The Poems of Ambrose Philips :: :: University of Virginia Library

O Albion mourn! And let not the least Smile
Be on the Face of this unhappy Isle.
Weep all ye Rocks, and let your Fountains flow,
Sobbing and murmuring, o're the Plains below.
Let the laborious Hinds leave Tillage now,
And free the Heifer from the useless Plough:
No longer let th'advent'rous Merchant roam,
Round the wide World, to bring rich Treasures home:
Let both the Indies keep their precious Store;
We have no longer use for Gums or Oar:
She, to enrich whose Altars they were drain'd,
Is now no more!
The gentle Venus of our Isle is gone,
By Subjects' Crimes forc'd from her Earthly Throne;
In haste She went, and left our Mars alone.
So, when of old, the World Licentious grew,
And nought but Vice with Passion did persue,
Astrea took her much-lamented Flight
To purer Regions of Eternal Light.
Great was their Loss; but Greater We sustain;
For in our Goddess did All Vertues reign.
Then let our Sorrow Universal be,
And Thou, my Muse, in doleful Elegy
(If Sobbing will permit thy Verse to flow)
Tell the sad Story of our present Woe.
How unexpected and how soon She fell!
The Pride of Earth, her Sexes Miracle:
Sure so Divine a Soul ne're yet came down
To wear a Veil of Flesh, and Mortal Crown:
Such was the Form of Eve, e'er Envious sin
Soil'd the Fair Frame, and tainted all Within.

The Cyprian Dame for Beauty was renown'd,
And wise Minerva was with Knowledge crown'd;
But both Perfections in our Deity

United, made a full Divinity.
To the Grave Senate She could Counsel give,
Which with Astonishment they did receive:
Well was She skill'd in Depths of Policie,
Could the great Ills in Government foresee.
Her Crown She wore with no Affected State;
Nor did Her Great Perfections Pride create:
She'd condescend, yet lose no Majesty,
And be Majestick with Humility;
Familiar, yet not Fond; free of Access,
But yet not Mean for all her Easiness.
Such different Notes, when they in One agree,
Must needs produce Amazing Harmony.
'Tis well we know not how our Loss to rate;
Oh! We should sink beneath our Weighty Fate.
He whom the Terrours of a bloody Fight,
Nor all the ghastly Forms of Death can fright,
Nor the loud Cannon's Roar can terrifie,
Falls from the Grandeur of His Majesty.
Tears from his swelling Eyes profusely flow,
And the Great Conquerour lies Prostrate low,
To see his Consort ravish'd from his Arms,
And Death triumphing o're her beauteous Charms.
Thus have I seen a well-grown Oak contend
With all the boist'rous Storms the North cou'd send,
And with its stubborn stedfast Trunk outbrave
The Fury of the Winds, when most they'd rave;
At last a pointed Bolt the Thund'rer darts,
At which its groaning Body 'sunder parts,
Unable to resist the mighty Wound
It's Airy Top is level'd with the Ground.

See Phœbus now (as once for Phaeton)
Has mask'd his Face, and put deep Mourning on;
Dark Clouds his sable Chariot do surround,

And the dull Steeds stalk o're the Melancholy Round.
Night with her Sooty Wings o'rcomes the Day;
Triumphant Sorrow drives each Joy away:
All Nature groans! The hollow Winds do sigh,
As tho' the Final Scene were drawing nigh.
And sure it is. . . . For now the Life of All
Is gone. All that we Good or Lovely call.
Then welcome Chaos and Eternal Night!
For who would now behold th'Ungrateful Light?
It yields no pleasing Object, no Delight.

But Hark! . . . sure 'tis her Charming Voice I hear!
Or is't my Fancy, that deludes my Ear?
No; 'tis the same; there's Music in the sound,
Such as of Old the watchful Shepherds found,
When Angels sang the Birth of that Great King,
That did Redemption to Lost Mankind bring:
Joy it proclaims throughout each British Plain,
And bids us hope for Sun-shine days again.

Look down, Bless'd Saint, with Pity then look down,
And ease the Burden of thy Partner's Crown:
Do Thou who did'st on Earth our Princess reign,
Our Guardian Angel still above remain:
Shed on this Land thy Kinder Influence;
And guide us through these Mists of Providence,
In which we stray, unable to foresee
The Dark Resolves of Sullen Destiny.

Ambr. Phillips of St. John's College

TO A FRIEND WHO Desired me to write on the Death of King William.

April 20, 1702.

Trust me, dear George, could I in verse but show
What sorrow I, what sorrow all men, owe
To Nassau's fate, or could I hope to raise
A song proportion'd to the Monarch's praise,
Could I his merits, or my grief, express,
And proper thoughts in proper language dress,
Unbidden should my pious numbers flow,
The tribute of a heart o'ercharg'd with woe;
But, rather than prophane his sacred herse
With languid praises and unhallow'd verse,
My sighs I to myself in silence keep,
And inwardly, with secret anguish, weep.

Let Halifax's Muse (he knew him well)
His virtues to succeeding ages tell.
Let him, who sung the warrior on the Boyne,
(Provoking Dorset in the task to join)
And shew'd the hero more than man before,
Let him th'illustrious mortal's fate deplore;
A mournful theme: while, on raw pinions, I
But flutter, and make weak attempts to fly:
Content, if, to divert my vacant time,
I can but like some love-sick fopling rhyme,
To some kind-hearted mistress make my court,
And, like a modish wit, in sonnet sport.

Let others, more ambitious, rack their brains
In polish'd sentiments, and labour'd strains:
To blooming Phillis I a song compose,
And, for a rhyme, compare her to the rose;
Then, while my fancy works, I write down morn,
To paint the blush that does her cheek adorn,
And, when the whiteness of her skin I show,
With ecstasy bethink myself of snow.
Thus, without pains, I tinkle in the close,
And sweeten into verse insipid prose.

The country scraper, when he wakes his crowd,
And makes the tortur'd cat-gut squeak aloud,
Is often ravish'd, and in transport lost:
What more, my friend, can fam'd Corelli boast,
When harmony herself from heav'n descends,
And on the artist's moving bow attends?

Why then, in making verses should I strain
For wit, and of Apollo beg a vein?
Why study Horace and the Stagyrite?
Why cramp my dulness, and in torment write?
Let me transgress by nature, not by rule,
An artless Idiot, not a study'd fool,
A Withers, not a Rhymer, since I aim
At nothing less, in writing, than a name.

From Holland to a Friend in England in the Year 1703.

From Utrecht's silent walks, by winds, I send
Health and kind wishes to my absent friend.
The winter spent, I feel the poet's fire;
The sun advances, and the fogs retire:
The genial spring unbinds the frozen earth,
Dawns on the trees, and gives the primrose birth.
Loos'd from their friendly harbours, once again
Confederate fleets assemble on the main:
The voice of war the gallant soldier wakes;
And weeping Cloë parting kisses takes.
On new-plum'd wings the Roman eagle soars;
The Belgick lion in full fury roars.
Dispatch the leader from your happy coast,
The hope of Europe, and Britannia's boast:
O Marlborouh come! fresh laurels for thee rise!
One conquest more; and Gallia will grow wise.
Old Lewis makes his last effort in arms,
And shews how, even in age, ambition charms.

Meanwhile, my friend, the thick'ning shades I haunt,
And smooth canals, and after rivulets pant:
The smooth canals, alas, too lifeless show!
Nor to the eye, nor to the ear, they flow.
Studious of ease, and fond of humble things,
Below the smiles, below the frowns of kings,
Thanks to my stars, I prize the sweets of life:
No sleepless nights I count, no days of strife.
Content to live, content to dy, unknown,
Lord of myself, accountable to none;
I sleep, I wake, I drink; I sometimes love;
I read, I write; I settle, and I rove,
When, and where-e'er, I please: thus, every hour

Gives some new proof of my despotick power.
All, that I will, I can; but then, I will
As reason bids; I meditate no ill;
And, pleas'd with things which in my level ly,
Leave it to madmen o'er the clouds to fly.

But this is all romance, a dream to you,
Who fence and dance, and keep the court in view.
White staffs and truncheons, seals and golden keys,
And silver stars, your tow'ring genius please:
Such manly thoughts in ev'ry infant rise,
Who daily for some tinsel trinket cries.

Go on, and prosper, Sir: but first from me
Learn your own temper; for I know you free.
You can be honest; but you cannot bow,
And cringe, beneath a supercilious brow:
You cannot fawn; your stubborn soul recoils
At baseness; and your blood too highly boils.
From nature some submissive tempers have;
Unkind to you, she form'd you not a slave.
A courtier must be supple, full of guile,
Must learn to praise, to flatter, to revile,
The good, the bad, an enemy, a friend,
To give false hopes, and on false hopes depend.
Go on, and prosper, Sir: but learn to hide
Your upright spirit: 'twill be construed pride.
The splendor of a court is all a cheat;
You must be servile, 'e're you can be great.
Besides, your ancient patrimony wasted,
Your youth run out, your schemes of grandeur blasted,
You may perhaps retire in discontent,
And curse your patron, for no strange event:
The patron will his innocence protest,
And frown in earnest, though he smil'd in jest.

Man, only from himself, can suffer wrong;
His reason fails, as his desires grow strong:
Hence, wanting ballast, and too full of sail,
He lies expos'd to ev'ry rising gale.
From youth to age, for happiness he's bound:
He splits on rocks, or runs his bark a-ground,
Or, wide of land, a desert ocean views,
And, to the last, the flying port pursues,
Yet, to the last, the port he does not gain,
And dying finds, too late, he liv'd in vain.

TO THE EARL of DORSET

Copenhagen, March 9, 1709.

From frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow,
From streams which northern winds forbid to flow,
What present shall the muse to Dorset bring,
Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing?
The hoary winter here conceals from sight
All pleasing objects which to verse invite.
The hills and dales, and the delightful woods,
The flow'ry plains, and silver-streaming floods,
By snow disguis'd, in bright confusion ly,
And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breez prepares the spring,
No birds within the desert region sing.
The ships, unmov'd, the boist'rous winds defy,
While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly.
The vast Leviathan wants room to play,
And spout his waters in the face of day.
The starving wolves along the main sea prowl,
And to the moon in icy valleys howl.
O'er many a shining league the level main
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain:
There solid billows of enormous size,
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

And yet but lately have I seen, ev'n here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear.
'E're yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow,
Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow,
At ev'ning a keen eastern breez arose,
And the descending rain unsully'd froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,

The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd ev'ry object to my eyes:
For ev'ry shrub, and ev'ry blade of grass,
And ev'ry pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass;
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds, which watry marshes yield,
Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field.
The stag in limpid currents, with surprise,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise:
The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing æther shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.

When if a sudden gust of wind arise,
The brittle forest into atoms flies,
The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled show'r the prospect ends:
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,
And journies sad beneath the dropping trees:
Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads
Through fragrant bow'rs, and thro' delicious meads,
While here inchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabricks there attract his eyes,
His wandring feet the magick paths pursue,
And while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear,
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

To the Right Honourable Charles Lord Halifax, one of the Lords Justices appointed by His Majesty.

Ut Mater Juvenem, quem Notus invido
Flatu Carpathii trans Maris æquora
Cunctantem spatio longius annuo
Dulci distinet à domo;
Votis omnibus Hunc & precibus vocat,
Curvo nec faciem littore demovet:
Sic desideriis icta fidelibus
Quærit Patria Cæsarem.
Hor.

1714.

Patron of verse, O Halifax, attend,
The muse's fav'rite, and the poet's friend!
Approaching joys my ravish'd thoughts inspire:
I feel the transport; and my soul's on fire!
Again Britannia rears her awful head:
Her fears, transplanted, to her foes are fled.
Again her standard she displays to view;
And all its faded lillies bloom anew.
Here beauteous Liberty salutes the sight,
Still pale, nor yet recover'd of her fright,
Whilst here Religion, smiling to the skies,
Her thanks expresses with up-lifted eyes.
But who advances next, with chearful grace,
Joy in her eye, and plenty in her face?
A wheaten garland does her head adorn,
O Property! O goddess, English-born!
Where hast thou been? How did the wealthy mourn!
The bankrupt nation sigh'd for thy return,
Doubtful for whom her spreading funds were fill'd,
Her fleets were freighted, and her fields were till'd.

No longer now shall France and Spain combin'd,
Strong in their golden Indies, awe mankind.
Brave Catalans, who for your freedom strive,
And in your shatter'd bulwarks yet survive,

For you alone, worthy a better fate,
O, may this happy change not come too late!
Great in your sufferings!—But, my muse, forbear;
Nor damp the publick gladness with a Tear:
The Hero has receiv'd their just complaint,
Grac'd with the name of our fam'd patron-saint:
Like him, with pleasure he foregoes his rest,
And longs, like him, to succour the distress'd.
Firm to his friends, tenacious of his word,
As justice calls, he draws or sheaths the sword:
Matur'd by thought his councils shall prevail;
Nor shall his promise to his people fail.

He comes, desire of Nations! England's boast!
Already has he reach'd the Belgian coast.
Our great deliverer comes! and with him brings
A progeny of late-succeeding Kings,
Fated to triumph o'er Britannia's foes
In distant years, and fix the world's repose.

The floating squadrons now approach the shore;
Lost in the sailors shouts, the canons roar:
And now, behold, the sovereign of the main,
High on the deck, amidst his shining train,
Surveys the subject flood. An eastern gale
Plays through the shrouds, and swells in every sail:
Th'obsequious waves his new dominion own,
And gently waft their monarch to his throne.
Now the glad Britons hail their king to land,
Hang on the Rocks, and blacken all the strand:
But who the silent extasy can show,
The Passions which in nobler bosoms glow?
Who can describe the godlike patriot's zeal?
Or who, my lord, your generous Joys reveal?
Ordain'd, once more, our treasure to advance,

Retrieve our Trade, and sink the pride of France,
Once more the long-neglected arts to raise,
And form each rising genius for the bays.
Accept the present of a grateful song;
This prelude may provoke the learned throng:
To Cam and Isis shall the joyful news,
By me convey'd, awaken every muse.
Even now the vocal tribe in verse conspires;
And I already hear their sounding lyres:
To them the mighty labour I resign,
Give up the Theme, and quit the tuneful Nine.
So when the spring first smiles among the trees,
And blossoms open to the vernal breez,
The watchful nightingale, with early strains,
Summons the warblers of the woods and plains,
But drops her musick, when the choir appear,
And listens to the concert of the year.

To the Honourable JAMES CRAGGS, Esq; Secretary at WAR.

Though Britain's hardy Troops demand your Care,
And cheerful Friends your Hours of Leisure share;
O Craggs, for Candour known! indulge awhile
My fond Desire, and on my Labour smile:
Nor count it always an Abuse of Time
To read a Long Epistle, though in Rhyme.

To you I send my Thoughts, too long confin'd,
And ease the Burden of a Loyal Mind;
To you my secret Transports I disclose,
That rise above the languid Powers of Prose.
But, while these artless Numbers You peruse,
Think 'tis my Heart that dictates, not the Muse;
My Heart which at the name of Brunswick fires,
And no Assistance from the Muse requires.

Believe me, Sir, your Breast, that glows with Zeal
For George's Glory and the publick Weal,
Your Breast alone feels more pathetick Heats;
Your Heart alone with stronger Raptures beats.
When I review the Great Examples past,
And to the Former Ages join the Last;
Still, as the Godlike Heroes to me rise,
In Arms triumphant, and in Councils wise,
The King is ever present to my Mind;
His Greatness traced in every Page I find:
The Greek and Roman Pens his Virtues tell,
And under Shining Names on Brunswick dwell.
At Hampton while He breathes untainted Air,
And seems to Vulgar Eyes devoid of Care;

The British Muses to the Grove will press,
Tune their melodious Harps, and claim Access:
But let Them not too rashly touch the Strings;
For Fate allows no Solitude to kings.
Hail to the Shades, where William, Great in Arms,
Retir'd from Conquest to Maria's Charms!
Where George serene in Majesty appears,
And plans the Wonders of succeeding Years!
There, as he walks, his comprehensive Mind
Surveys the Globe, and takes in all Mankind:
While, Britain, for thy Sake he wears the Crown;
To spread thy Power as wide as his Renown:
To make Thee Umpire of contending States,
And poise the Ballance in the Worlds Debates.

From the smooth Terrass as He casts his Eye,
And sees the Current Sea-ward rolling by;
What schemes of Commerce rise in his Designs.
Pledges of Wealth! and unexhausted Mines!
Through Winds and Waves, beneath inclement Skies,
Where Stars, distinguish'd by no Name, arise,
Our Fleets shall undiscover'd Lands explore,
And a New People hear our Cannons roar.

The Rivers long in ancient Story fam'd
Shall flow obscure, nor with the Thames be nam'd:
Nor shall our Poets copy from their Praise,
And Nymphs and Syrens to thy Honour raise;
Nor make thy Banks with Tritons Shells resound,
Nor bind thy Brows with humble Sedges round:
But paint Thee as thou art; a Peopled Stream!
The Boast of Merchants, and the Sailor's Theme!
Whose spreading Flood unnumber'd Ships sustain,
And pour whole Towns afloat into the Main;

While the redundant Seas waft up fresh Stores,
The daily tribute of far-distant Shores.

Back to thy Source I trace thy silver Train,
That gently winds through many a fertile Plain;
Where Flocks and lowing Herds in Plenty feed;
And Shepherds tune at ease the vocal Reed:
Ere yet thy Waters meet the briny Tide,
And freighted Vessels down thy Channel ride;
Ere yet thy Billows leave their Banks behind,
Swell into State, and foam before the Wind:
Thy Sovereign's Emblem! In thy Course compleat!
When I behold Him in his lov'd Retreat,
When Rural Scenes their pleasing Views disclose,
A Silvan Deity the Monarch shows;
As if He only knew the Woods to grace,
To rouze the Stag, and animate the Chace:
While every Hour, from Thence, his high Commands,
By speedy Winds convey'd to various Lands,
Controul Affairs; give weighty Councils Birth;
And sway the mighty Rulers of the Earth.
Were He, our Island's Glory and Defence,
To reign unactive, at the World's Expence;
Say, generous Craggs, who then should quell the Rage
Of lawless Faction, and reform the Age?
Who should our dear-bought Liberties maintain?
Who fix our Leagues with France, and treat with Spain?
Who check the headstrong Swede; asswage the Czar;
Secure our Peace, and quench the Northern War?
The Turk, though He the Christian Name defies,
And curses Eugene, yet from Eugene flies,
His Cause to Brunswick's Equity dare trust;
He knows him Valiant, and concludes him Just:

100

He knows his Fame in early Youth acquir'd,
When Turban'd Hoasts before his Sword retir'd.
Thus while his Influence to the Poles extends,
Or where the Day begins, or where it ends,
Far from our Coasts he drives off all Alarms;
And those his Power protects, his Goodness charms.
Great in Himself, and undebas'd with Pride,
The Sovereign lays his Regal State aside,
Pleas'd to appear without the bright Disguise
Of Pomp; and on his inborn Worth relies.
His Subjects are his Guests; and daily boast
The Condescension of their Royal Host:
While Crowds succeeding Crowds on either Hand,
A ravish'd Multitude, admiring stand.
His manly Wit and Sense with Candour join'd,
His Speech with every Elegance refin'd,
His winning Aspect, his becoming Ease,
Peculiar Graces all, conspire to please,
And render him to every Heart approv'd;
The King respected, and the Man belov'd.
Nor is his Force of Genius less admir'd,
When most from Crowds or publick Cares retir'd.
The Learned Arts by turns Admittance find;
At once unbend and exercise his Mind.
The secret Springs of Nature, long conceal'd,
And to the Wise by slow Degrees reveal'd,
(Delightful Search!) his piercing Thought descries.
Oft through the Concave Azure of the Skies.
His Soul delights to range, a boundless Space,
Which Myriads of Celestial Glories grace;
Worlds behind Worlds, that deep in Aether lye,
And Suns, that twinkle to the distant Eye;

101

Or call them Stars, on which our Fates depend,
And every ruling Star is Brunswick's Friend.

Soon as the rising Sun shoots o'er the Stream,
And gilds the Palace with a ruddy Beam,
You to the healthful Chace attend the King,
And hear the Forrest with the Huntsmen ring:
While in the dusty Town We rule the State,
And from Gazettes determine England's Fate.
Our groundless Hopes and groundless Fears prevail,
As artful Brokers comment on the Mail
Deafned with News, with Politicks opprest,
I wish the Wind ne'er vary'd from the West.
Secure, on GEORGE'S Councils I rely,
Give up my Cares, and Britain's Foes defy.
What though Cabals are form'd, and impious Leagues.
Though Rome fills Europe with her dark Intrigues?
His Vigilance, on every State intent,
Defeats their Plots, and over-rules th'Event.

But whither do my vain Endeavours tend?
Or how shall I my rash Attempt defend?
Divided in my Choice, from Praise to Praise
I rove, bewilder'd in the pleasing Maze.
One Virtue mark'd, another I pursue,
While yet another rises to my View.
Unequal to the Task, too late I find
The growing Theme unfinish'd left behind.
Thus the deluded Bee, in hopes to drain
At once the Thymy Treasure of the Plain,
Wide ranging on her little Pinions toils,
And skims o'er hundred Flowers for one she spoils:
When soon o'erburden'd with the fragrant Weight,
Homeward she flies, and flags beneath her Freight.

102

TO LORD CARTERET, departing from Dublin.

1726.

Behold, Britannia waves her flag on high,
And calls forth breezes from the western sky,
And beckons to her son, and smooths the tide,
That does Hibernia from her clifts divide.

Go, Carteret, go; and, with thee, go along
The nation's blessing, and the poet's song,
Loud acclamations, with melodious lays,
The kindest wishes, and sincerest praise.

Go, Carteret, go; and bear my joys away!
So speaks the muse, that fain would bid thee stay:
So spoke the virgin to the youth unkind,
Who gave his vows, and canvass, to the wind,
And promis'd to return; but never more
Did he return to the Threïcian shore.

Go, Carteret, go: alas, a tedious while
Hast thou been absent from thy mother-isle;
A slow-pac'd train of months to thee and thine,
A flight of moments to a heart like mine,
That feels perfections, and resigns with pain
Enjoyments I may never know again.

O, while mine eye pursues the fading sails,
Smooth roll ye waves, and steddy breathe ye gales,
And urge with gentle speed to Albion's strand
A houshold fair amidst the fairest land,
In every decency of Life polite,
A freight of virtues, wafting from my sight:

103

And now farewel, O early in renown,
Illustrious, young, in labours for the crown,
Just, and benign, and vigilant, in power,
And elegant to grace the vacant hour,
Relaxing sweet! Nor are we born to wear
The brow still bent, and give up life to care:
And thou, mild glory beaming round his fame,
Francisca, thou, his first, his latest, flame,
Parent of bloom! In pleasing arts refin'd!
Farewel thy hand, and voice, in musick join'd,
Thy courtesy, as soothing as thy song,
And smiles soft-gleaming on the courtly throng:
And thou, Charissa, hastening to thy prime,
And Carolina, chiding tardy time,
Who every tender wish of mine divide,
For whom I strung the lyre, once lay'd aside,
Receive, and bear in mind, my fond farewell,
Thrive on in life! and, thriving on, excell!

Accept this token, Carteret, of good will,
The voice of nature, undebas'd by skill,
These parting numbers cadenced by my grief,
For thy lov'd sake and for my own relief,
If aught, alas, thy absence may relieve,
Now I am left, perhaps, through life to grieve:
Yet would I hope, yet hope, I know not why,
(But hopes and wishes in one balance ly)
Thou may'st revisit, with thy wonted smiles,
Iërna, island set around with isles:
May the same heart, that bids thee now adieu,
Salute thy sails, and hail thee into view.