 | Poems upon Several Occasions |  |
1
MISCELLANIES AND Translations.
On Mr. Abraham Cowley's WORKS.
I
The British Land in former TimeWas thought too phlegmatick a Clime,
Too cold for Verse to thrive and grow
On such a heavy Soil: But now,
Nor Greece may boast, nor Rome that she
Surpasses her in Poetry.
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II
Homer and Virgil lately were,'Til Cowley rose, the famous Pair:
But him they gladly now admit,
To the Triumvirate of Wit,
And grant, that tho' the Younger, yet
His Praise, the Poet's Wealth's as great.
III
These mighty Three so well are joyn'd,'Twould pose the wisest Judge to find
Which of them all does most excel
In Honour's strife. But more to tell
What happy Realm shall raise a Fourth
To equal Fame, by equal Worth.
The Retreat.
I
Pardon me Friend, that I so soonForsake this great tumultuous Town.
And on the sudden hasten down;
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II
That I Preferment court no more,But all my Hopes and Cares give o'er
While I'm Young, and while I'm Poor.
III
My self no longer I'll depriveOf those kind Minutes Heav'n does give.
No Man makes haste enough to live.
IV
Let them stay longer who desireAbove their Father's Wealth t'aspire,
And raise their Names and Fortunes higher.
V
That are content to cringe and bow,To flatter, bribe, and wait; for so
Preferment must be bought, you know.
VI
Give me free Nature's solid GoodsOpen Fields, and secret Woods,
Healthful Hills, and crystal Floods.
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VII
A small, but sprucely furnish'd House,A Garden for Delight and Use,
A learned Friend, and gentle Muse.
VIII
Nights full of Sleep, Days void of Strife,And to compleat this heav'nly Life,
An humble, cheerful, country Wife.
IX
Thus, oh! thus let me obscurely lie!Thus let my wel-spent Hours slide by!
Thus let me live! thus let me die!
Out of Horace.
Carmin. Lib. 2. Od. 8. Ulla si juris, &c.
If ever this thy frequent breach of OathHad punish'd been with one black Tooth,
If but one Nail, or Hair of thine had bin
Less smooth or curled for thy Sin,
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To punish such as do forswear.
But thou, as soon as black false Oaths thou'st swore,
Shin'st out far brighter than before
(Like the Sun breaking from a Cloud) and art
The only Care of every Heart.
It mends thy Beauty, thine own Mothers Grave
To violate, and her Ghost deceive;
To make the Stars of Heav'n avouch thy lies,
And e'en the immortal Deities.
Venus her self laughs and her Nymphs at this
A sport to cruel Love it is,
Who makes thy faithless Vows serve for a Stone
To whet his bloody Darts upon.
Nay, all the Youth, (poor ign'rant Tribe) for thee
Grows up a new Captivity:
Nor have we (tho' we threaten it oft) the Power,
Old Fools! to leave thy wicked Door.
Thee for her Sons the careful Mother fears,
And cov'tous old Men for their Heirs;
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Should draw their Husbands from their tender Arms.
Out of Horace.
Carm. Lib. 3. Od. 11. Mercuri, nam te, &c.
I
Fair Maia's Son (for by thy learned ArtAmphion e'en hard Stones did move)
Appease the stubborn Anger of my Love,
And move her harder Heart.
II
And thou, my Musick which in former YearsWast a poor dumb neglected thing;
But now in Churches, and at Feasts dost Sing,
Charm, charm her sullen Ears.
II
Who, like a Fillie in the slow'ry Mead,Runs up and down, and won't be caught,
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Unto the genial Bed.
IV
Swift Tygers thou, and Woods canst draw along,And rowling Rivers canst recall:
The Surly Porter of the infernal Hall
Submitted to thy Song;
V
Ev'n Cerberus, tho about his monstrous HeadAn Hundred Hellish Serpents crawl
And from his Triple Mouth black Foams does fall,
And poisnous Breath is shed.
VI
Thou mad'st Ixion 'gainst his Will to smile,And Tityus laugh amidst his Pains,
While Danau's Daughters listen'd to thy Strains,
Their Tubs stood drie a while.
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VII
O tell my Love what cruel Pains attend,Hard-hearted Maids in Hell:
Bid her by what these wicked Maids befel,
Take warning and amend.
VIII
O wicked Maids! what more can hellish spightThan Women do? with bloody Knives
They rip'd their Bridegrooms Breasts, and spilt their Lives
Upon the Wedding Night.
IX
But one of Fifty with a virtuous LifeHer perjur'd Father durst deceive:
Worthy to be a Bride! her Fame shall live
'Till Time it self shall die.
X
Arise, she said, my gentle Love, arise,And go, lest everlasting Night
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And wicked Sisters Eyes.
XI
Who now as hungry Lionesses, nowLike tender Lambs their Husbands tear:
But I, more merciful than they, will spare,
Thy Life, and let thee go.
XII
Me let my Father load with cruel BandsBecause I spar'd my gentle Spouse.
Me let him banish ever from his House
Into the furthest Lands.
XIII
Go, where thy Feet or Wind shall carry thee,While Venus Favours and the Night:
Live happy thou, and on my Tomb stone write
That thou wast sav'd by me.
10
Out of Moschus one of the Minor Poets.
Ερως Δραπετης, or Cupid run away.
Cupid
was lost, and all about
His Mother ran to seek him out.
Through Town and Field, through Earth and Skies,
Through young Men's Hearts, and Maidens Eyes,
O'er Sea and Land, drawn with a Pair
Of Milk-white Doves she cut the Air,
But after many a Mile she'd past
Her little Steeds grew tir'd at last:
Then seeing she could no where spie him
She stood, and thus began to crie him.
His Mother ran to seek him out.
Through Town and Field, through Earth and Skies,
Through young Men's Hearts, and Maidens Eyes,
O'er Sea and Land, drawn with a Pair
Of Milk-white Doves she cut the Air,
But after many a Mile she'd past
Her little Steeds grew tir'd at last:
Then seeing she could no where spie him
She stood, and thus began to crie him.
O Yes! Whoever can descrie
The Place where Love conceal'd does lie,
Let him repair to me and take
A soft Kiss for his Tidings sake:
But he that brings him home shall meet
A Kiss, and something else more sweet.
Yet first, lest haply he deceive you,
Take these Marks which I will give you,
Marks which easily will shew him,
'Mongst a Thousand you may know him.
The Place where Love conceal'd does lie,
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A soft Kiss for his Tidings sake:
But he that brings him home shall meet
A Kiss, and something else more sweet.
Yet first, lest haply he deceive you,
Take these Marks which I will give you,
Marks which easily will shew him,
'Mongst a Thousand you may know him.
His Skin, like Blushes which adorn
The Bosom of the rising Morn,
All over Ruddle is, and from
His flaming Eyes quick glances come.
His Meaning's Roguish, but his Tongue
He handles well, 'tis sweetly hung.
His Words you never once shall find
The genu'ine Picture of his Mind.
His Voice like Honey drops, but when
He's angry, O be warie; then
He's false and fell, and Pleasure takes
In the Miseries he makes.
Fair Curls his golden Temples grace;
A wanton Air sets off his Face.
His Hands are very small: but, oh!
The Distance they his Arrows throw!
Ev'n Hell itself, and its stern Lord
Have felt their Force, and loudly roar'd.
His Body's naked, as if he
Delighted in simplicity:
But, oh! his Soul, that cloathed is
With manifold Hypocrisies.
He neither Age, nor Sex will spare,
But shoots his Arrows ev'ry where.
And like a wanton Bird, he flies,
And hovers o'er you, till he spies
A way to dart into your Breast,
And in your Liver build his Nest.
Upon his Shoulder you may spie
A golden Quiver; in it lie
His winged Shafts, which often make
High Heav'n and mighty Jove to quake.
Nor God, nor Mortal can withstand
The Force of his resistless Hand.
As Death, impartial, none are free
From his wide-wasting Tyranny.
Kings and Swains do all adore him:
Queens and Milk maids fall before him:
He pities neither one nor other;
No, not me, his one dear Mother.
His little Torch to Heav'n will flie
And make old Phœbus burn and frie
In Flames more hot by far than those
He on the scorched Æthiop throws.
The Bosom of the rising Morn,
All over Ruddle is, and from
His flaming Eyes quick glances come.
His Meaning's Roguish, but his Tongue
He handles well, 'tis sweetly hung.
His Words you never once shall find
The genu'ine Picture of his Mind.
His Voice like Honey drops, but when
He's angry, O be warie; then
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In the Miseries he makes.
Fair Curls his golden Temples grace;
A wanton Air sets off his Face.
His Hands are very small: but, oh!
The Distance they his Arrows throw!
Ev'n Hell itself, and its stern Lord
Have felt their Force, and loudly roar'd.
His Body's naked, as if he
Delighted in simplicity:
But, oh! his Soul, that cloathed is
With manifold Hypocrisies.
He neither Age, nor Sex will spare,
But shoots his Arrows ev'ry where.
And like a wanton Bird, he flies,
And hovers o'er you, till he spies
A way to dart into your Breast,
And in your Liver build his Nest.
Upon his Shoulder you may spie
A golden Quiver; in it lie
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High Heav'n and mighty Jove to quake.
Nor God, nor Mortal can withstand
The Force of his resistless Hand.
As Death, impartial, none are free
From his wide-wasting Tyranny.
Kings and Swains do all adore him:
Queens and Milk maids fall before him:
He pities neither one nor other;
No, not me, his one dear Mother.
His little Torch to Heav'n will flie
And make old Phœbus burn and frie
In Flames more hot by far than those
He on the scorched Æthiop throws.
Such is my Son. Whoe'er shall find him
Let him catch him, let him bind him,
And render to my hands the Prize,
And if from his dissembling Eyes
The Tears do trickle, do not spare him;
Tho he flatter do not hear him
Whether he sigh, or smile, or pray,
Bring him ne'ertheless away.
If a Kiss he offer to you,
O, beware; it will undo you.
His Lips are Poyson, and his Breath
Scatter Plagues far worse than Death.
But if he, to let him go,
Offer you his Shafts and Bow,
O! touch them not: the Gifts of Love
Will like Fire, destructive prove.
Let him catch him, let him bind him,
And render to my hands the Prize,
And if from his dissembling Eyes
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Tho he flatter do not hear him
Whether he sigh, or smile, or pray,
Bring him ne'ertheless away.
If a Kiss he offer to you,
O, beware; it will undo you.
His Lips are Poyson, and his Breath
Scatter Plagues far worse than Death.
But if he, to let him go,
Offer you his Shafts and Bow,
O! touch them not: the Gifts of Love
Will like Fire, destructive prove.
15
Out of Bion.
Love's Tutor.
As underdeath an Oak one Day
Free from unpeaceful Thoughts I lay
A gentle Slumber o'er my head
His downy Wing had softly spread:
When lo! before me seem'd to stand
Bright Beauty's Queen, and in her hand
Her little winged Son she had;
A peevish, proud, unhappy Lad
He is, tho' then h'appeared mild,
And humble as a sucking Child.
Free from unpeaceful Thoughts I lay
A gentle Slumber o'er my head
His downy Wing had softly spread:
When lo! before me seem'd to stand
Bright Beauty's Queen, and in her hand
Her little winged Son she had;
A peevish, proud, unhappy Lad
He is, tho' then h'appeared mild,
And humble as a sucking Child.
Dear Shepherd, I commend to thee
My Son: pray take him home (said she)
And teach him Poetry, for well
I know, thou dost therein excel:
Nor shalt thou unrewarded go,
If Venus can rewards bestow.
My Son: pray take him home (said she)
And teach him Poetry, for well
I know, thou dost therein excel:
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If Venus can rewards bestow.
This said, away she went, and I
(Proud of the Office) by and by
Took my young Scholar, and began
To teach the wanton Wag to scan
A Verse upon his Fingers: but,
The D--- a dram would Cupid do't.
No; He began to sing to me
Songs of Love and Jolity,
Songs of God's and Mortal's Pleasures,
And t'unfold his Mother's Treasures.
(Proud of the Office) by and by
Took my young Scholar, and began
To teach the wanton Wag to scan
A Verse upon his Fingers: but,
The D--- a dram would Cupid do't.
No; He began to sing to me
Songs of Love and Jolity,
Songs of God's and Mortal's Pleasures,
And t'unfold his Mother's Treasures.
Soon, alas! soon I forgot
All that the Youth I meant t'have taught.
But his wicked Ballads out
Of my Mind I ne'er could put,
Nor ever since my lips could move
To sing of any thing but Love.
All that the Youth I meant t'have taught.
But his wicked Ballads out
Of my Mind I ne'er could put,
Nor ever since my lips could move
To sing of any thing but Love.
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The WIFE.
Let me but have a Wife what e'er she be
So she be Woman, 'tis enough for me:
I ask not one in whom all Graces shine,
Her Sex alone endears her to be mine.
So she be Woman, 'tis enough for me:
I ask not one in whom all Graces shine,
Her Sex alone endears her to be mine.
If she be young, she is not stubborn grown,
And I may form her Manners to my own:
If old, a Wife and Mother both I have,
And either may a Kiss or Blessing crave.
If she be fair, she's lovely as the Light:
If ugly, why? what's matter in the Night?
If she be barren, I am free from Care:
If Fruitful, Children costly Blessings are.
If Poor, she'll Humble, and Obedient be:
If Rich, O! who'd fear golden Slavery?
If Scold she be, she'll teach me Patience:
If Sluttish, I may Temp'rance learn from thence.
If full of Tongue, I shan't want Company:
If mute I'll love her for the Rarity.
I'm Lord and Master, if she be a Fool:
If wise, I shall be so to let her rule.
Unjust are they who 'gainst the Sex declaim,
And I may form her Manners to my own:
If old, a Wife and Mother both I have,
And either may a Kiss or Blessing crave.
If she be fair, she's lovely as the Light:
If ugly, why? what's matter in the Night?
If she be barren, I am free from Care:
If Fruitful, Children costly Blessings are.
If Poor, she'll Humble, and Obedient be:
If Rich, O! who'd fear golden Slavery?
If Scold she be, she'll teach me Patience:
If Sluttish, I may Temp'rance learn from thence.
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If mute I'll love her for the Rarity.
I'm Lord and Master, if she be a Fool:
If wise, I shall be so to let her rule.
When 'tis not they, but we deserve the blame.
They all are good enough, had we but Skill
The Good in them to take, and leave the Ill.
That Wives and Husbands Humours seldom meet,
'Tis not 'cause they want Goodness, but these, Wit.
Happiness.
I
Would you, my Friend, true Happiness obtainI'll tell you how that Treasure you may gain,
Not Wealth, nor Wit, nor Wine, nor Women can
Bring solid Comfort to the Mind of Man:
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With their Rewards, the Store-house are, from whence
This rare and precious Gift the Almighty doth dispence.
II
True Mirth and Peace to visit will not deignThe gilded Roofs, where wicked Tyrants reign:
But love t'inhabit in the meanest Cell,
Where innocent and humble Souls do dwell.
Saul's restless Heart with jealous rage did fret,
While David fed his flock secure, and set
Such Hymns to's sacred Harp, as Angels still repeat.
III
Not Beds of Down sound sleep to him can bringWhom anxious Thoughts, or sinful Terrours sting.
Seek not, if quiet slumbers you would find,
To have your Limbs lie easie, but your mind:
Whose Head is free from Care, from Guilt whose Breast,
That Man upon a Stone may softly rest.
So Jacob sleeping was with Heav'nly Visions blest.
| Poems upon Several Occasions | |