On Mr. ABRAHAM COWLEY, bis Death and Burial amongst the Ancient Poets.
By the fame Hand.
LD Chaucer, like the Morning-Star,
To us discovers Day from far,
His light thofe Mifts and Clouds dissolv'd,
Which our dark Nation long involv'd;
But he descending to the Shades,
Darkness again the Age invades.
Next (like Aurora) Spencer rofe,
Whofe Purple blush the Day forefhows;
The other Three, with his own Fires,
Phabus, the Poets God, infpires;
By Shakespear's, Johnson's, Fletcher's Lines,
Our Stages Luftre Rome's out-shines :
Thefe Poets near our Princes fleep,
And in one Grave their Mansion keep;
They liv'd to fee so many Days,
Till Time had blafted all their Bays;
But curfed be the fatal Hour,
That pluckt the Faireft, fweeteft Flower,
That in the Mufes Garden grew,
And amongst wither'd Lawrels threw.
Time, which made them their Fame out-live,
To Cowley scarce did Ripeness give.
Old Mother Wit, and Nature gave
Shakespear and Fletcher all they have;
In Spencer, and in Johnson, Art
of flower Nature got the start;
But both in him fo equal are,
None knows which bears the happy'ft share;
To him no Author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own;
He melted not the ancient Gold,
Nor with Ben Johnson did make bold
To plunder all the Roman Stores
Of Poets, and of Orators:
Horace his Wit, and Virgil's State,
He did not fteal but emulate,
And when he would like them appear,
Their Garb, but not their Cloaths did wear:
He not from Rome alone, but Greece,
Like Jafon brought the Golden Fleece;
To him that Language (though to none
Of th' others) as his own was known.
On a ftiff Gale (as Flaccus fings)
The Theban Swan extends his Wings,
When through Ethereal Clouds he flies,
To the fame pitch our Swan doth rise;
Old Pindar's flights by him are reach'd,
When on that Gale his Wings are stretcht;
His Fancy and his Judgment such,
Each to the other feem'd too much,
His fevere Judgment (giving Law)
His modeft Fancy kept in awe:
As rigid Husbands jealous are,
When they believe their Wives too Fair.
His English Streams fo pure did flow,
As all that faw, and tafted, know.
But for his Latin Vein, fo clear,
↑ Strong, full and high it doth appear,
That were Immortal Virgil here,
Him, for his Judge, he would not fear;
Of that great Portraiture, so true
A Copy, Pencil never drew.
My Mufe her Song had ended here,
But both her Genii ftrait appear,
Joy and amazement her did strike,
Two Twins fhe never faw fo like.
* His Pindaricks. ↑ His laft Works
'Twas taught by wife Pythagoras,
One Soul might through more Bodies pass;
Seeing fuch Transmigration here,
She thought it not a Fable there.
Such a refemblance of all Parts,
Life, Death, Age, Fortune, Nature, Arts,
Then lights her Torch at theirs, to tell,
And fhew the World this Parallel.
Fixt and contemplative their Looks,
Still turning over Nature's Book:
Their Works Chafte, Moral and Divine,
Where Profit and Delight combine;
They gilding Dirt, in noble Verse
Ruftick Philofophy rehearse;
When Heroes, Gods, or God-like Kings
They praise, on their exalted Wings,
To the Celestial Orbs they climb,
And with th' Harmonious Spheres keep Time;
Nor did their Actions fall behind
Their Words, but with like Candour fhin'd,
Each drew fair Characters, yet none
Of these they feign'd, excels their own;
Both by two Generous Princes lov'd,
Who knew, and judg'd what they approv❜d:
Yet having each the fame Defire,
Koth from the bufie Throng retire,
Their Bodies to their Minds refign'd,
Car'd not to propagate their Kind:
Yet though both fell before their Hour,
Time on their Off-spring hath no power,
Nor Fire, not Fate their Bays shall blast,
Nor Death's dark vail their Day o'er-cast,
An Occafional Imitation of a Modern Author upon the Game of Chess: (Sir W. Davenant's Gondibert.)
By the fame Hand.
Tablet flood of that abfterfive Tree,
Where Athiops fwarthy Bird did build her Inlaid it was with Libyan Ivory,
Drawn from the Jaws of Africk's prudent Beaft.
Two Kings, like Saul, much taller than the reft,
Their equal Armies draw into the Field;
Till one take th' other Prifoner they conteft;
Courage and Fortune muft to Conduct yield.
This Game the Perfian Magi did invent,
The Force of Eaftern Wisdom to express;
From thence to busie Europaans sent,
And ftyl'd by Modern Lombards penfive Chefs.
Yet fome that fled from Troy to Rome, report,
Penthefilea Priam did oblige;
Her Amazons his Trojans taught this Sport,
To pass the tedious Hours of ten Years Siege.
There the prefents herself, whilft King and Peers Look gravely on, whilft fierce Bellona fights; Yet Maiden Modefty her Motions steers,
Nor rudely skips o'er Bishops Heads like Knights.
A SONG by Robert Wolfeley Efq;
H! Blame me not, if no Despair
A Paffion you Infpire can end,
Nor think it ftrange, too charming fair,
If Love, like other flames, afcend.
If to approach a Saint with Prayer
Unworthy Votaries pretend,
Above all merit Heaven and you
To the Sincere are only due.
Long did Refpect awe my proud aim,
And fear t'offend my madness cover, Like you it ftill reprov'd my flame,
And in the Friend wou'd hide the Lover.
But by things that want a name
I the too bold truth difcover.
My Words in vain are in my Power,
My Looks betray me every hour.
VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS, Tranflated in Paraphrafe.
By Mr. J. DRYDEN,
Reator Spirit, by whofe aid
The World's Foundations first were laid,
Come visit ev'ry pious Mind;
Come pour thy Joys on Humane Kind:
From Sin, and Sorrow fet us free;
And make thy Temples worthy Thee.
O, Source of uncreated Light,
The Father's promis'd Paraclete!
Thrice Holy Fount, thrice Holy Fire,
Our Hearts with Heavenly Love in pire;
Come, and thy Sacred Unction bring
To Sanctifie us, while we fing!
Plenteous of Grace, defcend from high,
Rich in thy fev'n-fold Energy!
Thou ftrength of his Almighty Hand,
Whose Pow'r does Heaven and Earth Command;
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