Selected Poems Part 2

IV.

The Old and Young receive alike their Doom, The Cowards and the Brave, Are buried in one Grave; For Fate allows 'em all one Common Tomb.

The Aged and the Wise Lose all their Reason in the great Surprise.

They know not where to go, And yet they dare not stay, There's Fire and Smoak below, And the Earth gaping to receive the Prey: If to the Houses Top they Crawl, These tumble too, and downwards fall: And if they fly into the Street, There grizly Death they meet; All in a hurry dye away, The wicked had not time to pray.

The Soldier once cou'd teach grim Death to kill, In vain is all his Skill, In vain he brandisheth his Steel: No more the Art of War must teach, But lyes Fates Trophy underneath the Breach: The good Companions now no more Carouse, They share the Fate of the declining House, Healths to their Friends their b.u.mpers Crown'd: But while they put the Gla.s.ses round, Death steps between the Cup and lip, Nor would it let 'em take one parting Sip.

V.

The Mine is sprung, and a large Breach is made, Whereat strong Troops of Warring Seas invade; These overflow; Where Houses stood and Gra.s.s did grow, All sorts of Fish resort: They had Dominions large enough before, But now unbounded by the Sh.o.a.r, They o're the Tops of Houses sport.

The Watry Fry their Legions do extend, And for the new slain Prey contend; Within the Houses now they roam, Into their Foe, the very Kitchen, come.

One does the Chimney-hearth a.s.sail, Another slaps the Kettle with his slimy Tail.

No Image there of Death is seen, No Cook-maid does obstruct their Sway, They have entirely got the day.

Those who have once devour'd been By Mankind, now on Man do Feed: Thus Fate decides, and steps between, And sometimes gives the Slave the Victors meed.

The Beauteous Virgins whom the G.o.ds might love, Cou'd not the Curse of Heav'n remove; Their goodness might for Crimes Atone, Inexorable Death spares none.

Their tender Flesh lately so plump and good, Is now made Fishes and Sea-monsters Food; In vain they cry, Heav'n is grown Deaf, and no Pet.i.tion hears, Their Sighs are answer'd like their Lovers Pray'rs, They in the Universal Ruin lye.

VI.

Nor is inexorable Fate content To ruine one poor Town alone; More Mischief by the Blow is done: Death's on a farther Message sent.

When Fate a Garrison does Sack, The very Suburbs do partake Of Martial Law, Its Forces draw To every Mountain, Field and Wood, They Ravage all the Neighbourhood.

Worse than the weak a.s.saults of Steel, Its Instruments of Death all places feel.

They undiscover'd, like fell Poison kill, Its Warriours fierce, The Earth, the Air, and Men do pierce; And mounted, fight upon the winged Winds.

Here a great Mountain in a Valley's thrown, And there a Valley to a Mountain grown.

The very Breath of an incensed G.o.d, Makes even proud _Olympus_ Nod.

Chang'd is the Beauty of the fruitful Isle, And its fair Woods lopp'd for its Funeral Pile.

The moving Earth forms it self in Waves, And Curls its Surface like the Rowling Seas; Whilst Man (that little thing) so vainly Raves, Nothing but Heaven can its own Wrath appease.

VII.

But Fate at length thought fit to leave its Toil, And greedy Death was glutted with the Spoil.

As weary Soldiers having try'd their Steel, Half drown'd with Blood, do then desist to kill.

More Ruin wou'd a second Deluge make, Blot out the Name of the unhappy Isle.

It fares with her as when in Martial Field, Resolv'd and Brave, and loath to yield, Two num'rous Armies do contend, And with repeated Shouts the Air do Rend.

Whilst the affrighted Earth does shake, Some large Battalions are entirely lost, And Warring Squadrons from the mighty Host: Here by a Shot does fall Some Potent General; And near to him, Another loses but a Limb.

Part of the Island was a Prey to Fate, And all the rest do's but prolong its date, 'Till injur'd Heav'n finds, Its Bolts a Terror strike on humane Minds; Sure we may hope the Sinners there Repent, Since it has made their lewdest Priest Relent.

FINIS.

A

Pindarick ODE,

IN THE

PRAISE

OF

Folly and Knavery.

By Mr. _TUTCHIN_.

_LONDON_,

Printed and Sold by _E. W._ near _Stationers-Hall_.

1696. Price 6_d._

A

Pindarick ODE

In the Praise of

Folly and Knavery.

I.

My humble Muse no Hero Sings, Nor Acts, nor Funerals of Kings: The great _Maria_ now no more, In Sable Lines she does deplore; Of mighty _William_'s growing fame, At present must forget the name, Yet she affects something that is sublime, And would in _Dytherambick_ strain } Attempt to rise, and now disdain } The Shrubs and Furzes of the Plain: } He that's afraid to fall, shou'd ne'r pretend to climb.

II.

Let others boast of potent Wit, And Summon in the awful _Nine_, With all their Aids of Fancy, Humor, Sence, Fair polish'd Learning, Eloquence, And call their gawdy works Divine: Hov'ring above my Head let _dullness_ sit, The only G.o.d that's worshipp'd by the Age; Immortal _Nonsence_ guide my Pen, The Fames of _Shakespear_ and of _Ben_, Must warp, before my n.o.bler fire To their regardless Tombs retire.

Thus Arm'd, with Nonsence, I'll engage Both _Universities_, And their Pedantick fooleries, Show the misguided World the Cheat, And let _Man_ know that _Nonsence_ makes him Great.

III.

Almighty _Folly_! How shall I thy praise To Human Understandings raise?

What shall I do Thy worth to shew?

The Glorious Sun, that rules the Day, Gives vital warmth and life by ev'ry Ray.