תמונות בעמוד

Why to its caverns should it sometimes creep,
And with delighted silence sleep
On the lov’d bosom of its parent Deep?
Why should its numerous waters stay
In coinely discipline, and fair array,
Till winds and tides exert their high command'
Then prompt and ready to obey,
Why do the rising surges spread
Their opening ranks o'er Earth's submissive head,
Marching through different paths to differentlands?

Why does the constant Sun, With measur’d steps, his radiant journies run? Why does he order the diurnal hours To 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 powers To beautify the world, and bless the night 2 Why does each animated star Dove the just limits of its proper sphere 2 Why does each consenting sign With prudent harmony combine In turns to move, and subsequent appear, To gird the globe, and regulate the year?

Man does, with dangerous curiosity,
These unfathom'd wonders try :
With fancied rules and arbitrary laws
Matter and motion he restrains ;
And studied lines and fictious circles draws:
Them, with imagin'd sovereignty,
Lord 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.
From this last toil again what knowledge flows 2
.Just as much, perhaps, as shows
That all his predecessor's rules
Were 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 con-
firms his own.

On earth, in air, amidst the seas and skies, Mountainous heaps of wonders rise, Whose towering strength will ne'er submit To Reason's batteries, or the mines of Wit: Yet still inquiring, still mistaken man, Each hour repuls'd, each hour dares onward press: And, levelling at God his wandering guess, (That feeble engine of his reasoning war, [spair) Which guides his doubts, and combats his deLaws to his Maker the learn'd wretch can give: Can bound that nature, and prescribe that will, Whose 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, Might to a world extend each atom there; [star. For every drop call forth a sea, a heaven for every

Let cunning Farth her fruitful wonders hide ;

And only lift thy staggering reason up To 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 profan'd, yet bless'd, with Deicide.

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From your fair pattern she would strive to write,
And with unequal strength pursue your flight;
Yet hopes she ne'er can err that follows you,
Led by your blest commands, and great example
Then smiling and aspiring influence give,
And make the Muse and her endeavours live;
Claim all her future labours as your due,
Let every song begin and end with you:
So to the blest retreat she'll gladly go,
Where the saints' palm and Muses' laurel grow ;
Where kindly both in glad ombrace shall join,
And round your brow their mingled honours twine;
Both to the virtue due, which could excel,
As nuch in writing, as in living well—
So shall she proudly press the tuneful string,
An' mighty things in mighty numbers sing;
Nor doubt to strike Prudentius' daring lyre,
And humbly bring the verse winich you inspire.


TO THE BISHOP OF ELY, ox his departune from Cambridge.


Tril, dear Alexis, tell thy Damon, why
Dost thou in mournful shades obscurely lic 2
Why dost thou sigh, why strike thy panting breast 2
And steal from life the needful hours of rest ?
Are thy kids starv'd by winter's early frost 2
Are any of thy bleating stragglers lost 2 [ground 2
Have strangers' cattle trod thy new-plough'd
Has great Joanna, or her greater shepherd, frown'd?

Alexis. See my kids browze, my lambs securely play: (Ah were their master unconcern’d as they !) No beasts (at noon I look'd) had trod my ground ; Nor has Joanna, or her shepherd, frown'd.


Then stop the lavish fountain of your eves,
Morlet those sighs from your swoln bosom rise;
Chase sadness, friend, and solitude away ;
And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.


Say what can more our tortur’d souls annoy,
Than to behold, admire, and lose our joy
Whose fate more hard than those who sadly run,
For the last glimpse of the departing Sun?
Or what severer sentence can be given,
Than, having seen, to be excluded Heaven?

DAMon. None, shepherd, none— - Al-exis.

Then cease to chide my cares

And rather pity than restrain my tears;
Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed,
To think how great my joys; how soon they fled.
I told thee, friend, (now bless the shepherd's name,
Fron whose dear care the kind occasion came)
That I, ever I, might happily receive [give:
The sacred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis

That I might see the lovely awful swain, -
Whose holy crosier guides our willing plain;
Whose pleasing power and ruling goodness keep
Our souls with equal care as we our sheep;
Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each
Whilst only he who caus'd, dislikes the song.
To this great, humble, parting man I gain'd
Access, and happy for an hour I reign'd;
Happy as new-form'd man in paradise,
Fre sin debauch'd his innoffensive bliss ;
Happy as heroes after battles won,
Prophets entranc'd, or monarchs on the throne; -
But (oh, my friend ') those joys with Daphnis
To them these tributary tears are due. [flew:

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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 Muse,
What greater the me 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,
Admir'd how high 'twas plac d, how bright it shone:
But, as his power was known, their thoughts were
rais'd; -
And soon they worship'd, what at first they prais'd.
Eliza's glory lives in Spenser's song;
And Cowley's verse keeps fair Orinda young.
That as in birth, in 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.
Strange force of harmony, that thus controls
Our 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
That with your numbers you our zeal night raise,
And, like himself, communicate vour jov.
When to your native Heaven you shall repair,
And with your presence crown the blessinos there,
Your lute may wind its strings out little higher,
To tune their notes to that immortal quire.

Your art is perfect here; your numbers do,
More than our books, Inake the rude atheist know
That 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 impart
Harmonious ail, divinity helps art;
Some cherub finishes what you begun,
And to a miracle improves a tune.
To burning Rome, when frantic Nero play'd,
Viewing that face, no more he had survey'd
The raging flames; but, struck with strange sur-
Confess'd them less than those of Anna's eyes:
But, had he heard thy lute, he soon had found
His rage eluded, and his crime atom'd :
Thine, like Amphion's hand, had wak'd the stone,
And from destruction call'd the rising town :
Malice to Music had been forc'd to yield;
Nor could he burn so fast, as thou could'st build.

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But would you meanly thus rely On 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 ; Not see thy mercy, and yet dread thy power 2 Take heed, my dear: youth flies apace; As well as Cupid, Time is blind: Soon must those glories of thy face The 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 frown A hateful wrinkle more appears; And putting peevish humours on, Seems but the sad effect of years:

Kindness itself too weak a charm will prove To raise the feeble fires of aged love.

Forc'd 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, Kindness and constancy will prove The only pillars, fit to bear So 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 prove That thou all kindness art, and I all love. ,

Be mine, and only mine; take care Thy looks, thy thoughts, thy dreams,to guide To me alone; nor come so far, As liking any youth b'side: What men e'er court thee, fly them, and believe They'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.


When crowding folks, with strange ill faces,
Were making legs, and begging places,
And some with patents, some with merit,
Tir'd 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 vext, and legs grown weary,
I thought it was in vain to tarry:
But 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.
Now, 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 'ad 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 whelp
When first he laps, and scarce can yelp,

Neglects or turns him out of gate
When he's grown up to dog's estate:
Nor parish, if they once adopt
The spurious brats by strollers dropt,
Leave 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 contriv'd me ways of thriving;
Taught me with cider to replenish
My vats, or ebbing tide of Rhenish.
So when for hock I drew priekt 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,
l'ad found some handsome ways of g tting.
All this you made me quit, to follow
That sneaking whey-fac'd god Apollo;
Sent me among a fiddling crew
Of folks, I 'ad never seen nor knew,
Calliope, and God knows who.
To add no more invectives to it,
You spoil'd the youth, to make a poet.
In common justice, sir, there's no man
That makes the whore, but keeps the woman.
Among all honest christian people,
Whoe'er breaks limbs, maintains the cripple.
The sum of all I have to say,
Is, that you'd put me in some way;
And vour petitionershall 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 observ'd,
That one mouse eats, while t'other's starv'd.


sia, hurleigh, May 14, 1689.

As once a twelvemonth to the priest,
Holy at Rome, here antichrist,
The Spanish king presents a jennet,
To show his love;—that's all that's in it:
For if his holiness would thump
His reverend bum 'gainst horse's rump,
He might b' equipt from his own stable
With one more white, and eke more able. -
Or as, with gondolas and men, his
Good excellence the duke of Venice
(I wish, for rhyme, ’t had been the king)
Sails out, and gives the Gulph a ring ;
Which trick of state, he wisely maintains,
Keeps kindness up 'twixt old acquaintance;
For else, in honest truth, the sea
Has much less need of gold than he.
Or, not to rove, and pump one's fancy
For popish similies beyond sea;
As folks from mud-wall'd tenement
Bring landlords pepper-corn for rent;
Present a turkey, or a hen,
To those might better spare them ten;
Ev’n so, with all submission, I
{For first men instance, then apply)
Send you each year a homely letter,
Who may return me much a better,

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Then take it, sir, as it was writ, To pay respect, and not shew wit: Nor look askew at what it saith; There's no petition in it—faith, Here some would scratch their heads, and try What they should write, and how, and why; But, I conceive, such folks are quite in Mistakes, in theory of writing. If once for principle 'tis laid, That thought is trouble to the head; I argue thus: the world agrees That he writes well, who writes with ease: Then he, by sequel logical, Writes best, who never thinks at all. Verse comes from Heaven, like inward light; More humau pains can ne'er come by 't. The god, not we, the poem makcs; We only tell folks what he speaks. Hence, when anatomists discourse, How like brutes' organs are to ours; They grant, if higher powers think fit, A bear might soon be made a wit; And that, for anything in nature, Pigs might squeak love-odes, dogs bark satire. Memnon, though stone, was counted vocal; But 'twas the god, meanwhile, that spoke all. Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing, With prompting priest behind the hanging: The wooden head resolved the question; While you and Pettis help'd the jest on. Your crabbed rogues, that read Lucretius, Are against gods, you know; and teach us, The gods make not the poet; but The thesis, vice-versa put, Should Hebrew-wise be understood; And means, the poet makes the god. Fgyptian gardeners thus are said to Have set the leeks they after pray'd to: And Romish bakers praise the deity They chipp'd while yet in its paneity. That when you poets swear and cry, “The god inspires " I rave, I die!” If inward wind does truly swell ye, 'T inust be the colic in your belly: That writing is but just like dice, And lucky mains make people wise: That jumbled words, if Fortune throw 'em, Shall, well as Dryden, form a poem; . Or make a speech, correct and witty, As you know who—at the committee. So atoms dancing round the centre, They urge, made all things at a venture. But, granting matters should be spoke By method, rather than by luck; This may confine their younger styles, Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's; But never could be meant to tye Authentic wits, like you and I: For as young children, who are tied in Go-carts, to keep their steps from sliding: When members knit, and legs grow stronger, Make use of such machine no longer; But leap pro libitu, and scout On horse call’d hobby, or without; So when at school we first declaim, Old Busby walks us in a theme, Whose props support our infant vein, And help the rickets in the brain: But, when our souls their force dilate, Aud thoughts grow up to wit’s estate;


In verse or prose, we write or chat,
Not sixpence matter upon what.
'Tis not how well an author says;
But 'tis how much, that gathers praise.
Tomson, who is himself a wit,
Counts writ rs' merits by the sheet.
Thus ‘ach should down with all he thinks,
As boys eat broad, to fill up chinks.
Kind sir, I should be glad to see you;
I hope y' are well; so God be wi' you.
Was all I thought at first to write;
But things, since then, are alter'd quite:
Fancies flow in, and Muse flies high;
So God knows when my clack will lie.
I must, sir, prattle on, as afore,
And beg your pardon yet this half-hour.
So at pure barn of loud Non-con,
Where with my granam I have gone,
When Lobb had sifted all his text,
And I well hop'd the pudding next;
“Now to apply,” has plagu'd me more
Than all his villain cant before.
For your Religion, first, of her
Your friends do savoury things aver:
They say, she's honest as your claret,
Not sour'd with cant, nor stumn'd with merit;
Your chamber is the sole retreat
Of chaplains every Sunday night:
Of grace, no doubt, a certain sign,
When layman herds with man divine;
For, if their fame be justly great,
Who would no popish nuncio treat;
That his is greater, we must grant,
Who will treat nuncios protestant.
One single positive weighs more,
You know, than negatives a score.
In politics, I hear, you're stanch,
Directly bent against the French;
Deny to have your free-born toe
I}ragoon'd into a wooden shoe :
Are in no plots; but fairly drive at
The public welfare, in your private;
And will for England's glory try
Turks, Jews, and Jesuits, to defy,
And keep your places till you die.
For me, whom wandering Fortune threw
From what I lov’d, the town and you :
Let me just tell you how my time is
Past in a country life.—Imprimis,
As soon as Phoebus' rays inspect us,
First, sir, I read, and then I breakfast;
So on, till for said god does set,
I sometimes study, sometimes eat.
Thus, of your heroes and brave boys,
With whom old Homer makes such noise,
The greatest actions I can find, -
Are, that they did their work, and din'd.
The books, of which I'm chiefly fond,
Are such as you have whilom conn'd ;
That treat of China's civil law,
And subjects' right in Goleonda;
Of highway-elephants at Ceylan,
That rob in clans, like men o' th' Highland ;
Of apes that storm, or keep a town,
As well almost as count Lauzun ;
Of unicorns and alligators,
Ilks, mermoils, mummies, witches, satyrs,
And twenty other stranger matters;
which, though they’re things I’ve no concern in,
Make all our grooms admire my learning.

Critics I read on other men, And hypers upon them again; From whose remarks I give opinion On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one. Then all your wits, that fleer and sham, Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram; From whom I jests and puns purloin, And slily put them off for mine: Fond to be thought a country wit: The rest—when Fate and you think fit. Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her To bottled ale, and neighbouring vicar; Sometimes at Stamford take a quart, “Squire Shephard's health”—“With all my heart.” Thus, without much delight or grief, I fool away an idle life: Tiil Shadwell from the town retires (Chok'd up with fame and sea-coal fires), To bless the wood with peaceful lyric: Then hey for praise and panegyric; Justice restor'd, and nations freed, And wreaths round William's glorious head.

TO THE COUNTESS OF DORSET. w RITTEN IN HEn Milton. by Mr. Br. Aldbury.

See here how bright the first-born virgin shone,
And how the first fond lover was undone.
Such charming words, our b. auteous 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. on the same subject.

Herr reading how fond Adam was betray'd,
And how by sin Eve's blasted chairms decay’d;
Our common loss unjustly you complain;
So small that part of it, which you sustain.
You still, fair mother, in your of spring trace
The stock of beauty destin'd for the race:
Kind Nature, forming them, the pattern took
From 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 triumph boast,
Which gains a Heaven, for earthly Föen lost. -
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 you Ng, play ING wirh a car.

The amorous youth, whose tender breast Was by his darling cat possest,

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