Poetical Works of Edmund Waller and Sir John Denham Part 28

Farewell the year! which threaten'd so The fairest light the world can show.

Welcome the new! whose every day, Restoring what was s.n.a.t.c.h'd away By pining sickness from the fair, That matchless beauty does repair So fast, that the approaching spring (Which does to flow'ry meadows bring What the rude winter from them tore) Shall give her all she had before. 10

But we recover not so fast The sense of such a danger past; We that esteem'd you sent from heaven, A pattern to this island given, To show us what the bless'd do there, And what alive they practised here, When that which we immortal thought, We saw so near destruction brought, Felt all which you did then endure, And tremble yet, as not secure. 20 So though the sun victorious be, And from a dark eclipse set free, The influence, which we fondly fear, Afflicts our thoughts the following year.

But that which may relieve our care Is, that you have a help so near For all the evil you can prove, The kindness of your royal love; He that was never known to mourn, So many kingdoms from him torn, 30 His tears reserved for you, more dear, More prized, than all those kingdoms were!

For when no healing art prevail'd, When cordials and elixirs fail'd, On your pale cheek he dropp'd the shower, Revived you like a dying flower.

[1] 'Dangerous sickness': the Queen of Charles II. These verses belong to the year 1663.

TO MR KILLIGREW,[1]

UPON HIS ALTERING HIS PLAY, 'PANDORA,' FROM A TRAGEDY INTO A COMEDY, BECAUSE NOT APPROVED ON THE STAGE.

Sir, you should rather teach our age the way Of judging well, than thus have changed your play; You had obliged us by employing wit, Not to reform Pandora, but the pit; For as the nightingale, without the throng Of other birds, alone attends her song, While the loud daw, his throat displaying, draws The whole a.s.semblage of his fellow-daws; So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould; Whilst n.o.bler fancies make a flight too high For common view, and lessen as they fly.

[1] 'Mr. Killigrew': a gentleman usher to Charles II., and one of the playwrights of the period.

TO A PERSON OF HONOUR, UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE, INCOMPREHENSIBLE POEM, ENt.i.tLED, 'THE BRITISH PRINCES.'[1]

Sir! you've obliged the British nation more Than all their bards could ever do before, And, at your own charge, monuments as hard As bra.s.s or marble to your fame have rear'd; For, as all warlike nations take delight To hear how their brave ancestors could fight, You have advanced to wonder their renown, 7 And no less virtuously improved your own; That 'twill be doubtful whether you do write, Or they have acted, at a n.o.bler height.

You of your ancient princes, have retrieved More than the ages knew in which they lived; Explain'd their customs and their rights anew, Better than all their Druids ever knew; Unriddled those dark oracles as well As those that made them could themselves foretell.

For as the Britons long have hoped, in vain, Arthur would come to govern them again, You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone, And in your poem placed him on his throne. 20 Such magic power has your prodigious pen To raise the dead, and give new life to men, Make rival princes meet in arms and love, Whom distant ages did so far remove; For as eternity has neither past Nor future, authors say, nor first nor last, But is all instant, your eternal Muse All ages can to any one reduce.

Then why should you, whose miracles of art Can life at pleasure to the dead impart, 30 Trouble in vain your better-busied head, T'observe what times they lived in, or were dead?

For since you have such arbitrary power, It were defect in judgment to go lower, Or stoop to things so pitifully lewd, As use to take the vulgar lat.i.tude; For no man's fit to read what you have writ, That holds not some proportion with your wit; As light can no way but by light appear, He must bring sense that understands it here. 40

[1] 'The British Princes': an heroic poem, by the Hon. Edward Howard, was universally laughed at. See our edition of 'Butler.'

TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR, A PERSON OF HONOUR, WHO LATELY WRIT A RELIGIOUS BOOK, ENt.i.tLED, 'HISTORICAL APPLICATIONS, AND OCCASIONAL MEDITATIONS, UPON SEVERAL SUBJECTS.'[1]

Bold is the man that dares engage For piety in such an age!

Who can presume to find a guard From scorn, when Heaven's so little spared?

Divines are pardon'd; they defend Altars on which their lives depend; But the profane impatient are, When n.o.bler pens make this their care; For why should these let in a beam Of divine light to trouble them, 10 And call in doubt their pleasing thought, That none believes what we are taught?

High birth and fortune warrant give That such men write what they believe; And, feeling first what they indite, New credit give to ancient light.

Amongst these few, our author brings His well-known pedigree from kings.[2]

This book, the image of his mind, Will make his name not hard to find; 20 I wish the throng of great and good Made it less eas'ly understood!

[1] 'Several subjects': supposed to be Lord Berkeley. It contained testimonies of celebrated men to the value of religion.

[2] 'Pedigree from kings': the Earl of Berkeley was descended from the royal house of Denmark.

TO THE d.u.c.h.eSS OF ORLEANS, WHEN SHE WAS TAKING LEAVE OF THE COURT AT DOVER.[1]

That sun of beauty did among us rise; England first saw the light of your fair eyes; In English, too, your early wit was shown; Favour that language, which was then your own, When, though a child, through guards you made your way; What fleet or army could an angel stay?

Thrice happy Britain! if she could retain Whom she first bred within her ambient main.

Our late burnt London, in apparel new, Shook off her ashes to have treated you; 10 But we must see our glory s.n.a.t.c.h'd away, And with warm tears increase the guilty sea; No wind can favour us; howe'er it blows, We must be wreck'd, and our dear treasure lose!

Sighs will not let us half our sorrows tell,-- Fair, lovely, great, and best of nymphs, farewell!

[1] 'Court at Dover': the d.u.c.h.ess of Orleans, the youngest daughter of Charles I., came to England on the 14th May 1670, on a political mission.

TO CHLORIS.

Chloris! what's eminent, we know Must for some cause be valued so; Things without use, though they be good, Are not by us so understood.

The early rose, made to display Her blushes to the youthful May, Doth yield her sweets, since he is fair, And courts her with a gentle air.

Our stars do show their excellence Not by their light, but influence; When brighter comets, since still known Fatal to all, are liked by none.

So your admired beauty still Is, by effects, made good or ill.

TO THE KING.

Great Sir! disdain not in this piece to stand, Supreme commander both of sea and land.

Those which inhabit the celestial bower, Painters express with emblems of their power; His club Alcides, Phoebus has his bow, Jove has his thunder, and your navy you.

But your great providence no colours here Can represent, nor pencil draw that care, Which keeps you waking to secure our peace, The nation's glory, and our trade's increase; 10 You, for these ends, whole days in council sit, And the diversions of your youth forget.

Small were the worth of valour and of force, If your high wisdom governed not their course; You as the soul, as the first mover you, Vigour and life on every part bestow; How to build ships, and dreadful ordnance cast, Instruct the artists, and reward their haste.

So Jove himself, when Typhon heaven does brave, Descends to visit Vulcan's smoky cave, 20 Teaching the brawny Cyclops how to frame His thunder, mix'd with terror, wrath, and flame.

Had the old Greeks discover'd your abode, Crete had not been the cradle of their G.o.d; On that small island they had looked with scorn, And in Great Britain thought the Thunderer born.

TO THE d.u.c.h.eSS, WHEN HE PRESENTED THIS BOOK TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS.