[1] 'Charles Cavendish': younger son of the Earl of Devonshire, and brother of Lady Rich; slain in 1643 at Gainsborough, fighting on the king's side, in the twenty-third year of his age. [2] 'The elder': afterwards Earl of Devonshire.



EPITAPH ON THE LADY SEDLEY.[1]

Here lies the learned Savil's heir, So early wise, and lasting fair, That none, except her years they told, Thought her a child, or thought her old. All that her father knew or got, His art, his wealth, fell to her lot; And she so well improved that stock, Both of his knowledge and his flock, That wit and fortune, reconciled In her, upon each other smiled. 10 While she to every well-taught mind Was so propitiously inclined, And gave such title to her store, That none, but th'ignorant, were poor. The Muses daily found supplies, Both from her hands and from her eyes. Her bounty did at once engage, And matchless beauty warm their rage. Such was this dame in calmer days, Her nation's ornament and praise! 20 But when a storm disturb'd our rest, The port and refuge of the oppress'd. This made her fortune understood, And look'd on as some public good. So that (her person and her state, Exempted from the common fate) In all our civil fury she Stood, like a sacred temple, free. May here her monument stand so, To credit this rude age! and show To future times, that even we Some patterns did of virtue see; And one sublime example had Of good, among so many bad.

[1] 'Lady Sedley': daughter of Sir Henry Savil, provost of Eton, and who married Sir John Sedley.



EPITAPH, TO BE WRITTEN UNDER THE LATIN INSCRIPTION UPON THE TOMB OF THE ONLY SON OF THE LORD ANDOVER.[1]

'Tis fit the English reader should be told, In our own language, what this tomb does hold. 'Tis not a noble corpse alone does lie Under this stone, but a whole family. His parents' pious care, their name, their joy, And all their hope, lies buried with this boy; This lovely youth! for whom we all made moan, That knew his worth, as he had been our own.

Had there been space and years enough allow'd, His courage, wit, and breeding to have show'd, 10 We had not found, in all the num'rous roll Of his famed ancestors, a greater soul; His early virtues to that ancient stock Gave as much honour, as from thence he took.

Like buds appearing ere the frosts are past, To become man he made such fatal haste, And to perfection labour'd so to climb, Preventing slow experience and time, That 'tis no wonder Death our hopes beguiled; 19 He's seldom old that will not be a child.

[1] 'Lord Andover': the eldest son of the Earl of Berkshire.



EPITAPH UNFINISHED.

Great soul! for whom Death will no longer stay, But sends in haste to snatch our bliss away. O cruel Death! to those you take more kind, Than to the wretched mortals left behind! Here beauty, youth, and noble virtue shined, Free from the clouds of pride that shade the mind. Inspired verse may on this marble live, But can no honour to thy ashes give—



DIVINE POEMS.[1]



OF DIVINE LOVE. A POEM IN SIX CANTOS.

Floriferis ut apes in saltibus omnia libant, Sic nos Scripturae depascimur aurea dicta; Aurea! perpetua semper dignissima vita! Nam divinus amor cum coepit vociferari, Diffugiunt animi terrores.... Lucretius, lib. iii.

Exul eram, requiesque mihi, non fama, petita est, Mens intenta suis ne foret usque malis: Namque ubi mota calent sacra mea pectora Musa, Altior humano spiritua ille malo est. OVID. De Trist. lib. iv. el. I.

ARGUMENTS.

I. Asserting the authority of the Scripture, in which this love is revealed.—II. The preference and love of God to man in the creation.— III. The same love more amply declared in our redemption.—IV. How necessary this love is to reform mankind, and how excellent in itself.— V. Showing how happy the world would be, if this love were universally embraced.—VI. Of preserving this love in our memory, and how useful the contemplation thereof is.

[1] These were Waller's latest poems, composed when he was eighty-two.



CANTO I.

The Grecian Muse has all their gods survived, Nor Jove at us, nor Phoebus is arrived; Frail deities! which first the poets made, And then invoked, to give their fancies aid. Yet if they still divert us with their rage, What may be hoped for in a better age, When not from Helicon's imagined spring, But Sacred Writ, we borrow what we sing? This with the fabric of the world begun, Elder than light, and shall outlast the sun. 10 Before this oracle, like Dagon, all The false pretenders, Delphos, Ammon, fall; Long since despised and silent, they afford Honour and triumph to th'Eternal Word.

As late philosophy[1] our globe has graced, And rolling earth among the planets placed, So has this book entitled us to heaven, And rules to guide us to that mansion given; Tells the conditions how our peace was made, And is our pledge for the great Author's aid. 20 His power in Nature's ample book we find, But the less volume does express his mind.

This light unknown, bold Epicurus taught That his bless'd gods vouchsafe us not a thought, But unconcern'd let all below them slide, As fortune does, or human wisdom, guide. Religion thus removed, the sacred yoke, And band of all society, is broke. What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, Where men regard no God but interest? 30 What endless war would jealous nations tear, If none above did witness what they swear? Sad fate of unbelievers, and yet just, Among themselves to find so little trust! Were Scripture silent, Nature would proclaim, Without a God, our falsehood and our shame. To know our thoughts the object of his eyes, Is the first step t'wards being good or wise; For though with judgment we on things reflect, Our will determines, not our intellect. 40 Slaves to their passion, reason men employ Only to compass what they would enjoy. His fear to guard us from ourselves we need, And Sacred Writ our reason does exceed; For though heaven shows the glory of the Lord, Yet something shines more glorious in His Word; His mercy this (which all His work excels!) His tender kindness and compassion tells; While we, inform'd by that celestial Book, Into the bowels of our Maker look. 50 Love there reveal'd (which never shall have end, Nor had beginning) shall our song commend; Describe itself, and warm us with that flame Which first from heaven, to make us happy, came.

[1] 'Late philosophy': that of Copernicus.



CANTO II.

The fear of hell, or aiming to be bless'd, Savours too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, 57 Who for their friends abandon'd soul and all;[1] A greater yet from heaven to hell descends, To save, and make his enemies his friends. What line of praise can fathom such a love, Which reach'd the lowest bottom from above? The royal prophet,[2] that extended grace From heaven to earth, measured but half that space. The law was regnant, and confined his thought; Hell was not conquer'd when that poet wrote; Heaven was scarce heard of until He came down, To make the region where love triumphs known.

That early love of creatures yet unmade, To frame the world the Almighty did persuade; 70 For love it was that first created light, Moved on the waters, chased away the night From the rude Chaos, and bestow'd new grace On things disposed of to their proper place; Some to rest here, and some to shine above; Earth, sea, and heaven, were all th'effects of love. And love would be return'd; but there was none That to themselves or others yet were known; The world a palace was without a guest, Till one appears that must excel the rest; 80 One! like the Author, whose capacious mind Might, by the glorious work, the Maker find; Might measure heaven, and give each star a name; With art and courage the rough ocean tame; Over the globe with swelling sails might go, And that 'tis round by his experience know; Make strongest beasts obedient to his will, And serve his use the fertile earth to till.

When, by His Word, God had accomplish'd all, 89 Man to create He did a council call; Employed His hand, to give the dust He took A graceful figure, and majestic look; With His own breath convey'd into his breast Life, and a soul fit to command the rest; Worthy alone to celebrate His name For such a gift, and tell from whence it came. Birds sing His praises in a wilder note, But not with lasting numbers and with thought, Man's great prerogative! but above all His grace abounds in His new fav'rite's fall. 100

If He create, it is a world He makes; If He be angry, the creation shakes; From His just wrath our guilty parents fled; He cursed the earth, but bruised the serpent's head. Amidst the storm His bounty did exceed, In the rich promise of the Virgin's seed; Though justice death, as satisfaction, craves, Love finds a way to pluck us from our graves.

[1] 'Abandoned soul and all': Exodus xxxii. 32. Ep. to the Romans ix. 3. [2]: 'Royal prophet': David.



CANTO III.

Not willing terror should His image move; He gives a pattern of eternal love; 110 His Son descends to treat a peace with those Which were, and must have ever been, His foes. Poor He became, and left His glorious seat To make us humble, and to make us great; His business here was happiness to give To those whose malice could not let Him live.

Legions of angels, which He might have used, (For us resolved to perish) He refused; While they stood ready to prevent His loss, Love took Him up, and nail'd Him to the cross. 120

Immortal love! which in His bowels reign'd, That we might be by such great love constrain'd To make return of love. Upon this pole Our duty does, and our religion, roll. To love is to believe, to hope, to know; 'Tis an essay, a taste of heaven below!

He to proud potentates would not be known; Of those that loved Him He was hid from none. Till love appear we live in anxious doubt; But smoke will vanish when the flame breaks out; 130 This is the fire that would consume our dross, Refine, and make us richer by the loss.

Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above. Where love presides, not vice alone does find No entrance there, but virtues stay behind; Both faith, and hope, and all the meaner train Of mortal virtues, at the door remain. Love only enters as a native there, For, born in heaven, it does but sojourn here. 140

He that alone would wise and mighty be, Commands that others love as well as He. Love as He loved!—How can we soar so high?— He can add wings, when He commands to fly. Nor should we be with this command dismay'd; He that examples gives, will give His aid; For He took flesh, that where His precepts fail, His practice as a pattern may prevail. His love, at once, and dread, instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd, and as God He taught. 150 Will for the deed He takes; we may with ease Obedient be, for if we love we please. Weak though we are, to love is no hard task, And love for love is all that Heaven does ask. Love! that would all men just and temp'rate make, 155 Kind to themselves, and others, for His sake.

'Tis with our minds as with a fertile ground, Wanting this love they must with weeds abound, (Unruly passions), whose effects are worse Than thorns and thistles springing from the curse. 160



CANTO IV.

To glory man, or misery, is born, Of his proud foe the envy, or the scorn; Wretched he is, or happy, in extreme; Base in himself, but great in Heaven's esteem; With love, of all created things the best; Without it, more pernicious than the rest; For greedy wolves unguarded sheep devour But while their hunger lasts, and then give o'er; Man's boundless avarice his wants exceeds, And on his neighbours round about him feeds. 170

His pride and vain ambition are so vast, That, deluge-like, they lay whole nations waste. Debauches and excess (though with less noise) As great a portion of mankind destroys. The beasts and monsters Hercules oppress'd, Might in that age some provinces infest; These more destructive monsters are the bane Of every age, and in all nations reign; But soon would vanish, if the world were bless'd With sacred love, by which they are repress'd. 180

Impendent death, and guilt that threatens hell, Are dreadful guests, which here with mortals dwell; And a vex'd conscience, mingling with their joy Thoughts of despair, does their whole life annoy; But love appearing, all those terrors fly; We live contented, and contented die. They in whose breast this sacred love has place, 187 Death, as a passage to their joy, embrace. Clouds and thick vapours, which obscure the day, The sun's victorious beams may chase away; Those which our life corrupt and darken, love (The nobler star!) must from the soul remove. Spots are observed in that which bounds the year; This brighter sun moves in a boundless sphere; Of heaven the joy, the glory, and the light, Shines among angels, and admits no night.



CANTO V.

This Iron Age (so fraudulent and bold!) Touch'd with this love, would be an Age of Gold; Not, as they feign'd, that oaks should honey drop, Or land neglected bear an unsown crop; 200 Love would make all things easy, safe, and cheap; None for himself would either sow or reap; Our ready help, and mutual love, would yield A nobler harvest than the richest field. Famine and death, confined to certain parts, Extended are by barrenness of hearts. Some pine for want where others surfeit now; But then we should the use of plenty know. Love would betwixt the rich and needy stand, And spread heaven's bounty with an equal hand; 210 At once the givers and receivers bless, Increase their joy, and make their suff'ring less. Who for Himself no miracle would make, Dispensed with sev'ral for the people's sake; He that, long fasting, would no wonder show, Made loaves and fishes, as they ate them, grow. Of all His power, which boundless was above, Here He used none but to express His love; And such a love would make our joy exceed, 219 Not when our own, but other mouths we feed.

Laws would be useless which rude nature awe; Love, changing nature, would prevent the law; Tigers and lions into dens we thrust, But milder creatures with their freedom trust. Devils are chain'd, and tremble; but the Spouse No force but love, nor bond but bounty, knows. Men (whom we now so fierce and dangerous see) Would guardian angels to each other be; Such wonders can this mighty love perform, Vultures to doves, wolves into lambs transform! 230 Love what Isaiah prophesied can do,[1] Exalt the valleys, lay the mountains low, Humble the lofty, the dejected raise, Smooth and make straight our rough and crooked ways. Love, strong as death, and like it, levels all; With that possess'd, the great in title fall; Themselves esteem but equal to the least, Whom Heaven with that high character has bless'd. This love, the centre of our union, can Alone bestow complete repose on man; 240 Tame his wild appetite, make inward peace, And foreign strife among the nations cease. No martial trumpet should disturb our rest, Nor princes arm, though to subdue the East, Where for the tomb so many heroes (taught By those that guided their devotion) fought. Thrice happy we, could we like ardour have To gain His love, as they to win His grave! Love as He loved! A love so unconfined, With arms extended, would embrace mankind. 250 Self-love would cease, or be dilated, when We should behold as many selfs as men; All of one family, in blood allied, His precious blood, that for our ransom died.

[1] 'Prophesied can do': Isaiah xl. 4.



CANTO VI.

Though the creation (so divinely taught!) Prints such a lively image on our thought, That the first spark of new-created light, From Chaos struck, affects our present sight: Yet the first Christians did esteem more bless'd The day of rising, than the day of rest, 260 That every week might new occasion give, To make His triumph in their mem'ry live. Then let our Muse compose a sacred charm, To keep His blood among us ever warm, And singing as the blessed do above, With our last breath dilate this flame of love. But on so vast a subject who can find Words that may reach th'idea of his mind? Our language fails; or, if it could supply, What mortal thought can raise itself so high? 270 Despairing here, we might abandon art, And only hope to have it in our heart. But though we find this sacred task too hard, Yet the design, th'endeavour, brings reward. The contemplation does suspend our woe, And makes a truce with all the ills we know. As Saul's afflicted spirit from the sound Of David's harp, a present solace found;[1] So, on this theme while we our Muse engage, No wounds are felt, of fortune or of age. 280 On divine love to meditate is peace, And makes all care of meaner things to cease.

Amazed at once, and comforted, to find A boundless power so infinitely kind, The soul contending to that light to flee From her dark cell, we practise how to die; Employing thus the poet's winged art, To reach this love, and grave it in our heart. Joy so complete, so solid, and severe, Would leave no place for meaner pleasures there; 290 Pale they would look, as stars that must be gone, When from the East the rising sun comes on.

[1] 'Solace found': 1 Sam. xvi. 23.



OF THE FEAR OF GOD. IN TWO CANTOS.



CANTO I.

The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace, And makes all ills that vex us here to cease. Though the word fear some men may ill endure, 'Tis such a fear as only makes secure. Ask of no angel to reveal thy fate; Look in thy heart, the mirror of thy state. He that invites will not th'invited mock, Opening to all that do in earnest knock. Our hopes are all well-grounded on this fear; All our assurance rolls upon that sphere. 10 This fear, that drives all other fears away, Shall be my song, the morning of our day; Where that fear is, there's nothing to be fear'd; It brings from heaven an angel for a guard. Tranquillity and peace this fear does give; Hell gapes for those that do without it live. It is a beam, which He on man lets fall, Of light, by which He made and governs all. 'Tis God alone should not offended be; But we please others, as more great than He. 20 For a good cause, the sufferings of man May well be borne; 'tis more than angels can. Man, since his fall, in no mean station rests, Above the angels, or below the beasts. He with true joy their hearts does only fill, That thirst and hunger to perform His will. Others, though rich, shall in this world be vex'd, And sadly live in terror of the next. The world's great conqu'ror[1] would his point pursue, And wept because he could not find a new; 30 Which had he done, yet still he would have cried, To make him work until a third he spied. Ambition, avarice, will nothing owe To Heaven itself, unless it make them grow. Though richly fed, man's care does still exceed; Has but one mouth, yet would a thousand feed. In wealth and honour, by such men possess'd, If it increase not, there is found no rest. All their delight is while their wish comes in; Sad when it stops, as there had nothing been. 40 'Tis strange men should neglect their present store, And take no joy but in pursuing more; No! though arrived at all the world can aim; This is the mark and glory of our frame, A soul capacious of the Deity, Nothing but He that made can satisfy. A thousand worlds, if we with Him compare, 47 Less than so many drops of water are. Men take no pleasure but in new designs; And what they hope for, what they have outshines. Our sheep and oxen seem no more to crave, With full content feeding on what they have; Vex not themselves for an increase of store, But think to-morrow we shall give them more. What we from day to day receive from Heaven, They do from us expect it should be given. We made them not, yet they on us rely, More than vain men upon the Deity; More beasts than they! that will not understand That we are fed from His immediate hand. 60 Man, that in Him has being, moves, and lives, What can he have, or use, but what He gives? So that no bread can nourishment afford, Or useful be, without His sacred Word.

[1] 'Great conqueror': Alexander.



CANTO II.

Earth praises conquerors for shedding blood, Heaven those that love their foes, and do them good. It is terrestrial honour to be crown'd For strewing men, like rushes, on the ground. True glory 'tis to rise above them all, Without th'advantage taken by their fall. 70 He that in sight diminishes mankind, Does no addition to his stature find; But he that does a noble nature show, Obliging others, still does higher grow; For virtue practised such a habit gives, That among men he like an angel lives; Humbly he doth, and without envy, dwell, Loved and admired by those he does excel. Fools anger show, which politicians hide; 79 Bless'd with this fear, men let it not abide. The humble man, when he receives a wrong, Refers revenge to whom it doth belong; Nor sees he reason why he should engage, Or vex his spirit for another's rage. Placed on a rock, vain men he pities, toss'd On raging waves, and in the tempest lost. The rolling planets, and the glorious sun, Still keep that order which they first begun; They their first lesson constantly repeat, Which their Creator as a law did set. 90 Above, below, exactly all obey; But wretched men have found another way; Knowledge of good and evil, as at first, (That vain persuasion!) keeps them still accursed! The Sacred Word refusing as a guide, Slaves they become to luxury and pride. As clocks, remaining in the skilful hand Of some great master, at the figure stand, But when abroad, neglected they do go, At random strike, and the false hour do show; 100 So from our Maker wandering, we stray, Like birds that know not to their nests the way. In Him we dwelt before our exile here, And may, returning, find contentment there: True joy may find, perfection of delight, Behold his face, and shun eternal night.

Silence, my Muse! make not these jewels cheap, Exposing to the world too large a heap. Of all we read, the Sacred Writ is best, Where great truths are in fewest words express'd. 110

Wrestling with death, these lines I did indite; No other theme could give my soul delight. Oh that my youth had thus employ'd my pen! 113 Or that I now could write as well as then! But 'tis of grace, if sickness, age, and pain, Are felt as throes, when we are born again; Timely they come to wean us from this earth, As pangs that wait upon a second birth.



OF DIVINE POESY. TWO CANTOS.

Occasioned upon sight of the 53d chapter of Isaiah turned into verse by Mrs. Wharton



CANTO I.

Poets we prize, when in their verse we find Some great employment of a worthy mind. Angels have been inquisitive to know The secret which this oracle does show. What was to come, Isaiah did declare, Which she describes as if she had been there; Had seen the wounds, which, to the reader's view, She draws so lively that they bleed anew. As ivy thrives which on the oak takes hold, So, with the prophet's, may her lines grow old! 10 If they should die, who can the world forgive, (Such pious lines!) when wanton Sappho's live? Who with His breath His image did inspire, Expects it should foment a nobler fire; Not love which brutes as well as men may know, But love like His, to whom that breath we owe. Verse so design'd, on that high subject wrote, Is the perfection of an ardent thought; The smoke which we from burning incense raise, 19 When we complete the sacrifice of praise. In boundless verse the fancy soars too high For any object but the Deity. What mortal can with Heaven pretend to share In the superlatives of wise and fair? A meaner subject when with these we grace, A giant's habit on a dwarf we place. Sacred should be the product of our Muse, Like that sweet oil, above all private use, On pain of death forbidden to be made, But when it should be on the altar laid. 30 Verse shows a rich inestimable vein When, dropp'd from heaven, 'tis thither sent again.

Of bounty 'tis that He admits our praise, Which does not Him, but us that yield it, raise; For as that angel up to heaven did rise, Borne on the flame of Manoah's sacrifice, So, wing'd with praise, we penetrate the sky; Teach clouds and stars to praise Him as we fly; The whole creation, (by our fall made groan!) His praise to echo, and suspend their moan. 40 For that He reigns, all creatures should rejoice, And we with songs supply their want of voice. The church triumphant, and the church below, In songs of praise their present union show; Their joys are full; our expectation long; In life we differ, but we join in song. Angels and we, assisted by this art, May sing together, though we dwell apart. Thus we reach heaven, while vainer poems must No higher rise than winds may lift the dust. 50 From that they spring; this from His breath that gave, To the first dust, th'immortal soul we have; His praise well sung (our great endeavour here), Shakes off the dust, and makes that breath appear.



CANTO II.

He that did first this way of writing grace,[1] Conversed with the Almighty face to face; Wonders he did in sacred verse unfold, When he had more than eighty winters told. The writer feels no dire effect of age, Nor verse, that flows from so divine a rage. 60 Eldest of Poets, he beheld the light, When first it triumph'd o'er eternal night; Chaos he saw, and could distinctly tell How that confusion into order fell. As if consulted with, he has express'd The work of the Creator, and His rest; How the flood drown'd the first offending race, Which might the figure of our globe deface. For new-made earth, so even and so fair, Less equal now, uncertain makes the air; 70 Surprised with heat, and unexpected cold, Early distempers make our youth look old; Our days so evil, and so few, may tell That on the ruins of that world we dwell. Strong as the oaks that nourish'd them, and high, That long-lived race did on their force rely, Neglecting Heaven; but we, of shorter date! Should be more mindful of impendent fate. To worms, that crawl upon this rubbish here, This span of life may yet too long appear; 80 Enough to humble, and to make us great, If it prepare us for a nobler seat.

Which well observing, he, in numerous lines, Taught wretched man how fast his life declines; In whom he dwelt before the world was made, And may again retire when that shall fade. The lasting Iliads have not lived so long As his and Deborah's triumphant song. Delphos unknown, no Muse could them inspire, But that which governs the celestial choir. 90 Heaven to the pious did this art reveal, And from their store succeeding poets steal. Homer's Scamander for the Trojans fought, And swell'd so high, by her old Kishon taught. His river scarce could fierce Achilles stay; Hers, more successful, swept her foes away. The host of heaven, his Phoebus and his Mars, He arms, instructed by her fighting stars. She led them all against the common foe; But he (misled by what he saw below!) 100 The powers above, like wretched men, divides, And breaks their union into different sides. The noblest parts which in his heroes shine, May be but copies of that heroine. Homer himself, and Agamemnon, she The writer could, and the commander, be. Truth she relates in a sublimer strain, Than all the tales the boldest Greeks could feign; For what she sung that Spirit did indite, Which gave her courage and success in fight. 110 A double garland crowns the matchless dame; From heaven her poem and her conquest came.

Though of the Jews she merit most esteem, Yet here the Christian has the greater theme; Her martial song describes how Sis'ra fell; This sings our triumph over death and hell. The rising light employ'd the sacred breath 117 Of the blest Virgin and Elizabeth. In songs of joy the angels sung His birth; Here how He treated was upon the earth Trembling we read! th'affliction and the scorn, Which for our guilt so patiently was borne! Conception, birth, and suff'ring, all belong (Though various parts) to one celestial song; And she, well using so divine an art, Has in this concert sung the tragic part.

As Hannah's seed was vow'd to sacred use, So here this lady consecrates her Muse. With like reward may Heaven her bed adorn, With fruit as fair as by her Muse is born! 130

[1] 'Writing grace': Moses.



ON THE PARAPHRASE OF THE LORD'S PRAYER. WRITTEN BY MRS WHARTON.

Silence, you winds! listen, ethereal lights! While our Urania sings what Heaven indites; The numbers are the nymph's; but from above Descends the pledge of that eternal love. Here wretched mortals have not leave alone, But are instructed to approach His throne; And how can He to miserable men Deny requests which His own hand did pen?

In the Evangelists we find the prose Which, paraphrased by her, a poem grows; A devout rapture! so divine a hymn, It may become the highest seraphim! For they, like her, in that celestial choir, Sing only what the Spirit does inspire. Taught by our Lord, and theirs, with us they may For all but pardon for offences pray.



SOME REFLECTIONS OF HIS UPON THE SEVERAL PETITIONS IN THE SAME PRAYER.

1 His sacred name with reverence profound Should mention'd be, and trembling at the sound! It was Jehovah; 'tis Our Father now; So low to us does Heaven vouchsafe to bow![1] He brought it down that taught us how to pray, And did so dearly for our ransom pay.

2 His kingdom come. For this we pray in vain Unless he does in our affections reign. Absurd it were to wish for such a King, And not obedience to His sceptre bring, Whose yoke is easy, and His burthen light, His service freedom, and his judgments right.

3 His will be done. In fact 'tis always done; But, as in heaven, it must be made our own. His will should all our inclinations sway, Whom Nature, and the universe, obey. Happy the man! whose wishes are confined To what has been eternally designed; Referring all to His paternal care, To whom more dear than to ourselves we are.

4 It is not what our avarice hoards up; 'Tis He that feeds us, and that fills our cup; Like new-born babes depending on the breast, From day to day we on His bounty feast; Nor should the soul expect above a day, To dwell in her frail tenement of clay; The setting sun should seem to bound our race, And the new day a gift of special grace.

5 That he should all our trespasses forgive, While we in hatred with our neighbours live; Though so to pray may seem an easy task, We curse ourselves when thus inclined we ask, This prayer to use, we ought with equal care Our souls, as to the sacrament, prepare. The noblest worship of the Power above, Is to extol, and imitate his love; Not to forgive our enemies alone, But use our bounty that they may be won.

6 Guard us from all temptations of the foe; And those we may in several stations know; The rich and poor in slipp'ry places stand. Give us enough, but with a sparing hand! Not ill-persuading want, nor wanton wealth, But what proportion'd is to life and health. For not the dead, but living, sing thy praise, Exalt thy kingdom, and thy glory raise.

Favete linguis!... Virginibus puerisque canto.—HOR.

[1] 'Vouchsafe to bow': Psalm xviii. 9.



ON THE FOREGOING DIVINE POEMS.

When we for age could neither read nor write, The subject made us able to indite; The soul, with nobler resolutions deck'd, The body stooping, does herself erect. No mortal parts are requisite to raise Her that, unbodied, can her Maker praise.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So, calm are we when passions are no more! For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that time has made; Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.

....Miratur limen Olympi.—VIRG.



END OF WALLER'S POEMS.

* * * * *



THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

SIR JOHN DENHAM.



LIFE OF SIR JOHN DENHAM.

Next to those poets who have exerted an influence on the matter, should be ranked those who have improved the manner, of our song. So that thus the same list may include the names of a Chaucer and a Waller, of a Milton and a Denham—the more as we suspect none but a true poet can materially improve even a poetical mode, can contrive even a new stirrup to Pegasus, or even to retune the awful organ of Pythia. Neither Denham nor Waller were great poets; but they have produced lines and verses so good, and have, besides, exerted an influence so considerable on modern versification, and the style of poetical utterance, that they are entitled to a highly respectable place amidst the sons of British song.

Sir John Denham, although thoroughly English both in descent and in complexion of mind, was born in Dublin in 1615. His father, whose name also was Sir John (of Little Horseley, in Essex), was, at the time of our poet's birth, the Chief Baron of Exchequer in Ireland. His mother was Eleanor More, daughter of Sir Garret More, Baron of Mellefont. Two years after the son's birth, the father, being made an English Baron of Exchequer, returned to his native country, and educated young John in London. Thence, at the age of sixteen, he went to study at Oxford, where he became celebrated rather for dissipation than diligence. He was, although a youth of imaginative temperament, excessively fond of gambling; and it was said of him, that he was more given to "dreams and dice than to study." His future eminence might be foreseen by some of his friends; but, in general, men looked on him rather as an idle and misled youth of fortune, than as a genius. Three years after, he removed to Lincoln's Inn, where he continued occasionally to gamble, and was sometimes punished for his pains, being plundered by more skilful or unscrupulous gamesters, but did not forget his studies. His conscience, on one occasion, aroused by a rebuke from a friend, awoke; and, to confirm the resolutions which it forced upon him, he wrote and published an "Essay on Gaming." In this respect he resembles Sir Richard Steele when a young soldier, who, in order to cure himself of his dissipations, wrote and published "The Christian Hero"—his object being, by drawing the picture of a character exactly opposite to his own, to commit himself irrevocably to virtue, and to break down all the bridges between him and a return to vice. It is, alas! notorious, that Steele's holiness turned out only to be a FIT, of not much longer duration than a morning headache, and that the "Christian Hero" remains not as a model to which its author's conduct was ever conformed, but as a severe, self-written satire on his whole career. And so with Denham. For some time he forsook the gambling-table, and applied his attention partly to law, and partly to poetry, translating, in 1636, the "Second Book of the Aeneid;" but when his father died, two years afterwards, and left him some thousands, he rushed again to the dice-box, and melted them as rapidly as the wind melts the snow of spring.

"In 1642 he broke out," as Waller remarks of him, "like the Irish Rebellion, threescore thousand strong, when nobody was aware, or in the least suspected it," in the play of "Sophy;" and, sooth to say, like that rebellion, his outbreak is lawless and irregular, as well as strong; as in that rebellion, too, there is a rather needless expenditure of blood. What Byron says of Dr. Polidori's tragedy, is nearly true of "Sophy"—

"All stab, and everybody dies."

Nothing can be more horrible and disgusting than many of the incidents. A father suspecting and plotting against a dear and noble son; a son deprived of sight by the command of a father, and meditating in his rage and revenge the murder of his own favourite daughter, because she is beloved by his father; and the deaths of both son and father by poison, administered through means of a courtier who has betrayed both. Such are the main hinges on which the plot of the piece turns. The versification, too, is exceedingly unequal; sometimes swelling into rather full and splendid blank verse, and anon shrinking up into lines stunted and shrivelled, like boughs either touched by frost, or lopped by the axe of the woodman. Still there are in "Sophy" a force of style, a maturity of mind, an energy of declamation, and, here and there, an appreciation of Shakspeare—shewn in a generous though hopeless rivalry of his manner— which account for the reception it at first met with, and seem to have excited in Denham's contemporaries expectations which were never fulfilled. This uprise, as well as that of the Irish (which took place the year before it), turned out, on the whole, abortive. And yet what fine lines and sentiments are the following, culled from "Sophy" almost ad aperturam libri:—

"Fear and guilt Are the same thing, and when our actions are not, Our fears are crimes. The east and west Upon the globe, a mathematic point Only divides; thus happiness and misery, And all extremes, are still contiguous.

More gallant actions have been lost, for want of being Completely wicked, than have been performed By being exactly virtuous. 'Tis hard to be Exact in good, or excellent in ill; Our will wants power, or else our power wants skill.

When in the midst of fears we are surprised With unexpected happiness, the first Degrees of joy are mere astonishment. Fear, the shadow Of danger, like the shadow of our bodies, Is greater, then, when that which is the cause Is farthest off."

The blinded prince's soliloquy, in the first scene of the fifth act, is worthy of Shakspeare. We must quote the following lines:—

"Reason, my soul's eye, still sees Clearly, and clearer for the want of eyes, For gazing through the windows of the body It met such several, such distracting objects; But now confined within itself it sees A strange and unknown world, and there discovers Torrents of anger, mountains of ambition, Gulfs of desire, and towers of hope, large giants, Monsters and savage beasts; to vanquish these Will be a braver conquest, than the old Or the new world."

Shortly after the appearance of "Sophy," he was admitted, by the form then usual, Sheriff of Surrey, and appointed governor of Farnham Castle for the king; this important post, however, he soon resigned, and retreated to Oxford, where, in 1643, he published his poem entitled "Cooper's Hill." This instantly became popular, and many who might have seen in "Sophy" greater powers than were disclosed in this new effort, envied its fame, and gave out that he had bought it of a vicar for forty pounds. For this there was, of course, no proof, and it is only worth mentioning because it is one of a large class of cases, in which envious mediocrity, or crushed dulness, or jealous rivalry, has sought to snatch hard-won laurels from the brow of genius. As if these laurels were so smooth, and so soothing, as always to invite ambition, or as if they were so flexible as to suit every brow! As if FIRE lurked not sometimes in their leaves, and as if there were not, besides, a nobler jealousy in the public mind ready to watch and to avenge their misappropriation. Certain it is that not only, as Johnson remarks, was the attempt made to rob Addison of "Cato," and Pope of the "Essay of Criticism," but it has a hundred times taken place in the history of poetry. Rolt, as we saw in our late life of Akenside, tried to snatch the honour of writing "The Pleasures of Imagination" from its author. Lauder accused Milton of plundering the Italians wholesale. Scott's early novels have only the other day been most absurdly claimed for his brother Thomas. And notwithstanding Shakspeare's well-known lines over his sepulchre at Stratford—

"Bless'd be the man who spares these stones, But curs'd be he who moves my bones"—

a worse outrage has been recently committed on his memory, than were his dust, like Wickliffe's, tossed out of his tomb into the Avon—his plays have been, with as much stupidity as malice, attributed to Lord Bacon! Homer, too, has been found out to be a myth; and we know not if even Dante's originality has altogether passed unquestioned in this age of disbelief and downpulling; although what brow, save that thunder-scathed pile, could wear those scorched laurels, and who but the "man who had been in hell" could have written the "Inferno?" Worst of all, a class of writers have of late sought to prove that there is no such thing as originality—that genius means just dexterous borrowing-that the "Appropriation Clause" is of divine right—and have certainly proved themselves true to their own principles.

In 1647, circumstances brought our poet more closely in connexion with the royal family, and on one occasion he carried a message from the Queen to King Charles, then in prison. He subsequently conducted, with great success, the King's correspondence; and in April 1648 he conveyed the young Duke of York (afterwards James II.) from London to France, and delivered him to the charge of the Queen and the Prince of Wales. He had, ere leaving Britain, written a translation of Cato-Major on Old Age. While in France, attending on the exiled prince, he wrote a number of poetical pieces at his master's desire; among others, a song in honour of an embassy to Poland, which he and Lord Crofts undertook for Charles II., and during which they are said to have collected L10,000 for the royal cause from the Scotchmen who then abounded in that country as travelling merchants or pedlars. Meanwhile his political misdemeanours were punished by the Parliament confiscating the remnant of his estate. In 1652, he returned to England penniless, and was supported by the Earl of Pembroke. After the Restoration, Charles, more mindful of him than of many of his friends and the partners of his exile, bestowed on Denham the Surveyorship of the King's Buildings and the Order of the Bath. The situation of Surveyor, even in his careless and improvident hands, turned out a lucrative one; for it is said that he cleared by it no less than L7000. Of his first wife, we hear little or nothing; but about this time, flushed as he was with prosperity, and the popularity of the writings he continued to produce, he contracted a second marriage, which was so far from happy that its consequences led to a fit of temporary derangement. Butler, then a disappointed and exacerbated man, was malignant enough to lampoon him for lunacy—an act which, Dr. Johnson well remarks, "no provocation could excuse." It was, in Fuller's fine old quaint language, "breaking one whom God had bowed before." Our readers will find Butler's squib in our edition of that poet, vol. ii. p. 200, under the title of "A Panegyrick on Sir John Denham's Recovery from his Madness." It is a piece quite unworthy of Butler's powers, and its sting lies principally in charging Denham with plagiarising "Cooper's Hill" and "Sophy," with gambling, and with overreaching the King as Surveyor of the Public Buildings, and with an overbearing and quarrelsome temper—but it contains no allusion to his domestic infelicity. Some have hinted that the cause of his insanity lay in jealousy—that Denham suspected his wife to be too intimate with the Duke of York—that he poisoned her, and maddened in remorse. Whatever the cause, the distemper was not of long continuance. He recovered in time to write some verses on the death of Cowley, which took place in 1667; but in the next year he himself expired, and was buried by the side of his friend in Westminster Abbey, not very far from Chaucer and Spencer. His funeral took place on the 19th of March 1668. He had attained the age of fifty-three.

This is all we can definitely state of the history of Sir John Denham, and certainly the light it casts on his character is neither very plentiful nor very pleasing. A gambler in his early days, he became a political intriguer, an unhappy husband, a maniac, and died in the prime of life. It need only further be recorded of him, that, according to some accounts, he first discovered the merits of Milton's "Paradise Lost," and went about with the book new from the press in his hands, shewing it to everybody, and exclaiming, "This beats us all, and the ancients too!" If this story be true, it says as much for his heart as his head for the generous disposition which made him praise a political adversary, as for the critical taste which discerned at a glance the value of the world's greatest poem. On the whole, however, Denham as a man stands on the same general level with the Cavalier wits in the days of Charles. If he did not rise so high as Cowley, he did not sink so low as Rochester, or even as Butler.

We may now regret, both that he did not live better, and that he did not write more. He had unquestionably in him greater powers than he ever expressed in his works. These are few, fragmentary, and unequal; but, nevertheless, must be reckoned productions of no ordinary merit. They discover a great deal of the body, and not a little of the soul, of poetry. In the passages we cited from "Sophy," and throughout the whole of that play, there is a vigorous and profound vein of reflection, as well as of imagination. Like Shakspeare, although on a scale very much inferior, he carries on a constant stream of subtle reflection amidst all the windings of his story; and even the most critical points of the drama are studded with pearls. Coleridge speaks of himself, or some one else, as wishing to live "collaterally, or aside, to the onward progress of society;" and thus, in the drama, there should ever be, as it were, a projection, or alias, of the author standing collaterally, or aside, to the bustling incidents and whirling passions, and calmly adding the commentary of wisdom, as they rush impetuously on. Such essentially was the chorus of the ancient Greek play; and a similar end is answered in Shakspeare by the subtle asides, the glancing bye-lights, which his wondrous intellect interposes amidst the rapid play of his fancy, the exuberance of his wit, and the crowded incident and interchange of passion created by his genius. Some have maintained that the philosophy of a drama should be chiefly confined to the conceptions of the characters, the development of the plot, and the management of the dialogue—that all the reflection should be molten into the mass of the play, and none of it embossed on the surface; but certainly neither Shakspeare's, nor Schiller's, nor Goethe's dramas answer to this ideal— all of them, besides the philosophy, so to speak, afoot in the progress of the story, contain a great deal standing still, quietly lurking in nooks and corners, and yet exerting a powerful influence on the ultimate effect and explanation of the whole. And so, according to its own proportions, it is with Denham's "Sophy." Indeed, as we have above hinted, its power lies more in these interesting individual beauties than in its general structure.

"Cooper's Hill," next to "Sophy," is undoubtedly his best production. Dr. Johnson calls it the first English specimen of local poetry—i.e., of poetry in which a special scene is, through the embellishments of traditionary recollection, moral reflections, and the power of association generally, uplifted into a poetical light. This has been done afterwards by Garth, in his "Claremont;" Pope, in his "Windsor Forest;" Dyer, in his "Gronger-hill," and a hundred other instances. The great danger in this class of poems, is lest imported sentiment and historical reminiscence should overpower the living lineaments, and all but blot out the memory of the actual landscape. And so it is to some extent in "Cooper's Hill," the scene beheld from which is speedily lost in a torrent of political reflection and moralising. The well-known lines on the Thames are rhetorical and forcible, but not, we think, highly poetical:—

"Oh, could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme! Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull, Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full."

The poem closes with another river-picture, which some will admire:—

"When a calm river, raised with sudden rains Or snows dissolved, o'erflows the adjoining plains, The husbandmen, with high-raised banks, secure Their greedy hopes, and this he can endure; But, if with bays and dams they strive to force His channel to a new or narrow course, No longer then—within his banks he dwells, First to a torrent, then a deluge swells, Stronger and fiercer by restraint he roars, And knows no bound, but makes his power his shores."

Again, he says of Thames:—

"Thames, the most loved of all the ocean's sons By his old sire, to his embraces runs, Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity. Though with those streams he no resemblance hold Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold. His genuine and less guilty wealth t'explore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore."

Yet, though fond of, and great in, describing rivers, he is not, after all, the "river-god" of poetry. Professor Wilson speaks with a far deeper voice:—

"Down falls the drawbridge with a thund'ring shock, And, in an instant, ere the eye can know, Binds the stern castle to the opposing rock, And hangs in calmness o'er the flood below; A raging flood, that, born among the hills, Flows dancing on through many a nameless glen, Till, join'd by all his tributary rills From lake and tarn, from marsh and from fen, He leaves his empire with a kingly glee, And fiercely bids retire the billows of the sea!"

Different poets are made to write on different rivers as well as on different mountains. Denham paints well the calm majestic Thames; Wilson, the rapid Spey; Scott, the immemorial and historic Forth; Burns, the wild lonely Lugar and the Doon; and Thomas Aird (see his exquisitely beautiful "River"), the pastoral Cluden. But the poet of the St. Lawrence, with Niagara flinging itself over its crag like a mad ocean—of the Ganges or the Orellana—has yet to be born, or at least has yet to bring forth his conceptions of such a stupendous object in poetry.

In "Cooper's Hill" we find well, if not fully exhibited, what were Denham's leading qualities—not high imagination or a fertile fancy, although in neither of these was he conspicuously deficient, but manly strength of thought and clearness of language. There are in him no quaintnesses, no crotchets, no conceits, and no involutions or affectations—all is transparent, masculine, and energetic. It is in these respects that he became a model to Dryden and Pope, and may even still be read with advantage for at least his style, which is

"Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full."

His translations we have included, not for their surpassing merit, but because, in the first place, there is little of our author extant, and we are happy to reprint every scrap of him we can find, and because again he, according to Dr. Johnson, was "one of the first that understood the necessity of emancipating translation from the drudgery of counting lines and interpreting single words." There has, indeed, been recently a reaction, attended in some cases with brilliant success—as in Bulwer's "Ballads of Schiller"—in favour of the literal and lineal method; but since such popular pieces as Dryden's "Virgil" and Pope's "Homer" have been written on Denham's plan, it is interesting to preserve the model, however rude, which they avowedly had in their eye.

His smaller pieces are not remarkable, unless we except his vigorous lines "On the Earl of Stafford's Trial and Death," containing such noble sentiments as these—

"Such was his force of eloquence, to make The hearers more concern'd than he that spake, Each seem'd to act that part he came to see, And none was more a looker-on than he; So did he move our passions, some were known To wish for the defence, the crime their own. Now private pity strove with public hate, Reason with rage, and eloquence with fate."

Nor let us forget his verses on "Cowley's Death," which, although unequal, and in their praise exaggerated, yet are in parts exceedingly felicitous, as for instance, in the lines to which Macaulay, in his "Milton," refers:—

"To him no author was unknown, Yet what he wrote was all his own; He melted not the ancient gold, Nor with Ben Jonson did make bold To plunder all the Roman stores Of poets and of orators; Horace's wit and Virgil's state He did not steal, but emulate! And when he would like them appear, Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear."

Such is true criticism, which, in our judgment, means clear, sharp, discriminating judgment expressed in the language and with the feelings of poetry.



DENHAM'S POETICAL WORKS.



POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.



COOPER'S HILL.

Sure there are poets which did never dream Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream Of Helicon; we therefore may suppose Those made not poets, but the poets those, And as courts make not kings, but kings the court, So where the Muses and their train resort, Parnassus stands; if I can be to thee A poet, thou Parnassus art to me. Nor wonder, if (advantaged in my flight, By taking wing from thy auspicious height) 10 Through untraced ways and airy paths I fly, More boundless in my fancy than my eye: My eye which, swift as thought, contracts the space That lies between, and first salutes the place Crown'd with that sacred pile, so vast, so high, That, whether 'tis a part of earth or sky, Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proud Aspiring mountain, or descending cloud. Paul's, the late theme of such a Muse,[1] whose flight 19 Has bravely reach'd and soar'd above thy height: Now shalt thou stand, though sword, or time, or fire, Or zeal more fierce than they, thy fall conspire, Secure, whilst thee the best of poets sings, Preserved from ruin by the best of kings. Under his proud survey the city lies, And like a mist beneath a hill doth rise; Whose state and wealth, the business and the crowd, Seems at this distance but a darker cloud: And is, to him who rightly things esteems, No other in effect than what it seems: 30 Where, with like haste, though sev'ral ways, they run, Some to undo, and some to be undone; While luxury and wealth, like war and peace, Are each the other's ruin and increase; As rivers lost in seas some secret vein Thence reconveys, there to be lost again. O happiness of sweet retired content! To be at once secure and innocent. Windsor the next (where Mars with Venus dwells, Beauty with strength) above the valley swells 40 Into my eye, and doth itself present With such an easy and unforced ascent, That no stupendous precipice denies Access, no horror turns away our eyes: But such a rise as doth at once invite A pleasure and a rev'rence from the sight: Thy mighty master's emblem, in whose face Sate meekness, heighten'd with majestic grace; Such seems thy gentle height, made only proud To be the basis of that pompous load, 50 Than which, a nobler weight no mountain bears, But Atlas only, which supports the spheres. When Nature's hand this ground did thus advance, 'Twas guided by a wiser power than Chance; Mark'd out for such an use, as if 'twere meant T' invite the builder, and his choice prevent. Nor can we call it choice, when what we choose, Folly or blindness only could refuse. A crown of such majestic towers doth grace The gods' great mother, when her heavenly race 60 Do homage to her, yet she cannot boast, Among that num'rous and celestial host. More heroes than can Windsor; nor doth Fame's Immortal book record more noble names. Not to look back so far, to whom this isle Owes the first glory of so brave a pile, Whether to Caesar, Albanact, or Brute, The British Arthur, or the Danish Knute, (Though this of old no less contest did move Than when for Homer's birth seven cities strove) 70 (Like him in birth, thou shouldst be like in fame, As thine his fate, if mine had been his flame), But whosoe'er it was, Nature design'd First a brave place, and then as brave a mind; Not to recount those sev'ral kings, to whom It gave a cradle, or to whom a tomb; But thee, great Edward, and thy greater son[2] (The lilies which his father wore, he won), And thy Bellona,[3] who the consort came Not only to thy bed, but to thy fame, so She to thy triumph led one captive king,[4] And brought that son, which did the second bring. Then didst thou found that Order (whether love 83 Or victory thy royal thoughts did move), Each was a noble cause, and nothing less Than the design, has been the great success: Which foreign kings, and emperors esteem The second honour to their diadem. Had thy great destiny but given thee skill To know, as well as power to act her will, 90 That from those kings, who then thy captives were, In after times should spring a royal pair Who should possess all that thy mighty power, Or thy desires more mighty, did devour: To whom their better fate reserves whate'er The victor hopes for, or the vanquish'd fear; That blood, which thou and thy great grandsire shed, And all that since these sister nations bled, Had been unspilt, had happy Edward known. That all the blood he spilt had been his own. 100 When he that patron chose, in whom are join'd Soldier and martyr, and his arms confin'd Within the azure circle, he did seem But to foretell, and prophesy of him, Who to his realms that azure round hath join'd, Which Nature for their bound at first design'd; That bound, which to the world's extremest ends, Endless itself, its liquid arms extends. Nor doth he need those emblems which we paint, But is himself the soldier and the saint. 110 Here should my wonder dwell, and here my praise; But my fix'd thoughts my wand'ring eye betrays, Viewing a neighb'ring hill, whose top of late A chapel crown'd, 'till in the common fate Th' adjoining abbey fell. (May no such storm Fall on our times, when ruin must reform!) Tell me, my Muse! what monstrous dire offence, 117 What crime could any Christian king incense To such a rage? Was't luxury, or lust? Was he so temperate, so chaste, so just? Were these their crimes? They were his own much more; But wealth is crime enough to him that's poor, Who having spent the treasures of his crown, Condemns their luxury to feed his own. And yet this act, to varnish o'er the shame Of sacrilege, must bear devotion's name. No crime so bold, but would be understood A real, or at least a seeming good: Who fears not to do ill, yet fears the name, And, free from conscience, is a slave to fame. 130 Thus he the church at once protects, and spoils: But princes' swords are sharper than their styles; And thus to th'ages past he makes amends, Their charity destroys, their faith defends. Then did Religion in a lazy cell, In empty, airy contemplations dwell; And like the block, unmoved lay; but ours, As much too active, like the stork devours. Is there no temp'rate region can be known, Betwixt their frigid, and our torrid zone? 140 Could we not wake from that lethargic dream, But to be restless in a worse extreme? And for that lethargy was there no cure, But to be cast into a calenture? Can knowledge have no bound, but must advance So far, to make us wish for ignorance, And rather in the dark to grope our way, Than, led by a false guide, to err by day? Who sees these dismal heaps, but would demand What barbarous invader sack'd the land? 150 But when he hears no Goth, no Turk did bring This desolation, but a Christian king; When nothing but the name of zeal appears 'Twixt our best actions and the worst of theirs, What does he think our sacrilege would spare, When such th'effects of our devotions are? Parting from thence 'twixt anger, shame and fear, Those for what's past, and this for what's too near, My eye descending from the hill, surveys Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays. 160 Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons By his old sire, to his embraces runs; Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity. Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold, His genuine and less guilty wealth t'explore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, And hatches plenty for th'ensuing spring; 170 Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, Like mothers which their infants overlay; Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. No unexpected inundations spoil The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil: But godlike his unwearied bounty flows; First loves to do, then loves the good he does. Nor are his blessings to his banks confined, But free and common as the sea or wind; 180 When he, to boast or to disperse his stores, Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, Visits the world, and in his flying towers Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours; Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants, Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants; So that to us no thing, no place is strange, While his fair bosom is the world's exchange. Oh, could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme! 190 Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. Heaven her Eridanus no more shall boast, Whose fame in thine, like lesser current, 's lost; Thy nobler streams shall visit Jove's abodes, To shine among the stars,[5] and bathe the gods. Here Nature, whether more intent to please Us or herself with strange varieties, (For things of wonder give no less delight To the wise maker's, than beholder's sight; 200 Though these delights from sev'ral causes move; For so our children, thus our friends, we love), Wisely she knew the harmony of things, As well as that of sounds, from discord springs. Such was the discord, which did first disperse Form, order, beauty, through the universe; While dryness moisture, coldness heat resists, All that we have, and that we are, subsists; While the steep, horrid roughness of the wood Strives with the gentle calmness of the flood, 210 Such huge extremes when Nature doth unite, Wonder from thence results, from thence delight. The stream is so transparent, pure, and clear, That had the self-enamour'd youth[6] gazed here, So fatally deceived he had not been, While he the bottom, not his face had seen. But his proud head the airy mountain hides 217 Among the clouds; his shoulders and his sides A shady mantle clothes; his curled brows Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows, While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat: The common fate of all that's high or great. Low at his foot a spacious plain is placed, Between the mountain and the stream embraced, Which shade and shelter from the hill derives, While the kind river wealth and beauty gives, And in the mixture of all these appears Variety, which all the rest endears. This scene had some bold Greek or British bard Beheld of old, what stories had we heard 230 Of fairies, satyrs, and the nymphs their dames, Their feasts, their revels, and their am'rous flames? 'Tis still the same, although their airy shape All but a quick poetic sight escape. There Faunus and Sylvanus keep their courts, And thither all the horned host resorts To graze the ranker mead; that noble herd On whose sublime and shady fronts is rear'd Nature's great masterpiece; to show how soon, Great things are made, but sooner are undone. 240 Here have I seen the King, when great affairs Gave leave to slacken, and unbend his cares, Attended to the chase by all the flower Of youth whose hopes a nobler prey devour: Pleasure with praise and danger they would buy, And wish a foe that would not only fly. The stag now conscious of his fatal growth, At once indulgent to his fear and sloth, To some dark covert his retreat had made, Where nor man's eye, nor heaven's should invade 250 His soft repose; when th'unexpected sound Of dogs, and men, his wakeful ears does wound. Roused with the noise, he scarce believes his ear, Willing to think th'illusions of his fear Had given this false alarm, but straight his view Confirms that more than all he fears is true. Betray'd in all his strengths, the wood beset; All instruments, all arts of ruin met; He calls to mind his strength and then his speed, His winged heels, and then his armed head; 260 With these t'avoid, with that his fate to meet: But fear prevails, and bids him trust his feet. So fast he flies, that his reviewing eye Has lost the chasers, and his ear the cry; Exulting, till he finds their nobler sense Their disproportion'd speed doth recompense; Then curses his conspiring feet, whose scent Betrays that safety which their swiftness lent; Then tries his friends; among the baser herd, Where he so lately was obey'd and fear'd, 270 His safety seeks; the herd, unkindly wise, Or chases him from thence, or from him flies; Like a declining statesman, left forlorn To his friends' pity, and pursuers' scorn, With shame remembers, while himself was one Of the same herd, himself the same had done. Thence to the coverts and the conscious groves, The scenes of his past triumphs and his loves; Sadly surveying where he ranged alone Prince of the soil, and all the herd his own, 280 And like a bold knight-errant did proclaim. Combat to all, and bore away the dame, And taught the woods to echo to the stream His dreadful challenge, and his clashing beam; Yet faintly now declines the fatal strife; So much his love was dearer than his life. Now every leaf, and every moving breath Presents a foe, and every foe a death. Wearied, forsaken, and pursued, at last All safety in despair of safety placed, 290 Courage he thence resumes, resolved to bear All their assaults, since 'tis in vain to fear. And now, too late, he wishes for the fight That strength he wasted in ignoble flight: But when he sees the eager chase renew'd, Himself by dogs, the dogs by men pursued, He straight revokes his bold resolve, and more Repents his courage than his fear before; Finds that uncertain ways unsafest are, And doubt a greater mischief than despair. 300 Then to the stream, when neither friends, nor force, Nor speed, nor art, avail, he shapes his course; Thinks not their rage so desperate to assay An element more merciless than they. But fearless they pursue, nor can the flood Quench their dire thirst; alas! they thirst for blood. So t'wards a ship the oar-finn'd galleys ply, Which, wanting sea to ride, or wind to fly, Stands but to fall revenged on those that dare Tempt the last fury of extreme despair. 310 So fares the stag, among th'enraged hounds, Repels their force, and wounds returns for wounds; And as a hero, whom his baser foes In troops surround, now these assails, now those, Though prodigal of life, disdains to die By common hands; but if he can descry Some nobler foe approach, to him he calls, And begs his fate, and then contented falls. So when the king a mortal shaft lets fly 319 From his unerring hand, then glad to die, Proud of the wound, to it resigns his blood, And stains the crystal with a purple flood. This a more innocent, and happy chase, Than when of old, but in the selfsame place, Fair Liberty pursued,[7] and meant a prey To lawless power, here turn'd, and stood at bay; When in that remedy all hope was placed Which was, or should have been at least, the last. Here was that charter seal'd, wherein the crown All marks of arbitrary power lays down: 330 Tyrant and slave, those names of hate and fear, The happier style of king and subject bear: Happy, when both to the same centre move, When kings give liberty, and subjects love. Therefore not long in force this charter stood; Wanting that seal, it must be seal'd in blood. The subjects arm'd, the more their princes gave, Th' advantage only took the more to crave; Till kings by giving, give themselves away, And e'en that power, that should deny, betray. 340 'Who gives constrain'd, but his own fear reviles, Not thank'd, but scorn'd; nor are they gifts, but spoils.' Thus kings, by grasping more than they could hold, First made their subjects, by oppression, bold: And popular sway, by forcing kings to give More than was fit for subjects to receive, Ran to the same extremes; and one excess Made both, by striving to be greater, less. When a calm river, raised with sudden rains, Or snows dissolved, o'erflows th'adjoining plains, 350 The husbandmen with high raised banks secure Their greedy hopes, and this he can endure; But if with bays and dams they strive to force His channel to a new, or narrow course; No longer then within his banks he dwells, First to a torrent, then a deluge, swells; Stronger and fiercer by restraint he roars, And knows no bound, but makes his power his shores.

[1] 'Such a Muse': Mr. Waller. [2] 'Great Edward, and thy greater son': Edward III. and the Black Prince. [3] 'Thy Bellona': Queen Phillippa. [4] 'Captive king': the kings of France and Scotland. [5] 'The stars': the Forest. [6] 'Self-enamour'd youth': Narcissus. [7] 'Liberty pursued': Runimede, where Magna Charta was first sealed.



THE DESTRUCTION OF TROY.

AN ESSAY ON THE SECOND BOOK OF VIRGIL'S AENEIS, WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1636.

THE ARGUMENT.

The first book speaks of Aeneas's voyage by sea, and how, being cast by tempest upon the coast of Carthage, he was received by Queen Dido, who, after the feast, desires him to make the relation of the destruction of Troy; which is the argument of this book.

While all with silence and attention wait, Thus speaks Aeneas from the bed of state:— Madam, when you command us to review Our fate, you make our old wounds bleed anew, And all those sorrows to my sense restore, Whereof none saw so much, none suffer'd more. Not the most cruel of our conqu'ring foes So unconcern'dly can relate our woes, As not to lend a tear; then how can I Repress the horror of my thoughts, which fly 10 The sad remembrance? Now th'expiring night And the declining stars to rest invite; Yet since 'tis your command, what you so well Are pleased to hear, I cannot grieve to tell. By fate repell'd and with repulses tired, The Greeks, so many lives and years expired, A fabric like a moving mountain frame, 17 Pretending vows for their return; this Fame Divulges; then within the beast's vast womb The choice and flower of all their troops entomb; In view the isle of Tenedos, once high, In fame and wealth, while Troy remain'd, doth lie; (Now but an unsecure and open bay) Thither by stealth the Greeks their fleet convey. We gave them gone,[1] and to Mycenae sail'd, And Troy reviv'd, her mourning face unveil'd; All through th'unguarded gates with joy resort To see the slighted camp, the vacant port; Here lay Ulysses, there Achilles; here The battles join'd; the Grecian fleet rode there; 30 But the vast pile th'amazed vulgar views, Till they their reason in their wonder lose. And first Thymoetes moves (urged by the power Of fate, or fraud) to place it in the tower; But Capys and the graver sort thought fit The Greeks' suspected present to commit To seas or flames, at least to search and bore The sides, and what that space contains, t'explore. Th' uncertain multitude with both engaged, Divided stands, till from the tower, enraged 40 Laocoon ran, whom all the crowd attends, Crying, 'What desp'rate frenzy's this, O friends! To think them gone? Judge rather their retreat But a design; their gifts but a deceit; For our destruction 'twas contrived no doubt, Or from within by fraud, or from without By force. Yet know ye not Ulysses' shifts? Their swords less danger carry than their gifts.' (This said) against the horse's side his spear 49 He throws, which trembles with enclosed fear, Whilst from the hollows of his womb proceed Groans, not his own; and had not Fate decreed Our ruin, we had fill'd with Grecian blood The place; then Troy and Priam's throne had stood. Meanwhile a fetter'd pris'ner to the king With joyful shouts the Dardan shepherds bring, Who to betray us did himself betray, At once the taker, and at once the prey; Firmly prepared, of one event secured, Or of his death or his design assured. 60 The Trojan youth about the captive flock, To wonder, or to pity, or to mock. Now hear the Grecian fraud, and from this one Conjecture all the rest. Disarm'd, disorder'd, casting round his eyes On all the troops that guarded him, he cries, 'What land, what sea, for me what fate attends? Caught by my foes, condemned by my friends, Incensed Troy a wretched captive seeks To sacrifice; a fugitive the Greeks.'— 70 To pity this complaint our former rage Converts; we now inquire his parentage; What of their counsels or affairs he knew Then fearless he replies, 'Great king! to you All truth I shall relate: nor first can I Myself to be of Grecian birth deny; And though my outward state misfortune hath Depress'd thus low, it cannot reach my faith. You may by chance have heard the famous name Of Palamede, who from old Belus came, 80 Whom, but for voting peace, the Greeks pursue, Accus'd unjustly, then unjustly slew, Yet mourn'd his death. My father was his friend, And me to his commands did recommend, While laws and councils did his throne support; I but a youth, yet some esteem and port We then did bear, till by Ulysses' craft (Things known I speak) he was of life bereft: Since, in dark sorrow I my days did spend, 90 Till now, disdaining his unworthy end, I could not silence my complaints, but vow'd Revenge, if ever fate or chance allow'd My wish'd return to Greece; from hence his hate, From thence my crimes, and all my ills bear date: Old guilt fresh malice gives; the people's ears He fills with rumours, and their hearts with fears, And then the prophet to his party drew. But why do I those thankless truths pursue, Or why defer your rage? on me, for all The Greeks, let your revenging fury fall. 100 Ulysses this, th'Atridae this desire At any rate.'—We straight are set on fire (Unpractised in such myst'ries) to inquire The manner and the cause: which thus he told, With gestures humble, as his tale was bold. 'Oft have the Greeks (the siege detesting) tired With tedious war, a stolen retreat desired, And would to Heaven they'd gone! but still dismay'd By seas or skies, unwillingly they stay'd. Chiefly when this stupendous pile was raised, 110 Strange noises filled the air; we, all amazed, Despatch Eurypylus t'inquire our fates, Who thus the sentence of the gods relates: "A virgin's slaughter did the storm appease, When first t'wards Troy the Grecians took the seas; Their safe retreat another Grecian's blood 116 Must purchase." All at this confounded stood; Each thinks himself the man, the fear on all Of what the mischief but on one can fall. Then Calchas (by Ulysses first inspired) Was urged to name whom th'angry god required; Yet was I warn'd (for many were as well Inspired as he) and did my fate foretell. Ten days the prophet in suspense remain'd, Would no man's fate pronounce; at last constrain'd By Ithacus, he solemnly design'd Me for the sacrifice; the people join'd In glad consent, and all their common fear Determine in my fate. The day drew near, The sacred rites prepared, my temples crown'd 130 With holy wreaths; then I confess I found The means to my escape; my bonds I brake, Fled from my guards, and in a muddy lake Amongst the sedges all the night lay hid, Till they their sails had hoist (if so they did). And now, alas! no hope remains for me My home, my father, and my sons to see, Whom they, enraged, will kill for my offence, And punish, for my guilt, their innocence. Those gods who know the truths I now relate, 140 That faith which yet remains inviolate By mortal men, by these I beg; redress My causeless wrongs, and pity such distress.'— And now true pity in exchange he finds For his false tears, his tongue his hands unbinds. Then spake the king, 'Be ours, whoe'er thou art; Forget the Greeks. But first the truth impart, Why did they raise, or to what use intend This pile? to a warlike or religious end?' Skilful in fraud (his native art) his hands 150 T'ward heaven he raised, deliver'd now from bands. 'Ye pure ethereal flames! ye powers adored By mortal men! ye altars, and the sword I 'scaped! ye sacred fillets that involved My destined head! grant I may stand absolved From all their laws and rights, renounce all name Of faith or love, their secret thoughts proclaim; Only, O Troy! preserve thy faith to me, If what I shall relate preserveth thee. From Pallas' favour all our hopes, and all 160 Counsels and actions took original, Till Diomed (for such attempts made fit By dire conjunction with Ulysses' wit) Assails the sacred tower, the guards they slay, Defile with bloody hands, and thence convey The fatal image; straight with our success Our hopes fell back, whilst prodigies express Her just disdain, her flaming eyes did throw Flashes of lightning, from each part did flow A briny sweat; thrice brandishing her spear, 170 Her statue from the ground itself did rear; Then, that we should our sacrilege restore, And re-convey their gods from Argos' shore, Calchas persuades, till then we urge in vain The fate of Troy. To measure back the main They all consent, but to return again, When reinforced with aids of gods and men. Thus Calchas; then instead of that, this pile To Pallas was design'd; to reconcile Th' offended power, and expiate our guilt; 180 To this vast height and monstrous stature built, Lest through your gates received, it might renew Your vows to her, and her defence to you. But if this sacred gift you disesteem, Then cruel plagues (which Heaven divert on them!) Shall fall on Priam's state: but if the horse Your walls ascend, assisted by your force, A league 'gainst Greece all Asia shall contract; Our sons then suff'ring what their sires would act.'

Thus by his fraud and our own faith o'ercome, 190 A feigned tear destroys us, against whom Tydides nor Achilles could prevail, Nor ten years' conflict, nor a thousand sail. This seconded by a most sad portent, Which credit to the first imposture lent; Laocoon, Neptune's priest, upon the day Devoted to that god, a bull did slay; When two prodigious serpents were descried, Whose circling strokes the sea's smooth face divide; Above the deep they raise their scaly crests, 200 And stem the flood with their erected breasts, Their winding tails advance and steer their course, And 'gainst the shore the breaking billows force. Now landing, from their brandish'd tongues there came A dreadful hiss, and from their eyes a flame. Amazed we fly, directly in a line Laocoon they pursue, and first entwine (Each preying upon one) his tender sons; Then him, who armed to their rescue runs, They seized, and with entangling folds embraced, 210 His neck twice compassing, and twice his waist: Their pois'nous knots he strives to break and tear, While slime and blood his sacred wreaths besmear; Then loudly roars, as when th'enraged bull From th'altar flies, and from his wounded skull Shakes the huge axe; the conqu'ring serpents fly To cruel Pallas' altar, and there lie Under her feet, within her shield's extent. 218 We, in our fears, conclude this fate was sent Justly on him, who struck the sacred oak With his accursed lance. Then to invoke The goddess, and let in the fatal horse, We all consent.

A spacious breach we make, and Troy's proud wall Built by the gods, by our own hands doth fall; Thus, all their help to their own ruin give, Some draw with cords, and some the monster drive With rolls and levers: thus our works it climbs Big with our fate; the youth with songs and rhymes, Some dance, some hale the rope; at last let down 230 It enters with a thund'ring noise the town. Oh Troy! the seat of gods, in war renown'd! Three times it struck; as oft the clashing sound Of arms was heard; yet blinded by the power Of Fate, we place it in the sacred tower. Cassandra then foretells th'event, but she Finds no belief (such was the gods' decree). The altars with fresh flowers we crown, and waste In feasts that day, which was (alas!) our last. Now by the revolution of the skies 240 Night's sable shadows from the ocean rise, Which heaven and earth, and the Greek frauds involved, The city in secure repose dissolved, When from the admiral's high poop appears A light, by which the Argive squadron steers Their silent course to Ilium's well-known shore, When Sinon (saved by the gods' partial power) Opens the horse, and through the unlock'd doors To the free air the armed freight restores: Ulysses, Stheneleus, Tisander slide 250 Down by a rope, Machaon was their guide; Atrides, Pyrrhus, Thoas, Athamas, And Epeus who the fraud's contriver was. The gates they seize; the guards, with sleep and wine Oppress'd, surprise, and then their forces join. 'Twas then, when the first sweets of sleep repair Our bodies spent with toil, our minds with care, (The gods' best gift), when, bathed in tears and blood, Before my face lamenting Hector stood, His aspect such when, soil'd with bloody dust, 260 Dragg'd by the cords which through his feet were thrust By his insulting foe; oh, how transform'd, How much unlike that Hector, who return'd Clad in Achilles' spoils! when he, among A thousand ships (like Jove) his lightning flung! His horrid beard and knotted tresses stood Stiff with his gore, and all his wounds ran blood: Entranced I lay, then (weeping) said, 'The joy, The hope and stay of thy declining Troy! What region held thee? whence, so much desired, 270 Art thou restored to us, consumed and tired With toils and deaths? But what sad cause confounds Thy once fair looks, or why appear those wounds?' Regardless of my words, he no reply Returns, but with a dreadful groan doth cry, 'Fly from the flame, O goddess-born! our walls The Greeks possess, and Troy confounded falls From all her glories; if it might have stood By any power, by this right hand it should. What man could do, by me for Troy was done. 280 Take here her relics and her gods, to run With them thy fate, with them new walls expect, Which, toss'd on seas, thou shalt at last erect;'— Then brings old Vesta from her sacred choir, Her holy wreaths, and her eternal fire. Meanwhile the walls with doubtful cries resound From far (for shady coverts did surround My father's house); approaching still more near, The clash of arms, and voice of men we hear: Roused from my bed, I speedily ascend 290 The houses' tops, and listening there attend. As flames roll'd by the winds' conspiring force, O'er full-ear'd corn, or torrent's raging course Bears down th'opposing oaks, the fields destroys, And mocks the ploughman's toil, th'unlook'd for noise From neighb'ring hills th'amazed shepherd hears; Such my surprise, and such their rage appears. First fell thy house, Ucalegon! then thine Deiphobus! Sigaean seas did shine Bright with Troy's flames; the trumpets' dreadful sound The louder groans of dying men confound. 301 Give me my arms, I cried, resolved to throw Myself 'mong any that opposed the foe: Rage, anger, and despair at once suggest, That of all deaths, to die in arms was best. The first I met was Pantheus, Phoebus' priest, Who, 'scaping with his gods and relics, fled, And t'wards the shore his little grandchild led; 'Pantheus, what hope remains? what force, what place Made good? But, sighing, he replies, 'Alas! 310 Trojans we were, and mighty Ilium was; But the last period and the fatal hour Of Troy is come: our glory and our power Incensed Jove transfers to Grecian hands; The foe within the burning town commands; And (like a smother'd fire) an unseen force Breaks from the bowels of the fatal horse: Insulting Sinon flings about the flame, And thousands more than e'er from Argos came Possess the gates, the passes, and the streets, 320 And these the sword o'ertakes, and those it meets. The guard nor fights nor flies; their fate so near At once suspends their courage and their fear.'— Thus by the gods, and by Atrides' words Inspir'd, I make my way through fire, through swords, Where noises, tumults, outcries, and alarms I heard; first Iphitus, renown'd for arms, We meet, who knew us (for the moon did shine) Then Ripheus, Hypanis, and Dymas join Their force, and young Choroebus, Mygdon's son, 330 Who, by the love of fair Cassandra won, Arrived but lately in her father's aid; Unhappy, whom the threats could not dissuade Of his prophetic spouse; Whom when I saw, yet daring to maintain The fight, I said, 'Brave spirits! (but in vain) Are you resolv'd to follow one who dares Tempt all extremes? The state of our affairs You see: the gods have left us, by whose aid Our empire stood; nor can the flame be stay'd: 340 Then let us fall amidst our foes; this one Relief the vanquish'd have, to hope for none.' Then reinforced, as in a stormy night Wolves urged by their raging appetite Forage for prey, which their neglected young With greedy jaws expect, even so among Foes, fire, and swords, t'assured death we pass; Darkness our guide, Despair our leader was. Who can relate that evening's woes and spoils, Or can his tears proportion to our toils? 350 The city, which so long had flourish'd, falls; Death triumphs o'er the houses, temples, walls. Nor only on the Trojans fell this doom, Their hearts at last the vanquish'd reassume; And now the victors fall: on all sides fears, Groans, and pale Death in all her shapes appears! Androgeus first with his whole troop was cast Upon us, with civility misplaced Thus greeting us, 'You lose, by your delay, Your share, both of the honour and the prey; 360 Others the spoils of burning Troy convey Back to those ships which you but now forsake.' We making no return, his sad mistake Too late he finds; as when an unseen snake A traveller's unwary foot hath press'd, Who trembling starts, when the snake's azure crest, Swoll'n with his rising anger, he espies, So from our view surprised Androgeus flies. But here an easy victory we meet: Fear binds their hands and ignorance their feet. 370 Whilst fortune our first enterprise did aid, Encouraged with success, Choroebus said, 'O friends! we now by better fates are led, And the fair path they lead us, let us tread. First change your arms, and their distinctions bear; The same, in foes, deceit and virtue are.' Then of his arms Androgeus he divests, His sword, his shield he takes, and plumed crests; Then Ripheus, Dymas, and the rest, all glad Of the occasion, in fresh spoils are clad. 380 Thus mix'd with Greeks, as if their fortune still Follow'd their swords, we fight, pursue, and kill. Some re-ascend the horse, and he whose sides Let forth the valiant, now the coward hides. Some to their safer guard, their ships, retire; But vain's that hope 'gainst which the gods conspire; Behold the royal virgin, the divine Cassandra, from Minerva's fatal shrine Dragg'd by the hair, casting t'wards heaven, in vain, Her eyes; for cords her tender hands did strain; 390 Choroebus at the spectacle enraged, Flies in amidst the foes: we thus engaged, To second him, among the thickest ran; Here first our ruin from our friends began, Who from the temple's battlements a shower Of darts and arrows on our heads did pour: They us for Greeks, and now the Greeks (who knew Cassandra's rescue) us for Trojans slew. Then from all parts Ulysses, Ajax then, And then th'Atridae rally all their men; 400 As winds, that meet from sev'ral coasts, contest, Their prisons being broke, the south and west, And Eurus on his winged coursers borne, Triumphing in their speed, the woods are torn, And chasing Nereus with his trident throws The billows from their bottom; then all those Who in the dark our fury did escape, Returning, know our borrow'd arms and shape, And diff'ring dialect: then their numbers swell And grow upon us; first Choroebus fell 410 Before Minerva's altar, next did bleed Just Ripheus, whom no Trojan did exceed In virtue, yet the gods his fate decreed. Then Hypanis and Dymas, wounded by Their friends; nor thee, Pantheus! thy piety, Nor consecrated mitre, from the same Ill fate could save. My country's fun'ral flame And Troy's cold ashes I attest, and call To witness for myself, that in their fall No foes, no death, nor danger I declin'd, 420 Did, and deserv'd no less, my fate to find. Now Iphitus with me, and Pelias Slowly retire; the one retarded was By feeble age, the other by a wound; To court the cry directs us, where we found Th' assault so hot, as if 'twere only there, And all the rest secure from foes or fear: The Greeks the gates approach'd, their targets cast Over their heads; some scaling ladders placed Against the walls, the rest the steps ascend, 430 And with their shields on their left arms defend Arrows and darts, and with their right hold fast The battlement; on them the Trojans cast Stones, rafters, pillars, beams; such arms as these, Now hopeless, for their last defence they seize. The gilded roofs, the marks of ancient state, They tumble down; and now against the gate Of th'inner court their growing force they bring; Now was our last effort to save the king, Relieve the fainting, and succeed the dead. 440 A private gallery 'twixt th'apartments led, Not to the foe yet known, or not observed, (The way for Hector's hapless wife reserved, When to the aged king her little son She would present); through this we pass, and run Up to the highest battlement, from whence The Trojans threw their darts without offence, A tower so high, it seem'd to reach the sky, Stood on the roof, from whence we could descry, All Ilium—both the camps, the Grecian fleet; 450 This, where the beams upon the columns meet, We loosen, which like thunder from the cloud Breaks on their heads, as sudden and as loud. But others still succeed: meantime, nor stones Nor any kind of weapons cease. Before the gate in gilded armour shone Young Pyrrhus, like a snake, his skin new grown, Who, fed on pois'nous herbs, all winter lay Under the ground, and now reviews the day, Fresh in his new apparel, proud and young, 460 Rolls up his back, and brandishes his tongue, And lifts his scaly breast against the sun; With him his father's squire, Automedon, And Peripas who drove his winged steeds, Enter the court; whom all the youth succeeds Of Scyros' isle, who naming firebrands flung Up to the roof; Pyrrhus himself among The foremost with an axe an entrance hews Through beams of solid oak, then freely views The chambers, galleries, and rooms of state, 470 Where Priam and the ancient monarchs sate. At the first gate an armed guard appears; But th'inner court with horror, noise and tears, Confus'dly fill'd, the women's shrieks and cries The arched vaults re-echo to the skies; Sad matrons wand'ring through the spacious rooms Embrace and kiss the posts; then Pyrrhus comes; Full of his father, neither men nor walls His force sustain; the torn portcullis falls; Then from the hinge their strokes the gates divorce, 480 And where the way they cannot find, they force. Not with such rage a swelling torrent flows Above his banks, th'opposing dams o'erthrows, Depopulates the fields, the cattle, sheep, Shepherds and folds, the foaming surges sweep. And now between two sad extremes I stood, Here Pyrrhus and th'Atridae drunk with blood, There th'hapless queen amongst an hundred dames, 488 And Priam quenching from his wounds those flames Which his own hands had on the altar laid; Then they the secret cabinets invade, Where stood the fifty nuptial beds, the hopes Of that great race; the golden posts, whose tops Old hostile spoils adorn'd, demolished lay, Or to the foe, or to the fire a prey. Now Priam's fate perhaps you may inquire: Seeing his empire lost, his Troy on fire, And his own palace by the Greeks possess'd, Arms long disused his trembling limbs invest; Thus on his foes he throws himself alone, 500 Not for their fate, but to provoke his own: There stood an altar open to the view Of heaven, near which an aged laurel grew, Whose shady arms the household gods embraced, Before whose feet the queen herself had cast With all her daughters, and the Trojan wives, As doves whom an approaching tempest drives And frights into one flock; but having spied Old Priam clad in youthful arms, she cried, 'Alas! my wretched husband! what pretence 510 To bear those arms? and in them what defence? Such aid such times require not, when again If Hector were alive, he lived in vain; Or here we shall a sanctuary find, Or as in life, we shall in death be join'd.' Then, weeping, with kind force held and embraced, And on the secret seat the king she placed. Meanwhile Polites, one of Priam's sons, Flying the rage of bloody Pyrrhus, runs Through foes and swords, and ranges all the court 520 And empty galleries, amazed and hurt; Pyrrhus pursues him, now o'ertakes, now kills, And his last blood in Priam's presence spills. The king (though him so many deaths enclose) Nor fear, nor grief, but indignation shows; 'The gods requite thee (if within the care Of those above th'affairs of mortals are), Whose fury on the son but lost had been, Had not his parents' eyes his murder seen: Not that Achilles (whom thou feign'st to be 530 Thy father) so inhuman was to me; He blush'd, when I the rights of arms implored; To me my Hector, me to Troy, restored.' This said, his feeble arm a jav'lin flung, Which on the sounding shield, scarce ent'ring, rung. Then Pyrrhus; 'Go a messenger to hell Of my black deeds, and to my father tell The acts of his degen'rate race.' So through His son's warm blood the trembling king he drew To th'altar; in his hair one hand he wreathes; 540 His sword the other in his bosom sheaths. Thus fell the king, who yet surviv'd the state, With such a signal and peculiar fate, Under so vast a ruin, not a grave, Nor in such flames a fun'ral fire to have: He whom such titles swell'd, such power made proud, To whom the sceptres of all Asia bow'd, On the cold earth lies th'unregarded king, A headless carcase, and a nameless thing.

[1] 'Gave them gone': i.e., gave them up for gone.



ON THE EARL OF STRAFFORD'S TRIAL AND DEATH.

Great Strafford! worthy of that name, though all Of thee could be forgotten, but thy fall, Crush'd by imaginary treason's weight, Which too much merit did accumulate. As chemists gold from brass by fire would draw, Pretexts are into treason forged by law. His wisdom such, at once it did appear Three kingdoms' wonder, and three kingdoms' fear; Whilst single he stood forth, and seem'd, although Each had an army, as an equal foe. 10 Such was his force of eloquence, to make The hearers more concern'd than he that spake; Each seem'd to act that part he came to see, And none was more a looker-on than he; So did he move our passions, some were known To wish, for the defence, the crime their own. Now private pity strove with public hate, Reason with rage, and eloquence with fate: Now they could him, if he could them, forgive; He's not too guilty, but too wise, to live: 20 Less seem those facts which treason's nickname bore, Than such a fear'd ability for more. They after death their fears of him express, His innocence and their own guilt confess. Their legislative frenzy they repent, Enacting it should make no precedent. This fate he could have 'scaped, but would not lose Honour for life, but rather nobly chose Death from their fears, than safety from his own, That his last action all the rest might crown. 30