The league of grief bids her with us lament;
By her he was brought forth, and hither fent
In payment of all men we there had loft,

And all the English blood those wars have cost.
Wifely did Nature this learn'd man divide;
His birth was theirs, his death the mournful pride
Of England; and, t' avoid the envious ftrife
Of other lands, all Europe had his life,
But we in chief; our country foon was grown
A debtor more to him, than he to 's own.
He pluckt from youth the follies and the crimes,
And built up men against the future times;

For deeds of age are in their causes then,

And though he taught but boys, he made the men.
Hence 'twas a master, in those ancient days
When men fought knowledge first, and by it praise,
Was a thing full of reverence, profit, fame;
Father itself was but a fecond name.

He fcorn'd the profit; his instructions all
Were, like the fcience, free and liberal.
He deferv'd honours, but defpis'd them too,
As much as thofe who have them others do.
He knew not that which compliment they call;
Could flatter none, but himself leaft of all.
So true, fo faithful, and so just, as he
Was nought on earth but his own memory;
His memory, where all things written were,
As fure and fixt as in Fate's books they are.
Thus he in arts fo vaft a treasure gain'd,
Whilft ftill the ufe came in, and stock remain'd:

And, having purchas'd all that man can know,
He labour'd with 't to enrich others now;
Did thus a new and harder task sustain,

Like thofe that work in mines for others' gain:
He, though more nobly, had much more to do,
To search the vein, dig, purge, and mint it too.
Though my excufe would be, I must confefs,
Much better had his diligence been lefs;
But, if a Mufe hereafter smile on me,
And fay, "Be thou a poet!" men shall fee
That none could a more grateful scholar have;
For what I ow'd his life I'll pay his grave.

ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN

OUT OF SCOTLAND.

Welcome, great Sir! with all the joy that's due

To the return of peace and you;

Two greatest bleffings which this age can know!
For that to Thee, for thee to Heaven we owe.
Others by war their conquefts gain,

You like a God your ends obtain;

Who, when rude Chaos for his help did call,
Spoke but the word, and sweetly order'd all.
This happy concord in no blood is writ,

None can grudge Heaven full thanks for it:
No mothers here lament their children's fate,
And like the peace, but think it comes too late.

No

No widows hear the jocund bells,

And take them for their husbands' knells: No drop of blood is fpilt, 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 must lose, yet neither fide can win?
How justly would our neighbours fmile

At these mad quarrels of our isle;

Swell'd with proud hopes to snatch 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 shore !

His waters ran more swiftly than they use,
And hafted to the fea to tell the news:
The fea itself, how rough foe'er,

Could scarce believe fuch fury here.

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

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 in lead?

Not like them whilft they liv'd, but now they 're dead.

The noife at home was but Fate's policy,

To raise our spirits more high:

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

To fee a new Guftavus there!

How would it shake, 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, wisdom, offspring, speak no lefs;
And we, the prophets' fons, write not by guess.

NO

ON THE DEATH OF

SIR ANTHONY VANDYKE,

THE FAMOUS PAINTER.

ANDYKE is dead; but what bold Mufe fhall dare
(Though poets in that word with painters fhare)
T'exprefs her fadness? Poefy must 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 paffions which he drew.

His pieces fo with their live objects ftrive,
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 she would express.
His all-refembling pencil did out-pafs
The mimic imagery of looking-glass.
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 Heav'n did for him call;
Where reverend Luke falutes him firft of all;