1 Poets may boast, as safely vain,Their works shall with the world remain:Both, bound together, live or die,The verses and the prophecy.
2 But who can hope his line should longLast in a daily changing tongue?While they are new, envy prevails;And as that dies, our language fails.
3 When architects have done their part,The matter may betray their art;Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,Soon brings a well-built palace down.
4 Poets that lasting marble seek,Must carve in Latin, or in Greek;We write in sand, our language grows,And like the tide, our work o'erflows.
5 Chaucer his sense can only boast;The glory of his numbers lost!Years have defaced his matchless strain;And yet he did not sing in vain.
6 The beauties which adorn'd that age,The shining subjects of his rage,Hoping they should immortal prove,Rewarded with success his love.
7 This was the gen'rous poet's scope;And all an English pen can hope,To make the fair approve his flame,That can so far extend their fame.
8 Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate,If it arrive but at the dateOf fading beauty; if it proveBut as long-lived as present love.
Tasso knew how the fairer sex to grace,But in no one durst all perfection place.In her alone that owns this book is seenClorinda's spirit, and her lofty mien,Sophronia's piety, Erminia's truth,Armida's charms, her beauty, and her youth.
Our Princess here, as in a glass, does dressHer well-taught mind, and every grace express.More to our wonder than Rinaldo fought,The hero's race excels the poet's thought.
When through the world fair Mazarin had run,Bright as her fellow-traveller, the sun,Hither at length the Roman eagle flies,As the last triumph of her conqu'ring eyes.As heir to Julius, she may pretendA second time to make this island bend;But Portsmouth, springing from the ancient raceOf Britons, which the Saxon here did chase,As they great Cæsar did oppose, makes head,And does against this new invader lead. 10That goodly nymph, the taller of the two,Careless and fearless to the field does go.Becoming blushes on the other wait,And her young look excuses want of height.Beauty gives courage; for she knows the dayMust not be won the Amazonian way.Legions of Cupids to the battle come,For Little Britain these, and those for Rome.Dress'd to advantage, this illustrious pairArrived, for combat in the list appear. 20What may the Fates design! for never yetFrom distant regions two such beauties met.Venus had been an equal friend to both,And vict'ry to declare herself seems loth;Over the camp, with doubtful wings, she flies,Till Chloris shining in the fields she spies.The lovely Chloris well-attended came,A thousand Graces waited on the dame;Her matchless form made all the English glad, 29And foreign beauties less assurance had;Yet, like the Three on Ida's top, they allPretend alike, contesting for the ball;Which to determine, Love himself declined,Lest the neglected should become less kind.Such killing looks! so thick the arrows fly!That 'tis unsafe to be a stander-by.Poets, approaching to describe the fight,Are by their wounds instructed how to write.They with less hazard might look on, and drawThe ruder combats in Alsatia; 40And, with that foil of violence and rage,Set off the splendour of our golden age;Where Love gives law, Beauty the sceptre sways,And, uncompell'd, the happy world obeys.
[1] 'Triple combat': the Duchess of Mazarin was a divorced demirep, who came to England with some designs on Charles II., in which she was counteracted by the Duchess of Portsmouth.
The failing blossoms which a young plant bears,Engage our hope for the succeeding years;And hope is all which art or nature brings,At the first trial, to accomplish things.Mankind was first created an essay;That ruder draught the Deluge wash'd away.How many ages pass'd, what blood and toil,Before we made one kingdom of this isle!How long in vain had nature striven to frameA perfect princess, ere her Highness came!For joys so great we must with patience wait;'Tis the set price of happiness complete.As a first fruit, Heaven claim'd that lovely boy;The next shall live, and be the nation's joy.
[1] 'Duke of Cambridge': The Duke of York's second son by Mary d'Este.He died when he was only a month old, November 1677.
1 As once the lion honey gave,Out of the strong such sweetness came;A royal hero, no less brave,Produced this sweet, this lovely dame.
2 To her the prince, that did opposeSuch mighty armies in the field,And Holland from prevailing foesCould so well free, himself does yield.
3 Not Belgia's fleet (his high command)Which triumphs where the sun does rise,Nor all the force he leads by land,Could guard him from her conqu'ring eyes.
4 Orange, with youth, experience has;In action young, in council old;Orange is, what Augustus was,Brave, wary, provident, and bold.
5 On that fair tree which bears his name,Blossoms and fruit at once are found;In him we all admire the same,His flow'ry youth with wisdom crown'd!
6 Empire and freedom reconciledIn Holland are by great Nassau;Like those he sprung from, just and mild,To willing people he gives law.
7 Thrice happy pair! so near alliedIn royal blood, and virtue too!Now love has you together tied,May none this triple knot undo!
8 The church shall be the happy placeWhere streams, which from the same source run,Though divers lands a while they grace,Unite again, and are made one.
9 A thousand thanks the nation owesTo him that does protect us all;For while he thus his niece bestows,About our isle he builds a wall;
10 A wall! like that which Athens had,By th'oracle's advice, of wood;Had theirs been such as Charles has made,That mighty state till now had stood.
[1] 'Princess of Orange': The Princess Mary was married to the Prince ofOrange at St. James's, in November 1677.
Mirror of poets! mirror of our age!Which her whole face beholding on thy stage,Pleased and displeased with her own faults, enduresA remedy like those whom music cures.Thou hast alone those various inclinationsWhich Nature gives to ages, sexes, nations;So tracèd with thy all-resembling pen,That whate'er custom has imposed on men,Or ill-got habit (which deforms them so,That scarce a brother can his brother know) 10Is represented to the wond'ring eyesOf all that see, or read, thy comedies.Whoever in those glasses looks, may findThe spots return'd, or graces, of his mind;And by the help of so divine an art,At leisure view, and dress, his nobler part.Narcissus, cozen'd by that flatt'ring well,Which nothing could but of his beauty tell,Had here, discov'ring the deformed estateOf his fond mind, preserved himself with hate. 20But virtue too, as well as vice, is cladIn flesh and blood so well, that Plato hadBeheld, what his high fancy once embraced,Virtue with colours, speech, and motion graced.The sundry postures of thy copious MuseWho would express, a thousand tongues must use;Whose fate's no less peculiar than thy art;For as thou couldst all characters impart,So none could render thine, which still escapes,Like Proteus, in variety of shapes; 30Who was nor this nor that; but all we find,And all we can imagine, in mankind.
Fletcher! to thee we do not only oweAll these good plays, but those of others too;Thy wit repeated does support the stage,Credits the last, and entertains this age.No worthies, form'd by any Muse but thine,Could purchase robes to make themselves so fine.
What brave commander is not proud to seeThy brave Melantius in his gallantry?Our greatest ladies love to see their scornOutdone by thine, in what themselves have worn; 10Th' impatient widow, ere the year be done,Sees thy Aspasia weeping in her gown.
I never yet the tragic strain essay'd,Deterr'd by that inimitable Maid;[1]And when I venture at the comic style,Thy Scornful Lady seems to mock my toil.
Thus has thy Muse at once improved and marr'dOur sport in plays, by rend'ring it too hard!So when a sort of lusty shepherds throwThe bar by turns, and none the rest outgo 20So far, but that the best are measuring casts,Their emulation and their pastime lasts;But if some brawny yeoman of the guardStep in, and toss the axletree a yard,Or more, beyond the furthest mark, the restDespairing stand; their sport is at the best.
[1] 'Inimitable Maid': theMaid's Tragedy, the joint productionof Beaumont and Fletcher.
Rome was not better by her Horace taught,Than we are here to comprehend his thought;The poet writ to noble Piso there;A noble Piso does instruct us here,Gives us a pattern in his flowing style,And with rich precepts does oblige our isle:Britain! whose genius is in verse express'd,Bold and sublime, but negligently dress'd.
Horace will our superfluous branches prune, 10Give us new rules, and set our harp in tune;Direct us how to back the winged horse,Favour his flight, and moderate his force.
Though poets may of inspiration boast,Their rage, ill-govern'd, in the clouds is lost.He that proportion'd wonders can disclose,At once his fancy and his judgment shows.Chaste moral writing we may learn from hence,Neglect of which no wit can recompense.The fountain which from Helicon proceeds,That sacred stream! should never water weeds, 20Nor make the crop of thorns and thistles grow,Which envy or perverted nature sow.
Well-sounding verses are the charm we use,Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse;Things of deep sense we may in prose unfold,But they move more in lofty numbers told.By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids,We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades.
The Muses' friend, unto himself severe,With silent pity looks on all that err; 30But where a brave, a public action shines,That he rewards with his immortal lines.Whether it be in council or in fight,His country's honour is his chief delight;Praise of great acts he scatters as a seed,Which may the like in coming ages breed.
Here taught the fate of verses (always prizedWith admiration, or as much despised),Men will be less indulgent to their faults,And patience have to cultivate their thoughts. 40Poets lose half the praise they should have got,Could it be known what they discreetly blot;Finding new words, that to the ravish'd earMay like the language of the gods appear,Such as, of old, wise bards employ'd, to makeUnpolish'd men their wild retreats forsake;Law-giving heroes, famed for taming brutes,And raising cities with their charming lutes;For rudest minds with harmony were caught,And civil life was by the Muses taught. 50So wand'ring bees would perish in the air,Did not a sound, proportion'd to their ear,Appease their rage, invite them to the hive,Unite their force, and teach them how to thrive,To rob the flowers, and to forbear the spoil,Preserved in winter by their summer's toil;They give us food, which may with nectar vie,And wax, that does the absent sun supply.
Swift as Jove's messenger (the winged god),With sword as potent as his charmed rod,He flew to execute the King's command,And in a moment reach'd that northern land,Where day contending with approaching night,Assists the hero with continued light.
On foes surprised, and by no night conceal'd,He might have rush'd; but noble pity heldHis hand a while, and to their choice gave space,Which they would prove, his valour or his grace. 10This not well heard, his cannon louder spoke,And then, like lightning, through that cloud he broke.His fame, his conduct, and that martial look,The guilty Scots with such a terror strook,That to his courage they resign the field,Who to his bounty had refused to yield.Glad that so little loyal blood it cost,He grieves so many Britons should be lost;Taking more pains, when he beheld them yield,To save the flyers, than to win the field; 20And at the Court his int'rest does employ,That none, who 'scaped his fatal sword, should die.
And now, these rash bold men their error find,Not trusting one beyond his promise kind;One! whose great mind, so bountiful and brave,Had learn'd the art to conquer and to save.
In vulgar breasts no royal virtues dwell;Such deeds as these his high extraction tell,And give a secret joy to him that reigns,To see his blood triumph in Monmouth's veins; 30To see a leader whom he got and chose,Firm to his friends, and fatal to his foes.
But seeing envy, like the sun, does beat,With scorching rays, on all that's high and great,This, ill-requited Monmouth! is the boughThe Muses send to shade thy conqu'ring brow.Lampoons, like squibs, may make a present blaze;But time and thunder pay respect to bays.Achilles' arms dazzle our present view,Kept by the Muse as radiant and as new 40As from the forge of Vulcan first they came;Thousands of years are past, and they the same;Such care she takes to pay desert with fame!Than which no monarch, for his crown's defence,Knows how to give a nobler recompence.
Thus mourn the Muses! on the hearseNot strewing tears, but lasting verse,Which so preserve the hero's name,They make him live again in fame.
Chloris, in lines so like his own,Gives him so just and high renown,That she th'afflicted world relieves,And shows that still in her he lives;Her wit as graceful, great, and good;Allied in genius, as in blood.[2]
His loss supplied, now all our fears Are, that the nymph should melt in tears. Then, fairest Chloris! comfort take, For his, your own, and for our sake, Lest his fair soul, that lives in you, Should from the world for ever go. [1] 'Mrs. Wharton': the daughter, and co-heiress with the Countess of Abingdon, of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in Oxfordshire. [2] 'In blood': the Earl of Rochester's mother was Mrs. Wharton's grand aunt.
What revolutions in the world have been,How are we changed since we first saw the Queen!She, like the sun, does still the same appear,Bright as she was at her arrival here!Time has commission mortals to impair,But things celestial is obliged to spare.
May every new year find her still the sameIn health and beauty as she hither came!When Lords and Commons, with united voice,Th' Infanta named, approved the royal choice;[1]First of our Queens whom not the King alone,But the whole nation, lifted to the throne.
With like consent, and like desert, was crown'dThe glorious Prince[2] that does the Turk confound.Victorious both! his conduct wins the day,And her example chases vice away;Though louder fame attend the martial rage,'Tis greater glory to reform the age.
[1] 'Royal choice': a royal message, announcing the king's intention tomarry the Infanta of Portugal, was delivered in Parliament in May1661.[2] 'Prince': John Sobieski, king of Poland.
Venus her myrtle, Phoebus has his bays;Tea both excels, which she vouchsafes to praise.The best of Queens, and best of herbs, we oweTo that bold nation which the way did showTo the fair region where the sun does rise,Whose rich productions we so justly prize.The Muse's friend, tea does our fancy aid,Repress those vapours which the head invade,And keeps that palace of the soul serene,Fit on her birth-day to salute the Queen.
The modern Nimrod, with a safe delightPursuing beasts, that save themselves by flight,Grown proud, and weary of his wonted game,Would Christians chase, and sacrifice to fame.
A prince, with eunuchs and the softer sexShut up so long, would warlike nations vex,Provoke the German, and, neglecting heaven,Forget the truce for which his oath was given.
His Grand Vizier, presuming to investThe chief imperial city of the west, 10With the first charge compell'd in haste to rise,His treasure, tents, and cannon, left a prize;The standard lost, and janizaries slain,Render the hopes he gave his master vain.The flying Turks, that bring the tidings home,Renew the memory of his father's doom;And his guard murmurs, that so often bringsDown from the throne their unsuccessful kings.
The trembling Sultan's forced to expiateHis own ill-conduct by another's fate. 20The Grand Vizier, a tyrant, though a slave,A fair example to his master gave;He Bassa's head, to save his own, made fly,And now, the Sultan to preserve, must die.
The fatal bowstring was not in his thought,When, breaking truce, he so unjustly fought;Made the world tremble with a numerous host,And of undoubted victory did boast.
Strangled he lies! yet seems to cry aloud, 29To warn the mighty, and instruct the proud,That of the great, neglecting to be just,Heaven in a moment makes a heap of dust.
The Turks so low, why should the Christians loseSuch an advantage of their barb'rous foes?Neglect their present ruin to complete,Before another Solyman they get?Too late they would with shame, repenting, dreadThat numerous herd, by such a lion led;He Rhodes and Buda from the Christians tore,Which timely union might again restore. 40
But, sparing Turks, as if with rage possess'd,The Christians perish, by themselves oppress'd;Cities and provinces so dearly won,That the victorious people are undone!
What angel shall descend to reconcileThe Christian states, and end their guilty toil?A prince more fit from heaven we cannot askThan Britain's king, for such a glorious task;His dreadful navy, and his lovely mind,Give him the fear and favour of mankind; 50His warrant does the Christian faith defend;On that relying, all their quarrels end.The peace is sign'd,[2] and Britain does obtainWhat Rome had sought from her fierce sons in vain.
In battles won Fortune a part doth claim,And soldiers have their portion in the same;In this successful union we findOnly the triumph of a worthy mind.'Tis all accomplish'd by his royal word,Without unsheathing the destructive sword; 60
Without a tax upon his subjects laid,Their peace disturb'd, their plenty, or their trade.And what can they to such a prince deny,With whose desires the greatest kings comply?
The arts of peace are not to him unknown;This happy way he march'd into the throne;And we owe more to Heaven than to the sword,The wish'd return of so benign a lord.
Charles! by old Greece with a new freedom graced,Above her antique heroes shall be placed. 70What Theseus did, or Theban Hercules,Holds no compare with this victorious peace,Which on the Turks shall greater honour gain,Than all their giants and their monsters slain:Those are bold tales, in fabulous ages told;This glorious act the living do behold.
[1] 'Year 1683': see History. [2] 'Peace is signed': the Peace of Nimeguen.
Since James the Second graced the British throne,Truce, well observed, has been infring'd by none;Christians to him their present union owe,And late success against the common foe;While neighb'ring princes, both to urge their fate,Court his assistance, and suspend their hate.So angry bulls the combat do forbear,When from the wood a lion does appear.
This happy day peace to our island sent,As now he gives it to the Continent. 10A prince more fit for such a glorious task,Than England's king, from Heaven we cannot ask;He, great and good! proportion'd to the work,Their ill-drawn swords shall turn against the Turk.
Such kings, like stars with influence unconfined,Shine with aspect propitious to mankind;Favour the innocent, repress the bold,And, while they flourish, make an age of gold.
Bred in the camp, famed for his valour, young;At sea successful, vigorous, and strong; 20His fleet, his array, and his mighty mind,Esteem and rev'rence through the world do find.A prince with such advantages as these,Where he persuades not, may command a peace.Britain declaring for the juster side,The most ambitious will forget their pride;They that complain will their endeavours cease,Advised by him, inclined to present peace,Join to the Turk's destruction, and then bringAll their pretences to so just a king. 30
If the successful troublers of mankind,With laurel crown'd, so great applause do find,Shall the vex'd world less honour yield to thoseThat stop their progress, and their rage oppose?Next to that power which does the ocean awe,Is to set bounds, and give ambition law.
The British monarch shall the glory have,That famous Greece remains no longer slave;That source of art and cultivated thought!Which they to Rome, and Romans hither brought. 40
The banish'd Muses shall no longer mourn,But may with liberty to Greece return;Though slaves (like birds that sing not in a cage),They lost their genius, and poetic rage;Homers again, and Pindars, may be found,And his great actions with their numbers crown'd.
The Turk's vast empire does united stand;Christians, divided under the commandOf jarring princes, would be soon undone,Did not this hero make their int'rest one; 50Peace to embrace, ruin the common foe,Exalt the Cross, and lay the Crescent low.
Thus may the Gospel to the rising sunBe spread, and flourish where it first began;And this great day, (so justly honour'd here!)Known to the East, and celebrated there.
Hæc ego longævus cecini tibi, maxime regum!Ausus et ipse manu juvenum tentare laborem.—VIRG.
Where'er thy navy spreads her canvas wings,Homage to thee, and peace to all she brings;The French and Spaniard, when thy flags appear,Forget their hatred, and consent to fear.So Jove from Ida did both hosts survey,And when he pleased to thunder, part the fray.Ships heretofore in seas like fishes sped,The mightiest still upon the smallest fed;Thou on the deep imposest nobler laws,And by that justice hast removed the cause 10Of those rude tempests, which for rapine sent,Too oft, alas! involved the innocent.Now shall the ocean, as thy Thames, be freeFrom both those fates, of storms and piracy.
But we most happy, who can fear no forceBut winged troops, or Pegasean horse.'Tis not so hard for greedy foes to spoilAnother nation, as to touch our soil.Should Nature's self invade the world again,And o'er the centre spread the liquid main, 20Thy power were safe, and her destructive handWould but enlarge the bounds of thy command;Thy dreadful fleet would style thee lord of all,And ride in triumph o'er the drowned ball;Those towers of oak o'er fertile plains might go,And visit mountains where they once did grow.
The world's Restorer once could not endureThat finish'd Babel should those men secure,Whose pride design'd that fabric to have stoodAbove the reach of any second flood; 30To thee, his chosen, more indulgent, heDares trust such power with so much piety.
TO MR HENRY LAWES,[1] WHO HAD THEN NEWLY SET A SONG OF MINE IN THE YEAR 1635.
Verse makes heroic virtue live;But you can life to verses give.As when in open air we blow,The breath, though strain'd, sounds flat and low;But if a trumpet take the blast,It lifts it high, and makes it last:So in your airs our numbers dress'd,Make a shrill sally from the breastOf nymphs, who, singing what we penn'd,Our passions to themselves commend; 10While love, victorious with thy art,Governs at once their voice and heart.
You by the help of tune and time,Can make that song that was but rhyme.Noy[2] pleading, no man doubts the cause;Or questions verses set by Lawes.
As a church window, thick with paint,Lets in a light but dim and faint;So others, with division, hideThe light of sense, the poet's pride: 20But you alone may proudly boastThat not a syllable is lost;The writer's and the setter's skillAt once the ravish'd ears do fill.Let those which only warble long,And gargle in their throats a song,Content themselves with Ut, Re, Mi:[3]Let words, and sense, be set by thee.[1] 'Lawes': an eminent musical composer, who composed the music forMilton's Comus.[2] 'Noy': Attorney-General to Charles I., had died in 1635. By apoetical licence Waller represents him still pleading.[3] 'Ut, Re, Mi': Lawes opposed the Italian music.
1 Madam, of all the sacred Muse inspired,Orpheus alone could with the woods comply;Their rude inhabitants his song admired,And Nature's self, in those that could not lie:Your beauty next our solitude invades,And warms us, shining through the thickest shades.
2 Nor ought the tribute, which the wond'ring CourtPays your fair eyes, prevail with you to scornThe answer and consent to that reportWhich, echo-like, the country does return:Mirrors are taught to flatter, but our springsPresent th'impartial images of things.
3 A rural judge disposed of beauty's prize;A simple shepherd was preferr'd to Jove;Down to the mountains from the partial skies,Came Juno, Pallas, and the Queen of Love,To plead for that which was so justly givenTo the bright Carlisle of the court of heaven.
4 Carlisle! a name which all our woods are taught,Loud as their Amaryllis, to resound;Carlisle! a name which on the bark is wroughtOf every tree that's worthy of the wound.From Phoebus' rage our shadows and our streamsMay guard us better than from Carlisle's beams.
[1] 'Lady Carlisle': the Lady Lucy Percy, daughter of the Earl ofNorthumberland, married against her father's wishes to the Earl ofCarlisle. She was a wit andintriguante.
Phyllis! 'twas love that injured you,And on that rock your Thrysis threw;Who for proud Celia could have died,While you no less accused his pride.
Fond Love his darts at random throws,And nothing springs from what he sows;From foes discharged, as often meetThe shining points of arrows fleet,In the wide air creating fire,As souls that join in one desire. 10
Love made the lovely Venus burnIn vain, and for the cold youth[1] mourn,Who the pursuit of churlish beastsPreferr'd to sleeping on her breasts.
Love makes so many hearts the prizeOf the bright Carlisle's conqu'ring eyes,Which she regards no more than theyThe tears of lesser beauties weigh.So have I seen the lost clouds pourInto the sea an useless shower; 20And the vex'd sailors curse the rainFor which poor shepherds pray'd in vain.
Then, Phyllis, since our passions areGovern'd by chance, and not the care,But sport of heaven, which takes delightTo look upon this Parthian fightOf love, still flying, or in chase,Never encount'ring face to face;No more to Love we'll sacrifice,But to the best of deities; 30And let our hearts, which Love disjoin'd,By his kind mother be combin'd.
[1] 'Cold youth ': Adonis.
Great Queen of Europe! where thy offspring wearsAll the chief crowns; where princes are thy heirs;As welcome thou to sea-girt Britain's shore,As erst Latona (who fair Cynthia bore)To Delos was; here shines a nymph as bright,By thee disclosed, with like increase of light.Why was her joy in Belgia confined?Or why did you so much regard the wind?Scarce could the ocean, though enraged, have toss'dThy sov'reign bark, but where th'obsequious coast 10Pays tribute to thy bed. Rome's conqu'ring handMore vanquished nations under her commandNever reduced. Glad Berecynthia soAmong her deathless progeny did go;A wreath of towers adorn'd her rev'rend head,Mother of all that on ambrosia fed.Thy godlike race must sway the age to come,As she Olympus peopled with her womb.
Would those commanders of mankind obeyTheir honour'd parent, all pretences lay 20Down at your royal feet, compose their jars,And on the growing Turk discharge these wars;The Christian knights that sacred tomb should wrestFrom Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East;Our England's Prince, and Gallia's Dolphin, mightLike young Rinaldo and Tancredi fight;In single combat by their swords againThe proud Argantes and fierce Soldan slain;Again might we their valiant deeds recite,And with your Tuscan Muse[2] exalt the fight. 30
[2] 'Her landing': Mary de Medicis, widow of Henry IV., and mother ofthe King of France, and of the Queens of England and Spain, comingto England in 1638, was very ill received by the people, and forcedultimately to leave the country.[2] 'Tuscan Muse': Tasso.
Rare Artisan, whose pencil movesNot our delights alone, but loves!From thy shop of beauty weSlaves return, that enter'd free.The heedless lover does not knowWhose eyes they are that wound him so;But, confounded with thy art,Inquires her name that has his heart.Another, who did long refrain,Feels his old wound bleed fresh again 10With dear remembrance of that face,Where now he reads new hope of grace:Nor scorn nor cruelty does find,But gladly suffers a false windTo blow the ashes of despairFrom the reviving brand of care.Fool! that forgets her stubborn lookThis softness from thy finger took.Strange! that thy hand should not inspireThe beauty only, but the fire; 20Not the form alone, and grace,But act and power of a face.Mayst thou yet thyself as well,As all the world besides, excel!So you th'unfeigned truth rehearse(That I may make it live in verse),Why thou couldst not at one assay,[2]The face to aftertimes convey,Which this admires. Was it thy witTo make her oft before thee sit? 30Confess, and we'll forgive thee this;For who would not repeat that bliss,And frequent sight of such a dameBuy with the hazard of his fame?Yet who can tax thy blameless skill,Though thy good hand had failed still,When Nature's self so often errs?She for this many thousand years 38Seems to have practised with much care,To frame the race of women fair;Yet never could a perfect birthProduce before to grace the earth,Which waxèd old ere it could seeHer that amazed thy art and thee.But now 'tis done, oh, let me knowWhere those immortal colours grow,That could this deathless piece compose!In lilies? or the fading rose?No; for this theft thou hast climb'd higherThan did Prometheus for his fire. 50
[1] 'Vandyck': some think this refers to a picture of Saccharissa, by Vandyck, in Hall-Barn. [2] 'Assay': attempt.
1 Not that thy trees at Penshurst groan,Oppressed with their timely load,And seem to make their silent moan,That their great lord is now abroad:They to delight his taste, or eye,Would spend themselves in fruit, and die.
2 Not that thy harmless deer repine,And think themselves unjustly slainBy any other hand than thine,Whose arrows they would gladly stain;No, nor thy friends, which hold too dearThat peace with France which keeps thee there.
3 All these are less than that great causeWhich now exacts your presence here,Wherein there meet the divers lawsOf public and domestic care.For one bright nymph our youth contends,And on your prudent choice depends.
4 Not the bright shield of Thetis' son[2](For which such stern debate did rise,That the great Ajax TelamonRefused to live without the prize),Those Achive peers did more engageThan she the gallants of our age.
5 That beam of beauty, which begunTo warm us so when thou wert here,Now scorches like the raging sun,When Sirius does first appear.Oh, fix this flame! and let despairRedeem the rest from endless care.
[1] 'Lord of Leicester': Saccharissa's father. He was employed at this time in foreign service. [2] 'Thetis' son': Achilles.
Fair fellow-servant! may your gentle earProve more propitious to my slighted careThan the bright dame's we serve: for her relief(Vex'd with the long expressions of my grief)Receive these plaints; nor will her high disdainForbid my humble Muse to court her train.
So, in those nations which the sun adore,Some modest Persian, or some weak-eyed Moor,No higher dares advance his dazzled sight,Than to some gilded cloud, which near the light 10Of their ascending god adorns the east,And, gracèd with his beams, outshines the rest.
Thy skilful hand contributes to our woe,And whets those arrows which confound us so.A thousand Cupids in those curls do sit(Those curious nets!) thy slender fingers knit.The Graces put not more exactly onTh' attire of Venus, when the ball she won,Than Saccharissa by thy care is dress'd,When all our youth prefers her to the rest. 20
You the soft season know when best her mindMay be to pity, or to love, inclined:In some well-chosen hour supply his fear,Whose hopeless love durst never tempt the earOf that stern goddess. You, her priest, declareWhat offerings may propitiate the fair;Rich orient pearl, bright stones that ne'er decay,Or polish'd lines, which longer last than they;For if I thought she took delight in those,To where the cheerful morn does first disclose, 30(The shady night removing with her beams),Wing'd with bold love, I'd fly to fetch such gems.But since her eyes, her teeth, her lip excelsAll that is found in mines or fishes' shells,Her nobler part as far exceeding these,None but immortal gifts her mind should please.The shining jewels Greece and Troy bestow'dOn Sparta's queen,[1] her lovely neck did load,And snowy wrists; but when the town was burn'd,Those fading glories were to ashes turn'd; 40Her beauty, too, had perished, and her fame,Had not the Muse redeemed them from the flame.
[1] 'Sparta's queen': Helen.
1 Why came I so untimely forthInto a world which, wanting thee,Could entertain us with no worthOr shadow of felicity?That time should me so far removeFrom that which I was born to love!
2 Yet, fairest blossom! do not slightThat age which you may know so soon;The rosy morn resigns her lightAnd milder glory to the noon;And then what wonders shall you do,Whose dawning beauty warms us so?
3 Hope waits upon the flow'ry prime;And summer, though it be less gay,Yet is not look'd on as a timeOf declination or decay;For with a full hand that does bringAll that was promised by the spring.
[1] 'Lady Lucy Sidney': the younger sister of Lady Dorothea; afterwards married to Sir John Pelham.
Fair! that you may truly knowWhat you unto Thyrsis owe,I will tell you how I doSaccharissa love and you.
Joy salutes me, when I setMy bless'd eyes on Amoret;But with wonder I am strook, 7While I on the other look.
If sweet Amoret complains,I have sense of all her pains;But for Saccharissa IDo not only grieve, but die.
All that of myself is mine,Lovely Amoret! is thine;Saccharissa's captive fainWould untie his iron chain,And, those scorching beams to shun,To thy gentle shadow run.
If the soul had free electionTo dispose of her affection, 20I would not thus long have borneHaughty Saccharissa's scorn;But 'tis sure some power above,Which controls our wills in love!
If not love, a strong desireTo create and spread that fireIn my breast, solicits me,Beauteous Amoret! for thee.
'Tis amazement more than love,Which her radiant eyes do move; 30If less splendour wait on thine,Yet they so benignly shine,I would turn my dazzled sightTo behold their milder light;But as hard 'tis to destroyThat high flame, as to enjoy;Which how eas'ly I may do,Heaven (as eas'ly scaled) does know!
Amoret! as sweet and goodAs the most delicious food, 40Which, but tested, does impartLife and gladness to the heart.
Saccharissa's beauty's wine,Which to madness doth incline;Such a liquor as no brainThat is mortal can sustain.
Scarce can I to heaven excuseThe devotion which I useUnto that adorèd dame;For 'tis not unlike the same 50Which I thither ought to send;So that if it could take end,'Twould to heaven itself be dueTo succeed her, and not you,Who already have of meAll that's not idolatry;Which, though not so fierce a flame,Is longer like to be the same.
Then smile on me, and I will proveWonder is shorter-liv'd than love. 60
[1] 'Amoret': see 'Life.'
Brave Holland leads, and with him Falkland goes:Who hears this told, and does not straight supposeWe send the Graces and the Muses forthTo civilise and to instruct the north?Not that these ornaments make swords less sharp;Apollo bears as well his bow as harp;[2]And though he be the patron of that spring,Where, in calm peace, the sacred virgins sing,He courage had to guard th'invaded throne 9Of Jove, and cast th'ambitious giants down.
Ah, noble friend! with what impatience allThat know thy worth, and know how prodigalOf thy great soul thou art (longing to twistBays with that ivy which so early kiss'dThy youthful temples), with what horror weThink on the blind events of war and thee!To fate exposing that all-knowing breastAmong the throng, as cheaply as the rest;Where oaks and brambles (if the copse be burn'd)Confounded lie, to the same ashes turn'd. 20
Some happy wind over the ocean blowThis tempest yet, which frights our island so!Guarded with ships, and all the sea our own,From heaven this mischief on our heads is thrown.
In a late dream, the genius of this land,Amazed, I saw, like the fair Hebrew, stand,When first she felt the twins begin to jar,[3]And found her womb the seat of civil war.Inclined to whose relief, and with presageOf better fortune for the present age, 30Heaven sends, quoth I, this discord for our good,To warm, perhaps, but not to waste our blood;To raise our drooping spirits, grown the scornOf our proud neighbours, who ere long shall mourn(Though now they joy in our expected harms)We had occasion to resume our arms.
A lion so with self-provoking smart(His rebel tail scourging his nobler part)Calls up his courage; then begins to roar,And charge his foes, who thought him mad before. 40
[1] 'Lord of Falkland': referring to the unsuccessful expedition of Charles I. against Scotland in 1639, frustrated by the cowardice or treachery of Lord Holland. [2] 'Bow as harp': Horace, Ode iv., lib. 3. [3] 'Twins begin to jar': Gen. xxv. 22.
To this great loss a sea of tears is due;But the whole debt not to be paid by you.Charge not yourself with all, nor render vainThose show'rs the eyes of us your servants rain.Shall grief contract the largeness of that heart,In which nor fear, nor anger, has a part?Virtue would blush if time should boast (which dries,Her sole child dead, the tender mother's eyes)Your mind's relief, where reason triumphs soOver all passions, that they ne'er could grow 10Beyond their limits in your noble breast,To harm another, or impeach your rest.This we observed, delighting to obeyOne who did never from his great self stray;Whose mild example seemed to engageTh' obsequious seas, and teach them not to rage.
The brave Aemilius, his great charge laid down(The force of Rome, and fate of Macedon),In his lost sons did feel the cruel strokeOf changing fortune, and thus highly spoke 20Before Rome's people: 'We did oft implore,That if the heavens had any bad in storeFor your Aemilius, they would pour that illOn his own house, and let you flourish still.'You on the barren seas, my lord, have spentWhole springs and summers to the public lent;Suspended all the pleasures of your life,And shorten'd the short joy of such a wife;For which your country's more obligèd than 29For many lives of old less happy men.You, that have sacrificed so great a partOf youth, and private bliss, ought to impartYour sorrow too, and give your friends a rightAs well in your affliction as delight.Then with Aemilian courage bear this cross,Since public persons only public lossOught to affect. And though her form and youth,Her application to your will, and truth,That noble sweetness, and that humble state(All snatch'd away by such a hasty fate!) 40Might give excuse to any common breast,With the huge weight of so just grief oppress'd;Yet let no portion of your life be stain'dWith passion, but your character maintain'dTo the last act. It is enough her stoneMay honour'd be with superscriptionOf the sole lady who had power to moveThe great Northumberland to grieve, and love.
[1] 'His lady': the Lady Anne Cecil, daughter of the Earl of Salisbury.See a previous note.
With joy like ours the Thracian youth invadesOrpheus, returning from th'Elysian shades;Embrace the hero, and his stay implore;Make it their public suit he would no moreDesert them so, and for his spouse's sake,His vanish'd love, tempt the Lethean lake.The ladies, too, the brightest of that time(Ambitious all his lofty bed to climb),Their doubtful hopes with expectation feed, 9Who shall the fair Eurydice succeed:Eurydice! for whom his numerous moanMakes list'ning trees and savage mountains groan;Through all the air his sounding strings dilateSorrow, like that which touch'd our hearts of late.Your pining sickness, and your restless pain,At once the land affecting, and the main,When the glad news that you were admiralScarce through the nation spread,[1] 'twas feared by allThat our great Charles, whose wisdom shines in you,Would be perplexed how to choose anew. 20So more than private was the joy and grief,That at the worst it gave our souls relief,That in our age such sense of virtue lived,They joy'd so justly, and so justly grieved.Nature (her fairest light eclipsèd) seemsHerself to suffer in those sharp extremes;While not from thine alone thy blood retires,But from those cheeks which all the world admires.The stem thus threaten'd, and the sap in thee,Droop all the branches of that noble tree! 30Their beauty they, and we our love suspend;Nought can our wishes, save thy health, intend.As lilies overcharged with rain, they bendTheir beauteous heads, and with high heaven contend;Fold thee within their snowy arms, and cry—'He is too faultless, and too young, to die!'So like immortals round about thee theySit, that they fright approaching death away.Who would not languish, by so fair a trainTo be lamented, and restored again? 40
Or, thus withheld, what hasty soul would go,Though to the blest? O'er young Adonis soFair Venus mourn'd, and with the precious showerOf her warm tears cherish'd the springing flower.
The next support, fair hope of your great name,And second pillar of that noble frame,By loss of thee would no advantage have,But step by step pursue thee to the grave.
And now relentless Fate, about to endThe line which backward does so far extend 50That antique stock, which still the world suppliesWith bravest spirits, and with brightest eyes,Kind Phoebus, interposing, bid me say,Such storms no more shall shake that house; but they,Like Neptune, and his sea-born niece,[1] shall beThe shining glories of the land and sea;With courage guard, and beauty warm, our age,And lovers fill with like poetic rage.
[1] 'Nation spread': the Earl of Northumberland, appointed Lord HighAdmiral in the year 1638.
Well fare the hand, which to our humble sightPresents that beauty, which the dazzling lightOf royal splendour hides from weaker eyes,And all access, save by this art, denies.Here only we have courage to beholdThis beam of glory; here we dare unfoldIn numbers thus the wonders we conceive; 7The gracious image, seeming to give leave,Propitious stands, vouchsafing to be seen;And by our Muse saluted Mighty Queen,In whom th'extremes of power and beauty move,The Queen of Britain and the Queen of Love!
As the bright sun (to which we owe no sightOf equal glory to your beauty's light)Is wisely placed in so sublime a seat,T' extend his light, and moderate his heat;So, happy 'tis you move in such a sphere,As your high Majesty with awful fearIn human breasts might qualify that fire,Which, kindled by those eyes, had flamèd higher 20Than when the scorched world like hazard run,By the approach of the ill-guided sun.
No other nymphs have title to men's hearts,But as their meanness larger hope imparts;Your beauty more the fondest lover movesWith admiration than his private loves;With admiration! for a pitch so high(Save sacred Charles his) never love durst fly.Heaven, that preferr'd a sceptre to your hand,Favour'd our freedom more than your command; 30Beauty had crown'd you, and you must have beenThe whole world's mistress, other than a Queen.All had been rivals, and you might have spared,Or kill'd, and tyrannised, without a guard;No power achieved, either by arms or birth,Equals love's empire both in heaven and earth.Such eyes as yours on Jove himself have thrownAs bright and fierce a lightning as his own;Witness our Jove, prevented by their flameIn his swift passage to th'Hesperian dame; 40
When, like a lion, finding, in his wayTo some intended spoil, a fairer prey,The royal youth pursuing the reportOf beauty, found it in the Gallic court;There public care with private passion foughtA doubtful combat in his noble thought:Should he confess his greatness, and his love,And the free faith of your great brother[3] prove;With his Achates breaking through the cloudOf that disguise which did their graces shroud;[4] 50And mixing with those gallants at the ball,Dance with the ladies, and outshine them all;Or on his journey o'er the mountains ride?—So when the fair Leucothoë he espied,To check his steeds impatient Phoebus yearn'd,Though all the world was in his course concern'd.What may hereafter her meridian do,Whose dawning beauty warm'd his bosom so?Not so divine a flame, since deathless godsForbore to visit the defiled abodes 60Of men, in any mortal breast did burn;Nor shall, till piety and they return.
[1] 'Sea-born niece': Venus. [2] 'Majesty's picture': Henrietta, daughter of Henry IV., married by proxy to Charles I. in Paris, 1st May 1625. Marriages made in May are said to be unlucky—thiscertainly was. [3] 'Great brother': Louis XIII., King of France. [4] 'Graces shroud': 'Achates,' the Duke of Buckingham.
1 Amoret! the Milky WayFramed of many nameless stars!The smooth stream where none can sayHe this drop to that prefers!
2 Amoret! my lovely foe!Tell me where thy strength does lie?Where the pow'r that charms us so?In thy soul, or in thy eye?
3 By that snowy neck alone,Or thy grace in motion seen,No such wonders could he done;Yet thy waist is straight and cleanAs Cupid's shaft, or Hermes' rod,And pow'rful, too, as either god.
Phyllis! why should we delayPleasures shorter than the day?Could we (which we never can!)Stretch our lives beyond their span,Beauty like a shadow flies,And our youth before us dies.Or would youth and beauty stay,Love hath wings, and will away.Love hath swifter wings than Time,Change in love to heaven does climb. 10Gods, that never change their state,Vary oft their love and hate.
Phyllis! to this truth we oweAll the love betwixt us two.Let not you and I inquireWhat has been our past desire;On what shepherds you have smiled,Or what nymphs I have beguiled;Leave it to the planets too, 19What we shall hereafter do;For the joys we now may prove,Take advice of present love.
Thus the wise nightingale that leaves her home,Her native wood, when storms and winter come,Pursuing constantly the cheerful spring,To foreign groves does her old music bring.
The drooping Hebrews' banish'd harps, unstrung,At Babylon upon the willows hung;Yours sounds aloud, and tells us you excelNo less in courage, than in singing well;While, unconcern'd, you let your country knowThey have impoverish'd themselves, not you; 10Who, with the Muses' help, can mock those fatesWhich threaten kingdoms, and disorder states.So Ovid, when from Cæsar's rage he fled,The Roman Muse to Pontus with him led;Where he so sung, that we, through pity's glass,See Nero milder than Augustus was.Hereafter such, in thy behalf, shall beTh' indulgent censure of posterity.To banish those who with such art can sing,Is a rude crime, which its own curse doth bring; 20Ages to come shall ne'er know how they fought,Nor how to love, their present youth be taught.
This to thyself.—Now to thy matchless book,Wherein those few that can with judgment look,May find old love in pure fresh language told,Like new-stamp'd coin made out of angel-gold.Such truth in love as th'antique world did know,In such a style as courts may boast of now;Which no bold tales of gods or monsters swell,But human passions, such as with us dwell. 30Man is thy theme; his virtue or his rageDrawn to the life in each elaborate page.Mars nor Bellona are not namèd here,But such a Gondibert as both might fear;Venus had here, and Hebe, been outshinedBy the bright Birtha and thy Rhodalind.Such is thy happy skill, and such the oddsBetwixt thy worthies and the Grecian gods!Whose deities in vain had here come down,Where mortal beauty wears the Sovereign crown; 40Such as of flesh compos'd, by flesh and blood,Though not resisted, may be understood.
[1] 'Sir William Davenant': Davenant fled to France in fear of the displeasure of the Parliament, and there wrote the two first cantos ofGondibert.