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No widows hear the jocund bells,

And take them for their hufbands' knells:

No drop of blood is spilt, which might be faid
To mark our joyful holiday with red.

'Twas only Heaven could work this wondrous thing, And only work 't by such a king.

Again the northern hinds may fing and plough,
And fear no harm but from the weather now;
Again may tradesmen love their pain,

By knowing now for whom they gain;
The armour now may be hung up to fight,
And only in their halls the children fright.
The gain of civil wars will not allow

Bay to the conqueror's brow:

At fuch a game what fool would venture in,
Where one muft lofe, yet neither fide can win ?
How-justly would our neighbours smile

At thefe mad quarrels of our isle;

Swell'd with proud hopes to fnatch the whole away,
Whilft we bett all, and yet for nothing play!

How was the filver Tine frighted before,

And durft not kifs the armed fhore !
His waters ran more fwitly than they use,
And hafted to the fea to tell the news :
The fea itself, how rough foe'er,

Could fcarce believe fuch fury here.

How could the Scots and we be enemies grown?
That, and its mafter Charles, had made us one.

* .

No

No blood fo loud as that of civil war :

It calls for dangers from afar.

Let's rather go and feek out them and fame;
Thus our fore-fathers got, thus left, a name:

All their rich blood was spent with gains,

But that which fwells their children's veins. Why fit we ftill, our fpirits wrapt up in lead ? Not like them whilst they liv'd, but now they're deads This noife at home was but Fate's policy,

To raise our fpirits more high:

So a bold lion, ere he feeks his prey,
Lafhes his fides and roars, and then away.
How would the German Eagle fear,

To fee a new Guftavus there!

How would it fhake, though as 't was wont to do
For Jove of old, it now bore thunder too!

Sure there are actions of this height and praise
Deftin'd to Charles's days!

What will the triumphs of his battles be,
Whose
very peace itself is victory!

When Heaven bestows the best of kings,
It bids us think of mighty things:

His valour, wifdom, offspring, fpeak no lefs;
And we, the prophets' fons, write not by guefs..

ON

ON THE DEATH OF

SIR ANTHONY VANDYKE,

VAN

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ANDYKE is dead; but what bold Muse shall dare (Though poets in that word with painters fhare) T'exprefs her fadnefs? Poefy muft become

An art like Painting here, an art that 's dumb..
Let's all our folemn grief in filence keep,

Like fome fad picture which he made to weep,
Or those who faw 't; for none his works could view
Unmov'd with the fame pallions which he drew.
His pieces fo with their live objects strive,
That both or pictures feem, or both alive.
Nature herself, amaz'd, does doubting stand,
Which is her own and which the painter's hand
And does attempt the like with lefs fuccefs,
When her own work in twins fhe would exprefs
His all-refembling pencil did out-pafs
The mimic imagery of looking-glafs..
Nor was his life lefs perfect than his art,
Nor was his hand lefs erring than his heart.
There was no falfe or fading colour there,
The figures fweet and well-proportion'd were..
Moft other men, fet next to him in view,
Appear'd more fhadows than the men he drew,
Thus ftill he liv'd, till Heaven did for him call;
Where reverend Luke falutes him firft of all;

Where

Where he beholds new fights, divinely fair,
And could almost wish for his pencil there;
Did he not gladly fee how all things fhine,
Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,
Whilft he, for ever ravish'd with the show,
Scorns his own art, which we admire below.
Only his beauteous lady ftill he loves
(The love of heavenly objects Heaven improves);
He fees bright angels in pure beams appear,
And thinks on her he left fo like them here.
And you, fair widow! who stay here alive,
Since he fo much rejoices, cease to grieve:
Your joys and griefs were wont the fame to be ;
Begin not now, bleft pair! to disagree.
generous mind i
You, and a new-born You, he left behind:
Ev'n Fate express'd his love to his dear wife,
And let him end your picture with his life.

No wonder death mov'd not his

PROMETHEUS

H

ILL PAINTED.

OW wretched does Prometheus' state appear, Whilft he his fecond mifery fuffers here! Draw him no more; left, as he tortur'd ftands,

He blame great Jove's lefs than the painter's hands. It would the Vulture's cruelty outgo,

If once again his liver thus fhould grow.

Pity him, Jove! and his bold theft allow;
The flames he once ftole from thee grant him now!

ODE.

HE

O D E.

ERE's to thee Dick; this whining love defpife;
Pledge me, my friend; and drink till thou be'st
wife.

It sparkles brighter far than she :
'Tis pure and right, without deceit ;
And fuch no woman ere will be:
No; they are all fophifticate.

With all thy fervile pains what canft thou win,,
But an ill-favour'd and uncleanly sin ?

A thing fo vile, and fo fhort-liv'd,
That Venus' joys, as well as she,
With reafon may be faid to be

From the neglected foam deriv'd.

Whom would that painted toy a beauty move ;
Whom would it ere perfuade to court and love;

Could he a woman's heart have feen

(But, oh no light does thither come),
And view'd her perfectly within,
When he lay shut up in her womb?

Follies they have fo numberless in store,
That only he who loves them can have more.

Neither their fighs nor tears are true;
Thofe idly blow, these idly fall,
Nothing like to ours at all:

But fighs and tears have fexes too.

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