How would the listening shepherds round her throng,
To catch the words fell from her charming tongue!
She all with her own spirit and soul inspir'd,
Her they all lov'd, and her they all admir'd.
Ev'n mighty Pan, whose powerful hand sustains
The sovereign crook that mildly awes the plains,
Of all his cares made her the tenderest part,
And great Louisa lodg'd her in her heart.
THYR. Who would not now a solemn mourning
When Pan himself and fair Louisa weep? [keep,
When those blest eyes, by the kind gods design'd
To cherish Nature, and delight mankind,
All drown'd in tears, melt into gentler showers
Than April-drops upon the springing flowers?
Such tears as Venus for Adonis shed,
When at her feet the lovely youth lay dead?
About her, all her little weeping Loves
Ungirt her cestos, and unyok'd her doves.
THYR. See where they come, a mournful lovely As ever wept on fair Arcadia's plain: Louisa, mournful far above the rest,
In all the charms of beauteous sorrow drest;
Just are her tears, when she reflects how soon
A beauty, second only to her own,
Flourish'd, look'd gay, was wither'd, and is gone!
DAM. O, she is gone! gone like a new-born
flower,
That deck'd some virgin queen's delicious bower;
Torn from the stalk by some untimely blast,
And 'mongst the vilest weeds and rubbish cast:
Yet flowers return, and coming springs disclose
The lily whiter, and more fresh the rose;
But no kind season back her charms can bring,
And Floriana has no second spring.
THYR. O, she is set! set like the falling Sun;
Darkness is round us, and glad day is gone!
Alas! the Sun that's set, again will rise,
And gild with richer beams the morning-skies;
But Beauty, though as bright as they it shines,
When its short glory to the west declines,
O, there's no hope of the returning light;
But all is long oblivion, and eternal night!
TO THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR OF ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL'. I THOUGHT, forgive my sin, the boasted fire Of poets' souls did long ago expire; Of folly or of madness did accuse -The wretch that thought himself possest with Muse; Laugh'd at the god within, that did inspire With more than human thoughts the tuneful choir; But sure 'tis more thau fancy, or the dream Of rhymers slumbering by the Muses' stream. Some livelier spark of Heaven, and more refin'd From earthy dross, fills the great poet's mind:
'Dryden published it without his name,
Witness these mighty and immortal lines,
Through each of which th' informing genius shines:
Scarce a diviner flame inspir'd the king,
Of whom thy Muse does so sublimely sing:
Not David's self could in a nobler verse
His gloriously-offending son rehearse;
Though in his breast the prophet's fury met,
The father's fondness, and the poet's wit.
Here all consent in wonder and in praise,
And to the unknown poet altars raise:
Which thou must needs accept with equal joy
As when Æneas heard the wars of Troy,
Wrapt up himself in darkness, and unseen
Extoll'd with wonder by the Tyrian queen.
Sure thou already art secure of fame,
Nor want'st new glories to exalt thy name:
What father else would have refus'd to own
So great a son as godlike Absalom ?
EPITHALAMIUM
UPON THE MARRIAGE OF CAPTAIN WILLIAM BEDLOE.
Ille ego qui quondam gracili modulatus avæna, Arina virumque cano.
I, he, who sung of humble Oates before, Now sing a captain and a man of war.
GODDESS of rhyme, that didst inspire
The Captain with poetic fire,
Adding fresh laurels to that brow
Where those of victory did grow,
And statelier ornaments may flourish now!
If thou art well recovered since
"The Excommunicated Prince';"
For that important tragedy
Would have kill'd any Muse but thee;
Hither with speed, Oh! hither move;
Pull buskins off, and, since to love
The ground is holy that you tread in,
Dance bare-foot at the Captain's wedding,
See where he comes, and by his side
His charming fair angelic bride:
Such, or less lovely, was the dame
So much renown'd, Fulvia by name,
With whom of old Tully did join
Then when his art did undermine
The horrid popish plot of Catiline.
Oh fairest nymph of all Great Britain!
(Though thee my eyes I never set on)
Blush not on thy great lord to smile,
The second saviour of our isle;
What nobler Captain could have led
Thee to thy long'd-for marriage-bed:
For know that thy all-daring Will is
As stout a hero as Achilles ;
And as great things for thee has done,
As Palmerin or th' knight of th' Sun,
And is himself a whole romance alone.
Let conscious Flanders speak, and be
The witness of his chivalry.
Yet that's not all, his very word
Has slain as many as his sword:
2A tragedy by Captain Bedloe, 1681.
Though common bullies with their oaths
Hurt little till they come to blows,
Yet all his mouth-granadoes kill,
And save the pains of drawing steel.
This hero thy resistless charms
Have won to fly into thy arms;
For think not any mean design,
Or the inglorious itch of coin,
Could ever have his breast control'd,
Or make him be a slave to gold;
His love's as freely given to thee
As to the king his loyalty.
Then, oh, receive thy mighty prize
With open arms and wishing eyes,
Kiss that dear face, where may be seen
His worth and parts that skulk within;
That face, that justly styl'd may be
As true a discoverer as he.
Think not he ever false will prove,
His well-known truth secures his love;
Do you a while divert his cares
From his important grand affairs:
Let him have respite now a while,
From kindling the mad rabble's zeal:
Zeal, that is hot as fire, yet dark and blind,
Shows plainly where its birth-place we may find,
In Hell, where though dire flames for ever glow,
Yet 'tis the place of utter darkness too.
But to his bed be sure be true
As he to all the world and you,
He all your plots will else betray,
All ye She-Machiavels can lay.
He all designs, you know, has found,
Though hatch'd in Hell or under ground;
Oft to the world such secrets shew
As scarce the plotters themselves knew ;
Yet, if by chance you hap to sin,
Like Mars returning from the noble chase
Of flying nations through the plains of Thrace,
When, deck'd with trophies and adorn'd with spoils,
He meets the goddess that rewards his toils!
But, oh! what transports did his heart invade
When first he saw the lovely, royal maid!
Fame, that so high did her perfections raise,
Seem'd now detraction, and no longer praise!
All that could noblest minds to love engage,
Or into softness melt the soldier's rage,
All that could spread abroad resistless fire,
And eager wishes raise, and fierce desire,
All that was charming, all that was above
Ev'n poets fancies, though refin❜d by love,
All native beauty, drest by every grace
Of sweetest youth, sat shining in her face!
Where, where is now the generous fury gone,
That through thick troops urg'd the wing'd war-
rior on?
Where now the spirit that aw'd the listed field;
Created to command, untaught to yield?
It yields, it yields, to Anna's gentle sway,
And thinks it above triumphs to obey.
See at thy feet, illustrious princess, thrown
All the rich spoils the mighty hero won!
His fame, his laurels, are thy beauties due,
And all his conquests are outdone by you:
Ah! lovely nymph, accept the noble prize
A tribute fit for those victorious eyes!
Ah! generous maid, pass not relentless by,
Nor let war's chief by cruel beauty die!
Though unexperienc'd youth fond scruples move,
And blushes rise but at the name of love;
Though over all thy thoughts and every sense
The guard is plac'd of virgin innocence;
Yet from thy father's generous blood we know
Respect for valour in thy breast does glow;
And Love, while Honour's napping,should creep in, 'Tis but agreeing to thy royal birth,
Yet be discreet, and do not boast
O' th' treason by the common post.
So shalt thou still make him love on;
All virtue 's in discretion.
So thou with him shalt shine, and be
As great a patriot as he;
And when, as now in Christmas, all
For a new pack of cards do call,
Another popish pack comes out
To please the cits, and charm the rout:
Thou, mighty queen, shalt a whole suit command,
A crown upon thy head, and sceptre in thy hand!
GEORGE PRINCE OF DENMARK,
"TWAS Love conducted through the British main,
On a more high design the royal Dane,
Than when of old with an invading hand
His fierce forefathers came to spoil the land:
And Love has gain'd him by a nobler way,
A braver conquest and a richer prey.
For battles won, and countries sav'd renown'd,
Shaded with laurels, and with honours Crown'd,
From fields with slaughter strew'd, the hero came,
His arms neglected, to pursue his flame.
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To smile on virtue and heroic worth;
Love, in such noble seeds of honour sown,
The chastest virgin need not blush to own.
Whom would thy royal father sooner find,
In thy lov'd arms to his high lineage join'd,
Than him, whom such exalted virtues crown,
That he might think them copy'd from his own!
Who to the field equal desires did bring,
Love to his brother, service to his king.
Who Denmark's crown, and the anointed head,
Rescued at once, and back in triumph led,
Forcing his passage through the slaughter'd Swede.
Such virtue him to thy great sire commends,
The best of princes, subjects, brothers, friends!
The people's wonder, and the court's delight,
Lovely in peace, as dreadful in the fight!
What can such charms resist? The royal maid,
Loth to deny, is yet to grant afraid;
But Love, still growing as her fears decay,
Consents at last, and gives her heart away.
Now with loud triumphs are the nuptials crown'd,
And with glad shouts the streets and palace sound!
Illustrious pair! see what a general joy
Does the whole land's united voice employ !
From you they omens take of happier years,
Recall lost hopes, and banish all their fears:
Let boding planets threaten from above,
And sullen Saturn join with angry Jove:
Your more auspicious flames, that here unite,
Vanquish the malice of their mingled light!
Heaven of its bounties now shall lavish grow,
And in full tides unenvy'd blessings Bow !
The shaken throne more surely fix'd shall stand,
And curs'd Rebellion fly the happy land!
At your blest union civil discords cease,
Confusion turns to order, rage to peace!
So, when at first in Chaos and old Night
Hot things with cold, and moist with dry did fight,
Love did the warring seeds to union bring,
And over all things stretch'd his peaceful wing,
The jarring elements no longer strove,
And a world started forth, the beauteous work of
Love!
KING JAMES THE SECOND.
Ir the indulgent Muse (the only cure
For all the ills afflicted minds endure,
That sweetens sorrow, and makes sadness please,
And heals the heart by telling its disease)
Vouchsafe her aid, we also will presume
With humble verse t' approach the sacred tomb;
There flowing streams of pious tears will shed,
Sweet incense burn, fresh flowers and odours spread,
Our last sad offerings to the royal dead!
Dead is the king, who all our lives did bless!
Our strength in war, and our delight in peace!
Was ever prince like him to mortals given!
So much the joy of Earth, and care of Heaven?
Under the pressure of unequal fate,
Of so erect a mind and soul so great!
So full of meekness and so void of pride,
When borne aloft by Fortune's highest tide!
His kindly beams on the ungrateful soil
Of this rebellious, stubborn, murmuring isle
Hatch'd plenty; ease and riches did bestow,
And made the land with milk and honey flow!
Less blest was Rome when mild Augustus sway'd,
And the glad world for love, not fear, obey'd.
Mercy, like Heaven's, his chief prerogative!
His joy to save, and glory to forgive!
Who lives, but felt his influence, and did share
His boundless goodness and paternal care?
And, whilst with all th' endearing arts he strove
On every subject's heart to seal his love,
What breast so hard, what heart of human make,
But, softening, did the kind impression take?
Belov'd and loving! with such virtues grac'd,
As might on common heads a crown have plac'd!
How skill'd in all the mysteries of state!
How fitting to sustain an empire's weight!
How quick to know! how ready to advise!
How timely to prevent! how more than senates
wise!
His words how charming, affable, and sweet!
How just his censure! and how sharp his wit!
How did his charming conversation please
The blest attenders on his hours of ease;
When graciously he deign'd to condescend,
Pleas'd to exalt a subject to a friend!
To the most low how easy of access!
Willing to hear, and longing to redress!
His mercy knew no bounds of time or place,
His reign was one continued act of grace!
Good Titus could, but Charles could never say,
Of all his royal life, "he lost a day."
Excellent prince! O once our joy and care,
Now our eternal grief and deep despair!
O father! or if aught than father's more,
How shall thy children their sad loss deplore?
How grieve enough, when anxious thoughts recall
The mournful story of their sovereign's fall?
Oh! who that scene of sorrow can display;
When, waiting death, the fearless monarch lay!
Though great the pain and anguish that he bore,
His friends' and subjects' grief afflict him more!
Yet even that, and coming fate, he bears;
But sinks and faints to see a brother's tears!
The mighty grief, that swell'd his royal breast,
Scarce reach'd by thought, can't be by words
exprest!
Grief for himself! for grief for Charles is vain,
Who now begins a new triumphant reign,
Welcom'd by all kind spirits and saints above,
Who see themselves in him, and their own likeness
love!
What godlike virtues must that prince adorn, Who can so please, while such a prince we mourn! Who else, but that great he, who now commands Th' united nation's voice, and hearts, and hands, Could so the love of a whole people gain, After so excellent a monarch's reign! Mean virtues after tyrants may succeed And please; but after Charles a James we need! This, this is he, by whose high actions grac'd The present age contends with all the past: Him Heaven a pattern did for heroes form, Slow to advise, but eager to perform: In council calm, fierce as a storm in fight: Danger his sport, and labour his delight. To him the fleet and camp, the sea and field, Do equal harvests of bright glory yield! Who can forget, of royal blood how free, He did assert the empire of the sea? The Belgian fleet endeavour'd, but in vain, The tempest of his fury to sustain; Shatter'd and torn before his flag they fly Like doves, that the exalted eagle spy Ready to stoop and seize them from on high. He, Neptune-like (when from his watery bed Serene and calm he lifts his awful head, And smiles, and to his chariot gives the rein), In triumph rides o'er the asserted main ! Rejoicing crowds attend him on the strand, Loud as the sea, and numerous as the sand; So joy the many: but the wiser few The godlike prince with silent wonder view: A joy, too great to be by voice exprest, Shines in each eye, and beats in every breast: They saw him destin'd for some greater day, And in his looks the omens read of his imperial Nor do his civil virtues less appear, [sway! To perfect the illustrious character; To merit just, to needy virtue kind, True to his word, and faithful to his friend! What's well resolv'd, as firmly he pursues; Fix'd in his choice, as careful how to choose! Honour was born, not planted in his heart; And virtue came by nature, not by art. Albion! forget thy sorrows, and adore That prince, who all the blessings does restore, That Charles, the saint, made thee enjoy before! 'Tis done; with turrets crown'd, I see her rise, And tears are wip'd for ever from her eyes!
LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS.
LONG has the tribe of poets on the stage
Groan'd under persecuting critics' rage,
But with the sound of railing and of rhyme,
Like bees united by the tinkling chime,
The little stining insects swarm the more,
Their buzzing greater than it was before.
But, oh! ye leading voters of the Pit,
That infect others with your too much wit,
That well-affected members do seduce,
And with your malice poison half the house;
Know, your ill-manag'd arbitrary sway
Shall be no more endur'd, but ends this day.
Rulers of abler conduct we will choose,
And more indulgent to a trembling Muse;
Women,
for ends of government more fit,
Women shall rule the Boxes and the Pit,
Give laws to Love, and influence to Wit.
Find me one man of sense in all your roll,
Whom some one woman has not made a fool.
Er'n business, that intolerable load
Under which man does groan, and yet is proud,
Much better they could manage would they please;
'Tis not their want of wit, but love of ease.
For, spite of art, more wit in them appears,
ON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.
WHAT to begin would have been madness thought,
Exceeds our praise when to perfection brought:
Who could believe Lucretius' lofty song
Could have been reach'd by any modern tongue!
Of all the suitors to immortal Fame,
That by translations strove to raise a name,
This was the test, this the Ulysses' bow,
Too tough by any to be bent but you.
Carus himself of the hard task complains,
To fetter Grecian thoughts in Roman chains;
Much harder thine, in an unlearned tongue
To hold in bonds, so easy yet so strong,
The Greek philosophy and Latin song.
If then he boasts that round his sacred head
Fresh garlands grow, and branching laurels spread,
Such as not all the mighty Nine before
E'er gave, or any of their darlings wore;
What laurels should be thine, what crowns thy due,
What garlands, mighty poet, should be grae'd by
Though deep, though wondrous deep, his sense does
Thy shining style does all its riches show;
So clear the stream, that through it we descry
All the bright gems that at the bottom lie;
Here you the troublers of our peace remove,
Though we boast ours, and they dissemble theirs ; | Ignoble Fear, and more ignoble Love :
Wit once was ours, and shot up for a while,
Set shallow in a hot and barren soil;
But when transplanted to a richer ground,
Has in their Eden its perfection found.
And 'tis but just they should our wit invade,
Whilst we set up their painting patching trade;
As for our courage, to our shame 'tis known,
As they can raise it, they can pull it down.
At their own weapons they our bullies awe,
Faith! let them make an anti-salic law;
Prescribe to all mankind, as well as plays,
And wear the breeches, as they wear the bays.
TO THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND.
A DETESTATION OF CIVIL WAR.
From HORACE, Epod. VII.
OH! whither do ye rush, and thus prepare
To rouze again the sleeping war?
Has then so little English blood been spilt
On sea and land with equal guilt?
Not that again we might our arms advance,
To check the insolent pride of France;
Not that once more we might in fetters bring
An humble captive Gallic king?
But, to the wish of the insulting Gaul,
That we by our own hands should fall.
Nor wolves nor lions bear so fierce a mind;
They hurt not their own savage kind :
Is it blind rage, or zeal, more blind and strong,
Or guilt, yet stronger, drives you on?
Answer: but none can answer; mute and pale
They stand; guilt does o'er words prevail:
Tis so: Heaven's justice threatens us from high;
And a king's death from Earth does cry;
E'er since the martyr's innocent blood was shed,
Upon our fathers, and on ours, and on our chil-
drens' head
Here we are taught how first our race began,
And by what steps our fathers climb❜d to man;
To man as now he is-with knowledge fill'd,
In arts of peace and war, in manners skill'd,
Equal before to fellow-graziers of the field!
Nature's first state, which, well transpos'd and own'd'
(For owners in all ages have been found),
Has made a modern wit' so much renown'd,
When thee we read, we find to be no more
Than what was sung a thousand years before.
Thou only for this noble task wert fit,
To shame thy age to a just sense of wit,
By showing how the learned Romans writ.
To teach fat heavy clowns to know their trade,
And not turn wits, who were for porters made;
But quit false claims to the poetic rage,
For squibs and crackers, and a Smithfield stage.
Had Providence e'er meant that, in despight
Of Art and Nature, such dull clods should write,
Bavius and Mævius had been sav❜d by Fate
For Settle and for Shadwell to translate,
As it so many ages has for thee
Preserv'd the mighty work that now we see.
Mopsus and Menalcas, two very expert shepherds at a song, begin one by consent to the memory of Daphnis, who is supposed by the best critics to represent Julius Cæsar. Mopsus laments his death; Menalcas proclaims his divinity. The whole Eclogue consisting of an Elegy, and an Apotheosis.
MENALCAS. MOPSUs, since chance docs us together bring, And you so well can pipe, and I can sing, Why sit we not beneath this secret shade, By elms' and hazels' mingling branches made?
Your age commands respect; and I obey.
Whether you in this lonely copse will stay,
Where western winds the bending branches shake,
And in their play the shades uncertain make:
Or whether to that silent cave you go,
The better choice! see how the wild vines grow
Luxuriant round, and see how wide they spread,
And in the cave their purple clusters shed!
Amyntas only dares contend with you.
Why not as well contend with Phoebus too?
Begin, begin; whether the mournful flame
Of dying Phillis, whether Alcon's fame,
Or Codrus' brawls, thy willing Muse provoke;
Begin; young Tityrus will tend the flock.
Yes, I'll begin, and the sad song repeat,
That on the beech's bark I lately writ,
And set to sweetest notes; yes, I'll begin,
And after that, bid you, Amyntas, sing.
As much as the most humble shrub that grows,
Yields to the beauteous blushes of the rose,
Or. bending osiers to the olive tree;
So much, I judge, Amyntas yields to thee.
Shepherd, to this discourse here put an end, This is the cave; sit, and my verse attend.
When the sad fate of Daphnis reach'd their ears,
The pitying nymphs dissolv'd in pious tears.
Witness, ye hazels, for ye heard their cries;
Witness, ye floods, swoln with their weeping eyes.
The mournful mother (on his body cast)
The sad remains of her cold son embrac'd,
And of th' unequal tyranny they us'd,
The cruel gods and cruel stars accus'd.
Then did no swain mind how his flock did thrive,
Nor thirsty herds to the cold river drive;
The generous horse turn'd from fresh streams his
head,
And on the sweetest grass refus'd to feed.
Daphnis, thy death ev'n fiercest lions mourn'd,
And hills and woods their cries and groans return'd.
Daphnis Armenian tigers' fierceness broke,
And brought them willing to the sacred yoke:
Daphnis to Bacchus' worship did ordain
The revels of his consecrated train;
The reeling priests with vines and ivy crown'd, And their long spears with cluster'd branches bound.
As vines the elm, as grapes the vine adorn,
As bulls the herd, as fields the ripen'd corn;
Such grace, such ornament, wert thou to all
That glory'd to be thine: since thy sad fall
No more Apollo his glad presence yields,
And Pales' self forsakes her hated fields.
Oft where the finest barley we did sow,
Barren wild oats and hurtful darnel grow;
And where soft violets did the vales adorn,
The thistle rises, and the prickly thorn. [ground,
Come, shepherds, strow with flowers the hallow'd
The sacred fountains which thick boughs surround;
Daphnis these rites requires: to Daphnis' praise,
Shepherds, a tomb with this inscription raise-
"Here, fam'd from Earth to Heaven, 1, Daphnis,lie;
Fair was the flock I fed, but much more fair was I."
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A god! A god! Menalcas, he is crown'd!
O be propitious! O be good to thine!
See! here four hallow'd altars we design,
To Daphnis two, to Phoebus two we raise,
To pay the yearly tribute of our praise:
Sacred to thee, they each returning year
Two bowls of milk and two of oil shall bear :
Feasts I'll ordain, and to thy deathless praise,
Thy votaries' exalted thoughts to raise,
Rich Chian wines shall in full goblets flow,
And give a taste of nectar here below.
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