University of Virginia Library

REMAINS OF Mr. John Oldham IN VERSE and PROSE.

To the Memory of Mr. OLDHAM.

Farewel, too little and too lately known,
Whom I began to think and call my own;
For sure our Souls were near ally'd; and thine
Cast in the same Poetick mould with mine.
One common Note on either Lyre did strike,
And Knaves and Fools we both abhorr'd alike:
To the same Goal did both our Studies drive,
The last set out the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
While his young Friend perform'd and won the Race.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing Age have added more?
It might (what Nature never gives the young)
Have taught the numbers of thy native Tongue.
But Satyr needs not those, and Wit will shine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
A noble Error, and but seldom made,
When Poets are by too much force betray'd,
Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime
Still shew'd a quickness; and maturing time
But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of Rime.
Once more, hail and farewel; farewel thou young,
But ah too short, Marcellus of our Tongue;
Thy Brows with Ivy, and with Laurels bound;
But Fate and gloomy Night encompass thee around.

On the Death of Mr. John Oldham,

A Pindarique Pastoral Ode.

In memory of the Author.

On the ensuing Poems of Mr. John Oldham, and the Death of his good Friend the ingenious Author.

Obscure and cloudy did the day appear,
As Heaven design'd to blot it from the year;
The Elements all seem'd to disagree,
At least, I'm sure, they were at strife in me:
Possest with Spleen, which Melancholy bred,
When Rumor told me that my Friend was dead,
That Oldham honour'd for his early Worth,
Was cropt, like a sweet Blossom from the Earth,
Where late he grew, delighting every Eye
In his rare Garden of Philosophy.
The fatal Sound new Sorrows did infuse,
And all my Griefs were doubled at the News:
For we with mutual Arms of Friendship strove,
Friendship the true and solid part of Love;
And he so many Graces had in store,
That Fame or Beauty could not bind me more.
His Wit in his immortal Verse appears,
Many his Vertues were, tho' few his Years;
Which were so spent as if by Heaven contriv'd,
To lash the Vices of the longer liv'd.
None was more skilful, none more learn'd than he,
A Poet in its sacred Quality:
Inspir'd above, and could command each Passion,
Had all the Wit without the Affectation.
A Calm of Nature still possest his Soul,
No canker'd Envy did his Breast controul:
Modest as Virgins that have never known
The jilting Breeding of the nauseous Town;
And easie as his Numbers that sublime
His lofty Strains, and beautifie his Rhime,
Till the Time's Ignomy inspir'd his Pen,
And rowz'd the drowsie Satyr from his Den;
Then fluttering Fops were his Aversion still,
And felt the Power of his Satyrick Quill.
The Spark whose Noise proclaims his empty Pate,
That struts along the Mall with antick Gate;
And all the Phyllis and the Chloris Fools
Were damn'd by his invective Muse in Shoals.
Who on the Age look'd with impartial Eyes,
And aim'd not at the Person, but the Vice.
To all true Wit he was a constant Friend,
And as he well could judge, could well commend.
The mighty Homer he with Care perus'd,
And that great Genius to the World infus'd;
Immortal Virgil, and Lucretius too,
And all the Seeds o'th' Soul his Reason knew:
Like Ovid, could the Ladies Hearts assail,
With Horace sing, and lash with Juvenal.
Unskill'd in nought that did with Learning dwell,
But Pride to know he understood it well.
Adieu thou modest Type of perfect Man;
Ah, had not thy Perfections that began
In Life's bright Morning been eclips'd so soon,
We all had bask'd and wanton'd in thy Noon;
But Fate grew envious of thy growing Fame,
And knowing Heav'n from whence thy Genius came,
Assign'd thee by immutable Decree
A glorious Crown of Immortality,
Snatch't thee from all thy mourning Friends below,
Just as the Bays were planting on thy Brow.
Thus worldly Merit has the Worlds Regard;
But Poets in the next have their Reward;
And Heaven in Oldham's Fortune seem'd to show,
No Recompence was good enough below:
So to prevent the Worlds ingrateful Crimes,
Enrich'd his Mind, and bid him die betimes.

On the Death of Mr. John Oldham.

DAMON,

an ECLOGUE On the untimely Death of Mr. Oldham.

Corydon. Alexis.
Cor.
I'll sing no more since Verses want a Charm,
The Muses could not their own Damon arm:
At least I'll touch this useless Pipe no more,
Unless, like Orpheus, I could Shades restore.

A.
Rather, like Orpheus, celebrate your Friend,
And with your Musick Hell it self suspend:
Tax Proserpine of Cruelty and Hate,
And sing of Damon's Muse, and Damon's Fate.

C.
When Damon sung, he sung with such a Grace,
Lord, how the very London-brutes did gaze!
Sharp was his Satyr, nor allay'd with Gall;
'Twas Rage, 'twas generous Indignation all.

A.
Oh had he liv'd, and to Perfection grown,
Not like Marcellus, only to be shown;
He would have charm'd their Sence a nobler way,
Taught Virgins how to sigh, and Priests to pray.

C.
Let Priests and Virgins then to him address,
And in their Songs their Gratitude express,
While we that know the Worth of easie Verse,
Secure the Laurel to adorn his Herse.

A.
Codrus, you know, that sacred Badge does wear,
And 'twere injurious not to leave it there;
But since no Merit can strike Envy dumb,
Do you with Baccar, guard and grace his Tomb.

C.
While you (dear Swain) with unaffected Rhime,
Majestick, sad, and suited to the Time,
His Name to future Ages consecrate,
By praising of his Muse, and mourning of his Fate.

A.
Alas, I never must pretend to this,
My Pipe scarce knows a Tune but what is his:
Let future Ages then for Damon's sake,
From his own Works a just Idæa take.
Yet then, but like Alcides he'll be shown,
And from his meanest part his Size be known.

C.
'Twill be your Duty then to set it down.

A.
Once and but once (so Heav'n and Fate ordain)
I met the gentle Youth upon the Plain,
Kindly, cries he, if you Alexis be,
And though I know you not you must be he,
Too long already we have Strangers been;
This Day, at least, our Friendship must begin.
Let Business, that perverse Intruder, wait,
To be above it is poetical and great.
Then with Assyrian Nard our Heads did shine,
While rich Sabæan Spice exalts the Wine;
Which to a just Degree our Spirits fir'd;
But he was by a greater God inspir'd:
Wit was the Theme, which he did well describe,
With Modesty unusual to his Tribe.
But as with ominous Doubts, and aking Heart,
When Lovers after first Enjoyment part,
Not half content; for this was but a Taste,
And wond'ring how the Minutes flew so fast,
They vow a Friendship that shall ever last.
So we—but Oh how much am I accurs'd!
To think that this last Office is my first.

Occasioned by the present Edition of the ensuing Poems, and the Death of the ingenious Author.

Curs'd be the day when first this goodly Isle
Vile Books, and useless thinking did defile.
In Greek and Latin-Boggs our Time we waste,
When all is Pain and Weariness at best:
Mountains of Whims and Doubts we travel o'er,
While treacherous Fancy dances on before:
Pleas'd with our Danger still we stumble on,
To late repent, and are too soon undone.
Let Bodley now in its own Ruines lie,
By th' common Hangman burnt for Heresie.
Avoid the nasty learned Dust, 'twill breed
More Plagues than ever Jakes or Dunghils did.
The want of Dulness will the World undo,
'Tis Learning makes us mad and Rebels too.
Learning, a Jilt which while we do enjoy,
Slily our Rest and Quiet steals away;
That greedily the Blood of Youth receives,
And nought but Blindness and a Dotage gives.
Worse than the Pox, or scolding Woman fly
The awkward Madness of Philosophy.
That Bedlam Bess, Religion never more
Phantastick pie-ball'd, antick Dresses wore:
Opinion, Pride, Moroseness gives a Fame;
'Tis Folly, christen'd with a modish Name.
Let dull Divinity no more delight;
It spoils the Man, and makes an Hypocrite.
The chief Professors to Preferment fly,
By Cringe and Scrape, the basest Simony.
The humble Clown will best the Gospel teach,
And inspir'd Ign'rance sounder Doctrines preach.
A way to Heav'n mere Nature well does shew,
Which reasoning and Disputes can never know.
Yet still proud Tyrant Sence in Pomp appears,
And claims a Tribute of full threescore Years.
Sew'd in a Sack, with Darkness circl'd round,
Each man must be with Snakes and Monkeys drown'd.
Laborious Folly, and compendious Art,
To waste that Life whose longest Date's too short.
Laborious Folly, to wind up with Pain
What Death unravels soon, and renders vain.
We blindly hurry on in mystick ways,
Nor wisely tread the Paths of solid Praise.
There's nought deserves one precious drop of sweat,
But Poetry, the noblest Gift of Fate,
Which after Death does a more lasting Life beget.
Not that which suddain, frantick Heats produce,
Where Wine and Pride, not Heav'n shall raise the Muse.
Not that small Stock which does Translators make;
That Trade poor Bankrupt-Poetasters take:
But such, when God his Fiat did express,
And powerful Numbers wrought an Universe.
With such great David tun'd his charming Lyre,
That even Saul and Madness could admire.
With such Great Oldham bravely did excell,
That David's Lamentation sung so well.
Oldham! the Man that could with Judgment write,
Our Oxford's Glory, and the World's Delight.
Sometimes in boundless keenest Satyr bold,
Sometimes a soft as those Love-tales he told.
That Vice could praise, and Vertue too disgrace;
The first Excess of Wit that e'er did please.
Scarce Cowley such Pindarique soaring knew,
Yet by his Reader still was kept in view.
His Fancy, like Jove's Eagle liv'd above,
And bearing Thunder still would upward move.
Oh Noble Kingston! had thy lovely Guest
With a large stock of Youth and Life been Blest;
Not all thy Greatness, and thy Vertues store
Had surer Comforts been, or pleased thee more.
But Oh! the date is short of mighty Worth,
And Angels never tarry long on Earth.
His soul, the bright, the pure Etherial Flame
To those lov'd Regions flew, from whence it came.
And spight of what Mankind had long believ'd,
My Creed says only Poets can be sav'd.
That God has only for a number staid,
To stop the breach, which Rebel Angels made
For none their absence can so well supply;
They are all o're Seraphick Harmony.
Then, and not that till then the World shall burn
And its base Dross, Mankind their fortune mourn,
While all to their old nothing quick return.
The peevish Gritick then shall be asham'd,
And for his Sins of Vanity be damn'd.

COUNTERPART TO THE SATYR against VERTUE.

In Person of the Author.

Virg. ECLOGUE VIII.

The Enchantment.

Poet, Damon, Alpheus, Speakers.
D.
Arise, thou Morning, and drive on the Day,
While wretched I with fruitless words inveigh
Against false Nisa, while the Gods I call
With my last Breath, tho' hopeless to avail,
Tho' they regard not my Complaints at all.

A.
Bring Holy Water, sprinkle all around,
And see these Altars with soft Fillets bound:
Male-Frankincense, and juicy Vervain burn,
I'll try if I by Magick Force can turn
My stubborn Love: I'll try if I can fire
His frozen Breast: Nothing but Charms are wanting here.

To Madam L. E. upon her Recovery from a late Sickness.

Madam,

On the Death of Mrs. Katharine Kingscourt a Child of Excellent Parts and Piety.

A Sunday-Thought in Sickness.

My Pray'rs are heard, a glorious Light now shone,
And (lo!) an Angel-Post comes hast'ning down:
From Heav'n I see him cut the yielding Air;
So swift, he seems at once both there and here;
So quick, my sight in the pursuit was slow,
And Thought could scarce so soon the Journey go.
No angry Message in his Look appears,
His Face no signs of threatning Vengeance wears.
Comly his shape, of Heavenly Meen and Air,
Kinder than Smiles of beauteous Virgins are.
Such he was seen by the blest Maid of Old
When he th' Almighty Infant's Birth foretold.
A mighty Volume in one hand is born,
Whose open'd Leaves the other seems to turn:
Vast Annals of my Sins in Scarlet writ,
But now eras'd, blot out, and cancell'd quite.
Heark how the Heavenly Whisper strikes mine Ear,
Mortal, behold thy Crimes all pardon'd here!
Hail Sacred Envoy of th' Eternal King!
Welcom as the blest Tidings thou dost bring.
Welcom as Heav'n from whence thou cam'st but now,
Thus low to thy great God and mine I bow,
And might I here, O might I ever grow,
Fix'd an unmov'd and endless Monument
Of Gratitude to my Creator sent.

TO THE MEMORY OF Mr. CHARLES MORWENT.

A PINDARIQUE.

To the Memory of that worthy Gentleman, Mr. Harman Atwood.

PINDARIQUE.