Fed with nourishment divine,

The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee ftill,
And thy verdant cup does fill ;
'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's felf's thy Ganymede.

Thou doft drink, and dance, and fing;
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou doft fee,
All the plants, belong to thee:
All that fummer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does fow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou doft innocently joy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The hepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!
Thee Phœbus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy fire.
To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy infect, happy thou!

Doft neither age nor winter know;

But, when thou 'ft drunk, and danc'd, and fung

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among (Voluptuous, and wife withal,

Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy fummer feast,
Thou retir'ft to endless reft.

XI.

THE SWALLOW. FOOLISH prater, what doft thou

FOOLISH, what

With thy tunclefs ferenade?
Wel't had been had Tercus made
Thee as dumb as Philomel;

There his knife had done but well.

In thy undiscover'd neft
Thou dost all the winter reft,
And dreameft o'er thy fummer joys,
Free from the ftormy feafons' noife:
Free from th' ill thou 'ft done to me;
Who disturbs or feeks-out thee?
Hadft thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou 't ta'en from me away.
Cruel bird! thou 'it ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream, that ne'er must equal'd be
By all that waking eyes may fee.
Thou, this damage to repair,
Nothing half fo fweet or fair,
Nothing half fo good, canft bring,
Though men fay thou bring'st the spring.

HOW

My beft fervant, and my friend?

Nay, and, if from a Deity

So much deified as I,

It found not too profane and odd,

Oh, my mafter and my god!
For 'tis true, moft mighty poct!

(Though I like not men fhould know it)

I am in naked nature lefs,

Lefs by much, than in thy drefs.
All thy verfe is fofter far
Than the downy feathers are
Of my wings, or of my arrows,
Of my mother's doves or fparrows.
Sweet as lovers' frefheft kiffes,
Or their riper following bliffes,
Graceful, cleanly, fmooth, and round,
All with Venus' girdle bound;
And thy life was all the while
Kind and gentle as thy ftyle.
The fmooth-pac'd hours of every day
Glided numerously away.

Like thy verfe each hour did pass;
Sweet and fhort, like that, it was.

Some do but their youth allow me,
Just what they by nature owe me,

The time that 's mine, and not their own,
The certain tribute of my crown :
When they grow old, they grow to be

Too busy, or too wife, for me.

Thou wert wifer, and didft know
None too wife for Love can grow;
Love was with thy life entwin'd,
'Clofe as heat with fire is join'd;
A powerful brand prefcrib'd the date
Of thine, like Meleager's fate.
Th' antiperiftafis of age
More enflam'd thy amorous rage;
Thy filver hairs yielded me more
Than even golden curls before.

Had I the power of creation,

As I have of generation,
Where I the matter must obey,
And cannot work plate out of clay,
My creatures fhould be all like thee,
"Tis thou fhouldft their idea be:
They, like thee, fhould throughly hate
Bufinefs, honour, title, ftate;

Other wealth they should not know,
But what my living mines beftow;
The pomp of Kings, they fhould confefs,
At their crownings, to be less
Than a lover's humblest guife,
When at his miftrefs' feet he lies.
Rumour they no more should mind
Than men fafe-landed do the wind;
Wisdom itself they fhould not hear,
When it prefumes to be fevere:
Beauty alone they should admire,
Nor look at Fortune's vain attire,
Nor afk what parents it can fhew;
With dead or old 't has nought to do.
They fhould not love yet all or any,
But very much and very many :
All their life fhould gilded be
With mirth, and wit, and gaiety;
Well remembering and applying
The neceffity of dying.

Their cheerful heads should always wear
All that crowns the flowery year :
They fhould always laugh, and fing,

And dance, and ftrike th' harmonious string;
Verfe fhould from their tongue fo flow,
As if it in the mouth did grow,
As fwiftly answering their command,
As tunes obey the artful hand.
And whilst I do thus difcover
Th' ingredients of a happy lover,
"Tis, my Anacreon! for thy fake
I of the grape no mention make.

Till my Anacreon by thee fell,
Curfed plant! I lov'd thee well;
And 'twas oft my wanton ufe
To dip my arrows in thy juice.
Curfed plant! 'tis true, I fee,
Th' old report that goes of thee-
That, with giants' blood the earth
Stain'd and poifon'd, gave thee birth;
And now thou wreak'ft thy ancient spite
On men in whom the gods delight.
Thy patron Bacchus, 'tis no wonder,
Was brought forth in flames and thurder;
In rage, in quarrels and in fights,
Worfe than his tigers, he delights;
In all our heaven I think there be
No fuch ill-natur'd God as he.
Thou pretendeft, traiterous Wine!
To be the Mufes' friend and mine :
With love and wit thou doft begin,
Falfe fires, alas! to draw us in;
Which, if our courfe we by them keep,
Mifguide to madness or to fleep:
Sleep were well; thou 'aft learnt a way
To death itself now to betray.

It grieves me when I fee what fate
Does on th: beft of mankind wait.

CHRIST'S PASSION,

TAKEN OUT OF A GREEK ODE, WRITTEN BY
MR. MASTERS, OF NEW-COLLEGE IN OXFORD.

ENOUGfp, my Muut off vand,
'NOUGH, my Muse! of earthly things,

Take up thy lute, and to it bind
Loud and everlasting strings;

And on them play, and to them fing,
The happy mournful ftories,
The lamentable glories,

Of the great crucified King.
Mountainous heap of wonders! which doft rife
Till earth thou joineft with the skies!
Too large at bottom, and at top too high,
To be half feen by mortal eye!

How fhall I grafp this boundlefs thing?
What shall I play? what fhall I fing?
I'll fing the mighty riddle of mysterious love,
Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed
fpirits above,

With all their comments can explain; How all the whole world's life to die did not difdain!

I'll fing the fearchlefs depths of the compaffion Divine,

The depths unfathom'd yet

By reafon's plummet and the line of wit;
Too light the plummet, and too fhort the line!
How the eternal Father did bestow

His own eternal Son as ranfom for his foe,

I'll fing aloud, that all the world may hear The triumph of the buried Conqueror. How hell was by its prifoner captive led, And the great flayer, Death, slain by the dead. Methinks I hear of murdered men the voice, Mixt with the murderers' confufed noife,

Thefe verfcs were not included among thofe which Mr. Cowley himself styled " Mifcellanies;" but were claffed by Bifhop Sprat under the title by which they are here diftinguished. N.

But Rome with all her arts could ne'er infpire
A female breast with such a fire:

The warlike Amazonian train,
Who in Elyfium now do peaceful reign,
And Wit's mild empire before arms prefer,
Hope 'twill be settled in their fex by her.
Merlin the feer (and fure he would not lye,
In fuch a facred company)

Does prophecies of learn'd Orinda show,
Which he had darkly fpoke fo long ago;
Ev'n Boadicia's angry ghost

Forgets her own misfortune and disgrace,

And to her injur'd daughters now does boast, That Rome's o'ercome at laft, by a woman of

her race.

O DE

PON OCCASION OF A COPY OF VERSES OF MY LORD BROGHILL'S.

Bwhat others thou canft fool, as well as me. E gone (faid I) ingrateful Mufe! and fee

Since I grew man, and wifer ought to be, My bufinefs and my hopes I left for thee: For thee (which was more hardly given away) I left, even when a boy, my play. But fay, ingrateful miftrefs! fay, What for all this, what didft thou ever pay? Thou'lt fay, perhaps, that riches are Not of the growth of lands where thou dost trade, And I as well my country might upbraid

Because I have no vineyard there.
Well: but in love thou doft pretend to reign;
There thine the power and lordship is;
Thou bad ft me write, and write, and write again;
'Twas fuch a way as could not mifs.
I, like a fool, did thee obey:

I wrote, and wrote, but still I wrote in vain ;
For, after all my expence of wit and pain,
A rich, unwriting hand, carried the prize away.

Thus I complain'd, and strait the Mufe reply'd,
That the hath given me fame.

Bounty immenfe! and that too must be try'd
When I myself am nothing but a name.

Who now, what reader does not strive
T' invalidate the gift whilft we're alive?
For, when a poet now himself doth show,
As if he were a common foe,
All draw upon him, all around,
And every part of him they wound,
Happy the man that gives the deepest blow:
And this is all, kind Mufe! to thee we owe.
Then in rage I took,

And out at window threw,
Ovid and Horace, all the chiming crew;

Homer himfelf went with them too;
Hardly efcap'd the facred Mantuan book:
I my own offspring, like Agave, tore,
And I refolv'd, nay, and I think I fwore,
That I no more the ground would till and fow,
Where only flowery weeds inftead of corn did

grow.

Nothing fo foon the drooping fpirits can ra
As praifes from the men whom all men prail
'Tis the best cordial, and which only thofe
Who have at home th' ingredients can comp:
A cordial that reftores our fainting breath,

And keeps up life e'en after death!
The only danger is, left it fhould be
Too ftrong a remedy;
Left, in removing cold, it should beget
Too violent a heat;

And into madnefs turn the lethargy.

Ah! gracious God! that I might fee A time when it were dangerous for me To be o'er-heat with praife! But I within me bear, alas! too great allays. "Tis faid, Apelles, when he Venus drew, Did naked women for his pattern view, And with his powerful fancy did refine Their human fhapes into a form divine; None who had fat could her own picture fee,

Or fay, one part was drawn for me : So, though this nobler painter, when he writ Was pleas'd to think it fit

That my book should before him fit, Not as a caufe, but an occafion, to his wit; Yet what have I to boast, or to apply To my advantage out of it; fince I, Inftead of my own likenefs, only find The bright idea there of the great writer's min

tree of knowledge! thy leaves fruit! which well

in the midst of paradise arife,

Oxford! the Mufe's paradife,

m which may never fword the blefs'd expel!

l, bank of all paft ages! where they lie enrich with intereft pofterity!

Hail, Wit's illuftrious Galaxy!

'T had happier been for him, as well as me; For when all, alas! is done,

We books, I mean, You books, will prove to be
The beft and nobleft converfation:

For, though fome errors will get in,
Like tinctures of original fin;
Yet fure we from our fathers' wit
Draw all the ftrength and spirit of it,

ail, living Univerfity of the dead!

Inconfus'd Babel of all tongues! which e'er

he mighty linguift Fame, or Time, the mighty traveller,

That could fpeak, or this could hear.
fajetic monument and pyramid!
There fill the fhades of parted fouls abide
mbalm'd in verfe; exalted fouls which now
njoy thofe arts they woo'd fo well below;
Which now all wonders plainly fee,
That have been, are, or are to be,
In the myfterious library,

The beatific Bodley of the Deity;
Will you into your facred throng admit

The meanest British Wit?

lou, general-council of the priests of Fame,
Will you not murmur and difdain,
That I a place among you claim,

Will

The humbleft deacon of her train?

you

allow me th' honourable chain? The chain of ornament, which hare

Your noble prifoners proudly wear;

A chain which will more pleafant feem to me
Than all my own Pindaric liberty!

Will ye to bind me with thofe mighty names fubmit,

Like an Apocrypha with holy Writ?
Whatever happy book is chained here,
No other place or people need to fear;
His chain's a paffport to go every where.

As when a feat in heaven

Is to an unmalicious finner given,

Who, cafting round his wondering eye, Does none but patriarchs and apoftles there efpy; Martyrs who did their lives beftow,

And faints, who martyrs liv'd below With trembling and amazement he begins To recollect his frailties paft and fins;

He doubts almoft his ftation there;

His foul fays to itfelf, "How came I here?"
It fares no otherwife with me,
When I myself with confcious wonder fee
Amidft this purify'd elected company.
With hardship they, and pain,
Did to this happiness attain:
No labour I, nor merits, can pretend;
I think predestination only was my friend.
Ah, that my author had been ty'd like me
To fuch a place and fuch a company!
Inftead of feveral countries, feveral men,

And bufinefs, which the Mufes hate,
He might have then improv'd that small eftate
Which Nature fparingly did to him give;

He might perhaps have thriven then,
And fettled upon, me, his child, fomewhat to live.

As the best blood of man's employ'd in generation,

O D E.

SITTING AND DRINKING IN THE CHAIR MADE OUT OF THE RELICS OF SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S SHIP.

C

HEER up, my mates, the wind does fairly blow,

Clap on more fail, and never fpare;

Farewell all lands, for now we are

In the wide fea of drink, and merrily we go. Blefs me, 'tis hot! another bowl of wine,

And we fhall cut the burning Line: Hey, boys! fhe fcuds away, and by my head I know

We round the world are failing now.
What dull men are thofe that tarry at home,
When abroad they might wantonly roam,

And gain fuch experience, and spy too
Such countries and wonders, as I do!

But pr'ythee, good pilot, take heed what you do,
And fail not to touch at Peru!

With gold there the veffel we'll ftore,
And never, and never be poor,

No, never be poor any more.

What do I mean? What thoughts do me mifguide?
As well upon a ftaff may witches ride
Their fancy'd journeys in the air,

As I fail round the ocean in this chair!

"Tis true; but yet this chair which here you fee,

For all its quiet now, and gravity,

Has wander'd and has travel'd more

Than ever beaft, or fish, or bird, or ever tree,

before:

In every air and every fea 't has been,

'T has compafs'd all the earth, and all the heavens 't has feen.

Let not the Pope's itfelf with this compare,
This is the only univerfal chair.

The pious wanderer's fleet, fav'd from the flame (Which still the relics did of Troy pursue,

And took them for its due),

A fquadron of immortal nymphs became :
Still with their arms they row about the feas,
And ftill make new and greater voyages:
Nor has the first poetic fhip of Greece
(Though now a ftar fhe fo triumphant show,
And guide her failing fucceffors below,
Bright as her ancient freight the fhining fleece)
Yet to this day a quiet harbour found;
The tide of heaven ftill carries her around.