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POEMS

OF THE

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.

THE TEMPLE OF DEATH.

IN IMITATION OF THE FRENCH.

Is those cold climates, where the Sun appears
Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears,
A dismal vale lies in a desert isle,

On which indulgent Heaven did never smile.
There a thick grove of aged cypress trees,
Which none, without an awful horrour, sees,
Into its wither'd arms, depriv'd of leaves,
Whole flocks of ill-presaging birds receives:
Poisons are all the plants that soil will bear,
And winter is the only season there:

Millions of graves o'erspread the spacious field,
And springs of blood a thousand rivers yield;
Whose streams, oppress'd with carcasses and bones,
Instead of gentle murmurs, pour forth groans
Within this vale a famous temple stands,
Old as the world itself, which it commands;
Round is its figure, and four iron gates
Divide mankind, by order of the Fates:
Thither in crowds come, to one common grave,
The young, the old, the monarch, and the slave.
Old Age and Pains, those evils man deplores,
Are rigid keepers of th' eternal doors;
All clad in mournful blacks, which sadly load
The sacred walls of this obscure abode;
And tapers, of a pitchy substance made,
With clouds of sinoke, increase the dismal shade.
A monster, void of reason and of sight,
The goddess is, who sways this realm of night;
Her power extends o'er all things that have breath,
A cruel tyrant, and her name is Death.
The fairest object of our wondering eyes
Was newly offer'd up her sacrifice;
Th' adjoining places where the altar stood,
Yet blushing with the fair Almeria's blood,
When griev'd Orontes, whose unhappy flame
Is known to all who e'er converse with Fame,
His mind possess'd by Fury and Despair,
Within the sacred temple made this prayer:
"Great deity! who in thy hands dost bear
That iron sceptre which poor mortals fear;
Who wanting eyes thyself, respectest none,
And neither spar'st the laurel nor the crown!

O thou, whom all mankind in vain withstand,
Each of whose blood must one day stain thy hand!
O thou, who every eye that sees the light
Closest for ever in the shades of night!
Goddess attend, and hearken to my grief,
To which thy power alone can give relief.
Alas! I ask not to defer my fate,

But wish my hapless life a shorter date;
And that the Earth would in its bowels hide
A wretch, whom Heaven invades on every side:
That from the sight of day I could remove,
And might have nothing left me but my love,

"Thou only comforter of minds opprest,
The port where wearied spirits are at rest;
Conductor to Elysium, take my life,
My breast I offer to thy sacred knife;
So just a grace refuse not, nor despise
A willing, though a worthless sacrifice.
Others (their frail and mortal state forgot)
Before thy altars are not to be brought
Without constraint; the noise of dying rage,
Heaps of the slain of every sex and age,
The blade all reeking in the gore it shed,
With sever'd heads and arms confus'dly spread;
The rapid flames of a perpetual fire,
The groans of wretches ready to expire:
This tragic scene in terrour makes them live,
Till that is forc'd which they should freely give;
Yielding unwillingly what Heaven will have,
Their fears eclipse the glory of their grave:
Before thy face they make indecent moan,
And feel a hundred deaths in fearing one :
Thy flame becomes unhallow'd in their breast,
And he a murderer who was a priest.
But against me thy strongest forces call,
And on my head let all the tempest fall;
No mean retreat shall any weakness show,
But calmly I'll expect the fatal blow;
My limbs not trembling, in my mind no fear,
Plaints in my mouth, nor in my eyes a tear.
Think not that Time, our wonted sure relief,
That universal cure for every grief,

Whose aid so many lovers oft' have found,
With like success can ever heal my wound:
Too weak the power of Nature, or of Art,
Nothing but Death can ease a broken heart:

And that thou may'st behold my helpless state,
Learn the extremest rigour of my fate."

Amidst th' innumerable beauteous train,
Paris, the queen of cities, does contain,
(The fairest town, the largest, and the best)
The fair Almeria shin'd above the rest :
From her bright eyes to feel a hopeless flame,
Was of our youth the most ambitious aim;
Her chains were marks of honour to the brave,
She made a prince whene'er she made a slave.
Love, under whose tyrannic power I groan,
Shew'd me this beauty ere 'twas fully blown;
Her timorous charms, and her upractis'd look,
Their first assurance from my conquest took;
By wounding me, she learn'd the fatal art,
And the first sigh she had was from my heart;
My eyes, with tears moistening her snowy arms,
Render'd the tribute owing to her charms.
But, as I soonest of all mortals paid
My vows, and to her beauty altars made;
So, among all those slaves that sigh'd in vain,
She thought me only worthy of my chain :
Love's heavy burden my submissive heart
Endur'd not long, before she bore her part;
My violent flame melted her frozen breast,
And in soft sighs her pity she express'd;
Her gentle voice allay'd my raging pains,
And her fair hands sustain'd me in my chains;
Ev'n tears of pity waited on my moan,
And tender looks were cast on me alone.
My hopes and dangers were less inine than her's,
Those fill'd her soul with joys, and these with fears;
Our hearts, united, had the same desires,
And both alike burn'd with impatient fires.

Too faithful Memory! I give thee leave
Thy wretched master kindly to deceive;
Oh, make me not possessor of her charms,
Let me not find her languish in my arms!
Past joys are now my fancy's mournful themes;
Make all my happy nights appear but dreams:
Let not such bliss before my eyes be brought,
O hide those scenes from my tormenting thought;
And in their place disdainful beauty show;
If thou would'st not be cruel, make her so:
And, something to abate my deep despair,
O let her seem less gentle, or less fair!
But I in vain flatter my wounded mind;
Never was nymph so lovely or so kind:
No cold repulses my desire supprest,

I seldom sigh'd, but on Almeria's breast:
Of all the passions which mankind destroy,
I only felt excess of love and joy:

All things below, alas! uncertain stand;
The firmest rocks are fix'd upon the sand:
Under this law both kings and kingdoms bend,
And no beginning is without an end.
A sacrifice to Time, Fate dooms us all,
And at the tyrant's feet we daily fall:
Time, whose bold hand will bring alike to dust
Mankind, and temples too, in which they trust.
Her wasted spirits now begin to faint,
Yet patience ties her tongue from all complaint,
And in her heart as in a fort remains ;
But yields at last to her resistless pains.
Thus while the Fever, amorous of his prey,
Through all her veins makes his delightful way,
Her fate's like Semele's; the flames destroy
That beauty they too eagerly enjoy.
Her charming face is in its spring decay'd,
Pale grow the roses, and the lilies fade;
Her skin has lost that lustre which surpass'd
The Sun's, and well deserv'd as long to last:
Her eyes, which us'd to pierce the hardest hearts,
Are now disarm'd of all their flames and darts;
Those stars now heavily and slowly move;
And Sickness triumphs in the throne of Love.
The fever every moment more prevails,
Its rage her body feels, and tongue bewails:
She, whose disdain so many lovers prove,
Sighs now for torment, as they sigh for love,
And with loud cries, which rend the neighbouring
air,

Wounds my sad heart, and weakens my despair.
Both men and gods I charge now with my loss,
And, wild with grief, my thoughts each other cross,
My heart and tongue labour in both extremes,
This sends up humble prayers, while that blas-
phemes:

I ask their help, whose malice I defy,
And mingle sacrilege with piety.

But, that which must yet more perplex my mind,
To love her truly, I must seem unkind;
So unconcern'd a face my sorrow wears,
I must restrain unruly floods of tears.

My eyes and tongue put on dissembling forms,
I show a calmness in the midst of storms;

I seem to hope when all my hopes are gone,
And, almost dead with grief, discover none.
But who can long deceive a loving eye,
Or with dry eyes behold his mistress die ;
When passion had with all its terrours brought
Th' approaching danger nearer to my thought,
Off on a sudden fell the fore'd disguise,
And show'd a sighing heart in weeping eyes:

Unnumber'd pleasures charm'd my sense, and they My apprehensions, now no more confin'd,

Were, as my love, without the least allay,
As pure, alas! but not so sure, to last,
For, like a pleasing dream, they are all past.
From Heaven her beauties like fierce lightnings

came,

Which break through darkness with a glorious flame;

Awhile they sbine, awhile our minds amaze
Our wondering eyes are dazzled with the blaze;
But thunder follows, whose resistless rage
None can withstand, and nothing can assuage;
And all that light which those bright flashes gave,
Serves only to conduct us to our grave.

When I had just begun love's joys to taste,
(Those full rewards for fears and dangers past)
A fever seiz'd her, and to nothing brought
The richest work that ever Nature wrought,

Expos'd my sorrows, and betray'd my mind.
The fair afflicted soon perceives my tears,
Explains my sighs, and thence concludes my fears:'
With sad presages of her hopeless case,
She reads her fate in my dejected face;
Then feels my torment, and neglects her own,
While I am sensible of hers alone;

Each does the other's burthen kindly bear,
I fear her death, and she bewails my fear;
Though thus we suffer under Fortune's darts,
'Tis only those of Love which reach our hearts.

Mean while the fever mocks at all our fears,
Grows by our sighs, and rages at our tears:
Those vain effects of our as vain desire,
Like wind and oil, increase the fatal fire.
Almeria then, feeling the destinies
About to shut her lips, and close her eyes

Weeping, in mine, fix'd her fair trembling hand,
And with these words I scarce could understand,
Her passion in a dying voice express'd

Half, and her sighs, alas! made out the rest.
"Tis past; this pang-Nature gives o'er the
strife;

Thou must thy mistress lose, and I my life.
I die; but dying thine, the Fates may prove
Their conquest over me, but not my love:
Thy memory, my glory and my pain,
In spite of Death itself shall still remain.
Dearest Orontes, my hard fate denies,

That hope is the last thing which in us dies: [fled,
From my griev'd breast all those soft thoughts are
And love survives it, though my hope is dead;
I yield my life, but keep my passion yet,

And can all thoughts, but of Orontes, quit.

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My flame increases as my strength decays; Death, which puts out the light, the heat will raise:

That still remains, though I from hence remove;
I lose my lover, but I keep my love." [word,

The sighs which sent forth that last tender
Up tow'rds the Heavens like a bright meteor soar'd;
And the kind nymph, not yet bereft of charms,
Fell cold and breathless in her lover's arms.

Goddess, who now my fate hast understood,
Spare but my tears, and freely take my blood:
Here let me end the story of my cares;
My dismal grief enough the rest declares.
Judge thou, by all this misery display'd,
Whether I ought not to implore thy aid:
Thus to survive, reproaches on me draws;
Never sad wishes had so just a cause.

Come then, my only hope; in every place
Thou visitest, men tremble at thy face,
And fear thy name: once let thy fatal hand
Fall on a swain that does the blow demand.
Vouchsafe thy dart; I need not one of those,
With which thou dost unwilling kings depose:
A welcome death the slightest wound can bring,
And free a Soul already on her wing.
Without thy aid, most miserable I
Must ever wish, yet not obtain to die.

ODE ON LOVE.

Ler others songs or satires write,
Provok'd by vanity or spite;
My Muse a nobler cause shall move,
To sound aloud the praise of Love:

That gentle, yet resistless heat,

Which raises men to all things good and great:
While other passions of the mind

To low brutality debase mankind,
By Love we are above ourselves refin'd.

Oh, Love, thou trance divine! in which the Soul,
Unclogg'd with worldly cares, may range without
control;
[can teach
And, soaring to her Heaven, from thence inspir'd
High mysteries, above poor Reason's feeble reach.
To weak old age, Prudence some aid may prove,
And curb those appetites that faintly move;
But wild, impetuous youth, is tam'd by nothing
less than Love.

Of men too rough for peace, too rude for arts,
Love's power can penetrate the hardest hearts;

And through the closest pores a passage find,
Like that of light, to shine o'er all the mind.
The want of love does both extremes produce;
Maids are too nice, and men as much too loose;
While equal good an amorous couple find,
She makes him constant, and he makes her kind.
New charms in vain a lover's faith would prove;"
Hermits or bed-rid men they'll sooner move:
The fair inveigler will but sadly find

There's no such eunuch as a man in love.
But when by his chaste nymph embrac'd,
(For Love makes all embraces chaste)
Then the transported creature can

Do wonders, and is more than man.
Both Heaven and Earth would our desires confine;
But yet in vain both Heaven and Earth combine,
Unless where Love blesses the great designs
Hymen makes fast the band, but Love the heart;
He the fool's god, thou Nature's Hymen art;
Whose laws, once broke, we are not held by force,
But the false breach itself is a divorce.

For Love the miser will his gold despise,
The false grow faithful, and the foolish wise;
Cautious the young, and complaisant the old,
The cruel gentle, and the coward bold.

Thou glorious Sun within our souls,
Whose influence so much controls;
Ev'n dull and heavy lumps of Love,
Quicken'd by thee, more lively move;

And, if their heads but any substance hold,
Love ripens all that dross into the purest gold.
In Heaven's great work thy part is such,
That, master-like, thou giv'st the last great touch
To Heaven's own master-piece of man ;
And finishest what Nature but began:
Thy happy stroke can into softness bring
Reason, that rough and wrangling thing.
From childhood upwards we decay,
And grow but greater children every day:
To Reason, how can we be said to rise?
So many cares attend the being wise,
'Tis rather falling down a precipice.
From Sense to Reason unimprov'd we move;
We only then advance, when Reason turns to Love.

Thou reignest o'er our carthly gods;

Uncrown'd by thee, their other crowns are loads;
One Beauty's smile their meanest courtier brings
Rather to pity than to envy kings;

His fellow slaves he takes them now to be,
Favour'd by Love, perhaps, much less than he.
For Love, the timorous bashful maid

Of nothing but denying is afraid;

For Love she overcomes her shame,

Forsakes her fortune, and forgets her fame;
Yet, if but with a constant lover blest,
Thanks Heaven for that, and never minds the rest.

Love is the salt of life; a higher taste
It gives to pleasure, and then makes it last.
Those slighted favours which cold nymphs dispense,
Defective both in metal and in measure,
Mere common counters of the sense,
A lover's fancy coins into a treasure.
How vast the subject! what a boundless store
Of bright ideas, shining all before!
The Muse's sighs forbid me to give o'er!
But the kind god incites us various ways,
And now I find him all my ardour raise,
His precepts to perform, as well as praise.

ELEGY TO THE DUTCHESS OF R

THOU lovely slave to a rude husband's will,
By Nature us'd so well, by him so ill!
For all that grief we see your mind endure,
Your glass presents you with a pleasing cure.
Those maids you envy for their happier state,
To have your form, would gladly have your fate;
And of like slavery each wife complains,
Without such beauty's help to bear her chains.
Husbands like him we every where may see;
But where can we behold a wife like thee?

While to a tyrant you by Fate are ty'd,
By Love you tyrannize o'er all beside:
Those eyes, though weeping, can no pity move;
Worthy our grief! more worthy of our love!
You, while so fair (do Fortune what she please)
Can be no more in pain than we at ease;
Unless, unsatisfied with all our vows,
Your vain ambition so unbounded grows,
That you repine a husband should escape
Th' united force of such a face and shape.
If so, alas! for all those charming powers,
Your case is just as desperate as ours.
Expect that birds should only sing to you,
And, as you walk, that ev'ry tree should bow;
Expect those statues, as you pass, should burn;
And that with wonder men should statues turn;
Such beauty is enough to give things life,
But not to make a husband love his wife :
A husband, worse than statues, or than trees;
Colder than those, less sensible than these.
Then from so dull a care your thoughts remove,
And waste not sighs you only owe to Love.
'Tis pity, sighs from such a breast should part,
Unless to ease some doubtful lover's heart;
Who dies, because he must too justly prize
What yet the dull possessor does despise.
Thus precious jewels among Indians grow,
Who nor their use, nor wondrous value, know;
But we, for those bright treasures, tempt the main,
And hazard life for what the fools disdain,

A LETTER FROM SEA.

FAIREST, if time and absence can incline

Your heart to wandering thoughts no more than mnine;

Then shall my hand, as changeless as my mind,
From your glad eyes a kindly welcome find;
Then, while this note my constancy assures,
You'll be almost as pleas'd, as I with yours.
And trust me, when I feel that kind relief,
Absence itself awile suspends its grief:
So may it do with you, but strait return;
For it were cruel not sometimes to mourn
His fate, who, this long time he keeps away,
Mourns all the night, and sighs out all the day;
Grieving yet more, when he reflects, that you
Must not be happy, or must not be true.
But since to me it seems a blacker fate
To be inconstant, than unfortunate;
Remember all those vows between us past,
When I from all I value parted last;
May you alike with kind impatience burn ;
And somethink miss, till I with joy return;
And soon may pitying Heaven that blessing give,
As in the hopes of that alone I live.

LOVE'S SLAVERY,

GRAVE fops my envy now beget,
Who did my pity move;
They, by the right of wanting wit,
Are free from cares of love.

Turks honour fools, because they are,
By that defect, secure
From slavery and toils of war,
Which all the rest endure,

So I, who suffer cold neglect

And wounds from Celia's eyes, Begin extremely to respect

These fools, that seem so wise.

"Tis true, they fondly set their hearts On things of no delight;

To pass all day for men of parts,
They pass alone the night.

But Celia never breaks their rest;
Such servants she disdains;
And so the fops are duly blest,
While I endure her chains.

THE DREAM,

READY to throw me at the feet
Of that fair nymph whom I adore,
Impatient those delights to meet

Which I enjoy'd the night before;

By her wonted scornful brow,

Soon the fond mistake I find; Ixion mourn'd his errour so,

When Juno's form the cloud resign'd.

Sleep, to make its charms more priz'd Than waking joys, which most prevail, Had cunningly itself disguis'd

In a shape that could not fail.

There my Celia's snowy arms,

Breasts, and other parts more dear,
Exposing new and unknown charms,
To my transported soul appear.

Then you so much kindness show,

My despair deluded flies;
And indulgent dreams bestow
What your cruelty denies.

Blush not that your image Love
Naked to my fancy brought;
'Tis hard, methinks, to disapprove
The joys I feel without your fault.

Wonder not a fancy'd bliss

Can such griefs as mine remove; That honour as fantastic is,

Which makes you slight such constant love.

The virtue which you value so,
Is but a fancy frail and vain;
Nothing is solid here below,

Except my love and your disdain,

TO ONE WHO ACCUSED HIM OF BEING TOO SENSUAL IN HIS LOVE. THINK not, my fair, 'tis sin or shame, To bless the man who so adores; Nor give so hard, unjust a name

To all those favours he implores.

Beauty is Heaven's most bounteous gift esteem'd, Because by love men are from vice redeem'd.

Yet wish not vainly for a love

From all the force of nature clear; That is reserv'd for those above,

And 'tis a fault to claim it here.

For sensual joys ye scorn that we should love ye, But love, without them, is as much above ye.

THE WARNING,

LOVERS, who waste your thoughts and youth
In passion's fond extremes,

Who dream of women's love and truth,
And doat upon your dreams:

I should not here your fancy take
From such a pleasing state,

Were you not sure at last to wake,
And find your fault too late.

Then learn, betimes, the love which crowns
Our cares is all but wiles,
Compos'd of false fantastic frowns,
And soft dissembling smiles.

With anger, which sometimes they feign,
They cruel tyrants prove;

And then turn flatterers again,
With as affected love.

As if some injury was meant
To those they kindly us'd,
Those lovers are the most content
That have been still refus'd.
Since each has in his bosom nurst
A false and fawning foe,
'Tis just and wise, by striking first,
To 'scape the fatal blow.

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A heart by kindness only gain'd,

Will a dear conquest prove; And, to be kept, must be maintain'd At vast expense of love.

THE VENTURE.

OH, how I languish! what a strange Unruly fierce desire!

My spirits feel some wondrous change,
My heart is all on fire.

Now, all ye wiser thoughts, away,
In vain your tale ye tell
Of patient hopes, and dull delay,
Love's foppish part; farewell.

Suppose one week's delay would give
All that my wishes move;
Who, who so long a time can live,
Stretch'd on the rack of Love?

Her soul, perhaps, is too sublime,
To like such slavish fear;
Discretion, prudence, all is crime,
If once condemn'd by her.
When honour does the soldier call
To some unequal fight,
Resolv'd to conquer, or to fall,

Before his general's sight;
Advanc'd the happy hero lives;

Or, if ill Fate denies,

The noble rashness Heaven forgives,
And gloriously he dies.

I

INCONSTANCY EXCUSED.

SONG.

MUST Confess, I am untrue

To Gloriana's eyes;

But he that's smil'd upon by you,

Must all the world despise.

In winter, fires of little worth

Excite our dull desire;

But when the Sun breaks kindly forth, Those fainter flames expire.

Then blame me not for slighting now
What I did once adore;

O, do but this one change allow,
And I can change no more:

Fixt by your never-failing charms,
Till I with age decay,

Till languishing within your arms,
I sigh my soul away.

SONG,

Он, conceal that charming creature From my wondering, wishing eyes! Every motion, every feature,

Does some ravish'd heart surprise; But, oh! I sighing, sighing, see The happy swain! she ne'er can be False to him, or kind to me.

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