Amaze us not with that majestic frown,But lay aside the greatness of your crown!And for that look which does your people awe,When in your throne and robes you give them law,Lay it by here, and give a gentler smile,Such as we see great Jove's in picture, whileHe listens to Apollo's charming lyre,Or judges of the songs he does inspire.Comedians on the stage show all their skill,And after do as Love and Fortune will. 10We are less careful, hid in this disguise;In our own clothes more serious and more wise.Modest at home, upon the stage more bold,We seem warm lovers, though our breasts be cold;A fault committed here deserves no scorn,If we act well the parts to which we're born.
Scarce should we have the boldness to pretendSo long-renown'd a tragedy to mend,Had not already some deserved your praiseWith like attempt. Of all our elder playsThis andPhilasterhave the loudest fame;Great are their faults, and glorious is their flame.In both our English genius is express'd; 7Lofty and bold, but negligently dress'd.
Above our neighbours our conceptions are;But faultless writing is th'effect of care.Our lines reform'd, and not composed in haste,Polished like marble, would like marble last.[2]But as the present, so the last age writ;In both we find like negligence and wit.Were we but less indulgent to our faults,And patience had to cultivate our thoughts,Our Muse would flourish, and a nobler rageWould honour this than did the Grecian stage.
Thus says our author, not content to seeThat others write as carelessly as he; 20Though he pretends not to make things complete,Yet, to please you, he'd have the poets sweat.
In this old play, what's new we have express'dIn rhyming verse, distinguish'd from the rest;That as the Rhone its hasty way does make(Not mingling waters) through Geneva's lake,So having here the different styles in view,You may compare the former with the new.
If we less rudely shall the knot untie,Soften the rigour of the tragedy, 30And yet preserve each person's character,Then to the other this you may prefer.'Tis left to you: the boxes and the pit,Are sov'reign judges of this sort of wit.In other things the knowing artist mayJudge better than the people; but a play,(Made for delight, and for no other use)If you approve it not, has no excuse.
[1] 'Maid's Tragedy': Waller altered this tragedy without success. [2] 'Marble last': these lines occur in a previous poem.
The fierce Melantius was content, you see,The king should live; be not more fierce than he;Too long indulgent to so rude a time,When love was held so capital a crime,That a crown'd head could no compassion find,But died—because the killer had been kind!Nor is't less strange, such mighty wits as thoseShould use a style in tragedy like prose.Well-sounding verse, where princes tread the stage,Should speak their virtue, or describe their rage. 10By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids,We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades;And verses are the potent charms we use,Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse.
When next we act this tragedy again,Unless you like the change, we shall be slain.The innocent Aspasia's life or death,Amintor's too, depends upon your breath.Excess of love was heretofore the cause;Now if we die, 'tis want of your applause. 20
Aspasia bleeding on the stage does lie,To show you still 'tis the Maid's Tragedy.The fierce Melantius was content, you see,The king should live; be not more fierce than he;Too long indulgent to so rude a time,When love was held so capital a crime,That a crown'd head could no compassion find,But died—because the killer had been kind!This better-natured poet had reprievedGentle Amintor too, had he believed 10The fairer sex his pardon could approve,Who to ambition sacrificed his love.Aspasia he has spared; but for her wound(Neglected love!) there could no salve be found.
When next we act this tragedy again,Unless you like the change, I must be slain.Excess of love was heretofore the cause;Now if I die, 'tis want of your applause.
Such Helen was! and who can blame the boy[1]That in so bright a flame consumed his Troy?But had like virtue shined in that fair Greek,The am'rous shepherd had not dared to seekOr hope for pity; but with silent moan,And better fate, had perished alone.
[1] Paris.
While she pretends to make the graces knownOf matchless Mira, she reveals her own;And when she would another's praise indite,Is by her glass instructed how to write.
Since thou wouldst needs (bewitch'd with some ill charms!)Be buried in those monumental arms,All we can wish is, may that earth lie lightUpon thy tender limbs! and so good night.
Were men so dull they could not seeThat Lyce painted; should they flee,Like simple birds, into a netSo grossly woven and ill set,Her own teeth would undo the knot,And let all go that she had got.Those teeth fair Lyce must not showIf she would bite; her lovers, thoughLike birds they stoop at seeming grapes,Are disabused when first she gapes;The rotten bones discover'd there,Show 'tis a painted sepulchre.
Our guard upon the royal side!On the reverse our beauty's pride!Here we discern the frown and smile,The force and glory of our isle.In the rich medal, both so likeImmortals stand, it seems antique;Carved by some master, when the boldGreeks made their Jove descend in gold,And Danaë[2] wond'ring at their shower,Which, falling, storm'd her brazen tower.Britannia there, the fort in vainHad batter'd been with golden rain;Thunder itself had fail'd to pass;Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
[1] 'Golden Medal': it is said that a Miss Stewart, the favourite of theunprincipled king, is the original of the figure of Britannia on themedals to which the poet here alludes.[2] Transcriber's note: The original text has a single dot over thesecond "a" and another over the "e", rather than the moreconventional diaresis shown here.
The cards you tear in value rise;So do the wounded by your eyes.Who to celestial things aspire,Are by that passion raised the higher.
An early plant! which such a blossom bears,And shows a genius so beyond his years;A judgment! that could make so fair a choice;So high a subject to employ his voice;Still as it grows, how sweetly will he singThe growing greatness of our matchless king!
Circles are praised, not that aboundIn largeness, but th'exactly round:So life we praise that does excelNot in much time, but acting well.
Though we may seem importunate,While your compassion we implore;They whom you make too fortunate,May with presumption vex you more.
Fade, flowers! fade, Nature will have it so;'Tis but what we must in our autumn do!And as your leaves lie quiet on the ground,The loss alone by those that loved them found;So in the grave shall we as quiet lie,Miss'd by some few that loved our company;But some so like to thorns and nettles live,That none for them can, when they perish, grieve.
Rome's holy-days you tell, as if a guestWith the old Romans you were wont to feast.Numa's religion, by themselves believed,Excels the true, only in show received.They made the nations round about them bow,With their dictators taken from the plough;Such power has justice, faith, and honesty!The world was conquer'd by morality.Seeming devotion does but gild a knave,That's neither faithful, honest, just, nor brave;But where religion does with virtue join,It makes a hero like an angel shine.
That the First Charles does here in triumph ride,See his son reign where he a martyr died,And people pay that rev'rence as they pass,(Which then he wanted!) to the sacred brass,Is not the effect of gratitude alone,To which we owe the statue and the stone;But Heaven this lasting monument has wrought,That mortals may eternally be taughtRebellion, though successful, is but vain,And kings so kill'd rise conquerors again.This truth the royal image does proclaim,Loud as the trumpet of surviving Fame.
Not the brave Macedonian youth[1] alone,But base Caligula, when on the throne,Boundless in power, would make himself a god,As if the world depended on his nod.The Syrian king[2] to beasts was headlong thrown,Ere to himself he could be mortal known.The meanest wretch, if Heaven should give him line,Would never stop till he were thought divine.All might within discern the serpent's pride,If from ourselves nothing ourselves did hide.Let the proud peacock his gay feathers spread,And woo the female to his painted bed;Let winds and seas together rage and swell—This Nature teaches, and becomes them well.'Pride was not made for men;'[3] a conscious senseOf guilt, and folly, and their consequence,Destroys the claim, and to beholders tells,Here nothing but the shape of manhood dwells.
[1] 'Macedonian youth': Alexander. [2] 'Syrian king': Nebuchadnezzar. [3] 'For men': Ecclus. x. 18.
Under this stone lies virtue, youth,Unblemish'd probity, and truth,Just unto all relations known,A worthy patriot, pious son;Whom neighb'ring towns so often sentTo give their sense in Parliament;With lives and fortunes trusting oneWho so discreetly used his own.Sober he was, wise, temperate, 9Contented with an old estate,Which no foul avarice did increase,Nor wanton luxury make less.While yet but young his father died,And left him to a happy guide;Not Lemuel's mother with more careDid counsel or instruct her heir,Or teach with more success her sonThe vices of the time to shun.An heiress she; while yet alive,All that was hers to him did give; 20And he just gratitude did showTo one that had obliged him so;Nothing too much for her he thought,By whom he was so bred and taught.So (early made that path to tread,Which did his youth to honour lead)His short life did a pattern giveHow neighbours, husbands, friends, should live.
The virtues of a private lifeExceed the glorious noise and strife 30Of battles won; in those we findThe solid int'rest of mankind.
Approved by all, and loved so well,Though young, like fruit that's ripe, he fell.
Here lies Charles Ca'ndish; let the marble stoneThat hides his ashes make his virtue known.Beauty and valour did his short life grace,The grief and glory of his noble race!Early abroad he did the world survey,As if he knew he had not long to stay;Saw what great Alexander in the East,And mighty Julius conquer'd in the West;Then, with a mind as great as theirs, he cameTo find at home occasion for his fame; 10Where dark confusion did the nations hide,And where the juster was the weaker side.Two loyal brothers took their sov'reign's part,Employ'd their wealth, their courage, and their art;The elder[2] did whole regiments afford;The younger brought his conduct and his sword.Born to command, a leader he begun,And on the rebels lasting honour won.The horse, instructed by their general's worth,Still made the king victorious in the north. 20Where Ca'ndish fought, the Royalists prevail'd;Neither his courage nor his judgment fail'd.The current of his vict'ries found no stop,Till Cromwell came, his party's chiefest prop.Equal success had set these champions high,And both resolved to conquer or to die.Virtue with rage, fury with valour strove;But that must fall which is decreed above!Cromwell, with odds of number and of fate,Removed this bulwark of the church and state; 30Which the sad issue of the war declared,And made his task, to ruin both, less hard.So when the bank, neglected, is o'erthrown,The boundless torrent does the country drown.Thus fell the young, the lovely, and the brave;—Strew bays and flowers on his honoured grave!
[1] 'Charles Cavendish': younger son of the Earl of Devonshire, andbrother of Lady Rich; slain in 1643 at Gainsborough, fighting on theking's side, in the twenty-third year of his age.[2] 'The elder': afterwards Earl of Devonshire.
Here lies the learned Savil's heir,So early wise, and lasting fair,That none, except her years they told,Thought her a child, or thought her old.All that her father knew or got,His art, his wealth, fell to her lot;And she so well improved that stock,Both of his knowledge and his flock,That wit and fortune, reconciledIn her, upon each other smiled. 10While she to every well-taught mindWas so propitiously inclined,And gave such title to her store,That none, but th'ignorant, were poor.The Muses daily found supplies,Both from her hands and from her eyes.Her bounty did at once engage,And matchless beauty warm their rage.Such was this dame in calmer days,Her nation's ornament and praise! 20But when a storm disturb'd our rest,The port and refuge of the oppress'd.This made her fortune understood,And look'd on as some public good.So that (her person and her state,Exempted from the common fate)In all our civil fury sheStood, like a sacred temple, free.May here her monument stand so,To credit this rude age! and showTo future times, that even weSome patterns did of virtue see;And one sublime example hadOf good, among so many bad.
[1] 'Lady Sedley': daughter of Sir Henry Savil, provost of Eton, and whomarried Sir John Sedley.
'Tis fit the English reader should be told,In our own language, what this tomb does hold.'Tis not a noble corpse alone does lieUnder this stone, but a whole family.His parents' pious care, their name, their joy,And all their hope, lies buried with this boy;This lovely youth! for whom we all made moan,That knew his worth, as he had been our own.
Had there been space and years enough allow'd,His courage, wit, and breeding to have show'd, 10We had not found, in all the num'rous rollOf his famed ancestors, a greater soul;His early virtues to that ancient stockGave as much honour, as from thence he took.
Like buds appearing ere the frosts are past,To become man he made such fatal haste,And to perfection labour'd so to climb,Preventing slow experience and time,That 'tis no wonder Death our hopes beguiled; 19He's seldom old that will not be a child.
[1] 'Lord Andover': the eldest son of the Earl of Berkshire.
Great soul! for whom Death will no longer stay,But sends in haste to snatch our bliss away.O cruel Death! to those you take more kind,Than to the wretched mortals left behind!Here beauty, youth, and noble virtue shined,Free from the clouds of pride that shade the mind.Inspirèd verse may on this marble live,But can no honour to thy ashes give—
Floriferis ut apes in saltibus omnia libant,Sic nos Scripturæ depascimur aurea dicta;Aurea! perpetua semper dignissima vita!Nam divinus amor cum coepit vociferari,Diffugiunt animi terrores….Lucretius, lib. iii.
Exul eram, requiesque mihi, non fama, petita est,Mens intenta suis ne foret usque malis:Namque ubi mota calent sacra mea pectora Musa,Altior humano spiritua ille malo est.OVID.De Trist. lib. iv. el. I.
I. Asserting the authority of the Scripture, in which this love is revealed.—II. The preference and love of God to man in the creation.— III. The same love more amply declared in our redemption.—IV. How necessary this love is to reform mankind, and how excellent in itself.— V. Showing how happy the world would be, if this love were universally embraced.—VI. Of preserving this love in our memory, and how useful the contemplation thereof is.
[1] These were Waller's latest poems, composed when he was eighty-two.
The Grecian Muse has all their gods survived,Nor Jove at us, nor Phoebus is arrived;Frail deities! which first the poets made,And then invoked, to give their fancies aid.Yet if they still divert us with their rage,What may be hoped for in a better age,When not from Helicon's imagined spring,But Sacred Writ, we borrow what we sing?This with the fabric of the world begun,Elder than light, and shall outlast the sun. 10Before this oracle, like Dagon, allThe false pretenders, Delphos, Ammon, fall;Long since despised and silent, they affordHonour and triumph to th'Eternal Word.
As late philosophy[1] our globe has graced,And rolling earth among the planets placed,So has this book entitled us to heaven,And rules to guide us to that mansion given;Tells the conditions how our peace was made,And is our pledge for the great Author's aid. 20His power in Nature's ample book we find,But the less volume does express his mind.
This light unknown, bold Epicurus taughtThat his bless'd gods vouchsafe us not a thought,But unconcern'd let all below them slide,As fortune does, or human wisdom, guide.Religion thus removed, the sacred yoke,And band of all society, is broke.What use of oaths, of promise, or of test,Where men regard no God but interest? 30What endless war would jealous nations tear,If none above did witness what they swear?Sad fate of unbelievers, and yet just,Among themselves to find so little trust!Were Scripture silent, Nature would proclaim,Without a God, our falsehood and our shame.To know our thoughts the object of his eyes,Is the first step t'wards being good or wise;For though with judgment we on things reflect,Our will determines, not our intellect. 40Slaves to their passion, reason men employOnly to compass what they would enjoy.His fear to guard us from ourselves we need,And Sacred Writ our reason does exceed;For though heaven shows the glory of the Lord,Yet something shines more glorious in His Word;His mercy this (which all His work excels!)His tender kindness and compassion tells;While we, inform'd by that celestial Book,Into the bowels of our Maker look. 50Love there reveal'd (which never shall have end,Nor had beginning) shall our song commend;Describe itself, and warm us with that flameWhich first from heaven, to make us happy, came.
[1] 'Late philosophy': that of Copernicus.
The fear of hell, or aiming to be bless'd,Savours too much of private interest.This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, 57Who for their friends abandon'd soul and all;[1]A greater yet from heaven to hell descends,To save, and make his enemies his friends.What line of praise can fathom such a love,Which reach'd the lowest bottom from above?The royal prophet,[2] that extended graceFrom heaven to earth, measured but half that space.The law was regnant, and confined his thought;Hell was not conquer'd when that poet wrote;Heaven was scarce heard of until He came down,To make the region where love triumphs known.
That early love of creatures yet unmade,To frame the world the Almighty did persuade; 70For love it was that first created light,Moved on the waters, chased away the nightFrom the rude Chaos, and bestow'd new graceOn things disposed of to their proper place;Some to rest here, and some to shine above;Earth, sea, and heaven, were all th'effects of love.And love would be return'd; but there was noneThat to themselves or others yet were known;The world a palace was without a guest,Till one appears that must excel the rest; 80One! like the Author, whose capacious mindMight, by the glorious work, the Maker find;Might measure heaven, and give each star a name;With art and courage the rough ocean tame;Over the globe with swelling sails might go,And that 'tis round by his experience know;Make strongest beasts obedient to his will,And serve his use the fertile earth to till.
When, by His Word, God had accomplish'd all, 89Man to create He did a council call;Employed His hand, to give the dust He tookA graceful figure, and majestic look;With His own breath convey'd into his breastLife, and a soul fit to command the rest;Worthy alone to celebrate His nameFor such a gift, and tell from whence it came.Birds sing His praises in a wilder note,But not with lasting numbers and with thought,Man's great prerogative! but above allHis grace abounds in His new fav'rite's fall. 100
If He create, it is a world He makes;If He be angry, the creation shakes;From His just wrath our guilty parents fled;He cursed the earth, but bruised the serpent's head.Amidst the storm His bounty did exceed,In the rich promise of the Virgin's seed;Though justice death, as satisfaction, craves,Love finds a way to pluck us from our graves.
[1] 'Abandoned soul and all': Exodus xxxii. 32. Ep. to the Romans ix. 3. [2]: 'Royal prophet': David.
Not willing terror should His image move;He gives a pattern of eternal love; 110His Son descends to treat a peace with thoseWhich were, and must have ever been, His foes.Poor He became, and left His glorious seatTo make us humble, and to make us great;His business here was happiness to giveTo those whose malice could not let Him live.
Legions of angels, which He might have used,(For us resolved to perish) He refused;While they stood ready to prevent His loss,Love took Him up, and nail'd Him to the cross. 120
Immortal love! which in His bowels reign'd,That we might be by such great love constrain'dTo make return of love. Upon this poleOur duty does, and our religion, roll.To love is to believe, to hope, to know;'Tis an essay, a taste of heaven below!
He to proud potentates would not be known;Of those that loved Him He was hid from none.Till love appear we live in anxious doubt;But smoke will vanish when the flame breaks out; 130This is the fire that would consume our dross,Refine, and make us richer by the loss.
Could we forbear dispute, and practise love,We should agree as angels do above.Where love presides, not vice alone does findNo entrance there, but virtues stay behind;Both faith, and hope, and all the meaner trainOf mortal virtues, at the door remain.Love only enters as a native there,For, born in heaven, it does but sojourn here. 140
He that alone would wise and mighty be,Commands that others love as well as He.Love as He loved!—How can we soar so high?—He can add wings, when He commands to fly.Nor should we be with this command dismay'd;He that examples gives, will give His aid;For He took flesh, that where His precepts fail,His practice as a pattern may prevail.His love, at once, and dread, instruct our thought;As man He suffer'd, and as God He taught. 150Will for the deed He takes; we may with easeObedient be, for if we love we please.Weak though we are, to love is no hard task,And love for love is all that Heaven does ask.Love! that would all men just and temp'rate make, 155Kind to themselves, and others, for His sake.
'Tis with our minds as with a fertile ground,Wanting this love they must with weeds abound,(Unruly passions), whose effects are worseThan thorns and thistles springing from the curse. 160
To glory man, or misery, is born,Of his proud foe the envy, or the scorn;Wretched he is, or happy, in extreme;Base in himself, but great in Heaven's esteem;With love, of all created things the best;Without it, more pernicious than the rest;For greedy wolves unguarded sheep devourBut while their hunger lasts, and then give o'er;Man's boundless avarice his wants exceeds,And on his neighbours round about him feeds. 170
His pride and vain ambition are so vast,That, deluge-like, they lay whole nations waste.Debauches and excess (though with less noise)As great a portion of mankind destroys.The beasts and monsters Hercules oppress'd,Might in that age some provinces infest;These more destructive monsters are the baneOf every age, and in all nations reign;But soon would vanish, if the world were bless'dWith sacred love, by which they are repress'd. 180
Impendent death, and guilt that threatens hell,Are dreadful guests, which here with mortals dwell;And a vex'd conscience, mingling with their joyThoughts of despair, does their whole life annoy;But love appearing, all those terrors fly;We live contented, and contented die.They in whose breast this sacred love has place, 187Death, as a passage to their joy, embrace.Clouds and thick vapours, which obscure the day,The sun's victorious beams may chase away;Those which our life corrupt and darken, love(The nobler star!) must from the soul remove.Spots are observed in that which bounds the year;This brighter sun moves in a boundless sphere;Of heaven the joy, the glory, and the light,Shines among angels, and admits no night.
This Iron Age (so fraudulent and bold!)Touch'd with this love, would be an Age of Gold;Not, as they feign'd, that oaks should honey drop,Or land neglected bear an unsown crop; 200Love would make all things easy, safe, and cheap;None for himself would either sow or reap;Our ready help, and mutual love, would yieldA nobler harvest than the richest field.Famine and death, confined to certain parts,Extended are by barrenness of hearts.Some pine for want where others surfeit now;But then we should the use of plenty know.Love would betwixt the rich and needy stand,And spread heaven's bounty with an equal hand; 210At once the givers and receivers bless,Increase their joy, and make their suff'ring less.Who for Himself no miracle would make,Dispensed with sev'ral for the people's sake;He that, long fasting, would no wonder show,Made loaves and fishes, as they ate them, grow.Of all His power, which boundless was above,Here He used none but to express His love;And such a love would make our joy exceed, 219Not when our own, but other mouths we feed.
Laws would be useless which rude nature awe;Love, changing nature, would prevent the law;Tigers and lions into dens we thrust,But milder creatures with their freedom trust.Devils are chain'd, and tremble; but the SpouseNo force but love, nor bond but bounty, knows.Men (whom we now so fierce and dangerous see)Would guardian angels to each other be;Such wonders can this mighty love perform,Vultures to doves, wolves into lambs transform! 230Love what Isaiah prophesied can do,[1]Exalt the valleys, lay the mountains low,Humble the lofty, the dejected raise,Smooth and make straight our rough and crooked ways.Love, strong as death, and like it, levels all;With that possess'd, the great in title fall;Themselves esteem but equal to the least,Whom Heaven with that high character has bless'd.This love, the centre of our union, canAlone bestow complete repose on man; 240Tame his wild appetite, make inward peace,And foreign strife among the nations cease.No martial trumpet should disturb our rest,Nor princes arm, though to subdue the East,Where for the tomb so many heroes (taughtBy those that guided their devotion) fought.Thrice happy we, could we like ardour haveTo gain His love, as they to win His grave!Love as He loved! A love so unconfined,With arms extended, would embrace mankind. 250Self-love would cease, or be dilated, whenWe should behold as many selfs as men;All of one family, in blood allied,His precious blood, that for our ransom died.
[1] 'Prophesied can do': Isaiah xl. 4.
Though the creation (so divinely taught!)Prints such a lively image on our thought,That the first spark of new-created light,From Chaos struck, affects our present sight:Yet the first Christians did esteem more bless'dThe day of rising, than the day of rest, 260That every week might new occasion give,To make His triumph in their mem'ry live.Then let our Muse compose a sacred charm,To keep His blood among us ever warm,And singing as the blessed do above,With our last breath dilate this flame of love.But on so vast a subject who can findWords that may reach th'idea of his mind?Our language fails; or, if it could supply,What mortal thought can raise itself so high? 270Despairing here, we might abandon art,And only hope to have it in our heart.But though we find this sacred task too hard,Yet the design, th'endeavour, brings reward.The contemplation does suspend our woe,And makes a truce with all the ills we know.As Saul's afflicted spirit from the soundOf David's harp, a present solace found;[1]So, on this theme while we our Muse engage,No wounds are felt, of fortune or of age. 280On divine love to meditate is peace,And makes all care of meaner things to cease.
Amazed at once, and comforted, to findA boundless power so infinitely kind,The soul contending to that light to fleeFrom her dark cell, we practise how to die;Employing thus the poet's winged art,To reach this love, and grave it in our heart.Joy so complete, so solid, and severe,Would leave no place for meaner pleasures there; 290Pale they would look, as stars that must be gone,When from the East the rising sun comes on.
[1] 'Solace found': 1 Sam. xvi. 23.
The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace,And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.Though the word fear some men may ill endure,'Tis such a fear as only makes secure.Ask of no angel to reveal thy fate;Look in thy heart, the mirror of thy state.He that invites will not th'invited mock,Opening to all that do in earnest knock.Our hopes are all well-grounded on this fear;All our assurance rolls upon that sphere. 10This fear, that drives all other fears away,Shall be my song, the morning of our day;Where that fear is, there's nothing to be fear'd;It brings from heaven an angel for a guard.Tranquillity and peace this fear does give;Hell gapes for those that do without it live.It is a beam, which He on man lets fall,Of light, by which He made and governs all.'Tis God alone should not offended be;But we please others, as more great than He. 20For a good cause, the sufferings of manMay well be borne; 'tis more than angels can.Man, since his fall, in no mean station rests,Above the angels, or below the beasts.He with true joy their hearts does only fill,That thirst and hunger to perform His will.Others, though rich, shall in this world be vex'd,And sadly live in terror of the next.The world's great conqu'ror[1] would his point pursue,And wept because he could not find a new; 30Which had he done, yet still he would have cried,To make him work until a third he spied.Ambition, avarice, will nothing oweTo Heaven itself, unless it make them grow.Though richly fed, man's care does still exceed;Has but one mouth, yet would a thousand feed.In wealth and honour, by such men possess'd,If it increase not, there is found no rest.All their delight is while their wish comes in;Sad when it stops, as there had nothing been. 40'Tis strange men should neglect their present store,And take no joy but in pursuing more;No! though arrived at all the world can aim;This is the mark and glory of our frame,A soul capacious of the Deity,Nothing but He that made can satisfy.A thousand worlds, if we with Him compare, 47Less than so many drops of water are.Men take no pleasure but in new designs;And what they hope for, what they have outshines.Our sheep and oxen seem no more to crave,With full content feeding on what they have;Vex not themselves for an increase of store,But think to-morrow we shall give them more.What we from day to day receive from Heaven,They do from us expect it should be given.We made them not, yet they on us rely,More than vain men upon the Deity;More beasts than they! that will not understandThat we are fed from His immediate hand. 60Man, that in Him has being, moves, and lives,What can he have, or use, but what He gives?So that no bread can nourishment afford,Or useful be, without His sacred Word.
[1] 'Great conqueror': Alexander.
Earth praises conquerors for shedding blood,Heaven those that love their foes, and do them good.It is terrestrial honour to be crown'dFor strewing men, like rushes, on the ground.True glory 'tis to rise above them all,Without th'advantage taken by their fall. 70He that in sight diminishes mankind,Does no addition to his stature find;But he that does a noble nature show,Obliging others, still does higher grow;For virtue practised such a habit gives,That among men he like an angel lives;Humbly he doth, and without envy, dwell,Loved and admired by those he does excel.Fools anger show, which politicians hide; 79Bless'd with this fear, men let it not abide.The humble man, when he receives a wrong,Refers revenge to whom it doth belong;Nor sees he reason why he should engage,Or vex his spirit for another's rage.Placed on a rock, vain men he pities, toss'dOn raging waves, and in the tempest lost.The rolling planets, and the glorious sun,Still keep that order which they first begun;They their first lesson constantly repeat,Which their Creator as a law did set. 90Above, below, exactly all obey;But wretched men have found another way;Knowledge of good and evil, as at first,(That vain persuasion!) keeps them still accursed!The Sacred Word refusing as a guide,Slaves they become to luxury and pride.As clocks, remaining in the skilful handOf some great master, at the figure stand,But when abroad, neglected they do go,At random strike, and the false hour do show; 100So from our Maker wandering, we stray,Like birds that know not to their nests the way.In Him we dwelt before our exile here,And may, returning, find contentment there:True joy may find, perfection of delight,Behold his face, and shun eternal night.
Silence, my Muse! make not these jewels cheap,Exposing to the world too large a heap.Of all we read, the Sacred Writ is best,Where great truths are in fewest words express'd. 110
Wrestling with death, these lines I did indite;No other theme could give my soul delight.Oh that my youth had thus employ'd my pen! 113Or that I now could write as well as then!But 'tis of grace, if sickness, age, and pain,Are felt as throes, when we are born again;Timely they come to wean us from this earth,As pangs that wait upon a second birth.
Occasioned upon sight of the 53d chapter of Isaiah turned into verse byMrs. Wharton
Poets we prize, when in their verse we findSome great employment of a worthy mind.Angels have been inquisitive to knowThe secret which this oracle does show.What was to come, Isaiah did declare,Which she describes as if she had been there;Had seen the wounds, which, to the reader's view,She draws so lively that they bleed anew.As ivy thrives which on the oak takes hold,So, with the prophet's, may her lines grow old! 10If they should die, who can the world forgive,(Such pious lines!) when wanton Sappho's live?Who with His breath His image did inspire,Expects it should foment a nobler fire;Not love which brutes as well as men may know,But love like His, to whom that breath we owe.Verse so design'd, on that high subject wrote,Is the perfection of an ardent thought;The smoke which we from burning incense raise, 19When we complete the sacrifice of praise.In boundless verse the fancy soars too highFor any object but the Deity.What mortal can with Heaven pretend to shareIn the superlatives of wise and fair?A meaner subject when with these we grace,A giant's habit on a dwarf we place.Sacred should be the product of our Muse,Like that sweet oil, above all private use,On pain of death forbidden to be made,But when it should be on the altar laid. 30Verse shows a rich inestimable veinWhen, dropp'd from heaven, 'tis thither sent again.
Of bounty 'tis that He admits our praise,Which does not Him, but us that yield it, raise;For as that angel up to heaven did rise,Borne on the flame of Manoah's sacrifice,So, wing'd with praise, we penetrate the sky;Teach clouds and stars to praise Him as we fly;The whole creation, (by our fall made groan!)His praise to echo, and suspend their moan. 40For that He reigns, all creatures should rejoice,And we with songs supply their want of voice.The church triumphant, and the church below,In songs of praise their present union show;Their joys are full; our expectation long;In life we differ, but we join in song.Angels and we, assisted by this art,May sing together, though we dwell apart.Thus we reach heaven, while vainer poems mustNo higher rise than winds may lift the dust. 50From that they spring; this from His breath that gave,To the first dust, th'immortal soul we have;His praise well sung (our great endeavour here),Shakes off the dust, and makes that breath appear.
He that did first this way of writing grace,[1]Conversed with the Almighty face to face;Wonders he did in sacred verse unfold,When he had more than eighty winters told.The writer feels no dire effect of age,Nor verse, that flows from so divine a rage. 60Eldest of Poets, he beheld the light,When first it triumph'd o'er eternal night;Chaos he saw, and could distinctly tellHow that confusion into order fell.As if consulted with, he has express'dThe work of the Creator, and His rest;How the flood drown'd the first offending race,Which might the figure of our globe deface.For new-made earth, so even and so fair,Less equal now, uncertain makes the air; 70Surprised with heat, and unexpected cold,Early distempers make our youth look old;Our days so evil, and so few, may tellThat on the ruins of that world we dwell.Strong as the oaks that nourish'd them, and high,That long-lived race did on their force rely,Neglecting Heaven; but we, of shorter date!Should be more mindful of impendent fate.To worms, that crawl upon this rubbish here,This span of life may yet too long appear; 80Enough to humble, and to make us great,If it prepare us for a nobler seat.
Which well observing, he, in numerous lines,Taught wretched man how fast his life declines;In whom he dwelt before the world was made,And may again retire when that shall fade.The lasting Iliads have not lived so longAs his and Deborah's triumphant song.Delphos unknown, no Muse could them inspire,But that which governs the celestial choir. 90Heaven to the pious did this art reveal,And from their store succeeding poets steal.Homer's Scamander for the Trojans fought,And swell'd so high, by her old Kishon taught.His river scarce could fierce Achilles stay;Hers, more successful, swept her foes away.The host of heaven, his Phoebus and his Mars,He arms, instructed by her fighting stars.She led them all against the common foe;But he (misled by what he saw below!) 100The powers above, like wretched men, divides,And breaks their union into different sides.The noblest parts which in his heroes shine,May be but copies of that heroine.Homer himself, and Agamemnon, sheThe writer could, and the commander, be.Truth she relates in a sublimer strain,Than all the tales the boldest Greeks could feign;For what she sung that Spirit did indite,Which gave her courage and success in fight. 110A double garland crowns the matchless dame;From heaven her poem and her conquest came.
Though of the Jews she merit most esteem,Yet here the Christian has the greater theme;Her martial song describes how Sis'ra fell;This sings our triumph over death and hell.The rising light employ'd the sacred breath 117Of the blest Virgin and Elizabeth.In songs of joy the angels sung His birth;Here how He treated was upon the earthTrembling we read! th'affliction and the scorn,Which for our guilt so patiently was borne!Conception, birth, and suff'ring, all belong(Though various parts) to one celestial song;And she, well using so divine an art,Has in this concert sung the tragic part.
As Hannah's seed was vow'd to sacred use,So here this lady consecrates her Muse.With like reward may Heaven her bed adorn,With fruit as fair as by her Muse is born! 130
[1] 'Writing grace': Moses.
Silence, you winds! listen, ethereal lights!While our Urania sings what Heaven indites;The numbers are the nymph's; but from aboveDescends the pledge of that eternal love.Here wretched mortals have not leave alone,But are instructed to approach His throne;And how can He to miserable menDeny requests which His own hand did pen?
In the Evangelists we find the proseWhich, paraphrased by her, a poem grows;A devout rapture! so divine a hymn,It may become the highest seraphim!For they, like her, in that celestial choir,Sing only what the Spirit does inspire.Taught by our Lord, and theirs, with us they mayFor all but pardon for offences pray.
1 His sacred name with reverence profoundShould mention'd be, and trembling at the sound!It was Jehovah; 'tis Our Father now;So low to us does Heaven vouchsafe to bow![1]He brought it down that taught us how to pray,And did so dearly for our ransom pay.
2His kingdom come.For this we pray in vainUnless he does in our affections reign.Absurd it were to wish for such a King,And not obedience to His sceptre bring,Whose yoke is easy, and His burthen light,His service freedom, and his judgments right.
3His will be done.In fact 'tis always done;But, as in heaven, it must be made our own.His will should all our inclinations sway,Whom Nature, and the universe, obey.Happy the man! whose wishes are confinedTo what has been eternally designed;Referring all to His paternal care,To whom more dear than to ourselves we are.
4 It is not what our avarice hoards up;'Tis He that feeds us, and that fills our cup;Like new-born babes depending on the breast,From day to day we on His bounty feast;Nor should the soul expect above a day,To dwell in her frail tenement of clay;The setting sun should seem to bound our race,And the new day a gift of special grace.
5That he should all our trespasses forgive,While we in hatred with our neighbours live;Though so to pray may seem an easy task,We curse ourselves when thus inclined we ask,This prayer to use, we ought with equal careOur souls, as to the sacrament, prepare.The noblest worship of the Power above,Is to extol, and imitate his love;Not to forgive our enemies alone,But use our bounty that they may be won.
6Guard us from all temptations of the foe;And those we may in several stations know;The rich and poor in slipp'ry places stand.Give us enough, but with a sparing hand!Not ill-persuading want, nor wanton wealth,But what proportion'd is to life and health.For not the dead, but living, sing thy praise,Exalt thy kingdom, and thy glory raise.
Favete linguis!…Virginibus puerisque canto.—HOR.
[1] 'Vouchsafe to bow': Psalm xviii. 9.
When we for age could neither read nor write,The subject made us able to indite;The soul, with nobler resolutions deck'd,The body stooping, does herself erect.No mortal parts are requisite to raiseHer that, unbodied, can her Maker praise.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er;So, calm are we when passions are no more!For then we know how vain it was to boastOf fleeting things, so certain to be lost.Clouds of affection from our younger eyesConceal that emptiness which age descries.
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,Lets in new light through chinks that time has made;Stronger by weakness, wiser men become,As they draw near to their eternal home.Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,That stand upon the threshold of the new.
….Miratur limen Olympi.—VIRG.