FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[52]The original hasframed.[53]The original haslow.[54]The original haswhy

[52]The original hasframed.

[53]The original haslow.

[54]The original haswhy

——O quis me gelidis in vallibus IscæSistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra!

Diminuat ne sera dies præsentis honoremQuis, qualisque fui, percipe Posteritas.Cambria me genuit, patulis ubi vallibus erransSubjacet aeriis montibus Isca pater.Inde sinu placido suscepit maximus arteHerbertus, Latiæ gloria prima scholæ.Bis ternos, illo me conducente, per annosProfeci, et geminam contulit unus opem;Ars et amor, mens atque manus certare solebant,Nec lassata illi mensue, manusue fuit.Hinc qualem cernis crevisse: sed ut mea certusTempora cognoscas, dura mere, scias.Vixi, divisos cum fregerat hæresis AnglosInter Tysiphonas presbyteri et populi.His primum miseris per amœna furentibus arvaProstravit sanctam vilis avena rosam,Turbarunt fontes, et fusis pax perit undis,Moestaque coelestes obruit umbra dies.Duret ut integritas tamen, et pia gloria, partemMe nullam in tanta strage fuisse, scias;Credidimus nempe insonti vocem esse cruori,Et vires quæ post funera flere docent.Hinc castæ, fidæque pati me more parentisCommonui, et lachrymis fata levare meis;Hinc nusquam horrendis violavi sacra procellis,Nec mihi mens unquam, nec manus atra fuit.Si pius es, ne plura petas; satur ille recedatQui sapit et nos non scripsimus insipidis.

My Lord,

It is a position anciently known, and modern experience hath allowed it for a sad truth, that absence and time,—like cold weather, and an unnatural dormition—will blast and wear out of memory the most endearing obligations; and hence it was that some politicians in love have looked upon the former of these two as a main remedy against the fondness of that passion. But for my own part, my Lord, I shall deny this aphorism of the people, and beg leave to assure your Lordship, that, though these reputed obstacles have lain long in my way, yet neither of them could work upon me: for I am now—without adulation—as warm and sensible of those numerous favours and kind influences received sometimes from your Lordship, as I really was at the instant of fruition. I have no plot by preambling thus to set any rate upon this present address, as if I should presume to value a return of this nature equal with your Lordship's deserts, but the design is to let you see that this habit I have got of beingtroublesome flows from two excusable principles, gratitude and love. These inward counsellors—I know not how discreetly—persuaded me to this attempt and intrusion upon your name, which if your Lordship will vouchsafe to own as the genius to these papers, you will perfect my hopes, and place me at my full height. This was the aim, my Lord, and is the end of this work, which though but apazzarelloto thevoluminose insani, yet as jessamine and the violet find room in the bank as well as roses and lilies, so happily may this, and—if shined upon by your Lordship—please as much. To whose protection, sacred as your name and those eminent honours which have always attended upon it through so many generations, I humbly offer it, and remain in all numbers of gratitude,

My honoured Lord,Your most affectionate, humblest Servant,Vaughan.Newton by Usk this17 of Decemb. 1647.

It was the glorious Maro that referred his legacies to the fire, and though princes are seldom executors, yet there came a Cæsar to his testament, as if the act of a poet could not be repealed but by a king. I am not, Reader,Augustus vindex: here is no royal rescue, but here is a Muse that deserves it. The Author had long ago condemned these poems to obscurity, and the consumption of that further fate which attends it. This censure gave them a gust of death, and they have partly known that oblivion which our best labours must come to at last. I present thee then not only with a book, but with a prey, and in this kind the first recoveries from corruption. Here is a flame hath been sometimes extinguished, thoughts that have been lost and forgot, but now they break out again like the Platonic reminiscency. I have not the Author's approbation to the fact, but I have law on my side, though never a sword. I hold it no man's prerogative to fire his own house. Thou seest how saucy I am grown, and it thou dost expect I should commend what is published, I must tell thee, I cry no Seville oranges. I will not say, Here is fine or cheap: that were aninjury to the verse itself, and to the effects it can produce. Read on, and thou wilt find thy spirit engaged: not by the deserts of what we call tolerable, but by the commands of a pen that is above it.

What planet rul'd your birth? what witty star?That you so like in souls as bodies are!So like in both, that you seem born to freeThe starry art from vulgar calumny.My doubts are solv'd, from hence my faith begins,Not only your faces but your wits are twins.When this bright Gemini shall from Earth ascend,They will new light to dull-ey'd mankind lend,Teach the star-gazers, and delight their eyes,Being fix'd a constellation in the skies.

When this bright Gemini shall from Earth ascend,They will new light to dull-ey'd mankind lend,Teach the star-gazers, and delight their eyes,Being fix'd a constellation in the skies.

T. Powell, Oxoniensis.

I call'd it once my sloth: in such an ageSo many volumes deep, I not a page?But I recant, and vow 'twas thrifty careThat kept my pen from spending on slight ware,And breath'd it for a prize, whose pow'rful shineDoth both reward the striver, and refine.Such are thy poems, friend: for since th' hast writ,I can't reply to any name, but wit;And lest amidst the throng that make us groan,Mine prove a groundless heresy alone,Thus I dispute, Hath there not rev'rence beenPaid to the beard at door, for Lord within?Who notes the spindle-leg or hollow eyeOf the thin usher, the fair lady by?Thus I sin freely, neighbour to a handWhich, while I aim to strengthen, gives commandFor my protection; and thou art to meAt once my subject and security.

I. Rowlandson, Oxoniensis.

I write not here, as if thy last in storeOf learnèd friends; 'tis known that thou hast more;Who, were they told of this, would find a wayTo raise a guard of poets without pay,And bring as many hands to thy edition,As th' City should unto their May'r's petition.But thou wouldst none of this, lest it should beThy muster rather than our courtesy;Thou wouldst not beg as knights do, and appearPoet by voice and suffrage of the shire;That were enough to make my Muse advanceAmongst the crutches; nay, it might enhanceOur charity, and we should think it fitThe State should build an hospital for wit.But here needs no relief: thy richer verseCreates all poets, that can but rehearse,And they, like tenants better'd by their land,Should pay thee rent for what they understand.Thou art not of that lamentable nationWho make a blessed alms of approbation,Whose fardel-notes are briefs in ev'rything,But, that they are notLicens'd by the king.Without such scrape-requests thou dost come forthArm'd—though I speak it—with thy proper worth,And needest not this noise of friends, for weWrite out of love, not thy necessity.And though this sullen age possessèd beWith some strange desamour to poetry,Yet I suspect—thy fancy so delights—The Puritans will turn thy proselytes,And that thy flame, when once abroad it shines,Will bring thee as many friends as thou hast lines.

Eugenius Philalethes, Oxoniensis.

OLOR ISCANUS.

When Daphne's lover here first wore the bays,Eurotas' secret streams heard all his lays,And holy Orpheus, Nature's busy child,By headlong Hebrus his deep hymns compil'd;Soft Petrarch—thaw'd by Laura's flames—did weepOn Tiber's banks, when she—proud fair!—could sleep;Mosella boasts Ausonius, and the ThamesDoth murmur Sidney's Stella to her streams;While Severn, swoln with joy and sorrow, wearsCastara's smiles mix'd with fair Sabrin's tears.Thus poets—like the nymphs, their pleasing themes—Haunted the bubbling springs and gliding streams;And happy banks! whence such fair flow'rs have sprung,But happier those where they have sat and sung!Poets—like angels—where they once appearHallow the place, and each succeeding yearAdds rev'rence to't, such as at length doth giveThis aged faith, that there their genii live.Hence th' ancients say, that from this sickly airThey pass to regions more refin'd and fair,To meadows strew'd with lilies and the rose,And shades whose youthful green no old age knows;Where all in white they walk, discourse, and singLike bees' soft murmurs, or a chiding spring.But Isca, whensoe'er those shades I see,And thy lov'd arbours must no more know me,When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams,And my sun sets, where first it sprang in beams,I'll leave behind me such a large, kind light,As shall redeem thee from oblivious night,And in these vows which—living yet—I pay,Shed such a previous and enduring ray,As shall from age to age thy fair name lead,'Till rivers leave to run, and men to read.First, may all bards born after me—When I am ashes—sing of thee!May thy green banks or streams,—or none—Be both their hill and Helicon!May vocal groves grow there, and allThe shades in them prophetical,Where laid men shall more fair truths seeThan fictions were of Thessaly!May thy gentle swains—like flow'rs—Sweetly spend their youthful hours,And thy beauteous nymphs—like doves—Be kind and faithful to their loves!Garlands, and songs, and roundelays,Mild, dewy nights, and sunshine days,The turtle's voice, joy without fear,Dwell on thy bosom all the year!May the evet and the toadWithin thy banks have no abode,Nor the wily, winding snakeHer voyage through thy waters make!In all thy journey to the mainNo nitrous clay, nor brimstone-veinMix with thy streams, but may they passFresh on the air, and clear as glass,And where the wand'ring crystal treadsRoses shall kiss, and couple heads!The factor-wind from far shall bringThe odours of the scatter'd Spring,And loaden with the rich arrear,Spend it in spicy whispers there.No sullen heats, nor flames that areOffensive, and canicular,Shine on thy sands, nor pry to seeThy scaly, shading family,But noons as mild as Hesper's rays,Or the first blushes of fair days!What gifts more Heav'n or Earth can add,With all those blessings be thou clad!Honour, Beauty,Faith and Duty,Delight and Truth,With Love and Youth,Crown all about thee! and whatever FateImpose elsewhere, whether the graver stateOr some toy else, may those loud, anxious caresFor dead and dying things—the common waresAnd shows of Time—ne'er break thy peace, nor makeThy repos'd arms to a new war awake!But freedom, safety, joy and bliss,United in one loving kiss,Surround thee quite, and style thy bordersThe land redeem'd from all disorders!

Bless me! what damps are here! how stiff an air!Kelder of mists, a second fiat's care,Front'spiece o' th' grave and darkness, a displayOf ruin'd man, and the disease of day,Lean, bloodless shamble, where I can descryFragments of men, rags of anatomy,Corruption's wardrobe, the transplantive bedOf mankind, and th' exchequer of the dead!How thou arrests my sense! how with the sightMy winter'd blood grows stiff to all delight!Torpedo to the eye! whose least glance canFreeze our wild lusts, and rescue headlong man.Eloquent silence! able to immureAn atheist's thoughts, and blast an epicure.Were I a Lucian, Nature in this dressWould make me wish a Saviour, and confess.Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast tenter'd hope,Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope,Whose stretch'd excess runs on a string too high,And on the rack of self-extension die?Chameleons of state, air-monging band,Whose breath—like gunpowder—blows up a land,Come see your dissolution, and weighWhat a loath'd nothing you shall be one day.As th' elements by circulation passFrom one to th' other, and that which first wasI so again, so 'tis with you; the graveAnd Nature but complot; what the one gaveThe other takes; think, then, that in this bedThere sleep the relics of as proud a head,As stern and subtle as your own, that hathPerform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrathHath levell'd kings with slaves, and wisely thenCalm these high furies, and descend to men.Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon; a tombCheck'd him, who thought the world too straight a room.Have I obey'd the powers of face,A beauty able to undo the raceOf easy man? I look but here, and straightI am inform'd, the lovely counterfeitWas but a smoother clay. That famish'd slaveBeggar'd by wealth, who starves that he may save,Brings hither but his sheet; nay, th' ostrich-manThat feeds on steel and bullet, he that canOutswear his lordship, and reply as toughTo a kind word, as if his tongue were buff,Is chap-fall'n here: worms without wit or fearDefy him now; Death hath disarm'd the bear.Thus could I run o'er all the piteous scoreOf erring men, and having done, meet more,Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents,Fantastic humours, perilous ascents,False, empty honours, traitorous delights,And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites;But these and more which the weak vermins swell,Are couch'd in this accumulative cell,Which I could scatter; but the grudging sunCalls home his beams, and warns me to be gone;Day leaves me in a double night, and IMust bid farewell to my sad library.Yet with these notes—Henceforth with thought of theeI'll season all succeeding jollity,Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit;Excess hath no religion, nor wit;But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain,One check from thee shall channel it again.

Thanks, mighty Silver! I rejoice to seeHow I have spoil'd his thrift, by spending thee.Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more,His decoy gold, and bribes me to restore.As lesser lode-stones with the North consent,Naturally moving to their element,As bodies swarm to th' centre, and that fireMan stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire,So this vast crying sum draws in a less;And hence this bag more Northward laid I guess,For 'tis of pole-star force, and in this sphereThough th' least of many, rules the master-bear.Prerogative of debts! how he doth dressHis messages in chink! not an expressWithout a fee for reading; and 'tis fit,For gold's the best restorative of wit.Oh how he gilds them o'er! with what delightI read those lines, which angels do indite!But wilt have money, Og? must I dispurseWill nothing serve thee but a poet's curse?Wilt rob an altar thus? and sweep at onceWhat Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones?'Twill never swell thy bag, nor ring one pealIn thy dark chest. Talk not of shreeves, or gaol;I fear them not. I have no land to glutThy dirty appetite, and make thee strutNimrod of acres; I'll no speech prepareTo court the hopeful cormorant, thine heir.For there's a kingdom at thy beck if thouBut kick this dross: Parnassus' flow'ry browI'll give thee with my Tempe, and to bootThat horse which struck a fountain with his foot.A bed of roses I'll provide for thee,And crystal springs shall drop thee melody.The breathing shades we'll haunt, where ev'ry leafShall whisper us asleep, though thou art deaf.Those waggish nymphs, too, which none ever yetDurst make love to, we'll teach the loving fit;We'll suck the coral of their lips, and feedUpon their spicy breath, a meal at need:Rove in their amber-tresses, and unfoldThat glist'ring grove, the curled wood of gold;Then peep for babies, a new puppet play,And riddle what their prattling eyes would say.But here thou must remember to dispurse,For without money all this is a curse.Thou must for more bags call, and so restoreThis iron age to gold, as once before.This thou must do, and yet this is not all,For thus the poet would be still in thrall,Thou must then—if live thus—my nest of honeyCancel old bonds, and beg to lend more money.

I wonder, James, through the whole historyOf ages, such entails of povertyAre laid on poets; lawyers—they say—have foundA trick to cut them; would they were but boundTo practise on us, though for this thing weShould pay—if possible—their bribes and fee.Search—as thou canst—the old and modern storeOf Rome and ours, in all the witty scoreThou shalt not find a rich one; take each clime,And run o'er all the pilgrimage of time,Thou'lt meet them poor, and ev'rywhere descryA threadbare, goldless genealogy.Nature—it seems—when she meant us for earthSpent so much of her treasure in the birthAs ever after niggards her, and she,Thus stor'd within, beggars us outwardly.Woful profusion! at how dear a rateAre we made up! all hope of thrift and stateLost for a verse. When I by thoughts look backInto the womb of time, and see the rackStand useless there, until we are produc'dUnto the torture, and our souls infus'dTo learn afflictions, I begin to doubtThat as some tyrants use from their chain'd routOf slaves to pick out one whom for their sportThey keep afflicted by some ling'ring art;So we are merely thrown upon the stageThe mirth of fools and legend of the age.When I see in the ruins of a suitSome nobler breast, and his tongue sadly muteFeed on the vocal silence of his eye,And knowing cannot reach the remedy;When souls of baser stamp shine in their store,And he of all the throng is only poor;When French apes for foreign fashions pay,And English legs are dress'd th' outlandish way,So fine too, that they their own shadows woo,While he walks in the sad and pilgrim shoe;I'm mad at Fate, and angry ev'n to sin,To see deserts and learning clad so thin;To think how th' earthly usurer can broodUpon his bags, and weigh the precious foodWith palsied hands, as if his soul did fearThe scales could rob him of what he laid there.Like devils that on hid treasures sit, or thoseWhose jealous eyes trust not beyond their nose,They guard the dirt and the bright idol holdClose, and commit adultery with gold.A curse upon their dross! how have we suedFor a few scatter'd chips? how oft pursu'dPetitions with a blush, in hope to squeezeFor their souls' health, more than our wants, a piece?Their steel-ribb'd chests and purse—rust eat them both!—Have cost us with much paper many an oath,And protestations of such solemn sense,As if our souls were sureties for the pence.Should we a full night's learnèd cares present,They'll scarce return us one short hour's content.'Las! they're but quibbles, things we poets feign,The short-liv'd squibs and crackers of the brain.But we'll be wiser, knowing 'tis not theyThat must redeem the hardship of our way.Whether a Higher Power, or that starWhich, nearest heav'n, is from the earth most far,Oppress us thus, or angell'd from that sphereBy our strict guardians are kept luckless here,It matters not, we shall one day obtainOur native and celestial scope again.

Since last we met, thou and thy horse—my dear—Have not so much as drunk, or litter'd here;I wonder, though thyself be thus deceas'd,Thou hast the spite to coffin up thy beast;Or is the palfrey sick, and his rough hideWith the penance of one spur mortified?Or taught by thee—like Pythagoras's ox—Is then his master grown more orthodoxWhatever 'tis, a sober cause't must beThat thus long bars us of thy company.The town believes thee lost, and didst thou seeBut half her suff'rings, now distress'd for thee,Thou'ldst swear—like Rome—her foul, polluted wallsWere sack'd by Brennus and the savage Gauls.Abominable face of things! here's noiseOf banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys,Pigs, dogs, and drums, with the hoarse, hellish notesOf politicly-deaf usurers' throats,With new fine Worships, and the old cast teamOf Justices vex'd with the cough and phlegm.'Midst these the Cross looks sad, and in the Shire-Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear,With brotherly ruffs and beards, and a strange sightOf high monumental hats, ta'en at the fightOf 'Eighty-eight; while ev'ry burgess footsThe mortal pavement in eternal boots.Hadst thou been bach'lor, I had soon divin'dThy close retirements, and monastic mind;Perhaps some nymph had been to visit, orThe beauteous churl was to be waited for,And like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss,You stay'd, and strok'd the distaff for a kiss.But in this age, when thy cool, settled bloodIs ti'd t'one flesh, and thou almost grown good,I know not how to reach the strange device,Except—Domitian-like—thou murder'st flies.Or is't thy piety? for who can tellBut thou may'st prove devout, and love a cell,And—like a badger—with attentive looksIn the dark hole sit rooting up of books.Quick hermit! what a peaceful change hadst thou,Without the noise of haircloth, whip, or vow!But there is no redemption? must there beNo other penance but of liberty?Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus,Thy memory will scarce remain with us,The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaimThey have not seen thee here since Charles, his reign,Or if they mention thee, like some old man,That at each word inserts—"Sir, as I canRemember"—so the cyph'rers puzzle meWith a dark, cloudy character of thee.That—certs!—I fear thou wilt be lost, and weMust ask the fathers ere't be long for thee.Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wineAnd precious wit lie dead for want of thine.Shall the dull market-landlord with his routOf sneaking tenants dirtily swill outThis harmless liquor? shall they knock and beatFor sack, only to talk of rye and wheat?O let not such prepost'rous tippling beIn our metropolis; may I ne'er seeSuch tavern-sacrilege, nor lend a lineTo weep the rapes and tragedy of wine!Here lives that chymic, quick fire which betraysFresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays.I have reserv'd 'gainst thy approach a cupThat were thy Muse stark dead, shall raise her up,And teach her yet more charming words and skillThan ever Cœlia, Chloris, Astrophil,Or any of the threadbare names inspir'dPoor rhyming lovers with a mistress fir'd.Come then! and while the slow icicle hangsAt the stiff thatch, and Winter's frosty pangsBenumb the year, blithe—as of old—let us'Midst noise and war of peace and mirth discuss.This portion thou wert born for: why should weVex at the time's ridiculous misery?An age that thus hath fool'd itself, and will—Spite of thy teeth and mine—persist so still.Let's sit then at this fire, and while we stealA revel in the town, let others seal,Purchase or cheat, and who can, let them pay,Till those black deeds bring on the darksome day.Innocent spenders we! a better useShall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuseRout to their husks; they and their bags at bestHave cares in earnest; we care for a jest.

I've read thy soul's fair nightpiece, and have seenTh' amours and courtship of the silent Queen,Her stoln descents to Earth, and what did move herTo juggle first with Heav'n, then with a lover,With Latmos' louder rescue, and—alas!—To find her out a hue and cry in brass;Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sadNocturnal pilgrimage, with thy dreams cladIn fancies darker than thy cave, thy glassOf sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did passIn her calm voyage what discourse she heardOf spirits, what dark groves and ill-shap'd guardIsmena led thee through, with thy proud flightO'er Periardes, and deep, musing nightNear fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn greenThe neighbour shades wear, and what forms are seenIn their large bowers, with that sad path and seatWhich none but light-heel'd nymphs and fairies beat;[55]Their solitary life, and how exemptFrom common frailty, the severe contemptThey have of man, their privilege to liveA tree, or fountain, and in that reprieveWhat ages they consume, with the sad valeOf Diophania, and the mournful tale,Of th' bleeding vocal myrtle; these and moreThy richer thoughts, we are upon the scoreTo thy rare fancy for, nor dost thou fallFrom thy first majesty, or ought at allBetray consumption; thy full vig'rous baysWear the same green, and scorn the lean decaysOf style, or matter. Just so have I knownSome crystal spring, that from the neighbour downDeriv'd her birth, in gentle murmurs stealTo their next vale, and proudly there revealHer streams in louder accents, adding stillMore noise and waters to her channel, tillAt last swoln with increase she glides alongThe lawns and meadows in a wanton throngOf frothy billows, and in one great nameSwallows the tributary brooks' drown'd fame.Nor are they mere inventions, for weIn th' same piece find scatter'd philosophyAnd hidden, dispers'd truths that folded lieIn the dark shades of deep allegory;So neatly weav'd, like arras, they descryFables with truth, fancy with history.So that thou hast in this thy curious mouldCast that commended mixture wish'd of old,Which shall these contemplations render farLess mutable, and lasting as their star,And while there is a people or a sun,Endymion's story with the moon shall run.

FOOTNOTES:[55]So Grosart, for theheatof the original.

[55]So Grosart, for theheatof the original.

I am confirmed, and so much wing is givenTo my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n.A full year's grief I struggled with, and stoodStill on my sandy hopes' uncertain good,So loth was I to yield; to all those fearsI still oppos'd thee, and denied my tears.But thou art gone! and the untimely lossLike that one day hath made all others cross.Have you seen on some river's flow'ry browA well-built elm or stately cedar grow,Whose curled tops gilt with the morning-rayBeckon'd the sun, and whisper'd to the day,When unexpected from the angry NorthA fatal sullen whirlwind sallies forth,And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the groundThe shady twins, which rushing scatter roundTheir sighing leaves, whilst overborn with strengthTheir trembling heads bow to a prostrate length?So forc'd fell he; so immaturely DeathStifled his able heart and active breath.The world scarce knew him yet, his early soulHad but new-broke her day, and rather stoleA sight than gave one; as if subtly sheWould learn our stock, but hide his treasury.His years—should Time lay both his wings and glassUnto his charge—could not be summ'd—alas!—To a full score; though in so short a spanHis riper thoughts had purchas'd more of manThan all those worthless livers, which yet quickHave quite outgone their own arithmetic.He seiz'd perfections, and without a dullAnd mossy grey possess'd a solid skull;No crooked knowledge neither, nor did heWear the friend's name for ends and policy,And then lay't by; as those lost youths of th' stageWho only flourish'd for the Play's short ageAnd then retir'd; like jewels, in each partHe wore his friends, but chiefly at his heart.Nor was it only in this he did excel,His equal valour could as much, as well.He knew no fear but of his God; yet durstNo injury, nor—as some have—e'er purs'dThe sweat and tears of others, yet would beMore forward in a royal gallantryThan all those vast pretenders, which of lateSwell'd in the ruins of their king and State.He weav'd not self-ends and the public goodInto one piece, nor with the people's bloodFill'd his own veins; in all the doubtful wayConscience and honour rul'd him. O that dayWhen like the fathers in the fire and cloudI miss'd thy face! I might in ev'ry crowdSee arms like thine, and men advance, but noneSo near to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on.Have you observ'd how soon the nimble eyeBrings th' object to conceit, and doth so viePerformance with the soul, that you would swearThe act and apprehension both lodg'd there;Just so mov'd he: like shot his active handDrew blood, ere well the foe could understand.But here I lost him. Whether the last turnOf thy few sands call'd on thy hasty urn,Or some fierce rapid fate—hid from the eye—Hath hurl'd thee pris'ner to some distant sky,I cannot tell, but that I do believeThy courage such as scorn'd a base reprieve.Whatever 'twas, whether that day thy breathSuffer'd a civil or the common death,Which I do most suspect, and that I haveFail'd in the glories of so known a grave;Though thy lov'd ashes miss me, and mine eyesHad no acquaintance with thy exequies,Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sightOn the cold sheet have fix'd a sad delight,Yet whate'er pious hand—instead of mine—Hath done this office to that dust of thine,And till thou rise again from thy low bedLent a cheap pillow to thy quiet head,Though but a private turf, it can do moreTo keep thy name and memory in storeThan all those lordly fools which lock their bonesIn the dumb piles of chested brass, and stonesTh'art rich in thy own fame, and needest notThese marble-frailties, nor the gilded blotOf posthume honours; there is not one sandSleeps o'er thy grave, but can outbid that handAnd pencil too, so that of force we mustConfess their heaps show lesser than thy dust.And—blessed soul!—though this my sorrow canAdd nought to thy perfections, yet as manSubject to envy, and the common fate,It may redeem thee to a fairer date.As some blind dial, when the day is done,Can tell us at midnight there was a sun,So these perhaps, though much beneath thy fame,May keep some weak remembrance of thy name,And to the faith of better times commendThy loyal upright life, and gallant end.Nomen et arma locum servant, te, amice, nequiviConspicere——————

Nomen et arma locum servant, te, amice, nequiviConspicere——————

Back to Index Next