216

See but the charms her sorrow wears!
No common cause could draw such tears:
Those streams sure that adorn her so
For loss of royal kindred flow:
Oh! think not so divine a thing
Could from the bed of commons spring;
Whose faith could so unmov'd remain,
And so averse to sordid gain,
Was never born of any race
That might the noblest love disgrace.
Her blooming face, her snowy arms,
Her well-shap'd legs, and all the charms
Of her body and her face,

I, poor I, may safely praise.
Suspect not, love, the youthful rage
From Horace's declining age;
But think remov'd, by forty years,
All his flames and all thy fears.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE VIII.

Ir ever any injur'd power,
By which the false Bariné swore,
False, fair Bariné, on thy head

Had the least mark of vengeance shed;
If but a tooth or nail of thee
Had suffer'd by thy perjury,

1 should believe thy vows; but thou
Since perjur'd dost more charming grow,
Of all our youth the public care,
Nor half so false as thou art fair.
It thrives with thee to be forsworn
By thy dead mother's sacred urn,
By Heaven, and all the stars that shine
Without, and every god within:
Venus hears this, and all the while
At thy empty vows does smile,
Her nymphs all smile, her little son
Does smile, and to his quiver run;
Does smile, and fall to whet his darts,
To wound for thee fresh lovers' hearts.
See all the youth does thee obey,
Thy train of slaves grows every day;
Nor leave thy former subjects thee,
Though oft they threaten to be free,
Though oft with vows false as thine are,
Their forsworn mistress they forswear.
Thee every careful mother fears

For her son's blooming tender years;
Thee frugal sires, thee the young bride
In Hymen's fetters newly ty'd,
Lest thou detain by stronger charms
Th' expected husband from her arms.

HORACE AND LYDIA. BOOK III. ODE IX.

HORACE.

WHILST I was welcome to your heart,
In which no happier youth had part,
And, full of more prevailing charms,
Threw round your neck his dearer arms,
I flourish'd richer and more blest
Than the great monarch of the east.

Inscribed to Dr. Short.

SHORT, no herb, no salve was ever found
To ease a lover's heart, or heal his wound;
No med'cine this prevailing ill subdues,
None, but the charms of the condoling Muse:
Sweet to the sense, and easy to the mind,
The cure; but hard, but very hard, to find.
This you well know, and surely none so well,
Who both in Physic's sacred art excel,
And in Wit's orb among the brightest shine,
The love of Phoebus, and the tuneful Nine.

Thus sweetly sad of old, the Cyclops strove
To soften his uneasy hours of love.
Then, when hot youth urg'd him to fierce desire
And Galatea's eyes kindled the raging fire,
His was no common flame, nor could he move
In the old arts and beaten paths of love;
Nor flowers nor fruits sent to oblige the fair,
Nor more to please curl'd his neglected hair;
His was all rage, all madness; to his mind
No other cares their wonted entrance find.
Oft from the field his flock return'd alone,
Unheeded, unobserv'd: he on some stone,
Or craggy cliff, to the deaf winds and sea,
Accusing Galatea's cruelty,
Till night, from the first dawn of opening day,
Consumes with inward heat, and melts away.
Yet then a cure, the only cure, he found,
And thus apply'd it to the bleeding wound;
From a steep rock, from whence he might survey
The flood (the bed where his lov'd sea-nymph lay),

His drooping head with sorrow bent he hung,
And thus his griefs calm'd with his mournful song.
Fair Galatea, why is all my pain
Rewarded thus?-soft love with sharp disdain?
Fairer than falling snow or rising light,
Soft to the touch as charming to the sight;
Sprightly as unyok'd heifers, on whose head
The tender crescents but begin to spread;
Yet, cruel, you to harshness more incline,
Than unripe grapes pluck'd from the savage vine.
Soon as my heavy eye-lids seal'd with sleep,
Hither you come out from the foaming deep;
But, when sleep leaves me, you together fly,
And vanish swiftly from my opening eye,

Swift as young lambs when the fierce wolf they spy.
I well remember the first fatal day

That made my heart your beauty's easy prey.
'Twas when the flood you, with my mother, left,
Of all its brightness, all its pride, bereft,

To gather flowers from the steep mountain's top;
Of the high office proud, I led you up;
To hyacinths and roses did you bring,

And show'd you all the treasures of the spring.
But from that hour my soul has known no rest,
Soft peace is banish'd from my tortur'd breast:
I rage, I burn. Yet still regardless you
Not the least sign of melting pity shew:
No; by the gods that shall revenge my pain!
No; you, the more I love, the more disdain.
Ah! nymph, by every grace adorn'd, I know
Why you despise and fly the Cyclops so;
Because a shaggy brow from side to side,
Stretch'd in a line, does my large forehead hide;
And under that one only eye does shine,
And my flat nose to my big lips does join.
Such though I am, yet know, a thousand sheep,
The pride of the Sicilian hills, I keep;
With sweetest milk they fill my flowing pails,
And my vast stock of cheeses never fails;
In summer's heat, or winter's sharpest cold,

My loaded shelves groan with the weight they hold.

With such soft notes I the shrill pipe inspire,
That every listening Cyclops does admire;
While with it often I all night proclaim
Thy powerful charms, and my successful flame,
For thee twelve does, all big with fawn, I feed;
And four bear-cubs, tame to thy hand, I breed.
Ah! come to me, fair nymph! and you shall

find

These are the smallest gifts for thee design'd.
Ah! come, and leave the angry waves to roar,
And break themselves against the sounding shore.
How much more pleasant would thy slumbers be
In the retir'd and peaceful cave with me!
There the straight cypress and green laurel join,
And creeping ivy clasps the cluster'd vine;
There fresh, cool rills, from Etna's purest snow,
Dissolv'd into ambrosial liquor, flow.

Who the wild waves and blackish sea could choose, And these still shades and these sweet streams refuse?

But if you fear that I, o'er-grown with hair,
Without a fire defy the winter air,
Know I have mighty stores of wood, and know
Perpetual fires on my bright hearth do glow.
My soul, my life itself should burn for thee,
And this one eye, as dear as life to me.
Why was not I with fins, like fishes, made,
That 1, like them, might in the deep have play'd?

Then would I dive beneath the yielding tide, And kiss your hand, if you your lips deny'd. To thee I'd lilies and red poppies bear, And flowers that crown each season of the year. But I'm resulv'd I'll learn to swim and dive Of the next stranger that does here arrive, That th' undiscover'd pleasures I may know Which you enjoy in the deep flood below. Come forth, O nymph! and coming forth forget, Like me that on this rock unmindful sit, (Of all things else unmindful but of thee) Home to return forget, and live with me. With me the sweet and pleasing labour choose, To feed the flock, and milk the burthen'd ewes, To press the cheese, and the sharp runnet to infuse. My mother does unkindly use her son, By her neglect the Cyclops is undone; For me she never labours to prevail, Nor whispers in your ear my amorous tale: No; though she knows I languish every day, And sees my body waste, and strength decay. But I more ills than what I feel will feign, And of my head and of my feet complain; That, in her breast if any pity lie, She may be sad, and griev'd, as well as I.

"O Cyclops, Cyclops, where's thy reason fled? If your young lambs with new-pluck'd boughs you fed, [wise;

And watch'd your flock, would you not seem more Milk what is next, pursue not that which flies. Perhaps you may, since this proves so unkind, Another fairer Galatea find.

Me many virgins as I pass invite

To waste with them in love's soft sports the night;
And, if I but incline my listening ear,
New joys, new smiles, in all their looks appear.
Thus we, it seems, can be belov'd; and we,
It seems, are somebody as well as she!"

Thus did the Cyclops fan his raging fire,
And sooth'd with gentle verse his fierce desire;
Thus pass'd his hours with more delight and ease,
Than if the riches of the world were his.

TO CELIA.

How would the listening shepherds round her throng,

To catch the words fell from her charming tongue!
She all with her own spirit and soul inspir'd,
Her they all lov'd, and her they all adınir'd.
Ev'n mighty Pan, whose powerful hand sustains
The sovereign crook that mildly awes the plains,
Of all his cares made her the tenderest part,
And great Louisa lodg'd her in her heart.
THYR. Who would not now a solemn mourning
When Pan himself and fair Louisa weep? [keep,
When those blest eyes, by the kind gods design'd
To cherish Nature, and delight mankind,
All drown'd in tears, melt into gentler showers
Than April-drops upon the springing flowers?
Such tears as Venus for Adonis shed,
When at her feet the lovely youth lay dead?
About her, all her little weeping Loves
Ungirt her cestos, and unyok'd her doves.

DAM. Come, pious nymphs, with fair Louisa And visit gentle Floriana's tomb ;

[come,

[shed

Still praying, as ye gently move your feet,
"Soft be her pillow, and her slumber sweet!"
THYR. See where they come, a mournful lovely
As ever wept on fair Arcadia's plain : [train
Louisa, mournful far above the rest,

In all the charms of beauteous sorrow drest;
Just are her tears, when she reflects how soon

A beauty, second only to her own,
Flourish'd, look'd gay, was wither'd, and is gone!
DAM. O, she is gone! gone like a new-born
flower,

That deck'd some virgin queen's delicious bower;
Torn from the stalk by some untimely blast,
And 'mongst the vilest weeds and rubbish cast:
Yet flowers return, and coming springs disclose
The lily whiter, and more fresh the rose;
But no kind season back her charms can bring,
And Floriana has no second spring.

THYR. O, she is set! set like the falling Sun;
Darkness is round us, and glad day is gone!
Alas! the Sun that's set, again will rise,
And gild with richer beams the morning-skies;
But Beauty, though as bright as they it shines,
When its short glory to the west declines,
O, there's no hope of the returning light;
But all is long oblivion, and eternal night!

TO THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR OF ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL'. I THOUGHT, forgive my sin, the boasted fire Of poets' souls did long ago expire; Of folly or of madness did accuse The wretch that thought himself possest with Muse; Laugh'd at the god within, that did inspire With more than human thoughts the tuneful choir; But sure 'tis more than fancy, or the dreamn Of rhymers slumbering by the Muses' stream. Some livelier spark of Heaven, and more refin'd From earthy dross, fills the great poet's mind:

Dryden published it without his name.

Witness these mighty and immortal lines,
Through each of which th' informing genius shines:
Scarce a diviner flame inspir'd the king,
Of whom thy Muse does so sublimely sing:
Not David's self could in a nobler verse
His gloriously-offending son rehearse;
Though in his breast the prophet's fury met,
The father's fondness, and the poet's wit.

Here all consent in wonder and in praise,
And to the unknown poet altars raise:
Which thou must needs accept with equal joy
As when Æneas heard the wars of Troy,
Wrapt up himself in darkness, and unseen
Extoll'd with wonder by the Tyrian queen.
Sure thou already art secure of fame,
Nor want'st new glories to exalt thy name:
What father else would have refus'd to own
So great a son as godlike Absalom ?

I, he, who sung of humble Oates before,
Now sing a captain and a man of war.

GODDESS of rhyme, that didst inspire
The Captain with poetic fire,
Where those of victory did grow,
Adding fresh laurels to that brow

And statelier ornaments may flourish now!
If thou art well recovered since
"The Excommunicated Prince2;"
For that important tragedy
Would have kill'd any Muse but thee;
Hither with speed, Oh! hither move;
Pull buskins off, and, since to love
The ground is holy that you tread in,
Dance bare-foot at the Captain's wedding,
See where he comes, and by his side
His charming fair angelic bride :
Such, or less lovely, was the dame
So much renown'd, Fulvia by name,
With whom of old Tully did join
Then when his art did undermine
The horrid popish plot of Catiline.
Oh fairest nymph of all Great Britain!
(Though thee my eyes I never set on)
Blush not on thy great lord to smile,
The second saviour of our isle;
What nobler Captain could have led
Thee to thy long'd-for marriage-bed:
For know that thy all-daring Will is
As stout a hero as Achilles ;

And as great things for thee bas done,

And is himself a whole romance alone.

As Palmerin or th' knight of th' Sun,

Let conscious Flanders speak, and be
The witness of his chivalry.
Yet that's not all, his very word
Has slain as many as his sword:

* A tragedy by Captain Bedloe, 1681.