For that which Rome to conquest did inspire,
Was not the Vestal, but the Muses' fire;
Heaven joins the blessings: no declining age
E'er felt the raptures of poetic rage.
Of many faults, rhyme is, perhaps, the cause;
Too strict to rhyme, we slight more useful laws,
For that, in Greece or Rome, was never known,
Till by barbarian deluges o'erflown:
Subdued, undone, they did at last obey,
And change their own for their invaders' way.
I grant that from some mossy, idol oak,
In double rhymes our Thor and Woden spoke;
And by succession of unlearned times,
As bards began, so monks rung on the chimes.
But now that Phoebus and the sacred Nine,
With all their beams on our blest island shine,
Why should not we their ancient rights restore,
And be, what Rome or Athens were before?
"Have we forgot how Raphael's numerous prose
Led our exalted souls through heavenly camps,
And mark'd the ground where proud apostate thrones
Defy'd Jehovah Here, 'twixt host and host,
(A narrow, but a dreadful interval)
Portentous sight! before the cloudy van
Satan with vast and haughty strides advanc'd,
Came towering arm'd in adamant and gold.
There bellowing engines, with their fiery tubes,
Dispers'd ethereal forms, and down they fell
By thousands, angels on archangels roll'd;
Recover'd, to the hills they ran, they flew,
Which (with their ponderous load, rocks, waters,
woods)
From their firm seats torn by the shaggy tops
They bore like shields before them through the air,
Till more incens'd they hurl'd them at their foes.
All was confusion, Heaven's foundation shook,
Threat'ning no less than universal wreck,
For Michael's arm main promontories flung,
And over-prest whole legions weak with sin:.
Yet they blasphem'd and struggled as they lay,
Till the great ensign of Messiah blaz'd,
And (arm'd with vengeance) God's victorious Son,
(Effulgence of paternal Deity)
Grasping ten thousand thunders in his hand,
Drove th' old original rebels headlong down,
And sent them flaming to the vast abyss 3."
O may I live to hail the glorious day,
And sing loud paans through the crowded way,
When in triumphant state the British Muse,
True to herself, shall barbarous aid refuse,
And in the Roman majesty appear,
Which none know better, and none come so near.
TO THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON,
ON HIS ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE,
BY DR. CHETWOOD, 1684.
As when by labouring stars new kingdoms rise,
The mighty mass in rude confusion lies,
A court unform'd, disorder at the bar,
And ev'n in peace the rugged mien of war,
Till some wise statesman into method draws
The parts, and animates the frame with laws;
Such was the case when Chaucer's early toil
Founded the Muses' empire in our soil.
Spenser improv'd it with his painful hand,
But lost a noble Muse in fairy-land.
Shakspeare said all that Nature could impart,
And Jonson added Industry and Art.
Cowley and Denham gain'd immortal praise;
And some, who merit as they wear the bays,
Search'd all the treasuries of Greece and Rome,
And brought the precious spoils in triumph home.
But still our language had some ancient rust;
Our flights were often high, but seldom just.
There wanted one, who licence could restrain,
Make civil laws o'er barbarous usage reign:
One worthy in Apollo's chair to sit,
To hold the scales, and give the stamp of wit;
In whom ripe Judgment and young Fancy meet,
And force poetic Rage to be discreet;
Who grows not nauseous while he strives to please,
But marks the shelves in the poetic seas.
Who knows, and teaches what our clime can bear,
And makes the barren ground obey the labourer's
Few could conceive, none the great work could do,
'Tis a fresh province, and reserv'd for you.
Those talents all are yours, of which but one
Were a fair fortune for a Muse's son;
Wit, reading, judgment, conversation, art,
A head well balanc'd, and a generous heart.
While insect rhymes cloud the polluted sky,
Created to molest the world, and die,
Your file does polish what your fancy cast;
Works are long forming which must always last.
Rough iron sense, and stubborn to the mold,
Touch'd by your chymic hand, is turn'd to gold.
A secret grace fashions the flowing lines,
And inspiration through the labour shines.
Writers, in spite of all their paint and art,
Betray the darling passion of their heart.
No fame you wound, give no chaste ears offence,
Still true to friendship, modesty, and sense.
So saints, from Heaven for our example sent,
Live to their rules, have nothing to repent.
Horace, if living, by exchange of fate,
Would give no laws, but only yours translate.
Hoist sail, bold writers, search, discover far,
You have a compass for a polar-star.
Tune Orpheus' harp, and with enchanting rhymes
Soften the savage humour of the times.
Tell all those untouch'd wonders which appear'd
When Fate itself for our great monarch fear'd:
Securely through the dangerous forest led
By guards of angels, when his own were fled.
Heaven kindly exercis'd his youth with cares,
To crown with unmix'd joys his riper years.
Make warlike James's peaceful virtues known,
The second hope and genius of the throne.
Heaven in compassion brought him on our stage.
To tame the fury of a monstrous age.
But what blest voice shall your Maria sing?
Or a fit offering to her altars bring?
In joys, in grief, in triumphs, in retreat,
Great always, without aiming to be great.
True Roman majesty adorns her face;
And every gesture 's form'd by every grace,
Her beauties are too heavenly and refin'd
For the gross senses of a vulgar mind.
It is your part (you poets can divine)
To prophesy how she, by Heaven's design,
Shall give an heir to the great British line,
3 An Essay on Blank Verse, out of Paradise Lost, Who over all the western isles shall reign,
Both awe the continent, and rule the main
It is your place to wait upon her name
Through the vast regions of eternal fame.
True poets' souls to princes are ally'd,
And the world's empire with its kings divide.
Heaven trusts the present time to monarchs' care,
Eternity is the good writer's share1.
TO THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON;
HIS LORDSHIP'S ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE.
PROM THE LATIN OF MR. CHARLES DRYDEN.
THAT happy Britain boasts her tuneful race,
And laurel wreaths her peaceful temples grace,
The honour and the praise is justly due
To you alone, illustrious earl! to you.
For soon as Horace, with his artful page,
By thee explain'd, had taught the listening age;
Of brightest bards arose a skilful train,
Who sweetly sung in their immortal strain.
No more content great Maro's steps to trace,
New paths we search, and tread unbeaten ways.
Ye Britons, then, triumphantly rejoice;
And with loud peals, and one consenting voice,
Applaud the man who does unrivall❜d sit,
"The sovereign judge and arbiter of wit!"
For, led by thee, an endless train shall rise
Of poets, who shall climb superior skies;
Heroes and gods in worthy verse shall sing,
And tune to Homer's lay the lofty string.
Thy works too, sovereign bard 2! if right I see, They shall translate with equal majesty; While with new joy thy happy shade shall rove Through the blest mazes of th' Elysian grove, And, wondering, in Britannia's rougher tongue To find thy heroes and thy shepherds sung, Shall break forth in these words: “Thy favour'd
Great heir and guardian of the Mantuan fame!
How shall my willing gratitude pursue
With praises large as to thy worth are due ?
Though tasteless bards, by Nature never taught,
In wretched rhymes disguise my genuine thought;
Though Homer now the wars of godlike kings
In Ovid's soft enervate numbers sings:
Tuneful Silenus, and the matchless verse,
That does the birth of infant worlds rehearse,
Atones for all; by that my rescued fame
Shall vie in age with Nature's deathless frame;
By thee the learned song shall nobly live,
And praise from every British tongue receive.
"Give to thy daring genius then the rein,
And freely launch into a bolder strain;
Nor with these words my happy spirit grieve:
'The last good office of thy friend receive 3.'
"On the firm base of thy immortal lays,
A nobler pile to thy lov'd Maro raise:
My glory by thy skill shall brighter shine,
With native charms and energy divine!
Britain with just applause the work shall read,
And crown with fadeless bays thy sacred head.
1 See Miscellany Poems, 1780, vol. iii. p. 173. * Virgil. H. N.
Nor shall thy Muse the graver's pencil need,
To draw the hero on his prancing steed;
Thy living verse shall paint th' embattled host
In bolder figures than his art can boast.
While the low tribe of vulgar writers strive,
By mean false arts, to make their versions live;
Forsake the text, and blend each sterling line
With comments foreign to my true design;
My latent sense thy happier thought explores,
And injur'd Maro to himself restores."
PARAPHRASE ON THE CXLVIIIth PSALM.
O AZURE vaults! O crystal sky!
The world's transparent canopy,
Break your long silence, and let mortals know
With what contempt you look on things below.
Wing'd squadrons of the god of war,
Who conquer wheresoe'er you are,
Let echoing anthems make his praises known
On Earth his footstool, as in Heaven his throne.
Great eye of all whose glorious ray
Rules the bright empire of the day,
O praise his name, without whose purer light
Thou hadst been hid in an abyss of night.
Ye moon and planets, who dispense,
By God's command, your influence;
Resign to him, as your Creator due,
That veneration which men pay to you.
Fairest, as well as first, of things,
From whom all joy, all beauty springs; O praise th' Almighty Ruler of the globe, Who useth thee for his empyreal robe.
Praise him, ye loud harmonious spheres, Who did all forms from the rude chaos draw, Whose sacred stamp all Nature bears,
And whose command is th' universal law:
Ye watery mountains of the sky,
And you so far above our eye,
Vast ever-moving orbs, exalt his name,
Who gave its being to your glorious frame.
Ye dragons, whose contagious breath
Peoples the dark retreats of Death,
Change your fierce hissing into joyful song,
And praise your Maker with your forked tongue.
Praise him, ye monsters of the deep,
That in the sea's vast bosoms sleep;
At whose command the foaming billows roar,
Yet know their limits, tremble and adore.
Ye mists and vapours, hail and snow,
And you who through the concave blow,
Swift executors of his holy word,
Whirlwinds and tempests, praise th' Almighty Lord.
Mountains, who to your Maker's view
Seem less than mole-hills do to you,
Remember how, when first Jehovah spoke,
All Heaven was fire, and Sinai hid in smoke.
Praise him sweet offspring of the ground,
With heavenly nectar yearly crown'd;
3 Cape dona extrema tuorum: the motto to lord And ye tall cedars, celebrate his praise, Roscommon's essay. H. N.
That in his temple sacred altars raise.
Idle musicians of the spring,
Whose only care 's to love and sing,
Fly through the world, and let your trembling throat
Praise your Creator with the sweetest note.
Praise him each savage furious beast,
That on his stores do daily feast:
And you tame slaves of the laborious plough,
Your weary knees to your Creator bow.
Majestic monarchs, mortal gods,
Whose power hath here no periods,
May all attempts against your crowns be vain!
But still remember by whose power you reign.
Let the wide world his praises sing,
Where Tagus and Euphrates spring,
And from the Danube's frosty banks, to those
Where from an unknown head great Nilus flows.
You that dispose of all our lives,
Praise him from whom your power derives;
Be true and just like him, and fear his word,
As much as malefactors do your sword.
Praise him, old monuments of time;
O praise him in your youthful prime;
Praise him, fair idols of our greedy sense;
Exalt his name, sweet age of innocence.
Jehovah's name shall only last,
When Heaven, and Earth, and all is past: Nothing, great God, is to be found in thee, But unconceivable eternity.
Exalt, O Jacob's sacred race,
The God of gods, the God of grace;
Who will above the stars your empire raise,
And with his glory recompense your praise.
SPOKEN TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF YORK,
AT EDINBURGH.
FOLLY and vice are easy to describe,
The common subjects of our scribbling tribe;
But when true virtues, with unclouded light,
All great, all royal, shine divinely bright,
Our eyes are dazzled, and our voice is weak;
Let England, Flanders, let all Europe speak,
Let France acknowledge that her shaking throne
Was once supported, sir, by you alone;
Banish'd from thence for an usurper's sake,
Yet trusted then with her last desperate stake:
When wealthy neighbours strove with us for power,
Let the sea tell, how in their fatal hour,
Swift as an eagle, our victorious prince,
Great Britain's genius, flew to her defence;
His name struck fear, his conduct won the day,
He came, he saw, he seiz'd the struggling prey,
And, while the heavens were fire and th' ocean blood,
Confirm'd our empire o'er the conquer'd flood.
O happy islands, if you knew your bliss!
Strong by the sea's protection, safe by his!
Express your gratitude the only way,
And humbly own a debt too vast to pay:
Let Fame aloud to future ages tell,
None e'er commanded, none obey'd so well;
While this high courage, this undaunted mind,
So loyal, so submissively resign'd,
Proclaim that such a hero never springs
But from the uncorrupted blood of kings.
ON A YOUNG LADY WHO SUNG FINELY, AND WAS AFRAID OF A COLD.
WINTER, thy cruelty extend,
Till fatal tempests swell the sea.
In vain let sinking pilots pray;
Beneath thy yoke let Nature bend,
Let piercing frost, and lasting snow,
Through woods and fields destruction sow!
Yet we unmov'd will sit and smile,
While you these lesser ills create,
These we can bear; but, gentle Fate,
And thou, blest Genius of our isle, From Winter's rage defend her voice, At which the listening gods rejoice.
May that celestial sound each day
With ecstasy transport our souls,
Whilst all our passions it controls,
And kindly drives our cares away;
Let no ungentle cold destroy
All taste we have of heavenly joy!
VIRGIL'S SIXTH ECLOGUE, SILENUS.
Two young shepherds, Chromis and Mnasylus, having been often promised a song by Silenus, chance to catch him asleep in this eclogue; where they bind him hand and foot, and then claim his promise. Silenus, finding they would be put off no longer, begins his song, in which he describes the formation of the universe, and the original of animals, according to the Epicurean philosophy; and then runs through the most surprising transformations which have happened in Nature since her birth. This eclogue was designed as a compliment to Syro the Epicurean, who instructed Virgil and Varus in the principles of that philosophy. Silenus acts as tutor, Chromis and Mnasylus as the two pupils.
I FIRST of Romans stoop'd to rural strains,
Nor blush'd to dwell among Sicilian swains,
When my Thalia rais'd her bolder voice,
And kings and battles were her lofty choice,
Phoebus did kindly humbler thoughts infuse,
And with this whisper check th' aspiring Muse:
"A shepherd, Tityrus, his flocks should feed,
And choose a subject suited to his reed."
Thus I (while each ambitious pen prepares
To write thy praise, Varus, and thy wars)
My pastoral tribute in low numbers pay,
And though I once presum'd, I only now obey.
But yet (if any with indulgent eyes
Can look on this, and such a trifle prize)
Thee only, Varus, our glad swains shall sing,
And every grove and every echo ring.
Phoebus delights in Varus' favourite name,
And none who under that protection came
Was ever ill receiv'd, or unsecure of fame.
Young Chromis and Mnasylus chanc'd to stray
Where (sleeping in a cave) Silenus lay,
Whose constant cups fly fuming to his brain,
And always boil in each extended vein;
His trusty flaggon, full of potent juice,
Was hanging by, worn thin with age and use;
Dropp'd from his head, a wreath lay on the ground;
In haste they seiz'd him, and in haste they bound;
Eager, for both had been deluded long
With fruitless hope of his instructive song:
But while with conscious fear they doubtful stood,
Ægle, the fairest Naïs of the flood,
With a vermilion dye his temples stain'd.
Waking, he smil'd, "And must I then be chain'd?
Loose me," he crv'd; “'twas boldly done, to find
And view a god, but 'tis too bold to bind.
The promis'd verse no longer I'll delay,
(She shall be satisfy'd another way)."
With that he rais'd his tuneful voice aloud,
The knotty oaks their listening branches bow'd,
And savage beasts and silvan gods did crowd;
For lo! he sung the world's stupendous birth,
How scatter'd seeds of sea, and air, and earth,
And purer fire, through universal night
And empty space, did fruitfully unite;
From whence th' innumerable race of things,
By circular successive order springs.
By what degrees this Earth's compacted sphere
Was harden'd, woods and rocks and towns to bear;
How sinking waters (the firm land to drain)
Fill'd the capacious deep, and form'd the main,
While from above, adorn'd with radiant light,
A new-born Sun surpris'd the dazzled sight;
How vapours turn'd to clouds obscure the sky,
And clouds dissolv'd the thirsty ground supply;
How the first forest rais'd its shady head,
Till when, few wandering beasts on unknown moun-
tains fed.
Then Pyrrha's stony race rose from the ground,
Old Saturn reign'd with golden plenty crown'd,
And bold Prometheus (whose untam'd desire
Rival'd the Sun with his own heavenly fire)
Now doom'd the Scythian vulture's endless prey,
Severely pays for animating clay.
He nam'd the nymph (for who but gods could tell?)
Into whose arms the lovely Hylas fell;
Alcides wept in vain for Hylas lost,
Hylas in vain resounds through all the coast.
He with compassion told Pas/phaë's fault, Ah! wretched queen! whence came that guilty thought?
The maids of Argos, who with frantic cries
And imitated lowings fill the skies,
(Though metamorphos'd in their wild conceit)
Did never burn with such unnatural heat.
Ah! wretched queen! while you on mountains stray,
He on soft flowers his snowy side does lay;
Or seeks in herds a more proportion'd love:
"Surround, my nymphs," she cries, "surround the
Perhaps some footsteps printed in the clay, [grove;
Will to my love direct your wandering way;
Perhaps, while thus in search of him I roam,
My happier rivals have entic'd him home."
He sung how Atalanta was betray'd
By those Hesperian baits her lover laid,
And the sad sisters who to trees were turn'd,
While with the world th' ambitious brother burn'd.
All he describ'd was present to their eyes,
He taught which Muse did by Apollo's will Guide wandering Gallus to th' Aonian hill: (Which place the god for solemn meetings chose) With deep respect the learned senate rose, And Linus thus (deputed by the rest)
The hero's welcome, and their thanks, express'd: "This harp of old to Hesiod did belong,
To this, the Muses' gift, join thy harmonious song: Charm'd by these strings, trees starting from the ground,
Have follow'd with delight the powerful sound.
Thus consecrated, thy Grynean grove
Shall have no equal in Apollo's love."
Why should I speak of the Megarian maid,
For love perfidious, and by love betray'd?
And her, who round with barking monsters arm'd,
The wandering Greeks (ah, frighted men!) alarm'd;
Whose only hope on shatter'd ships depends,
While fierce sea-dogs devour the mangled friends.
Or tell the Thracian tyrant's alter'd shape,
And dire revenge of Philomela's rape,
Who to those woods directs her mournful course,
Where she had suffer'd by incestuous force,
While, loth to leave the palace too well known,
Progné flies, hovering round, and thinks it still her
Whatever near Eurota's happy stream
[own?
With laurels crown'd, had been Apollo's theme,
Silenus sings; the neighbouring rocks reply,
And send his mystic numbers through the sky;
Till Night began to spread her gloomy veil,
And call'd the counted sheep from every dale;
The weaker light unwillingly declin'd,
And to prevailing shades the murmuring world re-
HAIL, sacred Solitude! from this calm bay,
I view the world's tempestuous sea,
And with wise pride despise
All those senseless vanities:
With pity mov'd for others, cast away
On rocks of hopes and fears, I see them toss'd
On rocks of folly and of vice, I see them lost :
Some, the prevailing malice of the great,
Unhappy men, or adverse Fate,
Sunk deep into the gulfs of an afflicted state.
But more, far more, a numberless prodigious train,
Whilst Virtue courts them, but, alas! in vain,
Fly from her kind embracing arms,
Deaf to her fondest call, blind to her greatest charms,
And, sunk in pleasures and in brutish ease,
They in their shipwreck'd state themselves obdu-
rate please.
Hail, sacred Solitude! sonl of my soul,
It is by thee I truly live,
Thou dost a better life and nobler vigour give;
Dost each unruly appetite control:
Thy constant quiet fills my peaceful breast,
With unmix'd joy, uninterrupted rest.
Presuming Love does ne'er invade
This private solitary shade:
And, with fantastic wounds by beauty made,
The joy has no allay of jealousy, hope, and fear,
The solid comforts of this happy sphere:
Yet I exalted Love admire,
Friendship, abhorring sordid gain,
And, as he rais'd his verse, the poplars seem'd to rise. And purify'd from Lust's dishonest stain:
Nor is it for my solitude unfit,
For I am with my friend alone,
As if we were but one;
'Tis the polluted love that multiplies,
But friendship does two souls in one comprise.
Here in a full and constant tide doth flow
All blessings man can hope to know;
Here in a deep recess of thought we find
Pleasures which entertain, and which exalt the mind,
Pleasures which do from friendship and from know-
ledge rise,
Which make us happy, as they make us wise:
Here may I always on this downy grass,
Unknown, unseen, my easy minutes pass:
Till with a gentle force victorious Death
My solitude invade,
And, stopping for a while my breath,
With ease convey me to a better shade.
While, rul'd by a resistless fire,
Our great Orinda ' I admire,
The hungry wolves, that see me stray,
Unarm'd and single, run away.
Set me in the remotest place
That ever Neptune did embrace;
When there her image fills my breast,
Helicon is not half so blest.
Leave me upon some Libyan plain,
So she my fancy entertain,
And when the thirsty monsters meet,
They'll all pay homage to my feet.
The magic of Orinda's name,
Not only can their fierceness tame,
But, if that mighty word I once rehearse,
They seem submissively to roar in verse.
VIRTUE, dear friend, needs no defence,
The surest guard is innocence:
None knew, till guilt created fear,
What darts or poison'd arrows were.
Integrity undaunted goes
Through Libyan sands and Scythian snows,
Or where Hydaspes' wealthy side
Pays tribute to the Persian pride.
For as (by amorous thoughts betray'd)
Careless in sabine woods I stray'd,
A grisly foaming wolf unfed,
Met me unarm'd, yet trembling fled.
No beast of more portentous size
In the Hercinian forest lies;
None fiercer, in Numidia bred,
With Carthage were in triumph led.
Set me in the remotest place
That Neptune's frozen arms embrace;
Where angry Jove did never spare
One breath of kind and temperate air.
Set me where on some pathless plain
The swarthy Africans complain,
To see the chariot of the Sun
So near their scorching country run.
The burning zone, the frozen isles,
Shall hear me sing of Cælia's smiles:
All cold but in her breast I will despise,
And dare all heat but that in Cælia's eyes.
VIRTUE (dear friend) needs no defence,
No arms, but its own innocence:
Quivers and bows, and poison'd darts,
Are only us'd by guilty hearts.
An honest mind safely alone
May travel through the burning zone;
Or through the deepest Scythian snows,
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes flows.
THE FIFTH SCENE OF THE SECOND ACT IN
GUARINI'S PASTOR FIDO,
AH happy grove! dark and secure retreat
Of sacred Silence, Rest's eterna! seat;
How well your cool and unfrequented shade
Suits with the chaste retirements of a maid;
Oh! if kind Heaven had been so much my friend,
To make my fate upon my choice depend;
All my ambition I would here confine,
And only this Elysium should be mine:
Fond men, by passion wilfully betray'd,
Adore those idols which their fancy made;
Purchasing riches with our time and care,
We lose our freedom in a gilded snare;
And, having all, all to ourselves refuse,
Opprest with blessings which we fear to use.
Fame is at best but an inconstant good,
Vain are the boasted titles of our blood;
We soonest lose what we most highly prize,
And with our youth our short-liv'd beauty dies;
In vain our fields and flocks increase our store,
If our abundance makes us wish for more.
How happy is the harmless country-maid,
Who, rich by Nature, scorns superfluous aid!
Whose modest clothes no wanton eyes invite,
But, like her soul, preserves the native white;
Whose little store her well-taught mind does please,
Nor pinch'd with want, nor cloy'd with wanton ease;
Who, free from storms, which on the great ones fall,
Makes but few wishes, and enjoys them all;
No care but love can discompose her breast,
Love, of all cares, the sweetest and the best:
While on sweet grass her bleating charge does lie,
One happy lover feeds upon her eye;
Not one on whom or gods or men impose,
But one whom Love has for this lover chose;
Under some favourite myrtle's shady boughs,
They speak their passions in repeated vows,
And whilst a blush confesses how she burns,
His faithful heart makes as sincere returns;
Thus in the arms of Love and Peace they lie,
And while they live, their flames can never die,
'Mrs. Catharine Philips.
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