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Write for immortal fame; nor ever choose
Gold for the object of a generous Muse.
I know a noble wit may, without crime,
Receive a lawful tribute for his time:
Yet I abhor those writers, who despise
Their honour; and alone their profits prize;
Who their Apollo basely will degrade,
And of a noble science make a trade.
Before kind Reason did her light display,
And government taught mortals to obey,
Men, like wild beasts, did Nature's laws pursue,
They fed on herbs, and drink from rivers drew;
Their brutal force, on lust and rapine bent,
Committed murder without punishment:
Reason at last, by her all-conquering arts,
Reduc'd these savages, and turn'd their hearts;
Mankind from bogs, and woods, and caverns calls,
And towns and cities fortifies with walls:
Thus fear of Justice made proud Rapine cease,
And shelter'd Innocence by laws and peace.

These benefits from poets we receiv'd,

From whence are rais'd those fict ons since believ'd:
That Orpheus, by his soft harmonious strains,
Tam'd the fierce tigers of the Thracian plains;
Amphion's notes, by their melodious powers,
Drew rocks and woods, and rais'd the Theban
towers;

These miracles from numbers did arise:
Since which, in verse Heaven taught his mysteries,
And by a priest, possess'd with rage divine,
Apollo spoke from his prophetic shrine.
Soon after Homer the old heroes prais'd,
And noble minds by great examples rais'd;
Then Hesiod did his Grecian swains incline
To till the fields, and prune the bounteous vine.
Thus useful rules were by the poet's aid,
In easy numbers to rude men convey'd,
And pleasingly their precepts did impart ;

Sing then his glory, celebrate his fame;
Your noblest theme is his immortal name.
Let mighty Spenser raise his reverend head,
Cowley and Denham start up from the dead;
Waller his age renew, and offerings bring,
Our monarch's praise let bright-ey'd virgins sing;
Let Dryden with new rules our stage refine,
And his great models form by this design:
But where's a second Virgil to rehearse
Our hero's glories in his epic verse?
What Orpheus sing his triumphs o'er the main,
And make the hills and forests move again;
Show his bold fleet on the Batavian shore,
And Holland trembling as his cannons roar;
Paint Europe's balance in his steady hand,
Whilst the two worlds in expectation stand
Of peace or war, that wait on his command?
But as I speak new glories strike my eyes,
Glories, which Heaven itself does give and prize,
Blessings of peace; that with their milder rays
Adorn his reign, and bring Saturnian days:
Now let rebellion, discord, vice, and rage,
That have in patriots' forms debauch'd our age,
Van sh with all the ministers of Hell:
His rays their poisonous vapours shall dispel:
"Tis he alone our safety did create,

His own firm soul secur'd the nation's fate,
Oppos'd to all the Bout'feu's of the state.
Authors, for him your great endeavours raise;
The loftiest numbers will but reach his praise.
For me, whose verse in satire has been bred,
And never durst heroic measures tread;
Yet you shall see me, in that famous field,
With eyes and voice, my best assistance yield:
Offer your lessons, that my infant Muse
Learnt, when she Horace for her guide did choose:
Second your zeal with wishes, heart, and eyes,
And from afar hold up the glorious prize.

First charm'd the car, and then engag'd the heart: But pardon too, if, zealous for the right,
The Muses thus their reputation rais'd,

And with just gratitude in Greece were prais'd.
With pleasure mortals did their wonders see,
And sacrific'd to their divinity;
But Want, at last, base Flattery entertain'd,
And old Parnas-us with this vice was stain'd:
Desire of gain dazzling the poets' eyes,
Their works were fill'd with fulsome flatteries.
Thus needy wits a vile revenue made,
And verse became a mercenary trade.
Debase not with so mean a vice thy art:
If gold must be the idol of thy heart,
Fly, fly th' unfruitful Heliconian strand,
Those streams are not enrich'd with golden sand:
Great wits, as well as warriors, only gain
Laurels and honours for their toil and pain:
"But what? an author cannot live on fame,
Or pay a reckoning with a lofty name:
A poet to whom Fortune is unkind,
Who when he goes to bed has hardly din'd,
Takes little pleasure in Parnassus' dreams,
Or relishes the Heliconian streams.
Horace had ease and plenty when he writ,
And, free from cares for money or for meat,
Did not expect his dinner from his wit."
"Tis true; but verse is cherish'd by the great,
And now none famish who deserve to eat:
What can we fear, when virtue, arts, and sense,
Receive the stars' propitious influence;
When a sharp-sighted prince, by early grants,
Rewards your merits, and prevents your wants?

A strict observer of each noble flight,
From the fine gold I separate the allay,

And show how hasty writers sometimes stray:
Apter to blame, than knowing how to mend :
A sharp, but yet a necessary friend.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS:

A FUNERAL PINDARIC POEM, SACRED TO THE HAPPY
MEMORY OF KING CHARLES II.

THUS long my grief has kept me dumb:
Sure there's a lethargy in mighty woe,
Tears stand congeal'd, and cannot flow!
And the sad soul retires into her inmost room :
Tears, for a stroke foreseen, afford relief;
But, unprovided for a sudden blow,
Like Niobé we marble grow;
And petrify with grief.

Our British Heaven was all serene,
No threatening cloud was nigh,

Not the least wrinkle to deform the sky;
We liv'd as unconcern'd and happily
As the first age in Nature's golden scene;
Supine amidst our flowing store,
We slept securely and we dreamt of more :
When suddenly the thunder-clap was heard,
It took us unprepar'd and out of guard,
Already lost before we fear'd.

Th' amazing news of Charles at once were spread, | Mercy above did hourly plead

At once the general voice declar'd,

"Our gracious prince was dead."

No sickness known before, no slow disease,
To soften grief by just degrees,

But like an hurricane on Indian seas,
The tempest rose;

An unexpected burst of woes:
With scarce a breathing space betwixt,
This now becalm'd, and perishing the next.
As if great Atlas from his height
Should sink beneath his heavenly weight,
And with a mighty flaw, the flaming wall
As once it shall,

Should gape immense, and rushing down, o'erwhelm this nether ball;

So swift and so surprising was our fear:

Our Atlas fell indeed; but Hercules was near.

His pious brother, sure the best

Who ever bore that name, Was newly risen from his rest,

And, with a fervent flame,

His usual morning vows had just addrest
For his dear sovereign's health;

And hop'd to have them heard,
In long increase of years,

In honour, fame, and wealth:

Guiltless of greatness thus he always pray'd': Nor knew nor wish'd those vows he made, On his own head should be repay'd. Soon as th' ill-omen'd rumour reach'd his ear, Ill news is wing'd with fate, and flies apace, Who can describe th' amazement of his face! Horrour in all his pomp was there, Mute and magnificent without a tear: And then the hero first was seen to fear. Half unarray'd he ran to his relief,

So hasty and so artless was his grief:

Approaching Greatness met him with her charms
Of power and future state;

But look'd so ghastly in a brother's fate,
He shook her from his arms.

Arriv'd within the mournful room, he saw
A wild distraction, void of awe,
And arbitrary grief unbounded by a law.
God's image, God's anointed, lay

Without motion, pulse, or breath,
A senseless lump of sacred clay,

An image now of Death.

Amidst his sad attendants' groans and cries,
The lines of that ador'd, forgiving face,
Distorted from their native grace;
An iron slumber sat on his majestic eyes.
The pious duke-Forbear, audacious Muse!
No terms thy feeble art can use
Are able to adorn so vast a woe:

The grief of all the rest like subject-grief did show,
His like a sovereign did transcend;

No wife, no brother, such a grief could know,
Nor any name but friend.

O wondrous changes of a fatal scene,
Still varying to the last!

Heaven, though its hard decree was past,
Seem'd pointing to a gracious turn again:

And Death's uplifted arm arrested in its haste
Heaven half repented of the doom,

And almost griev'd it had foreseen,

What by foresight it will'd eternally to come.

For her resemblance here below; And mild Forgiveness intercede

To stop the coming blow.

New miracles approach'd th' ethereal throne,
Such as his wondrous life had oft and lately known,
And urg'd that still they might be shown.

On Earth his pious brother pray'd and vow'd,
Renouncing greatness at so dear a rate,
Himself defending what he could,

From all the glories of his future fate. With him th' innumerable crowd,

Of armed prayers

Knock'd at the gates of Heaven, and knock'd aloud;
The first well-meaning rude petitioners.
All for his life assail'd the throne,

[own. All would have brib'd the skies by offering up their So great a throng not Heaven itself could bar; 'Twas almost borne by force as in the giants' war. The prayers at least for his reprieve were heard; His death, like Hezekiah's, was deferr'd: Against the Sun the shadow went;

Five days, those five degrees, were lent

To form our patience and prepare th' event. The second causes took the swift command, The medicinal head, the ready hand,

All eager to perform their part;

All but eternal doom was conquer'd by their art:
Once more the fleeting soul came back
Tinspire the mortal frame;

And in the body took a doubtful stand,

Doubtful and hovering like expiring flame, That mounts and falls by turns, and trembles o'er the brand.

The joyful short-liv'd news soon spread around,
Took the same train, the same impetuous bound:
The drooping town in smiles again was drest,
Gladness in every face exprest,

Their eyes before their tongues confest.
Men met each other with erected look,
The steps were higher that they took,
Friends to congratulate their friends made haste;
And long-inveterate foes saluted as they past:
Above the rest heroic James appear'd

Exalted more, because he more had fear'd:
His manly heart, whose noble pride
Was still above

Dissembled hate or varnish'd love,

Its more than common transport could not hide;
But like an eagre rode in triumph o'er the tide.
Thus, in alternate course,

The tyrant passions, hope and fear,
Did in extremes appear,

And flash'd upon the soul with equal force.
Thus, at half ebb, a rolling sea
Returns and wins upon the shore;
The watery herd, affrighted at the roar,
Rest on their fins a while, and stay,
Then backward take their wondering way:
The prophet wonders more than they,

At prodigies but rarely seen before,

[sway.

And cries, a king must fall, or kingdoms change their Such were our counter-tides at land, and so Presaging of the fatal blow,

In their prodigious ebb and flow.

The royal soul, that, like the labouring moon,
By charms of art was hurried down,
Forc'd with regret to leave her native sphere,
Came but a while on liking here,

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Th' impregnable disease their vain attempts did A prince who never disobey'd:

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No racks could make the stubborn malady confess. The blest above a kinder word may know:
The vain insurancers of life,

And he who most perform'd and promis'd less,
Ev'n Short himself forsook th' unequal strife.
Death and despair were in their looks,
No longer they consult their memories or books;
Like helpless friends, who view from shore

The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar;
So stood they with their arms across;
Not to assist, but to deplore
Th' inevitable loss.

Death was denounc'd; that frightful sound
Which ev'n the best can hardly bear,
He took the summons void of fear;
And unconcern'dly cast his eyes around;
As if to find and dare the grisly challenger.
What Death could do he lately try'd,
When in four days he more than dy'd.
The same assurance all his words did grace:
The same majestic mildness held its place;
Nor lost the monarch in his dying face.
Intrepid, pious, merciful, and brave,

He look'd as when he conquer'd and forgave.

As if some angel had been sent

To lengthen out his government,
And to foretel as many years again,

As he had number'd in his happy reign,
So cheerfully he took the doom

Of his departing breath;

Nor shrunk nor stept aside for Death:
But with unalter'd pace kept on;
Providing for events to come,
When he resign'd the throne.
Still he maintain'd his kingly state;
And grew familiar with his fate.
VOL. VIII.

But what they did, and what they said,
The monarch who triumphant went,

The militant who staid,

Like painters, when their heightening arts are spent,
I cast into a shade.

That all-forgiving king,

The type of him above,
That unexhausted spring
Of clemency and love;

Himself to his next self accus'd,

And ask'd that pardon which he ne'er refus'd:

For faults not his, for guilt and crimes

Of godless men, and of rebellious times:
For an hard exile, kindly meant,
When his ungrateful country sent
Their best Camillus into banishment:

And forc'd their sovereign's act, they could not his

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Soft as those gentle whispers were,

In which th' Almighty did appear;

By the still voice the prophet knew him there.

Our isle, indeed, too fruitful was before;
But all uncultivated lay

Out of the solar walk and Heaven's high way:

That peace which made thy prosperous reign to With rank Geneva weeds run o'er,

shine,

That peace thou leav'st to thy imperial line, That peace, oh happy shade, be ever thine!

For all those joys thy restoration brought,
For all the miracles it wrought,

For all the healing balm thy mercy pour'd
Into the nation's bleeding wound,
And care that after kept it sound,
For numerous blessings yearly shower'd,
And property with plenty crown'd;
For freedom, still maintain'd alive,

Freedom which in no other land will thrive,
Freedom, an English subject's sole prerogative,
Without whose charms even peace would be
But a dull quiet slavery:

For these and more, accept our pious praise; 'Tis all the subsidy

The present age can raise,

The rest is charg'd on late posterity.

Posterity is charg'd the more,

Because the large abounding store

And cockle, at the best, amidst the corn it bore:

The royal husbandman appear'd,

And plough'd, and sow'd, and till'd,

The thorns he rooted out, the rubbish clear'd,
And bless'd th' obedient field.

When straight a double harvest rose;
Such as the swarthy Indian mows;

Or happier climates near the line,

Or Paradise, manur'd and drest by hands divine.

As when the new-born phenix takes his way,
His rich paternal regions to survey,
Of airy choristers a numerous train
Attend his wondrous progress o'er the plain;
So, rising from his father's urn,

So glorious did our Charles return;
Th' officious Muses came along,

A gay harmonious quire like angels ever young:
The Muse that mourns him now his happy triumph

sung.

Ev'n they could thrive in his auspicious reign;
And such a plenteous crop they bore

To them, and to their heirs, is still entail'd by thee. Of purest and well-winnow'd grain,

Succession of a long descent

Which chastely in the channels ran,

And from our demi-gods began,

Equal almost to time in its extent,
Through hazards numberless and great,

Thou hast deriv'd this mighty blessing down,

And fixt the fairest gem that decks th' imperial crown:
Not faction, when it shook thy regal seat,
Not senates, insolently loud,
Those echoes of a thoughtless crowd,
Not foreign or domestic treachery,

Could warp thy soul to their unjust decree.
So much thy foes thy manly mind mistook,
Who judg'd it by the mildness of thy look:
Like a well-temper'd sword it bent at will;
But kept the native toughness of the steel.

Be true, O Clio, to thy hero's name!
But draw him strictly so,

That all who view the piece may know;

He needs no trappings of fictitious fame:

The load 's too weighty: thou may'st choose
Some parts of praise, and some refuse:

Write, that his annals may be thought more lavish than the Muse.

In scanty truth thou hast confin'd
The virtues of a royal mind,

Forgiving, bounteous, humble, just, and kind:
His conversation, wit, and parts,

His knowledge in the noblest useful arts,
Were such, dead authors could not give;
But habitudes of those who live;
Who, lighting him, did greater lights receive:
He drain'd from all, and all they knew;
His apprehension quick, his judgment true:
That the most learn'd, with shame, confess
His knowledge more, his reading ouly less.

Amidst the peaceful triumphs of his reign,.
What wonder if the kindly beams he shed,
Reviv'd the drooping Arts again,
If Science rais'd her head,

And soft Humanity, that from Rebellion fled?

As Britain never knew before.

Though little was their hire, and light their gain,
Yet somewhat to their share he threw ;
Fed from his hand, they sung and flew,
Like birds of Paradise, that liv'd on morning dew.
Oh never let their lays his name forget!
The pension of a prince's praise is great.
Live then, thou great encourager of arts,
Live ever in our thankful hearts;
Live blest above, almost invok'd below;
Live and receive this pious vow,
Our patron once, our guardian angel now,
Thou Fabius of a sinking state,

Who didst by wise delays divert our fate,
When faction like a tempest rose,

In Death's most hideous form,
Then art to rage thou didst oppose,
To weather out the storm:

Not quitting thy supreme command,

Thou held'st the rudder with thy steady hand,
Till safely on the shore the bark did land:

The bark that all our blessings brought,
Charg'd with thyself and James, a doubly royal
fraught.

Oh frail estate of human things,

And slippery hopes below!

Now to our cost your emptiness we know?
For 'tis a lesson dearly bought,
Assurance here is never to be sought.
The best, and best-belov'd of kings,
And best deserving to be so,

When scarce he had escap'd the fatal blow
Of faction and conspiracy,

Death did his promis'd hopes destroy:
He toil'd, he gain'd, but liv'd not to enjoy.
What mists of Providence are these
Through which we cannot see!
So saints, by supernatural power set free,
Are left at last in martyrdom to die;
Such is the end of oft-repeated miracles.
Forgive me, Heaven, that impious thought,
'Twas grief for Charles, to madness wrought,

That question'd thy supreme decree!
Thou didst his gracious reign prolong,
Ev'n in thy saints and angels wrong,
His fellow-citizens of immortality:
For twelve long years of exile borne,

Twice twelve we number'd since his blest return:
So strictly wert thou just to pay,
Ev'n to the driblet of a day.

Yet still we murinur and complain,

The quails and manna should no longer rain;
Those miracles 'twas needless to renew;

The chosen flock has now the promis'd land in view.

A warlike prince ascends the regal state,
A prince long exercis'd by fate:

Long may he keep, though he obtains it late!
Heroes in Heaven's peculiar mold are cast,
They and their poets are not form'd in haste;
Man was the first in God's design, and man was
made the last.

False heroes, made by flattery so,

Heaven can strike out, like sparkles, at a blow;
But ere a prince is to perfection brought,
He costs Omnipotence a second thought.
With toil and sweat,

With bardening cold, and forming heat,
The Cyclops did their strokes repeat,
Before th' impenetrable shield was wrought.
It looks as if the Maker would not own
The noble work for his,

Before 'twas try'd and found a masterpiece.

View then a monarch ripen'd for a throne.
Alcides thus his race began,
O'er infancy he swiftly ran;

The future god at first was more than man:
Dangers and toils, and Juno's hate
Ev'n o'er his cradle lay in wait;
And there he grappled first with Fate:
In his young hands the hissing snakes he prest,
So early was the deity confest;

Thus by degrees he rose to Jove's imperial seat;
Thus difficulties prove a soul legitimately great.
Like his, our hero's infancy was try'd ;
Betimes the Furies did their snakes provide;
And to his infant arms oppose

His father's rebels, and his brother's foes;
The more opprest, the higher still he rose :
Those were the preludes of his fate,
That form'd his manhood, to subdue
The hydra of the many-headed hissing crew.

As, after Numa's peaceful reign,
The martial Ancus did the sceptre wield,
Furbish'd the rusty sword again,
Resum'd the long-forgotten shield,
And led the Latins to the dusty field;
So James the drowsy genius wakes
Of Britain long entranc'd in charms,
Restiff and slumbering on its arms:

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For once, O Heaven, unfold thy adamantine book;
And let his wondering senate see,

If not thy firm immutable decree,

At least the second page of strong contingency;
Such as consist with wills originally free:
Let them with glad amazement look
On what their happiness may be:
Let them not still be obstinately blind,
Still to divert the good thou hast design'd,
Or with malignant penury,

To starve the royal virtues of his mind.
Faith is a Christian's and a subject's test,
Oh give them to believe, and they are surely blest.
They do; and with a distant view I see
Th' amended vows of English loyalty.
And all beyond that object, there
appears
The long retinue of a prosperous reign,
A series of successful years,

In orderly array, a martial, manly train.
Behold ev'n the remoter shores,
A conquering navy proudly spread;
The British cannon formidably roars,
While, starting from his oozy bed,

Th' asserted Ocean rears his reverend head;
To view and recognize his ancient lord again:
And, with a willing hand, restores
The fasces of the main.

VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS,

PARAPHRASED.

CREATOR Spirit, by whose aid

The world's foundations first were laid,
Come visit every pious mind;
Come pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
O source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete!
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring
To sanctify us, while we sing.

Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy sevenfold energy!

Thou strength of his Almighty hand,

'Tis rous'd, and with a new-strung nerve, the spear Whose power does Heaven and Earth command:

already shakes.

No neighing of the warrior steeds,

No drum, or louder trumpet, needs
Tinspire the coward, warm the cold,
His voice, his sole appearance makes them bold.
Gaul and Batavia dread th' impending blow;
Too well the vigour of that arm they know:
They lick the dust, and crouch beneath their fatal

foe,

Proceeding Spirit, our defence,
Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense,
And crown'st thy gift with eloquence!

Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold them down.

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