Part 10

Wretched _OEnone’s_ inauspicious fate, That she was born so soon, or her blest Muse so late! Cou’d the poor Virgin have like her complain’d, She soon her perjur’d Lover had regain’d, In spight of all the fair Seducers tears, In spight of all her Vows and Prayers; Such tender accents through his Soul had ran, As wou’d have pierc’d the hardest heart of Man. At every Line the fugitive had swore By all the Gods, by all the Powers divine, My dear _OEnone_, I’ll be ever thine, And ne’er behold the flattering Grecian more. How does it please the learned _Roman’s_ Ghost (The sweetest that th’ _Elysian_ Field can boast) To see his noble thoughts so well exprest, So tenderly in a rough Language drest; Had she there liv’d, and he her _Genius_ known, So soft, so charming, and so like his own, One of his Works had unattempted been, And _Ovid_ ne’er in mournfull Verse been seen; Then the great _Cæsar_ to the _Scythian_ plain, From _Rome’s_ gay Court had banish’d him in vain, Her plenteous Muse had all his wants supplied, And he had flourish’d in exalted pride: No barbarous _Getans_ had deprav’d his tongue, For he had onely list’ned to her Song, Not as an exile, but proscrib’d by choice, Pleas’d with her Form, and ravish’d with her voice. His last and dearest part of Life, Free from noise and glorious strife, He there had spent within her softer Armes, And soon forgot the Royal _Julia’s_ charmes.

VII.

Long may she scourge this mad rebellious Age, } And stem the torrent of Fanatick rage, } That once had almost overwhelm’d the Stage. } O’er all the Land the dire contagion spread, And e’en _Apollo’s_ Sons apostate fled: But while that spurious race imploy’d their parts } In studying strategems and subtile arts, } To alienate their Prince’s Subjects hearts, } Her Loyal Muse still tun’d her loudest strings, To sing the praises of the best of Kings. And, O ye sacred and immortal Gods, From the blest Mansions of your bright abodes, To the first _Chaos_ let us all be hurld, E’er such vile wretches should reform the World, That in all villany so far excell, } If they in sulphurous flames must onely dwell, } The Cursed Caitiffs hardly merit Hell. } Were not those vile _Achitophels_ so lov’d, (The blind, the senseless and deluded Crowd) Did they but half his Royal Vertues know, But half the blessings which to him they owe, His long forbearance to provoking times, And God-like mercy to the worst of crimes: Those murmuring _Shimei’s_, even they alone, } Cou’d they bestow a greater than his own, } Wou’d from a Cottage raise him to a Throne. }

VIII.

See, ye dull Scriblers of this frantick Age, That load the Press, and so o’erwhelm the Stage, That e’en the noblest art that e’er was known, As great as an _Egyptian_ Plague is grown: Behold, ye scrawling Locusts, what ye’ve done, What a dire judgment is brought down, By your curst Dogrel Rhimes upon the Town; On Fools and Rebels hangs an equal Fate, And both may now repent too late, For the great Charter of your Wit as well as Trade is gone. Once more the fam’d _Astræa’s_ come; ‘Tis she pronounc’d the fatal doom, And has restor’d it to the rightfull Heirs, Since Knowledge first in Paradise was theirs.

IX.

Never was Soul and Body better joyn’d, A Mansion worthy of so blest a Mind; See but the Shadow of her beauteous face, The pretious minitures of every Grace, There one may still such Charms behold, That as Idolaters of old, The works of their own hands ador’d, And Gods which they themselves had made implor’d; _Jove_ might again descend below, And, with her Wit and Beauty charm’d, to his own Image bow. But oh, the irrevocable doom of Nature’s Laws! How soon the brightest Scene of Beauty draws! Alas, what’s all the glittering Pride Of the poor perishing Creatures of a day, With what a violent and impetuous Tide, E’er they’re flow’d in their glories ebb away? The Pearl, the Diamond and Saphire must Be blended with the common Pebbles dust, And even _Astræa_ with all her sacred store, Be wreckt on Death’s inevitable Shore, Her Face ne’er seen and her dear Voice be heard no more. And wisely therefore e’er it was too late, She has revers’d the sad Decrees of Fate, And in deep Characters of immortal Wit, So large a _memorandum’s_ writ, That the blest memory of her deathless Name Shall stand recorded in the Book of Fame; When Towns inter’d in their own ashes lie, And Chronicles of Empires die, When Monuments like Men want Tombs to tell Where the remains of the vast ruines fell.

_To the excellent_ ASTRÆA.

We all can well admire, few well can praise Where so great merit does the Subject raise: To write our Thoughts alike from dulness free, On this hand, as on that from flattery; He who wou’d handsomly the _Medium_ hit, Must have no little of _Astræa’s_ Wit. Let others in the noble Task engage, Call you the _Phoenix_, wonder of the Age, The Glory of your Sex, the Shame of ours, Crown you with Garlands of Rhetorick Flowers; For me, alas, I nothing can design, } To render your soft Numbers more divine, } Than by comparison with these of mine: } As beauteous paintings are set off by shades, And some fair Ladies by their dowdy Maids; Yet after all, forgive me if I name One Fault where, _Madam_, you are much to blame, To wound with Beauty’s fighting on the square, But to o’ercome with Wit too is not fair; ‘Tis like the poison’d _Indian_ Arrows found, For thus you’re sure to kill where once you wound.

_J.W._

_To Madam_ A. Behn _on the publication of her Poems._

When the sad news was spread, The bright, the fair _Orinda’s_ dead, We sigh’d, we mourn’d, we wept, we griev’d, And fondly with our selves conceiv’d, A loss so great could never be retriev’d. The Ruddy Warriour laid his Truncheon by, Sheath’d his bright sword, and glorious Arms forgot, The sounds of Triumph, braggs of Victory, Rais’d in his Breast no emulative thought; For pond’ring on the common Lot, Where is, said He the Diff’rence in the Grave, Betwixt the Coward and the Brave? Since She, alas, whose inspir’d Muse should tell To unborn Ages how the Hero fell, From the Impoverisht Ignorant World is fled, T’inhance the mighty mighty Number of the dead.

II.

The trembling Lover broke his tuneless Lute, And said be thou for ever mute: Mute as the silent shades of night, Whither _Orinda’s_ gone, Thy musicks best instructress and thy musicks song; She that could make Thy inarticulated strings to speak, In language soft as young desires, In language chaste as _Vestal_ fires; But she hath ta’n her Everlasting flight: Ah! cruel Death, How short’s the date of Learned breath! No sooner do’s the blooming Rose, Drest fresh and gay, In the embroy’dries of her Native May, Her odorous sweets expose, But with thy fatal knife, The fragrant flow’r is crop’t from off the stalk of life.

III.

Come, ye _Stoicks_, come away, You that boast an Apathy, And view our _Golgotha_; See how the mourning Virgins all around, With Tributary Tears bedew the sacred ground; And tell me, tell me where’s the Eye That can be dry, Unless in hopes (nor are such hopes in vain) Their universal cry, Should mount the vaulted sky, And of the Gods obtain, A young succeeding _Phoenix_ might arise From _Orinda’s_ spicy obsequies. In Heaven the voice was heard, Heaven does the Virgins pray’rs regard; And none that dwells on high, If once the beauteous Ask, the beauteous can deny.

IV.

‘Tis done, ‘tis done, th’ imperial grant is past, We have our wish at last, And now no more with sorrow be it said, _Orinda’s_ dead; Since in her seat _Astræa_ does Appear, The God of Wit has chosen her, To bear _Orinda’s_ and his Character. The Laurel Chaplet seems to grow On her more gracefull Brow; And in her hand Look how she waves his sacred Wand: Loves Quiver’s tyde In an Azure Mantle by her side, And with more gentle Arts Than he who owns the Aureal darts, At once she wounds, and heals our hearts.

V.

Hark how the gladded Nymphs rejoyce, And with a gracefull voice, Commend _Apollo’s_ Choice. The gladded Nymphs their Guardian Angel greet, And chearfully her name repeat, And chearfully admire and praise, The Loyal musick of her layes; Whilst they securely sit, Beneath the banners of her wit, And scorn th’ill-manner’d Ignorance of those, Whose Stock’s so poor they cannot raise To their dull Muse one subsidy of praise, Unless they’re dubb’d the Sexes foes, These squibbs of sense themselves expose. Or if with stolen light They shine one night, The next their earth-born Lineage shows, They perish in their slime, And but to name them, wou’d defile _Astræa’s_ Rhime.

IV.

But you that would be truely wise, And vertues fair _Idea_ prize; You that would improve In harmless Arts of not indecent Love: Arts that _Romes_ fam’d Master never taught, Or in the Shops of fortune’s bought. Would you know what Wit doth mean, Pleasant wit yet not obscene, The several garbs that Humours wear, The dull, the brisk, the jealous, the severe? Wou’d you the pattern see Of spotless and untainted Loyalty, Deck’t in every gracefull word That language that afford; Tropes and Figures, Raptures and Conceits that ly, Disperst in all the pleasant Fields of poesie? Reade you then _Astræa’s_ lines, ‘Tis in those new discover’d Mines, Those golden Quarries that this Ore is found With which in Worlds as yet unknown _Astræa_ shall be crown’d.

VII.

And you th’ Advent’rous sons of fame, You that would sleep in honours bed With glorious Trophies garnished; You that with living labours strive Your dying Ashes to survive; Pay your Tributes to _Astræa’s_ name, Her Works can spare you immortality, For sure her Works shall never dye. Pyramids must fall and Mausolean Monuments decay, Marble Tombs shall crumble into dust, Noisie Wonders of a short liv’d day, That must in time yield up their Trust; And had e’er this been perisht quite Ith’ ruines of Eternal night, Had no kind Pen like her’s, In powerfull numbers powerfull verse, Too potent for the gripes of Avaritious fate, To these our ages lost declar’d their pristine State.

VIII.

But time it self, bright Nymph, shall never conquer thee, For when the Globe of vast Eternity; Turns up the wrong-side of the World, And all things are to their first _Chaos_ hurl’d, Thy lasting praise in thy own lines inroll’d, With _Roman_ and with the _British_ Names shall Equal honour hold. And surely none ‘midst the Poetick Quire, But justly will admire The Trophies of thy wit, Sublime and gay as e’er were yet In Charming Numbers writ. Or _Virgil’s_ Shade or _Ovid’s_ Ghost, Of Ages past the pride and boast; Or _Cowley_ (first of ours) refuse That thou shouldst be Companion of their Muse. And if ‘twere lawfull to suppose (As where’s the Crime or Incongruity) Those awfull Souls concern’d can be At any sublunary thing, Alas, I fear they’ll grieve to see, That whilst I sing, And strive to praise, I but disparage thee.

_By F. N. W._

_To Madam_ Behn, _on her Poems._

When th’.lmighty Powers th’.niverse had fram’d, And Man as King, the lesser World was nam’d. The Glorious Consult soon his joys did bless. And sent him Woman his chief happiness. She by an after-birth Heaven did refine, And gave her Beauty with a Soul divine; She with delight was Natures chiefest pride, Dearer to Man than all the World beside; Her soft embraces charm’d his Manly Soul, And softer Words his Roughness did controul: So thou, great _Sappho_, with thy charming Verse, Dost here the Soul of Poetry rehearse; From your sweet Lips such pleasant Raptures fell, As if the Graces strove which shou’d excell. Th’admiring World when first your Lute you strung. Became all ravisht with th’ immortal Song; So soft and gracefull Love in you is seen, As if the Muses had design’d you Queen. For thee, thou great _Britannia_ of our Land, How does thy Praise our tunefull Feet command? With what great influence do thy Verses move? } How hast thou shewn the various sense of Love? } Admir’d by us, and blest by all above. } To you all tribute’s due, and I can raise No glory but by speaking in your praise. Go on and bless us dayly with your Pen, And we shall oft return thee thanks again.

_H. Watson._

POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

_The Golden Age._

_A Paraphrase on a Translation out of French._

I.

Blest Age! when ev’ry Purling Stream Ran undisturb’d and clear, When no scorn’d Shepherds on your Banks were seen, Tortur’d by Love, by Jealousie, or Fear; When an Eternal Spring drest ev’ry Bough, And Blossoms fell, by new ones dispossest; These their kind Shade affording all below, And those a Bed where all below might rest. The Groves appear’d all drest with Wreaths of Flowers, And from their Leaves dropt Aromatick Showers, Whose fragrant Heads in Mystick Twines above, Exchang’d their Sweets, and mix’d with thousand Kisses, As if the willing Branches strove To beautifie and shade the Grove Where the young wanton Gods of Love Offer their Noblest Sacrifice of Blisses.

II.

Calm was the Air, no Winds blew fierce and loud, The Skie was dark’ned with no sullen Cloud; But all the Heav’ns laugh’d with continued Light, And scattered round their Rays serenely bright. No other Murmurs fill’d the Ear But what the Streams and Rivers purl’d, When Silver Waves o’er Shining Pebbles curl’d; Or when young _Zephirs_ fan’d the Gentle Breez, Gath’ring fresh Sweets from Balmy Flow’rs and Trees, Then bore ‘em on their Wings to perfume all the Air: While to their soft and tender Play, The Gray-Plum’d Natives of the Shades Unwearied sing till Love invades, Then Bill, then sing again, while Love and Musick makes the Day.

III.

The stubborn Plough had then, Made no rude Rapes upon the Virgin Earth; Who yielded of her own accord her plentious Birth, Without the Aids of men; As if within her Teeming Womb, All Nature, and all Sexes lay, Whence new Creations every day Into the happy World did come: The Roses fill’d with Morning Dew, Bent down their loaded heads, T’Adorn the careless Shepherds Grassy Beds While still young opening Buds each moment grew And as those withered, drest his shaded Couch a new; Beneath who’s boughs the Snakes securely dwelt, Not doing harm, nor harm from others felt; With whom the Nymphs did Innocently play, No spightful Venom in the wantons lay; But to the touch were Soft, and to the sight were Gay.

IV.

Then no rough sound of Wars Alarms, Had taught the World the needless use of Arms: Monarchs were uncreated then, Those Arbitrary Rulers over men: Kings that made Laws, first broke ‘em, and the Gods By teaching us Religion first, first set the World at Odds: Till then Ambition was not known, That Poyson to Content, Bane to Repose; Each Swain was Lord o’er his own will alone, His Innocence Religion was, and Laws. Nor needed any troublesome defence Against his Neighbours Insolence. Flocks, Herds, and every necessary good Which bounteous Nature had design’d for Food, Whose kind increase o’er-spread the Meads and Plaines, Was then a common Sacrifice to all th’agreeing Swaines.

V.

Right and Property were words since made, When Power taught Mankind to invade: When Pride and Avarice became a Trade; Carri’d on by discord, noise and wars, For which they barter’d wounds and scarrs; And to Inhaunce the Merchandize, miscall’d it, Fame, And Rapes, Invasions, Tyrannies, Was gaining of a Glorious Name: Stiling their salvage slaughters, Victories; Honour, the Error and the Cheat Of the Ill-natur’d Bus’ey Great, Nonsense, invented by the Proud, Fond Idol of the slavish Crowd, Thou wert not known in those blest days Thy Poyson was not mixt with our unbounded Joyes; Then it was glory to pursue delight, And that was lawful all, that Pleasure did invite, Then ‘twas the Amorous world injoy’d its Reign; And Tyrant Honour strove t’ usurp in Vain.

VI.

The flowry Meads, the Rivers and the Groves, Were fill’d with little Gay-wing’d Loves: That ever smil’d and danc’d and Play’d, And now the woods, and now the streames invade, And where they came all things were gay and glad: When in the Myrtle Groves the Lovers sat Opprest with a too fervent heat; A Thousands Cupids fann’d their wings aloft, And through the Boughs the yielded Ayre would waft: Whose parting Leaves discovered all below, And every God his own soft power admir’d, And smil’d and fann’d, and sometimes bent his Bow; Where e’er he saw a Shepherd uninspir’d. The Nymphs were free, no nice, no coy disdain; Deny’d their Joyes, or gave the Lover pain; The yielding Maid but kind Resistance makes; Trembling and blushing are not marks of shame, But the Effect of kindling Flame: Which from the sighing burning Swain she takes, While she with tears all soft, and down-cast-eyes, Permits the Charming Conqueror to win the prize.

VII.

The Lovers thus, thus uncontroul’d did meet, Thus all their Joyes and Vows of Love repeat: Joyes which were everlasting, ever new And every Vow inviolably true: Not kept in fear of Gods, no fond Religious cause, Nor in obedience to the duller Laws. Those Fopperies of the Gown were then not known, Those vain, those Politick Curbs to keep man in, Who by a fond mistake Created that a Sin; Which freeborn we, by right of Nature claim our own. Who but the Learned and dull moral Fool Could gravely have forseen, man ought to live by Rule?

VIII.

Oh cursed Honour! thou who first didst damn, A Woman to the Sin of shame; Honour! that rob’st us of our Gust, Honour! that hindred mankind first, At Loves Eternal Spring to squench his amorous thirst. Honour! who first taught lovely Eyes the art, To wound, and not to cure the heart: With Love to invite, but to forbid with Awe, And to themselves prescribe a Cruel Law; To Veil ‘em from the Lookers on, When they are sure the slave’s undone, And all the Charmingst part of Beauty hid; Soft Looks, consenting Wishes, all deny’d. It gathers up the flowing Hair, That loosely plaid with wanton Air. The Envious Net, and stinted order hold, The lovely Curls of Jet and shining Gold; No more neglected on the Shoulders hurl’d: Now drest to Tempt, not gratify the World: Thou, Miser Honour, hord’st the sacred store, And starv’st thy self to keep thy Votaries poor.

IX.

Honour! that put’st our words that should be free Into a set Formality. Thou base Debaucher of the generous heart, That teachest all our Looks and Actions Art; What Love design’d a sacred Gift, What Nature made to be possest; Mistaken Honour, made a Theft, For Glorious Love should be confest: For when confin’d, all the poor Lover gains, Is broken Sighs, pale Looks, Complaints and Pains. Thou Foe to Pleasure, Nature’s worst Disease, Thou Tyrant over mighty Kings, What mak’st thou here in Shepheards Cottages; Why troublest thou the quiet Shades and Springs? Be gone, and make thy Fam’d resort To Princes Pallaces; Go Deal and Chaffer in the Trading Court, That busie Market for Phantastick Things; Be gone and interrupt the short Retreat, Of the Illustrious and the Great; Go break the Politicians sleep, Disturb the Gay Ambitious Fool, That longs for Scepters, Crowns, and Rule, Which not his Title, nor his Wit can keep; But let the humble honest _Swain_ go on, In the blest Paths of the first rate of man; That nearest were to Gods Alli’d, And form’d for love alone, disdain’d all other Pride.

X.

Be gone! and let the Golden age again, Assume its Glorious Reign; Let the young wishing Maid confess, What all your Arts would keep conceal’d: The Mystery will be reveal’d, And she in vain denies, whilst we can guess, She only shows the Jilt to teach man how, To turn the false Artillery on the Cunning Foe. Thou empty Vision hence, be gone, And let the peaceful _Swain_ love on; The swift pac’d hours of life soon steal away: Stint not, yee Gods, his short liv’d Joy. The Spring decays, but when the Winter’s gone, The Trees and Flowers a new comes on; The Sun may set, but when the night is fled, And gloomy darkness does retire, He rises from his Watry Bed: All Glorious, Gay, all drest in Amorous Fire. But _Sylvia_ when your Beauties fade, When the fresh Roses on your Cheeks shall die Like Flowers that wither in the Shade, Eternally they will forgotten lye, } And no kind Spring their sweetness will supply. } When Snow shall on those lovely Tresses lye. } And your fair Eyes no more shall give us pain, But shoot their pointless Darts in vain. What will your duller honour signifie? Go boast it then! and see what numerous Store Of Lovers will your Ruin’d Shrine Adore. Then let us, _Sylvia_, yet be wise, And the Gay hasty minutes prize: The Sun and Spring receive but our short Light, Once sett, a sleep brings an Eternal Night.

A _Farewel to_ Celladon, _On his Going into_ Ireland.

Pindarick.