Poetical Works of Edmund Waller and Sir John Denham Part 20

Swift as Jove's messenger (the winged G.o.d), With sword as potent as his charmed rod, He flew to execute the King's command, And in a moment reach'd that northern land, Where day contending with approaching night, a.s.sists the hero with continued light.

On foes surprised, and by no night conceal'd, He might have rush'd; but n.o.ble pity held His hand a while, and to their choice gave s.p.a.ce, Which they would prove, his valour or his grace. 10 This not well heard, his cannon louder spoke, And then, like lightning, through that cloud he broke.

His fame, his conduct, and that martial look, The guilty Scots with such a terror strook, That to his courage they resign the field, Who to his bounty had refused to yield.

Glad that so little loyal blood it cost, He grieves so many Britons should be lost; Taking more pains, when he beheld them yield, To save the flyers, than to win the field; 20 And at the Court his int'rest does employ, That none, who 'scaped his fatal sword, should die.

And now, these rash bold men their error find, Not trusting one beyond his promise kind; One! whose great mind, so bountiful and brave, Had learn'd the art to conquer and to save.

In vulgar b.r.e.a.s.t.s no royal virtues dwell; Such deeds as these his high extraction tell, And give a secret joy to him that reigns, To see his blood triumph in Monmouth's veins; 30 To see a leader whom he got and chose, Firm to his friends, and fatal to his foes.

But seeing envy, like the sun, does beat, With scorching rays, on all that's high and great, This, ill-requited Monmouth! is the bough The Muses send to shade thy conqu'ring brow.

Lampoons, like squibs, may make a present blaze; But time and thunder pay respect to bays.

Achilles' arms dazzle our present view, Kept by the Muse as radiant and as new 40 As from the forge of Vulcan first they came; Thousands of years are past, and they the same; Such care she takes to pay desert with fame!

Than which no monarch, for his crown's defence, Knows how to give a n.o.bler recompence.

OF AN ELEGY MADE BY MRS WHARTON[1] ON THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.

Thus mourn the Muses! on the hea.r.s.e Not strewing tears, but lasting verse, Which so preserve the hero's name, They make him live again in fame.

Chloris, in lines so like his own, Gives him so just and high renown, That she th'afflicted world relieves, And shows that still in her he lives; Her wit as graceful, great, and good; Allied in genius, as in blood.[2]

His loss supplied, now all our fears Are, that the nymph should melt in tears.

Then, fairest Chloris! comfort take, For his, your own, and for our sake, Lest his fair soul, that lives in you, Should from the world for ever go.

[1] 'Mrs. Wharton': the daughter, and co-heiress with the Countess of Abingdon, of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in Oxfordshire.

[2] 'In blood': the Earl of Rochester's mother was Mrs. Wharton's grand aunt.

OF HER MAJESTY, ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY, 1683.

What revolutions in the world have been, How are we changed since we first saw the Queen!

She, like the sun, does still the same appear, Bright as she was at her arrival here!

Time has commission mortals to impair, But things celestial is obliged to spare.

May every new year find her still the same In health and beauty as she hither came!

When Lords and Commons, with united voice, Th' Infanta named, approved the royal choice;[1]

First of our Queens whom not the King alone, But the whole nation, lifted to the throne.

With like consent, and like desert, was crown'd The glorious Prince[2] that does the Turk confound.

Victorious both! his conduct wins the day, And her example chases vice away; Though louder fame attend the martial rage, 'Tis greater glory to reform the age.

[1] 'Royal choice': a royal message, announcing the king's intention to marry the Infanta of Portugal, was delivered in Parliament in May 1661.

[2] 'Prince': John Sobieski, king of Poland.

OF TEA, COMMENDED BY HER MAJESTY.

Venus her myrtle, Phoebus has his bays; Tea both excels, which she vouchsafes to praise.

The best of Queens, and best of herbs, we owe To that bold nation which the way did show To the fair region where the sun does rise, Whose rich productions we so justly prize.

The Muse's friend, tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene, Fit on her birth-day to salute the Queen.

OF THE INVASION AND DEFEAT OF THE TURKS, IN THE YEAR 1683.[1]

The modern Nimrod, with a safe delight Pursuing beasts, that save themselves by flight, Grown proud, and weary of his wonted game, Would Christians chase, and sacrifice to fame.

A prince, with eunuchs and the softer s.e.x Shut up so long, would warlike nations vex, Provoke the German, and, neglecting heaven, Forget the truce for which his oath was given.

His Grand Vizier, presuming to invest The chief imperial city of the west, 10 With the first charge compell'd in haste to rise, His treasure, tents, and cannon, left a prize; The standard lost, and janizaries slain, Render the hopes he gave his master vain.

The flying Turks, that bring the tidings home, Renew the memory of his father's doom; And his guard murmurs, that so often brings Down from the throne their unsuccessful kings.

The trembling Sultan's forced to expiate His own ill-conduct by another's fate. 20 The Grand Vizier, a tyrant, though a slave, A fair example to his master gave; He Ba.s.sa's head, to save his own, made fly, And now, the Sultan to preserve, must die.

The fatal bowstring was not in his thought, When, breaking truce, he so unjustly fought; Made the world tremble with a numerous host, And of undoubted victory did boast.

Strangled he lies! yet seems to cry aloud, 29 To warn the mighty, and instruct the proud, That of the great, neglecting to be just, Heaven in a moment makes a heap of dust.

The Turks so low, why should the Christians lose Such an advantage of their barb'rous foes?

Neglect their present ruin to complete, Before another Solyman they get?

Too late they would with shame, repenting, dread That numerous herd, by such a lion led; He Rhodes and Buda from the Christians tore, Which timely union might again restore. 40

But, sparing Turks, as if with rage possess'd, The Christians perish, by themselves oppress'd; Cities and provinces so dearly won, That the victorious people are undone!

What angel shall descend to reconcile The Christian states, and end their guilty toil?

A prince more fit from heaven we cannot ask Than Britain's king, for such a glorious task; His dreadful navy, and his lovely mind, Give him the fear and favour of mankind; 50 His warrant does the Christian faith defend; On that relying, all their quarrels end.

The peace is sign'd,[2] and Britain does obtain What Rome had sought from her fierce sons in vain.

In battles won Fortune a part doth claim, And soldiers have their portion in the same; In this successful union we find Only the triumph of a worthy mind.

'Tis all accomplish'd by his royal word, Without unsheathing the destructive sword; 60

Without a tax upon his subjects laid, Their peace disturb'd, their plenty, or their trade.

And what can they to such a prince deny, With whose desires the greatest kings comply?

The arts of peace are not to him unknown; This happy way he march'd into the throne; And we owe more to Heaven than to the sword, The wish'd return of so benign a lord.

Charles! by old Greece with a new freedom graced, Above her antique heroes shall be placed. 70 What Theseus did, or Theban Hercules, Holds no compare with this victorious peace, Which on the Turks shall greater honour gain, Than all their giants and their monsters slain: Those are bold tales, in fabulous ages told; This glorious act the living do behold.