Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 59

THE WISH.

I.

Lest the misjudging world should chance to say I durst not but in secret murmurs pray, To whisper in Jove's ear How much I wish that funeral, Or gape at such a great one's fall; This let all ages hear, And future times in my soul's picture see What I abhor, what I desire to be.

II.

I would not be a Puritan, though he Can preach two hours, and yet his sermon be But half a quarter long; Though from his old mechanic trade By vision he's a pastor made, His faith was grown so strong; Nay, though he think to gain salvation By calling the Pope the Wh.o.r.e of Babylon.

III.

I would not be a Schoolmaster, though to him His rods no less than Consuls' fasces seem; Though he in many a place, Turns Lily oftener than his gowns, Till at the last he makes the nouns Fight with the verbs apace; Nay, though he can, in a poetic heat, Figures, born since, out of poor Virgil beat.

IV.

I would not be a Justice of Peace, though he Can with equality divide the fee, And stakes with his clerk draw; Nay, though he sits upon the place Of judgment, with a learned face Intricate as the law; And whilst he mulcts enormities demurely, Breaks Priscian's head with sentences securely.

V.

I would not be a Courtier, though he Makes his whole life the truest comedy; Although he be a man In whom the tailor's forming art, And nimble barber, claim more part Than Nature herself can; Though, as he uses men, 'tis his intent To put off Death too with a compliment.

VI.

From Lawyers' tongues, though they can spin with ease The shortest cause into a paraphrase, From Usurers' conscience (For swallowing up young heirs so fast, Without all doubt they'll choke at last) Make me all innocence, Good Heaven! and from thy eyes, O Justice! keep; For though they be not blind, they're oft asleep.

VII.

From Singing-men's religion, who are Always at church, just like the crows, 'cause there They build themselves a nest; From too much poetry, which shines With gold in nothing but its lines, Free, O you Powers! my breast; And from astronomy, which in the skies Finds fish and bulls, yet doth but tantalise.

VIII.

From your Court-madam's beauty, which doth carry At morning May, at night a January; From the grave City-brow (For though it want an R, it has The letter of Pythagoras) Keep me, O Fortune! now, And chines of beef innumerable send me, Or from the stomach of the guard defend me.

IX.

This only grant me, that my means may lie Too low for envy, for contempt too high.

Some honour I would have, Not from great deeds, but good alone: The unknown are better than ill known: Rumour can ope the grave.

Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends Not from the number, but the choice of friends.

X.

Books should, not business, entertain the light, And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night.

My house a cottage more Than palace, and should fitting be For all my use, not luxury; My garden, painted o'er With Nature's hand, not Art's, that pleasure yield Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

XI.

Thus would I double my life's fading s.p.a.ce; For he that runs it well twice runs his race; And in this true delight, These unbought sports, and happy state, I would not fear, nor wish my fate, But boldly say each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them, I have lived to-day.

UPON THE SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE.

1 Mark that swift arrow, how it cuts the air, How it outruns thy following eye!

Use all persuasions now, and try If thou canst call it back, or stay it there.

That way it went, but thou shalt find No track is left behind.

2 Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou.

Of all the time thou'st shot away, I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday, And it shall be too hard a task to do.

Besides repentance, what canst find That it hath left behind?

3 Our life is carried with too strong a tide, A doubtful cloud our substance bears, And is the horse of all our years: Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride.

We and our gla.s.s run out, and must Both render up our dust.

4 But his past life who without grief can see, Who never thinks his end too near, But says to Fame, Thou art mine heir; That man extends life's natural brevity-- This is, this is the only way To outlive Nestor in a day.

ON THE PRAISE OF POETRY.

'Tis not a pyramid of marble stone, Though high as our ambition; 'Tis not a tomb cut out in bra.s.s, which can Give life to the ashes of a man, But verses only; they shall fresh appear, Whilst there are men to read or hear, When time shall make the lasting bra.s.s decay, And eat the pyramid away, Turning that monument wherein men trust Their names, to what it keeps, poor dust; Then shall the epitaph remain, and be New graven in eternity.

Poets by death are conquered, but the wit Of poets triumph over it.

What cannot verse? When Thracian Orpheus took His lyre, and gently on it strook, The learned stones came dancing all along, And kept time to the charming song.

With artificial pace the warlike pine, The elm and his wife, the ivy-twine, With all the better trees which erst had stood Unmoved, forsook their native wood.

The laurel to the poet's hand did bow, Craving the honour of his brow; And every loving arm embraced, and made With their officious leaves a shade.

The beasts, too, strove his auditors to be, Forgetting their old tyranny.

The fearful hart next to the lion came, And wolf was shepherd to the lamb.

Nightingales, harmless Syrens of the air, And Muses of the place, were there; Who, when their little windpipes they had found Unequal to so strange a sound, O'ercome by art and grief, they did expire, And fell upon the conquering lyre.

Happy, oh happy they! whose tomb might be, Mausolus! envied by thee!

THE MOTTO.

TENTANDA VIA EST, ETC.

What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?

I shall like beasts or common people die, Unless you write my elegy; Whilst others great by being born are grown, Their mother's labour, not their own.

In this scale gold, in the other fame does lie; The weight of that mounts this so high.

These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright, Brought forth with their own fire and light.

If I, her vulgar stone, for either look, Out of myself it must be strook.

Yet I must on: What sound is't strikes mine ear?

Sure I Fame's trumpet hear: It sounds like the last trumpet, for it can Raise up the buried man.

Unpa.s.s'd Alps stop me, but I'll cut through all, And march, the Muse's Hannibal.

Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay Nets of roses in the way; Hence, the desire of honours or estate, And all that is not above Fate; Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days, Which intercepts my coming praise.

Come, my best friends! my books! and lead me on, 'Tis time that I were gone.

Welcome, great Stagyrite! and teach me now All I was born to know: Thy scholar's victories thou dost far outdo; He conquered th' earth, the whole world you, Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose bless'd tongue and wit Preserves Rome's greatness yet; Thou art the first of orators; only he Who best can praise thee next must be.

Welcome the Mantuan swan! Virgil the wise, Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age, And made that art which was a rage.

Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do To be like one of you?

But you have climb'd the mountain's top, there sit On the calm flourishing head of it, And whilst, with wearied steps, we upward go, See us and clouds below.