ANOTHER.

A LADY RESCUED FROM DEATH BY A KNIGHT, WHO IN THE INSTANT LEAVES HER, COMPLAINS THUS.

OH whither is my fair sun fled,

Bearing his light not heat away? If thou repose in the moist bed

Of the sea-queen, bring back the day To our dark clime, and thou shalt lie Bath'd in the sea-flows from mine eye.

Upon what whirlwind didst thou ride

Hence, remain fixt in my heart, From me, and to me; fled, and ty'd? Dark riddles of the amorous art; Love lent thee wings to fly; so he Unfeather'd now must rest with me.

Help, help, brave youth! I burn, I bleed! The cruel god with bow and brand Pursues the life thy valour freed;

Disarm him with thy conquering hand; And that thou may'st the wild boy tame, Give me his dart, keep thou his flame.

As seems to blast thy (else immortal) bays, When thine own tongue proclaims thy itch of praise?

Such thirst will argue drought. No; let be hurl'd
Upon thy works, by the detracting world,
What malice can suggest; let the rout say,
The running sands, that (ere thou make a play)
Count the slow minutes, might a Goodwin1 frame,
To swallow, when th' hast done, thy shipwreck'd
name;

Let them the dear expense of oil upbraid,
Suck'd by thy watchful lamp, that hath betray'd
To theft the blood of martyr'd authors, spilt
Into thy ink, whilst thou grow'st pale with guilt:
Repine not at the taper's thrifty waste,
That sleeks thy terser poems; nor is haste
Praise, but excuse; and if thou overcome
A knotty writer, bring the booty home;
Nor think it theft, if the rich spoils, so torn
From conquer'd authors, be as trophies worn.
Let others glut on thee th' extorted praise
Of vulgar breath, trust thou to after-days:
Thy labour'd works shall live, when time devour
Th' abortive off-spring of their hasty hours:
Thou art not of their rank; the quarrel lies
Within thine own verge; then let this suffice,
The wiser world doth greater thee confess
Than all men else, than thyself only less.

TO BEN. JONSON,

UPON OCCASION OF HIS ODE OF DEFIANCE ANNEXED TO HIS PLAY OF THE NEW INN'.

'Tis true (dear Ben.) thy just chastising hand
Hath fix'd upon the sotted age a brand,

To their swoln pride and empty scribbling due:
It can nor judge, nor write; and yet, 'tis true,
Thy comic Muse from the exalted line
Touch'd by the alchymist, doth since decline
From that her zenith, and foretels a red
And blushing evening, when she goes to bed;
Yet such as shall out-shine the glimmering light
With which all stars shall gild the following night.
Nor think it much (since all thy eaglets may
Endure the sunny trial) if we say

This hath the stronger wing, or that doth shine
Trick'd up in fairer plumes, since all are thine.
Who hath his flock of cackling geese compar'd
With thy tun'd quire of swans? or else who dar'd
To call thy births deform'd? But if thou bind,
By city custom, or by gavel kind,

In equal shares thy love on all thy race,
We may distinguish of their sex, and place;
Though one hand form them, and through one brain
Souls into all, they are not all alike.
Why should the follies then of this dull age
Draw from thy pen such an immodest rage

[strike

This was the last of Ben. Jonson's dramatic productions, and it bore every mark of departing genius. The New-Inn gave him more vexation than all his former pieces had done. It was exhibited at the theatre without any success: but a great poet is never tired of fame; he appealed from the stage to the closet, and published his comedy, having prefixed to it an ode addressed to himself, in which he complimented his own abilities, and set the critics at defiance. To this ode our poet here alludes.

AN HYMENEAL DIALOGUE.

BRIDE AND GROOM.

GROOM.

TELL me (my love) since Hymen ty'd
The holy knot, hast thou not felt

A new infused spirit slide

Into thy breast, whilst thine did melt?

BRIDE.

First tell me (sweet) whose words were those? For though your voice the air did break, Yet did my soul the sense compose,

And through your lips my heart did speak.

GROOM.

Then I perceive, when from the flame Of love my scorch'd soul did retire Your frozen heart in her place came, And sweetly melted in that fire.

BRIDE.

'Tis true; for when that mutual change Of souls was made with equal gain,

I straight might feel diffus'd a strange But gentle heat through every vein.

CHORUS.

Oh blest disunion! that doth so

Our bodies from our souls divide, As two do one and one four grow,

Each by contraction multiply'd.

2 Carew here alludes to the Goodwin Sands in Kent, which have proved fatal to such a number of vessels and their crews.

Within this curious palace dwelt a soul
Gave lustre to each part, and to the whole :
This drest his face in courteous smiles;
and so
From comely gestures sweeter manners flow.
This courage join'd to strength; so the hand, bent,
Was Valour's; open'd, Bounty's instrument;
Which did the scale and sword of Justice hold,
Knew how to brandish steel and scatter gold.
This taught him not t' engage his modest tongue
In suits of private gain, though public wrong;
Nor misemploy (as is the great man's use)
His credit with his master, to traduce,
Deprave, malign, and ruin Innocence,

In proud revenge of some mis-judg'd offence:
But all his actions had the noble end

To advance desert, or grace some worthy friend.
He chose not in the active stream to swim,
Nor hunted Honour, which yet hunted him;
But like a quiet eddy that hath found
Some hollow creek, there turns his waters round,
And in continual circles dances, free
From the impetuous torrent; so did he
Give others leave to turn the wheel of state,
(Whose steerless motion spins the subject's fate)
Whilst he, retir'd from the tumultuous noise
Of court, and suitors' press, apart enjoys
Freedom, and mirth, himself, his time, and friends,
And with sweet relish tastes each hour he spends.
I could remember how his noble heart

First kindled at your beauties; with what art
He chas'd his game through all opposing fears,
When I his sighs to you, and back your tears
Convey'd to him; how loyal then, and how
Constant he prov'd since to his marriage vow,
So as his wandring eyes never drew in
One lustful thought to tempt his soul to sin;
But that I fear such mention rather may
Kindle new grief, than blow the old away.

Then let him rest, join'd to great Buckingham,
And with his brother's mingle his bright flame.
Look up, and meet their beams, and you from thence
May chance derive a cheerful influence.
Seck him no more in dust, but call again
Your scatter'd beauties home; and so the pen,
Which now I take from this sad elegy,
Shall sing the trophies of your conqu'ring eye.

Dry as the sand that measures it, might lay
Upon the ashes on the funeral day?

Have we not tune, nor voice? Didst thou dispense
Through all our language both the words and sense?
'T is a sad truth. The pulpit may her plain
And sober christian precepts still retain;
Doctrines it may, and wholsome uses, frame,
Grave homilies, and lectures; but the flame
Of thy brave soul (that shot such heat and light
As burnt our Earth, and made our darkness bright,
Committed holy rapes upon the will,

Did through the eye the melting hearts distil,
And the deep knowledge of dark truths so teach
As sense might judge what fancy could not reach)
Must be desir'd for ever. So the fire
That fills with spirit and heat the Delphic quire,
Which, kindled first by the Promethean breath,
Glow'd here a while, lies quench'd now in thy death.
The Muses' garden, with pedantic weeds
O'erspread, was purg'd by thee; the lazy seeds
Of servile imitation thrown away,

And fresh invention planted. Thou didst pay
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age:
Licentious thefts, that make poetic rage
A mimic fury, when our souls must be
Possest or with Anacreon's ecstasy
Or Pindar's, not their own; the subtle cheat
Of sly exchanges, and the juggling feat
Of two-edg'd swords; or whatsoever wrong
By ours was done the Greek or Latin tongue,
Thou hast redeem'd; and open'd us a mine
Of rich and pregnant fancy; drawn a line
Of masculine expression, which had good
Old Orpheus seen, or all the ancient brood
Our superstitious fools admire, and hold
Their lead more precious than thy burnish'd gold,
'Thou hadst been their exchequer, and no more
They each in other's dung had search'd for ore.
Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time,
And the blind fate of language, whose tun'd chime
More charms the outward sense: yet thou may'st
From so great disadvange greater fame, [claim
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
Our troublesome language bends, made only fit
With her tough thick-rib'd hoops to gird about
Thy giant fancy, which had prov'd too stout
For their soft, melting phrases. As in time
They had the start, so did they cull the prime
Buds of invention many a hundred year,
And left the rifled fields, besides the fear
To touch their harvest; yet from those bare lands
Of what was only thine, thy only hands
(And that their smallest work) have gleaned more
Than all those times and tongues could reap before.
But thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be
Too hard for libertines in poetry;
They will recall the goodly, exil'd train
Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just reign
The silenc'd tales i' th' Metamorphoses
Was banish'd noble poems. Now, with these,

Shall stuff their lines, and swell the windy page;
Till verse, refin'd by thee, in this last age
Turn ballad-rhime, or those old idols be
Ador'd again with new apostacy.

him; for in another place he exalts him above all the other bards, ancient and modern :

Oh pardon me! that break with untun'd verse The reverend silence that attends thy hearse; Whose solemn, awful murmurs were to thee, More than those rude lines, a loud elegy; That did proclaim in a dumb eloquence The death of all the arts, whose influence, Grown feeble, in these panting numbers lies, Gasping short-winded accents, and so dies: So doth the swiftly-turning wheel not stand I' th' instant we withdraw the moving hand, But some short-time retains a faint, weak course, By virtue of the first impulsive force; And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile Thy crown of bays, oh let it crack a while, And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes. I will not draw the envy, to engross All thy perfections, or weep all the loss; Those are too numerous for one elegy, "And 't is too great to be express'd by me: Let others carve the rest; it shall suffice, I on thy grave this epitaph incise.

"Here lies a king that rul'd as he thought fit The universal monarchy of wit;

Here lies two flamens 2, and both those the best; Apollo's first, at last the true God's priest."

IN ANSWER

TO

AN ELEGIACAL LETTER UPON THE DEATH OF THE KING OF SWEDEN 3

FROM AURELIAN TOWNSEND, INVITING ME TO WRITE

HY

ON THAT SUBJECT.

Way dost thou sound, my dear Aurelian,
In so shrill actions, from thy Barbican,
A loud alarum to my drowsy eyes,
Bidding them wake in tears and elegies
For mighty Sweden's fall? Alas! how may
My lyric feet, that of the smooth, soft way
Of Love and Beauty only know the tread,
In dancing paces celebrate the dead
Victorious king, or his majestic hearse
Profane with th' humble touch of their low verse?
Virgil nor Lucan, no, nor Tasso, more

Than both; not Donne, worth all that went before;
With the united labour of their wit
Could a just poem to this subject fit.
His actions were too mighty to be rais'd
Higher by verse: let him in prose be prais'd,
In modest faithful story, which his deeds
Shall turn to poems: when the next age reads
Of Francfort, Leipsic, Warsburgh, of the Rhine,
The Leck, the Danube, Tilley, Wallestein,
Bavaria, Dapenheim, Lutzen field, where he
Gain'd after death a posthume victory,

2 Alluding to his being both a poet and a divine. 'Gustavus Adolphus, the great protector of the protestants in Germany; who, after having subdued Ingria, Livonia, and Pomerania, was killed at the battle of Lutzen, near Leipsic.

4 Our author in this passage lost sight of his usual correctness. To "sound an alarum to the eyes" is a harsh expression on this side of the Irish Channel,-But, quandoque dormitat Homerus.

They'll think his acts things rather feign'd than done,
Like our romances of the Knight o' th' Sun.
Leave we him then to the grave chronicler,
Who though to annals he cannot refer
His too-brief story, yet his journals may
Stand by the Cæsar's years, and every day
Cut into minutes, each shall more contain
Of great designment than an emperor's reign:
And (since 't was but his church-yard) let him have
For his own ashes now no narrower grave
Than the whole German continent's vast womb,
Whilst all her cities do but make his tomb.
Let us to Supreme Providence commit
The fate of monarchs, which first thought it fit
To rend the empire from the Austrian grasp,
And next from Sweden's, even when he did clasp
Within his dying arms the sov❜reignty
Of all those provinces, that men might see
The Divine Wisdom would not leave that land
Subject to any one king's sole command.
Then let the Germans fear, if Cæsar shall,
Or the united princes, rise and fall;
But let us that in myrtle bowers sit,
Under secure shades, use the benefit

Of peace and plenty, which the blessed hand
Of our good king gives this obdurate land:
Let us of revels sing, and let thy breath
(Which fill'd Fame's trumpet with Gustavus' death,
Blowing his name to Heaven) gently inspire
Thy past'ral pipe till all our swains admire
Thy song and subject, whilst they both comprise
The beauties of the Shepherd's Paradise":
For who, like thee, (whose loose discourse is far
More neat and polish'd than our poems are,
Whose very gait's more graceful than our dance)
In sweetly flowing numbers may advance
The glorious night: when, not to act foul rapes,
Like birds, or beasts, but in their angel-shapes
A troop of deities came down to guide
Our steerless barks in Passion's swelling tide
By Virtue's card, and brought us from above
A pattern of their own celestial love.
Nor lay it in dark sullen precepts drown'd;
But with rich fancy and clear action crown'd,
Through a mysterious fable (that was drawn
Like a transparent veil of purest lawn
Before their dazzling beauties) the divine
Venus did with her heavenly Cupid shine:
The story's curious web, the masculine stile,
The subtle sense, did time and sleep beguile :
Pinion'd and charm'd, they stood to gaze upon
Th' angel-like forms, gestures, and motion;
To hear those ravishing sounds, that did dispense
Knowledge and pleasure to the soul and sense.
It fill'd us with amazement to behold
Love made all spirit; his corporeal mold,
Dissected into atoms, melt away

To empty air, and from the gross allay
Of mixtures and compounding accidents,
Refin'd to immaterial elements.

But when the queen of beauty did inspire
The air with perfumes, and our hearts with fire,
Breathing, from her celestial organ, sweet
Harmonious notes, our souls fell at her feet.
And did with humble, reverend duty, more
Her rare perfections than high state adore.

The title of a poem written by Aurelian Townsend.

These harmless pastimes let my Townsend sing
To rural tunes; not that thy Muse wants wing
To soar a loftier pitch, (for she hath made
A noble flight, and plac'd th' heroic shade
Above the reach of our faint, flagging rhime;)
But these are subjects proper to our clime.
Tornies, masks, theatres better become

Our Halcyon days. What though the German drum
Bellow for freedom and revenge? the noise
Concerns not us, nor should divert our joys;
Nor ought the thunder of their carabins
Drown the sweet airs of our tun'd violins.
Believe me, friend, if their prevailing pow'rs
Gain them a calm security like ours,
They'll hang their arms upon the olive bough,
And dance and revel then as we do now.

UPON-MR. W. MOUNTAGUE

HIS RETURN FROM TRAVEL.

LEAD the black bull to slaughter, with the boar
And lamb; then purple with their mingled gore
The Ocean's curled brow, that so we may
The sea-gods for their careful waftage pay:
Send grateful incense up in pious smoke

To those mild spirits that cast a curbing yoke
Upon the stubborn winds, that calmly blew
To the wish'd shore our long'd-for Mountague:
Then, whilst the aromatic odours burn

In honour of their darling's safe return,
The Muse's quire shall thus with voice and hand
Bless the fair gale that drove his ship to land.

Sweetly-breathing vernal air,

That with kind warmth do'st repair
Winter's ruins; from whose breast
All the gums and spice of th' east
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky;
Whose disshevel'd tresses shed
Pearls upon the violet bed;

On whose brow, with calm smiles dress'd,
The halcyon sits and builds her nest;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring,
Dwell upon thy rosy wing.
Thou, if stormy Boreas throws
Down whole forests when he blows,
With a pregnant flow'ry birth
Canst refresh the teeming earth:
If he nip the early bud,

If he blast what 's fair or good,
If he scatter our choice flowers,
If he shake our hills or bowers,
If his rude breath threaten ns;
Thou canst stroke great Eolus,
And from him the grace obtain
To bind him in an iron chain.

Thus, whilst you deal your body 'mongst your friends,
And fill their circling arms, my glad soul sends
This her embrace: thus we of Delphos greet;
As lay-men clasp their hands, we join our feet.

"This species of entertainment, we suppose, was a-kin to our modern routs, the expression seeming to be borrowed from the Spanish tornado, or hurri

cane.

TO

MASTER W. MOUNTAGUE.

SIR, I arrest you at your country's suit,
Who, as a debt to her, requires the fruit
Of that rich stock, which she by Nature's band
Gave you in trust, to th' use of this whole land:
Next she indites you of a felony,

For stealing what was her propriety',
Yourself, from hence; so seeking to convey
The public treasure of the state away.
More: y' are accus'd of ostracism, the fate
Impos'd of old by the Athenian state

On eminent virtue; but that curse which they
Cast on their men, you on your country lay:
For, thus divided from your noble parts,
This kingdom lives in exile, and all hearts
That relish worth or honour, being rent
From your perfections, suffer banishment.
These are your public injuries; but I
Have a just private quarrel, to defy
And call you coward; thus to run away
When you had pierc'd my heart, not daring stay
Till I redeem'd my honour: but I swear
By Celia's eyes, by the same force to tear
Your heart from you, or not to end this strife,
Till I or find revenge, or lose my life.
But as in single fights it oft hath been
In that unequal equal trial seen,

That he who had receiv'd the wrong at first,
Came from the combat oft too with the worst ;
So if you foil me when we meet, I'll then
Give you fair leave to wound me so again.

ON THE

MARRIAGE OF T. K. AND C. C.

THE MORNING STORMY.

SUCH should this day be, so the Sun should hide
His bashful face, and let the conquering bride
Without a rival shine, whilst he forbears
To mingle his unequal beams with hers;
Or if sometimes he glance his squinting eye
Between the parting clouds, 't is but to spy,
Not emulate her glories, so comes drest
In veils, but as a masker to the feast.
Thus Heav'n should lowr, such stormy gusts should
Not to denounce ungentle fates, but show,
The cheerful bridegroom to the clouds and wind
Hath all his tears and all his sighs assign'd.

Let tempests struggle in the air, but rest
Eternal calms within thy peaceful breast!
Thrice happy youth! but ever sacrifice

[blow,

To that fair hand that dry'd thy blubber'd eyes,
That crown'd thy head with roses, and turn'd all
The plagues of love into a cordial,

When first it join'd her virgin snow to thine,
Which when to day the priest shall recombine,
From the mysterious, holy touch, such charms
Will flow, as shall unlock her wreathed arms,
And open a free passage to that fruit
Which thou hast toil'd for with a long pursuit.
But ere thou feed, that thou mayst better taste
Thy present joys, think on thy torments past: