Within this curious palace dwelt a soul
Gave lustre to each part, and to the whole:
This drest his face in courteous smiles; and so
From comely gestures sweeter manners flow.
This courage join'd to strength; so the hand, bent,
Was Valour's; open'd, Bounty's instrument;
Which did the scale and sword of Justice bold,
Knew how to brandish steel and scatter gold,
This taught him not t' engage his modest tongue
In suits of private gain, though public wrong;
Nor misemploy (as is the great man's use)
His credit with his master, to traduce,
Deprave, malign, and ruin Innocence,

In proud revenge of some mis-judg'd offence:
But all his actions had the noble end

To advance desert, or grace some worthy friend.
He chose not in the active stream to swim,
Nor hunted Honour, which yet hunted him;
But like a quiet eddy that hath found
Some hollow creek, there turns his waters round,
And in continual circles dances, free
From the impetuous torrent; so did he
Give others leave to turn the wheel of state,
(Whose steerless motion spins the subject's fate)
Whilst he, retir'd from the tumultuous noise
Of court, and suitors' press, apart enjoys
Freedom, and mirth, himself, his time, and friends,
And with sweet relish tastes each hour he spends.
I could remember how his noble heart

First kindled at your beauties; with what art
He chas'd his game through all opposing fears,
When I his sighs to you, and back your tears
Convey'd to him; how loyal then, and how
Constant he prov'd since to his marriage vow,
So as his wandring eyes never drew in
One lustful thought to tempt his soul to sin;
But that I fear such mention rather may
Kindle new grief, than blow the old away.

Then let him rest, join'd to great Buckingham,
And with his brother's mingle his bright flame,
Look up, and meet their beams, and you from thence
May chance derive a cheerful influence.
Seek him no more in dust, but call again
Your scatter'd beauties home; and so the pen,
Which now I take from this sad elegy,
Shall sing the trophies of your conqu'ring eye,

Dry as the sand that measures it, might lay
Upon the ashes on the funeral day?
Have we not tune, nor voice? Didst thou dispense
Through all our language both the words and sense?
"T is a sad truth. The pulpit may her plain
And sober christian precepts still retain;
Doctrines it may, and wholsome uses, frame,
Grave homilies, and lectures; but the flame
Of thy brave soul (that shot such heat and light
As burnt our Earth, and made our darkness bright,
Committed holy rapes upon the will,

Did through the eye the melting hearts distil,
And the deep knowledge of dark truths so teach
As sense might judge what fancy could not reach)
Must be desir'd for ever. So the fire
That fills with spirit and heat the Delphic quire,
Which, kindled first by the Promethean breath,
Glow'd here a while, lies quench'd now in thy death.
The Muses' garden, with pedantic weeds
O'erspread, was purg'd by thee; the lazy seeds
Of servile imitation thrown away,

And fresh invention planted. Thou didst pay [
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age:
Licentious thefts, that make poetic rage
A mimic fury, when our souls must be
Possest or with Anacreon's ecstasy

I

H

[claim

Or Pindar's, not their own; the subtle cheat
Of sly exchanges, and the juggling feat
Of two-edg'd swords; or whatsoever wrong
By ours was done the Greek or Latin tongue,
Thou hast redeem'd; and open'd us a mine
Of rich and pregnant fancy; drawn a line
Of masculine expression, which had good a
Old Orpheus seen, or all the ancient brood
Our superstitious fools admire, and hold
Their lead more precious than thy burnish'd gold,
Thou hadst been their exchequer, and no more
They each in other's dung had search'd for ore.
Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time,
And the blind fate of language, whose tun'd chime
More charms the outward sense: yet thou may'st
From so great disadvange greater fame,
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
Our troublesome language bends, made only fit
With her tough thick-rib'd hoops to gird about
Thy giant fancy, which had prov'd too stout
For their soft, melting phrases. As in time
They had the start, so did they cull the prime
Buds of invention many a hundred year,
And left the rifled fields, besides the fear
To touch their harvest; yet from those bare lands
Of what was only thine, thy only hands
(And that their smallest work) have gleaned more
Than all those times and tongues could reap before.
But thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be.
Too hard for libertines in poetry;
They will recall the goodly, exil'd train
Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just reign
The silenc'd tales i' th' Metamorphoses
Was banish'd noble poems. Now, with these,
Shall stuff their lines, and swell the windy page;
Till verse, refin'd by thee, in this last age
Turn ballad-rhime, or those old idols be
Ador'd again with new apostacy.

T

Oh pardon me! that break with untun'd verse The reverend silence that attends thy hearse; Whose solemn, awful murmurs were to thee, More than those rude lines, a loud elegy; That did proclaim in a dumb eloquence The death of all the arts, whose influence, Grown feeble, in these panting numbers lies, Gasping short-winded accents, and so dies: So doth the swiftly-turning wheel not stand I' th' instant we withdraw the moving hand, But some short-time retains a faint, weak course, By virtue of the first impulsive force; And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile Thy crown of bays, oh let it crack a while, And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes. I will not draw the envy, to engross All thy perfections, or weep all the loss; Those are too numerous for one elegy, And 't is too great to be express'd by me: Let others carve the rest; it shall suffice, I on thy grave this epitaph incise.

"Here lies a king that rul'd as he thought fit The universal monarchy of wit;

Here lies two flamens2, and both those the best; Apollo's first, at last the true God's priest."

IN ANSWER

TO

AN ELEGIACAL LETTER UPON THE DEATH OF THE KING OF SWEDEN 3

FROM AURELIAN TOWNSEND, INVITING ME TO WRITE ON THAT SUBJECT.

WHY dost thou sound, my dear Aurelian,
In so shrill actions, from thy Barbican,
A loud alarum to my drowsy eyes*,
Bidding them wake in tears and elegies
For mighty Sweden's fall? Alas! how may
My lyric feet, that of the smooth, soft way
Of Love and Beauty only know the tread,
In dancing paces celebrate the dead
Victorious king, or his majestic hearse
Profane with th' humble touch of their low verse?
Virgil nor Lucan, no, nor Tasso, more

Than both; not Donne, worth all that went before;
With the united labour of their wit
Could a just poem to this subject fit.
His actions were too mighty to be rais'd
Higher by verse: let him in prose be prais'd,
In modest faithful story, which his deeds
Shall turn to poems: when the next age reads
Of Francfort, Leipsic, Warsburgh, of the Rhine,
The Leck, the Danube, Tilley, Wallestein,
Bavaria, Dapenheim, Lutzen field, where he
Gain'd after death a posthume victory,

'Alluding to his being both a poet and a divine. 3 Gustavus Adolphus, the great protector of the protestants in Germany; who, after having subdued Ingria, Livonia, and Pomerania, was killed at the battle of Lutzen, near Leipsic.

Our author in this passage lost sight of his usual correctness. To "sound an alarum to the eyes" is a harsh expression on this side of the Irish Channel,-But, quandoque dormitat Homerus.

They'll think his acts things rather feign'd than done,
Like our romances of the Knight o' th' Sun.
Leave we him then to the grave chronicler,
Who though to annals he cannot refer
His too-brief story, yet his journals may
Stand by the Cæsar's years; and every day
Cut into minutes, each shall more contain
Of great designment than an emperor's reign:
And (since 't was but his church-yard) let him have
For his own ashes now no narrower gave
Than the whole German continent's vast womb,
Whilst all her cities do but make his tomb.
Let us to Supreme Providence commit
The fate of monarchs, which first thought it fit
To rend the empire from the Austrian grasp,
And next from Sweden's, even when he did clasp
Within his dying arms the sov'reignty
Of all those provinces, that men might see
The Divine Wisdom would not leave that land
Subject to any one king's sole command.
Then let the Germans fear, if Cæsar shall,
Or the united princes, rise and fall;
But let us that in myrtle bowers sit,
Under secure shades, use the benefit

Of peace and plenty, which the blessed hand
Of our good king gives this obdurate land:
Let us of revels sing, and let thy breath
(Which fill'd Fame's trumpet with Gustavus' death,
Blowing his name to Heaven) gently inspire
Thy past'ral pipe till all our swains admire
Thy song and subject, whilst they both comprise
The beauties of the Shepherd's Paradise':
For who, like thee, (whose loose discourse is far
More neat and polish'd than our poems are,
Whose very gait's more graceful than our dance)
In sweetly flowing numbers may advance
The glorious night: when, not to act foul rapes,
Like birds, or beasts, but in their angel-shapes
A troop of deities came down to guide
Our steerless barks in Passion's swelling tide
By Virtue's card, and brought us from above
A pattern of their own celestial love.
Nor lay it in dark sullen precepts drown'd;
But with rich fancy and clear action crown'd,
Through a mysterious fable (that was drawn
Like a transparent veil of purest lawn
Before their dazzling beauties) the divine
Venus did with her heavenly Cupid shine:
The story's curious web, the masculine stile,
The subtle sense, did time and sleep beguile :
Pinion'd and charm'd, they stood to gaze upon
Th' angel-like forms, gestures, and motion;
To hear those ravishing sounds, that did dispense
Knowledge and pleasure to the soul and sense.
It fill'd us with amazement to behold
Love made all spirit; his corporeal mold,
Dissected into atoms, melt away

To empty air, and from the gross allay
Of mixtures and compounding accidents,
Refin'd to immaterial elements.
But when the queen of beauty did inspire
The air with perfumes, and our hearts with fire,
Breathing, from her celestial organ, sweet
Harmonious notes, our souls fell at her feet.
And did with humble, reverend duty, more
Her rare perfections than high state adore.

send.

The title of a poem written by Aurelian Town

These harmless pastimes let my Townsend sing
To rural tunes; not that thy Muse wants wing
To soar a loftier pitch, (for she hath made
A noble flight, and plac'd th' heroic shade
Above the reach of our faint, flagging rhime;)
But these are subjects proper to our clime.
Tornies', masks, theatres better become

Our Halcyon days. What though the German drum
Bellow for freedom and revenge? the noise
Concerns not us, nor should divert our joys;
Nor ought the thunder of their carabins
Drown the sweet airs of our tun'd violins.
Believe me, friend, if their prevailing pow'rs
Gain them a calm security like ours,
They'll hang their arms upon the olive bough,
And dance and revel then as we do now.

UPON MR. W. MOUNTAGUE

HIS RETURN FROM TRAVEL.

LEAD the black bull to slaughter, with the boar
And lamb; then purple with their mingled gore
The Ocean's curled brow, that so we may
The sea-gods for their careful waftage pay:
Send grateful incense up in pious smoke

To those mild spirits that cast a curbing yoke
Upon the stubborn winds, that calmly blew
To the wish'd shore our long'd-for Mountague:
Then, whilst the aromatic odours burn
In honour of their darling's safe return,
The Muse's quire shall thus with voice and hand
Bless the fair gale that drove his ship to land.

Sweetly-breathing vernal air,

That with kind warmth do'st repair
Winter's ruins; from whose breast
All the gums and spice of th' east
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky;
Whose disshevel'd tresses shed
Pearls upon the violet bed;

On whose brow, with calm smiles dress'd,
The halcyon sits and builds her nest;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring,
Dwell upon thy rosy wing.
Thou, if stormy Boreas throws
Down whole forests when he blows,
With a pregnant flow'ry birth
Canst refresh the teeming earth:
If he nip the early bud,

If he blast what 's fair or good,
If he scatter our choice flowers,
If he shake our hills or bowers,
If his rude breath threaten us;
Thou canst stroke great Eolus,
And from him the grace obtain
To bind him in an iron chain.

Thus, whilst you deal your body 'mongst your friends,
And fill their circling arms, my glad soul sends
This her embrace: thus we of Delphos greet;
As lay-men clasp their hands, we join our feet.

"This species of entertainment, we suppose, was a-kin to our modern routs, the expression seeming to be borrowed from the Spanish tornado, or hurri

cane.

TO

MASTER W. MOUNTAGUE.

SIR, I arrest you at your country's suit,
Who, as a debt to her, requires the fruit
Of that rich stock, which she by Nature's hand
Gave you in trust, to th' use of this whole land:
Next she indites you of a felony,

For stealing what was her propriety1,
Yourself, from hence; so seeking to convey
The public treasure of the state away.
More: y' are accus'd of ostracism, the fate
Impos'd of old by the Athenian state

On eminent virtue; but that curse which they
Cast on their men, you on your country lay:
For, thus divided from your noble parts,
This kingdom lives in exile, and all hearts
That relish worth or honour, being reat
From your perfections, suffer banishment.
These are your public injuries; but I
Have a just private quarrel, to defy
And call you coward; thus to run away
When you had pierc'd my heart, not daring stay
Till I redeem'd my honour: but I swear
By Celia's eyes, by the same force to tear
Your heart from you, or not to end this strife,
Till I or find revenge, or lose my life.
But as in single fights it oft hath been
In that unequal equal trial seen,

That he who had receiv'd the wrong at first,
Came from the combat oft too with the worst ;
So if you foil me when we meet, I'll then
Give you fair leave to wound me so again.

ON THE

MARRIAGE OF T. K. AND C. C.

THE MORNING STORMY.

SUCH should this day be, so the Sun should hide
His bashful face, and let the conquering bride
Without a rival shine, whilst he forbears
To mingle his unequal beams with hers;
Or if sometimes he glance his squinting eye
Between the parting clouds, 't is but to spy,
Not emulate her glories, so comes drest
In veils, but as a masker to the feast.
Thus Heav'n should lowr, such stormy gusts should
Not to denounce ungentle fates, but show,
The cheerful bridegroom to the clouds and wind
Hath all his tears and all bis sighs assign'd.
Let tempests struggle in the air, but rest
Eternal calms within thy peaceful breast!
Thrice happy youth! but ever sacrifice

[blow,

To that fair hand that dry'd thy blubber'd eyes,
That crown'd thy head with roses, and turn'd all
The plagues of love into a cordial,
When first it join'd her virgin snow to thine,
Which when to day the priest shall recombine,
From the mysterious, holy touch, such charms
Will flow, as shall unlock her wreathed arms,
And open a free passage to that fruit
Which thou hast toil'd for with a long pursuit.
But ere thou feed, that thou mayst better taste
Thy present joys, think on thy torments past:

But if it offer to thy nice survey
A spot, a stain, a blemish or decay,

It not belongs to thee; the treacherous light
Or faithless stone abuse thy credulous sight.
Perhaps the magic of thy face bath wrought
Upon th' enchanted crystal, and so brought
Fantastic shadows to delude thine eyes
With airy, repercussive sorceries:

Or else th' enamoured image pines away
For love of the fair object, and so may

Wax pale and wan; and though the substance grow
Lively and fresh, that may consume with woe.
Give thou no faith to the false specular stone,
But let thy beauties by th' effects be known:
Look, sweetest Doris, on my love-sick heart;
In that true mirror see how fair thou art
There, by Love's never-erring pencil drawn,
Shalt thou behold thy face, like th' early dawn,
Shoot through the shady covert of thy hair,
Enam'ling and perfuming the calm air
With pearls and roses, till thy suns display
Their lids, and let out the imprison'd day.
Whilst Delphic priests (enlighten'd by their theme)
In amorous numbers court thy golden beam,
And from Love's altars clouds of sighs arise
In smoking incense to adore thine eyes:
If then love flow from beauty as th' effect,
How canst thou the resistless cause suspect?
Who would not brand that fool that should contend,
There were no fire where smoke and flames ascend?
Distrust is worse than scorn; not to believe
My harms, is greater wrong than not to grieve.
What cure can for my fest'ring sore be found,
Whilst thou believ'st thy beauty cannot wound?
Such humble thoughts more cruel tyrants prove,
Than all the pride that e'er usurp'd in love;
For Beauty's herald here denounceth war,
There her false spies betray me to a snare.
If fire disguis'd in balls of snow were hurl'd,
It unsuspected might consume the world:
Where our prevention ends, danger begins;
So wolves in sheeps', lions in asses' skins
Might far more mischief work, because less fear'd;
Those, the whole flock, these might kill all the herd.
Appear then as thou art, break through this cloud,
Confess thy beauty, though thou thence grow proud:
Be fair, though scornful; rather let me find
Thee cruel, than thus mild and more unkind.
Thy cruelty doth only me defy,
But these dull thoughts thee to thyself deny.
Whether thou mean to barter or bestow
Thyself, 't is fit thou thine own value know.
I will not cheat thee of thyself, nor pay
Less for thee than thou'rt worth; thou shalt not say,
That is but brittle glass which I have found
By strict inquiry a firm diamond.

I'll trade with no such Indian fool as sells
Gold, pearls, and precious stones, for beads and bells';
Nor will I take a present from your hand,
Which you or prize not or not understand.
It not endears your bounty that I do
Esteem your gift, unless you do so too.
You undervalue me, when you bestow
On me what you nor care for, nor yet know.
No, lovely Doris, change thy thoughts, and be
In love first with thyself, and then with me.

1 Alluding to the ignorance of the Indian tribes in South America, who used to barter their riches for the toys and trinkets of the Europeans.

You are afflicted that you are not fair,
And I as much tormented that you are:
What I admire you scorn; what I love, hate;
Through different faiths both share an equal fate:
Fast to the truth, which you renounce, I stick;
I die a martyr, you an heretic.

TO MY FRIEND, G. N.

FROM WREST.

I BREATHE, Sweet Ghibs, the temperate air of Wrest,
Where I, no more with raging storms opprest,
Wear the cold nights out by the banks of Tweed,
On the bleak mountains where fierce tempests breed,
And everlasting winter dwells; where mild
Favonius and the vernal winds, exil'd,
Did never spread their wings: but the wild north
Brings sterile fern, thistles, and brambles forth.
Here, steep'd in balmy dew, the pregnant Earth
Sends from her teeming womb a flow'ry birth;
And, cherish'd with the warm Sun's quick'ning heat,
Her porous bosom doth rich odours sweat;
Whose perfumes through the ambient air diffuse
Such native aromatics, as we use

No foreign gums, nor essence fetch'd from far,
No volatile spirits, nor compounds that are
Adulterate; but, at Nature's cheap expense,
With far more genuine sweets refresh the sense.
Such pure and uncompounded beauties bless
This mansion with an useful comeliness
Devoid of art; for here the architect
Did not with curious skill a pile erect
Of carved marble, touch, or prophecy,
But built a house for hospitality.

No sumptuous chimney-piece of shining stone
Invites the stranger's eye to gaze upon,
And coldly entertain his sight; but clear
And cheerful flames cherish and warm him here.
No Doric nor Corinthian pillars grace
With imagery this structure's naked face:
The lord and lady of this place delight
Rather to be in act, than seem, in sight.
Instead of statues to adorn their wall,
They throng with living men their merry hall,
Where, at large tables fill'd with wholsome meats,
The servant, tenant, and kind neighbour eats:
Some of that rank, spun of a finer thread,
Are with the women, steward, and chaplain, fed
With daintier cates; others of better note,
Whom wealth, parts, office, or the herald's cuat
Have sever'd from the common, freely sit
At the lord's table, whose spread sides admit
A large access of friends to fill those seats
Of his capacious sickle, fill'd with meats
Of choicest relish, till his oaken back
Under the load of pil'd-up dishes crack.
Nor think, because our pyramids and high
Exalted turrets threaten not the sky,

That therefore Wrest of narrowness complains,
Or straighten'd walls; for she more numerous trainsTM
Of noble guests daily receives, and those
Can with far more conveniency dispose,
Than prouder piles, where the vain builder spent
More cost in outward gay embellishment
Than real use; which was the sole design
Of our contriver, who made things not fine,