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
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.
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."
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.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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,
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