But, if a Muse hereafter smile on me,
And say,
"Be thou a poet!" men shall see
That none could a more grateful scholar have;
For what I owed his life I'll pay his grave.
WELCOME, great Sir! with all the joy that's due To the return of peace and you;
Two greatest blessings which this age can know For that to Thee, for thee to Heaven we owe. Others by war their conquests 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 widows hear the jocund bells,
And take them for their husbands' knells : No drop of blood is spill'd, which might be said 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 sing 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 sight,
And only in their halls the children fright.
The gain of civil wars will not allow
Bay to the conqueror's brow:
At such a game what fool would venture in,
Where one must lose, yet neither side can win?
How justly would our neighbours smile
At these mad quarrels of our isle ;
Swell'd with proud hopes to snatch the whole away,
Whilst we bet all, and yet for nothing play!
How was the silver Tine frighted before,
And durst not kiss the armed shore!
His waters ran more swiftly than they use,
And hasted to the sea to tell the news:
The sea itself, how rough soe'er,
Could scarce believe such fury here.
How could the Scots and we be enemies grown? That, and its master Charles, had made us one.
No blood so loud as that of civil war:
It calls for dangers from afar.
Let's rather go and seek out them and fame;
Thus our forefathers got, thus left, a name:
All their rich blood was spent with gains,
But that which swells their children's veins.
Why sit we still, our spirits wrapp'd in lead?
Not like them whilst they lived, but now they're
dead.
The noise at home was but Fate's policy,
To raise our spirits more high:
So a bold lion, ere he seeks his prey,
Lashes his sides and roars,
How would the German Eagle fear
To see a new Gustavus 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
Destined 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 less ;
And we, the prophets' sons, write not by guess.
SIR ANTHONY VANDYKE,
THE FAMOUS PAINTER.
VANDYKE is dead; but what bold Muse shall dare
(Though poets in that word with painters share)
To' express her sadness? Poesy must become
An art like painting here, an art that's dumb.
Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep,
Like some sad picture which he made to weep,
Or those who saw 't; for none his works could view
Unmoved with the same passions which he drew.
His pieces so with their live objects strive,
That both or pictures seem, or both alive.
Nature herself, amazed, does doubting stand,
Which is her own and which the painter's hand;
And does attempt the like with less success,
When her own work in twins she would express.
His all-resembling pencil did out-pass
The mimic imagery of looking-glass.
Nor was his life less perfect than his art,
Nor was his hand less erring than his heart.
There was no false or fading colour there,
The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were.
Most other men, set next to him in view,
Appear'd more shadows than the men he drew.
Thus still he lived, till Heaven did for him call;
Where reverend Luke salutes him first of all;
Where he beholds new sights, divinely fair,
And could almost wish for his pencil there;
Did he not gladly see how all things shine,
Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,
Whilst he, for ever ravish'd with the show,
Scorns his own art, which we admire below.
Only his beauteous lady still he loves
(The love of heavenly objects Heaven improves);
He sees bright angels in pure beams appear,
And thinks on her he left so like them here.
And you, fair widow! who stay here alive,
Since he so much rejoices, cease to grieve:
Your joys and griefs were wont the same to be;
Begin not now, bless'd pair! to disagree.
No wonder death moved not his generous mind;
You, and a new-born You, he left behind:
Even Fate express'd his love to his dear wife,
And let him end your picture with his life.
PROMETHEUS ILL-PAINTED.
How wretched does Prometheus' state appear,
Whilst he his second misery suffers here!
Draw him no more; lest, as he tortured stands,
He blame great Jove's less than the painter's hands.
It would the Vulture's cruelty outgo,
If once again his liver thus should grow.
Pity him, Jove! and his bold theft allow ;
The flames he once stole from thee grant him now
HERE'S to thee, Dick; this whining love despise;
Pledge me, my friend; and drink till thou be'st wise.
It sparkles brighter far than she:
'Tis pure and right, without deceit;
And such no woman ere will be:
No; they are all sophisticate.
With all thy servile pains what canst thou win,
But an ill-favour'd and uncleanly sin?
A thing so vile, and so short-lived,
That Venus' joys, as well as she,
With reason may be said to be
From the neglected foam derived.
Whom would that painted toy a beauty move;
Whom would it e'er persuade to court and love;
Could he a woman's heart have seen
(But, oh! no light does thither come),
And view'd her perfectly within,
When he lay shut up in her womb?
Follies they have so numberless in store,
That only he who loves them can have more.
Neither their sighs nor tears are true;
Those idly blow, these idly fall,
Nothing like to ours at all:
But sighs and tears have sexes too.
Here's to thee again; thy senseless sorrows drown;
Let the glass walk, till all things too go round!
Again, till these two lights be four;
No error here can dangerous prove:
Thy passion, man, deceived thee more;
None double see like men in love.
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