Poems (1686) Part 6

_Upon the saying that my_ VERSES _were made by another_.

Next Heaven my Vows to thee (O Sacred _Muse_!) I offer'd up, nor didst thou them refuse.

O Queen of Verse, said I, if thou'lt inspire, And warm my Soul with thy Poetique Fire, No Love of Gold shall share with thee my Heart, Or yet Ambition in my Brest have Part, More Rich, more n.o.ble I will ever hold The _Muses_ Laurel, than a Crown of Gold.

An Undivided Sacrifice I'le lay Upon thine Altar, Soul and Body pay; Thou shalt my Pleasure, my Employment be, My All I'le make a Holocaust to thee.

The Deity that ever does attend Prayers so sincere, to mine did condescend.

I writ, and the Judicious prais'd my Pen: Could any doubt Insuing Glory then?

What pleasing Raptures fill'd my Ravisht Sense?

How strong, how Sweet, Fame, was thy Influence?

And thine, False Hope, that to my flatter'd sight Didst Glories represent so Near, and Bright?

By thee deceiv'd, methought, each Verdant Tree, _Apollos_ transform'd _Daphne_ seem'd to be; And ev'ry fresher Branch, and ev'ry Bow Appear'd as Garlands to empale my Brow.

The Learn'd in Love say, Thus the Winged Boy Does first approach, drest up in welcome Joy; At first he to the Cheated Lovers sight Nought represents, but Rapture and Delight, Alluring Hopes, Soft Fears, which stronger bind Their Hearts, than when they more a.s.surance find.

Embolden'd thus, to Fame I did commit, (By some few hands) my most Unlucky Wit.

But, ah, the sad effects that from it came!

What ought t'have brought me Honour, brought me shame!

Like _Esops_ Painted Jay I seem'd to all, Adorn'd in Plumes, I not my own could call: Rifl'd like her, each one my Feathers tore, And, as they thought, unto the Owner bore.

My Laurels thus an Others Brow adorn'd, My Numbers they Admir'd, but Me they scorn'd: An others Brow, that had so rich a store Of Sacred Wreaths, that circled it before; Where mine quite lost, (like a small stream that ran Into a Vast and Boundless Ocean) Was swallow'd up, with what it joyn'd and drown'd, And that Abiss yet no Accession found.

_Orinda_, (_Albions_ and her s.e.xes Grace) Ow'd not her Glory to a Beauteous Face, It was her Radiant Soul that shon With-in, Which struk a l.u.s.tre through her Outward Skin; That did her Lips and Cheeks with Roses dy, Advanc't her Height, and Sparkled in her Eye.

Nor did her s.e.x at all obstruct her Fame, But higher 'mong the Stars it fixt her Name; What she did write, not only all allow'd, But ev'ry Laurel, to her Laurel, bow'd!

Th'Envious Age, only to Me alone, Will not allow, what I do write, my Own, But let 'em Rage, and 'gainst a Maide Conspire, So Deathless Numbers from my Tuneful Lyre Do ever flow; So _Phebus_ I by thee Divinely Inspired and possest may be; I willingly accept _Ca.s.sandras_ Fate, To speak the Truth, although believ'd too late.

On the Birth-day of Queen Katherine.

While yet it was the Empire of the Night, And Stars still check'r'd Darkness with their Light, From Temples round the cheerful Bells did ring, But with the Peales a churlish Storm did sing.

I slumbr'd; and the Heavens like things did show, Like things which I had seen and heard below.

Playing on Harps Angels did singing fly, But through a cloudy and a troubl'd Sky, Some fixt a Throne, and Royal Robes display'd, And then a Ma.s.sie Cross upon it laid.

I wept: and earnestly implor'd to know, Why Royal Ensigns were disposed so.

An Angel said, The Emblem thou hast seen, Denotes the Birth-Day of a Saint and Queen.

Ah, Glorious Minister, I then reply'd, Goodness and Bliss together do reside In Heaven and thee, why then on Earth below These two combin'd so rarely do we know?

He said, Heaven so decrees: and such a Sable Morne Was that, in which the _Son of G.o.d_ was borne.

Then Mortal wipe thine Eyes, and cease to rave, G.o.d darkn'd Heaven, when He the World did save.

TO My Lord Colrane,

_In Answer to his Complemental Verses sent me under the Name of_ CLEANOR.

Long my dull _Muse_ in heavy slumbers lay, Indulging Sloth, and to soft Ease gave way, Her Fill of Rest resolving to enjoy, Or fancying little worthy her employ.

When n.o.ble _Cleanors_ obliging Strains Her, the neglected Lyre to tune, constrains.

Confus'd at first, she rais'd her drowsie Head, Ponder'd a while, then pleas'd, forsook her Bed.

Survey'd each Line with Fancy richly fraught, Re-read, and then revolv'd them in her Thought.

And can it be? She said, and can it be?

That 'mong the Great Ones I a Poet see?

The Great Ones? who their Ill-spent time devide, 'Twixt dang'rous Politicks, and formal Pride, Destructive Vice, expensive Vanity, In worse Ways yet, if Worse there any be: Leave to Inferiours the despised Arts, Let their Retainers be the _Men of Parts_.

But here with Wonder and with Joy I find, I'th' n.o.ble Born, a no less n.o.ble Mind; One, who on Ancestors, does not rely For Fame, in Merit, as in t.i.tle, high!

The Severe G.o.dess thus approv'd the Laies: Yet too much pleas'd, alas, with her own Praise.

But to vain Pride, _My Muse_, cease to give place, _Virgils_ immortal Numbers once did grace A _Smother'd Gnat_: by high Applause is shown, If undeserv'd, the Praisers worth alone: Nor that you should believ't, is't always meant, 'Tis often for Instruction only sent, To praise men to Amendment, and display, By its Perfection, where their Weakness lay.

This Use of these Applauding Numbers make Them for Example, not Encomium, take.

The Discontent.

I.

Here take no Care, take here no Care, my _Muse_, Nor ought of Art or Labour use: But let thy Lines rude and unpolisht go, Nor Equal be their Feet, nor Num'rous let them flow.

The ruggeder my Measures run when read, They'l livelier paint th'unequal Paths fond Mortals tread.

Who when th'are tempted by the smooth Ascents, Which flatt'ring Hope presents, Briskly they clime, and Great Things undertake; But Fatal Voyages, alas, they make: For 'tis not long before their Feet, Inextricable Mazes meet, Perplexing Doubts obstruct their Way, Mountains with-stand them of Dismay; Or to the Brink of black Dispaire them lead, Where's nought their Ruine to impede, In vain for Aide they then to Reason call, Their Series dazle, and their Heads turn round, The sight does all their Pow'rs confound, And headlong down the horrid Precipice they fall: Where storms of Sighs for ever blow, Where raped streams of Tears do flow, Which drown them in a Briny Floud.

My Muse p.r.o.nounce aloud, there's nothing Good, Nought that the World can show, Nought that it can bestow.

II.

Not boundless Heaps of its admired Clay, } Ah, too successful to betray, } When spread in our fraile Vertues way: } For few do run with so Resolv'd a Pace, That for the Golden Apple will not loose the Race.

And yet not all the Gold the Vain would spend, Or greedy Avarice would wish to save; Which on the Earth refulgent Beams doth send, Or in the Sea has found a Grave, Joyn'd in one Ma.s.s, can Bribe sufficient be, The Body from a stern Disease to free, Or purchase for the Minds relief One Moments sweet Repose, when restless made by grief, But what may Laughter, more than Pity, move: When some the Price of what they Dear'st Love Are Masters of, and hold it in their Hand, To part with it their Hearts they can't command: But chose to miss, what miss't does them torment, And that to hug, affords them no Content.

Wise Fools, to do them Right, we these must hold, Who Love depose, and Homage pay to Gold.

III.

Nor yet, if rightly understood, Does Grandeur carry more of Good; To be o'th' Number of the Great enroll'd, A Scepter o're a Mighty Realm to hold.

For what is this?

If I not judge amiss.

But all th'Afflicted of a Land to take, And of one single Family to make?

The Wrong'd, the Poor, th'Opprest, the Sad, The Ruin'd, Malecontent, and Mad?

Which a great Part of ev'ry Empire frame, And Interest in the common Father claime.

Again what is't, but always to abide A Gazing Crowd? upon a Stage to spend A Life that's vain, or Evil without End?

And which is yet nor safely held, nor laid aside?

And then, if lesser t.i.tles carry less of Care, Yet none but Fools ambitious are to share Such a Mock-Good, of which 'tis said, 'tis Best, When of the least of it Men are possest.

IV.

But, O, the Laurel'd Fool! that doats on Fame, Whose Hope's Applause, whose Fear's to want a Name; Who can accept for Pay Of what he does, what others say; Exposes now to hostile Arms his Breast, To toylsome Study then betrays his Rest; Now to his Soul denies a just Content, Then forces on it what it does resent; And all for Praise of Fools: for such are those, Which most of the Admiring Crowd compose.

O famisht Soul, which such Thin Food can feed!