OLOR ISCANUS.
1651.
——O quis me gelidis in vallibus Iscæ
Sistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra!
AD POSTEROS.
Diminuat ne sera dies præsentis honorem
Quis, qualisque fui, percipe Posteritas.
Cambria me genuit, patulis ubi vallibus errans
Subjacet aeriis montibus Isca pater.
Inde sinu placido suscepit maximus arte
Herbertus, Latiæ gloria prima scholæ.
Bis ternos, illo me conducente, per annos
Profeci, 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 certus
Tempora cognoscas, dura mere, scias.
Vixi, divisos cum fregerat hæresis Anglos
Inter Tysiphonas presbyteri et populi.
His primum miseris per amœna furentibus arva
Prostravit sanctam vilis avena rosam,
Turbarunt fontes, et fusis pax perit undis,
Moestaque coelestes obruit umbra dies.
Duret ut integritas tamen, et pia gloria, partem
Me 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 parentis
Commonui, 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 recedat
Qui sapit et nos non scripsimus insipidis.
TO THE TRULY NOBLE AND MOST EXCELLENTLY ACCOMPLISHED, THE LORD KILDARE DIGBY.
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 being troublesome 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
a pazzarello to the voluminose 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 this
17 of Decemb. 1647.
THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER.
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 an
injury 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.
UPON THE MOST INGENIOUS PAIR OF TWINS, EUGENIUS PHILALETHES, AND THE
AUTHOR OF THESE POEMS.
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 free
The 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.
T. Powell, Oxoniensis.
TO MY FRIEND THE AUTHOR UPON THESE HIS POEMS.
I call'd it once my sloth: in such an age
So many volumes deep, I not a page?
But I recant, and vow 'twas thrifty care
That kept my pen from spending on slight ware,
And breath'd it for a prize, whose pow'rful shine
Doth 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 been
Paid to the beard at door, for Lord within?
Who notes the spindle-leg or hollow eye
Of the thin usher, the fair lady by?
Thus I sin freely, neighbour to a hand
Which, while I aim to strengthen, gives command
For my protection; and thou art to me
At once my subject and security.
I. Rowlandson, Oxoniensis.
UPON THE FOLLOWING POEMS.
I write not here, as if thy last in store
Of learnèd friends; 'tis known that thou hast more;
Who, were they told of this, would find a way
To 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 be
Thy muster rather than our courtesy;
Thou wouldst not beg as knights do, and appear
Poet by voice and suffrage of the shire;
That were enough to make my Muse advance
Amongst the crutches; nay, it might enhance
Our charity, and we should think it fit
The State should build an hospital for wit.
But here needs no relief: thy richer verse
Creates 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 nation
Who make a blessed alms of approbation,
Whose fardel-notes are briefs in ev'rything,
But, that they are not Licens'd by the king.
Without such scrape-requests thou dost come forth
Arm'd—though I speak it—with thy proper worth,
And needest not this noise of friends, for we
Write out of love, not thy necessity.
And though this sullen age possessèd be
With 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.
TO THE RIVER ISCA.
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 weep
On Tiber's banks, when she—proud fair!—could sleep;
Mosella boasts Ausonius, and the Thames
Doth murmur Sidney's Stella to her streams;
While Severn, swoln with joy and sorrow, wears
Castara'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 appear
Hallow the place, and each succeeding year
Adds rev'rence to't, such as at length doth give
This aged faith, that there their genii live.
Hence th' ancients say, that from this sickly air
They 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 sing
Like 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 all
The shades in them prophetical,
Where laid men shall more fair truths see
Than 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 toad
Within thy banks have no abode,
Nor the wily, winding snake
Her voyage through thy waters make!
In all thy journey to the main
No nitrous clay, nor brimstone-vein
Mix with thy streams, but may they pass
Fresh on the air, and clear as glass,
And where the wand'ring crystal treads
Roses shall kiss, and couple heads!
The factor-wind from far shall bring
The odours of the scatter'd Spring,
And loaden with the rich arrear,
Spend it in spicy whispers there.
No sullen heats, nor flames that are
Offensive, and canicular,
Shine on thy sands, nor pry to see
Thy 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 Fate
Impose elsewhere, whether the graver state
Or some toy else, may those loud, anxious cares
For dead and dying things—the common wares
And shows of Time—ne'er break thy peace, nor make
Thy 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 borders
The land redeem'd from all disorders!
THE CHARNEL-HOUSE.
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 display
Of ruin'd man, and the disease of day,
Lean, bloodless shamble, where I can descry
Fragments of men, rags of anatomy,
Corruption's wardrobe, the transplantive bed
Of mankind, and th' exchequer of the dead!
How thou arrests my sense! how with the sight
My winter'd blood grows stiff to all delight!
Torpedo to the eye! whose least glance can
Freeze our wild lusts, and rescue headlong man.
Eloquent silence! able to immure
An atheist's thoughts, and blast an epicure.
Were I a Lucian, Nature in this dress
Would 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 weigh
What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day.
As th' elements by circulation pass
From one to th' other, and that which first was
I so again, so 'tis with you; the grave
And Nature but complot; what the one gave
The other takes; think, then, that in this bed
There sleep the relics of as proud a head,
As stern and subtle as your own, that hath
Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath
Hath levell'd kings with slaves, and wisely then
Calm these high furies, and descend to men.
Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon; a tomb
Check'd him, who thought the world too straight a room.
Have I obey'd the powers of face,
A beauty able to undo the race
Of easy man? I look but here, and straight
I am inform'd, the lovely counterfeit
Was but a smoother clay. That famish'd slave
Beggar'd by wealth, who starves that he may save,
Brings hither but his sheet; nay, th' ostrich-man
That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can
Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough
To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff,
Is chap-fall'n here: worms without wit or fear
Defy him now; Death hath disarm'd the bear.
Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score
Of 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 sun
Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone;
Day leaves me in a double night, and I
Must bid farewell to my sad library.
Yet with these notes—Henceforth with thought of thee
I'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.
IN AMICUM FŒNERATOREM.
Thanks, mighty Silver! I rejoice to see
How 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 fire
Man 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 sphere
Though th' least of many, rules the master-bear.
Prerogative of debts! how he doth dress
His messages in chink! not an express
Without a fee for reading; and 'tis fit,
For gold's the best restorative of wit.
Oh how he gilds them o'er! with what delight
I read those lines, which angels do indite!
But wilt have money, Og? must I dispurse
Will nothing serve thee but a poet's curse?
Wilt rob an altar thus? and sweep at once
What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones?
'Twill never swell thy bag, nor ring one peal
In thy dark chest. Talk not of shreeves, or gaol;
I fear them not. I have no land to glut
Thy dirty appetite, and make thee strut
Nimrod of acres; I'll no speech prepare
To court the hopeful cormorant, thine heir.
For there's a kingdom at thy beck if thou
But kick this dross: Parnassus' flow'ry brow
I'll give thee with my Tempe, and to boot
That 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 leaf
Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deaf.
Those waggish nymphs, too, which none ever yet
Durst make love to, we'll teach the loving fit;
We'll suck the coral of their lips, and feed
Upon their spicy breath, a meal at need:
Rove in their amber-tresses, and unfold
That 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 restore
This 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 honey
Cancel old bonds, and beg to lend more money.
TO HIS FRIEND ——
I wonder, James, through the whole history
Of ages, such entails of poverty
Are laid on poets; lawyers—they say—have found
A trick to cut them; would they were but bound
To practise on us, though for this thing we
Should pay—if possible—their bribes and fee.
Search—as thou canst—the old and modern store
Of Rome and ours, in all the witty score
Thou 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 descry
A threadbare, goldless genealogy.
Nature—it seems—when she meant us for earth
Spent so much of her treasure in the birth
As ever after niggards her, and she,
Thus stor'd within, beggars us outwardly.
Woful profusion! at how dear a rate
Are we made up! all hope of thrift and state
Lost for a verse. When I by thoughts look back
Into the womb of time, and see the rack
Stand useless there, until we are produc'd
Unto the torture, and our souls infus'd
To learn afflictions, I begin to doubt
That as some tyrants use from their chain'd rout
Of slaves to pick out one whom for their sport
They keep afflicted by some ling'ring art;
So we are merely thrown upon the stage
The mirth of fools and legend of the age.
When I see in the ruins of a suit
Some nobler breast, and his tongue sadly mute
Feed 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 brood
Upon his bags, and weigh the precious food
With palsied hands, as if his soul did fear
The scales could rob him of what he laid there.
Like devils that on hid treasures sit, or those
Whose jealous eyes trust not beyond their nose,
They guard the dirt and the bright idol hold
Close, and commit adultery with gold.
A curse upon their dross! how have we sued
For a few scatter'd chips? how oft pursu'd
Petitions with a blush, in hope to squeeze
For 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 they
That must redeem the hardship of our way.
Whether a Higher Power, or that star
Which, nearest heav'n, is from the earth most far,
Oppress us thus, or angell'd from that sphere
By our strict guardians are kept luckless here,
It matters not, we shall one day obtain
Our native and celestial scope again.
TO HIS RETIRED FRIEND, AN INVITATION TO BRECKNOCK.
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 hide
With the penance of one spur mortified?
Or taught by thee—like Pythagoras's ox—
Is then his master grown more orthodox
Whatever 'tis, a sober cause't must be
That thus long bars us of thy company.
The town believes thee lost, and didst thou see
But half her suff'rings, now distress'd for thee,
Thou'ldst swear—like Rome—her foul, polluted walls
Were sack'd by Brennus and the savage Gauls.
Abominable face of things! here's noise
Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys,
Pigs, dogs, and drums, with the hoarse, hellish notes
Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats,
With new fine Worships, and the old cast team
Of 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 sight
Of high monumental hats, ta'en at the fight
Of 'Eighty-eight; while ev'ry burgess foots
The mortal pavement in eternal boots.
Hadst thou been bach'lor, I had soon divin'd
Thy close retirements, and monastic mind;
Perhaps some nymph had been to visit, or
The 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 blood
Is 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 tell
But thou may'st prove devout, and love a cell,
And—like a badger—with attentive looks
In 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 be
No 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 exclaim
They 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 can
Remember"—so the cyph'rers puzzle me
With a dark, cloudy character of thee.
That—certs!—I fear thou wilt be lost, and we
Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee.
Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine
And precious wit lie dead for want of thine.
Shall the dull market-landlord with his rout
Of sneaking tenants dirtily swill out
This harmless liquor? shall they knock and beat
For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat?
O let not such prepost'rous tippling be
In our metropolis; may I ne'er see
Such tavern-sacrilege, nor lend a line
To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine!
Here lives that chymic, quick fire which betrays
Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays.
I have reserv'd 'gainst thy approach a cup
That were thy Muse stark dead, shall raise her up,
And teach her yet more charming words and skill
Than ever Cœlia, Chloris, Astrophil,
Or any of the threadbare names inspir'd
Poor rhyming lovers with a mistress fir'd.
Come then! and while the slow icicle hangs
At the stiff thatch, and Winter's frosty pangs
Benumb 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 we
Vex 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 steal
A 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 use
Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse
Rout to their husks; they and their bags at best
Have cares in earnest; we care for a jest.
MONSIEUR GOMBAULD.
I've read thy soul's fair nightpiece, and have seen
Th' amours and courtship of the silent Queen,
Her stoln descents to Earth, and what did move her
To 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 sad
Nocturnal pilgrimage, with thy dreams clad
In fancies darker than thy cave, thy glass
Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass
In her calm voyage what discourse she heard
Of spirits, what dark groves and ill-shap'd guard
Ismena led thee through, with thy proud flight
O'er Periardes, and deep, musing night
Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green
The neighbour shades wear, and what forms are seen
In their large bowers, with that sad path and seat
Which none but light-heel'd nymphs and fairies beat;[55]
Their solitary life, and how exempt
From common frailty, the severe contempt
They have of man, their privilege to live
A tree, or fountain, and in that reprieve
What ages they consume, with the sad vale
Of Diophania, and the mournful tale,
Of th' bleeding vocal myrtle; these and more
Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score
To thy rare fancy for, nor dost thou fall
From thy first majesty, or ought at all
Betray consumption; thy full vig'rous bays
Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays
Of style, or matter. Just so have I known
Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down
Deriv'd her birth, in gentle murmurs steal
To their next vale, and proudly there reveal
Her streams in louder accents, adding still
More noise and waters to her channel, till
At last swoln with increase she glides along
The lawns and meadows in a wanton throng
Of frothy billows, and in one great name
Swallows the tributary brooks' drown'd fame.
Nor are they mere inventions, for we
In th' same piece find scatter'd philosophy
And hidden, dispers'd truths that folded lie
In the dark shades of deep allegory;
So neatly weav'd, like arras, they descry
Fables with truth, fancy with history.
So that thou hast in this thy curious mould
Cast that commended mixture wish'd of old,
Which shall these contemplations render far
Less mutable, and lasting as their star,
And while there is a people or a sun,
Endymion's story with the moon shall run.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. R. W.,
SLAIN IN THE LATE UNFORTUNATE DIFFERENCES
AT ROUTON HEATH, NEAR CHESTER, 1645.
I am confirmed, and so much wing is given
To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n.
A full year's grief I struggled with, and stood
Still on my sandy hopes' uncertain good,
So loth was I to yield; to all those fears
I still oppos'd thee, and denied my tears.
But thou art gone! and the untimely loss
Like that one day hath made all others cross.
Have you seen on some river's flow'ry brow
A well-built elm or stately cedar grow,
Whose curled tops gilt with the morning-ray
Beckon'd the sun, and whisper'd to the day,
When unexpected from the angry North
A fatal sullen whirlwind sallies forth,
And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the ground
The shady twins, which rushing scatter round
Their sighing leaves, whilst overborn with strength
Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length?
So forc'd fell he; so immaturely Death
Stifled his able heart and active breath.
The world scarce knew him yet, his early soul
Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole
A sight than gave one; as if subtly she
Would learn our stock, but hide his treasury.
His years—should Time lay both his wings and glass
Unto his charge—could not be summ'd—alas!—
To a full score; though in so short a span
His riper thoughts had purchas'd more of man
Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick
Have quite outgone their own arithmetic.
He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull
And mossy grey possess'd a solid skull;
No crooked knowledge neither, nor did he
Wear the friend's name for ends and policy,
And then lay't by; as those lost youths of th' stage
Who only flourish'd for the Play's short age
And then retir'd; like jewels, in each part
He 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 durst
No injury, nor—as some have—e'er purs'd
The sweat and tears of others, yet would be
More forward in a royal gallantry
Than all those vast pretenders, which of late
Swell'd in the ruins of their king and State.
He weav'd not self-ends and the public good
Into one piece, nor with the people's blood
Fill'd his own veins; in all the doubtful way
Conscience and honour rul'd him. O that day
When like the fathers in the fire and cloud
I miss'd thy face! I might in ev'ry crowd
See arms like thine, and men advance, but none
So near to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on.
Have you observ'd how soon the nimble eye
Brings th' object to conceit, and doth so vie
Performance with the soul, that you would swear
The act and apprehension both lodg'd there;
Just so mov'd he: like shot his active hand
Drew blood, ere well the foe could understand.
But here I lost him. Whether the last turn
Of 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 believe
Thy courage such as scorn'd a base reprieve.
Whatever 'twas, whether that day thy breath
Suffer'd a civil or the common death,
Which I do most suspect, and that I have
Fail'd in the glories of so known a grave;
Though thy lov'd ashes miss me, and mine eyes
Had no acquaintance with thy exequies,
Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight
On 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 bed
Lent a cheap pillow to thy quiet head,
Though but a private turf, it can do more
To keep thy name and memory in store
Than all those lordly fools which lock their bones
In the dumb piles of chested brass, and stones
Th'art rich in thy own fame, and needest not
These marble-frailties, nor the gilded blot
Of posthume honours; there is not one sand
Sleeps o'er thy grave, but can outbid that hand
And pencil too, so that of force we must
Confess their heaps show lesser than thy dust.
And—blessed soul!—though this my sorrow can
Add nought to thy perfections, yet as man
Subject 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 commend
Thy loyal upright life, and gallant end.
Nomen et arma locum servant, te, amice, nequivi
Conspicere——————
UPON A CLOAK LENT HIM BY MR. J. RIDSLEY.