The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper

Thyself with that ignoble slaughter fill, 'Twill be permitted thee that blood to spill.

Measure the ruder world throughout,
March all the ocean's shores about,
Only pass by and spare the British isle.
Go on, and (what Columbus once shall do
When days and time unto their ripeness grow)
Find out new lands and unknown countries too:
Attempt those lands which yet are hid
From all mortality beside:

There thou may'st steal a victory,
And none of this world hear the cry
Of those that by thy wounds shall die;
No Greek shall know thy cruelty,
And tell it to posterity.

Go, and unpeople all those mighty lands,
Destroy with unrelenting hands;

Go, and the Spaniard's sword prevent, .
Go, make the Spaniard innocent;

Go, and root out all mankind there, ́

That when the European armies shall appear
Their sin may be the less,

They may find all a wilderness,

So when the elephants did first affright
The Romans with unusual sight,
They many battles lose,

Before they knew their foes,

Before they understood such dreadful troops t' oppose.

Now every different sect agrees

Against their common adversary, the disease,
And all their little wranglings cease;

The Pythagoreans from their precepts swerve,
No more their silence they observe,
Out of their schools they run,
Lament, and cry, and groan ;

They now desir'd their metempsychosis;
Not only to dispute, but wish

That they might turn to beasts, or fowls, or fish,
If the Platonics had been here,

They would have curs'd their master's year,
When all things shall be as they were,

When they again the same disease shall bear:
All the philosophers would now,

What the great Stagyrite shall do,

And without blood the gold and silver there possess. Themselves into the waters headlong throw.

Nor is this all which we thee grant;
Rather than thou should'st full employment want,
(We do permit) in Greece thy kingdom plant.
Ransack Lycurgus' streets throughout,
They've no defence of walls to keep thee out.
On wanton and proud Corinth seize,
Nor let her double waves thy flames appease.
Let Cyprus feel more fires than those of love:
Let Delos, which at first did give the Sun,
See unknown flames in her begun,
Now let her wish she might unconstant prove,
And from her place might truly move:
Let Lemnos all thy anger feel,
And think that a new Vulcan fell,
And brought with him new anvils, and new Hell.
Nay, at Athens too we give thee up,

All that thou find'st in field, or camp, or shop:
Make havock there without control
Of every ignorant and common soul.
But then, kind Plague, thy conquests stop;

Let arts, and let the learned, there escape,
Upon Minerva's self commit no rape;
Touch not the sacred throng,

And let Apollo's priests be, like him, young,
Like him, be healthful too, and strong.
But ah! too ravenous Plague, whilst I
Strive to keep off the misery,

The learned too, as fast as others, round me die;
They from corruption are not free,
Are mortal, though they give an immortality.

They turn'd their authors o'er, to try

What help, what cure, what remedy,
All Nature's stores against this plague supply;
And though besides they shunn'd it every where,
They search'd it in their books, and fain would

meet it there;

They turn'd the records of the ancient times, And chiefly those that were made famous by their

crimes,

To find if men were punish'd so before;
But found not the disease nor cure.
Nature, alas! was now surpris'd,

And all her forces seiz'd,

Before she was how to resist advis'd.

The Stoics felt the deadly stroke,

At first assault their courage was not broke,
They call'd in all the cobweb aid

Of rules and precepts, which in store they
had;

They bid their hearts stand out,
Bid them be calm and stout,

But all the strength of precept will not do't.
They can't the storms of passion now assuage;
As common men, are angry, grieve, aud rage.
The gods are call'd upon in vain,
The gods gave no release unto their pain,
The gods to fear ev'u for themselves began.
For now the sick unto their temples came,
And brought more than an holy flame,
There at the altars made their prayer,
They sacrific'd, and died there,

A sacrifice not seen before;

That Heaven, only us'd unto the gore
Of lambs or bulis, should now

Loaded with priests see its own altars too!

The woods gave funeral piles no more,
The dead the very fire devour,

And that almighty conqueror o'erpower.
The noble and the common dust
Into each other's graves are thrust.
No place is sacred, and no tomb;
"Tis now a privilege to consume;
Their ashes no distinction had;

Too truly all by death are equal made.
The ghosts of those great heroes that had fled
From Athens, long since banished,
Now o'er the city hovered;
Their anger yielded to their love,
They left th' immortal joys above,

So much their Athens' danger did then move.
They came to pity, and to aid,

But now, alas! were quite dismay'd,
When they beheld the marbles open lay'd,
And poor men's bones the noble urns invade;
Back to the blessed seats they went,
And now did thank their banishment,
By which they were to die in foreign countries
sent.

326

But what, great gods! was worst of all, Hell forth its magazines of lust did call,

Nor would it be content

With the thick troops of souls were thither sent ;'
Into the upper world it went.
Such guilt, such wickedness,
Such irreligion did increase,

That the few good which did survive

Were angry with the Plague for suffering them to live:

More for the living than the dead did grieve.
Some robb'd the very dead,

Though sure to be infected ere they fled,
Though in the very air sure to be punished.
Some nor the shrines nor temples spar'd,

Nor gods nor heavens fear'd,

Though such example of their power appear'd.
Virtue was now esteem'd an empty name,
And honesty the foolish voice of Fame;

For, having past those torturing flames before, They thought the punishment already o'er, Thought Heaven no worse torments had in [no more. store;

Here having felt one Hell, they thought there was

UPON THE POEMS OF THE

English Ovid, Anacreon, Pindar, and Virgil,

ABRAHAM COWLEY,

IN IMITATION OF HIS OWN PINDARIC ODES.

LET all this meaner rout of books stand by,

The common people of our library;

Let them make way for Cowley's leaves to come,
And be hung up within this sacred room:

Let no prophane hands break the chain,
Or give them unwish'd liberty again.
But let his holy relic be laid here,

With the same religious care

As Numa once the target kept,
Which down from Heaven leapt ;
Just such another is this book,

Which its original from divine hands took, And brings as much good too, to those that on it look. But yet in this they differ. That could be Eleven times liken'd by a mortal hand;

But this which here doth stand

Will never any of its own sort see,
But must still live without such company.
For never yet was writ,

In the two learned ages which time left behind,
Nor in this ever shall we find,

Nor any one like to it,

Of all the numerous monuments of wit.

Thy hand too, like the Sun which angels move,
Has the same influence from above,
Produces gold and silver of a nobler kind;

Of greater price, and more refin'd.
[race,
Yet in this it exceeds the Sun, 't has no degenerate
Brings forth no lead, nor any thing so base.

What holy vestal hearth,
What immortal breath,

Did give so pure poetic flame its birth?
Just such a fire as thine,

Of such an unmix'd glorious shine,

Was Prometheus's flame,

Which from no less than Heaven came.
Along he brought the sparkling coal,
From some celestial chimney stole;
Quickly the plunder'd stars he left,

And as he hasten'd down
With the robb'd flames his hands still shone,
And seem'd as if they were burnt for the theft.
Thy poetry's compounded of the same,
Such a bright immortal flame;
Just so temper'd is thy rage,
Thy fires as light and pure as they,
And go as high as his did, if not higher,

That thou may'st seem to us

A true Prometheus,

[fire.

But that thou didst not steal the least spark of thy

So were his words, so plac'd his sounds, Which fore'd the marbles rise from out their

grounds,

Which cut and carved, made them shine, Awork which can be outdone by none but thine. Th' amazed poet saw the building rise,

And knew not how to trust his eyes: The willing mortar came, and all the trees Leap into beams he sees.

He saw the streets appear, Streets, that must needs be harmonious there: He saw the walls dance round t' his pipe, The glorious temple show its head, He saw the infant city ripe,

To the America of wit,

Which was last known, and has most gold in it.
That mother-tongue which we do speak,
This world thy greater spirit has run through,
And view'd and conquer'd too,

A world as round and large as th' other is,
And yet in it there can be no antipodes,
For none hereafter will go contrary to you.

Poets till now desery'd excuse, not praise,
Till now the Muses liv'd in taverns, and the bays
That they were truly trees did show,
Because by sucking liquor they did only grow
Verses were counted fiction, and a lye
The very nature of good poetry.

He was a poet that could speak least truth:

Sober and grave men scorn'd the name, Which once was thought the greatest fame. Poets had nought else of Apollo, but his youth: Few ever spake in rhyme, but that their feet The trencher of some liberal man might meet. Or else they did some rotten mistress paint, Call her their goddess, or their saint. Though contrary in this they to their master run, For the great god of wit, the Sun, [Moon, When he doth show his mistress, the white He makes her spots, as well as beauty to be shown.

Till now the sisters were too old, and therefore Extremely fabulous too: [grew

Till you, sir, came, they were despis'd;

They were all heathens yet,

Nor ever into the church could get; And though they had a font so long, yet never were baptis'd.

You, sir, have rais'd the price of wit,
By bringing in more store of it:
Poetry, the queen of arts, can now

Reign without dissembling too.
You've shown a poet must not needs be bad; .!
That one may be Apollo's priest,
And be fill'd with his oracles, without being mad:
Till now, wit was a curse (as to Lot's wife
'Twas to be turn'd to salt)

Because it made men lead a life Which was nought else but one continual fault. You first the Muses to the Christians brought, And you then first the holy language taught: In you good poetry and divinity meet, You are the first bird of Paradise with feet.

Your miscellanies do appear
Just such another glorious indigested heap
As the first mass was, where
All Heavens and stars enclosed were,
Before they each one to their place did leap.
Before God, the great censor, them bestow'd,
According to their ranks, in several tribes abroad;
Whilst yet Sun and Moon

Were in perpetual conjunction:
Whilst all the stars were but one milky way,
And in natural embraces lay.

Whilst yet none of the lamps of Heaven might
Call this their own, and that another's light.
So glorious a lump as thine,
Which chymistry may separate, but not refine:
So mixt, so pure, so united does it shine,
A chain of sand, of which each link is all divine..

Thy mistress shows, that Cupid is not always blind,

Where we a pure exalted Muse do find, Such as may well become a glorified mind.

Such songs tune angels when they love, And do make courtship to some sister-mind above (For angels need not scorn such soft desires, Seeing thy heart is touch'd with the same fires). So when they clothe themselves in flesh, And their light some human shapes do dress (For which they fetch'd stuff from the neighbouring air):

So when they stoop, to like some mortal fair, Such words, such odes as thine they use, With such soft strains, love into her heart infuse.

Thy love is on the top, if not above mortality;'

Clean, and from corruption free,

Such as affections in eternity shall be;
Which shall remain unspotted there,
Only to show what once they were:
Thy Cupid's shafts all golden are;

Thy Venus has the salt, but not the froth o'th' sea.

Thy high Pindaries soar

So high, where never any wing till now could get; And yet thy wit

Doth seem so great, as those that do fly lower. Thou stand'st on Pindar's back;

And therefore thou a higher flight dost take:
Only thou art the eagle, he the wren,

Thou hast brought him from the dust,
And made him live again.

More majesty; a greater soul is given to him, by you,

Than ever he in happy Thebes or Greece could shew.

Thy David, too

But hold thy headlong pace, my Muse;
None but the priest himself doth use
Into the holiest place to go.

Check thy young Pindaric heat,

Which makes thy pen too much to sweat; 'Tis but an infant yet,

And just now left the teat,

By Cowley's matchless pattern nurst:
Therefore it is not fit

That it should dare to speak so much at first.
No more, no more, for shame.

Pindar has left his barbarous Greece, and thinks Let not thy verse be, as his worth is, infinite:

Char's

THE

POEMS

OF THE

EARL OF HALIFAX.

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The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper, Volumen 9