« PoprzedniaDalej »
Hold, noble Brutus ! and restrain The bold voice of thy generous disdain: These mighty gulphs are yet Too deep for all thy judgment and thy wit. The time’s set forth already which shall quell Stiff Reason, when it offers to rebel; Which these great secrets shall unseal, And new philosophies reveal: A few years more, so soon hadst thou not dy'd, Would have confounded human Virtue's pride, And shew'd thee a God crucify’d.
HOW long, alas! has our mad nation been
Of epidemick war the tragick scene,
When Slaughter all the while
Seem'd like its sea, embracing round the isle,
With tempests, and red waves, noise, and affright!
Albion no more, nor to be nam'd from white
What province or what city did it spare
It, like a plague, infected all the air.
Sure the unpeopled land *
Would now untill'd, desert, and naked stand,
Had God's all-mighty hand
At the same time let loose Diseases' rage
Their civil wars in man to wage.
But thou by Heaven wert sent
This desolation to prevent,
A medicine, and a counter-poison, to the age.
Scarce could the sword dispatch more to the grave
Than thou didst save;
By wondrous art, and by successful care,
The ruins of a civil war thou dost alone repair'
The inundations of all liquid Pain,
And deluge Dropsy, thou dost drain.
Fevers, so hot that one would say
Thou might'st as soon hell-fires allay
(The damn'd scarce more incurable than they)
Thou dost so temper, that we find,
Like gold, the body but refin'd,
No unhealthful dross behind.
The subtle Ague, that for sureness' sake
Takes its own times th'assault to make,
And at each battery the whole fort does shake,
When thy strong guards, and works, it spies,
Trembles for itself, and flies.
The cruel Stone, that restless pain,
That’s sometimes roll'd away in vain,
But still, like Sysiphus's stone, returns again,
Thou break'st and meltest by learn’d juices' force
(A greater work, though short the way appear,
Than Hannibal's by vinegar !)
Oppressed Nature's necessary course
It stops in vain; like Moses, thou [flow.
Strik'st but the rock, and straight the waters freely
The Indian son of Lust (that foul disease
Which did on this his new-found world but lately
Yet since a tyranny has planted here,
As wide and cruel as the Spaniard there)
Is so quite rooted-out by thee,
That thy patients seem to be
Restor'd not to health only, but virginity,
The Plague itself, that proud imperial ill,
Which destroys towns, and does whole armies kill,
If thou but succour the besieged heart,
Calls all its poisons forth, and does depart,
As if it fear'd no less thy art,
Than Aaron's incense, or than Phineas' dart.
What need there here repeated be by me
The vast and barbarous lexicon
Of man's infirmity
At thy strong charms it must be gone
Though a disease, as well as devil, were called Legion.
From creeping moss to soaring cedar thou
Dost all the powers and several portions know,
Which father-Sun, and mother-Earth below,
On their green infants here bestow :
Canst all those magick virtues from them draw,
That keep Disease and Death in awe;
Who, whilst thy wondrous skill in plants they see,
Fear lest the tree of life should be found out by thee.
And thy well-travell'd knowledge, too, does give
No less account of th' empire sensitive; * -
Chiefly of man, whose body is
That active soul's metropolis.
As the great artist in his sphere of glass .
Saw the whole scene of heavenly motions pass;
So thou know'st all so well that's done within,
As if some living crystal man thou ’dst seen.
Nor does this science make thy crown alone,
But whole Apollo is thine own;
His gentler arts, belov’d in vain by me,
Are wedded and enjoy’d by thee.
Thou'rt by this noble mixture free
From the physicians' frequent malady,
There are who all their patients' chagrin have,
As if they took each morn worse potions than they
And this great race of learning thou hast run,
Ere that of life be half yet done;
Thou see'st thyself still fresh and strong,
And like t' enjoy thy conquests long.
The first fam'd aphorism thy great master spoke,
Did he live now he would revoke,
And better things of man report;
For thou dost make Life long, and Art but short.
Ah, learned friend it grieves me, when I think
That thou with all thy art must die,
As certainly as I;
And all thy noble reparations sink
Into the sure-wrought mine of treacherous mortality.
WOL. II. P:-
Like Archimedes, honourably in vain,
Thou hold'st out towns that must at last be ta'en,
And thou thyself, their great defender, slain.
Let’s e'en compound, and for the present live,
'T is all the ready-money Fate can give;
Unbend sometimes thy restless care,
And let thy friends so happy be
To enjoy at once their health and thee:
Some hours, at least, to thine own pleasures spare:
Since the whole stock may soon exhausted be,
Bestow't not all in charity.
Let Nature and let Art do what they please,
When all 's done, Life is an incurable disease.
OH, Life! thou Nothing's younger brother
So like, that one might take one for the other!
What’s somebody, or nobody ?
In all the cobwebs of the schoolmen's trade,
We no such nice distinction woven see,
As 'tis “to be,” or “not to be.”
Dream of a shadow ! a reflection made
From the false glories of the gay reflected bow
Is a more solid thing than thou. .
Wain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise
Up betwixt two eternities 1
Yet canst nor wave nor wind sustain, [again.
But, broken and o'erwhelm'd, the endless oceans meet