2,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Delphi Classics Ltd
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Serie: Delphi Poets Series
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
A diplomat and distinguished politician, the English poet Matthew Prior was noted for verses of amusing urbanity and satirical deftness, as well as for writing some of the most elegant love poetry of the late seventeenth century. Prior essayed graver themes in his masterpiece ‘Solomon on the Vanity of the World’ (1718), framed as a disquisition on the vanity of human knowledge. Lastly, Prior was judged by all as the greatest epigrammatist of his age. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature’s finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents Prior’s complete works, with related illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)
* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Prior’s life and works
* Concise introduction to Prior’s life and poetry
* The complete poetry — text based on the George Bell and Sons 1907 Edition of Prior’s works
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Includes Prior’s rare satirical work ‘The Country Mouse and the City Mouse’, satirising Dryden’s ‘The Hind and the Panther’ — first time in digital print
* Rare prose works, including the seminal ‘Dialogues of the Dead’ — appearing here for the first time in digital publishing
* Features two biographies, including Dr. Johnson’s famous Life of the poet — discover Prior’s intriguing life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres
Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to see our wide range of poet titles
CONTENTS:
The Life and Poetry of Matthew Prior
Brief Introduction: Matthew Prior by Henry Austin Dobson
Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Prior
The Poems
List of Poems in Chronological Order
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
The Satire
The Country Mouse and the City Mouse
The Prose
Essays and Dialogues of the Dead
The Biographies
Prior by Samuel Johnson
Matthew Prior by Henry Austin Dobson
Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of poetry titles or buy the entire Delphi Poets Series as a Super Set
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 874
Ähnliche
Matthew Prior
(1664-1721)
Contents
The Life and Poetry of Matthew Prior
Brief Introduction: Matthew Prior by Henry Austin Dobson
Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Prior
The Poems
List of Poems in Chronological Order
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
The Satire
The Country Mouse and the City Mouse
The Prose
Essays and Dialogues of the Dead
The Biographies
Prior by Samuel Johnson
Matthew Prior by Henry Austin Dobson
The Delphi Classics Catalogue
© Delphi Classics 2019
Version 1
Browse the entire series…
Matthew Prior
By Delphi Classics, 2019
COPYRIGHT
Matthew Prior - Delphi Poets Series
First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Delphi Classics.
© Delphi Classics, 2019.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.
ISBN: 978 1 78877 948 7
Delphi Classics
is an imprint of
Delphi Publishing Ltd
Hastings, East Sussex
United Kingdom
Contact: [email protected]
www.delphiclassics.com
NOTE
When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size and landscape mode, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.
The Life and Poetry of Matthew Prior
Map of Middlesex, drawn by Thomas Kitchin, 1769 — Prior is believed to have been born in this historic English county.
Brief Introduction: Matthew Prior by Henry Austin Dobson
From ‘1911 Encyclopædia Britannica, Volume 22’
MATTHEW PRIOR (1664-1721), English poet and diplomatist, was the son of a Nonconformist joiner at Wimborne-Minster, East Dorset, and was born on the 21st of July 1664. His father moved to London, and sent him to Westminster, under Dr Busby. At his father’s death he left school, and fell to the care of his uncle, a vintner in Channel Row. Here Lord Dorset found him reading Horace, and set him to translate an ode. He acquitted himself so well that the earl offered to contribute to the continuance of his education at Westminster. One of his schoolfellows and friends was Charles Montagu, afterwards earl of Halifax. It was to avoid being separated from Montagu and his brother James that Prior accepted, against his patron’s wish, a scholarship recently founded at St John’s College. He took his B.A. degree in 1686, and two years later became a fellow. In collaboration with Montagu he wrote in 1687 the City Mouse and Country Mouse, in ridicule of Dryden’s Hind andPanther. It was an age when satirists were in request, and sure of patronage and promotion. The joint production made the fortune of both authors. Montagu was promoted at once, and Prior three years later was gazetted secretary to the embassy at the Hague. After four years of this employment he was appointed one of the gentlemen of the king’s bedchamber. Apparently, also, he acted as one of the king’s secretaries, and in 1697 he was secretary to the plenipotentiaries who concluded the peace of Ryswick. Prior’s talent for affairs was doubted by Pope, who had no special means of judging, but it is not likely that King William would have employed in this important business a man who had not given proof of diplomatic skill and grasp of details. The poet’s knowledge of French is specially mentioned among his qualifications, and this was recognized by his being sent in the following year to Paris in attendance on the English ambassador. At this period Prior could say with good reason that “he had commonly business enough upon his hands, and was only a poet by accident.” To verse, however, which had laid the foundation of his fortunes, he still occasionally trusted as a means of maintaining his position. His occasional poems during this period include an elegy on Queen Mary in 1695; a satirical version of Boileau’s Ode sur le prise de Namur (1695); some lines on William’s escape from assassination in 1696; and a brief piece called The Secretary. After his return from France Prior became under-secretary of state and succeeded Locke as a commissioner of trade. In 1701 he sat in parliament for East Grinstead. He had certainly been in William’s confidence with regard to the Partition Treaty; but when Somers, Orford and Halifax were impeached for their share in it he voted on the Tory side, and immediately on Anne’s accession he definitely allied himself with Harley and St John. Perhaps in consequence of this for nine years there is no mention of his name in connexion with any public transaction. But when the Tories came into power in 1710 Prior’s diplomatic abilities were again called into action, and till the death of Anne he held a prominent place in all negotiations with the French court, sometimes as secret agent, sometimes in an equivocal position as ambassador’s companion, sometimes as fully accredited but very unpunctually paid ambassador. His share in negotiating the treaty of Utrecht, of which he is said to have disapproved, personally led to its popular nickname of “Matt’s Peace.” When the queen died and the Whigs regained power he was impeached by Sir Robert Walpole and kept in close custody for two years (1715-1717). In 1709 he had already published a collection of verse. During this imprisonment, maintaining his cheerful philosophy, he wrote his longest humorous poem, Alma; or, The Progress of the Mind. This, along with his most ambitious work, Solomon, and other Poems on severalOccasions, was published by subscription in 1718. The sum received for this volume (4000 guineas), with a present of £4000 from Lord Harley, enabled him to live in comfort; but he did not long survive his enforced retirement from public life, although he bore his ups and downs with rare equanimity. He died at Wimpole, Cambridgeshire, a seat of the earl of Oxford, on the 18th of September 1721, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, where his monument may be seen in Poet’s Corner. A Historyof his Own Time was issued by J. Bancks in 1740. The book pretended to be derived from Prior’s papers, but it is doubtful how far it should be regarded as authentic.
Prior had very much the same easy, pleasure-loving disposition as Chaucer (with whose career his life offers a certain parallelism), combined with a similar capacity for solid work. His poems show considerable variety, a pleasant scholarship and great executive skill. The most ambitious, i.e.Solomon, and the paraphrase of the Nut-Brown Maid, are the least successful. But Alma, an admitted imitation of Butler, is a delightful piece of wayward easy humour, full of witty turns and well remembered allusions, and Prior’s mastery of the octo-syllabic couplet is greater than that of Swift or Pope. His tales in rhyme, though often objectionable in their themes, are excellent specimens of narrative skill; and as an epigrammatist he is unrivalled in English. The majority of his love songs are frigid and academic, mere wax-flowers of Parnassus; but in familiar or playful efforts, of which the type are the admirable lines To a Child of Quality, he has still no rival. “Prior’s” — says Thackeray, himself no mean proficient in this kind— “seem to me amongst the easiest, the richest, the most charmingly humorous of English lyrical poems. Horace is always in his mind, and his song and his philosophy, his good sense, his happy easy turns and melody, his loves and his Epicurianism, bear a great resemblance to that most delightful and accomplished master.”
The largest collection of Prior’s verses is that by R. Brimley Johnson in the “Aldine Poets” (2 vols., 1892). There is also a selection in the “Parchment Library,” with introduction and notes by Austin Dobson (1889). (A. D.)
Prior’s first great patron, Charles Sackville, 6th Earl of Dorset and 1st Earl of Middlesex (1643-1706) was an English poet and courtier.
The entrance to Dean’s Yard and Westminster School — Prior was sent by his father to Westminster School, under Dr. Busby.
Prior’s schoolmaster, Rev. Dr Richard Busby (1606-1695) was an English Anglican priest, who served as head master of Westminster School for more than fifty-five years. Among the more illustrious of his pupils were Christopher Wren, Robert Hooke, Robert South, John Dryden, John Locke and Matthew Prior.
Charles Montagu, 1st Earl of Halifax (1661-1715) was Prior’s school fellow and a close friend throughout his life.
Portrait of a man formerly believed to be Matthew Prior, attributed to Michael Dahl
Robert Walpole, 1st Earl of Orford, (1676-1745), who is generally regarded as the de facto first Prime Minister of Great Britain. Walpole was Prior’s great political rival and had the poet impeached and imprisoned in 1715.
Matthew Prior by Thomas Hudson, 1718
Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Prior
GEORGE BELL AND SONS 1907 EDITION TEXT
CONTENTS
VOLUME I.
AN ODE. ON EXODUS III. 14
TO THE COUNTESS OF EXETER. PLAYING ON THE LUTE
ON A PICTURE OF SENECA DYING IN A BATH BY JORDAIN
AN ODE: WHILE BLOOMING YOUTH AND GAY DELIGHT
AN EPISTLE TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHARD, ESQ.
TO THE COUNTESS OF DORSET, WRITTEN IN HHER MILTON, BY MR. BRADBURY.
TO THE LADY DURSLEY
TO MY LORD BUCKHURST, VERY YOUNG, PLAYING WITH A CAT
AN ODE: WHILE FROM OUR LOOKS, FAIR NYMPH, YOU GUESS
A SONG. IN VAIN YOU TELL YOUR PARTING LOVER
THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERD
TO THE HONOURABLE CHARLES MONTAGUE, ESQ.
HYMN TO THE SUN
THE LADY’S LOOKING-GLASS
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP: A PASTORAL
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE FOREGOING PASTORAL
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP:
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE FOREGOING PASTORAL.
TO A LADY, SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME AND LEAVING ME IN THE ARGUMENT.
SEEING THE DUKE OF ORMOND’S PICTURE AT SIR GODFREY KNELLER’S
CELIA TO DAMON.
AN ODE PRESENTED TO THE KING, ON HIS MAJESTY’S ARRIVAL IN HOLLAND, AFTER THE
IN IMITATION OF ANACREON.
AN ODE.
ODE SUR LA PRISR DE NAMUR, PAR LES ARMES DU ROY, L’ANNEE MDCXCII. PAR MONSIEUR BOILEAU DESPREAUX.
AN ENGLISH BALLAD ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR BY THE KING OF
GREAT BRITAIN, MDCXCV.
PRESENTED TO THE KING, AT HIS ARRIVAL IN HOLLAND, AFTER THE DISCOVERY OF THE CONSPIRACY, MDCXCVI.
TO CLOE WEEPING.
TO MR. HOWARD.
LOVE DISARMED.
CLOE HUNTING.
CUPID AND GANYMEDE.
CUPID MISTAKEN.
VENUS MISTAKEN.
A SONG.
THE DOVE.
A LOVER’S ANGER.
MERCURY AND CUPID.
ON BEAUTY. A RIDDLE.
THE QUESTION, TO LISETTA.
LISETTA’S REPLY.
THE GARLAND.
THE LADY WHO OFFERS HER LOOKING
CLOE JEALOUS.
ANSWER TO CLOE JEALOUS.
A BETTER ANSWER.
PALLAS AND VENUS.
TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN IN LOVE.
AN ENGLISH PADLOCK.
HANS CARVEL.
A DUTCH PROVERB.
PAULO PURGANTI AND HIS WIFE.
THE LADLE.
WRITTEN AT PARIS, MDCC, IN THE BEGINNING OF ROBBE’S GEOGRAPHY.
WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF MEZERAY’S HISTORY OF FRANCE.
WRITTEN IN THE NOUVEAUX INTERETS DES PRINCES DE L’EUROPE.
ADRIANI MORIENTIS AD ANIMAM SUAM.
IMITATED.
A PASSAGE IN THE MORIÆ ENCOMIUM OF ERASMUS IMITATED.
TO DR. SHERLOCK.
CARMEN SECULARE, FOR THE YEAR MDOO.
AN ODE INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THE HONOURABLE COLONEL GEORGE VILLIERS.
PROLOGUE SPOKEN AT COURT BEFORE THE QUEEN, ON HER MAJESTY’S BIRTH-DAY, MDCCIV.
A LETTER TO MONSIEUR BOILEAU DESPREAUX, OCCASIONED BY THE VICTORY AT BLENHEIM, MDCCIV.
FOR THE PLAN OF A FOUNTAIN.
THE CHAMELEON
FROM THE GREEK,
EPIGRAM.
ANOTHER
ANOTHER.
ANOTHER.
TO A PERSON WHO WROTE ILL, AND SPOKE WORSE AGAINST ME.
ON THE SAME PERSON.
QUID SIT FUTURUM CRAS FUGE QUÆRERE.
A BALLAD OF THE NOTBROWNE MAYDE.
HENRY AND EMMA
AN ODE, HUMBLY INSCRIB’D TO THE QUEEN.
PREFACE.
AN ODE, HUMBLY INSCRIB’D TO THE QUEEN. ON THE LATE GLORIOUS SUCCESS OF HER MAJESTY’S ARMS. WRITTEN IN IMITATION OF SPENCER’S STILE.
CANTATA. SET BY MONS. GALLIARD
HER RIGHT NAME.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN OVID.
A TRUE MAID.
ANOTHER.
A REASONABLE AFFLICTION.
ANOTHER.
ANOTHER.
ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
PHILLIS’S AGE.
FORMA BONUM FRAGILE.
A CRITICAL MOMENT.
AN EPIGRAM.
EPILOGUE TO PHÆDRA AND HIPPOLITUS.
EPILOGUE TO LUCIUS.
THE THIEF AND CORDELIER.
AN EPITAPH
HORACE, LIB. I, EPIST. IX, IMITATED
TO MR. HARLEY, WOUNDED BY GUISCARD 1711
AN EXTEMPORE INVITATION
TWO BEGGARS
HUMAN LIFE.
PROLOGUE FOR DELIA’S PLAY.
AMARYLLIS. A PASTORAL.
DORINDA.
TO LEONORA.
TO LEONORA.
ON A PRETTY MADWOMAN.
ABSENCE.
THE NEW YEAR’S GIFT TO PHYLLIS.
A SONG. FOR GOD’S-SAKE — NAY, DEAR SIR.
ON SNUFF.
TO CELIA.
UPON A FRIEND, WHO HAD A PAIN IN HIS LEFT SIDE.
SONGS, SET TO MUSIC BY THE MOST EMINENT MASTERS.
I. SET BY MR. ABEL.
II. SET BY MR. PURCELL.
III. SET BY MR. DE FESCH.
IV. SET BY MR. SMITH.
V. SET BY MR. DE FESCH.
VI. SET BY MR. SMITH.
VII. SET BY MR. DE FESCH.
VIII. SET BY MR. SMITH.
IX. SET BY MR. DE FESCH.
X. SET BY MR. SMITH.
XI. SET BY MR. SMITH.
XII. SET BY MR. DE FESCH.
XIII SET BY MR. DE FESCH.
XIV. SET BY MR. DE FESCH.
XV. SET BY MR. SMITH.
XVI. SET BY MR. DE FESCH.
XVII. SET BY MR. SMITH.
XVIII. SET BY MR. DE FESCH.
XIX. SET BY MR. SMITH.
XX. SET BY C. R.
XXI. HASTE MY NANNETTE, MY LOVELY MAID
XXII. SET BY MR. DE FESCH.
XXIII. SET BY MR. DE FESCH.
XXIV. BY MR. DE FESCH.
XXV. SET BY MR. C. R.
XXVI. MOGGY, I MUN BID ADIEU
XXVII. SOME KIND ANGEL, GENTLY FLYING
XXVIII. NELLY.
MISCELLANEA.
AD COMITEM DORCESTRIÆ,
AD DOM. GOWER, COLL. MAGISTRUM, EPISTOLA DEPRECATORIA.
CARMEN DEPRECATORIUM AD EUNDEM.
SISTE MERO BIBULAS EFFUSO TEMPORIS ALAS
REVERENDO IN CHRISTO PATRI THOMÆ SPRAT, EPISCOPO ROFFENSI, ETC.
EPISTOLA EODEM TEMPORE MISSA.
AD FRANC. EPISC. ELIENSEM.
DUM TINGIT SICULUS SOLIS CŒLIQUE MEATUS
IN COMITIS EXONIENSIS CRISTAM, TRITICI FASCEM LEONIBUS SUSTENTATUM.
MDCLXXXIX.
EPITAPHIUM.
ENGRAVEN ON THREE SIDES OF AN ANTIQUE LAMP.
EPITAPH.
INSCRIPTIO, &c.
EPITAPHIUM JOANNIS COMITIS EXONIÆ. H. S. E.
PROCEM. LITT. PATENT. LIONELLI DUCIS DORSETTIÆ, 1720.
VOLUME II.
ERLE ROBERT’S MICE.
IN THE SAME STYLE.
IN THE SAME STYLE.
A FLOWER PAINTED BY SIMON VARELST.
TO THE LADY ELIZABETH HARLEY, SINCE MARCHIONESS OF CARMARTHEN, ON A COLUMN OF HER DRAWING.
PROTOGENES AND APELLES.
DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS.
FOR MY OWN TOMBSTONE.
GUALTERUS DANISTONUS AD AMICOS.
IMITATED.
THE FIRST HYMN OF CALLIMACHUS.
THE SECOND HYMN OF CALLIMACHUS.
CHARITY.
ENGRAVEN ON A COLUMN IN THE CHURCH OF HALSTEAD IN ESSEX.
WRITTEN IN MONTAIGNE’S ESSAYS.
AN EPISTLE, DESIRING THE QUEEN’S PICTURE.
ALMA; OR, THE PROGRESS OF THE MIND.
CANTO I.
CANTO II.
CANTO III.
SOLOMON ON THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.
PREFACE.
KNOWLEDGE.
BOOK I.
BOOK II.
BOOK III.
CONSIDERATIONS ON PART OF THE EIGHTY-EIGHTH PSALM.
TO THE REV. DR. FRANCIS TURNER.
A PASTORAL. TO DR. TURNER, BISHOP OF ELY; ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM CAMBRIDGE.
AN EPISTLE TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHERD, ESQ.
AD VIRUM.
TRANSLATION.
ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR.
ODE IN IMITATION OF HORACE, III. OD. II.
PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY LORD BUCKHURST, IN WESTMINSTER SCHOOL.
THE SECRETARY.
THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE.
UPON THIS PASSAGE IN THE SCALIGERIANA.
TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD, MDCCIV. THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY.
PARTIAL FAME.
TO CLOE.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF DEVONSHIRE.
A FABLE FROM PHÆDRUS.
ON MY BIRTHDAY, JULY 21.
EPITAPH. EXTEMPORE.
FOR MY OWN MONUMENT.
CUPID IN AMBUSH.
THE TURTLE AND SPARROW.
APPLICATION OF THE ABOVE; WRITTEN LONG AFTER THE TALE.
DOWN-HALL: A BALLAD, TO THE TUNE OF KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY, 1715.
VERSES SPOKEN TO LADY HENRIETTA CAVENDISH-HOLLES HARLEY.
PROLOGUE TO THE ORPHAN.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.
TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.
THE CONVERSATION.
THE FEMALE PHAETON.
THE JUDGMENT OF VENUS.
DAPHNE AND APOLLO.
THE MICE.
TWO RIDDLES.
EPIGRAM EXTEMPORE.
NELL AND JOHN.
BIBO AND CHARON.
GABRIEL AND HIS WIVES.
FATAL LOVE.
A SAILOR’S WIFE.
ON A FART, LET IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
THE MODERN SAINT
THE PARALLEL.
TO A YOUNG LADY WHO WAS FOND OF FORTUNE-TELLING.
A GREEK EPIGRAM IMITATED.
TO A FRIEND ON HIS NUPTIALS.
THE WANDERING PILGRIM.
VENUS’S ADVICE TO THE MUSES.
CUPID TURNED PLOUGHMAN.
PONTIUS AND PONTIA.
CUPID TURNED STROLLER.
TO A POET OF QUALITY.
THE PEDANT.
CAUTIOUS ALICE.
THE INCURABLE.
TO FORTUNE.
NONPAREIL.
CHASTE FLORIMEL.
DOCTORS DIFFER.
EPIGRAM ON BISHOP ATTERBURY.
ON BISHOP ATTERBURY’S BURYING THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, MDCCXX.
UPON HONOUR. A FRAGMENT.
ENIGMA.
ANOTHER.
THE OLD GENTRY.
THE INSATIABLE PRIEST.
A FRENCH SONG IMITATED.
A CASE STATED.
UPON PLAYING AT OMBRE WITH TWO LADIES.
CUPID’S PROMISE.
TO THE EARL OF OXFORD.
A LETTER TO THE HONOURABLE LADY MARGARET CAVENDISH HOLLES-HARLEY, WHEN A CHILD.
LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PRINT OF TOM BRITTON.
TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.
WRITTEN IN LADY HOWE’S OVID’S EPISTLES.
AN EPISTLE. MDCCXVI.
ANOTHER EPISTLE.
TRUE’S EPITAPH.
EPIGRAM.
THE VICEROY. A BALLAD.
WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY, THE MICE MAY PLAY.
THE WIDOW AND HER CAT,
ON THE MARRIAGE OF GEORGE PRINCE OF DENMARK, AND THE LADY ANNE, 1683.
COLIN’S MISTAKES.
QUEEN MARY’S DEATH.
AD REGIOS FRATES.
COUPLET IN WIMPOLE LIBRARY.
TO DORSET.
A COMPLIMENT.
CONSCIENCE.
EPIGRAM ALLUDED TO IN POPE’S CORRESPONDENCE WITH LORD OXFORD.
VOLUME I.
AN ODE. ON EXODUS III. 14
Man! foolish man!Scarce know’st thou how thyself began, Scarce hadst thou thought enough to prove thou art,Yet, steel’d with studied boldness, thou darest tryTo send thy doubting Reason’s dazzled eyeThrough the mysterious gulf of vast immensity;Much thou canst there discern, much thence impart.Vain wretch! suppress thy knowing pride,Mortify thy learned lust:Vain are thy thoughts while thou thyself art dust. 10
Let wit her sails, her oars let wisdom lend,The helm let politic experience guide;Yet cease to hope thy short-lived bark shall rideDown spreading Fate’s unnavigable tide. What though still it farther tend? Still ’tis farther from its end,And, in the bosom of that boundless sea,Still finds its error lengthen with its way.
With daring pride and insolent delight,Your doubts resolved you boast, your labours crown’d, 20And, EYPHKA your God, forsooth, is foundIncomprehensible and infinite.But is he therefore found? vain searcher! no:Let your imperfect definition showThat nothing you, the weak definer, know.
Say, why should the collected mainItself within itself contain!Why to its caverns should it sometimes creep,And with delighted silence sleepOn the loved bosom of its parent deep. 30Why should its numerous waters stayIn comely discipline and fair array,Till winds and tides exert their high commands!Then, prompt and ready to obey,Why do the rising surges spreadTheir opening ranks o’er earth’s submissive head,Marching through different paths to different lands?
Why does the constant sunWith measured steps his radiant journeys run?Why does he order the diurnal hours 40To leave earth’s other part, and rise in ours?Why does he wake the correspondent moon,And fill her willing lamp with liquid light,Commanding her with delegated powersTo beautify the world, and bless the night?Why does each animated starLove the just limits of its proper sphere,Why does each consenting signWith prudent harmony combineIn turns to move, and subsequent appear, 50To gird the globe, and regulate the year?
Man does with dangerous curiosityThese unfathom’d wonders try:With fancied rules and arbitrary lawsMatter and motion he restrains:And studied lines and fictious circles draws:Then with imagined sovereigntyLord of his new hypothesis he reigns.He reigns; how long? till some usurper rise!And he, too, mighty thoughtful, mighty wise,Studies new lines, and other circles feigns. 60From this last toil again what knowledge flows?Just as much, perhaps, as showsThat all his predecessor’s rulesWere empty cant, all jargon of the schools:That he on t’other’s ruin rears his throne, And shows his friend’s mistake, and thence confirms his own.
On earth, in air, amidst the seas and skies,Mountainous heaps of wonders rise, Whose towering strength will ne’er submitTo Reason’s batteries or the mines of Wit:Yet still inquiring, still mistaking man, 70Each hour repulsed, each hour dares onward press,And, levelling at God his wandering guess,(That feeble engine of his reasoning war,Which guides his doubts and combats his despair)Laws to his Maker the learn’d wretch can give,Can bound that nature and prescribe that willWhose pregnant Word did either ocean fill,Can tell us whence all beings are, and how they move and live.Through either ocean, foolish man!That pregnant Word sent forth again 80Might to a world extend each atom there,For every drop call forth a sea, a heaven for every star.
Let cunning earth her fruitful wonders hide,And only lift thy staggering reason upTo trembling Calvary’s astonish’d top, Then mock thy knowledge and confound thy pride.Explaining how Perfection suffer’d pain, Almighty languish’d, and Eternal died;How by her patient victor Death was slain,And earth profaned, yet bless’d with Deicide. 90Then down with all thy boasted volumes, down;Only reserve the sacred one:Low, reverently low,Make thy stubborn knowledge bow;Weep out thy reason’s and thy body’s eyes;Deject thyself that thou may’st rise:To look to heaven, to blind to all below.
Then Faith for Reason’s glimmering light shall giveHer immortal perspective,And Grace’s presence Nature’s loss retrieve; 100Then thy enliven’d soul shall see That all the volumes of philosophy,With all their comments, never could invent So politic an instrument, To reach the heaven of heavens, the high abodeWhere Moses places his mysterious God, As was the ladder which old Jacob rear’d,When light divine had human darkness clear’d, And his enlarged ideas found the road
TO THE COUNTESS OF EXETER. PLAYING ON THE LUTE
What charms you have, from what high race you sprung,Have been the pleasing subjects of my song:Unskill’d and young, yet something still I writ Of Ca’ndish’ beauty, join’d to Cecil’s wit.But when you please to show the labouring museWhat greater theme your music can produce,My babbling praises I repeat no more,But hear, rejoice, stand silent, and adore.The Persians thus, first gazing on the sun,Admired how high ’twas placed, how bright it shone; 10But as his power was known their thoughts were raised,And soon they worshipp’d what at first they praised.Eliza’s glory lives in Spenser’s song,And Cowley’s verse keeps fair Orinda young;That as in birth and beauty you excel,The muse might dictate and the poet tell:Your art no other art can speak; and you To show how well you play, must play anew:Your music’s power your music must disclose,For what light is ’tis only light that shows. 20Strange force of harmony that thus controlsOur thoughts, and turns and sanctifies our souls. While with its utmost art your sex could move Our wonder only or at best our love,You far above both these your god did place,That your high power might worldly thoughts destroy,That with your numbers you our zeal might raise,And like himself communicate your joy. When to your native heaven you shall repair,And with your presence crown the blessings there, 30Your lute may wind its strings but little higherTo tune their notes to that immortal quire.Your art is perfect here; your numbers doMore than our books make the rude atheist knowThat there’s a heaven by what he hears below. As in some piece while Luke his skill exprest,A cunning angel came and drew the rest,So when you play, some godhead does impartHarmonious aid; divinity helps art;Some cherub finishes what you begun, And to a miracle improves a tune. 40To burning Rome when frantic Nero play’d,Viewing that face, no more he had survey’dThe raging flames, but, struck with strange surprise,Confess’d them less than those of Anna’s eyes;But, had he heard thy lute, he soon had foundHis rage eluded and his crime atoned:Thine, like Amphion’s hand, had waked the stoneAnd from destruction call’d the rising town;Malice to music had been forced to yield,Nor could he burn so fast as thou couldst build. 50
ON A PICTURE OF SENECA DYING IN A BATH BY JORDAIN
While cruel Nero only drainsThe moral Spaniard’s ebbing veins,By study worn, and slack with age,How dull, how thoughtless is his rage!Heighten’d revenge he should have took,He should have burnt his tutor’s book;And long have reign’s supreme in vice;One noble wretch can only rise;’Tis he whose fury shall defaceThe Stoic’s Image in this piece, 10For, while unhurt, divine Jordain,Thy work and Seneca’s remain,He still has body, still has soul,And lives and speaks restored and whole.
AN ODE: WHILE BLOOMING YOUTH AND GAY DELIGHT
While blooming youth and gay delightSit on thy rosy cheeks confess’d,Thou hast, my dear, undoubted rightTo triumph o’er this destined breast.My reason bends to what thy eyes ordain;For I was born to love, and thou to reign.
But would you meanly thus relyOn power you know I must obey? Exert a legal tyranny, And do an ill because you may? Still must I thee, as Atheists Heaven, adore; 10Not see thy mercy, and yet dread thy power?
Take heed, my dear: youth flies apace;As well as Cupid, Time is blind:Soon must those glories of thy faceThe fate of vulgar beauty find:The thousand Loves, that arm thy potent eye,Must drop their quivers, flag their wings, and die.
Then wilt thou sigh, when in each frownA hateful wrinkle more appears:And putting peevish humours on, 20Seems but the sad effect of years:Kindness itself too weak a charm will proveTo raise the feeble fires of aged love.
Forced compliments, and formal bows,Will show thee just above neglect; The heat with which thy lover glows,Will settle into cold respect:A talking dull Platonic I shall turn;Learn to be civil, when I cease to burn.
Then, shun the ill, and know, my dear, 30Kindness and constancy will proveThe only pillars, fit to bearSo vast a weight as that of love.If thou canst wish to make my flames endure,Thine must be very fierce, and very pure.
Haste, Celia, haste, while youth invites,Obey kind Cupid’s present voice;Fill every sense with soft delights,And give thy soul a loose to joys:Let millions of repeated blisses proveThat thou all kindness art, and I all love.
Be mine, and only mine; take careThy looks, thy thoughts, thy dreams, to guide 40To me alone; nor come so far,As liking any youth beside:What men e’er court thee, fly them, and believeThey’re serpents all, and thou the tempted Eve.
So shall I court thy dearest truth,When beauty ceases to engage;So, thinking on thy charming youth,I’ll love it o’er again in age;So time itself our raptures shall improve,While still we wake to joy, and live to love. 50
AN EPISTLE TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHARD, ESQ.
When crowding folks, with strange ill faces,Were making legs, and begging places,And some with patents, some with merit, Tired out my good Lord Dorset’s spirit:Sneaking I stood amongst the crew,Desiring much to speak with you.I waited while the clock struck thrice,And footman brought out fifty lies;Till, patience vex’d, and legs grown weary,I thought it was in vain to tarry! 10But did opine it might be better,By penny-post to send a letter;Now, if you miss of this epistle,I’m baulk’d again, and may go whistle.My business, Sir, you’ll quickly guess, Is to desire some little place;And fair pretensions I have for’t, Much need, and very small desert.Whene’er I writ to you, I wanted;I always begg’d, you always granted. 20Now, as you took me up when little, Gave me my learning and my vittle;Ask’d for me, from my lord, things fitting,Kind as I’d been your own begetting;Confirm what formerly you’ve given,Nor leave me now at six and seven,As Sunderland has left Mun Stephen.No family, that takes a whelpWhen first he laps, and scarce can yelp,Neglects or turns him out of gateWhen he’s grown up to dog’s estate:No parish, if they once adoptThe spurious brats by strollers dropp’d, 30Leave them, when grown up lusty fellows,To, the wide world, that is, the gallows:No thank them for their love, that’s worse,Than if they’d throttled them at nurse.My uncle, rest his soul! when living,Might have contrived me ways of thriving;Taught me with cyder to replenishMy vats, or ebbing tide of Rhenish.So when for hock I drew prickt white-wine,Swear’t had the flavour, and was right wine.Or sent me with ten pounds to Furni-val’s Inn, to some good rogue attorney;Where now, by forging deeds, and cheating,I’d found some handsome ways of getting.All this you made me quit, to follow That sneaking whey-faced god Apollo;Sent me among a fiddling crewOf folks, I’d never seen nor knew,Calliope, and God knows who,To add no more invectives to i,You spoil’d the youth, to make a poet.In common justice, Sir, there’s no manThat makes the whore, but keeps the woman.Amongst all honest Christian people,Whoe’er breaks limbs, maintains the cripple.The sum of all I have to say,Is, that you’ll put me in some way;And your petitioner shall pray — There’s one thing more I had almost slipt,But that may do as well in postscript:My friend Charles Montague’s preferr’d;Nor would I have it long observed,That one mouse eats, while t’other starved.
TO THE COUNTESS OF DORSET, WRITTEN IN HHER MILTON, BY MR. BRADBURY.
SEE here how bright the first-born virgin shone,And how the first fond lover was undone.Such charming words our beauteous mother spoke.As Milton wrote, and such as yours her look.
Yours, the best copy of th’ original face.Whose beauty was to furnish all the race :Such chains no author could escape but he ;There’s no way to be safe, but not to see.
TO THE LADY DURSLEY
Here reading how fond Adam was betray’d,And how by sin Eve’s blasted charms decay’d,Our common loss unjustly you complain,So small that part of it which you sustain.
You still, fair mother, in your offspring traceThe stock of beauty destined for the race;Kind Nature forming them, the pattern tookFrom heaven’s first work, and Eve’s original look.
You, happy saint, the serpent’s power control;Scarce any actual guilt defiles your soul;And hell does o’er that mind vain triumphs boastWhich gains does o’er that mind vain triumphs boast
With virtue strong as yours had Eve been arm’d,In vain the fruit had blush’d, or serpent charm’d;Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought,Nor had frail Adam fall’n, nor Milton wrote.
TO MY LORD BUCKHURST, VERY YOUNG, PLAYING WITH A CAT
The amorous youth, whose tender breastWas by his darling Cat possest,Obtain’d of Venus his desire,Howe’er irregular his fire:Nature the power of love obey’d,The Cat became a blushing maid,And on the happy change the boyEmploy’d his wonder and his joy. Take care, O beauteous child, take care,Lest thou prefer so rash a prayer,Nor vainly hope the queen of love,Will e’er thy favourite’s charms improve.O quickly from her shrine retreat,Or tremble for thy darling’s fate.The queen of love, who soon will seeHer own Adonis live in thee,Will lightly her first loss deplore,Will easily forgive the boar:Her eyes with tears no more will flow,With jealous rage her breast will glow, And on her tabby rival’s faceShe deep will mark a new disgrace.
AN ODE: WHILE FROM OUR LOOKS, FAIR NYMPH, YOU GUESS
While from our looks, fair nymph, you guessThe secret passions of our mind;My heavy eyes, you say, confessA heart to love and grief inclined.
There needs, alas! but little artTo have this fatal secret found;With the same ease you threw the dart,’Tis certain you can show the wound.
How can I see you, and not love,While you as opening cast are fair?While cold as northern blasts you prove,How can I love, and not despair?
The wretch in double fetters boundYour potent mercy may release;Soon, if my love but once were crown’d, Fair prophetess, my grief would cease.
A SONG. IN VAIN YOU TELL YOUR PARTING LOVER
In vain you tell your parting loverYou wish fair winds may waft him overAlas! what winds can happy proveThat bear me far from what I love?Alas! what dangers on the mainCan equal those that I sustainFrom slighted vows and cold disdain?
Be gentle, and in pity chooseTo wish the wildest tempests loose,That thrown again upon the coastWhere first my shipwreck’d heart was lost,I may once more repeat my pain,Once more in dying notes complainOf slighted vows and cold disdain.
THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERD
Alexis shun’d his Fellow Swains,Their rural Sports, and jocund Strains:(Heav’n guard us all from Cupid’s Bow!)He lost his Crook, He left his Flocks;And wand’ring thro’ the lonely Rocks,He nourish’d endless Woe.The Nymphs and Shepherds round Him came:His Grief Some pity, Others blame:The fatal Cause All kindly seek.He mingled his Concern with Their’s:He gave ’em back their friendly Tears:He sigh’d, but would not speak.Clorinda came among the rest:And She too kind Concern exprest,And ask’d the Reason of his Woe:She ask’d, but with an Air and Mein,That made it easily foreseen,She fear’d too much to know.The Shepherd rais’d his mournful Head:And will You pardon Me, He said,While I the cruel Truth reveal?Which nothing from my Breast should tear;Which never should offend Your Ear;But that You bid Me tell.’Tis thus I rove, ’tis thus complain;Since You appear’d upon the Plain:You are the Cause of all my Care:Your Eyes ten thousand Dangers dart:Ten thousand Torments vex My Heart:I love, and I despair.Too much, Alexis, I have heard:’Tis what I thought; ’tis what I fear’d:And yet I pardon You, She cry’d:But You shall promise ne’er againTo breath your Vows, or speak your Pain:He bow’d, obey’d, and dy’d.
TO THE HONOURABLE CHARLES MONTAGUE, ESQ.
Howe’er, ’tis well that, while mankindThrough fate’s perverse meander errs,He can imagined pleasures find To combat against real cares.
Fancies and notions he pursues,Which ne’er had being but in thought;Each, like the Grecian artist, wooes,The image he himself has wrought.
Against experience he believes;He argues against demonstration:Pleased when his reason he deceives,And sets his judgement by his passion.
The hoary fool, who many daysHas struggled with continued sorrow,Renew’s his hope, and blindly laysThe desperate bet upon to-morrow.
To-morrow comes: ’tis noon, ’tis night:This day like all the former flies;Yet on he runs to seek delightTo-morrow, till to-night he dies.
Our hopes like towering falcons aimAt objects in an airy height:The little pleasure of the gameIs from afar to view the flight.
Our anxious pains we all the dayIn search of what we like employ;Scorning at night the worthless prey,We find the labour gave the joy.
At distance through an artful glassTo the mind’s eye things well appear;They lose their forms, and make a massConfused and black, if brought too near.
If we see right we see our woes:Then what avails it to have eyes?From ignorance our comfort flows:The only wretched are the wise.
We weary’d should lie down in death:This cheat of life would take no moreIf you thought fame but empty breath,I Phillis but a perjured whore.
HYMN TO THE SUN
Light of the World, and Ruler of the Year,With happy Speed begin Thy great Career;And, as Thou dost thy radiant Journeys run,Through every distant Climate own,That in fair Albion Thou hast seenThe greatest Prince, the brightest Queen,That ever sav’d a Land, or blest a Throne,Since first Thy Beams were spread, or Genial Power was known.
II.
So may Thy Godhead be confest;So the returning Year be blest;As His Infant Months bestowSpringing Wreaths for William’s Brow;As His Summer’s Youth shall shedEternal Sweets around Maria’s Head.From the Blessings They bestow,Our Times are dated, and our Æra’s move:They govern, and enlighten all Below,As Thou dost all Above.
III.
Let our Hero in the WarActive and fierce, like Thee, appear:Like Thee, great Son of Jove, like Thee,When clad in rising Majesty,Thou marchest down o’er Delos’ Hills confest,With all Thy Arrows arm’d, in all Thy Glory drest.Like Thee, the Hero does his Arms imploy,The raging Python to destroy,And give the injur’d Nations Peace and Joy.
IV.
From fairest Years, and Time’s more happy Stores,Gather all the smiling Hours;Such as with friendly Care have guardedPatriots and Kings in rightful Wars;Such as with Conquest have rewardedTriumphant Victors happy Cares;Such as Story has recordedSacred to Nassau’s long Renown,For Countries sav’d, and Battels won.
V.
March Them again in fair Array,And bid Them form the happy Day,The happy Day design’d to waitOn William’s Fame, and Europe’s Fate.Let the happy Day be crown’dWith great Event, and fair Success;No brighter in the Year be found,But That which brings the Victor home in Peace.
VI.
Again Thy Godhead We implore,Great in Wisdom as in Power;Again, for good Maria’s Sake, and Our’s,Chuse out other smiling Hours,Such as with Joyous Wings have fled,When happy Counsels were advising;Such as have lucky Omens shedO’er forming Laws, and Empires rising;Such as many Courses ran,Hand in Hand, a goodly Train,To bless the great Eliza’s Reign;And in the Typic Glory show,What fuller Bliss Maria shall bestow.
VII.
As the solemn Hours advance,Mingled send into the DanceMany fraught with all the Treasures,Which Thy Eastern Travels views;Many wing’d with all the Pleasures,Man can ask, or Heav’n diffuse:That great Maria all those Joys may know,Which, from Her Cares, upon Her Subjects flow.
VIII.
For Thy own Glory sing our Soveraign’s Praise,God of Verses and of Days:Let all Thy tuneful Sons adornTheir lasting Work with William’s Name:Let chosen Muses yet unbornTake great Maria for their future Theme:Eternal Structures let Them raise,On William’s and Maria’s Praise:Nor want new Subject for the Song;Nor fear they can exhaust the Store;‘Till Nature’s Musick lyes unstrung;‘Till Thou, great God, shalt lose Thy double Pow’r;And touch Thy Lyre, and shoot Thy Beams no more.
THE LADY’S LOOKING-GLASS
Celia and I the other DayWalk’d o’er the Sand-Hills to the Sea:The setting Sun adorn’d the Coast,His Beams entire, his Fierceness lost:And, on the Surface of the Deep,The Winds lay only not asleep:The Nymph did like the Scene appear,Serenely pleasant, calmly fair:Soft fell her words, as flew the Air.With secret Joy I heard Her say,That She would never miss one DayA Walk so fine, a Sight so gay.
But, oh the Change! the Winds grow high:Impending Tempests charge the Sky:The Lightning flies: the Thunder roars:And big Waves lash the frighten’d Shoars.Struck with the Horror of the Sight,She turns her Head, and wings her Flight;And trembling vows, She’ll ne’er againApproach the Shoar, or view the Main.
Once more at least look back, said I;Thy self in That large Glass descry:When Thou art in good Humour drest;When gentle Reason rules thy Breast;The Sun upon the calmest SeaAppears not half so bright as Thee:’Tis then, that with Delight I roveUpon the boundless Depth of Love:I bless my Chain: I hand my Oar;Nor think on all I left on Shoar.
But when vain Doubt, and groundless FearDo That Dear Foolish Bosom tear;When the big Lip, and wat’ry EyeTell Me, the rising Storm is nigh:’Tis then, Thou art yon’ angry Main,Deform’d by Winds, and dash’d by Rain;And the poor Sailor that must tryIts Fury, labours less than I.
Shipwreck’d, in vain to Land I make;While Love and Fate still drive Me back:Forc’d to doat on Thee thy own Way,I chide Thee first, and then obey:Wretched when from Thee, vex’d when nigh,I with Thee, or without Thee, die.
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP: A PASTORAL
By Sylvia if thy charming self be meant;If friendship be thy virgin vows’ extent,O! let me in Aminta’s praises join,Hers my esteem shall be, my passion thine.When for thy head the garland I prepare,A second wreath shall bind Aminta’s hair;And when my choicest songs thy worth proclaim,Alternate verse shall bless Aminta’s name; My heart shall own the justice of her cause,And Love himself submit to Friendship’s laws.But if beneath thy numbers’ soft disguiseSome favour’d swain, some true Alexis, lies;If Amaryllis breathes thy secret pains,And thy fond heart beats measure to thy strains,May’st thou, howe’er I grieve, for ever findThe flame propitious and the lover kind;May Venus long exert her happy power,And make thy beauty like thy verse endure:May every god his friendly aid afford,Pan guard thy flock, and Ceres bless thy board.But if, by chance, the series of thy joysPermit one thought less cheerful to arise,Piteous transfer it to the mournful swain,Who loving much, who not beloved again,Feels an ill-fated passion’s last excess,And dies in wo that thou may’st live in peace.
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE FOREGOING PASTORAL
By Sylvia if thy charming self be meant;If friendship be thy virgin vows’ extent,O! let me in Aminta’s praises join,Hers my esteem shall be, my passion thine.When for thy head the garland I prepare,A second wreath shall bind Aminta’s hair;And when my choicest songs thy worth proclaim,Alternate verse shall bless Aminta’s name; My heart shall own the justice of her cause,And Love himself submit to Friendship’s laws.But if beneath thy numbers’ soft disguiseSome favour’d swain, some true Alexis, lies;If Amaryllis breathes thy secret pains,And thy fond heart beats measure to thy strains,May’st thou, howe’er I grieve, for ever findThe flame propitious and the lover kind;May Venus long exert her happy power,And make thy beauty like thy verse endure:May every god his friendly aid afford,Pan guard thy flock, and Ceres bless thy board.But if, by chance, the series of thy joysPermit one thought less cheerful to arise,Piteous transfer it to the mournful swain,Who loving much, who not beloved again,Feels an ill-fated passion’s last excess,And dies in wo that thou may’st live in peace.
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP:
A PASTORAL. BY MRS. ELIZABETH SINGER.
AMARYLLIS.
WHILE from the skies the ruddy sun descends,And rising night the ev’ning shadeWhile pearly dews o’erspread the fruitful field,And closing flowers reviving odours yield;Let us, beneath these spreading trees, reciteWhat from our hearts our Muses may indite.Nor need we, in this close retirement, fear,Lest any swain our am’rous secrets hear.
SILVIA.
To ev’ry shepherd I would mine proclaim;Since fair Aminta is my softest theme: 10A stranger to the loose delights of love,My thoughts the nobler warmth of friendship prove:And, while its pure and sacred fire I sing,Chaste goddess of the groves, thy succour bring.
AMARYLLIS.
Propitious God of Love, my breast inspireWith all thy charms, with all thy pleasing fire:Propitious God of Love, thy succour bring;Whilst I thy darling, thy Alexis sing.Aloxis, as the opening blossoms fair,Lovely as light, and soft as yielding air. 20For him each virgin sighs; and on the plainsThe happy youth above each rival reigns.Nor to the echoing groves, and whisp’ring spring,In sweeter strains does artful Conon sing,When loud applauses fill the crowded groves;And Phoebus the superior song approves.
SILVIA.
Beauteous Aminta is as early light,Breaking the melancholy shades of night.When she is near, all anxious trouble flies;And our reviving hearts confess her eyes. 30Young love, and blooming joy, and gay desires,In ev’ry breast the beauteous nymph inspires:And on the plain when she no more appears,The plain a dark and gloomy prospeet wears.In vain the streams roll on: the eastern breezeDances in vain among the trembling trees.In vain the birds begin their ev’ning song,And to the silent night their notes prolong:Nor groves, nor crystal streams, nor verdant fieldDoes wonted pleasure in her absence yield. 40
AMARYLLIS.
And in his absence, all the pensive day,In some obscure retreat I lonely stray;All day to the repeating eaves complain,In mournful accents, and a dying strain.Dear lovely youth, I cry to all around:Dear lovely youth, the flattering vales resound.
SILVIA.
On flow’ry banks, by ev’ry murm’ring stream,Aminta is my Muse’s softest theme:’Tis she that docs my artful notes refine:With fair Aminta’s name my noblest verse shall shine. 50
AMARYLLIS.
I’ll twine fresh garlands for Alexis’ brows,And consecrate to him eternal vows:The charming youth shall my Apollo prove:He shall adorn my songs, and tune my voice to love.
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE FOREGOING PASTORAL.
Y Silvia if thy charming self be meant;If friendship be thy virgin vows’ extent;O! let me in Aminta’s praises join:Hers my esteem shall be, my passion thine.When for thy head the garland I prepare;A second Wreath shall bind Aminta’s hair:And when thy choicest songs thy worth proclaim;Alternate verse shall bless Aminta’s name;My heart shall own the justice of her cause;And Love himself submit to Friendship’s laws. But, if beneath thy numbers’ soft disguise,Some favour’d swain, some true Alexis lies;If Amaryllis breathes thy secret pains,And thy fond heart beats measure to thy strains,Mayst thou, howe’er I grieve, for ever findThe flame propitious, and the lover kind:May Venus long exert her happy power,And make thy beauty, like thy verse, endure;May ev’ry God his friendly aid afford;Pan guard thy flock, and Geres bless thy board. 20 But, if by chance the series of thy joysPermit one thought less cheerful to arise;Piteous transfer it to the mournful swain,Who loving much, who not bélov’d again,Feels an ill-fated passion’s last excess;And dies in woe, that thou mayst live in peace.
TO A LADY, SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME AND LEAVING ME IN THE ARGUMENT.
AN ODE.
SPARE, gen’rous Victor, spare the slave,Who did unequal war pursue;That more than triumph he might have,In being overcome by you.
In the dispute Whate’er I said,My heart was by my tongue belied;And in my looks you might have readHow much I argu’d on your side.
You, far from danger as from fear,Might have sustain’d an open fight: 10For seldom your opinions err;Your eyes are always in the right.
Why, fair one, would you not relyOn Reason’s force with Beauty’s join’d?Gould I their prevalence deny,I must at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to subdue,I only to the fight aspir’d:To keep the beauteous foe in viewWas all the glory I desir’d, 20
But she, howe’er of vict’ry sure,Contemns the wreath too long delay’d;And, arm’d with more immediate power,Calls cruel silence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight:She drops her arms, to gain the field:Secures her conquest by her flight:And triumphs, when she seems to yield.
So when the Parthian turn’d his steed,And from the hostile camp withdrew; 30With cruel skill the backward reedHe sent; and as he fled, he slew.
SEEING THE DUKE OF ORMOND’S PICTURE AT SIR GODFREY KNELLER’S
OUT from the injur’d canvas, Keller, strikeThese lines too faint: the picture is not like.Exalt thy thought, and try thy toil again:Dreadful in arms, on Landen’s glorious plainPlace Ormond’s Duke: impendent in the airLet his keen sabre, comet-like, appear,Where’er it points, denouncing death: belowDraw routed squadrons, and the num’rous foeFalling beneath, or flying from his blow: 9Till weak with wounds, and cover’d o’er with blood,Which from the patriot’s breast in torrents flow’d,He faints: his steed no longer heeds the rein;But stumbles o’er the heap his hand had slain.And now exhausted, bleeding, pale he lies;Lovely, sad object! in his half-clos’d eyesStern vengeance yet, and hostile terror stand:His front yet threatens; and his frowns command:The Gallic chiefs their troops around him call;Fear to approach him, though they see him fall. O Kneller, could thy shades and lights expressThe perfect hero in that glorious dress; 21Ages to come might Ormond’s picture know;And palms for thee beneath his laurels grow:In spite of Time thy work might ever shine;
CELIA TO DAMON.
Atque in amore mala hæc proprio, summeque secundoInveniuntur —— LUCRET. lib iv.
WHAT can I say, what arguments can proveMy truth, what colours can describe my love;If its excess and fury be not known,In what thy Celia has already done?Thy infant flames, whilst yet they were conceal’dIn tim’rous doubts, with pity I beheld;With easy smiles dispell’d the silent fear,That durst not tell me what I died to hear:In vain I strove to check my growing flame,Or shelter passion under friendship’s name: 10You saw my heart, how it my tongue belied,And when yon press’d, how faintly I denied — Ere guardian thought could bring its scatter’d aid;Ere reason could support the doubting maid;My soul surpris’d, and from herself disjoin’d,Left all reserve, and all the sex behind:From your command her motions she receiv’d;And not for me, but you, she breath’d and liv’d. But ever blest be Cytherea’s shrine;And fires eternal on her altars shine; 20Since thy dear breast has felt an equal wound;Since in thy kindness my desires are crown’d,By thy each look, and thought, and care, ’tis shown,Thy joys are centred all in me alone;And sure I am, thou wouldst not change this hourFor all the white ones Fate has in its power. — Yet thus belov’d, thus loving to excess, Yet thus receiving and returning bliss,In this great moment, in this golden now,When every trace of what, or when, or how, 30Should from my soul by raging love be torn,And far on swelling seas of rapture borne;A melancholy tear afflicts my eye;And my heart labours with a sudden sigh:Invading fears repel my coward joy:And ills foreseen the present bliss destroy. Poor as it is, this Beauty was the cause,That with first sighs your panting bosom rose:But with no owner Beauty long will stay,Upon the wings of Time borne swift away: 40Pass but some fleeting years, and these poor eyes(Where now without a boast some lustre lies)No longer shall their little honours keep;Shall only be of use to read, or weep:And on this forehead, where your verse has said,The Loves delighted, and the Graces play’d;Insulting Age will trace his cruel way,And leave sad marks of his destructive sway.Mov’d by my charms, with them your love may cease,And as the fuel sinks, the flame decrease: 50Or angry Heav’n may quicker darts prepare;And Sickness strike what Time awhile would spare.Then will my swain his glowing vows renew?Then will his throbbing heart to mine beat true?When my own face deters me from my glass;And Kneller only shows what Celia was.Fantastic fame may sound her wild alarms:Your country, as you think, may want your arms.You may neglect, or quench, or hate the flame,Whose smoke too long obscur’d your rising name:And quickly cold indiff’rence will ensue; 61When you Love’s joys through Honour’s optic view.Then Celia’s loudest prayer will prove too weak,To this abandon’d breast to bring you back;When my lost lover the tall ship ascends,With music gay, and wet with jovial friends:The tender accents of a woman’s cryWill pass unheard, will unregarded die;When the rough seaman’s louder shouts prevail;When fair occasion shows the springing gale; 70And Int’rest guides the helm; and Honour swells the sail.Some wretched lines from this neglected handMay find my hero on the foreign strand,Warm with new fires, and pleas’d with new command:While she who wrote ’em, of all joy bereft,To the rude censure of the world is left;Her mangled fame in barb’rous pastime lost,The coxcomb’s novel, and the drunkard’s toast. But nearer care (O pardon it!) suppliesSighs to my breast, and sorrow to my eyes. 80Love, Love himself (the only friend I have)May scorn his triumph, having bound his slave.That tyrant god, that restless conquerorMay quit his pleasure, to assert his pow’r;Forsake the provinces that bless his sway,To vanquish those which will not yet obey.Another nymph with fatal power may rise,To damp the sinking beams of Celia’s eyes;With haughty pride may hear her charms confest;And scorn the ardent vows that I have blest: 90You ev’ry night may sigh for her in vain,And rise each morning to some fresh disdain;While Celia’s softest look may cease to charm,And her embraces want the power to warm:While these fond arms, thus circling you, may proveMore heavy chains than those of hopeless love.Just gods! all other things their like produce:The vine arises from her mother’s juice:When feeble plants, or tender flowers decay,They to their seed their images convey: 100Where the old myrtle her good influence sheds,Sprigs of like leaf erect their filial heads:And when the parent rose decays and dies,With a resembling face the daughter-buds ariseThat product only which our passions bear,Eludes the planter’s miserable care:While blooming Love assures us golden fruit,Some inborn poison taints the secret root:Soon fall the flowers of joy; soon seeds of hatred shoot.Say, shepherd, say, are these reflections true? 110Or was it but the woman’s fear, that drew inThis cruel scene, unjust to Love and you?Will you be only, and for ever mine?Shall neither time, nor age our souls disjoin?From this dear bosom shall I ne’er be torn?Or you grow cold, respectful, and forsworn?And can you not for her you love do more,Than any youth for any nymph before?
AN ODE PRESENTED TO THE KING, ON HIS MAJESTY’S ARRIVAL IN HOLLAND, AFTER THE
QUEEN’S DEATH, MDCXCV.
Quia desiderio sit pudor aut modus Tam can capitis? Praecipe lugubresCantus, Melpomene.
AT Mary’s tomb, (sad, sacred place!)The Virtues shall their vigils keep:And every Muse, and every GraceIn solemn state shall ever weep.
The future, pious, mournful fair,Oft as the rolling years return,With fragrant wreathe, and flowing hair,Shall visit her distinguish’d urn.
For her the wise and great shall mourn;When late records her deeds repeat: 10Ages to some, and men unbornShall bless her name, and sigh her fate.
Fair Albion shall, with faithful trust,Her holy Queen’s sad reliques guard;Till Heav’n awakes the precious dust,And gives the saint her full reward.
But let the king dismiss his woes,Reflecting on his fair renown;And take the cypress from his brows,To put his wonted laurels on. 20
If press’d by grief our monarch stoops;In vain the British lions roar:If he, whose hand sustain’d them, droops,The Belgic darts will wound no more.
Embattled princes wait the chief,Whose voice should rule, whose arm should lead;And, in kind murmurs, chide that grief,Which hinders Europe being freed.
The great example they demand,Who still to conquest led the way; 30Wishing him present to command,As they stand ready to obey.
They seek that joy, which used to glow,Expanded on the hero’s face;When the thick squadrons press’d the foe,And William led the glorious chace.
To give the mourning nations joy,Restore them thy auspicious light,Great sun: with radiant beams destroyThose clouds, which keep thee from our sight.
Let thy sublime meridian course 41For Mary’s setting rays atone;Our lustre, with redoubled force,Must now proceed from thee alone.
See, pious King, with diff’rent strifeThy struggling Albion’s bosom torn:So much she fears for William’s life,That Mary’s fate she dare not mourn.
Her beauty, in thy softer halfBuried and lost, she ought to grieve; 50But let her strength in thee be safe:And let her weep; but let her live.
Thou, guardian angel, save the landFrom thy own grief, her fiercest foe:Lest Britain, rescued by thy hand,Should bend and sink beneath thy woe.
Her former triumphs all are vain,Unless new trophies still be sought;And hoary majesty sustainThe battles, which thy youth has fought. 60Where now is all that fearful love,Which made her hate the war’s alarms?That soft excess, with which she stroveTo keep her hero in her arms?
While still she chid the coming spring.Which call’d him o’er his subject seas:While, for the safety of the king,She wish’d the victor’s glory less.
’Tis chang’d; ’tis gone: sad Britain nowHastens her lord to foreign wars: 70Happy, if toils may break his woe,Or danger may divert his cares.
In martial din she drowns her sighs,Lest he the rising grief should hear:She pulls her helmet o’er her eyes,Lest he should see the felling tear.
Go, mighty prince, let France be taught,How constant minds by grief are tried:How great the land, that wept and fought, 80When William led, and Mary died.
Fierce in the battle make it known,Where death with all his darts is seen.That he can touch thy heart with none,But that which struck the beauteous queen.
Belgia indulg’d her open grief,While yet her master was not near;With sullen pride refus’d relief,And sat obdurate in despair.
As waters from her sluices, flow’dUnbounded sorrow from her eyes: 90To earth her bended front she bow’d,And sent her wailings to the skies.
But when her anxious lord return’d,liais’d is her head, her eyes are dried;She smiles, as William ne’er had mourn’d;She looks, as Mary ne’er had died.
That freedom which all sorrows claim,She does for thy content resign:Her piety itself would blame,If her regrets should waken thine. 100
To cure thy woe, she shows thy fame;Lest the great mourner should forget.That all the race, whence Orange came,Made Virtue triumph over Fate.
