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HEAV’NS youngest son, its Benjamin,
Divinity's next brother, sacred Poesie,
No longer shall a virgin reckoned be
(What ere with others 'tis) by me,
A female muse, as were the nine;
But (full of vigour masculine)
An essence inale, with angels his companions shine.
With angels first the heavenly youth was bred,
And, when a child, instructed them to sing
The praises of th’ Immortal King
Who Lucifer in triumph led :
For, as in chains the monster sank tó hell,
And tumbling headlong down the precipice fell,
By him first taught, “How art thou fallen thou morning
star?” they said,
Too fondly then, we have fancy'd him a maid:.
We, the vain brethren of the rhyming trade;
A female angel less would Urbin's * skill upbraid.
Thus 'twas in heaven: this, Poesy's sex and age;
And, when he thence t'our lower world came down,
He chose a form more like his own,
And Jeffe’s youngest son inspir'd with holy rage,
The sprightly shepherd felt unusual fire,
And up he took his tuneful lyre;
He took it up, and struck't, and his own soft touches did admire.
Thou, Poesy, on him didft bestow
Thy choicest gift, a honour shew'd before to none;
And, to prepare his way to th' Hebrew throne,
Gav'st him thy empire and dominion;
The happy land of verse, where flow
Rivers of milk, and woods of laurel grow;
Wherewith thou didst adorn his brow,
And mad'st his first, more flourishing, and triumphant crown.
Allist me thy great prophet's praise to sing,
David, the poet's, and bless'd Israel's king;
And with the dancing echo, let the mountains ring!
Then on the wings of some auspicious wind,
Let his great name from earth be rais'd on high,
And in the starry volume of the sky,
A lasting record find:
Be with his mighty psaltery join'd;
Which, taken long since up into the air,
And call’d the harp, makes a bright constellation there.
Worthy it was to be translated hence,
And there, in view of all, exalted hang:
To which so oft the princely prophet sang,
And mystic oracles did dispense.
Though had it still remain’d below,
More wonders of it we had seen,
How great the mighty Herbert's skill had been;
Herbert, who could so much without it do ;
Herbert, who did its chords distinctly know;
More perfeály than any child of verse below.
O! had we known him half so well!
But then, my friend, there had been left for you
Nothing so fair, and worthy praise to do;
Who, fo exactly all his story tell,
That though he did not want his bays,
Nor all the monuments virtue can raise,
Your hand he did, to eternize his praise.
Herbert and Donne again are join'd,
Now here below, as thcy're above;
These friends are in their old embraces twin'd;
And since by you the interview's design'd,
Too weak to part them death does prove;
For in this book they meet again, as in one heav'n they love.
SAM. WOODFORDE, D. D.
O Quàm erubesco cum tuam vitam lego,
Herberte Sancte, quamq; me pudet mex!
Ego talpa cæcus hic humi fodiens miser,
Aquila volatu tu petens nubes tuo,
Ego Choicum vas terreas fæces olens,
Tu (fola namq; Urania tibi ex musis placet)
Nil tale spiras; sed sapis cælum et Deum,
Omniq; vitæ, libri et omni, lineâ;
Templúmq; tecum ubiq; circumfers tuum:
Domi-porta coli, cui domus propria, optima:
Ubi Rex, ibi Roma, Imperii fedes; ubi
Tu sancte vates, templum ibi, et coelum, et Deus.
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