Part 24

And if he can, why all this frantic pain To construe what his clearest words contain, And make a riddle what he made so plain? To take up half on trust and half to try, Name it not faith, but bungling bigotry. Both knave and fool the merchant we may call, To pay great sums and to compound the small, For who would break with Heaven, and would not break for all?

Rest then, my soul, from endless anguish freed: Nor sciences thy guide, nor sense thy creed. Faith is the best insurer of thy bliss; The bank above must fail before the venture miss.

TO MY DEAR FRIEND MR. CONGREVE

ON HIS COMEDY CALLED 'THE DOUBLE DEALER'

Well then, the promised hour is come at last; The present age of wit obscures the past: Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ; Conquering with force of arms and dint of wit: Theirs was the giant race before the flood; And thus, when Charles returned, our empire stood. Like Janus, he the stubborn soil manured, With rules of husbandry the rankness cured; Tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude, And boisterous English wit with art endued. Our age was cultivated thus at length, But what we gained in skill we lost in strength. Our builders were with want of genius curst; The second temple was not like the first; Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length, Our beauties equal, but excel our strength. Firm Doric pillars found your solid base, The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space; Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace. In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise; He moved the mind, but had not power to raise. Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please, Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease. In differing talents both adorned their age, One for the study, t'other for the stage. But both to Congreve justly shall submit, One matched in judgment, both o'ermatched in wit. In him all beauties of this age we see: Etherege his courtship, Southern's purity, The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherley. All this in blooming youth you have achieved; Nor are your foiled contemporaries grieved. So much the sweetness of your manners move, We cannot envy you, because we love. Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw A beardless Consul made against the law, And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome, Though he with Hannibal was overcome. Thus old Romano bowed to Raphael's fame, And scholar to the youth he taught became.

O that your brows my laurel had sustained! Well had I been deposed, if you had reigned: The father had descended for the son, For only you are lineal to the throne. Thus, when the State one Edward did depose, A greater Edward in his room arose: But now, not I, but poetry, is curst; For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first. But let them not mistake my patron's part, Nor call his charity their own desert. Yet this I prophesy: Thou shalt be seen, Though with some short parenthesis between, High on the throne of wit, and seated there, Not mine--that's little--but thy laurel wear. Thy first attempt an early promise made; That early promise this has more than paid. So bold, yet so judiciously you dare, That your least praise is to be regular. Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought, But genius must be born, and never can be taught. This is your portion, this your native store: Heaven, that but once was prodigal before, To Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more.

Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need; For 'tis impossible you should proceed. Already I am worn with cares and age, And just abandoning the ungrateful stage: Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense, I live a rent-charge on His providence: But you, whom every Muse and grace adorn, Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and oh, defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend! Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue, But shade those laurels which descend to you: And take for tribute what these lines express; You merit more, nor could my love do less.

ODE

TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY

MRS. ANNE KILLIGREW,

EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER ARTS OF POESY AND PAINTING.

Thou youngest virgin daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the blest; Whose palms, new-plucked from Paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green above the rest: Whether, adopted to some neighboring star, Thou roll'st above us in thy wandering race, Or in procession fixed and regular Moved with the heaven's majestic pace, Or called to more superior bliss, Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss: Whatever happy region be thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since Heaven's eternal year is thine. Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse In no ignoble verse, But such as thy own voice did practice here, When thy first fruits of poesy were given, To make thyself a welcome inmate there; While yet a young probationer, And candidate of Heaven.

If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfused into thy blood: So wert thou born into the tuneful strain (An early, rich, and inexhausted vein). But if thy pre-existing soul Was formed at first with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.

May we presume to say that at thy birth New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth? For sure the milder planets did combine On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, And even the most malicious were in trine. Thy brother angels at thy birth Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high, That all the people of the sky Might know a poetess was born on earth; And then, if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres. And if no clustering swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew, 'Twas that such vulgar miracles Heaven had not leisure to renew: For all the blest fraternity of love Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.

O gracious God! how far have we Profaned thy heavenly gift of Poesy! Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debased to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordained above, For tongues of angels and for hymns of love! Oh wretched we! why were we hurried down This lubric and adulterate age, (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own,) To increase the steaming ordures of the stage? What can we say to excuse our second fall? Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all: Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled, Unmixed with foreign filth and undefiled; Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

Art she had none, yet wanted none, For Nature did that want supply: So rich in treasures of her own, She might our boasted stores defy: Such noble vigor did her verse adorn That it seemed borrowed, where 'twas only born. Her morals too were in her bosom bred, By great examples daily fed, What in the best of books, her father's life, she read. And to be read herself she need not fear; Each test and every light her Muse will bear, Though Epictetus with his lamp were there. Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest) Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast; Light as the vapors of a morning dream, So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, One would have thought she should have been content To manage well that mighty government; But what can young ambitious souls confine? To the next realm she stretched her sway, For Painture near adjoining lay, A plenteous province and alluring prey. A Chamber of Dependences was framed, As conquerors will never want pretense, (When armed to justify the offense,) And the whole fief in right of Poetry she claimed. The country open lay without defense; For poets frequent inroads there had made, And perfectly could represent The shape, the face, with every lineament, And all the large demains which the dumb Sister swayed; All bowed beneath her government. Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went. Her pencil drew whate'er her soul designed, And oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her mind; The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks And fruitful plains and barren rocks; Of shallow brooks that flowed so clear, The bottom did the top appear; Of deeper too and ampler floods Which, as in mirrors, showed the woods; Of lofty trees, with sacred shades And perspectives of pleasant glades, Where nymphs of brightest form appear, And shaggy satyrs standing near, Which them at once admire and fear. The ruins too of some majestic piece, Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece, Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie, And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye; What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame, Her forming hand gave feature to the name. So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before, But when the peopled Ark the whole creation bore.

The scene then changed; with bold erected look Our martial King the sight with reverence strook: For, not content to express his outward part, Her hand called out the image of his heart: His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, His high-designing thoughts were figured there, As when by magic ghosts are made appear. Our phoenix Queen was portrayed too so bright Beauty alone could beauty take so right: Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, Were all observed, as well as heavenly face. With such a peerless majesty she stands, As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands; Before a train of heroines was seen, In beauty foremost, as in rank the Queen. Thus nothing to her genius was denied, But like a ball of fire, the farther thrown, Still with a greater blaze she shone, And her bright soul broke out on every side. What next she had designed, Heaven only knows: To such immoderate growth her conquest rose That Fate alone its progress could oppose.

Now all those charms, that blooming grace, The well-proportioned shape and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; In earth the much-lamented virgin lies. Not wit nor piety could Fate prevent; Nor was the cruel Destiny content To finish all the murder at a blow, To sweep at once her life and beauty too; But, like a hardened felon, took a pride To work more mischievously slow, And plundered first, and then destroyed. O double sacrilege on things divine, To rob the relic, and deface the shrine! But thus Orinda died: Heaven by the same disease did both translate; As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.

Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas His waving streamers to the winds displays, And vows for his return with vain devotion pays. Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear, The winds too soon will waft thee here! Slack all thy sails, and fear to come; Alas! thou knowest not, thou art wrecked at home, No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face; Thou hast already had her last embrace. But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far, Among the Pleiads, a new-kindled star, If any sparkles than the rest more bright, 'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound To raise the nations under ground; When in the Valley of Jehoshaphat The judging God shall close the book of Fate, And there the last assizes keep For those who wake and those who sleep; When rattling bones together fly From the four corners of the sky; When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead; The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are covered with the lightest ground; And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing, Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shalt go, As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learned below.

A SONG

Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize Reserved for your victorious eyes: From crowds whom at your feet you see, Oh pity and distinguish me! As I from thousand beauties more Distinguish you, and only you adore.

Your face for conquest was designed, Your every motion charms my mind; Angels, when you your silence break, Forget their hymns to hear you speak; But when at once they hear and view, Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.

No graces can your form improve, But all are lost, unless you love; While that sweet passion you disdain, Your veil and beauty are in vain: In pity then prevent my fate, For after dying all reprieve's too late.

LINES PRINTED UNDER MILTON'S PORTRAIT

IN TONSON'S FOLIO EDITION OF THE 'PARADISE LOST,' 1688

Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed, The next in majesty, in both the last: The force of Nature could no farther go; To make a third she joined the former two.

ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC

A SONG IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY: 1697

I

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were placed around; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound: (So should desert in arms be crowned.) The lovely Thais, by his side, Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, In flower of youth and beauty's pride, Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair.

CHORUS

Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair.

II

Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touched the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seats above, (Such is the power of mighty love.) A dragon's fiery form belied the god: Sublime on radiant spires he rode, When he to fair Olympia pressed: And while he sought her snowy breast, Then round her slender waist he curled, And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound A present deity, they shout around; A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound: With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god, Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres.

CHORUS

With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god, Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres.

III

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain; Bacchus's blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain.

CHORUS

Bacchus's blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain.

IV

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he heaven and earth defied, Changed his hand, and checked his pride. He chose a mournful Muse, Soft pity to infuse; He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood; Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed; On the bare earth exposed he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of chance below; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow.

CHORUS

Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of chance below; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow.

V

The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree; 'Twas but a kindred sound to move, For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honor but an empty bubble, Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying: If the world be worth thy winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee; Take the good the gods provide thee; The many rend the skies with loud applause; So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again; At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

CHORUS

The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again; At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

VI

Now strike the golden lyre again; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark, the horrid sound Has raised up his head; As awaked from the dead, And amazed, he stares around. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise; See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain: Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew. Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods! The princes applaud with a furious joy; And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, And like another Helen, fired another Troy.

CHORUS

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, And like another Helen, fired another Troy.

VII

Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down.

GRAND CHORUS

At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down.

ACHITOPHEL[A]

From 'Absalom and Achitophel'

This plot, which failed for want of common-sense, Had yet a deep and dangerous consequence: For as when raging fevers boil the blood, The standing lake soon floats into a flood, And every hostile humor, which before Slept quiet in its channels, bubbles o'er; So several factions from this first ferment Work up to foam, and threat the government. Some by their friends, more by themselves thought wise, Opposed the power to which they could not rise. Some had in courts been great, and thrown from thence, Like fiends were hardened in impenitence. Some, by their monarch's fatal mercy, grown From pardoned rebels kinsmen to the throne, Were raised in power and public office high; Strong bands, if bands ungrateful men could tie.