The shaken throne more surely fix'd shall stand,
And curs'd Rebellion fly the happy land!
At your blest union civil discords cease,
Confusion turns to order, rage to peace!

So, when at first in Chaos and old Night

Good Titus could, but Charles could never say, Of all his royal life," he lost a day." Excellent prince! O once our joy and care, Now our eternal grief and deep despair!

O father! or if aught than father's more,

ON THE DEATH OF

KING CHARLES THE SECOND,

AND THE INAUGURATION OF

KING JAMES THE SECOND.

If the indulgent Muse (the only cure
For all the ills afflicted minds endure,
That sweetens sorrow, and makes sadness please,
And heals the heart by telling its disease)
Vouchsafe her aid, we also will presume
With humble verse t' approach the sacred tomb;
There flowing streams of pious tears will shed,
Sweet incense burn, fresh flowers and odours spread,
Our last sad offerings to the royal dead!

Dead is the king, who all our lives did bless!
Our strength in war, and our delight in peace!
Was ever prince like him to mortals given!
So much the joy of Earth, and care of Heaven?
Under the pressure of unequal fate,
Of so erect a mind and soul so great!
So full of meekness and so void of pride,
When borne aloft by Fortune's highest tide!
His kindly beams on the ungrateful soil
Of this rebellious, stubborn, murmuring isle
Hatch'd plenty; ease and riches diu bestow,
And made the land with milk and honey flow!
Less blest was Rome when mild Augustus sway'd,
And the glad world for love, not fear, obey'd.
Mercy, like Heaven's, his chief prerogative!
His joy to save, and glory to forgive!
Who lives, but felt his influence, and did share
His boundless goodness and paternal care?
And, whilst with all th' endearing arts he strove
On every subject's heart to seal his love,
What breast so hard, what heart of human make,
But, softening, did the kind impression take?
Belov'd and loving! with such virtues grac'd,
As might on common heads a crown have plac'd!
How skill'd in all the mysteries of state!
How fitting to sustain an empire's weight!
How quick to know! how ready to advise!

How timely to prevent! how more than senates wise!

His words how charming, affable, and sweet!
How just his censure! and how sharp his wit!
How did his charming conversation please
The blest attenders on his hours of ease;
When graciously he deign'd to condescend,
Pleas'd to exalt a subject to a friend!
To the most low how easy of access!
Willing to hear, and longing to redress!
His mercy knew no bounds of time or place,
His reign was one continued act of grace!

How grieve enough, when anxious thoughts recall
The mournful story of their sovereign's fall?
Oh! who that scene of sorrow can display;
When, waiting death, the fearless monarch lay!
Though great the pain and anguish that he bore,
His friends' and subjects' grief afflict him more !
Yet even that, and coming fate, he bears;
But sinks and faints to see a brother's tears!
The mighty grief, that swell'd his royal breast,
Scarce reach'd by thought, can't be by words
exprest!

Grief for himself! for grief for Charles is vain,
Who now begins a new triumphant reign,
Welcom❜d by all kind spirits and saints above,
Who see themselves in him, and their own likeness
love!

What godlike virtues must that prince adorn, Who can so please, while such a prince we mourn! Who else, but that great he, who now commands Th' united nation's voice, and hearts, and hands, Could so the love of a whole people gain, After so excellent a monarch's reign! Mean virtues after tyrants may succeed And please; but after Charles a James we need! This, this is he, by whose high actions grac'd The present age contends with all the past: Him Heaven a pattern did for heroes form, Slow to advise, but eager to perform: In council calm, fierce as a storm in fight: Danger his sport, and labour his delight. To him the fleet and camp, the sea and field, Do equal harvests of bright glory yield! Who can forget, of royal blood how free, He did assert the empire of the sea? The Belgian fleet endeavour'd, but in vain, The tempest of his fury to sustain ; Shatter'd and torn before his flag they fly Like doves, that the exalted eagle spy Ready to stoop and seize them from on high. He, Neptune-like (when from his watery bed Serene and calm he lifts his awful head, And smiles, and to his chariot gives the rein), In triumph rides o'er the asserted main ! Rejoicing crowds attend him on the strand, Loud as the sea, and numerous as the sand; So joy the many: but the wiser few The godlike prince with silent wonder view: A joy, too great to be by voice exprest, Shines in each eye, and beats in every breast: They saw him destin'd for some greater day, And in his looks the omens read of his imperial Nor do his civil virtues less appear, [sway! To perfect the illustrious character; To merit just, to needy virtue kind, True to his word, and faithful to his friend! What's well resolv'd, as firmly he pursues; Fix'd in his choice, as careful how to choose! Honour was born, not planted in his heart; And virtue came by nature, not by art, Albion! forget thy sorrows, and adore That prince, who all the blessings does restore, That Charles, the saint, made thee enjoy before! 'Tis done; with turrets crown'd, I see her rise, And tears are wip'd for ever from her eyes!

PROLOGUE

TO N. LEE'S

TO MR. CREECH,

LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS.

LONG has the tribe of poets on the stage
Groan'd under persecuting critics' rage,
But with the sound of railing and of rhyme,
Like bees united by the tinkling chime,
The little stinging insects swarm the more,
Their buzzing greater than it was before.
But, oh! ye leading voters of the Pit,
That infect others with your too much wit,
That well-affected members do seduce,
And with your malice poison half the house;
Know, your ill-manag'd arbitrary sway
Shall be no more endur'd, but ends this day.
Rulers of abler conduct we will choose,
And more indulgent to a trembling Muse;
Women, for ends of government more fit,
Women shall rule the Boxes and the "it,
Give laws to Love, and influence to it.
Find me one man of sense in all your roll,
Whom some one woman has not made a fool.
Ev'n business, that intolerable load

Under which man does groan, and yet is proud,
Much better they could manage would they please;
'Tis not their want of wit, but love of ease.
For, spite of art, more wit in them appears,
Though we boast ours, and they dissemble theirs;
Wit once was ours, and shot up for a while,
Set shallow in a hot and barren soil;
But when transplanted to a richer ground,
Has in their Eden its perfection found.
And 'tis but just they should our wit invade,
Whilst we set up their painting patching trade;
As for our courage, to our shame 'tis known,
As they can raise it, they can pull it down.
At their own weapons they our bullies awe,
Faith! let them make an anti-salic law;
Prescribe to all mankind, as well as plays,
And wear the breeches, as they wear the bays,

TO THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND.

A DETESTATION OF CIVIL WAR.
From HORACE, Epod. VII.

OH! whither do ye rush, and thus prepare
To rouze again the sleeping war?
Has then so little English blood been spilt
On sea and land with equal guilt?
Not that again we might our arms advance,
To check the insolent pride of France;
Not that once more we might in fetters bring
An humble captive Gallic king?

But, to the wish of the insulting Gaul,

That we by our own hands should fall. Nor wolves nor lions bear so fierce a mind; They hurt not their own savage kind : Is it blind rage, or zeal, more blind and strong, Or guilt, yet stronger, drives you on? Answer: but none can answer; mute and pale They stand; guilt does o'er words prevail: 'Tis so: Heaven's justice threatens us from high; And a king's death from Earth does cry; E'er since the martyr's innocent blood was shed, Upon our fathers, and on ours, and on our childrens' head.

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.

WHAT to begin would have been madness thought,
Exceeds our praise when to perfection brought:
Who could believe Lucretius' lofty song
Could have been reach'd by any modern tongue?
Of all the suitors to immortal Fame,
That by translations strove to raise a name,
This was the test, this the Ulysses' bow,
Too tough by any to be bent but you.
Carus himself of the hard task complains,
To fetter Grecian thoughts in Roman chains;
Much harder thine, in an unlearned tongue
To hold in bonds, so easy yet so strong,
The Greek philosophy and Latin song.
If then be boasts that round his sacred head
Fresh garlands grow, and branching laurels spread,
Such as not all the mighty Nine before
F'er gave, or any of their darlings wore;
What laurels should be thine, what crowns thy due,
What garlands, mighty poet, should be grac'd by
you!

[flow,
Though deep, though wondrous deep, his sense does
Thy shining style does all its riches show;
So clear the stream, that through it we descry
All the bright gems that at the bottom lie;
Here you the troublers of our peace remove,
Ignoble Fear, and more ignoble Love:
Here we are taught how first our race began,
And by what steps our fathers climb'd to man;
To man as now he is-with knowledge fill'd,
In arts of peace and war, in manners skill'd,
Equal before to fellow-graziers of the field!
Nature's first state, which, well transpos'd and own'd
(For owners in all ages have been found),
Has made a modern wit' so much renown'd,
When thee we read, we find to be no more
Than what was sung a thousand years before.
Thou only for this noble task wert fit,
To shame thy age to a just sense of wit,
By showing how the learned Romans writ.
To teach fat heavy clowns to know their trade,
And not turn wits, who were for porters made;
But quit false claims to the poetic rage,
For squibs and crackers, and a Smithfield stage.
Had Providence e'er meant that, in despight
Of Art and Nature, such dull clods should write,
Bavius and Mævius had been sav'd by Fate
For Settle and for Shadwell to translate,
As it so many ages has for thee
Preserv'd the mighty work that now we see.

VIRGIL'S FIFTH ECLOGUE.

THE ARGUMENT.

Mopsus and Menalcas, two very expert shepherds at a song, begin one by consent to the memory of Daphnis, who is supposed by the best critics to represent Julius Cæsar. Mopsus laments his death; Menalcas proclaims his divinity. The whole Eclogue consisting of an Elegy, and an Apotheosis.

I Hobbes.

MENALCAS.

MOPSUS, since chance docs us together bring,
And you so well can pipe, and I can sing,
Why sit we not beneath this secret shade,
By elms' and hazels' mingling branches made?

MOPSUS.

Your age commands respect; and I obey.
Whether you in this lonely copse will stay,
Where western winds the bending branches shake,
And in their play the shades uncertain make:
Or whether to that silent cave you 20,
The better choice! see how the wild vines grow
Luxuriant round, and see how wide they spread,
And in the cave their purple clusters shed!

MENALCAS.

Amyntas only dares contend with you.

MOPSUS.

Why not as well contend with Phoebus too?

MENALCAS.

Begin, begin; whether the mournful flame
Of dying Phillis, whether Alcon's fame,
Or Codrus' brawls, thy willing Muse provoke;
Begin; young Tityrus will tend the flock.

MOPSUS.

Yes, I'll begin, and the sad song repeat,
That on the beech's bark I lately writ,
And set to sweetest notes; yes, I'll begin,
And after that, bid you, Amyntas, sing.

MENALCAS.

As much as the most humble shrub that grows,
Yields to the beauteous blushes of the rose,
Or bending osiers to the olive tree;
So much, I judge, Amyntas yields to thee.

MOPSUS.

Shepherd, to this discourse here put an end, This is the cave; sit, and my verse attend.

MOPSUS.

When the sad fate of Daphnis reach'd their ears,
The pitying nymphs dissolv'd in pious tears.
Witness, ye hazels, for ye heard their cries;
Witness, ye floods, swoln with their weeping eyes.
The mournful mother (on his body cast)
The sad remains of her cold son embrac'd,
And of th' unequal tyranny they us'd,
The cruel gods and cruel stars accus'd.

Then did no swain mind how his flock did thrive,
Nor thirsty herds to the cold river drive;

The generous horse turn'd from fresh streams his head,

And on the sweetest grass refus'd to feed.
Daphnis, thy death ev'n fiercest lions mourn'd,
And hills and woods their cries and groans return'd.
Daphnis Armenian tigers' fierceness broke,
And brought them willing to the sacred yoke :
Daphnis to Bacchus' worship did ordain
The revels of his consecrated train;

The reeling priests with vines and ivy crown'd, And their long spears with cluster'd branches bound.

As vines the elm, as grapes the vine adorn,
As bulls the herd, as fields the ripen'd corn;
Such grace, such ornament, wert thou to all
That glory'd to be thine: since thy sad fall
No more Apollo his glad presence vields,
And Pales' self forsakes her hated fields.
Oft where the finest barley we did sow,
Barren wild oats and hurtful darnel grow;
And where soft violets did the vales adorn,
The thistle rises, and the prickly thorn. [ground,
Come, shepherds, strow with flowers the hallow'd
The sacred fountains which thick boughs surround;
Daphnis these rites requires: to Daphnis' praise,
Shepherds, a tomb with this inscription raise-
"Here, fam'd from Earth to Heaven, 1, Daphnis,lie;
Fair was the flock I fed, but much more fair was I."

A god! A god! Menalcas, he is crown'd!
O be propitious! O be good to thine!
See! here four hallow'd altars we design,
To Daphnis two, to Phoebus two we raise,
To pay the yearly tribute of our praise:
Sacred to thee, they each returning year
Two bowls of milk and two of oil shall bear :
Feasts I'll ordain, and to thy deathless praise,
Thy votaries' exalted thoughts to raise,
Rich Chian wines shall in full goblets flow,
And give a taste of nectar here below.

Damætas shall with Lictian Egon join,
To celebrate with songs the rites divine.
Alpbisibæus with a reeling gait
Shall the wild Satyrs' dancing imitate.
When to the nymphs we vows and offerings pay,
When we with solemn rites our fields survey,
These honours ever shall be thine: the boar
Shall in the fields and hills delight no more;
No more in streams the fish, in flowers the bee,
Ere, Daphnis, we forget our songs to thee:
Offerings to thee the shepherds every year
Shall, as to Bacchus and to Ceres, bear:

To thee, as to those gods, shall vows be made, And vengeance wait on those by whom they are not paid.

MOPSUS.

What present worth thy verse can Mopsus find?
Not the soft whispers of the southern wind
So much delight my ear, or charm my mind;
Not sounding shores beat by the murmuring tide,
Nor rivers that through stony valleys glide.

MENALCAS.

First you this pipe shall take; and 'tis the same That play'd poor Corydon's unhappy flame: The same that taught me Melibœus' 2 sheep.

MOPSUS.

You then shall for my sake this sheephook keep,
Adorn'd with brass, which I have oft deny'd
To young Antigenes in his beauty's pride:
And who could think he then in vain could sue?
Yet him I would deny, and freely give it you,

TO MR. WALLER,

UPON THE COPY OF VERSES MADE BY HIMSELF
ON THE LAST COPY IN HIS BOOK 3,

WHEN Shame, for all my foolish youth had writ,
Advis'd 'twas time the rhyming trade to quit,
Time to grow wise, and be no more a wit-
The noble fire, that animates thy age,
Once more inflam'd me with poetic rage. [young,
Kings, heroes, nymphs, the brave, the fair, the
Have been the theme of thy immortal song:
A nobler argument at last thy Muse,
Two things divine, thee and herself, does choose.
Age, whose dull weight makes vulgar spirits bend,
Gives wings to thine, and bids it upward tend:
No more confin'd, above the starry skies,
Out from the body's broken cage it flies.
But oh! vouchsafe, not wholly to retire,
To join with and complete th' etherial choir!
Still here remain; still on the threshold stand;
Still at this distance view the promis'd land;
Though thou may'st seem, so heavenly is thy sense,
Not going thither, but new come from thence.

Close hugs the charmer, and asham'd to yield, Though he has lost the day, yet keeps the field.

When, with a sigh, the fair Panthea said,

"What pity 'tis, ye gods, that all The noblest warriors soonest fall!" Then with a kiss she gently rear'd his head; Arm'd him again to fight, for nobly she More lov'd the combat than the victory.

But, more enrag'd for being beat before,
With all his strength he does prepare
More fiercely to renew the war;
Nor ceas'd he till the noble prize he bore:
Ev'n her such wondrous courage did surprise;
She hugs the dart that wounded her, and dies.

A SONG. THROUGH mournful shades, and solitary groves, Fann'd with the sighs of unsuccessful loves,

Wild with despair, young Thyrsis strays, Thinks over all Amyra's heavenly charms, Thinks he now sees her in another's arms;

Then at some willow's root himself he lays, The loveliest, most unhappy swain; And thus to the wild woods he does complain :

"How art thou chang'd, O Thyrsis, since the time
When thou could'st love and hope without a crime;
When Nature's pride and Earth's delight,
As through her shady evening grove she past,
And a new day did all around her cast,

Could see, nor be offended at the sight,
The melting, sighing, wishing swain,
That now must never hope to wish again!

"Riches and titles! why should they prevail, Where duty, love, and adoration, fail?

Lovely Amyra, shouldst thou prize
The empty noise that a fine title makes;
Or the vile trash that with the vulgar takes,

Before a heart that bleeds for thee, and dies} Your rigour kills, nor triumph o'er the slain.” Unkind! but pity the poor swain

A SO NG.

SEE what a conquest Love has made!
Beneath the myrtle's amorous shade
The charming fair Corinna lies
All melting in desire,
Quenching in tears those flowing eyes
That set the world on fire!

What cannot tears and beauty do?
The youth by chance stood by, and knew
For whom those crystal streams did flow;

And though he ne'er before

To her eyes brightest rays did bow,
Weeps too, and does adore.

So when the Heavens serene and clear,
Gilded with gaudy light appear,
Each craggy rock, and every stone,
Their native rigour keep;

But when in rain the clouds fall down,
The hardest marble weeps.

TO MR. HENRY DICKINSON,

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF
SIMON'S CRITICAL HISTORY OF THE OLD
TESTAMENT.

WHAT senseless loads have over-charg'd the press,
Of French impertinence, in English dress!
How many dull translators every day
Bring new supplies of novel, farce, or play!
Like damn'd French pensioners, with foreign aid
Their native land with nonsense to invade,
Till we're o'er-run more with the wit of France,
Her nauseous wit, than with her protestants.
But, sir, this noble piece obligeth more
Than all their trash hath plagu'd the town before:
With various learning, knowledge, strength of
thought,

Order and art, and solid judgment fraught;
No less a piece than this could make amends
For all the trumpery France amongst us sends.
Nor let ill-grounded superstitious fear
Fright any but the fools from reading here.
The sacred oracles may well endure

Th' exactest search, of their own truth secure ;
Though at this piece some noisy zealots bawl,
And to their aid a numerous faction call
With stretch'd-out arms, as if the ark could fall;
Yet wiser heads will think so firm it stands,
That, were it shook, 'twould need no mortal
hands.

Shakespeare, 'tis true, this tale of Troy first told, But, as with Ennius Virgil did of old,

You found it dirt, but you have made it gold.
A dark and undigested heap it lay,

Like Chaos ere the dawn of infant Day,
But you did first the cheerful light display.
Confus'd it was as Epicurus' world

Of atoms, by blind Chance together hurl'd,
But you have made such order through it shine
As loudly speaks the workmanship divine.

Boast then, O Troy! and triumph in thy flames,
That make thee sung by three such mighty names.
Had Ilium stood, Homer had ne'er been read,
Nor the sweet Mantuan swan his wings display'd,
Nor thou, the third, but equal in renown,
Thy matchless skill in this great subject shown.
Not Priam's self, nor all the Trojan state,
Was worth the saving at so dear a rate.
But they now flourish, by you mighty three,
In verse more lasting than their walls could be:
Which never, never shall like them decay,
Being built by hands divine as well as they;
Never till, our great Charles being sung by you,
Old Troy shall grow less famous than the New.

TO MR. DRYDEN,

ON HIS TROILUS AND CRESSIDA, 1679.
AND will our master poet then admit
A young beginner in the trade of Wit,
To bring a plain and rustic Muse, to wait
On his in all her glorious pomp and state?

Can an unknown, unheard-of, private name,
Add any lustre to so bright a fame?
No! sooner planets to the Sun may give

THE ARGUMENT.

Paris, having sailed to Sparta for the obtaining of Helen, whom Venus had promised him, as the reward of his adjudging the prize of beauty to her, was nobly there entertained by Menelaus, Helen's husband; but he, being called away to Crete, to take possession of what was left hin by his grandfather Atreus, commends his guest to the care of his wife. In his absence Paris courts her, and writes to her the following epistle.

Nor could my sickly fancy entertain

A thought so foolish, or a pride so vain.

But, as when kings through crowds in triumphs go,
The meanest wretch that gazes at the show,
Though to that pomp his voice can add no more,
Than when we drops into the ocean pour,
Has leave his tongue in praises to employ
(Th' accepted language of officious joy):
So I in loud applauses may reveal

To you, great king of verse, my loyal zeal,
May tell with what majestic grace and mien
Your Muse displays herself in every scene;
In what rich robes she has fair Cressid drest,
And with what gentle fires inflam'd her breast.
How when those fading eyes her aid implor'd,
She all their sparkling lustre has restor❜d,
Added more charms, fresh beauties on them shed,
And to new youth recall'd the lovely maid.
How nobly she the royal brothers draws;
How great their quarrel, and how great their cause!
How justly rais'd! and by what just degrees,
In a sweet calm does the rough tempest cease!
Envy not now "the god-like Roman's rage;"
Hector and Troilus, darlings of our age,
Shall hand in hand with Brutus tread the stage.
VOL IX.

Though you, and only you, can give it me.
Shall I then speak? or is it needless grown
To tell a passion that itself has shown?
Does not my love itself too open lay,
And all I think in all I do betray?
If not, oh! may it still in secret lie,

Till Time with our kind wishes shall comply;
Till all our joys may to us come sincere,
Nor lose their price by the allay of fear!
In vain I strive; who can that fire conceal,
Which does itself by its own light reveal?
But, if you needs would hear my trembling tongue
Speak what my actions have declar'd so long,
I love; you've there the word that does impart
The truest message from my bleeding heart:
Forgive me, madam, that I thus confess
To you, my fair physician, my disease,
And with such looks this suppliant paper grace,
As best become the beauties of that face.
May that smooth brow no angry wrinkle wear,
But be your looks as kind as they are fair.
Some pleasure 'tis to think these lines shall find
An entertainment at your hands so kind.
For this creates a hope, that I too may,
Receiv'd by you, as happy be as they.