, like Niobe, a Stone become,
Cold as thy Grave, and senseless as thy Tomb;
From hence no praise could to thy worth arise,
For Fools in Monuments out-do the Wise:
Then take what Nature gave me, lasting Verse,
The solid glory of a Shepherds Hearse.
True real Wit did Cowley's Statue rear,
More the good Muses than the Monarch's care;
'Tis stupid Mævius must the Laurel wear.
How well wou'd Laurels have adorn thy Head,
Whose Grave is now with mournful Cypress spread:
Much happier Soul! from Life's dull business free;
Free from the nauseous world we daily see;
What are the Joys of which our Cullies boast?
And what the toilsome pleasure thou hast lost?
What 'mongst us busie Mortals could'st thou find,
But Seas of Sins to drown an honest mind?
To see of Bawds and Pimps a numerous herd;
To see vast Cocks-combs, and great Rogues preferr'd,
Wou'd a worse Fatigue be than tedious Death;
This Air is too polluted for thy Breath.
And sadly in her Alcove sits alone:
She vows, no more the wonted Song shall please,
Now you, blest Man, your joyful Notes do cease:
She hates the giddy Crowd, the noisie Town,
And on some baleful Grotto sits her down;
Bites her red Lips, and tears her aubourn Hair;
She courts wild Frenzie, and, as mad, Despair:
Let Desarts be my home, in Caves my Bed;
Let the sad Yew, she cryes, adorn my Head:
15
And in the shady Groves come mourn with me.
But how shall I, blest Soul! my grief express,
Whose mournful accents are confin'd to Verse.
Should I, like Niobe, a Stone become,
Cold as thy Grave, and senseless as thy Tomb;
From hence no praise could to thy worth arise,
For Fools in Monuments out-do the Wise:
Then take what Nature gave me, lasting Verse,
The solid glory of a Shepherds Hearse.
True real Wit did Cowley's Statue rear,
More the good Muses than the Monarch's care;
'Tis stupid Mævius must the Laurel wear.
How well wou'd Laurels have adorn thy Head,
Whose Grave is now with mournful Cypress spread:
Much happier Soul! from Life's dull business free;
Free from the nauseous world we daily see;
What are the Joys of which our Cullies boast?
And what the toilsome pleasure thou hast lost?
What 'mongst us busie Mortals could'st thou find,
But Seas of Sins to drown an honest mind?
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To see vast Cocks-combs, and great Rogues preferr'd,
Wou'd a worse Fatigue be than tedious Death;
This Air is too polluted for thy Breath.
| [Poems on Several Occasions with A Pastoral | |