Part 11

Farewell the Great, the Brave and Good, By all admir’d and understood; For all thy vertues so extensive are, Writ in so noble and so plain a Character, That they instruct humanity what to do, How to reward and imitate ‘em too, The mighty _Cesar_ found and knew, The Value of a Swain so true: And early call’d the Industrious Youth from Groves Where unambitiously he lay, And knew no greater Joyes, nor Power then Loves; Which all the day The careless and delighted _Celladon_ Improves; So the first man in Paradice was laid, So blest beneath his own dear fragrant shade, Till false Ambition made him range, So the Almighty call’d him forth, And though for Empire he did _Eden_ change; Less Charming ‘twas, and far less worth.

II.

Yet he obeyes and leaves the peaceful Plains, The weeping Nymphs, and sighing Swains, Obeys the mighty voice of _Jove_. The Dictates of his Loyalty pursues, Bus’ness Debauches all his hours of Love; Bus’ness, whose hurry, noise and news Even Natures self subdues; Changes her best and first simplicity, Her soft, her easie quietude Into mean Arts of cunning Policy, The Grave and Drudging Coxcomb to Delude. Say, mighty _Celladon_, oh tell me why, Thou dost thy nobler thoughts imploy In bus’ness, which alone was made To teach the restless States-man how to Trade In dark Cabals for Mischief and Design, But n’ere was meant a Curse to Souls like thine. Business the _Check_ to Mirth and Wit, Business the Rival of the Fair, The Bane to Friendship, and the Lucky Hit, Onely to those that languish in Dispair; Leave then that wretched troublesome Estate To him to whom forgetful Heaven, Has no one other vertue given, But dropt down the unfortunate, To Toyl, be Dull, and to be Great.

III.

But thou whose nobler Soul was fram’d, For Glorious and Luxurious Ease, By Wit adorn’d, by Love inflam’d; For every Grace, and Beauty Fam’d, Form’d for delight, design’d to please, Give, Give a look to every Joy, That youth and lavish Fortune can invent, Nor let Ambition, that false God, destroy Both Heaven and Natures first intent. But oh in vain is all I say, And you alas must go, The Mighty _Cæsar_ to obey, And none so fit as you. From all the Envying Croud he calls you forth, He knows your Loyalty, and knows your worth; He’s try’d it oft, and put it to the Test, It grew in Zeal even whilst it was opprest, The great, the God-like _Celladon_, Unlike the base Examples of the times, Cou’d never be Corrupted, never won, To stain his honest blood with Rebel _Crimes_. Fearless unmov’d he stood amidst the tainted Crowd, And justify’d and own’d his Loyalty aloud.

IV.

_Hybernia_ hail! Hail happy Isle, Be glad, and let all Nature smile. Ye Meads and Plains send forth your Gayest Flowers; Ye Groves and every Purling Spring, Where Lovers sigh, and Birds do sing, Be glad and gay, for _Celladon_ is yours; He comes, he comes to grace your Plains. To Charm the Nymphs, and bless the Swains, Ecchoes repeat his Glorious Name To all the Neighbouring Woods and Hills; Ye Feather’d Quire chant forth his Fame, Ye Fountains, Brooks, and Wand’ring Rills, That through the Meadows in Meanders run, Tell all your Flowry Brinks, the generous Swain is come.

VI.

Divert him all ye pretty Solitudes, And give his Life some softning Interludes: That when his weari’d mind would be, From Noise and Rigid Bus’ness free; He may upon your Mossey Beds lye down, Where all is Gloomy, all is Shade, With some dear Shee, whom Nature made, To be possest by him alone; Where the soft tale of Love She breathes, Mixt with the rushing of the wind-blown leaves, The different Notes of Cheerful Birds, And distant Bleating of the Herds: Is Musick far more ravishing and sweet, Then all the Artful Sounds that please the noisey Great.

VII.

Mix thus your Toiles of Life with Joyes, And for the publick good, prolong your days: Instruct the World, the great Example prove, Of Honour, Friendship, Loyalty, and Love. And when your busier hours are done, And you with _Damon_ sit alone; _Damon_ the honest, brave and young; Whom we must Celebrate where you are sung, For you (by Sacred Friendship ty’d,) Love nor Fate can nere divide; When your agreeing thoughts shall backward run, Surveying all the Conquests you have won, The Swaines you’ave left, the sighing Maids undone; Try if you can a fatal prospect take, Think if you can a soft _Idea_ make: Of what we are, now you are gone, Of what we feel for _Celladon_.

VIII.

‘Tis _Celladon_ the witty and the gay, That blest the Night, and cheer’d the world all Day: ‘Tis _Celladon_, to whom our Vows belong, And _Celladon_ the Subject of our Song. For whom the Nymphs would dress, the Swains rejoice, The praise of these, of those the choice; And if our Joyes were rais’d to this Excess, Our Pleasures by thy presence made so great: Some pittying God help thee to guess, (What fancy cannot well Express.) Our Languishments by thy Retreat; Pitty our Swaines, pitty our Virgins more, And let that pitty haste thee to our shore; And whilst on happy distant Coasts you are, Afford us all your sighs, and _Cesar_ all your care.

On _a_ Juniper-Tree, _cut down to make_ Busks.

Whilst happy I Triumphant stood, The Pride and Glory of the Wood; My Aromatick Boughs and Fruit, Did with all other Trees dispute. Had right by Nature to excel, In pleasing both the tast and smell: But to the touch I must confess, Bore an Ungrateful Sullenness. My Wealth, like bashful Virgins, I Yielded with some Reluctancy; For which my vallue should be more, Not giving easily my store. My verdant Branches all the year } Did an Eternal Beauty wear; } Did ever young and gay appear. } Nor needed any tribute pay, For bounties from the God of Day: Nor do I hold Supremacy, (In all the Wood) o’er every Tree. But even those too of my own Race, That grow not in this happy place. But that in which I glory most, And do my self with Reason boast, Beneath my shade the other day, Young _Philocles_ and _Cloris_ lay, Upon my Root she lean’d her head, } And where I grew, he made their Bed: } Whilst I the Canopy more largely spread. } Their trembling Limbs did gently press, The kind supporting yielding Grass: Ne’er half so blest as now, to bear A Swain so Young, a Nimph so fair: My Grateful Shade I kindly lent, And every aiding Bough I bent. So low, as sometimes had the blisse, To rob the Shepherd of a kiss, Whilst he in Pleasures far above The Sence of that degree of Love: Permitted every stealth I made, Unjealous of his Rival Shade. I saw ‘em kindle to desire, Whilst with soft sighs they blew the fire; Saw the approaches of their joy, He growing more fierce, and she less Coy, Saw how they mingled melting Rays, Exchanging Love a thousand ways. Kind was the force on every side, } Her new desire she could not hide: } Nor wou’d the Shepherd be deny’d. } Impatient he waits no consent But what she gave by Languishment, The blessed Minute he pursu’d; And now transported in his Arms, Yeilds to the Conqueror all her Charmes, His panting Breast, to hers now join’d, They feast on Raptures unconfin’d; Vast and Luxuriant, such as prove The Immortality of Love. For who but a Divinitie, } Could mingle Souls to that Degree; } And melt ‘em into Extasie? } Now like the _Phenix_, both Expire, } While from the Ashes of their Fire, } Sprung up a new, and soft desire. } Like Charmers, thrice they did invoke, The God! and thrice new vigor took. Nor had the Mysterie ended there, But _Cloris_ reassum’d her fear, And chid the Swain, for having prest, What she alas wou’d not resist: Whilst he in whom Loves sacred flame, Before and after was the same, Fondly implor’d she wou’d forget A fault, which he wou’d yet repeat. From Active Joyes with some they hast, To a Reflexion on the past; A thousand times my Covert bless, That did secure their Happiness: Their Gratitude to every Tree They pay, but most to happy me; The Shepherdess my Bark carest, Whilst he my Root, Love’s Pillow, kist; And did with sighs, their fate deplore, Since I must shelter them no more; And if before my Joyes were such, In having heard, and seen too much, My Grief must be as great and high, } When all abandon’d I shall be, } Doom’d to a silent Destinie. } No more the Charming strife to hear, The Shepherds Vows, the Virgins fear: No more a joyful looker on, Whilst Loves soft Battel’s lost and won. With grief I bow’d my murmering Head, And all my Christal Dew I shed. Which did in _Cloris_ Pity move, (_Cloris_ whose Soul is made of Love;) She cut me down, and did translate, My being to a happier state. No Martyr for Religion di’d With half that Unconsidering Pride; My top was on that Altar laid. Where Love his softest Offerings paid: And was as fragrant Incense burn’d, My body into Busks was turn’d: Where I still guard the Sacred Store, And of Loves Temple keep the Door.

On _the_ Death _of Mr._ Grinhil, _the Famous Painter._

I.

What doleful crys are these that fright my sence, Sad as the Groans of dying Innocence? The killing Accents now more near Aproach, And the Infectious Sound, Spreads and Inlarges all around; And does all Hearts with Grief and Wonder touch. The famous _Grinhil_ dead! even he, That cou’d to us give Immortalitie; Is to the Eternal silent Groves withdrawn, Those sullen Groves of Everlasting Dawn; Youthful as Flowers, scarce blown, whose opening Leaves, A wond’rous and a fragrant Prospect gives, Of what it’s Elder Beauties wou’d display, When they should flourish up to ripning _May_. Witty as _Poets_, warm’d with Love and Wine, Yet still spar’d Heaven and his Friend, For both to him were Sacred and Divine: Nor could he this no more then that offend. Fixt as a _Martyr_ where he friendship paid, And Generous as a God, Distributing his Bounties all abroad; And soft and gentle as a Love-sick Maid.

II.

Great Master of the Noblest Mysterie, That ever happy Knowledge did inspire; Sacred as that of Poetry, And which the wond’ring World does equally admire. Great Natures work we do contemn, When on his Glorious Births we meditate: The Face and Eies, more Darts receiv’d from him, Then all the Charms she can create. The Difference is, his Beauties do beget In the inamour’d Soul a Vertuous Heat: While Natures Grosser Pieces move, In the course road of Common Love: So bold, yet soft, his touches were; So round each part’s so sweet and fair. That as his Pencil mov’d men thought it prest, The Lively imitating rising Breast, Which yield like Clouds, where little Angels rest: The Limbs all easy as his Temper was; Strong as his Mind, and manly too; Large as his Soul his fancy was, and new: And from himself he copyed every Grace, For he had all that cou’d adorn a Face, All that cou’d either Sex subdue.

III.

Each Excellence he had that Youth has in its Pride, And all Experienc’d Age cou’d teach, At once the vigorous fire of this, And every vertue which that cou’d Express. In all the heights that both could reach; And yet alas, in this Perfection di’d. Dropt like a Blossom with the Northern blast, (When all the scatter’d Leaves abroad were cast;) As quick as if his fate had been in hast: So have I seen an unfixt Star, Out-shine the rest of all the Numerous Train, As bright as that which Guides the Marriner, Dart swiftly from its darken’d Sphere: And nere shall sight the World again.

IV.

Ah why shou’d so much knowledge die! Or with his last kind breath, Why cou’d he not to some one friend bequeath The Mighty Legacie! But ‘twas a knowledge given to him alone, That his eternis’d Name might be Admir’d to all Posteritie, By all to whom his grateful Name was known. Come all ye softer Beauties, come; Bring Wreaths of Flowers to deck his tomb; Mixt with the dismal _Cypress_ and the _Yew_, For he still gave your Charmes their due: And from the injuries of Age and Time, Preserv’d the sweetness of your Prime: And best knew how t’ adore that Sweetness too; Bring all your Mournful Tributes here, And let your Eyes a silent sorrow wear, Till every Virgin for a while become Sad as his Fate, and like his Picture’s Dumb.

A Ballad _on Mr._ J. H. _to_ Amoret, _asking why I was so sad._

My _Amoret_, since you must know, The Grief you say my Eyes do show: Survey my Heart, where you shall find, More Love then for your self confin’d. And though you chide, you’ll Pity too, A Passion which even Rivals you.

_Amyntas_ on a Holyday As fine as any Lord of _May_, Amongst the Nimphs, and jolly Swaines, That feed their Flocks upon the Plaines: Met in a Grove beneath whose shade, A Match of Dancing they had made.

His Cassock was of Green, as trim As Grass upon a River brim; Untoucht or sullied with a spot, Unprest by either Lamb or Goat: And with the Air it loosely play’d, With every motion that he made.

His Sleeves a-many Ribbons ties, Where one might read Love-Mysteries: As if that way he wou’d impart, To all, the Sentiments of his Heart, Whose Passions by those Colours known, He with a Charming Pride wou’d own.

His Bonnet with the same was Ti’d, A Silver Scrip hung by his Side: His Buskins garnisht A-la-mode, Were grac’d by every step he Trod; Like _Pan_, a Majesty he took, And like _Apollo_ when he spoke.

His Hook a Wreath of Flowers Braid, The Present of some Love-sick Maid, Who all the morning had bestow’d, And to her Fancy now compos’d: Which fresher seem’d when near that place, To whom the Giver Captive was.

His Eyes their best Attracts put on, Designing some should be undone; For he could at his pleasure move, The Nymphs he lik’d to fall in Love: Yet so he order’d every Glance, That still they seem’d but Wounds of Chance.

He well cou’d feign an Innocence, And taught his Silence Eloquence; Each Smile he us’d, had got the force, To Conquer more than soft Discourse: Which when it serv’d his Ends he’d use, And subtilly thro’ a heart infuse.

His Wit was such it cou’d controul The Resolutions of a Soul; That a Religious Vow had made, By Love it nere wou’d be betra’d: For when he spoke he well cou’d prove Their Errors who dispute with Love.

With all these Charms he did Address Himself to every Shepherdess: Until the Bag-pipes which did play, Began the Bus’ness of the day; And in the taking forth to Dance, The Lovely Swain became my Chance.

To whom much Passion he did Vow, And much his Eyes and Sighs did show; And both imploy’d with so much Art, I strove in vain to guard my Heart; And ere the Night our Revels crost, I was intirely won and lost.

Let me advise thee, _Amoret_, Fly from the Baits that he has set In every grace; which will betray All Beauties that but look that way: But thou hast Charms that will secure A Captive in this Conquerour.

_Our Cabal._

Come, my fair _Cloris_, come away, Hast thou forgot ‘tis Holyday? And lovely _Silvia_ too make haste, The Sun is up, the day does waste: Do’st thou not hear the Musick loud, Mix’d with the murmur of the Crowd? How can thy active Feet be still, And hear the Bag-pipes chearful Trill?

_Mr._ V. U.

_Urania’s_ drest as fine and gay, As if she meant t’ out-shine the day; Or certain that no Victories Were to be gain’d but by her Eyes; Her Garment’s white, her Garniture The springing Beauties of the Year, Which are in such nice Order plac’d, That Nature is by Art disgrac’d: Her natural Curling Ebon Hair, Does loosly wanton in the Air.

_Mr._ G. V.

With her the young _Alexis_ came, Whose Eyes dare only speak his Flame: Charming he is, as fair can be, Charming without Effeminacy; Only his Eyes are languishing, Caus’d by the Pain he feels within; Yet thou wilt say that Languishment Is a peculiar Ornament. Deck’d up he is with Pride and Care, All Rich and Gay, to please his Fair: The Price of Flocks h’ has made a Prey To th’ Usual Vanity of this day.

_My dear Brother_ J. C.

After them _Damon_ Piping came, Who laughs at _Cupid_ and his Flame; Swears, if the Boy should him approach, He’d burn his Wings with his own Torch: But he’s too young for Love t’ invade, Though for him languish many a Maid. His lovely Ayr, his chearful Face, Adorn’d with many a Youthful Grace, Beget more Sighs then if with Arts He should design to conquer Hearts: The Swains as well as Nymphs submit To’s Charms of Beauty and of Wit. He’ll sing, he’ll dance, he’ll pipe and play, And wanton out a Summer’s day; And wheresoever _Damon_ be, He’s still the Soul o’th’ Companie.

_My dear_ Amoret, _Mrs._ B.

Next _Amoret_, the true Delight Of all that do approach her sight: The Sun in all its Course ne’er met Ought Fair or Sweet like _Amoret_. Alone she came, her Eyes declin’d, In which you’ll read her troubled Mind; Yes, _Silvia_, for she’l not deny She loves, as well as thou and I. ‘Tis _Philocles_, that Proud Ingrate, That pays her Passion back with Hate; Whilst she does all but him despise, And clouds the lustre of her Eyes: But once to her he did address, And dying Passion too express; But soon the Amorous Heat was laid, He soon forgot the Vows he’d made; Whilst she in every Silent Grove, Bewails her easie Faith and Love. Numbers of Swains do her adore, But she has vow’d to love no more.

_Mr._ J. B.

Next Jolly _Thirsis_ came along, With many Beauties in a Throng.

_Mr._ Je. B.

With whom the young _Amyntas_ came, The Author of my Sighs and Flame: For I’ll confess that Truth to you, Which every Look of mine can show. Ah how unlike the rest he appears! With Majesty above his years! His Eyes so much of Sweetness dress, Such _Wit_, such _Vigour_ too express; That ‘twou’d a wonder be to say, I’ve seen the Youth, and brought my Heart away. Ah _Cloris_! Thou that never wert In danger yet to lose a Heart, Guard it severely now, for he Will startle all thy Constancy: For if by chance thou do’st escape Unwounded by his Lovely Shape, Tempt not thy Ruine, lest his Eyes Joyn with his Tongue to win the Prize: Such Softness in his Language dwells, And Tales of Love so well he tells, Should’st thou attend their Harmony, Thou’dst be Undone, as well as I; For sure no Nymph was ever free, That could _Amyntas_ hear and see.

_Mr._ N. R. V.

With him the lovely _Philocless_, His Beauty heightned by his Dress, If any thing can add a Grace To such a Shape, and such a Face, Whose Natural Ornaments impart Enough without the help of Art. His Shoulders cover’d with a Hair, The Sun-Beams are not half so fair; Of which the Virgins Bracelets make, And where for _Philocless’s_ sake: His Beauty such, that one would swear His face did never take the Air. On’s Cheeks the blushing Roses show, The rest like whitest Daisies grow: His Lips, no Berries of the Field, Nor Cherries, such a Red do yield. His Eyes all Love, Soft’ning Smile; And when he speaks, he sighs the while: His Bashful Grace, with Blushes too, Gains more then Confidence can do. With all these Charms he does invade The Heart, which when he has betray’d, He slights the Trophies he has won, And weeps for those he has Undone; As if he never did intend His Charms for so severe an End. And all poor _Amoret_ can gain, Is pitty from the Lovely Swain: And if Inconstancy can seem Agreeable, ‘tis so in him. And when he meets Reproach for it, He does excuse it with his Wit.

_Mr._ E. B. _and Mrs._ F. M.

Next hand in hand the smiling Pair, _Martillo_, and the Lovely Fair: A Bright-Ey’d _Phillis_, who they say, Ne’er knew what Love was till to day: Long has the Gen’rous Youth in vain Implor’d some Pity for his Pain. Early abroad he would be seen, To wait her coming on the Green, To be the first that t’ her should pay The Tribute of the New-born Day; Presents her Bracelets with their Names, And Hooks carv’d out with Hearts and Flames. And when a stragling Lamb he saw, And she not by to give it Law, The pretty Fugitive he’d deck With Wreaths of Flowers around its Neck; And gave her ev’ry mark of Love, Before he could her Pity move. But now the Youth no more appears Clouded with Jealousies and Fears: Nor yet dares _Phillis_ softer Brow Wear Unconcern, or Coldness now; But makes him just and kind Returns; And as He does, so now She burns.

_Mr._ J. H.

Next _Lysidas_, that haughty Swain, With many Beauties in a Train, All sighing for the Swain, whilst he Barely returns Civility. Yet once to each much Love he Vowd, And strange Fantastique Passion show’d. Poor _Doris_, and _Lucinda_ too, And many more whom thou dost know, Who had not power his Charms to shun, Too late do find themselves Undone. His Eyes are Black, and do transcend All Fancy e’er can comprehend; And yet no Softness in ‘em move. They kill with Fierceness, not with Love: Yet he can dress ‘em when he list, With Sweetness none can e’er resist. His Tongue no Amorous Parley makes, But with his Looks alone he speaks. And though he languish yet he’l hide, That grateful knowledge with his Pride; And thinks his Liberty is lost, Not in the Conquest, but the Boast. Nor will but Love enough impart, To gain and to secure a heart: Of which no sooner he is sure, And that its Wounds are past all Cure. But for New Victories he prepares, And leaves the Old to its Despairs: Success his Boldness does renew, And Boldness helps him Conquer too, He having gain’d more hearts than all Th’ rest of the Pastoral Cabal.

_Mr._ Ed. Bed.