網頁圖片
PDF

Nay, and, if from a deity
So much deified as I,
It sound not too profane and odd,
Oh, my master and my god !
For 'tis true, most mighty poet!
(Though I like not men should know it)
I am in naked Nature less,
Less by much, than in thy dress.
All thy verse is softer far
Than the downy feathers are
Of my wings, or of my arrows,
Of my mother's doves or sparrows,
Sweet as lovers' freshest kisses,
Or their riper following blisses,
Graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round,
All with Venus' girdle bound;
And thy life was all the while
Kind and gentle as thy style,
The smooth-pac'd hours of every day
Glided numerously away.
Like thy verse each hour did pass;
Sweet and short, like that, it was.

Some do but their youth allow me,
Just what they by Nature owe me,
The time that's mine, and not their own,
The certain tribute of my crown:
When they grow old, they grow to be
Too busy, or too wise, for me.
Thou wert wiser, and didst know
None too wise for love can grow;
Jove was with thy life entwin'd,
Close as heat with fire is join'd;
A powerful brand prescrib'd the date
Of thine, like Meleager's, fate.
Th' antiperistasis of age
More enflam'd thy amorous rage;
Thy silver hairs yielded me more
Than even golden curls before.

Had I the power of creation, As I have of generation, Where I the matter must obey, And cannot work plate out of clay, My creatures should be all like thee, "Tis thou shouldst their idea be : They, like thee, should thoroughly hate Business, honour, title, state; Other wealth they should not know, But what my living mines bestow; The pomp of kings, they should confess, At their crownings, to be less Than a lover's humblest guise, When at his mistress' feet he lies. Rumour they no more should mind Than men safe landed do the wind; Wisdom itself they should not hear, When it presumes to be severe; Beauty alone they should admire, Nor look at Fortune's vain attire,

| Nor ask what parents it can shew;
With dead or old 't has nought to do.
They should not love yet all, or any,
But very much and very many:
All their life should gilded be
With mirth, and wit, and gaiety ;
Well remembering and applying
The necessity of dying.
Their chearful heads should always wear
All that crowns the flowery year:
They should always laugh, and sing,
And dance, and strike th' harmonious string ;
Verse should from their tongue so flow,
As ifit in the mouth did grow,
As swiftly answering their command,
As tunes obey the artful hand.
And whilst I do thus discover
Th' ingredients of a happy lover,
'Tis, my Anacreon! for thy sake
I of the Grape no mention make.

Till my Anacreon by thee fell,
Cursed Plant! I lov'd thee well ;
And 'twas oft my wanton use
To dip my arrows in thy juice.
Cursed Plant ! 'tis true, I see,
Th’old report that goes of thec-
That with giants' blood the Earth
Stain'd and poison'd gave thee birth;
And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spite
On men in whom the gods delight.
Thy patron, Bacchus, 'tis no wonder,
Was brought forth in fames and thunder ;
In rage, in quarrels, and in fights,
Worse than his tigers, he delights ;
In all our Heaven I think there be
No such ill-natur'd god as he.
Thou pretendest, traiterous Wine!
To be the Muses' friend and inine:
With love and wit thou dost begin,
False fires, alas ! to draw us io;
Which, if our course we by them keep,
Misguide to madness or to sleep:
Sleep were well; thou 'ast learnt a way
To death itself now to betray.

It grieves me when I see what fate
Does on the best of mankind wait.
Poets or lovers let them be,
'Tis neither love nor poesy
Can arm, against Death's smallest dart,
The poet's head or lover's heart;
But when their life, in its declino,
Touches th' inevitable line,
All the world's mortal to them then,
And wine is aconite to men;
Nay, in Death's hand, the grape-stone proves
As strong as thunder is in Jove's.

VERSES

WRITTEN ON

SEVERAL OCCASIONS'.

CHRIST'S PASSION,

TAKEN OUT OF A GREEK ODE, WRITTEN BY MR.

MASTERS, OF NEW-COLLEGE IN OXFORD.

Exough, my Muse! of earthly things,
And inspirations but of wind;
Take up thy lute, and to it bind
Loud and everlasting strings;
And on them play, and to them sing,
The happy mournful stories,
The lamentable glories,

Of the great crucified King.
Mountainous heap of wonders! which dost rise

Till Earth thou joinest with the skies!
Too large at bottom, and at top too high,

To be half seen by mortal eye!

How shall I grasp this boundless thing? What shall I play; what shall I sing? I'll sing the mighty riddle of mysterious love, Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed

spirits above, With all their comments can explain; How all the whole world's life to die did not dis

dain! l'll sing the searchless depths of the compassion

Divine, The depths unfathom'd yet By reason's plummet and the line of wit; Too light the plummet, and too short the line!

How the eternal Father did bestow
His own eternal Son as ransoin for his foe.

I'll sing aloud, that all the world may hear
The triumph of the buried Conqueror.
How Hell was by its prisoner captive led,
And the great slayer, Death, slain by the dead.
Methinks, I hear of murdered men the voice,
Mixt with the murderers' confused noise,

Sound from the top of Calvary ;
My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and see
Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three ;

Oh, how unlike the others he! Look, how he bends his gentle head with blessings

from the tree! His gracious hands, me'er stretch'd but to do good,

Are nail'd to the infamous wood!

And sinful man dues fondly bind The arms, which he extends t' embrace all human

kind.
Unhappy man! canst thou stand by and see

All this as patient as he?
Since he thy sins does bear,
Make thou his sufferings thine own,
And weep, and sigh, ani groan,
And beat thy breast, and rear
Thy garments and thy hair,
And let thy grief, and let thy love,

Through all thy bleeding bowels move. Dost thou not see thy prince in purpie clad all o'er, Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,

But made at home with richer gore?
Dost thou not see the roses which adorn

The thorny garland by him worn ?
Dost thou not see the livid traces
Of the sharp scourges' rude embraces ?

* These verses were not included among those which Mr. Cowley himselt styled Miscellanies; but were classed by Bishop Sprat under the title by which they are here distinguished. N.

If yet thou feelest not the smart

Where'er I see an excellence,
Of thoms and scourges in thy heart;

I must admire to see thy well knit sense,
If that be yet not crucified;

Thy numbers gentle, and thy fancies high; Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his side! Those as thy forehead smooth, these sparkling as Open, oh ! open wide the fountains of thine eyes,

thine eye.

'Tis solid, and 'tis manly all,
And let them call
Their stock of moisture forth where'er it lies!

Or rather 'tis angelical ;
For this will ask it all.

For, as in angels, we

Do in thy verses see 'Twould all, alas ! too little be, Though thy salt tears come from a sea.

Both improv'd sexes eminently meet; Canst thou deny him this, when he

They are than man more strong, and inore than wo

man sweet.
Has open'd all his vital springs for thee ?
Take heed; for by his side's mysterious flood

They talk of Nine, I know not who,
May well be understood,

Female chimeras, that o'er poets reign;
That he will still require some waters to his blood. I ne'er could find that fancy true,

But have invok'd them oft, I'm sure, in vain:

They talk of Sappho; but, alas ! the shaine!
ODE.

Ill-manners soil the lustre of her fame;
| Orinda's inward virtue is so bright,

That, like a lantern's fair enclosed light,
ON ORINDA'S POEMS.

| It through the paper shines where she does write.

Honour and friendship, and the generous scorn
We allow'd you beauty, and we did submit

Of things for which we were not born
To all the tyrannies of it;

(Things that can only by a fond disease, Ah ! cruel sex, will you depose us too in wit?

Like that of girls, our vicious stomachs please) Orinda ? does in that too reign ;

Are the instructive subjects of her pen; Does man behind her in proud triumph draw,

And, as the Roman victory
And cancel great Appollo's Salique law.

Taught our rude land arts and civility,
We our old title plead in vain,

At once she overcomes, enslaves, and betters, men.
Man may be head, but woman's now the brain.
Verse was Love's fire-arms heretofore,

But Rome with all her arts could ne'er inspire In Beauty's campit was not known ;

A female breast with such a fire : Too many arms besides that conqueror bore:

The wailike Amazonian train, 'Twas the great cannon we brought down

Who in Elysium now do peaceful reign,
T" assault a stubborn town;

And Wit's mild enspire before arms prefer,
Orinda first did a bold sally make,

Hope 'twill be settled in their sex by her.
Our strongest quarter take,

Merlin, the seer, (and sure he would not lye,
And so successful prov'd, that she

In such a sacred company)
Turn'd upon Love himself his own artillery,

Does prophecies of learn’d Orinda show,

Which he had darkly spoke so long ago;
Women, as if the body were their whole,

Ev'n Boadicia's angry ghost
Did that, and not the soul,

Forgets her own misfortune and disgrace,
Transmit to their posterity;

And to her injur'd daughters now does boast,
If in it sometime they conceiv'd,

That Rome's o'ercome at last, by a woman of her Th’abortive issue never liv'd.

race,
"There shame and pity', Orinda, if in thee
A spirit so rich, so noble, and so high,

ODE
Should unmanur'd or barren lie.
But thou industriously hast sow'd and tillid

UPON OCCASION OF A COPY OF VERSES OF MY LORS
The fair and fruitful field;

BROGHILL's.
And 'tis a strange increase that it does yield.

Be gone (said I) ingrateful Muse! and see
As, when the happy gods above

What others thou canst fool, as well as me.
Meet altogether at a feast,

Since I grew man, and wiser ought to be,
A secret joy unspeakable does move

My business and my hopes I left for thee:
In their great mother Cybele's contented breast:
With no less pleasure thou, methinks, should see,

For thee (which was more hardly given away)

I left, even when a boy, my play. This, thy no less immortal progeny ;

But say, ingrateful mistress! say, And in their birth thou no one tonch dost find,

What for all this, what didst thou ever pay?
Of th'ancient curse to woman-kind :

Thou ’lt say, perhaps, that riches are
Though bring'st not forth with pain ;

Not of the growth of lands where thou dost trade, It neither travail is nor labour of the brain :

And I as well my country might upbraid
So easily they from thee come,
And there is so much room

Because I have no vineyard there.

Well : but in love thou dost pretend to reign; Ip the unexhausted and unfathom'd womb,

There thine the power and lordship is; That, like the Holland countess, thou may'st bear

Thou bad'st me write, and write, and write again; A child for every day of all the fertile year.

'Twas such a way as could not miss. Thou dost my wonder, wouldst my envy, raise, . I, like a fool, did thee ubey: , If to be prais'd I lov'd more than to praise :

I wrote, and wrote, but still I wrote in vain;

For, after all my expense of wit and pain, 2 Mrs. Catharine Phillips

A rich, unwriting hand, carried the prize away.

Thus I complain'd, and strait the Muse reply'd, | Instead of my own likeness, only find
That she bad given me fame.

| The Lright idea there of the great writer's mind) Bounty immense! and that too must be try'd When I myself am nothing but a name.

Who now, what reader does not strive
T invalidate the gift whilst we're alive?

ODE.
For, when a poet now himself doth show,
As if he were a common foe:

MR. COWLEY'S BOOK PRESENTING ITSELF TO THE All draw upon him, all around,

UNIVERSITY LIBRARY OF OXFORD. And every part of him they wound,

HAIL, Learning's Pantheon ! Hail, the sacred ark Happy ihe man that gives the deepest blow:

Where all the world of science does embark! And this is all, kind Muse! to thee we owe,

Which ever shall withstand, and hast su long with. Then in rage I took,

stood, And out at window threw,

Insatiate Time's devouring flood. Ovid and Horace, all the chiming crew;

Hail, tree of knowledge! thy leaves fruit! which Homer himself went with them too ;

well Hardly escap'd the sacred Mantuan book :

Dost in the midst of Paradise arise, I my own offspring, like Agave, tore,

Oxford ! the Muse's Paradise, And I resolv'd, nay, and I think I swore,

From which may never sword the bless'd expel ! That I no more the ground would till and sow,

Hail, bank of all past ages! where they lie
Where only flowery weeds instead of corn did grow. T enrich with interest posterity!
When (see the subtile ways which Fate does find

Hail, Wit's illustrious galaxy !
Rebellious man to bind !

Where thousand lights into one brightness spread; Inst to the work for which he is assign'd)

Hail, living University of the dead !
The Muse came in more chearful than before, Unconfus'd Babel of all tongues! which e'er
And bade me quarrel with her now no more:

The mighty linguist, Fame, or Time, the mighty “ Lo! thy reward ! !ook, here and see

traveller, What I have made” (said she)

That could speak, or this could hear.
« My lover and belor'd, my Broghill, do for thee! Majestic monument and pyramid !
Though thy own verse no lasting fame can give, Where still the shades of parted souls abide
Thou shalt at least in his fur ever live.

Embalm'd in verse ; exalted souls which now
What critics, the great Hectors now in wit,

Enjoy those arts they wood so well below; Who rant and challenge all men that have writ,

Which now all wonders plainly see, Will dare l' oppose thee, when

That have been, are, or are to be,
Broghill in thy defence has drawn his conquering In the mysterious library,
pen?” .

The beatific Bodley of the Deity ;
I rose and bow'd my head,

Will you into your sacred throng admit
And pardon ask'd for all that I had said :

The meanest British wit?
Well satisfy'd and proud,

You, general-council of the priests of Fame,
I strait resolv'd, and solemnly I vow'd,

Will you not murmur and disdain,
That from her service now I ne'er would part;

That I a place among you claim,
So strongly large rewards work on a grateful beart! The humblest deacon of her train?
Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise Will you allow me th' honourable chain ?
As praises from the men whom all men praise :

The chain of ornament, which here 'Tis the best cordial, and which only those

Your noble prisoners proudly wear; Who have at home th' ingredients can compose;

A chain which will more pleasant seem to me A cordial that restores our fainting breath,

Than all my own Pindaric liberty!'
And keeps up life e'en after death!

Will ye to bind me with those mighty names submit, The only danger is, lest it should be

• Like an Apocrypha with Holy Writ? Too strong a remedy ;

Whatever happy book is chained here,
Lest, in removing cold, it should beget

No other place or people need to fear;
Too violent a heat;

His chain's a passport to go every where.
And into madness turn the lethargy.

As when a seat in Heaven
Ah ! gracious God! that I might see

Is to an unmalicious sinner given,
A time when it were dangerous for me

Who, casting round his wondering eye, To be o'er-heat with praise!

Does none but patriarchs and apostles there espy; But I within me bear, alas! too great allays.

Martyrs who did their lives bestow, 'Tis said, Apelles, when he Venus drew,

And saints, who martyrs liv'd below; Did naked women for his pattern view,

With trembling and amazement he begins And with his powerful fancy did refine

To recollect his frailties past and sins; Their human shapes into a form divine :

He doubts almost his station there; Nune who had sat could her own picture see,

His soul says to itself, “ How came I here?»
Or say, one part was drawn for me:

It fares no otherwise with me,
So, though this nobler painter, when he writ, When I myself with conscious wonder seo
Was pleas'd to think it fit

Amidst this purify'd elected company.
That my book should before him sit, .

With hardship they, and pain,
Not as a cause, but an occasion, to his wit;

Did to this happiness attain : Yet what have I to boast, or to apply

No la'your I, nor merits, can pretend; To my advantage out of it; since I

| I think prcdestination only was my friend.

Ah, that my author had been ty'd like me

Than those bave done or scen, To such a place and such a company!

Ev'n since they goddesses and this a star has been) Instead of several countries, several men,

As a reward for all her lalwur past, And business, which the Muses hate,

Is made the seat of rest at last. He might have then improv'd that small estate

Let the casc now quite alter'd be, Which Nature sparingly did to him give;

And, as thou wentest abroad the world to see, He might perhaps have thriven then,

Let the world now come to see thee ! And settled upon me, his child, somewhat to live.

The world will do 't ; for curiosity "T har happier been for him, as well as me; Does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make; For when all, alas! is done,

And I myself, w'lo pow lure quiet too. We Books, I mean, you Books, will prove to be As much almost as any Cha'r can do, The best and noblest conversation;

Tould yet a journey tale, For, though some errours will get in,

An old wheel of that chariot to sce, Like tinctures of original sin;

Which Phacton so rashly brake : Yet sure we from our fathers' wit

Yet what could that say more than these remains of Draw all the strength and spirit of it,

Drake? Leaving the grosser parts for conversation,

Great Relie! thou too, in this port of case,
As the best blood of man's employ'd in generation, Hast still one way of making voyages;

The breath of Fame, like an auspicious gale
ODE,

(The great trade-wind which ne'er does fail)

| Shall drive thee round the world, and thou shalt run, SITTING AND DRINKING IN THE CHAIR MADE OUT OF As long around it as the Sun.

THE RELICS OF SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S SHIP. The streights of Time too narrow are for thee; Cheer up, my mates, the wind does fairly blow,

Launch forth into an undiscover'd sea, Clap on more sail, and never spare;

And steer the endlest course of vast Eternity ! Farewell all lands, for now we are

Take for thy sail this verse, and for thy pilot me!
In the wide sea of drink, and merrily we go,
Bless me, 'tis hot! another bowl of wine,
And we shall cut the burning line :

I'PON THE DEATH OF
Hey, boys! she scuds away, and by my head I know THE EARL OF BALCARRES.

We round the world are sailing now.
What dull men are those that tarry at home, Tis folly all, that can be said,
When abroad they might wantonly roam,

By living mortals, of th' inimortal dead,
And gain such experience, and spy too

And I'ın afraid they laugh at the rain tears we shed. Such countries and wonders, as I do!

'lis as if we, who stay behind But prythee, good pilot, take heed what you do,

In expectation of the wind, And fail not to touch at Peru !

Should pity those who pass'd this streight before, · With gold there the vessel we'll store,

And touch the umiversal shore. And never, and never be poor,

Ah, happy man! who art to sail no more! No, never be poor any more.

And, if it seem ridiculous to grieve What do I mean? What thoughts do me misguide? |

Because our friends are newly come from sea, As well upon a staff may witches ride

Though ne'er so fair and calm it be;

What would all sober men beliere,
Their fancy'd journeys in the air,
As I sail round the ocean in this Chair!

If they should hear us sighing say, 'Tis true; but yet this Chair which here you

" Balcarres, who but th' other day

Did all our love and our respect command; see, For all its quiet now, and gravity,

At whose great parts we ali amaz'd did stand; Has wander'd and has travell’d more

Is from a storm, alas! cast suddenly on land ?” Than ever beast, or fish, or bird, or ever tree, be-/ If you will say—“Few persons upon larth fore:

Did, more than he, deserve to have In every air and every sea 't has been,

A life exempt from fortune and the grave; "T has compass'd all the Earth, and all the Heavens . Whether you look upon his birth It has seen.

And ancestors, whose fame's so widely spread Let not the pope's itself with this compare, But ancestors, alas! who long ago are dead This is the only universal Chair.

Or whether you consider more The pious wanderer's feet, sav'd from the flame

The vast increase, as sure you ought, (Which still the relics did of Truy pursue,

Of honour by his labour bought, And took them for its due),

And added to the former store :" A squadron of immortal nymphs became :

All I can answer, is, “ That I allow Still with their arms they row about the seas,

The privilege you plead for; and arow And still make new and greater voyages:

That, as he well deserv'd, he doth enjoy it now.” Nor has the first poetic ship of Greece

Thongh God, for great and righteous ends, (Though now a star she so triumphant show,

Which his unerring Providence intends And guide her sailing silccessors below,

Erroneous mankind should not understand, Bright as her ancient freight the shining fleece) Would not permit Balcarres' hand, Yet to this day a quiet harbour found;

(That once with so much industry and art The tide of heaven still carries her around;

Had clos'd the gaping wounds of every part) Only Drake's sacred vessel (which before

To perfect his distracted nation's cure, Had done and had seen more

Or stop the fatal bondage 'twas t' endure;

« 上一頁繼續 »