« PoprzedniaDalej »
Nay, and, if from a deity
Nor ask what parents it can shew; So much deified as I,
With dead or old 't has nought to do. It sound not too profane and odd,
They should not love yet all, or any, Oh, my master and my god !
But very much and very many: For 'tis true, most mighty poet!.
All their life should gilded be (Though I like not men should know it).
With mirth, and wit, and gaiety; I am in naked Nature less,
Well remembering and applying Les by much, than in thy dress.
The necessity of dying. All thy verse is softer far
Their chearful heads should always wear Than the downy feathers are
All that crowns the flowery year : Of my wings, or of my arrows,
They should always laugh, and sing, Of my mother's doves or sparrows,
And dance, and strike th' harmonious string; Sweet as lovers' freshest kisses,
Verse should from their tongue so flow, Or their riper following blisses,
As ifit in the mouth did grow, Graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round,
As swiftly answering their command, All with Venus' girdle bound;
As tunes obey the artful hand. And thy life was all the while
And whilst I do thus discover Lind and gentle as thy style,
Th' ingredients of a happy lover, The smooth-pac'd hours of every day
"Tis, my Anacreon! for thy sake Glided numerously away.
I of the Grape no mention make. Like thy verse each hour did pass;
Till my Anacreon by thee fell, Sweet and short, like that, it was.
Cursed Plant! I lov'd thee well; Some do but their youth allow me,
And 'twas oft my wanton use Just what they by Nature owe me,
To dip my arrows in thy juice. The time that's mine, and not their own,
Cursed Plant ! 'tis true, I see, The certain tribute of my crown:
Th’ old report that goes of theeWhen they grow old, they grow to be
That with giants' blood the Earth Too busy, or too wise, for me.
Stain'd and poison'd gave thee birth; Thou wert wiser, and didst know
And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spite None too wise for love can grow;
On men in whom the gods delight. Love was with thy life entwind,
Thy patron, Bacchus, 'tis no wonder, Close as heat with fire is join'd;
Was brought forth in fames and thunder; A powerful brand prescrib'd the date
In rage, in quarrels, and in fights, Of thine, like Meleager's, fate.
Worse than his tigers, he delights ; Th' antiperistasis of age
In all our Heaven I think there be More enflam'd thy amorous rage;
No such ill-natur'd god as he. Thy silver hairs yielded me more
Thou pretendest, traiterous Wine! Than even golden curls before.
To be the Muses' friend and mine: Had I the power of creation,
| With love and wit thou dost begin, As I have of generation,
False fires, alas ! to draw us in; Where I'the matter must obey,
Which, if our course we by them keep, And cannot work plate out of clay,
Misguide to madness or to sleep : My creatures should be all like thee,
Sleep were well ; thou 'ast learnt a way 'Tis thou shouldst their idea be:
To death itself now to betray. They, like thee, should thoroughly hate
It grieves me when I see what fate Business, honour, title, state;
Does on the best of mankind wait. Other wealth they should not know,
Poets or lovers let them be, But what my living mines bestow.;
'Tis neither love nor poesy The pomp of kings, they should confess,
Can arm, against Death's smallest dart, At their crownings, to be less
The poet's head or lover's heart; Than a lover's humblest guise,
But when their life, in its decline, When at his mistress' feet he lies.
Touches th' inevitable line, Rumour they no more should mind
All the world's mortal to them then, Than men safe landed do the wind;
And wine is aconite to men; Wisdom itself they should not hear,
Nay, in Death's hand, the grape-stone proves When it presumes to be severe;
As strong as thunder is in Jove's.
How the eternal Father did bestow
His own eternal Son as ransom for his foe. TAKEN OUT OF A GREEK ODE, WRITTEN BY MR. I'll sing aloud, that all the world may hear LASTERS, OF NEW-COLLEGE IN OXFORD.
The triumph of the buried Conqueror.
How Hell was by its prisoner captive led, Enough, my Muse! of earthly things,
And the great slayer, Death, slain by the dead. And inspirations but of wind;
Methinks, I hear of murdered men the voice, Take up thy lute, and to it bind
Mixt with the murderers' confused noise, Loud and everlasting strings;
Sound from the top of Calvary ; And on them play, and to them sing,
My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and see The happy mournful stories,
Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three; The lamentable glories,
Oh, how unlike the others he! Of the great crucified King.
Look, how he bends his gentle head with blessings Mountainous heap of wonders ! which dost rise
from the tree! Till Earth thou joinest with the skies!
His gracious hands, ne'er stretch'd but to do good, Too large at bottom, and at top too high,
Are nail'd to the infamous wood! To be half seen by mortal eye!
And sinful man does fondly bind How shall I grasp this boundless thing? The arms, which he extends t embrace all humanWhat shall I play; what shall I sing?
kind. I'll sing the mighty riddle of mysterious love, Which neither wretched men below, nor
blessed Unhappy man! canst thou stand by and see
All this as patient as he ?
Since he thy sins does bear,
Make thou his sufferings thine own,
And weep, and sigh, and groan, dain!
And beat thy breast, and tear l'n sing the searchless depths of the compassion
Thy garments and thy hair,
And let thy grief, and let thy love, The depths unfathom'd yet
Through all thy bleeding bowels move. By reason's plummet and the line of wit; Dost thou not see thy prince in purple clad all o'er, Too light the plummet, and too short the line! Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,
But made at home with richer gore? These verses were not included among those Dost thou not see the roses which adorn which Mr. Cowley himselt styled Miscellanies; The thorny garland by him worn ? but were classed by Bishop Sprat under the title. Dost thou not see the livid traces by which they are here distinguished. N.
Of the sharp scourges' rude embraces??
If yet thou feelest not the smart
Where'er I see an excellence,
Thy numbers gentle, and thy fancies bigh;
'Tis solid, and 'tis manly all,
Or rather 'tis angelical ;
For, as in angels, we
Do in thy verses see
Both improv'd sexes eminently meet;
They are than man more strong, and more than wo-
They talk of Nine, I know not who,
Female chimeras, that o'er poets reign;
But have invok'd them oft, I'm sure, in vain:
They talk of Sappho; but, alas ! the shame!
Ill-manners suil the lustre of her fame;
That, like a lantern's fair enclosed light,
It through the paper shines where she does write.
Honour and friendship, and the generous scorn
Of things for which we were not born
(Things that can only by a fond disease, Ah ! cruel sex, will you depose us too in wit?
Like that of girls, our vicious stomachs please)
Are the instructive subjects of her pen ;
And, as the Roman victory
Taught our rude land arts and civility,
At once she overcomes, enslaves, and betters, men,
But Rome with all her arts could ne'er inspire ļa Beauty's campit was not known ;
A female breast with such a fire :
The wailike Amazonian train,
Who in Elysium now do peaceful reign,
And Wit's mild en pire before arms prefer,
Hope 'twill be settled in their sex by her. Our strongest quarter take,
Merlin, the seer, (and sure he would not lye, And so successful prov'd, that she
In such a sacred company) Turn'd upon Love himself his own artillery.
Does prophecies of learn'd Orinda sbow,
Which he had darkly spoke so long ago; Women, as if the body were their whole,
Ev'n Boadicia's angry ghost
Forgets her own misfortune and disgrace, If in it sometime they conceiv'd,
And to her injur'd daughters now does boast,
That Rome's o'ercome at last, by a woman of her Th'abortive issue never liv'd.
тасе, , "Twere shame and pity', Orinda, if in thce A spirit so rich, so noble, and so high,
ODE Should unmanur'd or barren lie. But thou industriously hast sow'd and tillid, UPON OCCASION OF A COPY OF VERSES OF MY LORD The fair and fruitful field;
BROGHILL'S. And 'tis a strange increase that it does yield.
Be As, when the happy gods above
gone (said I) ingrateful Muse! and sce
What others thou canst fool, as well as me. Meet altogether at a feast, A secret joy unspeakable does move
Since I grew man, and wiser ought to be, In their great mother Cybele's contented breast :
My business and my hopes I left for thee: With no less pleasure thou, methinks, should see,
For thee (which was more hardly given away) This, thy no less immortal progeny;
I left, even when a boy, my play. And in their birth thou no one touch dost find,
But say, ingrateful mistress! say,
What for all this, what didst thou ever pay? Of th' ancient curse to woman-kind : Thougb bring'st not forth with pain ;
Thou 'It say, perhaps, that riches are
Not of the growth of lands where thou dost trade, It neither travail is nor labour of the brain:
And I as well my country might upbraid
Because I have no vineyard there.
Well : but in love thou dost pretend to reign; In the unexhausted and unfathom'd womb, That, like the Holland countess, thou may'st bear
There thine the power and lordship is;
Thou bad'st me write, and write, and write again; A child for every day of all the fertile year.
'Twas such a way as could not miss. Thon dost my wonder, wouldst my envy, raise, 1, like a fool, did thee obey : If to b. frais'd I lov'd more than to praise : I wrote, and wrote, bạt still I wrote in rain;
For, after all my expense of wit and pain, ? Mrs. Catharine Phillips.
A rich, unwriting hand, carried the prize aray.
Thus I complain'd, and strait the Muse reply'd, Instead of my own likeness, only find
The bright idea there of the great writer's mind?
Who now, what reader does not strive
MR. COWLEY'S BOOK PRESENTING ITSELF TO THE All draw upon him, all around,
UNIVERSITY LIBRARY OF OXFORD. And every part of him they wound,
Hail, Learning's Pantheon ! Hail, the sacred ark Happy the man that gives the deepest blow: Where all the world of science does embark ! And this is all, kind Muse! to thee we owe. Which ever shall withstand, and hast so long with Then in rage I took,
stood, And out at window threw,
Insatiate Time's devouring flood. Ovid and Horace, all the chiming crew;
Hail, trte of_hnowledge! thy leaves fruit! which Homer himself went with them too;
well Hardly escap'd the sacred Mantuan book :
Dost in the midst of Paradise arise, I my own offspring, like Agave, tore,
Oxford ! the Muse's Paradise, And I resolvid, nay, and I think I swore,
From which may never sword the bless'd expel! That I no more the ground would till and sow, Hail, bank of all past ages! where they lie Where only flowery weeds instead of corn did grow. Tenrich with interest posterity ! When (see the subtile ways which Fate does find Hail, Wit's illustrious galaxy ! Rebellious man to bind !
Where thousand lights into one brightness spread; Just to the work for which he is assign'd)
Hail, living University of the dead ! The Muse came in more chearful than before, Unconfus'd Babel of all tongues! which e'er And bade me quarrel with her now no more: The mighty linguist, Pame, or Time, the mighty * * Lo! thy reward ! look, here and see
traveller, What I have made" (said she)
That could speak, or this could hear. "My lover and belor'd, my Broghill, do for thee!
Majestic monument and pyramid ! Thongh thy own verse no lasting fame can give,
Where still the shades of parted souls abide Thou shalt at least in his for ever live.
Embalm'd in verse; exalted souls which now What critics, the great Hectors now in wit,
Enjoy those arts they woo'd so well below; Who rant and challenge all men that have writ, Which now all wonders plainly see, Will dare t'oppose thee, when
That have been, are, or are to be,
The beatific Bodley of the Deity ;
Will you into your sacred throng admit
The meanest British wit?
Yon, general-council of the priests of Fame,
Will you not murmur and disdain,
That I a place among you claim,
The chain of ornament, which here
Your noble prisoners proudly wear; Who have at home th' ingredients can compose ;
A chain which will more pleasant seem to me A cordial that restores our fainting breath,
Than all my own Pindaric liberty !
Will ye to bind me with those mighty names submit, The only danger is, lest it should be
Like an Apocrypha with Holy Writ?
Whatever happy book is chained here,
No other place or people need to fear;
His chain's a passport to go every where,
As when a seat in Heaven
Is to an unmalicious sinner given,
Who, casting round his wondering eye,
Does none but patriarchs and apostles there espy; But I within me bear, alas! too great allay$.
Martyrs who did their lives bestow, Tis said, Apelles, when he Venus drew,
And saints, whọ martyrs liv'd below; Did naked women for his pattern view,
With trembling and amazement he begins And with his powerful fancy did refine
To recollect his frailties past and sins; Their human shapes into a form divine :
He doubts almost his station there; None who had sat could her own picture sce, His soul says to itself, “ How came I here?" Or say, one part was drawn for me:
It fares no otherwise with me,
Amidst this purify'd elected company.
With hardship they, and pain,
Did to this happiness attain : Yet shat have I to boast, or to apply
No labour I, nor merits, can pretend ; To my advantage out of it; since
I think predestination only was my friend.
UPON THE DEATH OF
Ah, tliat my author had been ty'd like me
Than those have done or seen, To such a place and such a company!
Ev'n since they goddesses and this a star has been) Instead of several countries, several men,
As a reward for all her labour past, And business, which the Muses hate,
Is made the seat of rest at last. He might have then improv'd that small estate Let the case now quite alter'd be, Which Nature sparingly did to him give; And, as thou wentest abroad the world to see, He might perhaps have thriven then,
Let the world now come to see thee! And settled upon me, his child, somewhat to live.
The world will do 't; for curiosity 'T had happier been for him, as well as me; Does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make; For when all, alas ! is done,
And I myself, w'io now luve quiet tou. We Books, I mean, you Books, will prove to be As much almost as any Chair can do, The best and noblest conversation;
Would get a journey take, For, though some errours will get in,
An old wheel of that chariot to see, Like tinctures of original sin;
Which Phaeton so rashly brake : Yet sure we from our fathers' wit
Yet what could that say more than these remains of Draw all the strength and spirit of it,
The breath of Fame, like an auspicious gale
(The great trade-wind which ne'er does fail)
Shall drive thee round the world, and thou shalt run, SITTING AND DRINKING IN THE CHAIR MADE OUT OF As long around it as the Sun.
THE RELICS OF SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S SHIP. The streights of Time too narrow are for thee; Cheer up, my mates, the wind does fairly blow,
Launch forth into an undiscover'd sea, Clap on more sail, and never spare;
And steer the enllest course of vast Eternity! Farewell all lands, for now we are
Take for thy sail this verse, and for thy pilot me! In the wide sea of drink, and merrily we go. Bless me, 'tis hot! another bowl of wine,
And we shall cut the burning line:
We round the world are sailing now.
By living mortals, of th' immortal dead,
'Tis as if we, who stay behind But prythee, good pilot, take heed what you do, In expectation of the wind, And fail not to touch at Peru !
Should pity those who pass'd this streight before, With gold there the vessel we'll store,
And touch the universal shore. And never, and never be poor,
Ah, happy man! who art to sail no more! No, never be poor any more.
And, if it seem ridiculous to grieve What do I mean? What thoughts do me misguide?
Because our friends are newly come from sea, As well upon a staff may witches ride
Though ne'er so fair and calm it be; Their fancy'd journeys in the air,
What would all sober men believe, As I sail round the ocean in this Chair!
If they should hear us sighing say,
“ Balcarres, who but th other day 'Tis true; but yet this Chair which here you
Did all our love and oár respect command; see, For all its quiet now, and gravity,
At whose great parts we all amaz'd did stand; Has wander'd and has travell’d more
Is from a storm, alas ! cast suddenly on land ?” Than ever beast, or fish, or bird, or ever tree, be- If you will say—"Few persons upon Earth fore:
Did, more than he, deserve to have In every air and every sea 't has been,
A life exempt from fortune and the grave; "T has compass'd all the Earth, and all the Heavens Whether you look upon his birth 't has seen.
And ancestors, whose fame's so widely spread Let not the pope's itself with this compare, But ancestors, alas! who long ago are dead This is the only universal Chair.
Or whether you consider more The pious wanderer's fleet, sav'd from the flame
The vast increase, as sure you ought, (Which still the relics did of Truy pursue,
Of honour by his labour bought, And took them for its due),
And added to the former store :" A squadron of immortal nymphs became:
All I can answer, is, “ That I allow Still with their arms they row about the seas,
The privilege you plead for; and avow And still make new and greater voyages :
That, as he well deservd, he doth enjoy it now." Nor has the first poetic ship of Greece
Though God, for great and righteous ends, (Though now a star she so triumphant show, Which his unerring Providence intends And guide her sailing successors below,
Erroneous mankind should not understand, Bright as her ancient freight the shining fleece) Would not permit Balcarses' hand, Yet to this day a quiet harbour found;
(That once with so much industry and art The tide of heaven still carries her around;
Had clos'd the gaping wounds of every part) Only Drake's sacred vessel (which before
To perfect his distracted nation's cure, Had done and had seen more
Or stop the fatal bondage 'twas t' endure;