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VERSES

WRITTEN ON

SEVERAL OCCASIONS'.

CHRIST'S PASSION,

TAKEN OUT OF A GREEK ODE, WRITTEN BY MR.

MASTERS, OF NEW-COLLEGE IN OXFord.

ENOUGH, my Muse! of earthly things,
And inspirations but of wind;
Take up thy lute, and to it bind
Loud and everlasting strings;

And on them play, and to them sing,
The happy mournful stories,
The lamentable glories,

Of the great crucified King.

Mountainous heap of wonders! which dost rise

Till Earth thou joinest with the skies! Too large at bottom, and at top too high, To be half seen by mortal eye!

How shall I grasp this boundless thing?

What shall I play; what shall I sing?

I'll sing the mighty riddle of mysterious love,

How the eternal Father did bestow
His own eternal Son as ransom for his foe.
I'll sing aloud, that all the world may hear
The triumph of the buried Conqueror.
How Hell was by its prisoner captive led,
And the great slayer, Death, slain by the dead.

Methinks, I hear of murdered men the voice,
Mixt with the murderers' confused noise,

Sound from the top of Calvary;

My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and see
Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three;
Oh, how unlike the others he!

Look, how he bends his gentle head with blessings
from the tree!

His gracious hands, ne'er stretch'd but to do good,
Are nail'd to the infamous wood!

And sinful man does fondly bind

The arms, which he extends t' embrace all human. kind.

Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed Unhappy man! canst thou stand by and see

spirits above,

With all their comments can explain;

How all the whole world's life to die did not dis

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All this as patient as he?
Since he thy sins does bear,
Make thou his sufferings thine own,
And weep, and sigh, and groan,

And beat thy breast, and tear
Thy garments and thy hair,

And let thy grief, and let thy love,
Through all thy bleeding bowels move.

Dost thou not see thy prince in purple clad all o'er,
Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,
But made at home with richer gore?
Dost thou not see the roses which adorn
The thorny garland by him worn?
Dost thou not see the livid traces
Of the sharp scourges' rude embraces ?

1

If yet thou feelest not the smart

Of thorns and scourges in thy heart;
If that be yet not crucified;

Lock on his hands, look on his feet, look on his side!
Open, oh! open wide the fountains of thine eyes,
And let them call

Their stock of moisture forth where'er it lies!
For this will ask it all.

"Twould all, alas! too little be,

Though thy salt tears come from a sea.
Canst thou deny him this, when he
Has open'd all his vital springs for thee?
Take heed; for by his side's mysterious flood
May well be understood,

That he will still require some waters to his blood.

ODE.

ON ORINDA'S POEMS.

WE allow'd you beauty, and we did submit
To all the tyrannies of it;

Ah! cruel sex, will you depose us too in wit?
Orinda does in that too reign;

Dees man behind her in proud triumph draw,
And cancel great Appollo's Salique law.
We our old title plead in vain,

Man may be head, but woman's now the brain.
Verse was Love's fire-arms heretofore,
In Beauty's campit was not known;
Too many arms besides that conqueror bore:
'Twas the great cannon we brought down
T" assault a stubborn town;
Orinda fust did a bold sally make,
Our strongest quarter take,
And so successful prov'd, that she
Turn'd upon Love himself his own artillery.
Women, as if the body were their whole,
Did that, and not the soul,
Transmit to their posterity;
If in it sometime they conceiv'd,
Th' abortive issue never liv'd.
'Twere shame and pity', Orinda, if in thee
A spirit so rich, so noble, and so high,
Should unmanur'd or barren lie.
But thou industriously hast sow'd and till'd
The fair and fruitful field;

And 'tis a strange increase that it does yield.
As, when the happy gods above
Meet altogether at a feast,

A secret joy unspeakable does move

In their great mother Cybele's contented breast:
With no less pleasure thou, methinks, should see,
This, thy no less immortal progeny ;

And in their birth thou no one touch dost find,
Of th' ancient curse to woman-kind :
Though bring'st not forth with pain;
It neither travail is nor labour of the brain:
So easily they from thee come,
And there is so much room

In the unexhausted and unfathom'd womb,
That, like the Holland countess, thou may'st bear
A child for every day of all the fertile year.

Thou dost my wonder, wouldst my envy, raise, If to be prais'd I lov'd more than to praise :

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Where'er I see an excellence,

I must admire to see thy well knit sense,
Thy numbers gentle, and thy fancies high;
Those as thy forehead smooth, these sparkling as
thine eye.

'Tis solid, and 'tis manly all,
Or rather 'tis angelical;
For, as in angels, we

Do in thy verses see

Both improv'd sexes eminently meet;

They are than man more strong, and more than wo

man sweet.

They talk of Nine, I know not who,
Female chimeras, that o'er poets reign;

I ne'er could find that fancy true,
But have invok'd them oft, I'm sure, in vain:
They talk of Sappho ; but, alas! the shame!
Ill-manners soil the lustre of her fame;
Orinda's inward virtue is so bright,
That, like a lantern's fair enclosed light,

It through the paper shines where she does write.
Honour and friendship, and the generous scorn
Of things for which we were not born
(Things that can only by a fond disease,
Like that of girls, our vicious stomachs please)
Are the instructive subjects of her pen;

And, as the Roman victory
Taught our rude land arts and civility,

At once she overcomes, enslaves, and betters, men.
But Rome with all her arts could ne'er inspire
A female breast with such a fire:
The warlike Amazonian train,

Who in Elysium now do peaceful reign,
And Wit's mild empire before arms prefer,
Hope 'twill be settled in their sex by her.
Merlin, the seer, (and sure he would not lye,
In such a sacred company)

Does prophecies of learn'd Orinda show,
Which he had darkly spoke so long ago;

Ev'n Boadicia's angry ghost

Forgets her own misfortune and disgrace,

And to her injur'd daughters now does boast, That Rome's o'ercome at last, by a woman of her race,

ODE

UPON OCCASION OF A COPY OF VERSES OF MY LORD BROGHILL'S.

BE

gone (said I) ingrateful Muse! and see What others thou canst fool, as well as me. Since I grew man, and wiser ought to be, My business and my hopes I left for thee: For thee (which was more hardly given away) I left, even when a boy, my play. ingrateful mistress! say, What for all this, what didst thou ever pay?

But say,

Thou 'lt say, perhaps, that riches are Not of the growth of lands where thou do st trade, And I as well my country might upbraid

Because I have no vineyard there.

Well but in love thou dost pretend to reign;
There thine the power and lordship is;
Thou bad'st me write, and write, and write again;
'Twas such a way as could not miss.

I, like a fool, did thee obey:

I wrote, and wrote, but still I wrote in vain;

For, after all my expense of wit and pain,

A rich, unwriting hand, carried the prize away.

Thus I complain'd, and strait the Muse reply'd,
That she had given me fame.
Bounty immense! and that too must be try'd
When I myself am nothing but a name.

Who now, what reader does not strive
T' invalidate the gift whilst we're alive?
For, when a poet now himself doth show,
As if he were a common foe:

All draw upon him, all around,
And every part of him they wound,
Happy the man that gives the deepest blow:
And this is all, kind Muse! to thee we owe.
Then in rage I took,

And out at window threw,

Ovid and Horace, all the chiming crew;

Homer himself went with them too;
Hardly escap'd the sacred Mantuan book:
I my own offspring, like Agave, tore,
And I resolv'd, nay, and I think I swore,

That I no more the ground would till and sow,
Where only flowery weeds instead of corn did grow.
When (see the subtile ways which Fate does fiud
Rebellious man to bind !

Just to the work for which he is assign'd)
The Muse came in more chearful than before,
And bade me quarrel with her now no more:
"Lo! thy reward! look, here and see
What I have made" (said she)
"My lover and belov'd, my Broghill, do for thee!
Though thy own verse no lasting fame can give,
Thou shalt at least in his for ever live.
What critics, the great Hectors now in wit,
Who rant and challenge all men that have writ,
Will dare t' oppose thee, when

Broghill in thy defence has drawn his conquering
pen?"

I rose and bow'd my head,

And pardon ask'd for all that I had said:

Well satisfy'd and proud,

Istrait resolv'd, and solemuly I vow'd,
That from her service now I ne'er would part;

So strongly large rewards work on a grateful heart!
Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise
As praises from the men whom all men praise:
'Tis the best cordial, and which only those
Who have at home th' ingredients can compose;
A cordial that restores our fainting breath,
And keeps up life e'en after death!

The only danger is, lest it should be

Too strong a remedy;

Lest, in removing cold, it should beget
Too violent a heat;

And into madness turn the lethargy.

Ah! gracious God! that I might see
A time when it were dangerous for me
To be o'er-heat with praise!

But I within me bear, alas! too great allays.
'Tis said, Apelles, when he Venus drew,
Did naked women for his pattern view,
And with his powerful fancy did refine
Their human shapes into a form divine:
None who had sat could her own picture see,
Or say, one part was drawn for me:
So, though this nobler painter, when he writ,
Was pleas'd to think it fit

That my book should before him sit,
Not as a cause, but an occasion, to his wit;
Yet what have I to boast, or to apply
To my advantage out of it; since I

Instead of my own likeness, only find
The Lright idea there of the great writer's mind?

ODE.

MR. COWLEY'S BOOK PRESENTING ITSELF TO THE
UNIVERSITY LIBRARY OF OXFORD.

HAIL, Learning's Pantheon! Hail, the sacred ark
Where all the world of science does embark!
Which ever shall withstand, and hast so long with-
stood,

Insatiate Time's devouring flood.

Hail, tree of knowledge! thy leaves fruit! which well

Dost in the midst of Paradise arise,

Oxford! the Muse's Paradise,

From which may never sword the bless'd expel!
Hail, bank of all past ages! where they lie
T enrich with interest posterity!

Hail, Wit's illustrious galaxy!

Where thousand lights into one brightness spread;
Hail, living University of the dead!

Unconfus'd Babel of all tongues! which e'er
The mighty linguist, Fame, or Time, the mighty
traveller,

That could speak, or this could hear.
Majestic monument and pyramid !
Where still the shades of parted souls abide
Embalm'd in verse; exalted souls which now
Enjoy those arts they woo'd so well below;
Which now all wonders plainly see,
That have been, are, or are to be,
In the mysterious library,

The beatific Bodley of the Deity;
Will you into your sacred throng admit
The meanest British wit?

You, general-council of the priests of Fame,
Will you not murmur and disdain,
That I a place among you claim,
The humblest deacon of her train?

Will you allow me th' honourable chain?
The chain of ornament, which here
Your noble prisoners proudly wear;

A chain which will more pleasant seem to me
Than all my own Pindaric liberty!

Will ye to bind me with those mighty names submit,
Like an Apocrypha with Holy Writ?
Whatever happy book is chained here,
No other place or people need to fear;
His chain's a passport to go every where.

As when a seat in Heaven

Is to an unmalicious sinner given,

Who, casting round his wondering eye,
Does none but patriarchs and apostles there espy;
Martyrs who did their lives bestow,
And saints, who martyrs liv'd below;
With trembling and amazement he begins
To recollect his frailties past and sins;
He doubts almost his station there;
His soul says to itself, "How came I here ?"
It fares no otherwise with ine,
When I myself with conscious wonder see
Amidst this purify'd elected company.
With hardship they, and pain,
Did to this happiness attain:
No labour I, nor merits, can pretend;
I think predestination only was my friend.

Ah, that my author had been ty'd like me
To such a place and such a company!
Instead of several countries, several men,

And business, which the Muses hate,
He might have then improv'd that small estate
Which Nature sparingly did to him give;

He might perhaps have thriven then,
And settled upon me, his child, somewhat to live.
'T had happier been for him, as well as me;
For when all, alas! is done,

We Books, I mean, yon Books, will prove to be
The best and noblest conversation;

For, though some errours will get in,
Like tinctures of original sin;
Yet sure we from our fathers' wit
Draw all the strength and spirit of it,
Leaving the grosser parts for conversation,
As the best blood of man's employ'd in generation.

ODE.

SITTING AND DRINKING IN THE CHAIR MADE OUT OF
THE RELICS OF SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S SHIP.

CHEER

up, my mates, the wind does fairly blow, Clap on more sail. and never spare; Farewell all lands, for now we are

In the wide sea of drink, and merrily we go. Bless me, 'tis hot! another bowl of wine,

And we shall cut the burning line:

Hey, boys! she scuds away, and by my head I know
We round the world are sailing now.

What dull men are those that tarry at home,
When abroad they might wantonly roam,

And gain such experience, and spy too
Such countries and wonders, as I do!

But pr'ythee, good pilot, take heed what you do,
And fail not to touch at Peru!

With gold there the vessel we'll store,
And never, and never be poor,
No, never be poor any more.

What do I mean? What thoughts do me misguide?
As well upon a staff may witches ride

Their fancy'd journeys in the air,

As I sail round the ocean in this Chair!

'Tis true; but yet this Chair which here you see,

For all its quiet now, and gravity,

Has wander'd and has travell❜d more

Than those have done or seen,

Ev'n since they goddesses and this a star has been)
As a reward for all her labour past,

Is made the seat of rest at last.

Let the case now quite alter'd be,
And, as thou wentest abroad the world to see,
Let the world now come to see thee !
The world will do 't; for curiosity
Does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make;
And I myself, who now love quiet too.
As much almost as any Chair can do,
Would yet a journey take,

An old wheel of that chariot to see,

Which Phaeton so rashly brake:

Yet what could that say more than these remains of
Drake?

Great Relic! thou too, in this port of ease,

Hast still one way of making voyages;
The breath of Fame, like an auspicious gale

(The great trade-wind which ne'er docs fail) Shall drive thee round the world, and thou shalt run, As long around it as the Sun.

The streights of Time too narrow are for thee;
Launch forth into an undiscover'd sea,

And steer the endlest course of vast Eternity!
Take for thy sail this verse, and for thy pilot me!

UPON THE DEATH OF

THE EARL OF BALCARRES.

TIs folly all, that can be said,

By living mortals, of th' inimortal dead,

And I'm afraid they laugh at the vain tears we shed. 'Tis as if we, who stay behind

In expectation of the wind,

Should pity those who pass'd this streight before,
And touch the universal shore.

Ah, happy man! who art to sail no more!
And, if it seem ridiculous to grieve
Because our friends are newly come from sea,
Though ne'er so fair and calin it be;
What would all sober men believe,
If they should hear us sighing say,
"Balcarres, who but th' other day

Did all our love and our respect command;
At whose great parts we all amaz'd did stand;
Is from a storm, alas! cast suddenly on land ?”

Than ever beast, or fish, or bird, or ever tree, be- If you will say "Few persons upon Earth

fore:

In every air and every sea 't has been,

"T has compass'd all the Earth, and all the Heavens

't has seen.

Let not the pope's itself with this compare,
This is the only universal Chair.

The pious wanderer's fleet, sav'd from the flame
(Which still the relics did of Troy pursue,

And took them for its due),

A squadron of immortal nymphs became :
Still with their arms they row about the seas,
And still make new and greater voyages:
Nor has the first poetic ship of Greece
(Though now a star she so triumphant show,
And guide her sailing successors below,
Bright as her ancient freight the shining fleece)
Yet to this day a quiet harbour found;
The tide of heaven still carries her around;
Only Drake's sacred vessel (which before
Had done and had seen more

Did, more than he, deserve to have

A life exempt from fortune and the grave;
Whether you look upon his birth
And ancestors, whose fame's so widely spread→
But ancestors, alas! who long ago are dead-
Or whether you consider more

The vast increase, as sure you ought,
Of honour by his labour bought,

And added to the former store:"

All I can answer, is, " That I allow
The privilege you plead for; and avow
That, as he well desery'd, he doth enjoy it now."

Though God, for great and righteous ends,
Which his unerring Providence intends
Erroneous mankind should not understand,
Would not permit Balcarres' hand,
(That once with so much industry and art
Had clos'd the gaping wounds of every part)
To perfect his distracted nation's cure,
Or stop the fatal bondage 'twas t' endure;

Yet for his pains he soon did him remòve,
From all th' oppression and the woe
Of his frail body's native soil below,
To his soul's true and peaceful country above:
So godlike kings, for secret causes, known
Sometimes, but to themselves alone,
One of their ablest ministers elect,

And sent abroad to treaties, which they' intend
Shall never take effect;

But, though the treaty wants a happy end, The happy agent wants not the reward, For which he labour'd faithfully and hard; His just and righteous master calls him home And gives him, near himself, some honourable room.

Noble and great endeavours did he bring To save his country, and restore his king; And, whilst the manly half of him (which those Who know not love, to be the whole suppose) Perform'd all parts of Virtue's vigorous life; The beauteous half, his lovely wife, Did all his labours and his cares divide; Nor was a lame nor paralytic side: In all the turns of human state,, And all th' unjust attacks of Fate, She bore her share and portion still, And would not suffer any to be ill. Unfortunate for ever let me be,

If I believe that such was he
Whom in the storms of bad success,
And all that errour calls unhappiness,
His virtue and his virtuous wife did still accompany;

With these companions 'twas not strange
That nothing could his temper change.
His own and country's union had not weight
Enough to crush his mighty mind:
He saw around the hurricanes of state,
Fixt as an island 'gainst the waves and wind.
Thus far the greedy sea may reach;
All outward things are but the beach;
A great man's soul it doth assault in vain!
Their God himself the ocean doth restrain
With an imperceptible chain,

And bid it to go back again.
His wisdom, justice, and his piety,
His courage both to suffer and to die,
His virtues, and his lady too,
Were things celestial. And we see,
In spite of quarrelling Philosophy,

How in this case 'tis certain found,

That Heaven stands still,and only Earth goes round.

ODE.

UPON DR. HARVEY.

Cor Nature (which remain'd, though aged grown,
A beauteous virgin still; enjoy'd by none,
Nor seen unveil'd by any one)

When Harvey's violent passion she did see,
Began to tremble and to flee;

Took sanctuary, like Daphne, in a tree :

His passage after her withstood.
What should she do? through all the moving wood
Of lives endow'd with sense she took her flight:
Harvey pursues, and keeps her still in sight.
But as the deer, long-hunted, takes a flood,
She leap'd at last into the winding streams of
blood;

Of man's meander all the purple reaches made,
Till at the heart she stay'd;

Where turning head, and at a bay,

Thus by well-purged ears was she o'erheard to say;

"Here sure shall I be safe" (said she)
"None will be able sure to see

This my retreat, but only he
Who made both it and me.

The heart of man what art can e'er reveal?
A wall impervious between

Divides the very parts within,

And doth theheart of man er'n from itself conceal."
She spoke: but, ere she was aware,
Harvey was with her there;

And held this slippery Proteus in a chain,
Till all her mighty mysteries he descry'd;
Which from his wit th' attempt before to hide
Was the first thing that Nature did in vain.

He the young practice of new life did see,
Whilst, to conceal its toilsome poverty,
It for a living wrought, both hard and privately.
Before the liver understood

The noble scarlet dye of blood;
Before one drop was by it made,
Or brought into it, to set up the trade;
Before the untaught heart began to beat
The tuneful march to vital heat;
From all the souls that living buildings rear,
Whether employ'd for earth, or sea, or air;
Whether it in womb or egg be wrought;
A strict account to him is hourly brought
How the great fabric does proceed,
What time, and what materials, it does need ;
He so exactly does the work survey,
As if he hir'd the workers by the day.

Thus Harvey sought for truth in Truth's own book, The creatures-which by God himself was writ: And wisely thought 'twas fit,

Not to read comments only upon it,

But on th' original itself to look.

Methinks in Art's great circle others stand
Lock'd-up together, hand in hand;
Every one leads as he is led;
The same bare path they tread,

And dance, like fairies, a fantastic round,
But neither change their motion nor their ground:
Had Harvey to this road confin'd his wit,

His noble circle of the blood had been untrodden yet.

Great Doctor! th' art of curing's cur'd by thee;
We now thy patient, Physic, see
From all inveterate diseases free,

Purg'd of old errours by thy care,

There Daphne's lover stopp'd, and thought it much New dieted, put forth to clearer air;

The very leaves of her to touch:

But Harvey, our Apollo, stopp'd not so; Into the bark and root he after her did go No smallest fibres of a plant.

?

For which the eye-beams' point doth sharpness want,

It now will strong and healthful prove; Itself before lethargic lay, and could not move!

These useful secrets to his pen we owe !
And thousands more 'twas ready to bestow;
Of which a barbarous war's unlearned rage
Has robb'd the ruin'd age:

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