The martyrs' blood was said, of old, to be
The seed from whence the church did
grow.
The royal blood which dying Charles did sow
Becomes no less the seed of royalty:
'Twas in dishonour sown ;
We find it now in glory grown, The grave could but the dross of it devour; "Twas sown in weakness, and 'tis rais'd in power."
We now the question well decided see,
Which eastern wits did once contest,
At the great monarch's feast,
"Of all on earth what things the strongest be?" And some for women, some for wine, did plead; That is, for folly and for rage,
Two things which we have known indeed
Strong in this latter age;
But, as 'tis prov'd by Heaven, at length,
The king and Truth have greatest strength,
When they their sacred force unite,
And twine into one right:
No frantic commonwealths or tyrannies;
No cheats, and perjuries, and lies;
No nets of human policies;
No stores of arms or gold (though you could join
Those of Peru to the great London mine);
No towns; no fleets by sea, or troops by land;
No deeply-entrench'd islands, can withstand,
Or any small resistance bring,
Against the naked Truth and the unarmed king.
The foolish lights which travellers beguile
End the same night when they begin ;
No art so far can upon Nature win
As e'er to put out stars, or long keep meteors in.
Where's now that ignus fatuus, which ere-while Misled our wandering isle?
Where's the impostor Cromwell gone? Where's now that falling-star, his son? Where's the large comet now, whose raging flame
So fatal to our monarchy became;
Which o'er our heads in such proud horrour stood,
Insatiate with our ruin and our blood?
The fiery tail did to vast length extend;
And twice for want of fuel did expire,
And twice renew'd the dismal fire:
Though long the tail, we saw at last its end.
The flames of one triumphant day.
Which, like an anti-comet here,
Did fatally to that appear,
For ever frighted it away:
Then did th' allotted hour of dawning right
First strike our ravish'd sight;
Which Malice or which Art no more could stay,
Than witches' charms can a retardment bring
To the resuscitation of the Day,
Or resurrection of the Spring.
We welcome both, and with improv'd delight
Bless the preceding Winter, and the Night!
Man ought his future happiness to fear,
If he be always happy here-
He wants the bleeding marks of grace,
The circumcision of the chosen race.
If no one part of him supplies
The duty of a sacrifice,
He is, we doubt, reserv'd entire
As a whole victim for the fire,
Besides, ev'n in this world below,
To those who never did ill-fortune know, The good does nauseous or insipid grow. Consider man's whole life, and you'll confess The sharp ingredient of some bad success Is that which gives the taste to all his happiness. But the true method of felicity
Of human life is plac'd the first,
And when the child's correction proves to be
The cause of perfecting the man:
Let our weak days lead up the van;
Let the brave second and Triarian band
Firm against all impression stand:
The first we may defeated see;
The virtue of the force of these are sure of victory.
Such are the years, great Charles! which now we'
Begin their glorious march with thee: Long may their march to Heaven, and still triumphant be!
Now thou art gotten once before,
Ill-fortune never shall o'er-take thee more.
To see 't again, and pleasure in it find,
Cast a disdainful look behind;
Things which offend when present, and affright,
In memory well-painted move delight.
Enjoy then all thy afflictions now—
Thy royal father's came at last;
Thy martyrdom's already past:
And different crowns to both ye owe.
No gold did e'er the kingly temples bind,
Than thine more try'd and more refin'd,
As a choice medal for Heaven's treasury,
The image of his suffering humanity:
God did stamp first upon one side of thee
On th' other side, turn'd now to sight, does shine
The glorious image of his power divine!
So, when the wisest poets seek
In all their liveliest colours to set forth
A picture of heroic worth,
(The pious Trojan or the prudent Greek)
They chuse some comely prince of heavenly
birth,
(No proud gigantic son of Earth,
Who strives t'usurp the gods' forbidden seat)
They feed him not with nectar, and the meat
That cannot without joy be ate;
But, in the cold of want, and storms of adverse chance,
They harden his young virtue by degrees:
The beauteous drop first into ice does freeze,
And into solid crystal next advance.
His murder'd friends and kindred he does see,
And from his flaming country flee:
Much is he tost at sea, and much at land;
Does long the force of angry gods withstand:
He does long troubles and long wars sustain,
Ere he his fatal birth-right gain.
With no less time or labour can
Destiny build up such a man,
Who's with sufficient virtue fill'd
His ruin'd country to rebuild.
Nor without cause are arms from Heaven,
To such a hero by the poets given
No human metal is of force t' oppose
So many and so violent blows.
Such was the helmet, breast-plate, shield | The starry worlds, which shine to us, afar,
Which Charles in all attacks did wield:
And all the weapons Malice e'er could try,
Of all the several makes of wicked Policy,
Against this armour struck, but at the stroke,
Like swords of ice, in thousand pieces broke.
To angels and their brethren spirits above,
No show on Earth can sure so pleasant prove,
As when they great misfortunes see
With courage borne, and decency.
Take ours at this time for a star.
With wine all rooms, with wine the conduits, flow;
And we, the priests of a poetic rage,
Wonder that in this golden age
So were they borne when Worcester's dismal day
Did all the terrours of black Fate display!
So were they borne when no disguises' cloud
His inward royalty could shrowd;
And one of th' angels whom just God did send
To guard him in his noble flight
(A troop of angels did him then attend!)
Assur'd me, in a vision th' other night,
That he (and who could better judge than he?)
Did then more greatness in him see,
More lustre and more majesty,
Than all his coronation-pomp can show to human
eye.
Him and his royal brothers when I saw
New marks of honour and of glory
From their affronts and sufferings draw,
And look like heavenly saints e'en in their pur-
gatory;
Methought I saw the three Judean youths
(Three unhurt martyrs for the noblest truths!)
In the Chaldean furnace walk;
How cheerfully and unconcern'd they talk!'
No hair is sing'd, no smallest beauty blasted!
Like painted lamps they shine unwasted!
The greedy fire itself dares not be fed
With the blest oil of an anointed head.
The honourable flame
(Which rather light we ought to name)
Does like a glory compass them around,
And their whole body's crown'd.
What are those two bright creatures which we see
Walk with the royal three
In the same ordeal fire,
And mutual joys inspire?
Sure they the beauteous sisters are,
Who, whilst they seek to bear their share,
Will suffer no affliction to be there.
Less favour to those three of old was shown:
To solace with their company
The fiery trials of adversity!
Two angels join with these, the other had but
Come forth, come forth, ye men of God belov'd!
And let the power now of that flame,
Which against you so impotent became,
On all your enemies be prov'd.
Come, mighty Charles ! desire of nations! come;
Come, you triumph exile, home.
He's come, he's safe at shore; I hear the noise
Of a whole land which does at once rejoice,
I hear th' united people's sacred voice.
The sea which-circles us around,
Ne'er sent to land so loud a sound;
The mighty shout sends to the sea a gale,
And swells up every sail :
The bells and guns are scarcely heard at all;
The artificial joy's drown'd by the natural.
All England but one bonfire seems to be,
One Etna shooting flames into the sea:
The rivers too should not do so.
There is no Stoic, sure, who would not now
Ev'n some excess allow ;
And grant that one wild fit of cheerful folly
Should end our twenty years of dismal melan-
choly.
Where's now the royal mother, where,
To take her mighty share
In this so ravishing sight,
And, with the part she takes, to add to the delight?
Ah! why art thou not here,
Thou always best, and now the happiest queen!
To see our joy, and with new joy be seen;
God has a bright example made of thee,
To show that woman-kind may be
Above that sex which her superior seems,
In wisely managing the wide extremes
Of great affliction, great Felicity.
How well those different virtues thee become,
Daughter of triumphs, wife of martyrdom !
Thy princely mind with so much courage bore
Affliction, that it dares return no more;
With so much goodness us'd felicity,
That it cannot refrain from coming back to thee;
'Tis come, and seen to-day in all its bravery!
Who's that heroic person leads it on,
And gives it, like a glorious bride,
(Richly adorn'd with nuptial pride)
Into the hands now of thy son?
'Tis the good general, the man of praise.
Whom God at last, in gracious pity,
Did to th' enthralled nation raise,
Their great Zerubbabel to be;
To loose the bonds of long captivity,
And to rebuild their temple and their city!
For ever blest may he and his remain,
Who, with a vast, though less appearing, gain,
Preferr'd the solid great above the vain,
And to the world this princely truth has shown—
That more 'tis to restore, than to usurp a crown!
Thou worthiest person of the British story!
(Though 'tis not small the British glory)
Did I not know my humble verse must be
But ill-proportion'd to the height of thee,
Thou and the world should see
How much my Muse, the foe of flattery,
Does make true praise her labour and design;
An Iliad or an Æneid should be thine.
And ill should we deserve this happy day,
If no acknowledgments we pay
To you, great patriots of the two
Most truly other houses now,
Who have redeem'd from hatred and from shame
A parliament's once venerable name ;
And now the title of a house restore,
To that which was but slaughter house before,
If my advice, ye worthies! might be ta'en,
Within those reverend places,
Which now your living presence graces,
Your marble statues always should remain,
To keep alive your useful memory,
And to your successors th' example be
Of truth, religion, reason, loyalty:
For, though a firmly settled-peace
May shortly make your public labour cease,
The grateful nation will with joy consent,
That in this sense you should be said,
(Though yet the name sounds with some
dread)
To be the long, the endless, parliament.
ON THE QUEEN'S REPAIRING SOMERSET HOUSE.
On either side dwells Safety and Delight;
Wealth on the left, and Power upon the right.
T'assure yet my defence on either hand,
Like mighty forts, in equal distance stand
Two of the best and stateliest piles which e'er
Man's liberal piety of old did rear;
Where the two princes of th' apostles' band,
My neighbours and my guards, watch and com-
mand
My warlike guard of ships, which farther lie,
Might be my object too, were not the eye
Stopt by the houses of that wondrous street,
Which rides o'er the broad river like a fleet.
WHEN God (the cause to, me and men unknown) The stream's eternal siege they fixt abide,
Forsook the royal houses, and his own,
And both abandon'd to the common foe,
How near to ruin id my glories go!
Nothing remain'd t' adorn this princely place Which covetous hands could take, or rude deface.
In all my rooms and galleries I found
The richest figures torn, and all around
Dismember'd statues of great heroes lay;
Such Naseby's field seem'd on the fatal day!
And me, when nought for robbery was left,
They starv'd to death: the gasping walls were
cleft,
The pillars sunk, the roofs above me wept,
No sign of spring, or joy; my garden kept ;
Nothing was seen which could content the eye,
Till dead the impious tyrant here did lie.
See how my face is chang'd, and what I am Since my true mistress, and now foundress,
It does not fill her bounty to restore
Me as I was (nor was I small before):
She imitates the kindness to her shown;
She does, like Heaven, (which the dejected throne
At once restores, fixes, and higher rears)
Strengthen, enlarge, exalt, what she repairs.
And now I dare, (though proud I must not be,
Whilst my great mistress I so humble see
In all her various glories) now I dare
Ev'n with the proudest palaces compare.
My beauty and convenience will, I'm sure,
So just a boast with modesty endure;
And all must to me yield, when I shall tell
How I am plac'd, and who does in me dwell.
Before my gate a street's broad channel goes,
Which still with waves of crowding people flows;
And every day there passes by my side,
Up to its western reach, the London tide,
The spring-tides of the term: my front looks
down
On all the pride and business of the town;
My other front (for, as in kings we see
The liveliest image of the Deity,
We in their houses should Heaven's likeness find,
Where nothing can be said to be behind)
My other fair and more majestic face
(Who can the fair to more advantage place?)
For ever gazes on itself below,
In the best mirror that the world can show.
And here behold, in a long bending row,
How two joint-cities make one glorious bow!
The midst, the noblest place, possess'd by me,
Best to be seen by all, and all o'er-see!
Which way soe'er I turn my joyful eye,
Here the great court, there the rich town I spy;
And the swoln stream's auxiliary tide,
Though both their ruin with joint power conspire,
Both to out-brave, they nothing dread but fire.
And here my Thames, though it more gentle
Than any flood so strengthen'd by the sea,
Finding by art his natural forces broke,
And bearing, captive-like, the arched yoke,
Does roar, and foam, and rage, at the disgrace,
But re-composes straight, and calms his face;
Is into reverence and submission strook,
As soon as from afar he does but look
Tow'rds the white palace where that king does
reign,
Who lays his laws and bridges o'er the main.
Amidst these louder honours of my seat;
And two vast cities, troublesomely great,
In a large various plain the country too
Opens her gentler blessings to my view:
In me the active and the quiet mind,
By different ways, equal content may find.
If any prouder virtuoso's sense
At that part of my prospect take offence,
By which the meaner cabbins are descry'd,
Of my imperial river's humbler side-
If they call that a blemish-let them know,,
God, and my godlike mistress, think not so;
For the distress'd and the afflicted lie
Most in their care, and always in their eye.
And thou, fair River! who still pay'st to me
Just homage, in thy passage to the sea,
Take here this one instruction as thou go'st→→
When thy mix't waves shall visit every coast;
When round the world their voyage they shall
make,
And back to thee some secret channels take;
Ask them what nobler sight they e'er did meet,
Except thy mighty master's sovereign fleet,
Which now triumphant o'er the main does ride,
The terrour of all lands, the ocean's pride.
From hence his kingdoms, happy now at last,
(Happy, if wise by their misfortunes past!)
From hence may omens take of that success
Which both their future wars and peace shall
The peaceful mother on mild Thames does build; With her son's fabrics the rough sea is fill'd.
THE COMPLAINT. In a deep vision's intellectual scene, Beneath a bower for sorrow made,
Th' uncomfortable shade
Of the black yew's unlucky green,
Mixt with the mourning willow's careful grey,
Where reverend Cham cuts out his famous way,
The melancholy Cowley lay:
And lo! a Muse appear'd to 's closed sight,
(The Muses oft in lands of vision play)
Body'd, array'd, and seen, by an internal light.
A golden harp with silver strings she bore;
A wondrous hieroglyphic robe she wore,
In which all colours and all figures were,
That Nature or that Fancy can create,
That Art can never imitate;
And with loose pride it wanton'd in the air.
In such a dress, in such a well-cloth'd dream,
She us'd, of old, near fair Ismenus' stream,
Pindar, her Theban favourite, to meet;
A crown was on her head, and wings were on her feet.
She touch'd him with her harp, and rais'd him from the ground;
The shaken strings melodiously resound.
"Art thou return'd at last," said she, "To this forsaken place and me? Thou prodigal! who didst so loosely waste Of all thy youthful years the good estate; Art thou return'd here, to repent too late, And gather husks of learning up at last, Now the rich harvest time of life is past,
And Winter marches on so fast?
But, when I meant t'adopt thee for my son,
And did as learn'd a portion assign,
As ever any of the mighty Nine
Had to their dearest children done;
When I resolv'd t'exalt thy anointed name,
Among the spiritual lords of peaceful fame ;
Thou, changeling! thou, bewitch'd with noise and
show,
Would'st into courts and cities from me go;
Would'st see the world abroad, and have a share
In all the follies and the tumults there:
Thou would'st, forsooth, be something in a state,
And business thou would'st find, and would'st
create;
Business! the frivolous pretence
Of human lusts, to shake off innocence;
Business! the grave impertinence; Business! the thing which I of all things hate; Business! the contradiction of thy fate.
"Go, renegado! cast up thy account, And see to what amount
Thy foolish gains by quitting me: The sale of knowledge, fame, and liberty, The fruits of thy unlearn'd apostacy.
Thou thought'st, if once the public storm were past,
All thy remaining life should sunshine be:
Behold! the public storm is spent at last,
The sovereign's tost at sea no more,
And thou, with all the noble company,
Art got at last to shore.
But, whilst thy fellow voyagers I see
All march'd up to possess the promis'd land,
Thon, still alone, alas! dost gaping stand
Upon the naked beach, upon the barren sand!
"As a fair morning of the blessed spring,
After a tedious stormy night, Such was the glorious entry of our king; Enriching moisture drop'd on every thing: Plenty he sow'd below, and cast about him light! VOL. VII,
But ther, alas! to thee alone, One of old Gideon's miracles was shown; For every tree and every herb around With pearly dew was crown'd, And upon all the quicken'd ground The fruitful seed of Heaven did brooding lie, And nothing but the Muse's fleece was dry. It did all other threats surpass,
When God to his own people said
(The men whom through long wanderings he had led)
That he would give them ev'n a heaven of brass:
They look'd up to that Heaven in vain,
That bounteous Heaven, which God did not re-
strain
Upon the most unjust to shine and rain.
"The Rachel, for which twice seven years and more
Thou didst with faith and labour serve,
And didst (if faith and labour can) deserve,
Though she contracted was to thee,
Given to another thou didst see;
Given to another, who had store
Of fairer and of richer wives before,
And not a Leah left, thy recompense to be!
Go on; twice seven years more thy fortune try;
Twice seven years more God in his bounty may
Give thee, to fling away
Into the court's deceitful lottery:
But think how likely 'tis that thou,
With the dull work of thy unwieldy plough,
Should'st in a hard and barren season thrive,
Should'st even able be to live;
Thou, to whose share so little bread did fall,
In that miraculous year, when manna rain'd on
Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile,
That seem'd at once to pity and revile.
And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head,
The melancholy Cowley said-
"Ah, wanton foe! dost thou upbraid
The ills which thou thyself hast made?
When in the cradle innocent I lay,
Thou, wicked spirit! stolest me away,
And my abused soul didst bear
Into thy new-found worlds, I know not where,
Thy golden Indies in the air;
And ever since I strive in vain
My ravish'd freedom to regain;
Still I rebel, still thou dost reign;
Lo! still in verse against thee I complain.
There is a sort of stubborn weeds,
Which, if the earth but once, it ever, breeds;
No wholesome herb can near them thrive,
No useful plant can keep alive:
The foolish sports I did on thee bestow,
Make all my art and labour fruitless now;
Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth ever
grow.
"When my new mind had no infusion known,
Thou gav'st so deep a tincture of thine own,
That ever since I vainly try
To wash away th' inherent dye:
Long work perhaps may spoil thy colours quite,
But never will reduce the native white:
To all the ports of honour and of gain,
I often steer my course in vain ;
Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back again.
Thou slack'nest all my nerves of industry,
By making them so oft to be
The tinkling strings of thy lose minstrelsy.
Whoever this world's happiness would see,
Must as entirely cast off thee,
As they who only Heaven desire
Do from the world retire.
This was my errour, this my gross mistake,
Myself a demi-votary to make.
Thus, with Sapphira and her husband's fate,
(A fault which I, like them, am taught too late)
For all that I gave up I nothing gain,
And perish for the part which I retain.
"Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse!
The court, and better king, t' accuse :
'The heaven under which I live is fair,
'The fertile soil will a full harvest bear :
Thine, thine is all the barrenness; if thou
Mak'st me sit still and sing, when I should
plough.
When I but think how many a tedious year
Our patient sovereign did attend
His long misfortunes' fatal end;
How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear,
On the Great Sovereign's will he did depend;
I ought to be accurst, if I refuse
To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse!
Kings have long hands, they say; and, though I be
So distant, they may reach at length to me.
However, of all the princes, thou
Should'st not reproach rewards for being small
or slow;
Thou! who rewardest but with popular breath,
And that too after death.”
COLONEL TUKE'S TRAGI-COMEDY, THE ADVENTURES OF FIVE
As wher our kings (lords of the spacious main)
Take in just wars a rich plate-fleet of Spain,
The rude unshapen ingots they reduce
Into a form of beauty and of use;
On which the conqueror's image now does shine,
Not his whom it belong'd to in the mine:
So, in the mild contentions of the Muse,
(The war which Peace itself loves and pursues)
So have you home to us in triumph brought
This cargazon of Spain with treasures fraught,
You have not basely gotten it by stealth,
Nor by translation borrow'd all its wealth;
But by a powerful spirit made it your own;
Metal before, money by you 'tis grown.
'Tis current now, by your adorning it
With the fair stamp of your victorious wit.
But, though we praise this voyage of your
mind,
And though ourselves enrich'd by it we find ;
We're not contented yet, because we know
What greater stores at home within it grow.
We've seen how well you foreign ores refine
Produce the gold of your own nobler mine:
The world shall then our native plenty view,
And fetch materials for their wit from you;
They all shall watch the travails of your pen,
And Spain on you shall make reprisals then,
MRS. KATHARINE PHILIPS. CRUEL Disease! ah, could not it suffice Thy old and constant spite to exercise Against the gentlest and the fairest sex, Which still thy depredations most do vex? Where still thy malice most of all (Thy malice or thy lust) does on the fairest fall? And in them most assault the fairest place, The throne of empress Beauty, ev'n the face? There was enough of that here to assuage, (One would have thought) either thy lust or
Was 't not enough, when thou, prophane Disease!
Didst on this glorious temple seize?
Was 't not enough, like a wild zealot, there,
All the rich outward ornaments to tear,
Deface the innocent pride of beauteous images?
Was 't not enough thus rudely to defile,
But thou must quite destroy, the goodly pile?
And thy unbounded sacrilege commit
On th' inward holiest holy of her wit?
Cruel Disease! there thou mistook'st thy power,
No mine of Death can that devour;
On her embalmed name it will abide
As high as Heaven the top, as Earth the basis wide.
All ages past record, all countries now,
In various kinds such equal beauties show,
That ev'n judge Paris would not know
On whom the golden apple to bestow;
Though goddesses t' his sentence did submit,
Women and lovers would appeal from it:
Nor durst he say, of all the female race,
This is the sovereign face.
That's much, ah, much less frequent than the
And some (though these be of a kind that's rare,
So equally renown'd for virtue are,
That it the mother of the gods might pose,
When the best woman for her guide she chose.
But if Apollo should design
A woman laureat to make,
Without dispute he would Orinda take,
Though Sappho and the famous Nine
Stood by, and did repine,
To be a princess, or a queen,
Is great; but 'tis a greatness always seen:
The world did never but two women know,
Who, one by fraud, th' other by wit, did rise
To the two tops of spiritual dignities;
One female pope of old, one female poet now.
Of female poets, who had names of old,
Nothing is shown, but only told,
And all we hear of them perhaps may be
Male-flattery only, and male-poetry.
Few minutes did their beauty's lightning waste,
The thunder of their voice did longer last,
But that too soon was past.
The certain proofs of our Orinda's wit
In her own lasting characters are writ,
And they will long my praise of them survive,
Though long perhaps, too, that may live,
The trade of glory, manag'd by the pen,
Though great it be, and every where is found,
Does bring in but small profit to us men;
"Tis, by the number of the sharers, drown'd,
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