I'm glad that city, t'whom I ow'd before I thank my careful Fate, which found ont one And sell the cunning'st way.-No! when I can, AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN LITTLETON, ESQUIRE, SON AND HEIR TO SIR THOMAS LITTLETON, WHO WAS DROWNED LEAPING INTO THE WATER TO SAVE HIS YOUNGER BROTHER. AND must these waters smile again, and play It is unjust: black Flood! thy guilt is more, What have I said? my pious rage hath been Too hot, and acts, whilst it accuseth, sin. Thou'rt innocent, I know, still clear and bright, Fit whence so pure a soul should take its flight. How is angry zeal confin'd! for he Must quarrel with his love and piety, That would revenge his death. Oh, I shall sin, And wish anon he had less virtuous been. For when his brother (tears for him I'd spill, But they're all challeng'd by the greater ill) Struggled for life with the rude waves, he too Leapt in, and when hope no faint beam could show, His charity shone most: "Thou shalt," said he, "Live with me, brother, or I'll die with thee;" And so he did! Had he been thine, O Rome! Thou would'st have call'd this death a martyrdom, And sainted him. My conscience give me leave, I'll do so too: if Fate will us bereave Of him we honour'd living, there must be A kind of reverence to his memory, After his death; and where more just than here, Where life and end were both so singular? He that had only talk'd with him, might find A little academy in his mind; Where Wisdom master was, and fellows all Which we can good, which we can virtuous, call: Reason, and Holy Fear, the proctors were, To apprehend those words, those thoughts, that err. His learning had out-run the rest of heirs, That 'twas not higher than his thoughts were low. A TRANSLATION OF VERSES UPON THE BLESSED VIRGIN, WRITTEN IN LATIN BY THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL DR. A. AVE MARIA. ONCE thou rejoiced'st, and rejoice for ever, From you "God save" into the world there came; GRATIA PLENA. How loaded hives are with their honey fill'd, From divers flowers by chymic bees distill'd! How full the collet with his jewel is, Which, that it cannot take by love, doth kiss: How full the Moon is with her brother's ray, When she drinks-up with thirsty orb the day! How full of grace the Graces' dances are! So full doth Mary of God's light appear. It is no wonder if with Graces she Be full, who was full of the Deity. DOMINUS TECUM. THE fall of mankind under Death's extent The quire of blessed angels did lament, And wish'd a reparation to see By him, who manhood join'd with deity. BENEDICTA TU IN MULIERIBUS. DEATH came, and troops of sad Diseases led As our life's springs came from thy blessed womb, come: Who did life's blessing give, 'tis fit that she, Above all women, should thrice blessed be. ET BENEDICTUS FRUCTUS VENTRIS TUI. WITH mouth divine the Father doth protest, He a good word sent from his stored breast; 'Twas Christ: which Mary, without carnal thought, From theu nfathom'd depth of goodness brought: The word of blessing a just cause affords To be oft blessed with redoubled words! SPIRITUS SANCTUS SUPERVENIET IN TE. As when soft west-winds strook the garden-rose, A shower of sweeter air salutes the nose; The breath gives sparing kisses, nor with power Unlocks the virgin-bosom of the flower: So the Holy Spirit upon Mary blow'd, And from her sacred box whole rivers flowed: Yet loos'd not thine eternal chastity; Thy rose's folds do still entangled lie. Believe Christ born from an unbruised womb, Sp from unbruised bark the odours come. ET VIRTUS ALTISSIMI OBUMBRABIT TIBI. God his great Son begot ere time begun; Mary in time brought forth her little son, Of double substance One; life he began, God without mother, without father, man. Great is the birth; and 'tis a stranger deed That she no man, than God no wife, should need;, A shade delighted the child-bearing maid, And God himself became to her a shade. O strange descent! who is light's author, he Will to his creature thus a shadow be. As unseen light did from the Father flow, So did seen light from Virgin Mary grow. When Moses sought God in a shade to see, The father's shade was Christ the Deity. Let's seek for day, we darkness, whilst our sight In light finds darkness, and in darkness light. ODE I. ON THE PRAISE OF POETRY. 'Tis not a pyramid of marble stone, 'Tis not a tomb cut out in brass, which can Whilst there are men to read or hear. And eat the pyramid away; Turning that monument wherein men trust Their names, to what it keeps, poor dust; Then shall the epitaph remain, and be New-graven in eternity. Poets by Death are conquer'd; but the wit What cannot verse? When Thracian Orpheus took His lyre, and gently on it strook, The learned stones came dancing all along, With artificial pace the warlike pine, The elm and his wife the ivy twine, With all the better trees, which erst had stood Unmov'd, forsook their native wood. VOL VIL THAT ODE II. A PLEASANT POVERTY IS TO EN PREFERRED WHY, O! doth gaudy Tagus ravish thee, They have no dance, no wanton sport, Nor can it feed the neighbouring wood; No flower or herb is near it found, But a perpetual winter starves the ground. Give me a river which doth scorn to show An added beauty; whose clear brow May be my looking-glass to see What my face is, and what my mind should be! Here waves call waves, and glide along in rank, And prattle to the smiling bank; Here sad king-fishers tell their tales, And fish enrich the brook with silver scales. Daisies, the first-born of the teeming spring, On each side their embroidery bring; Here lilies wash, and grow more white, And daffodils, to see themselves, delight. Here a fresh arbour gives her amorous shade, Which Nature, the best gardener, made. Here I would sit and sing rude lays, Such as the nymphs and me myself should please. Thus I would waste, thus end, my careless days; And robin-red-breasts, whom men praise For pious birds, should, when I die, Make both my monument and elegy. ODE III, TO HIS MISTRESS. TYRIAN dye why do you wear, You whose cheeks best scarlet are? Why bears your neck a golden chain? F They, neighbours to your eyes, Show but like Phosphor when the Sun doth rise. I would have all my mistress' parts One more to Nature than to arts; I would not woo the dress, Or one whose nights give less She's fair, whose beauty only makes her gay. For 'tis not buildings make a court, Himself, and in a shower Le than a golden one it cannot be. ODE IV. ON THE UNCERTAINTY OF FORTUNE. A TRANSLATION. LEAVE off unfit complaints, and clear When the Sun shines not with his wonted cheer, The Sun to day rides drowsily, That good fare should with mingled dangers flow. Whom Hesperus saw poor and low; The Morning's eye beholds him greatest now. If Fortune knit amongst her play But seriousness, he shall again go home To his old country-farm of yesterday, To scoffing people no mean jest become; And with the crowned axe, which he Had rul'd the world, go back and prune some tree; Nay, if he want the fuel cold requires, With his own fasces he shall make him fires. UPON THE SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE. MARK that swift arrow ! how it cuts the air, Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou. Besides repentance, what canst find A doubtful cloud our substance bears, But his past life who without grief can see; This is, this is the only way To out-live Nestor in a day. AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO CAMBRIDGE. NICHOLS, my better self! forbear; For, if thou tell'st what Cambridge pleasures are, The schoolboy's sin will light on me, I shall, in mind at least, a truant be. O tell me not of logic's diverse cheer! Tell me not how the waves appear Of Cam, or how it cuts the learned shire; I shall contemn the troubled Thames On her chief holiday; ev'n when her streams Are with rich folly gilded; when The quondam dung-boat is made gay, Just like the bravery of the men, And graces with fresh paint that day; When th' city shines with flags and pageants there, And satin doublets, seen not twice a year, Why do I stay then? I would meet Thee there, but plummets hang upon my feet; 'Tis my chief wish to live with thee, But not till I deserve thy company: Till then, we'll scorn to let that toy, Some forty miles, divide our hearts: Write to me, and I shall enjoy Friendship and wit, thy better parts. Though envious Fortune larger hindrance brings, We'll easily see each other; Love hath wings. MISCELLANIES. THE MOTTO. TENTANDA VIA EST, &c. WHAT shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own? I shall, like beasts or common people, die, Whilst others great, by being born, are grown; In this scale gold, in th' other fame does lie, The weight of that mounts this so high. These inen are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright; Brought forth with their own fire and light: If I, her vulgar stone, for either look, 'Out of myself it must be strook. Yet I must on. What sound is 't strikes mine ear? Sure I Fame's trumpet hear: k sounds like the last trumpet; for it can Raise up the buried man. Tapast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all, And march, the Muses' Hannibal. Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay Nets of roses in the way! Hence, the desire of honours or estate, And all that is not above Fate ! Hrace, Love himself, that tyrant of my days! Which intercepts my coming praise. Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me on; 'Tis time that I were gone, Welcome, great Sfagyrite! and teach me now. All I was born to know: Thy scholar's victories thou dost far out-do; He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you. Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and wit Preserves Rome's greatness yet: Thou art the first of orators; only he Who best can praise thee, next must be Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards ge, See us, and clouds, below. ODE, OF WIT. TELL me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit, For the first matter loves variety less; For men, led by the colour and the shape, As through a multiplying-glass; And sometimes, if the object be too far, Hence 'tis, a Wit, that greatest word of fame, And Wits by our creation they become, 'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest Such were the numbers which could call The stones into the Theban wall. Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see No towns or houses rais'd by poetry. Yet 'tis not to adorn and gild each part; That shows more cost than art. Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear; Ratner than all things Wit, let none be there. Several lights will not be seen, If there be nothing else between. But you have climb'd the mountain's top, there sit Men doubt, because they stand so thick i' th' sky, On the calm flourishing head of it, If those be stars which paint the galaxy. T's not when two like words make up one noise Much less can that have any place At which a virgin hides her face. And force some odd similitude. In a true piece of Wit all things must be, As in the ark, join'd without force or strife, (If we compare great things with small) Which, without discord, or confusion, lie In that strange mirror of the Deity. But Love, that moulds one man up out of two, I took you for myself, sure, when I thought Correct my errour with thy pen; What thing right Wit and height of genius is, TO THE LORD FALKLAND, FOR HIS SAFE RETURN FROM THE NORTHERN GREAT is thy charge, O North! be wise and just, All things that are but writ or printed there, And this great prince of knowledge is by Fate Whilst we, like younger brothers, get at best Such is the man whom we require the same ON THE DEATH OF SIR HENRY WOOTTON. WHAT shall we say, since silent now is he That only Fame shall speak of him in more; So well he understood the most, and best He did the utmost bounds of knowledge find, ON THE DEATH OF MR. JORDAN, SECOND MASTER AT WESTMINSTER SCHOOL. HENCE, and make room for me, all you who come |