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.
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
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.
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?
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.
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.
'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.
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.
BRIDE. Thy bosom then I'll make my nest,
Since there my willing soul doth perch. GROOM. And for my heart in thy chaste breast I'll make an everlasting search.
CHORUS. Oh blest disunion, &c.
OBSEQUIES TO THE LADY ANNE HAY1.
I HEARD the virgins sigh; I saw the sleek And polish'd courtier channel his fresh cheek With real tears; the new betrothed maid Smil'd not that day; the graver senate laid Their business by; of all the courtly throng Grief seal'd the heart, and silence bound the tongue: I that ne'er more of private sorrow knew Than from my pen some froward mistress drew, And for the public woe had my dull sense So sear'd with ever-adverse influence, As the invader's sword might have, unfelt, Pierc'd my dead bosom, yet began to melt: Grief's strong instinct did to my blood suggest In th' unknown loss peculiar interest. But when I heard the noble Carlisle's gem, The fairest branch of Denny's ancient stem, Was from that casket stolen, from this trunk torn, I found just cause why they, why I should mourn. But who shall guide my artless pen, to draw Those blooming beauties which I never saw ? How shall posterity believe my story, If I her crowded graces, and the glory Due to her riper virtues, shall relate Without the knowledge of her mortal state? Shall I, as once Appelles, here a feature, There steal a grace; and rifling so whole nature Of all the sweets a learned eye can see, Figure one Venus, and say, "Such was she?" Shall I her legend fill with what of old Hath of the worthies of her sex been told; And what all pens and times to all dispense, Restrain to her by a prophetic sense? Or shall I, to the moral and divine Exactest laws, shape by an even line
A life so straight, as it should shame the square Left in the rules of Katherine or Clare, And call it hers? Say," So did she begin; And, had she liv'd, such had her progress been?" These are dull ways, by which base pens, for hire, Daub glorious Vice, and from Apollo's quire Steal holy ditties, which profanely they Upon the hearse of every strumpet lay. We will not bathe thy corpse with a forc'd tear, Nor shall thy train borrow the blacks they wear; Such vulgar spice and gums embalm not thee; Thou art the theme of truth, not poetry. Thou shalt endure a trial by thy peers; Virgins of equal birth, of equal years, Whose virtues held with thine an emulous strife, Shall draw thy picture, and record thy life: One shall ensphere thine eyes, another shall Impearl thy teeth, a third thy white and small Hand shall besnow, a fourth incarnadine Thy rosy cheek; until each beauteous line, Drawn by her hand in whom that part excels, Meet in one centre, where all beauty dwells.
She was the daughter of James Hay, first earl
Others, in task, shall thy choice virtues share; Some shall their birth,some their ripe growth declare, Though niggardTime left much unhatch'd by deeds: They shall relate how thou hadst all the seeds Of every virtue, which in the pursuit
Of time must have brought forth admired fruit; Thus shalt thou from the mouth of Envy raise A glorious journal of thy thrifty days,
Like a bright star shot from his sphere, whose race In a continued line of flames we trace. This, if survey'd, shall to thy view impart How little more than late thou wert, thou art: This shall gain credit with succeeding times, When nor by bribed pens, nor partial rhimes Of engag'd kindred, but the sacred truth Is storied by the partners of thy youth; Their breath shall saint thee, and be this thy pride, Thus ev'n by rivals to be deify'd.
TO THE COUNTESS OF ANGLESEA',
UPON THE IMMODERATELY BY HER LAMENTED DEATH OF HER HUSBAND.
MADAM, men say you keep with dropping eyes Your sorrows fresh, wat'ring the rose that lies Fall'n from your cheeks upon your dear lord's hearse, Alas! those odours now no more can pierce His cold, pale nostril, nor the crimson dye Present a graceful blush to his dark eye. Think you that flood of pearly moisture hath The virtue fabled of old Eson's bath? You may your beauties and your youth consume Over his urn, and with your sighs perfume The solitary vault, which, as you groan, In hollow echoes shall repeat your moan: There you may wither, and an autumn bring Upon your self, but not call back his spring. Forbear your fruitless grief then; and let those Whose love was doubted, gain belief with shows To their suspected faith; you whose whole life In every act crown'd you a constant wife, May spare the practice of that vulgar trade, Which superstitious custom only made: Rather, a widow now of wisdom prove The pattern, as a wife you were of love. Yet since you surfeit on your grief, 'tis fit I tell the world upon what cares you sit Glutting your sorrows; and at once include His story, your excuse, my gratitude.
You, that behold how yon sad lady blends Those ashes with her tears, lest, as she spends Her tributary sighs, the frequent gust Might scatter up and down the noble dust; Know, when that heap of atoms was with blood Kneaded to solid flesh, and firmly stood On stately pillars, the rare form might move The froward Ino's, or chaste Cynthia's love. In motion, active grace; in rest, a calm; Attractive sweetness brought both wound and baln To every heart; he was compos'd of all The wishes of ripe virgins, when they call For Hymen's rites, and in their fancies wed A shape of studied beauties to their bed.
This was Elizabeth, the wife of the renowned Arthur Annesley, first earl of Anglesey, and daugh
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."
AN ELEGIACAL LETTER UPON THE DEATH OF THE KING OF SWEDEN 3
FROM AURELIAN TOWNSEND, INVITING ME TO WRITE
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.
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
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.
MARRIAGE OF T. K. AND C. C.
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
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:
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