The watching bird, true nuncius of the light,
Strait crowed; and all these vanish'd from my sight:
My very Muse herself forsook me too.
Me grief and wonder waked: what should I do?
Oh! let me follow thee (said I) and go
From life, that I may dream for ever so.
With that my flying Muse I thought to clasp
Within my arms, but did a shadow grasp.
Thus chiefest joys glide with the swiftest stream,
And all our greatest pleasure's but a dream.
GREAT Charles !-there stop, ye trumpeters of
Fame!
For he who speaks his titles, his great name,
Must have a breathing time-our king:-stay there;
Speak by degrees; let the inquisitive ear
Be held in doubt, and, ere you say
"is come,"
Let every heart prepare a spacious room
For ample joys: then Iö sing, as loud
As thunder shot from the divided cloud!
Let Cygnus pluck from the Arabian waves
The ruby of the rock, the pearl that paves
Great Neptune's court: let every sparrow bear
From the three Sisters' weeping bark a tear:
Let spotted lynxes their sharp talons fill
With crystal, fetch'd from the Promethean hill:
Let Cytherea's birds fresh wreaths compose,
Knitting the pale-fac'd lily with the rose:
Let the self-gotten phenix rob his nest,
Spoil his own funeral pile, and all his best
Of myrrh, of frankincense, of cassia, bring,
To strew the way for our returned king!
Let every post a panegyric wear,
Each wall, each pillar, gratulations bear:
And yet, let no man invocate a Muse;
The very matter will itself infuse
A sacred fury: let the merry bells
(For unknown joys work unknown miracles)
Ring without help of sexton, and presage
A new-made holy-day for future age!
And, if the ancients used to dedicate
A golden temple to propitious Fate,
At the return of any noble men,
Of heroes, or of emperors, we must then
Raise up a double trophy; for their fame
Was but the shadow of our Charles's name.
Who is there where all virtues mingled flow,
Where no defects or imperfections grow?
Whose head is always crown'd with victory,
Snatch'd from Bellona's hand; him Luxury
In
peace debilitates whose tongue can win
Tully's own garland, Pride to him creeps in.
On whom (like Atlas' shoulders) the propt state
(As he were primum mobile of Fate)
Solely relies; him blind Ambition moves;
His tyranny the bridled subject proves.
But all those virtues which they all possess'd
Divided, are collected in thy breast,
Great Charles! Let Cæsar boast Pharsalia's fight,
Honorius praise the Parthian's unfeign'd flight:
Let Alexander call himself Jove's peer,
And place his image near the thunderer ;
Yet while our Charles with equal balance reigns
"Twixt Mercy and Astrea, and maintains
A noble peace, 'tis he, 'tis only he,
Who is most near, most like, the Deity.
HENCE, clouded looks; hence, briny tears,
Hence eye that Sorrow's livery wears!
What though awhile Apollo please
To visit the Antipodes ?
Yet he returns, and with his light
Expels what he hath caused-the night.
What though the Spring vanish away,
And with it the Earth's form decay?
Yet his new-birth will soon restore
What its departure took before.
What though we miss'd our absent king
Awhile? great Charles is come again ;
And with his presence makes us know
The gratitude to Heaven we owe.
So doth a cruel storm impart
And teach us Palinurus' art:
So from salt floods, wept by our eyes,
A joyful Venus doth arise.
LEST the misjudging world should chance to say I durst not but in secret murmurs pray;
To whisper in Jove's ear
How much I wish that funeral,
Or gape at such a great one's fall;
This let all ages hear,
And future times in my soul's picture see
What I abhor, what I desire to be.
I would not be a puritan, though he
Can preach two hours, and yet his sermon be
But half a quarter long;
Though, from his old mechanic trade,
By vision he's a pastor made,
His faith was grown so strong;
Nay, though he think to gain salvation
By calling the' pope the Whore of Babylon.
I would not be a school-master, though he
His rods no less than fasces deems to be;
Though he in many a place
Turns Lilly oftener than his gowns,
Till at the last he make the nouns
Fight with the verbs apace;
Nay, though he can, in a poetic heat,
Figures, born since, out of poor Virgil beat.
I would not be justice of peace, though he
Can with equality divide the fee,
And stakes with his clerk draw;
Nay, though he sits upon the place
Of judgment, with a learned face
Intricate as the law;
And, whilst he mulcts enormities demurely,
Breaks Priscian's head with sentences securely.
I would not be a courtier, though he
Makes his whole life the truest comedy,
Although he be a man
In whom the taylor's forming art,
And nimble barber, claim more part
Than Nature herself can ;
Though, as he uses men, 'tis his intent
To put off Death too with a compliment.
From lawyers' tongues, though they can spin with
The shortest cause into a paraphrase ;
From usurers' conscience
(For swallowing up young heirs so fast, Without all doubt, they'll choke at last)
Make me all innocence,
Good Heaven! and from thy eyes, O Justice! keep; For though they be not blind, they're oft asleep.
From singing-men's religion, who are
Always at church, just like the crows, 'cause there
They build themselves a nest:
From too much poetry, which shines
With gold in nothing but its lines,
Free, O you powers! my breast.
And from astronomy, which in the skies
Finds fish and bulls, yet doth but tantalize.
From your court-madams' beauty, which doth
At morning May, at night a January:
From the grave city brow
(For though it want an R, it has
The letter of Pythagoras)
Keep me, O Fortune, now!
And chines of beef innumerable send me,
Or from the stomach of the guard defend me.
This only grant me, that my means may
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.
Some honour I would have,
Not from great deeds, but good alone;
The' unknown are better than ill-known;
Rumour can ope the grave!
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