Thus I complain'd, and strait the Muse reply'd,
That she had given me fame.
Bounty immense! 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 whilst 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 Mnse! to thee we owe.
Then in rage I took,

And out at window threw,

Ovid and Horace, all the chiming crew;

Homer himself went with them too;
Hardly escap'd the sacred' Mantuan book:
I my own offspring, like Agave, tore,
And I resolv'd, nay, and I think I swore,
That I no more the ground would till and sow,
Where only flowery weeds instead of corn did grow.
When (see the subtile ways which Fate does find
Rebellious man to bind !

Just to the work for which he is assign'd)
The Muse came in more chearful than before,
And bade me quarrel with her now no more:
"Lo! thy reward! !ook, here and see
What I have made" (said she)
"My lover and belov'd, my Broghill, do for thee!
Though thy own verse no lasting fame can give,
Thou shalt at least in his for ever live.
What critics, the great Hectors now in wit,
Who rant and challenge all men that have writ,
Will dare t' oppose thee, when

Broghill in thy defence has drawn his conquering pen?"

I rose and bow'd my head,

And pardon ask'd for all that I had said:

Well satisfy'd and proud,

I strait resolv'd, and solemnly I vow'd,
That from her service now I ne'er would part;
So strongly large rewards work on a grateful heart!
Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise
As praises from the men whom all men praise:
'Tis the best cordial, and which only those
Who have at home th' ingredients can compose;
A cordial that restores our fainting breath,
And keeps up life e'en after death!

The only danger is, lest it should be

Too strong a remedy;

Lest, in removing cold, it should beget
Too violent a heat;

And into madness turn the lethargy.

Ah! gracious God! that I might see
A time when it were dangerous for me
To be o'er-heat with praise!

But I within me bear, alas! too great allays.
'Tis said, Apelles, when he Venus drew,
Did naked women for his pattern view,
And with his powerful fancy did refine
Their human shapes into a form divine:
None who had sat could her own picture see,
Or say, 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 sit,
Not as a cause, but an occasion, to his wit;
Yet what have I to boast, or to apply
To my advantage out of it; since I

ODE.

MR. COWLEY'S BOOK PRESENTING ITSELF TO THE
UNIVERSITY LIBRARY OF OXFORD.

HAIL, Learning's Pantheon! Hail, the sacred ark
Where all the world of science does embark!
Which ever shall withstand, and hast so long with-
stood,

Insatiate Time's devouring flood.

Hail, tree of knowledge! thy leaves fruit! which well

Dost in the midst of Paradise arise,

Oxford! the Muse's Paradise,

From which may never sword the bless'd expel!
Hail, bank of all past ages! where they lie
T' enrich with interest posterity!

Hail, Wit's illustrious galaxy!

Where thousand lights into one brightness spread; Hail, living University of the dead!

Unconfus'd Babel of all tongues! which e'er
The mighty linguist, Fame, or Time, the mighty
traveller,

That could speak, or this could hear.
Majestic monument and pyramid !
Where still the shades of parted souls abide
Embalm'd in verse; exalted souls which now
Enjoy those arts they woo'd so well below;
Which now all wonders plainly see,
That have been, are, or are to be,
In the mysterious library,
The beatific Bodley of the Deity;
Will you into your sacred throng admit
The meanest British wit?

You, general-council of the priests of Fame,
Will you not murmur and disdain,
That I a place among you claim,
The humblest deacon of her train?
Will you allow me th' honourable chain?
The chain of ornament, which here
Your noble prisoners proudly wear;

A chain which will more pleasant seem to me
Than all my own Pindaric liberty!

Will ye to bind me with those mighty names submit,
Like an Apocrypha with Holy Writ?
Whatever happy book is chained here,
No other place or people need to fear;
His chain's a passport to go every where.
As when a seat in Heaven

Is to an unmalicious sinner given,

Who, casting round his wondering eye,
Does none but patriarchs and apostles there espy;
Martyrs who did their lives bestow,
And saints, who martyrs liv'd below;
With trembling and amazement he begins
To recollect his frailties past and sins;
He doubts almost his station there;
His soul says to itself, "How came I here?"
It fares no otherwise with me,
When I myself with conscious wonder see
Amidst 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.

Yet for his pains he soon did him remove,
From all th' oppression and the woe
Of his frail body's native soil below,
To his soul's true and peaceful country above:
So godlike kings, for secret causes, known
Sometimes, but to themselves alone,
One of their ablest ministers elect,

And sent abroad to treaties, which they' intend
Shall never take effect;

But, though the treaty wants a happy end,
The happy agent wants not the reward,
For which he labour'd faithfully and hard;
His just and righteous master calls him home
And gives him, near himself, some honourable room.

Noble and great endeavours did he bring To save his country, and restore his king; And, whilst the manly half of him (which those Who know not love, to be the whole suppose) Perform'd all parts of Virtue's vigorous life; The beauteous half, his lovely wife, Did all his labours and his cares divide; Nor was a lame nor paralytic side: In all the turns of human state, And all th' unjust attacks of Fate, She bore her share and portion still, And would not suffer any to be ill. Unfortunate for ever let me be,

If I believe that such was he
Whom in the storms of bad success,
And all that errour calls unhappiness,
His virtue and his virtuous wife did still accompany;

With these companions 'twas not strange
That nothing could his temper change.
His own and country's union had not weight
Enough to crush his mighty mind:
He saw around the hurricanes of state,
Fixt as an island 'gainst the waves and wind.
Thus far the greedy sea may reach;
All outward things are but the beach;
A great man's soul it doth assault in vain!
Their God himself the ocean doth restrain
With an imperceptible chain,

And bid it to go back again.
His wisdom, justice, and his piety,
His courage both to suffer and to die,
His virtues, and his lady too,
Were things celestial. And we see,
In spite of quarrelling Philosophy,

How in this case 'tis certain found,

That Heaven stands still, and only Earth goes round,

ODE.

UPON DR. HARVEY.

Coy Nature (which remain'd, though aged grown,
A beauteous virgin still, enjoy'd by none,
Nor seen unveil'd by any one)

When Harvey's violent passion she did see,
Began to tremble and to flee;

Took sanctuary, like Daphne, in a tree :

His passage after her withstood.
What should she do? through all the moving wood
Of lives endow'd with sense she took her flight:
Harvey pursues, and keeps her still in sight.
But as the deer, long-hunted, takes a flood,
She leap'd at last into the winding streams of
blood;

Of man's meander all the purple reaches made,
Till at the heart she stay'd;

Where turning head, and at a bay,

Thus by well-purged ears was she o'erheard to say;

"Here sure shall I be safe" (said she)
"None will be able sure to see

This my retreat, but only he
Who made both it and me.

The heart of man what art can e'er reveal?
A wall impervious between

Divides the very parts within,

And doth theheart of man ev'n from itself conceal."
She spoke: but, ere she was aware,
Harvey was with her there;

And held this slippery Proteus in a chain,
Till all her mighty mysteries he descry'd;
Which from his wit th' attempt before to hide
Was the first thing that Nature did in vain.

He the young practice of new life did see,
Whilst, to conceal its toilsome poverty,
It for a living wrought, both hard and privately.
Before the liver understood

The noble scarlet dye of blood;
Before one drop was by it made,
Or brought into it, to set up the trade;
Before the untaught heart began to beat
The tuneful march to vital heat;
From all the souls that living buildings rear,
Whether employ'd for earth, or sea, or air;
Whether it in womb or egg be wrought;
A strict account to him is hourly brought
How the great fabric does proceed,
What time, and what materials, it does need;
He so exactly does the work survey,
As if he hir'd the workers by the day.

Thus Harvey sought for truth in Truth's own book, The creatures-which by God himself was writ: And wisely thought 'twas fit,

Not to read comments only upon it,

But on th' original itself to look.

Methinks in Art's great circle others stand
Lock'd-up together, hand in hand;
Every one leads as he is led;
The same bare path they tread,

And dance, like fairies, a fantastic round,

But neither change their motion nor their ground:

Had Harvey to this road confin'd his wit,

His noble circle of the blood had been untrodden

yet.

Great Doctor! th' art of curing's cur'd by thee;
We now thy patient, Physic, see
From all inveterate diseases free,

Purg'd of old errours by thy care,

want,

It now will strong and healthful prove; Itself before lethargic lay, and could not move!

These useful secrets to his pen we ore!
And thousands more 'twas ready to bestow;
Of which a barbarous war's unlearned rage

Has robb'd the ruin'd age:

O cruel loss! as if the golden fleece,

With so much cost and labour bought, And from afar by a great hero brought,

Had sunk ev'n in the ports of Greece. O cursed War! who can forgive thee this? Houses and towns may rise again; And ten times easier 'tis

To rebuild Paul's, than any work of his: That mighty task none but himself can do, Nay, scarce himself too, now;

For, though his wit the force of age withstand, His body, alas! and time, it must command; And Nature now, so long by him surpass'd, Will sure have her revenge on him at last.

ODE, FROM CATULLUS.

ACME AND SEPTIMIUS.

W
HILST on Septimius' panting breast
(Meaning nothing less than rest)
Acme lean'd her loving head,
Thus the pleas'd Septimius said:
"My dearest Acme, if I be
Once alive, and love not thee
With a passion far above
All that e'er was called love;
In a Libyan desert may
I become some lion's prey;
Let him, Acme, let him tear

My breast, when Acme is not there."
The god of love, who stood to hear him
(The god of love was always near him)
Pleas'd and tickled with the sound,
Sneez'd aloud; and all around
The little Loves, that waited by,
Bow'd, and blest the augury.
Acme, enflan'd with what he said,
Rear'd her gently-bending head;
And, her purple mouth with joy
Stretching to the delicious boy,
Twice (and twice could scarce suffice)
She kist his drunken rolling eyes.

"My little life, my all!" (said she)
So may we ever servants be

To this best god, and ne'er retain
Our hated liberty again!

So may thy passion last for me,
As I a passion have for thee,

Greater and fiercer much than can
Be conceiv'd by thee a man!
Into my marrow is it gone,
Fixt and settled in the bone;
It reigns not only in my heart,

But runs, like life, through every part."
She spoke; the god of love aloud
Sneez'd again; and all the crowd
Of little Loves, that waited by,
Bow'd, and blest the augury.
This good omen thus from Heaven
Like a happy signal given,

Their loves and lives (all four) embrace,
And hand in hand run all the race.
To poor Septimius (who did now
Nothing else but Acme grow)
Acme's bosom was alone

The whole world's imperial thrones

And to faithful Acme's mind
Septimius was all human-kind.
If the gods would please to be
But advis'd for once by me,
I'd advise them, when they spy
Any illustrious piety,

To reward her, if it be she-
To reward him, if it be he-
With such a husband, such a wife;
With Acme's and Septimius' life.

ODE

Virg.

UPON HIS MAJESTY'S RESTORATION AND RETURN.
-Quod optanti divûm promittere nemo
Auderet, volvenda, dies, en, attulit ultro.
Now blessings on you all, ye peaceful stars,
Which meet at last so kindly, and dispense
Your universal gentle influence

To calm the stormy world, and still the rage of wars!
Nor, whilst around the continent
Plenipotentiary beams ye sent,

Did your pacific lights disdain
In their large treaty to contain

The world apart, o'er which do reign

Your seven fair brethren of great Charles his wain; No star amongst ye all did, I believe,

Such vigorous assistance give, As that which, thirty years ago, At Charles's birth 3, did, in despite Of the proud Sun's meridian light, His future glories and this year foreshow. No less effects than these we may Be assur'd of from that powerful ray, Which could out-face the Sun, and overcome the day,

Auspicious star! again arise,

And take thy noon-tide station in the skies,
Again all heaven prodigiously adorn;
For lo! thy Charles again is born.
He then was born with and to pain;
With and to joy he's born again.
And, wisely for this second birth,
By which thou certain were to bless

The land with full and flourishing happiness,

Thou mad'st of that fair month thy choice, In which heaven, air, and sea, and earth, And all that's in them, all, does smile and does rejoice.

'Twas a right season; and the very ground Ought with a face of Paradise to be found,

Then, when we were to entertain

Felicity and Innocence again.

Shall we again (good Heaven!) that blessed pair be

hold,

Which the abused people fondly sold
For the bright fruit of the forbidden tree,

By seeking all like gods to be?
Will Peace her halcyon nest venture to build
Upon a shore with shipwrecks fill'd,
And trust that sea, where she can hardly say
She has known these twenty years one calmy day?

The star that appeared at noon, the day of the king's birth, just as the king his father was riding to St. Paul's to give thanks to God for that blessing.

Ah! mild and gall-less dove,
Which dost the pure and candid dwellings love,
Canst thou in Albion still delight?
Still canst thou think it white?
Will ever fair Religion appear
In these deform'd ruins? will she clear
Th' Augean stables of her churches here?
Will Justice hazard to be seen

Where a high court of justice e'er has been?
Will not the tragic scene,

And Bradshaw's bloody ghost, affright her there,
Her, who shall never fear?

Then may Whitehall for Charles's seat be fit,
If Justice shall endure at Westminster to sit.
Of all, methinks, we least should see
The chearful looks again of Liberty..
That name of Cromwell, which does freshly still
The curses of so many sufferers fill,

Is still enough to make her stay,
And jealous for a while remain,
Lest, as a tempest carried him away,
Some hurricane should bring him back again.
Or, she might justlier be afraid

Lest that great serpent, which was all a tail,
(And in his poisonous folds whole nations pri-
soners made)

Should a third time perhaps prevail
To join again, and with worse sting arise,
As it had done when cut in pieces twice.

Return, return, ye sacred Four!
And dread your perish'd enemies no more.

Your fears are causeless all, and vain,
Whilst you return in Charles's train;
For God does him, that he might you, restore,
Nor shall the world him only call
Defender of the Faith, but of you all.
Along with you plenty and riches go,
With a full tide to every port they flow,

With a warm fruitful wind o'er all the country blow.

Honour does, as ye march, her trumpet sound,
The Arts encompass you around,
And, against all alarms of Fear,
Safety itself brings up the rear.
And, in the head of this angelic band,
Lo! how the goodly prince at last does stand
(O righteous God!) on his own happy land:
'Tis happy now, which could with so much ease
Recover from so desperate a disease;

A various complicated ill,
Whose every symptom was enough to kill;
In which one part of three frenzy possest,
And lethargy the rest:

'Tis happy, which no bleeding does endure,
A surfeit of such blood to cure:
"Tis happy, which beholds the flame
In which by hostile hands it ought to burn,

Or that which, if from Heaven it came, It did but well deserve, all into bonfire turn. We fear'd (and almost touch'd the black degree Of instant expectation)

That the three dreadful angels we,

Of famine, sword, and plague, should here establish'd see,

(God's great triumvirate of desolation!)
To scourge and to destroy the sinful nation.
Justly might Heaven Protectors such as those,
And such committees, for their safety, impose
Upon a land which scarcely better chose,

We fear'd, that the fanatic war, Which men against God's houses did declare, Would from the Almighty enemy bring down A sure destruction on our own.

We read th' instructive histories which tell Of all those endless mischiefs that befel The sacred town which God had lov'd so well, After that fatal curse had once been said, "His blood be upon ours and on our children's head."'

We know, though there a greater blood was spilt, "Twas scarcely done with greater guilt.

We know those miseries did befal
Whilst they rebell'd against that prince, whom all
The rest of mankind did the love and joy of man-
kind call.

Already was the shaken nation

Into a wild and deform'd chaos brought,

And it was hasting on (we thought) Even to the last of ills-annihilation: When, in the midst of this confused night, Lo! the blest Spirit mov'd, “and there was light;" For, in the glorious general's previous ray,

We saw a new created day:

We by it saw, though yet in mists it shone,
The beauteous work of Order moving on.
Where are the men who bragg'd that God did bless,
And with the marks of good success

Sign his allowance of their wickedness?
Vain men! who thought the Divine Power to find
In the fierce thunder and the violent wind:
God came not till the storm was past;
In the still voice of Peace he came at last!
The cruel business of destruction

May by the claws of the great fiend be done;
Here, here we see th' Almighty's hand indeed,
Both by the beauty of the work we see't, and by
the speed.

He who had seen the noble British heir,
Even in that ill disadvantageous light
With which misfortune strives t' abuse our sight-
He who had seen him in his cloud so bright—
He who had seen the double pair
Of brothers, heavenly good! and sisters, hea
venly fair!-

Might have perceiv'd, methinks, with ease, (But wicked men see only what they please) That God had no intent t'extinguish quite

The pious king's eclipsed right.

He who had seen how by the Power Divine
All the young branches of this royal line
Did in their fire, without consuming, shine-
How through a rough Red-sea they had been led,
By wonders guarded, and by wonders fed-
How many years of trouble and distress
They 'ad wander'd in their fatal wilderness,
And yet did never murmur or repine;→

Might, methinks, plainly understand,
That, after all these conquer'd trials past,
Th' Almighty mercy would at last
Conduct them, with a stong unerring hand,
To their own promis'd land:
For all the glories of the Earth
Qught to b' entail'd by right of birth;
And all Heaven's blessings to come down
Upon his race, to whom alone was given
The double royalty of Earth and Heaven;
Who crown'd the kingly with the martyr's

crown.