Thy spotted soul to flames. Yet I will give Its passport hence; for think not to outlive This hour, this fatal hour, ordain'd to see More than an age before of tragedy. Fearing tears should win The victory of anger, Ammurat draws His scymitar, which had in blood writ laws For conquer'd provinces, and with a swift And cruel rage, ere penitence could lift Her burthen'd soul in a repentant thought Tow'rds heaven, sheathes the cold steel in her soft And snowy breast with a loud groan she falls Upon the bloody floor, half breathless, calls For his untimely pity; but perceiving The fleeting spirits, with her blood, were leaving Her heart unguarded, she implores that breath Which yet remain'd, not to bewail her death, But beg his life that caused it-on her knees, Struggling to rise. But now calm'd Ammurat Our souls to sail together. From thy eyes Began to seize on him, and then she cries- [gave The wounds that murther'd both his hand that Do not extenuate my crimes, but let She cries, is our last interview-a kiss RICHARD LOVELACE. [Born, 1618. Died, 1658.] THIS gallant, unfortunate man, who was much distinguished for the beauty of his person, was the son of Sir William Lovelace, of Woolwich, in Kent. After taking a master's degree at Cambridge, he was for some time an officer in the army; but returned to his native country after the pacification of Berwick, and took possession of his paternal estate, worth about 5007. per annum. About the same time he was deputed by the county of Kent to deliver their petition to the House of Commons, for restoring the king to his rights, and settling the government. This petition gave such offence that he was committed to the Gate-house prison, and only released on finding bail to an enormous amount not to pass beyond the lines of communication. During his confinement to London his fortune was wasted in support of the royal cause. In 1646 he formed a regiment for the service of the French king, was colonel of it, and was wounded at Dunkirk. On this occasion his mistress, Lucasta, a Miss Lucy Sacheverel, married another, hearing that he had died of his wounds. At the end of two years he returned to England, and was again imprisoned till after the death of Charles I. He was then at liberty; but, according to Wood, was left in the most destitute circumstances, his estate being gone. He, who had been the favourite of courts, is represented as having lodged in the most obscure recesses of poverty*, and died in great misery in a lodging near Shoe-lane. * The compiler of the Biographia Dramatica remarks that Wood must have exaggerated Lovelace's poverty. for his daughter and sole heir married the son of Lord Chief Justice Coke, and brought to her husband the estates of her father at King's-down in Kent. SONG. TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. WHEN Love, with unconfined wings, To whisper at my grates; And fetter'd to her eye,- When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our hearts with loyal flames; When, like committed linnets, I Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; SONG. AMARANTHA, Sweet and fair, Let it fly as unconfined Every tress must be confess'd Do not then wind up that light But shake your head and scatter day. [* Charles I., in whose cause Lovelace was then in prison] A LOOSE SARABAND. АH me, the little tyrant thief, Proud of his purchase, he surveys, And now this heart is all his sport, Then as a top he sets it up, And pitifully whips it ; Sometimes he clothes it gay and fine, Then straight again he strips it. He cover'd it with false belief, Which gloriously show'd it; And for a morning cushionet On's mother he bestow'd it. Each day with her small brazen stings Then warm it 'gan to throb and bleed, She knew that smart and grieved; At length this poor condemned heart, With these rich drugs reprieved. She wash'd the wound with a fresh tear, Which my Lucasta dropped; And in the sleeve silk of her hair "Twas hard bound up and wrapped. She probed it with her constancy, Had wrought some proud flesh nigh it. Then press'd she hard in every vein, Which from her kisses thrilled, And with the balm heal'd all its pain That from her hand distilled. But yet this heart avoids me still, P THE INQUIRY. If we no old historian's name Authentic will admit, But think all said of friendship's fame But poetry or wit ; Yet what's revered by minds so pure But as our immortality By inward sense we find, Judging that if it could not be, It would not be design'd: So here how could such copies fall, But if truth be in ancient song, If the inspired and greater throng Have scorned to deceive; There have been hearts whose friendship gave Them thoughts at once both soft and grave. Among that consecrated crew Some more seraphic shade Lend me a favourable clew, Now mists my eyes invade. Why, having fill'd the world with fame, Left you so little of your flame? Why is't so difficult to see Two bodies and one mind? And why are those who else agree So difficultly kind? Hath nature such fantastic art, Why are the bands of friendship tied And by the most forgot? If friendship sympathy impart, Why this ill-shuffled game, That heart can never meet with heart, Is't the intrigue of love or fate? Had friendship ne'er been known to men, (The ghost at last confest) The world had then a stranger been To all that heaven possest. A FRIEND. LOVE, nature's plot, this great creation's soul, Friendship 's an abstract of this noble flame, As strong in passion is, though not so gross : It antedates a glad eternity, And is an heaven in epitome. |