« AnteriorContinuar »
But, had his doings lasted as they were,
EPIGRAM ON SALMASIUS'S HUNDREDA..
ON THE NEW FORCERS OF CONSCIENCE UNDER THE
And with stiff vows renounced his liturgy,
From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorr'd,
To force our consciences that Christ set free,
Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rotherford ?
Would have been held in high esteem with Paul
By shallow Edwards, and Scotch what d'ye call ;
That so the Parliament
And succour our just fears
I TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ;
As thou from year to year has sung too late
Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,
II. ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF TWENTY
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year !
But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth.
That I to manhood am arrived so near;
That some more timely-happy spirits endueth.
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
III. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.
CAPTAIN, or colonel, or knight in arms,
Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
Of sad Electra's poet had the power
IV. TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY.
Wisely hast shunn'd the broad way and the green,
That labour up the hill of heavenly truth,
Chosen thou hast ; and they that overween,
To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,
And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure
Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night
V. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.
Of England's Council, and her Treasury,
And left them both, more in himself content,
Broke him, as that dishonest victory
Kill'd with report that old man eloquent.
Madam, methinks I see him living yet;
That all both judge you to relate them true,
VI. ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON
MY WRITING CERTAIN TREATISES.
And woven close, both matter, form, and style ;
Numbering good intellects; now seldom pored on.
A title-page is this! and some in file
End Green. Why is it harder, sirs, than Gordon,
Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek,
That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.
Hated not learning worse than toad or asp,
VII. ON THE SAME.
By the known rules of ancient liberty,
Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs :
Rail'd at Latona's twin-born progeny,
But this is got by casting pearl to hogs;
And still revolt when truth would set them free.
Licence they mean when they cry Liberty;
But from that mark how far they rove we see,
VIII. TO MR. H. LAWES ON THE PUBLISHING HIS AIRS.
Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song
First taught our English music how to span
With Midas' ears, committing short and long;
That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue.
To honour thee, the priest of Phæbus' choir,
That tunest their happiest lines in hymn or story.
Than his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing,
IX. ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF
MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON,
Had ripen'd thy just soul to dwell with God,
Of death, call'd life ; which us from life doth sever. Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour,
Stay'd not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever.
Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams
And azure wings, that up they flew so drest,
Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee rest,
X. TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
Filling each mouth with envy or with praise,
And rumours loud, that daunt remotest kings,
Victory home, though new rebellions raise
(For what can war, but endless war still breed ?)
Till truth and right from violence be freed,
Of public fraud. In vain doth valour bleed,
XI. TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. CROMWELL, our chief of men, who, through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough'd, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud
Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued,
And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains
To conquer still ; peace hath her victories