Poems Upon Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

When sent from Heav'n a more than common Guest
Takes up his dwelling in a mortal Breast;
And when a Soul of large Dimensions comes
T' inform the human flesh—compacted Rooms,
The gladsome Fabrick full of Beauty shows,
No common Splendour from the Windows flows:
A sacred Brightness doth the Seat attend,
And th'Inmate prosp'rous Omens do befriend.
Quick Worth, Præcocious Vertue, Early Grace,
And ripe Perfeetion doth the Soul embrace.
Inspired Wit fills the capacious Mind,
And forward Sense, to lofty flights enclin'd,
Prevents the tedious Discipline of Schools,
The Loyt'ring Art of Pædagogick Rules.

Thus Fated to high Faets Amphitryon's Son,
As soon as born, a wondrous Conquest won;
The Warlike Babe did two fierce Dragons tame;
Too small an hansel for his mighty Fame.

Go on young Hawkshaw, to the World be kind:
And with the Early Produets of thy Mind,
Enrich and entertain us at one Time,
Expressing Native Wit without a Crime.
Nor doat on Fame: 'Tis seldom justly given,
And is too small a Prize for Souls of Heav'n.
Look up.—A due Reward will come from thence,
For him, who decks his Wit with Innocence.

Joshua Barnes. Emanuel Collegde, Cambridge.

vii

To the Ingenious Mr. Hawkshaw on the Publication of his Poems.

Pindarick.

I.

Methinks this looks like an untoward Age,
Too gross, or too censorious to engage;
For faith some Poems unregarded lye,
That with their Authors merit Immortality:
Others worse done, yet are approv'd by all,
Because the Subjects more agreeable.
But, Damon, you have wisely taken care,
Of Sense, and Mode, to mix an Equal share;
And with assurance may address:
Already certain of success:
Your Book must needs delight, but cannot cloy,
Having that great Preservative, Variety.

II.

When Cowley dy'd we fondly did conceive,
The Loss so vastly Great, 'twas past retrieve;

viii

The Lover then condemn'd his Lute,
To be for ever, ever Mute:
For why the mighty Charmer gone,
The only Pow'r could influence his Song:
He'd lost the pretty Arts that please,
A Virgins tender'st part,
Those soft becoming words that seize,
The most unwilling heart:
Despair and Silence cramp'd his Breast,
And damn'd him to a dull uneasie Rest.

III.

But Damon does his Character renew,
In him his Flights, his soft Address we view;
Lovers no more repine at Fate,
Nor call their Mistress false, ingrate;
Learn by his Verse to raise desire,
But that as chast, as Vestal fire:
For in the whole true Modesty appears,
Not one lewd Notion to betray his years;

Nor does his Mistress all the rest excell,
What e'er he pleases to express
In whatsoever dress,
The Beauty's Parallell.

IV.

If Eighteen can produce
So Gen'rous, so Divine a Muse,
Think what advantages he has,
Who starts where others end their race:
If Youth his worth cannot conceal,
What Wonders will his riper Years reveal?
Advance, dear Damon, as thou hast begun,
Eternal Musick dwell upon thy Tongue;
Let no rude cares thy Breast alarm,
Such as may Sorrow move,
But keep it always gently warm
With Poetry and Love.
And when malicious Fate
Denies thy Life a longer Date,
The Change will not be great:

For why? their whole performances above,
Are nothing else but Harmony and Love.

George Smith. St. John's Colledge.

To my Ingenious Friend Mr. Hawkshaw, on the Advance of the Poetry.

When yet the World was young and Nature new,
E'er many Days had sprung from early Dew;
When Beauty dawn'd, and did first Mankind warm,
And Love it self was but an Infant Charm:
We boast our Art, co-eval with the Stars,
The Birds first taught it to the wondring Spheres.
This the first Essay, Man at last was taught,
He adds a Soul, and dresses it in Thought.

From thence 'twas handed down by rolling Years,
Th'allay of Grief and Enemy to Cares;
Homer the Ancient'st, freshest Lawrel wore,
The first Refiner of the Noble Ore;
Thence many Bards commenc'd, and had their Reign,
From Latin Virgil to our English Ben.
But when great Cowley did the Age allure,
We fear'd a Zenith, and the Muse Mature;
But, Sir, We see, 'tis you are born t'improve,
The Pitch of Fancy, and th'Extent of Love.
To you the Lover will his Altars rear,
Thank you in Incense for his soft'ned Fair,
And make you half his Adoration share.
Methinks I see the stubborn Celia glow,
And blush, and wonder, what you mean to do;
She fears each Line, yet still reads on and sighs,
She starts! and feels a coming Passion rise,
And sparkles happy Omens from her Eyes.
Smooth as the Stroaks of softest Titian thows
Each Verse, when how Adonis look'd, he shows.
With such a Style the Noble Ovid strove,
To charm the Heiress of the World to Love.

xii

The Royal Beauty slights an Emp'rour's Frown,
T' admit a Lawrel she contemns a Crown,
And does a Poet before Monarchs own.
With such soft Verse he won the mighty fair,
From Rival Scepters Verse, the Prize does bear:
'Twas great, nor could Augustus this exceed,
Not Actium conquest was a Nobler deed.
H'enjoys the Princess, and from Rome retreats,
And with a Muse like theirs he charms the rugged Gates.

H. Denne. Trinity Colledge.

xiii

To the Ingenious Author, now of the Colledge in Dublin.

Whilst thy dear native Soil with smiling Face,
Puts forth her Arms to catch the first Embrace;
And thy gay Friends in joyfull Tumults throng,
To hear the well known Accents of thy Tongue;
We can't but smile, when we new Pleasures find,
In this fair Off-spring which you left behind.
So kindly brib'd by thy resistless Wit,
We lose your Absence, and our Griefs forget.
Strange! that such tender Years so toughly wear,
So young your self, and yet so tall your Heir:
If forward Nineteen such a Ripeness show,
What Wonders will a well knit Thirty do?
Such was lov'd Cowley's Voice, so young his Pen,
When the fleet Youth assur'd a second Ben:
Such Thoughts did Ovid's angry Stars defeat,
Soft'ning the Malice of the Cold retreat.

xiv

Such was your Force, so orderly it broke,
When your Friend lov'd, or drooping Country spoke.
Pale was her Cheek and doubtfull was her Look,
When Wars rough Arms the nodding Island shook;
Now the full Streams of Joy around her flow,
Grac'd with their Charge, a welcome Peace and You:
Her wither'd Branches gladly sprout again,
Pleas'd to behold her Sons: A darling Train,
That guard her Beauty, and her Glory raise,
They crown'd with Conquest, These adorn with Bays.

John Norton.

ON K. CHARLES IId's; Restoration.

A Pindarick Ode.

I

That Star whose sable mantle hurl'd,
Had muffl'd up in Clouds the Western world
Is risen now, and like the Planet Jove,
Having run out his hidden course above,
Visits our Gloomy Sphere once more;
But lo! what does this Herauld bring?
It brings with safety home an Exil'd King:
A King whom Heaven lov'd so well,
Spar'd nor a Miracle
To bring him to his Native Shore.

II

For your Return all Nature seems to be
In one conspiring Jubilee;

'Tis hard to know who's most content,
The People, or the Firmament.
The floating Castles on the Sea around,
Dance to their own Trumpets found;
The Ships together with the Tide,
Swell with an unusual pride,
Whilst some unerring Angels hand
Moves and directs them to the Promis'd Land.

III

Fair Albian stretching out her Arms to thee,
Implores thy Aid to cure her Leprosie:
To Thee the drooping heads of State draw nigh,
To bear them up as Atlas does the Sky.
Famine, Sword, and Fire,
The Great Triumvirate of Desolation,
Did with United Force conspire,
To Ruine and Destroy the Nation.
But the good Influence of Charles his wane,
Dispers'd those Mists, and prov'd their final bane.

IV

Return then Charles, with all the Joy that's due
To the Serenest Peace and You;
The Comet's gone which o'er our Kingdom stood,
And drench'd its Face in Royal Blood;
He that usurp'd your Crown is now no more,
As low in Fortune's Wheel, as high before:
The hungry Meteor shall no more feed
On the most precious Oil of Stuart's Head,
Who on the Wings of Martyrdom Sh'has flown,
And in Exchange of this got an Immortal Crown.

V

The Isthmus which your Foes have made throw down,
And walk on Beds of Roses to your Crown,
Kind Heav'n did this sweet Seat of Rest prepare,
To ease your Sorrows, and unbend your Care.
Since You are come
Triumphant Exile home,
Peace in her welcome Streams shall flow,
And kindly chear the British World below:

No more the People shall deplore their Fate,
But only grieve this came too late.

The Dream that Night Limerick was surrendred.

Methoughts I heard the charming Eccho say,
Arise my Love, from hence, and come away;
Tho' the Waves rowl, the mighty Tempest's done,
And all's concluding with the setting Sun;
I'm come to lead thee to thy Port agen,
And place thee in the lost Jerusalem.
At this my feeble Pulse with Joy beat high,
To see my Ancient Paradise so nigh;
Then straight I hois'd up sail, and bore away,
As swift as Eagles when they find a Prey;
Here I presum'd more solid Joys to find,
But Thoughts convey'd me back, tho' 'gainst the Wind.

On the Death of the Young Lady I. S.

And is she gone? Unkind and Cruel Fate!
Thus to deny the best a longer date.
Old Age does your regardless Hand disdain,
Still begs to die, because't must live in pain:
Too partial Fate! the Noblest first decay,
And Youth the richest Spoil becomes your prey:
Curse on those Stars that did her Life surprize,
And drew the Curtains o'er her brighter Eyes,
Before she wrought, what Nature did design,
When at her Birth, Fate cry'd, the Work is mine.
Her Course scarce finish'd, but she's snatch'd away,
Yet so she sinish'd, that she liv'd each day:
Too great a Blessing, to last long, was giv'n,
Green in the Bud, and yet full ripe for Heav'n.
But to what height can I my Temper screw?
To pay, what to thy Life, what to thy Death, is due.
Grief clouds my sadder Mind, when it should be,
As free as unconcern'd, as calm as she.
So like a dying Swan she did expire,
The God's sent for Her to make up their Quire.

On Dr. G. refreshing himself each Morning in St. John's Walks.

When Phœbus did his gilded Arms display,
And shot the Phython with the Darts of Day,
The Skies were frightned, and the People run
To see the Conquest of the New-born Sun;
Ev'n so the Cambridge Vapours at thy Sight,
Clear up a-while, and change their grosser Light.
The Charming Syrens of the Air combine,
To elevate those nobler Thoughts of thine:
From Noise, from Trouble, and from Business free,
Scorning the World, tho' it admires thee;
Happier than Kings in this secure retreat,
Free from those Troubles that attend the great;
Here thy serenest Breast no Tumult finds,
Calm as Elysium which is void of Winds.
In such blest Solitude of Old as this,
Jacob was honour'd with a Scene of bliss.
The smiling Violet, and the Lawrel-Tree,
Think it an Honour to be pluck'd by thee;

For since from thee they Life and Vigour have,
They don't repine thy Hand shou'd be their Grave.
Thrice happy! For if Angels were to change their Bliss,
They'd scorn a spangl'd Crown, but value this.

The good-Fellow.

I

Let's drink and revel whilst we may,
And wisely prop our nodding Fate;
The eager Minutes fly away,
And then alas! 'twill be too late.

II

Egypt is fruitful still the more
The Channel of their Nile runs high,
But when she leaves the beaten shore,
The Meadows seem to pine and die.

III

Nature is constant still in this,
The very Gods themselves wou'd think
Their Life but an imperfect bliss,
Had they not nobler Wine to drink.

IV

The Indian Princes scarce are found
But in their drunken Fits to play,
Like their great God they still go round,
And rise much fresher ev'ry day.

On a Friend who desir'd me to make a Copy of Verses on his Name.

Had I the Pencil of Vandike to grace
Each killing Feature of thy lovely Face,
The Piece should speak the Dictates of my Mind,
To better Rules of Art, than now confin'd.
But why should I wish for his Pencil here?
Poets with Painters in this Office share.

Thy very Looks whilst I gaze on controul
All the Joint Pow'rs of my wav'ring Soul,
Whilst you but smile and in your Chair sit still
The Members disobey the Master's Will;
For where such Clusters of Perfections sit,
Each would suffice to raise the Ghost of Wit.
Than this what can a better Topick be,
To convince Atheists there's a Deity?
Return my Muse and let thy Crystal Stream,
Flow to the Fountain-head from whence it came;
Stop not so soon, but with a Noble Grace
Describe the Hero's Name as well as Face;
Jove's Ganymed let down from Beams on high,
To tell us, that the Poets did not lie;
So graceful in Discourse, as that you'd swear
He'd brought the Manners of the Angels here;
So amorous, so gay, his Life does prove,
You'd think him brought up in the School of Love
'Twas never known at once that Nature meant
To mould a Subjeet, and an Accident.

Thy Name and Nature do so well agree,
Thy Name another Nature seems to be,
And as we read we make it out in thee.
The Letters to the Humour's so well set,
They show the brightest in the Alphabet.
Names may be chang'd, and many often do,
But to change thine's to change your Nature too.
Thy Name and Nature constitute a Bliss,
Nothing but Love sure had a hand in this;
Thy Name by mortal Man was never giv'n,
But in a New-years-gift was sent from Heav'n.

An Allusion to Claudian's Epigram on Archimedes's Sphere.

When Jove beheld the vast ætherial World
In the small Compass of a Machine hurl'd,
He smil'd, then turning to the Gods, said he,
The Apish World pretends to copy me;

The Laws of Nature so exactly giv'n,
As if that Man had travell'd once in Heav'n.

Against Knowledge.

I

If none but Fools which are in Errour blest,
Can truly here be said to hope for rest;
Why do I then pursue, and try
To read the Volumes of Philosopy?
I say they're gaudy Non-sence all,
And do like Flowers in the Autumn fall;
There is no Knowledge in this World below,
For all we've read, we scarce our selves can know.

II

The thoughtless Man is never wrack'd by Cares,
Tho' the Storm rise he entertains no sears,
On any thing he can take hold,
He cares not for the sparkling Gold,

He never does the Metal slight,
So that his Cæsar's Image be on it;
Altho' the Bark's but small, the Bottom's sound,
And tho' he sleeps, she'll never run aground.

III

The Man that did to high rais'd Sence pretend,
Confess'd that after all it had no End,
So much deceiv'd, he did repine,
So lavishly he'd spent his time,
Vowing that nothing here below,
Brought so much Sorrow, as this thing to know,
But we, as foolish Gamesters use to do,
Still know the Trick, yet still are cheated too.

IV

The Stagirite who knew all Nature's Laws,
Prov'd the first Martyr in this silly Cause;
But thou my Soul, with what thou'st seen
Sit down, ne'er go behind the Screen
Of Nature, for the Cause of things,
T' observe the Motions, and the hidden Springs:

Aspire not too high; if you'll improve
Your Time, be sure to spend it all in Love.

Translated from the Italian Poet Sannazarius.

When Neptune saw the Virgin Venice stand
Fix'd in the Waves, and give the Sea command,
Now, Jove, says he, shall Rome compare with this?
Rome which you brag's the Worlds Metropolis;
Look first on this, proud Jove, then that of thine,
That built by Men, this built by hands Divine.

An Apology for Rome in Answer to that from Venice, translated from a Latin Copy.

When Rome had brought the neighbouring Kingdoms down,
And made the Empire of the World her own,
The Sea to Tybur did Obedience pay,
And Rome her self the Universe did sway:
'Tis scarce worth bragging to relate she stands
Secure, first founded by Diviner hands;
This rises to a Pitch more high, to say
The Gods themselves durst not but Rome obey.

A Morning's Thought.

I

Why should I grovel here below?
Mistake that hopeful Bliss to come?
At shadows grasp, as Heathens do,
And never think of future Doom?

II

No, I will break this House of Clay,
Which clogs my fleeter Thoughts and Mind,
My Guardian Angel bids away,
Where I Eternal Bliss may find.

III

While like the Lark I upwards fly,
And leave this cloudy Magick Sphere,
A Weight of Joys I there descry,
And Streams of Happiness appear.

IV

Triumphant in this State I'll be,
Enjoy the Mansions of the Blest,
I'll gaze upon the Deity,
The very inmost Point of Rest.

To Mr. J. C. Sometime School-Master in Dublin.

With how much Wisdom you correct our Crimes,
Laying in flore against the future Times,
You pluck those Weeds which in our Garden grow,
Then Seeds of Virtue you begin to sow;
What greater Gifts could be bestow'd and giv'n?
At once you both oblige our Earth and Heav'n;
You've Conquer'd all the Science that's below,
You study now to make us Live and Know.

Melancholy.

When all was silenc'd, and in Peace was lain,
When ev'n Revenge some Rest did entertain,
The God of Sleep did then my Soul surprize,
And cover'd with a Veil my wearied Eyes,

The happiest Minute of Repose to me,
Which from this living Death could set me free.
But when Apollo re-salutes our Sphere,
Driving his Chariot through the travell'd Air,
My Pains that slept a-while, begin to rise
And ev'ry Ray that's darted, wracks mine Eyes.
The loathsome Light my active Globes consound,
And ev'ry rising Sun renews the Wound.
The fetter'd Slaves the Light are glad to see,
Which for a-while diverts their Misery,
Sure then the World was made for all but me.
My poignant Pains do on the Sun attend,
To whatsoever Tropick he does bend,
And tho' my dismal Thoughts like Planets rove,
Yet in one Vortex with the Sun they move,
His Influence creates new Pains, new Woe,
As the Moon makes the Waters ebb and flow.
But when Sol's Coursers do begin to cool
Their flaming Nostrils in the Crystal Pool,
My Flames abate and to the Waters run,
That they with greater Vigour may return.

Oh strange! how much dismay'd I am to see,
A Chain of Miseries entail'd on me,
That glorious Light which all the World does prize
Doth cast a Cloud of Sorrow on my Eyes;
The worst of Adam's Sons, the only Heir,
Born to be tortur'd by the Weight of Care.

On a Bee.

I

Thou pretty sweet laborious Bee,
That suck'st the blooming Flowers fair
By intellectual Chymistry,
And by thy Notes canst ease thy Care.

II

Did but the whole World copy thee,
And search the Secrets of thy Art,
In thee 'twould find a Treasury,
Beyond what Logick can impart.

III

This stately Edifice of thine
Where Nature and her Sweets do stand,
Is so transcendent and divine,
It speaks an over-ruling hand.

Pre-existence.

Condemn'd in this dark Prison must I here,
Watch till the Trumpet strike mine Ear?
Must I ne'er know thy Goodness and thy Love,
Because I did transgress thy Will above?
Must Clouds and Vapours still obscure my Mind?
Must I to this dark Sphere be thus confin'd?
No, no, I will launch out, and wing away,
Unto the Regions of a brighter Day.
Some Glances of a State that's past I find,
Take up the Corners of my thoughtful Mind,
As cover'd Embers when they're blown, create
A Flame, and represent my former State.

The Flashings of such Joy do strike so strong
My Temples, that I can't endure it long,
I must dissolve and in these Thoughts expire,
And like the Prophet's Coach ascend in Fire.

The Enjoyment.

I

Water'd with Heav'ns Dew I sit and sing,
Laughing at those who're over-whelm'd with Cares;
Of bliss I have an inexhausted Spring,
Which makes me young, as Age my Life impairs.

II

I neither pine nor languish in my Rage,
Tho' I have scarce one single Spot of Ground;
Some with vast Lands drag on a sullen Age,
And their proud Thoughts no Limits e'er have found.

III

That Pearl which Cleopatra swallow'd down,
Crowding whole Kingdoms in one single draught,
Advanc'd not Anthony to the Roman Crown,
But poyson-like Death and Destruction wrought.

IV

Tho' they lay prostrate on the Beds of Sence,
Yet Stings like Vipers on their Bosom lay,
That suck'd out all which Nature did dispence,
Till they consum'd and wasted quite away.

V

Riches like Spirits when we grasp, retreat,
Pleasure's a Blossom of the glorious Morn,
A Throne's a gilded Trisle, Honours Seat,
These are the Blessings which the World adorn.

VI

But since these swift wing'd Creatures make away,
And I from all the World no pleasure have,

Since they play Tricks, I'll like a Wise-man say,
There's no Enjoyment found this side the Grave

VII

The younger Brother's in a happy State
Did he what Part he was to act but know;
Sleep on my Stars for I can rule my Fate,
And be a King if I'll but think it so.

On a Fly that was drown'd in a Ladies Mouth.

How durst thou leave thy little home,
Presumptuously to dare thy doom?
Or would'st thou revel in the Air?
Half drunk with sipping Flowers fair,
And seek out for a Place of Rest
Until the Morn, to ease thy Breast;
Was it thy Pride to mount so high?
To perish bravely in the Sky?

Or did'st thou think to rival all?
To out-do Phaeton in his fall?
'Twas nobly done, and thou shalt be
Talk'd of by Posterity:
Thy fellow Creatures that survive may have
Ignoble life, but thou a Noble grave.

On the River Cam.

With what sweet Streams the River Cam does glide,
And clasps his Daughter in on ev'ry side;
Others perhaps by Traffick, Riches vent,
But this brings Peace the sweetest Ornament:
Some do advance the natural Strength of Towns,
And are like Battlements to falling Crowns;
Yet this does flourish in a glorious State,
When they lie conquer'd by the Hand of Fate.
In Winter you supply our Wants, and now
Pay Tribute to the Muse's pleasure too.

The Trees do flourish in such Order here,
As they were plac'd by Orpheus's tuneful Lyre;
And if the Sun his scorching Beams display,
Here is a Refuge from the Heat of Day;
Had Phœbus ever Cam's great Virtue known,
He'd fix'd his Muses in the Neighb'ring Town;
Cam is the greatest Blessing in our Eyes,
He makes us happy, and he makes us wise.

The Retirement.

I

Hail ye dear Groves, and silent Plains,
Void of loud Tumult, Care and Strife;
Here let me leave the last Remains,
The Burthen of a troubl'd Life.

II

Lodg'd by the Murmurs of a Stream,
Let my loose Thoughts be scar'd away,
Bent on no idle wand'ring Theme,
But to refine this House of Clay.

III

Let Visions of Seraphick Light
My soaring Fancy entertain,
Rais'd to a much more noble Height,
Of Pleasure from so blest a Scene.

IV

Flush'd with the Prospect of that State,
Let me despise the World's decoys,
Those formal Idols of the great,
And six upon more solid joys.

On Musick.

'Mongst all the Blessings that on Life attend,
'Mongst all the Blessings that the Gods can send,
No Joy, no Bliss, my sullen Heart can find,
Musick alone inslames my drooping Mind;
Nay, she would mount her Wings, and fly away,
Not be confin'd to this dull Lump of Clay,

Did not the Charms of Musick most divine
Unite, and things so wide, so close combine.
I wonder where's the Fountain of this bliss,
If Heav'ns Joy be here on Earth, 'tis this.
Nay, without this the very Gods would be
As much dissatisfied with Life, as we.
What complicated Wonders in thee shine!
The God-head is by thee made more divine.
Could the Gods secret Whispers reach mine Ear,
When I at their Tribunal shou'd appear;
My panting Breath with Musick shou'd keep time,
And with her latest Breath I'd yield up mine;
I fear I should dissolve for very Joy,
For Bliss it self o'er-charg'd can Life destroy.

On the Preservation of the Library in Dublin-College.

When all was buried in one common Fate,
And made a Victim to the Popish State,

Some kinder Angel there did Centry stand,
And with his Sword did guard the Muses Land;
Land which no Tribute to her Monarch pays,
But that of Homage, Reverence and Praise.
How oft did these destructive Men conspire,
To set the Temples of the Gods on fire?
But some preventing Wonder still came in,
Which blasted the Design, but not the Sin.
Often the Jesuits did their Lords address,
They might obtain our, Wits Metropolis;
Another Party full as strong put in,
And claim'd as theirs, our Learnings Magazin;
But held by hands Divine, our Pantheon stood,
And bravely rode between two Seas of Blood
The French as often strove to steer this Ark,
Where all the Irish Science did Embark
To their own Coast, but all they did in vain,
Some Eastern Wind still drove her back again;
And having now escap'd th' intended Doom,
In pomp Sh' out-braves the Vatican of Rome.

Tu ne quæfieris, out of Hor. Paraphras'd.

Search not how far wise Homer's Chain can go,
Whose Motion rules the infant World below.
On this the Fabrick of the World depends,
And when Jove speaks, our Life begins or ends.
Pray use no Spells, nor on the Planets call
To tell you when the hopeful Tree may fall;
The Gods don't think it fit that Man shou'd look
Into the Leaves of Fates mysterious Book;
Be wise, I say, take off that Glass of Wine,
The Sun perhaps again may never shine;
Live whilst you may divest your Life of Sorrow,
And trust not to the Fool's Put-off to Morrow.

The Meditation.

I

When Reason with her Robes ascends the Throne,
And wisely all my scatter'd Thoughts calls home,

The Messenger is so divine,
Unto her Laws I must resign,
For should I let these Thoughts but rove
They'd fix upon Tyrannick Love;
They'd transcend all the Bounds of Air,
And like a blazing Comet wou'd inflame my Sphere.

II

The main Spring of my Passion's rais'd so high,
I fear 'twill break, e'er 'twill comply;
Some pure ætherial Flame
Must melt this haughty Frame;
For should I like the Earths bold Son
Aspire, the Gods would send me down;
In this low Element I'd rather die,
Than suffer shipwrack in the floating Sky.

III

I know that Pride's the bane of things,
And buries in the Earth the Crowns of Kings;
The Angels fell by this,
From that Eternal bliss.

Babel by this was built so high,
As 'twould the lofty Clouds outvy,
And thought the Heavens to have scal'd,
But with those Mountains poorly fail'd.

IV

When Moses did the flaming Mount ascend,
Diviner powers did his Frame defend;
But if you should presume
Too soon you'd find the doom;
Those dreadful Flashings hinder thee,
The Light of that Felicity,
Since you the Threatnings which attend you, know,
Come down, the Scene is more transparent here below.

V

Suppose I could command the Bridle of the Sun,
And round this mighty Globe of Pleasure run;
Suppose I'd Liberty to see
What's written in the Leaves of Destiny;

Or knew I when the Weights of Time,
Would tumble, and this World decline;
Yet after all, what would my purchase be,
Should I be lost for ever in a sad Eternity?

VI

Farewel Ambition and your gaudy Train,
I'll never climb to be thrown down again;
What-ever Vanities may lay,
As Nets of Pleasure in my way,
Like Hannibal
I'll tread them down, and cut through all:
For since no Pleasure can be found
In the most beauteous Spot of Ground,
By humble Thoughts my Fate I'll prove,
Which leads me as a Star to the blest Seats above.

On the Popish Conspiracy.

Oh dismal Scene! the Fiends and Furies now
Are Doves in Treachery compar'd with you:

What but the Spawn of Hell cou'd thus design,
Our Worlds great Ruine with the Royal Line?
Had not that Eye, and Heav'ns peculiar Care
Brought forth to Light what cunning Jesuits dare,
Had this prov'd well their Malice struck so high,
They would endeavour to invade the Sky.
The Poets dream't, and 'twas a Dream, as old,
The Northern World was still benumb'd with cold;
But to our cost we find, tho' there's small Sun,
Yet Streams of Heat do through her Bowelsrun;
Here do the Popes the Devils Chymists play,
And blow the treach'rous Fire night and day,
Which springs from pious Zeal which warms them so,
And yet keeps Commerce with the World below;
Who'd think the Popes that sit in Peter's Chair,
Should open Hell to send the Furies here?
'Twas to repay their Master's vast Arrears,
Who serv'd their Interest for many Years;
And bravely done, it shall through Age to come
Stand sacred in the Lists of Hell and Rome.

On the Shortness of Man's Life.

I

The Lamp of Life decays each Minute more,
The better Substance's so far gone,
The Flames the outward Case feed on;
Who then can our lost Oil restore?
Time does and will on all things prey,
So hungry that at last, 'twill eat it self away.

II

Some matter still the blazing Sun supplies,
And satisfies that greedy Flame,
Tho' he still wasts he's still the same,
Feeding on all th' adjacent Skies;
But when Man's press'd below the Line,
He never sees again his Native Clime.

III

Swift as the Wind his Life runs fleeting on,
Hurried by the Bent of Tide,
In Charon's Boat to th' other Side,
Before he knows his Life is gone;

So bad his Inn, so short his Age,
He doubts if e'er he'd been upon the Stage.

IV

'Tis vain to boast with Pride, he's Fortunes heir,
That strength and pow'r from her is giv'n,
To bribe the Messengers of Heav'n,
Seeing the fatal Day's so near:
So with these Fools blind Fortune plays,
And whilst she smiles, unravels all their days.

V

He lives a Nestor's Age, who lives this Day,
And with each setting Sun
His Stage in doing well has run,
And trifles not his Time away;
The best the longest Livers prove,
And he is best who spends it most in Love.

A Dialogue between Reason and the Inferior Powers.

[_]

Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. The abbreviations used for major characters are as follows:

For Infe. read Inferior Powers
For Reas. read Reason

Reason.
What Tumult's here within? what Storms are these?
I fear they are my home-bread Enemies
I scarce have leasure to bewail my Fate,
Th' unruly Faction presses on the Gate:
Was ever Monarch so disturb'd as I?
My Thoughts so dark, I'm sure some Storm is nigh;
What Rebel leads this stubborn Faction on,
Guards, Guards, or else I'm lost and quite undone?
Where's Man's Prerogative? his best defence,
Alas, must truckle to the sway of sence;
I'm like a Captive Monarch bound in Chains,
I bear the Title, but the People reigns.

Infe.
If you're unhappy, overcharg'd with Woe,
Blame your own Choice, not us, that made you so;

If you let loose to Pleasure and Delight,
You rob your self of your undoubted Right;
If you with Prudence would your Pow'r maintain,
We should live happy, and you happy reign:
But you dissolv'd, melting in Pleasures lie,
And like the Phœnix in your Spices fry;
On your account our State to Ruine goes,
And sinks much faster than it ever rose.

Reas.
Alas! Suppose I have not govern'd well,
Must you on that take Arms, and then rebel?
Princes are not consin'd to Laws, not I
For ev'ry thing I do shall tell you why;
My Pow'r is from Jove's transcendent Throne,
My Patent's good; I'll rule and act alone.

Infe.
See how the haughty Monarch swells with Pride
Thinking all Power to his Crown's ally'd;
Nay, we our selves, and our Commission too
Derive our Power from Heav'n as well as you

Tho' Monarch of the lesser World you be,
Yet we are Brothers of that Family,
And when the Elder's mad, or proves a Drone,
'Tis fit that we should step into his Throne.

Reas.
I'm now well satisfied why you complain,
You think you're injur'd cause you cannot reign:
You're only envious at the Crown I wear,
You fain would revel in a higher Sphere:
But I'm resolv'd I'll curb your Faction so,
Like Joseph's Slaves hereafter you shall bow;
And where so e'er my Man of War you see,
Be sure you lowre your bending Flag to me.

Contentedness.

I Thank the Gods that in a Sphere I move
Secure, but subject to the Darts of Love;
I soar not on those Heights where Envy reigns
But with Humility I court the Plains.

Must I complain the Stars prove cross to me,
'Cause I was born in such a low Degree?
Must I expect a Tribute from the West,
'Cause Alexander conquer'd all the East?
Methinks I see Sejanus in the Clouds,
Throng'd for a-while by the adoring Crouds;
Upon the waxen Wings of Fame he flies,
And darkens with his Train the glorious Skies:
Thus like a Vapour he ascends in pain,
But like a condens'd Cloud falls down again;
The great 'cause, Fortune's blind, her Pow'r despise
But in her Kingdom she has Argus Eyes.

The Call.

I

Peace ye imperious Charms of Love,
Peace ye sweet Syrens of the Air,
Not all your melting Notes can move
My fleeting Soul, or keep it here.

II

Diviner Eccho's bid me go
To the refreshing Fields of Light,
Altho' the Air is gross below,
Yet nothing shall retard my flight.

III

Lo! now I mount, and as I rise,
Successive Scenes of new Delight
Prepare my weaker Mortal Eyes
To gaze on the Eternal Light.

From the Italian Poets.

The Birth-Day.

Bring me Aurelius, bring me Wine,
Roses about my Temples twine,
Make me a shady Grove which may
Damp the too pow'rful Heat of Day;
I hate a splendid House, a Noble Seat,
These are the Trappings of the Great;

Come let us sit along the Ground,
And let the Glass go freely round:
So when I've fairly drank my share,
In slumbers I will drown my Care;
Thus I'll carouse and banish Sorrow,
Who knows if he shall live to Morrow?
'Tis wise to revel whilst we may,
Since Youth and Beauty fly away.

The Indifferency.

Who's Emperour, who's Pope, I'm not concern'd,
I care not how the Helm of State is turn'd;
The Planet of my Days did ne'er design
A Crown for me, then why should I repine?
Nay, were we born insulting Monarchs all;
For something more unto the Gods we'd call?

Grant that they would our Vows compleat, and say,
Chuse ev'ry Man and ask now when you may;

On greater Terms these fickle Men would stand,
No place can fill their Minds, but Jove's Right hand.

O Vanity so weak that mounts so high,
That must as surely fall as you and I!
The partial Sea wracks their poor Ships alone,
They prosper scarce abroad, and scarce at home:
For whilst on Pinacles of great Renown
They sit, they're seen a-while, then tumble down,
In building Monuments they spend their days,
And then gape for, the Poet's Manna, praise.
Methinks against the Gates of these I see
Death coming on with her Artillery,
Whilst the Fam'd Scipio walks in his own Fields,
Improving by his Art, what Nature yields;
So taken up with these, that 'tis in vain,
To strive to hale him to his Crown again.
Learn then my Soul, on Heav'n to fix your Eye,
Resolve to live, as you resolve to die;
Ask of the Gods what's meet, that you may have
A quiet Cottage, and a silent Grave;

Venture not far into the dangerous deep,
But on the Land an Equal prospect keep;
The Ship is weak and small wherein we sail,
And at the Mercy of each conqu'ring Gale:
The Umbrage of a Middle-state I'll prize,
In peace I'll live, in peace I'll close my Eyes.

The Hermit.

I

Away from me ye fulsome Joys, away,
Make to some outward World, I say,
I'm cloy'd, I'll see your Face no more,
You're Idols all, your Cheats I'll ne'er adore.

II

I'm now so well acquainted with you all,
I'll never listen to your Call;
I'll like Vlysses stop mine Ears,
And never hear the Syren's Charming Pray'rs.

III

My eager Spirit longs to disengage
Her Powers from this worldly Cage,
I'll for no Heav'nly Convoy stay,
But fly and hasten on the Wings of Day.

IV

No blest Contentment can with-hold my Mind,
Eden it self is less refin'd,
Were all the Universe my Seat,
'Twould never please me, tho'it made me great.

V

To some dark silent Vault I will repair,
Black as these Thoughts and Sorrows are,
Where Monarchs are in Peace laid down,
Conquer'd by Burthens that attend a Crown.

VI

Here Hell it self shall not my Soul molest,
Nor fill with anxious Cares my Breast,
From Noise and Trouble here I'll cease,
And keep one Sabbath of Eternal peace.

On the King's landing at Harwich, after he had been expos'd to many Dangers in his Voyage to Holland.

As the glad Persians, so the Britains run
To pay their Homage to the Rising-sun;
While Streamers and the swelling Sails foretel,
Our dread Augustus is both safe and well:
See on the silver Billows how they ride,
Having so great a Charge they swell with Pride,
Hoping some Midwife land would come so near,
To take their Lord, and ease their Pious fear.
With what full Joy does the glad Court embrace
The Kingdom's Glory, and the Nation's Peace?
Our Lives, our Fortunes, at your Seat we throw,
A Complement to some, a Debt to you.
The sacred Wishes which we kept in store,
Contribute nothing to your Welfare more;
Loud in your Praise the well-throng'd People show,
The Gods attend our Cæsar here below,

When first he to the welcome Shore repair'd,
He bravely dar'd that Death which all else fear'd;
And when the Tempest rose, there was no place
For vulgar Paleness in a Kingly face:
Dark was the Cov'ring which the Seas o'er-spread,
The Stars his Lamps, the restless Waves his Bed;
Tho' Nature shew'd the ugliest Face of Night,
His very Looks supply'd the absent Light.
Go on Auspicious Prince, thy Life will raise
An Everlasting Monument of Praise,
And where thy Standards shall in pomp display,
Thy Enemies shall tremble, fear, obey:
Peace, Happiness, and all the Gods can send,
Shall on your Kingdom, and your Court attend;
Your Counsel is from Jove's transcendent Throne,
By which you rule, and conquer all alone.

On Dr. G. Reducing the Years to Terms, which were requisite for them who took their Bachelours Degree.

Pindarick.

I.

Be gone dull lazy Fame, why dost thou stay?
Exalt him on the Wings of day;
Speak with as many Tongues, as there shall be
Kingdoms or Nations to be taught by thee;
Inform the World what's done,
What Course is taken here at home,
To stock the World with learned Men,
Tell it them o'er and o'er agen.
Here Solomon is born once more,
Who shall our lost and sleeping Wit restore;
And if a Proselyte shall from a-far,
Point to the West, be thou his leading Star.

II.

Since the unhappy Fall
A Curse has been entail'd on all,
Like younger Brothers w'are oblig'd to share
Th' Estate of Learning, tho' the whole's but small;
But to our great Professor's Chair
All Learning is ally'd, and claims the Throne,
As a vast Species alone.
Happy I am that I was born to see
The Phœnix, sitting on his spicy Tree.
Noah restor'd the delug'd World,
Who suffer'd Shipwrack in their Houses, hurl'd
By one common Fate, but Gower alone is he
Who Paradise when lost, restor'd the Tree;
The Tree of Knowledge mighty fair,
As what's engrafted on, must surely bear.

III.

Before you came the Oracles were silent all,
None ever by this way did call;
Wit in Consumption was, and ev'ry Clown
With Liberty cou'd wear a Scholar's Gown.

A Souldier could enlist his Name,
And fly to Wars from which he lately came,
A Lure cou'd call them all away,
'Twas four Years space at last that Crown'd the day.
But you, Lycurgus, like do now restore
Much more than what we ever lost before;
You are our Athen's Prop, our Muses's Friend,
A happier Gift the Gods could never send.

The Golden-Age.

In pious Times of Old, in Saturn's Reign,
Wherein no Strife, no Envy, no Disdain,
Defac'd the Colour of that Candid Throne,
Where Innocence unrivald sat alone;
Where no forc'd Laws were in his Kingdom found,
Before Ambition did divide the Ground:
Virtue did then her brightest Light bestow,
And sway'd the Motions of this World below.
But since she did her Face unkindly shrow'd
Behind the Curtains of a sable Cloud:

Then Envy sprung those Vipers which did prey,
On Innocence and Virtue Night and Day:
Then she gave Laws to all the World beside,
Taught Avarice to flow with ev'ry Tide;
Into the Bowels of their State, which then
Debauch'd the wisest and the best of Men;
The World in Sin grew older ev'ry Day,
And upstart Lights new Converts did convey
To unknown Lands, where as they came and spread,
Vice did in Triumph shew her daring head:
I long to see the Threads of Time full spun,
Hoping the Golden-Age may then come on;
But oh, 'tis vain to think 'twill e'er fall out,
Till Plato's mighty Year shall wheel about.

The Recantation.

I

I now, good Sir, present my humble Muse,
Clad in those Mournings which her self did chuse,

The fittest Garment for so foul a Sin,
Her treacherous Bosome once conceiv'd within;
But tho' she Mourns, she thinks her Pennance due,
And courts her Sentence if it comes from you.

II

A speaking Sadness in her Looks she wears,
And like a frantick Sybil writes in Tears;
Whole Clouds of Grief around her Temples play,
And damp the Fierceness of the rising Day;
Like tortur'd Men upon the Wrack she stands,
Begging a swift Reprieve from your kind Hands.

III

Ah foolish Creature now thy Wit's betray'd,
Th' unhappiest Sally that you ever made;
How durst you strike at an Almighty's Throne,
Hurl'd by some Evil Genius of your own?
For the forc'd Praises of a Worthless she,
To rob the Treasure of Divinity.

IV

Had you been wise and coasted well the Shore,
You might with Safety seen already o'er;
But when you strive to shoot the Gulph, you find
A Chain of Dangers wait and stay behind;
'Tis hard upon the floating Waves to stand,
Unless supported by th' Almighty hand.

V

I might have travell'd in this Sea of Pride,
Had you not check'd the Waves, and stopp'd the Tide;
By your wise Counsels I am warm'd within,
Like Ordeal-fire they have purg'd my Sin;
So when benighted Pilgrims lose their way,
They bless the Star that ushers in the Day.

VI

I know the Blackness of that ugly Piece,
Struck much more high than ever Rome or Greece;
I'll stand my Post, and never more submit
To the vain Tyrannies of foolish Wit:

And all that's lost I shall retrieve again;
For when the Act of Folly's finish'd clean,
What should the Poet do, but shift the Scene?

From Sannarius.

On a Trojan Lady.

Stop whosoe'er thou art that passest by,
Poor Maximilla in this Vault does lie;
With her the Beauty of the World expires,
Her amorous Passions, and her gentle Fires;
The fatal Clotho did this Tomb prepare
To ease her Troubles, and interr her Care:
The Fates her Friends no Nuptial Favours gave,
But the sad Cypress that attends the Grave;
You see, my Friend, all's subject to decay,
And you perhaps must the next Call obey:
All the rare Beauties that invest the Ball,
Must in their timely Autumn flag and fall;

Here the Original of Sweetness lies,
Her Body fades, her Virtue never dies;
Lamented by the amorous Boy,
Lamented by the Maids of Troy.

On the unhappy State of Ireland, by reason of the Civil War.

Pindarick.

I

Unhappy Kingdom how thou'rt toss'd about,
Since the first Sailors found thee out!
That Peace which did the World for sake,
And thither did her private Voyage make,
Hoping to build her Nest
In Privacy and Rest,
Is now disturb'd and doom'd to be
Like wand'ring Cain, shut out of all Prosperity.

II

How art thou chang'd unhappy Isle!
Now all thy Tenants are become Exile;
In Plagues more fruitful than the River Nile:
Surely Another Aaron's Rod,
Mov'd by the Anger of a Hebrew God;
Threatens the Kingdom's Fate, at whose Command
Obedient Evils over-flow the Land.

III

The Riches of the World beside
Of old flow'd in to thee with ev'ry Tide,
As high as Egypt's Pyramids in Pride:
Learning and Force did thee compose
As Soul, and Body us;
But yet thy Noble and Majestick State,
Made thee an easier Prey for Fate,
I fear too soon thy Ruine, and thy Rise too late.

IV

Thou like an Empty hulk at Sea,
Void of a Pilot doest the Winds obey,
Thy valued Lading thrown away:
Pitied by thy Neighbours all,
Thou floatest and wandrest on the watry Ball;
Sad as the Place where Vulcan fell,
Doom'd only by the Gods to make a Hell.

V

But since thou'rt sunk so low into the Main,
May Phœbus raise his Delos once again:
May all the Pow'rs above,
Make thee once more the Isle of Love;
May no Egyptian Darkness rear
Her sooty Wings to cloud this Air;
May all thy Cares and Storms dissolve away,
And rise thou bright and happy ev'ry Day.

Discontent.

The twinkling Stars that gild the Night,
And chequer Blackness with their Light,
Are in their State more blest than I:
They can revel in their Sphere,
And in their Rounds take pleasure there,
Whilst here I pine and die.

The Jolly Sun at ev'ry stage,
With Liquor does his Thirst asswage,
And in his State's more blest than I:
Alike he rises ev'ry Day;
Buxome, pleasant, fresh, and gay,
Whilst here I pine and die.

Fair Cynthia never goes to bed
Without Endymion at her Head,
And in her State's more blest than I:
Fresh with the Joys of Love,
She re-salutes the Stars above,
Whilst here I pine and die.

The Consolation.

Pine not too much, my Soul, nor mourn,
'Cause in this World you're left alone;
Hereafter you will have,
A much more noble Prize than they,
Who only on their Pleasures prey,
A Crown the other side the Grave.

The vain Desire to be great,
Is real hunger, but delusive Meat;
They never stand to see
The Precipice that's coming on,
Till they are lost and quite undone,
And bury'd in Eternity.

These common and vexatious Cares,
Which trouble and enlarge our Fears,
Can ne'er the good annoy;
For should that sink into the Main,
There's one can buoy thee up again,
And crown thee with Eternal joy.

On the Death of the most Renown'd Pierce Brackenbury Doctour of Physick, and Senior Fellow of St. John's.

Pindarick.

I.

As Persians when their Monarch dies,
Provide no cheap Solemnities;
On Piles as Noble as his old abode,
The Embalm'd Body of the Prince is laid,
Convey'd in spicy Atoms to the Skies,
And there ador'd like the great Sun their God;
So we, great Soul, dare not prophane,
With common Elegies thy sacred Name;
In such high Strains we ought to sing,
As Cowley did the Glories of the Hebrew King;
Strains which the Muses owe,
For all the good you mparted here below,
A Tribute which is due,
Since we receiv'd our second Birth from you,
Our Athen's Healer and Instructor too.

II.

Pale envious Death could you not spare a-while,
The Æsculapius of the British Isle?
But she was Conscious, if You'd liv'd much more,
You'd bauk'd her Appetite in ev'ry Prey,
Which she expected to have snatch'd before,
(Growing much wiser ev'ry Day;)
So well acquainted with our State below,
I dare not say you have Addition now:
Nor was your Care and Labour less,
You did your utmost Skill engage
To prop the ruines of decaying Age.
Had you in former Times been known,
When Gods did frequently come down
To visit, and to talk with Men,
On ev'ry Altar you had seen,
Which the more Zealous People raise,
Continual Vows and Offerings of Praise.

III.

Methinks I see the Angels bear
Thy Soul a-long the liquid Air,

Whither St. Luke, and all the Rings
Of Seraphins in Robes of Light appear,
Rejoycing you at last are come
Unto your blessed Ancient home:
And if Physicians cannot bear the Load
Of Flesh, but struggle still to get away
From the Confinement of this Cage of Clay,
Why should this Place be our Abode?
Can we not borrow Wings
From Virtue? Aiming at things above,
Where we shall feed on Angel's Manna, Love;
Surely the Place is sine, since he,
Tho' he could cure his own Defect,
Yet out of cold Respect
To Earthly joys, forsakes the Realms of our Mortality.

On the Earl of Danby's couragious Enterprise at La-Hogue, who set the French Ships on fire.

Return with all the Triumph that is due,
Great Sir, to the most welcome Peace and You;
Not young Augustus with more manly Rage,
The numerous Fleet at Actium did engage;
Than you the French, who proudly, tho' in vain,
Claim'd the Dominion o'er the British Main:
But when the most illustrious Danby came,
(His Canon less commanding than his Name)
Darting his awful Pow'rs, they soon gave way,
And shrunk like Spirits at the sight of Day:
So when great Jove of old resolv'd to quell
Earth's stubborn Sons, that vainly did rebel;
Himself engag'd in a more Tragick Play,
Calls for Alcides to decide the Fray:

They might have been destroy'd e'er this, 'tis true,
But the kind Fates reserv'd that Work for you,
England's Mecenas, and Agrippa too.
We read the Fam'd Achilles ne're would go
But arm'd with Vulcan's Shield to meet his Foe;
Whilst your more noble Soul scorn'd all Defence,
But that of Virtue and of Innocence;
Scarce had our Cannons-mouths begun to roar,
But the Pale French steer to the Gallick shore;
And the brave English Courage led by you,
Eager as Falcons to the Quarry flew;
Where in Confusion the throng'd People stood,
Your Men still pressing on, and you the leading God
And in compassion to those Men that fell,
Gave them bright Tapers in their way to Hell;
Here mighty Heaps of vulgar Souls did stand,
Waiting to perish by so brave a hand;
But you retir'd when the great Work was done,
Whose brighter Flames eclips'd the gazing Sun;

Let the fam'd Cæsar and his Romans be
But Dwarfs in Courage, when compar'd to Thee;
No less a Hero could their Fury tame,
Lewis himself trembles to hear your Name:
Now we despise the worst Assaults of Fate,
You guard the Sea, Carmarthen guards the State;
William rides conquerour o'er the vanquish'd Ball,
And Mary's pow'rful Charms subdue us all.

The Consummation.

Heav'ns King drives hard, the Writs are seal'd and sent
By Mercury to call a Parliament,
Th' officious Angels post away,
And at their sight the tow'ring Clouds give way;
The Patent's pass'd the Seals, Great Jove will have
One common Coffin, and one common Grave.
Their Looks speak Terrour, and their dreaded Hands,
In Triumph bear their Master's great Commands:

Thus whilst they speak, the World is at an end,
And mighty Thundrings do the Scene attend:
The fatal Clock has struck, and sounds all o'er,
Time shall reverse its Wheels, and be no more;
The Elements shall jarr, the Stars shall fall
Upon the Surface of this Earthly Ball;
The sweaty Clouds shall to the Center shake,
And afterwards one blazing Comet make;
Phœbus shall of his rigid Fate complain,
And ne'er shall number out one Stage agen;
But when he sees this World inflam'd he'll run,
And grasp the Bridle of this Earthly Sun.

The End of the First Part.