Part 22

You have oblig'd the patriarch, and 'tis known He is your debtor now, though for his own. What he wrote is a medley: we can see Confusion trespass on his piety. Misfortunes did not only strike at him, They chargèd further, and oppress'd his pen; For he wrote as his crosses came, and went By no safe rule, but by his punishment. His quill mov'd by the rod; his wits and he Did know no method, but their misery. You brought his Psalms now into tune. Nay all His measures thus are more than musical; Your method and his airs are justly sweet, And--what's church music right--like anthems meet. You did so much in this, that I believe He gave the matter, you the form did give. And yet I wish you were not understood, For now 'tis a misfortune to be good! Why then you'll say, all I would have, is this: None must be good, because the time's amiss. For since wise Nature did ordain the night, I would not have the sun to give us light. Whereas this doth not take the use away, But urgeth the necessity of day. Proceed to make your pious work as free, Stop not your seasonable charity. Good works despis'd or censur'd by bad times Should be sent out to aggravate their crimes. They should first share and then reject our store, Abuse our good, to make their guilt the more. 'Tis war strikes at our sins, but it must be A persecution wounds our piety.

TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF C[HARLES] W[ALBEOFFE] ESQUIRE, WHO FINISHED HIS COURSE HERE, AND MADE HIS ENTRANCE INTO IMMORTALITY UPON THE 13 OF SEPTEMBER, IN THE YEAR OF REDEMPTION, 1653.

Now that the public sorrow doth subside, And those slight tears which custom springs are dried; While all the rich and outside mourners pass Home from thy dust, to empty their own glass; I--who the throng affect not, nor their state-- Steal to thy grave undress'd, to meditate On our sad loss, accompanied by none, An obscure mourner that would weep alone. So, when the world's great luminary sets, Some scarce known star into the zenith gets, Twinkles and curls, a weak but willing spark, As glow-worms here do glitter in the dark. Yet, since the dimmest flame that kindles there An humble love unto the light doth bear, And true devotion from an hermit's cell Will Heav'n's kind King as soon reach and as well, As that which from rich shrines and altars flies, Led by ascending incense to the skies: 'Tis no malicious rudeness, if the might Of love makes dark things wait upon the bright, And from my sad retirements calls me forth, The just recorder of thy death and worth. Long didst thou live--if length be measured by The tedious reign of our calamity-- And counter to all storms and changes still Kept'st the same temper, and the selfsame will. Though trials came as duly as the day, And in such mists, that none could see his way, Yet thee I found still virtuous, and saw The sun give clouds, and Charles give both the law. When private interest did all hearts bend, And wild dissents the public peace did rend, Thou, neither won, nor worn, wert still thyself, Not aw'd by force, nor basely brib'd with pelf. What the insuperable stream of times Did dash thee with, those suff'rings were, not crimes. So the bright sun eclipses bears; and we, Because then passive, blame him not. Should he For enforc'd shades, and the moon's ruder veil Much nearer us than him, be judg'd to fail? Who traduce thee, so err. As poisons by Correction are made antidotes, so thy Just soul did turn ev'n hurtful things to good, Us'd bad laws so they drew not tears, nor blood. Heav'n was thy aim, and thy great, rare design Was not to lord it here, but there to shine. Earth nothing had, could tempt thee. All that e'er Thou pray'd'st for here was peace, and glory there. For though thy course in Time's long progress fell On a sad age, when war and open'd hell Licens'd all arts and sects, and made it free To thrive by fraud, and blood, and blasphemy: Yet thou thy just inheritance didst by No sacrilege, nor pillage multiply. No rapine swell'd thy state, no bribes, nor fees, Our new oppressors' best annuities. Such clean pure hands hadst thou! and for thy heart, Man's secret region, and his noblest part; Since I was privy to't, and had the key Of that fair room, where thy bright spirit lay, I must affirm it did as much surpass Most I have known, as the clear sky doth glass. Constant and kind, and plain, and meek, and mild It was, and with no new conceits defil'd. Busy, but sacred thoughts--like bees--did still Within it stir, and strive unto that hill Where redeem'd spirits, evermore alive, After their work is done, ascend and hive. No outward tumults reach'd this inward place: 'Twas holy ground, where peace, and love, and grace Kept house, where the immortal restless life, In a most dutiful and pious strife, Like a fix'd watch, mov'd all in order still; The will serv'd God, and ev'ry sense the will! In this safe state Death met thee, Death, which is But a kind usher of the good to bliss, Therefore to weep because thy course is run, Or droop like flow'rs, which lately lost the sun, I cannot yield, since Faith will not permit A tenure got by conquest to the pit. For the great Victor fought for us, and He Counts ev'ry dust that is laid up of thee. Besides, Death now grows decrepit, and hath Spent the most part both of its time and wrath. That thick, black night, which mankind fear'd, is torn By troops of stars, and the bright day's forlorn. The next glad news--most glad unto the just!-- Will be the trumpet's summons from the dust. Then I'll not grieve; nay, more, I'll not allow My soul should think thee absent from me now. Some bid their dead "Good night!" but I will say "Good morrow to dear Charles!" for it is day.

IN ZODIACUM MARCELLI PALINGENII.

It is perform'd! and thy great name doth run Through ev'ry sign, an everlasting sun, Not planet-like, but fixed; and we can see Thy genius stand still in his apogee. For how canst thou an aux eternal miss, Where ev'ry house thy exaltation is? Here's no ecliptic threatens thee with night, Although the wiser few take in thy light. They are not at that glorious pitch, to be In a conjunction with divinity. Could we partake some oblique ray of thine, Salute thee in a sextile, or a trine, It were enough; but thou art flown so high, The telescope is turn'd a common eye. Had the grave Chaldee liv'd thy book to see, He had known no astrology but thee; Nay, more--for I believe't--thou shouldst have been Tutor to all his planets, and to him. Thus, whosoever reads thee, his charm'd sense Proves captive to thy zodiac's influence. Were it not foul to err so, I should look Here for the Rabbins' universal book: And say, their fancies did but dream of thee, When first they doted on that mystery. Each line's a via lactea, where we may See thy fair steps, and tread that happy way Thy genius led thee in. Still I will be Lodg'd in some sign, some face, and some degree Of thy bright zodiac; thus I'll teach my sense To move by that, and thee th' intelligence.

TO LYSIMACHUS, THE AUTHOR BEING WITH HIM IN LONDON.

Saw not, Lysimachus, last day, when we Took the pure air in its simplicity, And our own too, how the trimm'd gallants went Cringing, and pass'd each step some compliment? What strange, fantastic diagrams they drew With legs and arms; the like we never knew In Euclid, Archimede, nor all of those Whose learnèd lines are neither verse nor prose? What store of lace was there? how did the gold Run in rich traces, but withal made bold To measure the proud things, and so deride The fops with that, which was part of their pride? How did they point at us, and boldly call, As if we had been vassals to them all, Their poor men-mules, sent thither by hard fate To yoke ourselves for their sedans, and state? Of all ambitions, this was not the least, Whose drift translated man into a beast. What blind discourse the heroes did afford! This lady was their friend, and such a lord. How much of blood was in it! one could tell He came from Bevis and his Arundel; Morglay was yet with him, and he could do More feats with it than his old grandsire too. Wonders my friend at this? what is't to thee, Who canst produce a nobler pedigree, And in mere truth affirm thy soul of kin To some bright star, or to a cherubin? When these in their profuse moods spend the night, With the same sins they drive away the light. Thy learnèd thrift puts her to use, while she Reveals her fiery volume unto thee; And looking on the separated skies, And their clear lamps, with careful thoughts and eyes, Thou break'st through Nature's upmost rooms and bars To heav'n, and there conversest with the stars. Well fare such harmless, happy nights, that be Obscur'd with nothing but their privacy, And missing but the false world's glories do Miss all those vices which attend them too! Fret not to hear their ill-got, ill-giv'n praise; Thy darkest nights outshine their brightest days.

ON SIR THOMAS BODLEY'S LIBRARY, THE AUTHOR BEING THEN IN OXFORD.

Boast not, proud Golgotha, that thou canst show The ruins of mankind, and let us know How frail a thing is flesh! though we see there But empty skulls, the Rabbins still live here. They are not dead, but full of blood again; I mean the sense, and ev'ry line a vein. Triumph not o'er their dust; whoever looks In here, shall find their brains all in their books. Nor is't old Palestine alone survives; Athens lives here, more than in Plutarch's Lives. The stones, which sometimes danc'd unto the strain Of Orpheus, here do lodge his Muse again. And you, the Roman spirits, learning has Made your lives longer than your empire was. Cæsar had perish'd from the world of men Had not his sword been rescu'd by his pen. Rare Seneca, how lasting is thy breath! Though Nero did, thou couldst not bleed to death. How dull the expert tyrant was, to look For that in thee which livèd in thy book! Afflictions turn our blood to ink, and we Commence, when writing, our eternity. Lucilius here I can behold, and see His counsels and his life proceed from thee. But what care I to whom thy Letters be? I change the name, and thou dost write to me; And in this age, as sad almost as thine, Thy stately Consolations are mine. Poor earth! what though thy viler dust enrolls The frail enclosures of these mighty souls? Their graves are all upon record; not one But is as bright and open as the sun. And though some part of them obscurely fell, And perish'd in an unknown, private cell, Yet in their books they found a glorious way To live unto the Resurrection-day! Most noble Bodley! we are bound to thee For no small part of our eternity. Thy treasure was not spent on horse and hound, Nor that new mode which doth old states confound. Thy legacies another way did go: Nor were they left to those would spend them so. Thy safe, discreet expense on us did flow; Walsam is in the midst of Oxford now. Th' hast made us all thine heirs; whatever we Hereafter write, 'tis thy posterity. This is thy monument! here thou shalt stand Till the times fail in their last grain of sand. And wheresoe'er thy silent relics keep, This tomb will never let thine honour sleep, Still we shall think upon thee; all our fame Meets here to speak one letter of thy name. Thou canst not die! here thou art more than safe, Where every book is thy large epitaph.

THE IMPORTUNATE FORTUNE, WRITTEN TO DR. POWEL, OF CANTRE.

For shame desist, why shouldst thou seek my fall? It cannot make thee more monarchical. Leave off; thy empire is already built; To ruin me were to enlarge thy guilt, Not thy prerogative. I am not he Must be the measure to thy victory. The Fates hatch more for thee; 'twere a disgrace If in thy annals I should make a clause. The future ages will disclose such men Shall be the glory, and the end of them. Nor do I flatter. So long as there be Descents in Nature, or posterity, There must be fortunes; whether they be good, As swimming in thy tide and plenteous flood, Or stuck fast in the shallow ebb, when we Miss to deserve thy gorgeous charity. Thus, Fortune, the great world thy period is; Nature and you are parallels in this. But thou wilt urge me still. Away, be gone, I am resolv'd, I will not be undone. I scorn thy trash, and thee: nay, more, I do Despise myself, because thy subject too. Name me heir to thy malice, and I'll be; Thy hate's the best inheritance for me. I care not for your wondrous hat and purse, Make me a Fortunatus with thy curse. How careful of myself then should I be, Were I neglected by the world and thee? Why dost thou tempt me with thy dirty ore, And with thy riches make my soul so poor? My fancy's pris'ner to thy gold and thee, Thy favours rob me of my liberty. I'll to my speculations. Is't best To be confin'd to some dark, narrow chest And idolize thy stamps, when I may be Lord of all Nature, and not slave to thee? The world's my palace. I'll contemplate there, And make my progress into ev'ry sphere. The chambers of the air are mine; those three Well-furnish'd stories my possession be. I hold them all in capite, and stand Propp'd by my fancy there. I scorn your land, It lies so far below me. Here I see How all the sacred stars do circle me. Thou to the great giv'st rich food, and I do Want no content; I feed on manna too. They have their tapers; I gaze without fear On flying lamps and flaming comets here. Their wanton flesh in silks and purple shrouds, And fancy wraps me in a robe of clouds. There some delicious beauty they may woo, And I have Nature for my mistress too. But these are mean; the archetype I can see, And humbly touch the hem of majesty. The power of my soul is such, I can Expire, and so analyze all that's man. First my dull clay I give unto the Earth, Our common mother, which gives all their birth. My growing faculties I send as soon, Whence first I took them, to the humid moon. All subtleties and every cunning art To witty Mercury I do impart. Those fond affections which made me a slave To handsome faces, Venus, thou shalt have. And saucy pride--if there was aught in me-- Sol, I return it to thy royalty. My daring rashness and presumptions be To Mars himself an equal legacy. My ill-plac'd avarice--sure 'tis but small-- Jove, to thy flames I do bequeath it all. And my false magic, which I did believe, And mystic lies, to Saturn I do give. My dark imaginations rest you there, This is your grave and superstitious sphere. Get up, my disentangled soul, thy fire Is now refin'd, and nothing left to tire Or clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flight Hath brought me to the empyrean light. I am a sep'rate essence, and can see The emanations of the Deity, And how they pass the seraphims, and run Through ev'ry throne and domination. So rushing through the guard the sacred streams Flow to the neighbour stars, and in their beams --A glorious cataract!--descend to earth, And give impressions unto ev'ry birth. With angels now and spirits I do dwell, And here it is my nature to do well. Thus, though my body you confinèd see, My boundless thoughts have their ubiquity. And shall I then forsake the stars and signs, To dote upon thy dark and cursèd mines? Unhappy, sad exchange! what, must I buy Guiana with the loss of all the sky? Intelligences shall I leave, and be Familiar only with mortality? Must I know nought, but thy exchequer? shall My purse and fancy be symmetrical? Are there no objects left but one? must we In gaining that, lose our variety? Fortune, this is the reason I refuse Thy wealth; it puts my books all out of use. 'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind Is big with speculation, when I find My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess There is no blessing to an emptiness! The species of all things to me resort And dwell then in my breast, as in their port. Then leave to court me with thy hated store; Thou giv'st me that, to rob my soul of more.

TO I. MORGAN OF WHITEHALL, ESQ., UPON HIS SUDDEN JOURNEY AND SUCCEEDING MARRIAGE.

So from our cold, rude world, which all things tires, To his warm Indies the bright sun retires. Where, in those provinces of gold and spice, Perfumes his progress, pleasures fill his eyes, Which, so refresh'd, in their return convey Fire into rubies, into crystals, day; And prove, that light in kinder climates can Work more on senseless stones, than here on man. But you, like one ordain'd to shine, take in Both light and heat, can love and wisdom spin Into one thread, and with that firmly tie The same bright blessings on posterity: Which so entail'd, like jewels of the crown, Shall, with your name, descend still to your own. When I am dead, and malice or neglect The worst they can upon my dust reflect; --For poets yet have left no names, but such As men have envied or despis'd too much-- You above both--and what state more excels, Since a just fame like health, nor wants, nor swells?-- To after ages shall remain entire, And shine still spotless, like your planet's fire. No single lustre neither; the access Of your fair love will yours adorn and bless; Till, from that bright conjunction, men may view A constellation circling her and you. So two sweet rose-buds from their virgin-beds First peep and blush, then kiss and couple heads, Till yearly blessings so increase their store, Those two can number two-and-twenty more, And the fair bank--by Heav'n's free bounty crown'd-- With choice of sweets and beauties doth abound, Till Time, which families, like flowers, far spreads, Gives them for garlands to the best of heads. Then late posterity--if chance, or some Weak echo, almost quite expir'd and dumb, Shall tell them who the poet was, and how He liv'd and lov'd thee too, which thou dost know-- Straight to my grave will flowers and spices bring, With lights and hymns, and for an offering There vow this truth, that love--which in old times Was censur'd blind, and will contract worse crimes If hearts mend not--did for thy sake in me Find both his eyes, and all foretell and see.

FIDA; OR, THE COUNTRY BEAUTY. TO LYSIMACHUS.

Now I have seen her; and by Cupid The young Medusa made me stupid! A face, that hath no lovers slain, Wants forces, and is near disdain. For every fop will freely peep At majesty that is asleep. But she--fair tyrant!--hates to be Gaz'd on with such impunity. Whose prudent rigour bravely bears And scorns the trick of whining tears, Or sighs, those false alarms of grief, Which kill not, but afford relief. Nor is it thy hard fate to be Alone in this calamity, Since I who came but to be gone, Am plagu'd for merely looking on. Mark from her forehead to her foot What charming sweets are there to do't. A head adorn'd with all those glories That wit hath shadow'd in quaint stories, Or pencil with rich colours drew In imitation of the true. Her hair, laid out in curious sets And twists, doth show like silken nets, Where--since he play'd at hit or miss-- The god of Love her pris'ner is, And fluttering with his skittish wings Puts all her locks in curls and rings. Like twinkling stars her eyes invite All gazers to so sweet a light, But then two archèd clouds of brown Stand o'er, and guard them with a frown. Beneath these rays of her bright eyes, Beauty's rich bed of blushes lies. Blushes which lightning-like come on, Yet stay not to be gaz'd upon; But leave the lilies of her skin As fair as ever, and run in, Like swift salutes--which dull paint scorn-- 'Twixt a white noon and crimson morn. What coral can her lips resemble? For hers are warm, swell, melt, and tremble: And if you dare contend for red, This is alive, the other dead. Her equal teeth--above, below-- All of a size and smoothness grow. Where under close restraint and awe --Which is the maiden tyrant law-- Like a cag'd, sullen linnet, dwells Her tongue, the key to potent spells. Her skin, like heav'n when calm and bright, Shows a rich azure under white, With touch more soft than heart supposes, And breath as sweet as new-blown roses. Betwixt this headland and the main, Which is a rich and flow'ry plain, Lies her fair neck, so fine and slender, That gently how you please 'twill bend her. This leads you to her heart, which ta'en, Pants under sheets of whitest lawn, And at the first seems much distress'd, But, nobly treated, lies at rest. Here, like two balls of new fall'n snow, Her breasts, Love's native pillows, grow; And out of each a rose-bud peeps, Which infant Beauty sucking sleeps. Say now, my Stoic, that mak'st sour faces At all the beauties and the graces, That criest, unclean! though known thyself To ev'ry coarse and dirty shelf: Couldst thou but see a piece like this, A piece so full of sweets and bliss, In shape so rare, in soul so rich, Wouldst thou not swear she is a witch?

FIDA FORSAKEN.

Fool that I was! to believe blood, While swoll'n with greatness, then most good; And the false thing, forgetful man, To trust more than our true god, Pan. Such swellings to a dropsy tend, And meanest things such great ones bend.

Then live deceived! and, Fida, by That life destroy fidelity. For living wrongs will make some wise, While Death chokes loudest injuries: And screens the faulty, making blinds To hide the most unworthy minds.

And yet do what thou can'st to hide, A bad tree's fruit will be describ'd. For that foul guilt which first took place In his dark heart, now damns his face; And makes those eyes, where life should dwell, Look like the pits of Death and Hell.

Blood, whose rich purple shows and seals Their faith in Moors, in him reveals A blackness at the heart, and is Turn'd ink to write his faithlessness. Only his lips with blood look red, As if asham'd of what they fed.

Then, since he wears in a dark skin The shadows of his hell within, Expose him no more to the light, But thine own epitaph thus write "Here burst, and dead and unregarded Lies Fida's heart! O well rewarded!"

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MATCHLESS ORINDA.

Long since great wits have left the stage Unto the drollers of the age, And noble numbers with good sense Are, like good works, grown an offence. While much of verse--worse than old story-- Speaks but Jack-Pudding or John-Dory. Such trash-admirers made us poor, And pies turn'd poets out of door; For the nice spirit of rich verse Which scorns absurd and low commerce, Although a flame from heav'n, if shed On rooks or daws warms no such head. Or else the poet, like bad priest, Is seldom good, but when oppress'd; And wit as well as piety Doth thrive best in adversity For since the thunder left our air Their laurels look not half so fair. However 'tis, 'twere worse than rude, Not to profess our gratitude And debts to thee, who at so low An ebb dost make us thus to flow; And when we did a famine fear, Hast bless'd us with a fruitful year. So while the world his absence mourns, The glorious sun at last returns, And with his kind and vital looks Warms the cold earth and frozen brooks, Puts drowsy Nature into play, And rids impediments away, Till flow'rs and fruits and spices through Her pregnant lap get up and grow. But if among those sweet things, we A miracle like that could see Which Nature brought but once to pass, A Muse, such as Orinda was, Phbus himself won by these charms Would give her up into thy arms; And recondemn'd to kiss his tree, Yield the young goddess unto thee.

UPON SUDDEN NEWS OF THE MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF JUDGE TREVERS.

Learning and Law, your day is done, And your work too; you may be gone Trever, that lov'd you, hence is fled: And Right, which long lay sick, is dead. Trever! whose rare and envied part Was both a wise and winning heart, Whose sweet civilities could move Tartars and Goths to noblest love. Bold vice and blindness now dare act, And--like the grey groat--pass, though crack'd; While those sage lips lie dumb and cold, Whose words are well-weigh'd and tried gold. O, how much to discreet desires Differs pure light from foolish fires! But nasty dregs outlast the wine, And after sunset glow-worms shine.

TO ETESIA (FOR TIMANDER); THE FIRST SIGHT.

What smiling star in that fair night Which gave you birth gave me this sight, And with a kind aspect tho' keen Made me the subject, you the queen? That sparkling planet is got now Into your eyes, and shines below, Where nearer force and more acute It doth dispense, without dispute; For I who yesterday did know Love's fire no more than doth cool snow, With one bright look am since undone, Yet must adore and seek my sun. Before I walk'd free as the wind And if but stay'd--like it--unkind; I could like daring eagles gaze And not be blinded by a face; For what I saw till I saw thee, Was only not deformity. Such shapes appear--compar'd with thine-- In arras, or a tavern-sign, And do but mind me to explore A fairer piece, that is in store. So some hang ivy to their wine, To signify there is a vine. Those princely flow'rs--by no storms vex'd-- Which smile one day, and droop the next, The gallant tulip and the rose, Emblems which some use to disclose Bodied ideas--their weak grace Is mere imposture to thy face. For Nature in all things, but thee, Did practise only sophistry; Or else she made them to express How she could vary in her dress: But thou wert form'd, that we might see Perfection, not variety. Have you observ'd how the day-star Sparkles and smiles and shines from far; Then to the gazer doth convey A silent but a piercing ray? So wounds my love, but that her eyes Are in effects the better skies. A brisk bright agent from them streams Arm'd with no arrows, but their beams, And with such stillness smites our hearts, No noise betrays him, nor his darts. He, working on my easy soul, Did soon persuade, and then control; And now he flies--and I conspire-- Through all my blood with wings of fire, And when I would--which will be never-- With cold despair allay the fever, The spiteful thing Etesia names, And that new-fuels all my flames.

THE CHARACTER, TO ETESIA.