Saul's frantic rage harmonious founds obey'd,
His rage was charm'd, but 'twas when David
play'd.
The artless fince have touch'd thy facred lyre;
We have thy numbers, but we want thy fire.
Horace and Virgil, where they brightest shin'd,
Prov'd but thy ore, and were by thee refin'd:
The conquerors that from the general flame
Sav'd Pindar's roof, deferv'd a lasting name;
A greater thou, that didft preferve his fame.
A dark and huddled chaos long he lay,
Till thy diviner genius' pow'rful ray
Difperf'd the mists of night, and gave him day.
No mifts of time can make thy verfe lefs bright,
Thou fhin'ft like Phoebus with unborrow'd light.
Henceforth no Phabus we'll invoke, but thee;
Aufpicious to thy poor furvivers be!
Who, unrewarded, plow the Mufes' foil,
Our labour all the harvest of our toil;
And in excufe of fancies flag'd and tir'd,
Can only fay, Auguftus is expir'd.
Before thy facred monument,
And moisten with my tears thy wondrous ura.
Begin, begin, my Mufe! thy noble choir,
And aim at fomething worthy Pindar's lyre ;
Within thy breast excite the kindling fire,
And fan it with thy voice!
Cowley does to Jove belong,
Jove and Bowley claim my song.
These fair first-fruits of wit young Cowley bore,
Which promis'd, if the happy tree
Should ever reach maturity,
To blefs the world with better and with more. Thus in the kernel of the largest fruit
Is all the tree in little drawn,
The trunk, the branches, and the root;
Thus a fair day is pictur'd in a lovely dawn.
Taffo, a poet in his infancy,
Did hardly earlier rife than thee,
Nor did he shoot fo far, or fhine fo bright,
Or in his dawning beams or noonday light.
The Mufes did young Cowley raise;
They stole thee from thy nurse's arms,
On Mr. Cowley's Juvenile Poems, and the Tranflation Fed thee with facred love of praife,
WHEN young Alcides in his cradle lay,
And grafp'd in both his infant hands,
Broke from the nurfe's feeble bands,
The bloody gafping prey.
Aloft he those first trophies bore,
And squeezes out their pois nous gore;
The women fhriek'd with wild amaze,
The men as inuch affrighted gaze;
But had the wife Tirefias come
Into the crowded room,
With deep prophetic joy
He'd heard the conquefts of the godlike boy,
And fung in facred rage,
What ravenous men, and beafts engage:
Hence he'd propitious omens take
And from the triumphs of his infancy
Portend his future victory
O'er the foul ferpent welt'ring wide ir Lerna's dreadful lake.
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Alcides Pindar, Pindar Cowley fings,
And while they ftrike the vocal strings,
To either both new honour brings.
But who fhall now the mighty task sustain?
And now our Hercules is there,
What Atlas can Olympus bear?
What mortal undergo th' unequal pain?,
But 't is a glorious fate
To fall with fuch a weight,
Tho' with unhallowed fingers, I
Will touch the ark, although I die.
Forgive me, O thou fhining Shade!
Forgive a fault which Love has made.
Thus I my faucy kindness mourn,
Which yet I can't repent,
And taught thee all their charms:
As if Apollo's felf had been thy fire,
They daily rock'd thee on his lyre:
Hence feeds of numbers in thy foul were fix'd,
Deep as the very reason there,
No force from thence could numbers tear,
Even with thy being mix'd:
And there they lurk'd, till Spenfer's facred flame Leap'd up and kindled thine,
Thy thoughts as regular and fine,
Thy foul the fame,
Like his to honour, and to love inclin'd,
As foft thy foul, as great thy mind.
Whatever Cowley writes must please;
Sure, like the gods, he speaks all languages.
Whatever theme by Cowley's mufe is drefs'd,
Whatever he'll effay,
Or in the fofter or the nobler way,
He ftill writes beft,
If he ever ftretch his ftrings
To mighty numbers, mighty things:
So did Virgil's heroes fight;
Such glories wore, tho' not fo bright.
If he'll paint his noble fire,
Ah! what thoughts his fongs infpire!
Vigorous love and gay defire.
Who would not, Cowley! ruin'd be ?
Who would not love that reads, that thinks of
Whether thou in th' old Roman doft delight,
Or English, full as ftrong, to write,
Thy mailer-strokes in both are shewn,
Cowley in both excels alone,
Virgil of theirs, and Waller of our own.
But why should the soft sex be robb'd of thee! Why fhould not England know
How much she does to Cowley owe?
How much fair Bofcobel's for-ever-facred tree?
The hills, the groves, the plains, the woods,
The fields, the meadows, and the floods,
The flow'ry world, where gods and poets use
To court a mortal or a mufe?
It shall be done. But who, ah! who shall dare
So vaft a toil to undergo,
And all the worlds just cenfure bear,
Thy ftrength and their own weakness shew?
Soft Afra, who had led our fhepherds long,
Who long the nymphs and fwains did guide,
Our envy, her own fex's pride,
When all her force on this great theme she'd try'd,
She strain'd a while to reach th' inimitable fong,
She strain'd a while and wifely dy'd.
Those who survive unhappier be,
Yet thus, great God of Poefy!
With joy they facrifice their fame to thee.
On the death of Mr. Abraham Corley, and his burial in Weflminfer-Abbey.
Our wit, till Cowley did its luftre raise,
May be refembled to the first three days,
In which did fhine only fuch ftreaks of light
As ferv'd but to diftinguifh day from night;
But wit breaks forth in all that he has done,
Like light when 't was united in the fun.
The poets formerly did lie in wait
To rifle those whom they would imitate :
We watch'd to rob all ftrangers when they writ,
And learn'd their language but to steal their wit:
He from that need his country does redeem,
Since those who want may be fupply'd from him;
And foreign nations now may borrow more
From Cowley, than we could from them before:
Who, though he condefcended to admit,
The Greeks and Romans for his guides in wit,
Yet he those ancient poets does pursue
But as the Spaniards great Columbus do:
He taught them first to the New World to steer,
But they poffefs all that is precious there.
When firft his fpring of wit began to flow, It raif'd in fome wonder and forrow too, That God had fo much wit and knowledge lent, And that they were not in his praises spent. But those who in his Davideis look, Find they his bloffoms for his fruit mistook: In diff'ring ages diff'rent Mufes fhin'd, His green did charm the fenfes, his ripe the mind. Writing for Heav'n, he was infpir'd from thence, And from his theme deriv'd his influence. The fcripture will no more the wicked fright; His Mufe does make religion a delight.
O how feverely man is uf'd by Fate! The covetous toil long for an eftate, And having got more than their life can spend, They may bequeath it to a fon or friend; But learning (in which none can have a share, Unless they climb to it by time and care; Learning the trueft wealth which man can have) Does, with his body, perith in his grave: To tenements of clay it is confin'd,
Though 't is the nobleft purchase of the mind: O why can we thus leave our friends poffefs'd Of all our acquifitions but the best?
Still when we study Cowley, we lament That to the world he was no longer lent, Who like a lightning to our eyes was fhewn, So bright he fhin'd, and was fo quickly gone. Sure he rejoic'd to fee his flame expire, Since he himself could not have raif'd it higher; For when wife pocts can no higher fly, They would, like faints, in their perfection die. Though Beauty fome affection in him bred, Yet only facred Learning he would wed, By which th' illuftrious offspring of his brain Shall over Wit's great empire ever reign: His Works fhall live when pyramids of pride Shrink to fuch afhes as they long did hide.
That facrilegious fire (which did last year Level thofe piles which Piety did rear) Dreaded near that majestic church to fly, Where English kings and English poets lie; It at an awful diftance did expire; Such power had facred afhes o'er that fire; Such, as it durft not near that ftructure come, Which Fate had order'd to be Cowley's tomb; And 't will be ftill preferv'd by being fo, From what the rage of future flames can do. Material fire dares not that place infest Where he who had immortal flame does rest. There let his urn remain, for it was fit Among our kings to lay the King of Wit; By which the ftructure more renown'd will prove For that part bury'd, than for all above.
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At laft another Pindar came,
Great as the first in genius and in fame;
But that the first in Greek, a conqu'ring language,
fung,
And the laft wrote but in an island tongue.
Wit, thought, invention, in them both do flow,
As torrents tumbling from the mountains go.
Though the great Roman lyrick do maintain
That none can equal Pindar's strain.
Cowley with words as full and thoughts as high
As ever Pindar did, does fly;
Of kings and heroes he as boldly fings,
And flies above the clouds, yet never wets his
wings.
As fwift as lightning in its course,
And as refiftlefs in his force.
Whilft other poets, like bees who range the field
To gather what the flow'rs will yield,
Glean matter with much toil and pain,
To bring forth verfes in an humble ftrain,
He fees about him round,
Poffefs'd at once of all that can be found:
To his illuminated eye
All things created open lie;
Next (like Aurora) Spenfer rofe,
Whofe purple blush the day forefhews;
The other three, with his own fires,
Phœbus, the poets' god, infpires;
By Shakespeare, Johnson, Fletcher's lines,
Our ftage's luftre Rome's outfhines:
These poets near our princes fleep,
And in one grave their mansion keep;
They liv'd to fee so many days,
Till time had blasted all their bays:
That all his thoughts fo clear and fo perfpicuous be, But curfed be the fatal hour
That whatfoever he defcribes we fee;
Our fouls are with his paffions fir'd,
And he who does but read him is infpir'd.
Pindar to Thebes, where first he drew his breath,
Though for his fake his race was fav'd from death
By th' Macedonian youth, did not more honour do
Than Cowley dous his friends and country too.
Had Horace liv'd his wit to understand,
He ne'er had England thought a rude inhospitable
land;
Rome might have blush'd and Athens been
To hear a remote Britain nam'd, [afham'd,
Who for his parts does match, if not exceed,
The greatest men that they did either breed.
If he had flourish'd, when Auguftus fway'd,
Whofe peaceful fceptre the whole world obcy'd,
Account of him Meca nas would have made,
And from the country fhade
Him into the cabinet have ta'en
To divert Cæfar's cares and charm his pain:
For nothing can fuch balm infufe
Into a wearied mind, as does a noble Mufe.
It is not now as 't was in former days,
. When all the streets of Rome were ftrow'd
bays,
To receive Petrarch, who through arches rode,
Triumphal arches! honour'd as a demigod,
Not for towns conquer'd, or for battles won,
But vict'ries which were more his own;
For victories of Wit, and victories of Art,
In which blind undifcerning Fortune had no part.
Though Cowley ne'er fuch honours did attain,
As long as Petrarch's Cowley's name fhall reign:
"Tis but his drofs that's in the grave,
His mem'ry Fame from death fhall fave;
His bays fhall flourish and be ever green,
When thofe of conq'rors are not to be feen.
Nec tibi moris pfa fuperftes erit.
On Mr. Abraham Corley's death and burial among
the ancient pocts. By the bonourable Sir John Den-
ham,
OLD Chaucer, like the morning far
To us difcovers day from far;
His light thofe mifts and clouds diffolv'd,
Which our dark nation long inv olv'd;
But he defcending to the shades,
Dark nefs again the age invades
That pluck'd the faireft, fweetest, flow'r,
That in the Mufes' garden grew,
And amongst wither'd laurels threw.
Time, which made their fame outlive,
To Cowley fcarce did ripeness give;
Old mother Wit and Nature gave
Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have;
In Spenfer and in Johnson, Art
Of flower Nature got the start;
But both in him fo equal are,
None knows which bears the happiest share.
To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own;
He melted not the ancient gold,
Nor, with Ben. Johnfon, did make bold
To plunder all the Roman ftores
Of poets and of orators;
Horace's wit and Virgil's state
He did not fleal, but emulate,
And when he would like them appear,
Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear:
He not from Rome alone, but Greece,
Like Jafon, brought the Golden Fleece:
To him that language (though to none
Of th' others) as his own was known.
on a ftiff gale (as Flaccus fings)
The Theban fwan extends his wings,
When through th' ethereal clouds he flies:
To the fame pitch our swan doth rife;
Old Pindar's flights by him are reach'd,
When on that gale his wings are stretch'd;
His fancy and his judgment fuch,
Each to the other feem'd too much,
His fevere judgment (giving law)
His modeft fancy kept in awe;
As rigid husbands jealous are,
When they believe their wives too fair.
His English ftream fo pure did flow,
As all that faw and tafted know;
But for his Latin vein, fo clear,
Strong, full, and high, it doth appear,
That were immortal Virgil here,
Him for his judge he would not fear :
Of that great portraiture, so true
A copy pencil never drew.
My Mufe her fong had ended here,
But both her Genii ftraight appear;
Joy and amazement her did itrike,
Two twins fhe never faw fo like;
Such a refemblance of all parts,
Life, death, age, fortune, nature, arts,
Then lights her torch at theirs, to tell,
And fhew the world this parallel :
Fix'd and contemplative their looks
Still turning over Nature's books,
Their works chafte, moral, and divine,
Where profit and delight combine;
They gilding dirt, in noble verse
Ruftic philofophy rehearse :
Nor did their actions fall behind
Their words, but with like candour shin'd:
Both by two gen'rous princes lov'd,
Who knew, and judg'd what they approv'd;
Yet having each the fame defire,
Both from the bufy throng retire :
Their bodies to their minds refign'd,
Car'd not to propagate their kind :
Yet though both fell before their hour,
Time on their offspring hath no pow'r :
Nor fire nor fate their bays fhall blast,
Nor death's dark veil their day o'ercast.
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Ah mihi fi veftræ reddat bona gaudia fedis,
Detque Deus docta poffe quiete frui;
Qualis eram cum me tranquilla mente fedentem,
Vidifti in ripa, came ferene, tua;
Mulcentum audifti puerile flumina cantu;
Ille quidem immerito, fed tibi gratus erat.
Nam, memini ripa cum tu dignatus utraque
Dignatum eft totum verba referre nemus.
Tunc liquidis tacitifque fimul mea vita diebus,
Et fimilis veftræ candida fluxit aquæ.
At nunc canofe luces, atque obice multo
Elegia dedicatoria, ad illuftrissimam academiam Canta-Rumpitur ætatis turbidus ordo mex.
Hoc tibi de nato ditiffima Mater egeno
Exiguum immenfi pignus Amoris habe.
Heu meliora tibi depromere dona volentes
Aftringit gatas parcior arca manus,
Túne tui poteris vocem hîc agnofcere Nati
Tam malè formatam, diffimilemq. tuæ ?
Túne hic materni veftigia facra decoris,
Tu Speculum poteris hic reperire tuum?
Poft longum, dices, Cowlei, fic mihi tempus?
Sic mihi feperanti, perfide, multa redis?
Qu, dices, Sage Lemurefq. Dexq. nocentes
Hunc mihi in infantis fuppofuêre
At Tu, fancta Parens, crudelis tu queque Nati
Ne tractes dextrâ vulnera cruda rudi.
Hei mihi quid Fato Genetrix accecis iniquo?
Sit fors, fed non fis Ipfa Noverca mihi.
Si mihi natali Mufarum adolefcere in arvo,
Si benè dilecto luxuriare folo,
Si mihi de doctâ licuiffet pleniùs undâ
Haurire, ingentem fi fatiare fitim,
Non ego degeneri dubitabilis ore redirem,
Nec legeres Nomen fufa rubore meum
Scis benè, fcis que me Tempeftas publica Mundi
Raptatrix veftro fuftulit è gremio,
Nec pede adhuc firmo, nec firmo dente, negati
Pofcentem querulo murmure Lactis opem.
Sic quondam erium Vento bellante per æquor,
Cum gravidum Autumnum f.eva flagellat Hyems,
Immatura fuâ velluntur ab arbore poma,
Et vi victa cadunt; Arbor et ipfa gemit.
Nondum fuccus ineft terræ generofus avitæ,
Nondum Sol rofeo redditur ore Pater.
O mihi jucundum Granta fuper omnia Nomen!
O penitùs toto corde receptus Amor!
O pulchra fine Luxu des, vitaq. beatæ,
Splendida Paupertas, ingenuúfq. decor!
Quid mihi Sequana opus, Tamefifve aut Tybridis
Tu potis es noftrum tollere, Came, fitim.
Felix cui nunquam plus uno viderit aine!
Quidque eadem Salicis littora more colit!
Fælix cui non tentatus fordefcere Mundus,
Et cui Pauperies nota nitere poteft!
Tempore cui nullo mifera experientia conftat,
Ut res humanas fentiat effe Nihil!
At nos exemplis Fortuna inftruxit opimis,
Et documentorum fatque fuperque dedit.
Cum capite avulfum Diadema, infractáque Sceptra
Contufafque Hominum Sorte minante minas,
Parcarum ludos, et non tractabile Fatum,
Et verfas fundo vidimus orbis opes.
Quis poterit fragilem poft talia credere puppim
Infami fcopulis naufragiifque Mari?
Tu quoque in hoc Terræ tremuifti, Academia,
Motu,
(Nec fruftrâ) atque edes contremuêre tuæ.
Contremuêre ipfe pacate Palladis arces;
Et timuit Fulmen Laurea fancta novum.
Ah quanquam iratum, peftem hanc avertere Nu-
Nec faltem Bellis ifta licere, velit!
Nos, tua progenies, percamus; et ecce, perimus!
In nos jus habeat: jus habet omne malum.
Tu ftabilis brevium genus immortale nepotum
Fundes; nec tibi Mars ipfa fuperftis erit.
Semper plena manens uteri de fonte perenni
Formofas mittes ad mare Mortis aquas.
Sic Venus humana quondam, Dea faucia dextra,
(Namque folent ipfis bella nocere Deis)
Imploravit opem fuperbûm, queftufve cievit,
Tinxit adorandus candida membra cruor.
Quid quereris? contemne breves fecura dolores;
Nam tibi ferre Necem vulnera nulla valent.
Philetus he was call'd, fprung from a race Of noble ancestors; but greedy Time
Wax'd pale with envy, and from thence grew And envious Fate had labour'd to deface
She was in birth and parentage as high
As in her fortune great or beauty rare,
And to her virtuous mind's nobility
The gifts of Fate and Nature doubled were;
That in her spotlefs foul and lovely face
You might have seen each deity and grace.
The glory which in his great stock did shine : Small his eftate, unfitting her degree:
But blinded love could not fuch diff'rence fee.
Yet he by chance had hit this heart aright
And dipt his arrow in Conflantia's eyes,
Blowing a fire that would destroy him quite
Unless fuch flames within her heart fhould rife:
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