Tell me; Oh, tell me! Charming Prophetess;
For you alone can tell my Love's Success.
The Lines in my dejected Face,
I fear, will lead you to no kind Result:
It is your own that you must trace;
Those of your Heart you must consult.
'Tis there my Fortune I must learn,
And all that Damon does concern.
I tell you that I love a Maid,
As bright as Heav'n, of Angel-hue;
The softest Nature ever made,
Whom I with Sighs and Vows pursue.
Oh, tell me, charming Prophetess!
Shall I this lovely Maid possess?
A thousand Rivals do obstruct my Way;
A thousand Fears they do create:
They throng about her all the Day,
Whilst I at awful Distance wait.
Say, Will the lovely Maid so fickle prove,
To give my Rivals Hope, as well as Love?
She has a thousand Charms of Wit,
With all the Beauty Heav'n e'er gave:
Oh! let her not make use of it,
To flatter me into the Slave.
Oh! tell me Truth, to ease my Pain;
Say rather, I shall die by her Disdain.
The MODESTY of IRIS.
I perceive, fair Iris, you have a mind to tell me, I have
entertain'd you too long with a Discourse on your self.
I know your Modesty makes this Declaration an Offence,
and you suffer me, with Pain, to unveil those Treasures
you would hide. Your Modesty, that so commendable
a Virtue in the Fair, and so peculiar to you, is here a little
too severe. Did I flatter you, you should blush: Did
I seek, by praising you, to shew an Art of speaking finely,
you might chide. But, O Iris, I say nothing but such plain
Truths, as all the World can witness are so: And so far
I am from Flattery, that I seek no Ornament of Words.
Why do you take such Care to conceal your Virtues?
They have too much Lustre, not to be seen, in spight of
all your Modesty: Your Wit, your Youth, and Reason,
oppose themselves against this dull Obstructer of our
Happiness. Abate, O Iris, a little of this Virtue, since you
have so many others to defend your self against the Attacks
of your Adorers. You your self have the least Opinion of
your own Charms: and being the only Person in the World,
that is not in love with 'em, you hate to pass whole Hours
before your Looking-Glass; and to pass your Time, like
most of the idle Fair, in dressing, and setting off those
Beauties, which need so little Art. You more wise, disdain
to give those Hours to the Fatigue of Dressing, which
you know so well how to employ a thousand ways. The
Muses have blest you, above your Sex; and you know how
to gain a Conquest with your Pen, more absolutely than
all the industrious Fair, who trust to Dress and Equipage.
I have a thousand Things to tell you more, but willingly
resign my Place to Damon, that faithful Lover; he
will speak more ardently than I: For let a Glass use all
its Force, yet, when it speaks its best, it speaks but coldly.
If my Glass, O charming Iris, have the good Fortune
(which I could never entirely boast) to be believ'd, 'twill
serve at least to convince you I have not been so guilty
of Flattery, as I have a thousand Times been charg'd.
Since then my Passion is equal to your Beauty (without
Comparison, or End) believe, O lovely Maid! how I sigh
in your Absence; and be persuaded to lessen my Pain,
and restore me to my Joys: for there is no Torment so
great, as the Absence of a Lover from his Mistress; of
which this is the Idea.
The Effects of Absence from what we love.
Thou one continu'd Sigh! all over Pain!
Eternal Wish! but Wish, alas, in vain!
Thou languishing, impatient Hoper on;
A busy Toiler, and yet still undone!
A breaking Glimpse of distant Day,
Inticing on, and leading more astray!
Thou Joy in Prospect, future Bliss extreme;
Never to be possess'd, but in a Dream!
Thou fab'lous Goddess, which the ravisht Boy
In happy Slumbers proudly did enjoy;
But waking, found an airy Cloud he prest;
His Arms came empty to his panting Breast.
Thou Shade, that only haunt'st the Soul by night;
And when thou shouldst inform thou fly'st the Sight:
Thou false Idea of the thinking Brain,
}
That labours for the charming Form in vain:
}
Which if by chance it catch, thou'rt lost again.
}
To the Right Honourable,
JAMES,
Earl of Salisbury, Viscount Cramborn, and Baron of Islington.
My Lord,
Who should one celibrate with Verse and Song, but the Great, the Noble
and the Brave? where dedicate an Isle of Love, but to the Gay, the Soft
and Young? and who amongst Men can lay a better claim to these than
Your Lordship? who like the Sun new risen with the early Day, looks
round the World and sees nothing it cannot claim an interest in (for what
cannot Wit, Beauty, Wealth and Honour claim?) The violent storms of
Sedition and Rebellion are hush'd and calm'd; black Treason is retir'd
to its old abode, the dark Abyss of Hell; the mysterious Riddles of Politick
Knaves and Fools, which so long amused and troubled the World's repose,
are luckily unfolded; and Your Lordship is saluted at Your first coming
forth, Your first setting out for the glorious and happy Race of Life, by
a Nation all glad, gay and smiling; and you have nothing before you but a
ravishing prospect of eternal Joys, and everlasting inviting Pleasures, and
all that Love and Fortune can bestow on their darling Youth, attend You
in the noble pursuit; and nothing can prevent Your being the most happy
of her Favourites, but a too eager flight, a too swift speed o'er the charming
flowry Meads and Plains that lie in view, between Your setting out and the
end of Your glorious Chase. A long and illustrious race of Nobility has
attended Your great Name, but none I believe ever came into the World
with Your Lordship's advantages; amongst which, my Lord, 'tis not the
least that You have the glory to be truly Loyal, and to be adorn'd with those
excellent Principles, which render Nobility so absolutely worth the Veneration
which is paid 'em; 'tis those, my Lord, and not the Title that make
it truly great: Grandeur in any other serves but to point 'em out more
particularly to the World, and shew their Faults with the greater magnitude,
and render 'em more liable to contempt and that Reward which justly persues
Ingratitude; nor is it, my Lord, the many unhappy Examples this Age
has produc'd that has deterr'd you from herding with the busie Unfortunates,
and bringing Your powerful aid to their detestable cause, but a noble Honesty
in Your Nature, a Generosity in Your Soul. That even part of Your
Education had the good fortune not to be able to corrupt; no Opinion cou'd
bypass You, no Precedent debauch You; though all the fansied Glories of
Power were promis'd You, though all the Contempt thrown on good and
brave Men, all the subtile Arguments of the old Serpent, were us'd against
the best of Kings and his illustrious Successor, still You were unmov'd;
Your young stout Heart with a Gallantry and Force unusual resisted and
defied the gilded Bait, laugh'd at the industrious Politicks of the busie Wise,
and stubbornly Loyal, contemn'd the Counsels of the Grave. Go on, my
Lord, advance in Noble resolution, grow up in strength of Loyalty, settle
it about Your Soul, root it there like the first Principles of Religion, which
nothing ever throughly defaces, and which in spight of even Reason the
Soul retains, whatever little Debaucheries the Tongue may commit; You
that are great, are born the Bulwarks of sacred Majesty, its defence against
all the storms of Fate, the Safety of the People in the Supporters of the
Throne; and sure none that ever obey'd the Laws of God and the Dictates
of Honour ever paid those Duties to a Sovereign that more truly merited
the Defence and Adorations of his People than this of ours; and tis a blessing
(since we are oblig'd to render it to the worst of Tyrant Kings) that we
have one who so well justifies that intire Love and Submission we ought
to pay him. You, my Lord, are one whom Thousands of good Men look
up to with wondrous Veneration and Joy, when 'tis said Your Lordship
amongst Your other Vertues is Loyal too, a true Tory! (a word of Honour
now, the Royal Cause has sanctified it,) and though Your Lordship needs
no encouragement to a good that rewards it self, yet I am confident You
are not onely rank'd in the esteem of the best of Monarchs, but we shall
behold you as one of our Preservers, and all England as one of its great
Patrons, when Ages that shall come shall find Your noble Name inroll'd
amongst the Friends to Monarchy in an Age of so villainous Corruption:
Yes, my Lord, they will find it there and bless You. 'Tis this, my Lord,
with every other Grace and Noble Vertue that adorns You, and gives the
World such promises of Wonders in You, that makes me ambitious to be
the first in the Croud of Your Admirers, that shall have the honour to celibrate
Your great Name. Be pleased then, my Lord, to accept this Little
Piece, which lazy Minutes begot and hard Fate has oblig'd me to bring forth
into the censuring World, to which if any thing can reconcile it, 'twill be
the glory it has to bear Your Noble Name in the front, and to be Patronized
by so great and good a Man: Permit but my Zeal for Your Lordship to
attone for the rest of my Faults, and Your Lordship will extremely oblige,
My Lord,
Your Lordship's most Humble,
and most Obedient Servant,
A. BEHN.
To Mrs. BEHN,
on the publishing her Poems.
Madam,
Long has Wit's injur'd Empire been opprest
By Rhiming Fools, this Nations common Jest,
And sunk beneath the weight of heavy stafes,
In Tory Ballads and Whig Epitaphs;
The Ogs and Doegs reign'd, nay Baxter's zeal,
Has not been wanting too in writing Ill;
Yet still in spight of what the dull can doe,
'Tis here asserted and adorn'd by you.
This Book come forth, their credit must decay,
Ill Spirits vanish at th'approach of day:
And justly we before your envy'd feet,
There where our Hearts are due our Pens submit;
Ne'er to resume the baffled things again,
Unless in Songs of Triumph to thy Name;
Which are out-done by every Verse of thine,
}
Where thy own Fame does with more lustre shine,
}
Than all that we can give who in thy Praises join.
}
Fair as the face of Heaven, when no thick Cloud
Or darkning Storm the glorious prospect shroud;
In all its beauteous parts shines thy bright style,
And beyond Humane Wit commends thy skill;
With all the thought and vigour of our Sex
The moving softness of your own you mix.
The Queen of Beauty and the God of Wars
}
Imbracing lie in thy due temper'd Verse,
}
Venus her sweetness and the force of Mars.
}
Thus thy luxuriant Muse her pleasure takes,
As God of old in Eden's blissful walks;
The Beauties of her new Creation view'd,
Full of content She sees that it is good.
Come then you inspir'd Swains and join your Verse,
Though all in vain to add a Fame to hers;
But then your Song will best Apollo please,
When it is fraight with this his Favourite's praise.
Declare how when her learned Harp she strung,
Our joyfull Island with the Musick rung;
Descending Graces left their Heavenly seat,
To take their place in every Line she writ;
Where sweetest Charms as in her Person smile,
Her Face's Beauty's copy'd in her style.
Say how as she did her just skill improve
In the best Art and in soft Tales of Love.
Some well sung Passion with success she crown'd,
The melting Virgins languish'd at the sound.
And envying Swains durst not the Pipe inspire,
They'd nothing then to doe but to admire.
Shepherds and Nymphs, to Pan direct-your Prayer,
}
If peradventure he your Vows will hear,
}
To make you sing, and make you look like her.
}
But, Nymphs and Swains, your hopes are all in vain,
For such bright Eyes, and such a tunefull Pen.
How many of her Sex spend half their days,
To catch some Fool by managing a Face?
But she secure of charming has confin'd
Her wiser care t'adorn and dress the Mind.
Beauty may fade, but everlasting Verse
Exempts the better portion from the Hearse.
The matchless Wit and Fancy of the Fair,
Which moves our envy and our Sons despair.
Long they shall live a monument of her Fame,
And to Eternity extend her Name;
While After-times deservedly approve
The choicest object of this Ages Love.
For when they reade, ghessing how far she charm'd,
With that bright Body with such Wit inform'd;
They will give heed and credit to our Verse,
When we the Wonders of her Face rehearse.
J. Cooper.
Buckden, Nov. 25.
1683.
To ASTRÆA, on her Poems.
'Tis not enough to reade and to admire,
}
Thy sacred Verse does nobler thoughts inspire,
}
Striking on every breast Poetick fire:
}
The God of Wit attends with chearfull Rays,
Warming the dullest Statue into praise.
Hail then, delight of Heaven and pride of Earth,
Blest by each Muse at thy auspicious birth;
Soft Love and Majesty have fram'd thy Mind,
To shew the Beauties of both Sexes join'd:
Thy Lines may challenge, like young David's face,
A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace;
Thy tender notions in loose numbers flow,
With a strange power to charm where e'er they go:
And when in stronger sounds thy voice we hear,
At all the skilfull points you arm'd appear.
Which way so'er thou dost thy self express,
We find thy Beauty out in every dress;
Such work so gently wrought, so strongly fine,
Cannot be wrought by hands all Masculine.
In vain proud Man weak Woman wou'd controul,
No Man can argue now against a Woman's Soul.
J. C.
To the excellent Madam Behn,
on her Poems.
'Twas vain for Man the Laurels to persue,
(E'en from the God of Wit bright Daphne flew)
Man, Whose course compound damps the Muses fire,
It does but touch our Earth and soon expire;
While in the softer kind th'Ætherial flame,
Spreads and rejoices as from Heaven it came:
This Greece in Sappho, in Orinda knew
Our Isle; though they were but low types to you;
But the faint dawn to your illustrious day,
To make us patient of your brighter Ray.
Oft may we see some wretched story told;
In ductile sense spread thin as leaves of Gold.
You have ingrost th'inestimable Mine;
}
Which in well polisht Numbers you refine,
}
While still the solid Mass shines thick in every Line.
}
Yet neither sex do you surpass alone,
}
Both in your Verse are in their glory shown,
}
Both Phæbus and Minerva are your own.
}
While in the softest dress you Wit dispense,
With all the Nerves of Reason and of Sense.
In mingled Beauties we at once may trace
A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace.
No wonder 'tis the Delphian God of old
Wou'd have his Oracles by Women told.
But oh! who e'er so sweetly could repeat
Soft lays of Love, and youths delightfull heat?
If Love's Misfortunes be your mournfull Theme,
No dying Swan on fair Cayster's stream,
Expires so sweet, though with his numerous Moan,
The fading Banks and suffering Mountains groan.
If you the gentle Passions wou'd inspire,
With what resistless Charms you breathe desire?
No Heart so savage, so relentless none,
As can the sweet Captivity disown:
Ah, needs must she th'unwary Soul surprise,
Whose Pen sheds Flames as dangerous as her Eyes.
J. Adams.
To the Authour, on her Voyage to the Island
of Love.
To speak of thee no Muse will I invoke,
Thou onely canst inspire what shou'd be spoke;
For all their wealth the Nine have given to thee,
Thy rich and flowing stream has left them dry:
Cupid may throw away his useless Darts,
Thou'st lent him one will massacre more Hearts
Than all his store, thy Pen disarms us so,
We yield our selves to the first beauteous Foe;
The easie softness of thy thoughts surprise,
And this new way Love steals into our Eyes;
Thy gliding Verse comes on us unawares,
No rumbling Metaphors alarm our Ears,
And puts us in a posture of defence;
We are undone and never know from whence.
So to th' Assyrian Camp the Angel flew,
And in the silent Night his Millions slew.
Thou leadst us by the Soul amongst thy Loves,
And bindst us all in thy inchanting Groves;
Each languishes for thy Aminta's Charms,
Sighs for thy fansied Raptures in her Armes,
Sees her in all that killing posture laid,
When Love and fond Respect guarded the sleeping Maid,
Persues her to the very Bower of Bliss,
Times all the wrecking joys and thinks 'em his;
In the same Trance with the young pair we lie,
And in their amorous Ecstasies we die.
You Nymphs, who deaf to Love's soft lays have been,
Reade here, and suck the sweet destruction in:
Smooth is the stream and clear is every thought,
And yet you cannot see with what you're caught;
Or else so very pleasing is the Bait,
With careless heed you play and leap at it:
She poisons all the Floud with such an art,
That the dear Philter trickles to the Heart,
With such bewitching pleasure that each sup
Has all the joys of life in every drop.
I see the Banks with Love-sick Virgins strow'd,
Their Bosoms heav'd with the young fluttering Gods;
Oh, how they pant and struggle with their pain!
Yet cannot wish their former health again:
Within their Breasts thy warmth and spirit glows,
And in their Eyes thy streaming softness flows;
Thy Raptures are transfus'd through every vein,
And thy blest hour in all their heads does reign;
The Ice that chills the Soul thou dost remove,
And meltst it into tenderness and Love;
The flints about their Hearts dance to thy lays,
Till the quick motion sets 'em on a Blaze.
Orpheus and you the stones do both inspire,
But onely you out of those flints strike fire,
Not with a sudden Spark, a short liv'd Blaze,
Like Womens Passions in our Gilting days;
But what you fire burns with a constant flame,
Like what you write, and always is the same.
Rise, all ye weeping Youth, rise and appear,
Whom gloomy Fate has damn'd to black Despair;
Start from the ground and throw your Mourning by,
Loves great Sultana says you shall not die:
The dismal dark half year is over past,
The Sea is op'd, the Sun shines out at last,
And Trading's free, the storms are husht as death,
Or happy Lovers ravisht out of breath;
And listen to Astræa's Harmony,
Such power has elevated Poetry.
T. C.
To the Lovely Witty ASTRÆA, on her
Excellent Poems.
Oh, wonder of thy Sex! Where can we see,
Beauty and Knowledge join'd except in thee?
Such pains took Nature with your Heav'nly Face,
Form'd it for Love, and moulded every Grace;
I doubted first and fear'd that you had been
Unfinish'd left like other She's within:
I see the folly of that fear, and find
Your Face is not more beauteous than your Mind:
Whoe'er beheld you with a Heart unmov'd,
That sent not sighs, and said within he lov'd?
I gaz'd and found, a then, unknown delight,
Life in your looks, and Death to leave the sight.
What joys, new Worlds of joys has he possest,
That gain'd the sought-for welcome of your Breast?
Your Wit wou'd recommend the homeliest Face,
Your Beauty make the dullest Humour please;
But where they both thus gloriously are join'd,
All Men submit, you reign in every Mind.
What Passions does your Poetry impart?
}
It shews th'unfathom'd thing a Woman's Heart,
}
Tells what Love is, his Nature and his Art,
}
Displays the several Scenes of Hopes and Fears,
Love's Smiles, his Sighs, his Laughing and his Tears.
Each Lover here may reade his different Fate,
His Mistress kindness or her scornfull hate.
Come all whom the blind God has led astray,
Here the bewildred Youth is shew'd his way:
Guided by this he may yet love and find
Ease in his Heart, and reason in his Mind.
Thus sweetly once the charming W——lr strove
In Heavenly sounds to gain his hopeless Love:
All the World list'ned but his scornfull Fair,
Pride stopt her ears to whom he bent his prayer.
Much happier you that can't desire in vain,
But what you wish as soon as wish'd obtain.
Upon these and other Excellent Works of the
Incomparable ASTRÆA.
Ye bold Magicians in Philosophy,
That vainly think (next the Almighty three)
The brightest Cherubin in all the Hierarchy
Will leave that Glorious Sphere
And to your wild inchantments will appear;
To the fond summons of fantastick Charms,
As Barbarous and inexplicable Terms:
As those the trembling Sorcerer dreads,
When he the Magick Circle treads:
And as he walks the Mystick rounds,
And mutters the detested sounds,
The Stygian fiends exalt their wrathfull heads;
And all ye bearded Drudges of the Schools,
That sweat in vain to mend predestin'd fools,
With senseless Jargon and perplexing Rules;
Behold and with amazement stand,
Behold a blush with shame and wonder too,
What Divine Nature can in Woman doe.
Behold if you can see in all this fertile Land
Such an Anointed head, such an inspired hand.
II.
Rest on in peace, ye blessed Spirits, rest,
With Imperial bliss for ever blest:
Upon your sacred Urn she scorns to tread,
Or rob the Learned Monuments of the dead:
Nor need her Muse a foreign aid implore,
In her own tunefull breast there's wonderous store.
Had she but flourisht in these times of old,
When Mortals were amongst the Gods inrolld,
She had not now as Woman been Ador'd,
But with Diviner sacrifice Implor'd;
Temples and Altars had preserv'd her name
And she her self been thought Immortal as her fame.
III.
Curst be the balefull Tongue that dares abuse
The rightfull offspring of her God-like Muse:
And doubly Curst be he that thinks her Pen
Can be instructed by the best of men.
The times to come (as surely she will live,
As many Ages as are past,
As long as Learning, Sense, or wit survive,
As long as the first principles of Bodies last.)
The future Ages may perhaps believe
One soft and tender Arm cou'd ne'er atchieve
The wonderous deeds that she has done
So hard a prize her Conqu'ring Muse has won.
But we that live in the great Prophetesses days
Can we enough proclaim her praise,
We that experience every hour
The blest effects of her Miraculous power?
To the sweet Musick of her charming tongue,
In numerous Crowds the ravisht hearers throng:
And even a Herd of Beasts as wild as they
That did the Thracian Lyre obey,
Forget their Madness and attend her song.
The tunefull Shepherds on the dangerous rocks
Forsake their Kinds and leave their bleating Flocks,
And throw their tender Reeds away,
As soon as e'er her softer Pipe begins to play.
No barren subject, no unfertile soil
Can prove ungratefull to her Muses Toil,
Warm'd with the Heavenly influence of her Brain,
Upon the dry and sandy plain,
On craggy Mountains cover'd o'er with Snow,
The blooming Rose and fragrant Jes'min grow:
When in her powerful Poetick hand,
She waves the mystick wand,
Streight from the hardest Rocks the sweetest numbers flow.
IV.
Hail bright Urania! Erato hail!
Melpomene, Polymnia, Euterpe, hail!
And all ye blessed powers that inspire
The Heaven-born Soul with intellectual fire;
Pardon my humble and unhallow'd Muse,
If she too great a veneration use,
And prostrate at your best lov'd Darling's feet
Your holy Fane with sacred honour greet:
Her more than Pythian Oracles are so divine,
You sure not onely virtually are
Within the glorious Shrine,
But you your very selves must needs be there.
The Delian Prophet did at first ordain,
That even the mighty Nine should reign,
In distant Empires of different Clime;
And if in her triumphant Throne,
She rules those learned Regions alone,
The fam'd Pyerides are out-done by her omnipotent Rhime.
In proper Cells her large capacious Brain
The images of all things does contain,
As bright almost as were th'Ideas laid,
In the last model e'er the World was made.
And though her vast conceptions are so strong,
The powerfull eloquence of her charming tongue
Does, clear as the resistless beams of day,
To our enlightned Souls the noble thoughts convey
Well chosen, well appointed, every word
Does its full force and natural grace afford;
And though in her rich treasury,
Confus'd like Elements great Numbers lie,
When they their mixture and proportion take,
What beauteous forms of every kind they make!
Such was the Language God himself infus'd,
And such the style our great Forefather us'd,
From one large stock the various sounds he fram'd,
And every Species of the vast Creation nam'd.
While most of our dull Sex have trod
In beaten paths of one continued Road,
Her skilfull and well manag'd Muse
Does all the art and strength of different paces use:
For though sometimes with slackned force,
She wisely stops her fleetest course,
That slow but strong Majestick pace
Shews her the swiftest steed of all the chosen Race.
V.
Well has she sung the learned Daphnis praise,
And crown'd his Temple with immortal Bays;
And all that reade him must indeed confess,
Th'effects of such a cause could not be less.
For ne'er was (at the first bold heat begun)
So hard and swift a Race of glory run,
But yet her sweeter Muse did for him more,
Than he himself or all Apollo's sons before;
For shou'd th' insatiate lust of time
Root out the memory of his sacred Rhime,
The polish'd armour in that single Page
Wou'd all the tyranny and rage
Of Fire and Sword defie,
For Daphnis can't but with Astræa die.
And who can dark oblivion fear,
That is co-eval with her mighty Works and Her?
Ah learned Chymist, 'tis she onely can
By her almighty arm,
Within the pretious salt collect,
The true essential form,
And can against the power of death protect
Not onely Herbs and Trees, but raise the buried Man.
VI.
Wretched [OE]none's inauspicious fate,
That she was born so soon, or her blest Muse so late!
Cou'd the poor Virgin have like her complain'd,
She soon her perjur'd Lover had regain'd,
In spight of all the fair Seducers tears,
In spight of all her Vows and Prayers;
Such tender accents through his Soul had ran,
As wou'd have pierc'd the hardest heart of Man.
At every Line the fugitive had swore
By all the Gods, by all the Powers divine,
My dear [OE]none, I'll be ever thine,
And ne'er behold the flattering Grecian more.
How does it please the learned Roman's Ghost
(The sweetest that th' Elysian Field can boast)
To see his noble thoughts so well exprest,
So tenderly in a rough Language drest;
Had she there liv'd, and he her Genius known,
So soft, so charming, and so like his own,
One of his Works had unattempted been,
And Ovid ne'er in mournfull Verse been seen;
Then the great Cæsar to the Scythian plain,
From Rome's gay Court had banish'd him in vain,
Her plenteous Muse had all his wants supplied,
And he had flourish'd in exalted pride:
No barbarous Getans had deprav'd his tongue,
For he had onely list'ned to her Song,
Not as an exile, but proscrib'd by choice,
Pleas'd with her Form, and ravish'd with her voice.
His last and dearest part of Life,
Free from noise and glorious strife,
He there had spent within her softer Armes,
And soon forgot the Royal Julia's charmes.
VII.
Long may she scourge this mad rebellious Age,
}
And stem the torrent of Fanatick rage,
}
That once had almost overwhelm'd the Stage.
}
O'er all the Land the dire contagion spread,
And e'en Apollo's Sons apostate fled:
But while that spurious race imploy'd their parts
}
In studying strategems and subtile arts,
}
To alienate their Prince's Subjects hearts,
}
Her Loyal Muse still tun'd her loudest strings,
To sing the praises of the best of Kings.
And, O ye sacred and immortal Gods,
From the blest Mansions of your bright abodes,
To the first Chaos let us all be hurld,
E'er such vile wretches should reform the World,
That in all villany so far excell,
}
If they in sulphurous flames must onely dwell,
}
The Cursed Caitiffs hardly merit Hell.
}
Were not those vile Achitophels so lov'd,
(The blind, the senseless and deluded Crowd)
Did they but half his Royal Vertues know,
But half the blessings which to him they owe,
His long forbearance to provoking times,
And God-like mercy to the worst of crimes:
Those murmuring Shimei's, even they alone,
}
Cou'd they bestow a greater than his own,
}
Wou'd from a Cottage raise him to a Throne.
}
VIII.
See, ye dull Scriblers of this frantick Age,
That load the Press, and so o'erwhelm the Stage,
That e'en the noblest art that e'er was known,
As great as an Egyptian Plague is grown:
Behold, ye scrawling Locusts, what ye've done,
What a dire judgment is brought down,
By your curst Dogrel Rhimes upon the Town;
On Fools and Rebels hangs an equal Fate,
And both may now repent too late,
For the great Charter of your Wit as well as Trade is gone.
Once more the fam'd Astræa's come;
'Tis she pronounc'd the fatal doom,
And has restor'd it to the rightfull Heirs,
Since Knowledge first in Paradise was theirs.
IX.
Never was Soul and Body better joyn'd,
A Mansion worthy of so blest a Mind;
See but the Shadow of her beauteous face,
The pretious minitures of every Grace,
There one may still such Charms behold,
That as Idolaters of old,
The works of their own hands ador'd,
And Gods which they themselves had made implor'd;
Jove might again descend below,
And, with her Wit and Beauty charm'd, to his own Image bow.
But oh, the irrevocable doom of Nature's Laws!
How soon the brightest Scene of Beauty draws!
Alas, what's all the glittering Pride
Of the poor perishing Creatures of a day,
With what a violent and impetuous Tide,
E'er they're flow'd in their glories ebb away?
The Pearl, the Diamond and Saphire must
Be blended with the common Pebbles dust,
And even Astræa with all her sacred store,
Be wreckt on Death's inevitable Shore,
Her Face ne'er seen and her dear Voice be heard no more.
And wisely therefore e'er it was too late,
She has revers'd the sad Decrees of Fate,
And in deep Characters of immortal Wit,
So large a memorandum's writ,
That the blest memory of her deathless Name
Shall stand recorded in the Book of Fame;
When Towns inter'd in their own ashes lie,
And Chronicles of Empires die,
When Monuments like Men want Tombs to tell
Where the remains of the vast ruines fell.
To the excellent ASTRÆA.