Part 13 (1/2)

Thou seem'st a rosebud born in snow, A flower of purpose sprung to bow To headless tempests, and the rage Of an incensed, stormy age.

Others, ere their afflictions grow, Are tim'd and season'd for the blow, But thine, as rheums the tend'rest part, Fell on a young and harmless heart.

And yet, as balm-trees gently spend Their tears for those that do them rend, So mild and pious thou wert seen, Though full of suff'rings; free from spleen, Thou didst not murmur, nor revile, But drank'st thy wormwood with a smile.

As envious eyes blast and infect, And cause misfortunes by aspect, So thy sad stars dispens'd to thee No influx but calamity; They view'd thee with eclipsed rays, And but the back side of bright days.

These were the comforts she had here, As by an unseen Hand 'tis clear, Which now she reads, and, smiling, wears A crown with Him who wipes off tears.

TO SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT UPON HIS GONDIBERT.

Well, we are rescued! and by thy rare pen Poets shall live, when princes die like men.

Th' hast clear'd the prospect to our harmless hill, Of late years clouded with imputed ill, And the soft, youthful couples there may move, As chaste as stars converse and smile above.

Th' hast taught their language and their love to flow Calm as rose-leaves, and cool as virgin-snow, Which doubly feasts us, being so refin'd, They both delight and dignify the mind; Like to the wat'ry music of some spring, Whose pleasant flowings at once wash and sing.

And where before heroic poems were Made up of spirits, prodigies, and fear, And show'd--through all the melancholy flight-- Like some dark region overcast with night, As if the poet had been quite dismay'd, While only giants and enchantments sway'd; Thou like the sun, whose eye brooks no disguise, Hast chas'd them hence, and with discoveries So rare and learned fill'd the place, that we Those fam'd grandezas find outdone by thee, And underfoot see all those vizards hurl'd Which bred the wonder of the former world.

'Twas dull to sit, as our forefathers did, At crumbs and voiders, and because unbid, Refrain wise appet.i.te. This made thy fire Break through the ashes of thy aged sire, To lend the world such a convincing light As shows his fancy darker than his sight.

Nor was't alone the bars and length of days --Though those gave strength and stature to his bays-- Encounter'd thee, but what's an old complaint And kills the fancy, a forlorn restraint.

How couldst thou, mur'd in solitary stones, Dress Birtha's smiles, though well thou mightst her groans?

And, strangely eloquent, thyself divide 'Twixt sad misfortunes and a bloomy bride?

Through all the tenour of thy ample song, Spun from thy own rich store, and shar'd among Those fair adventurers, we plainly see Th' imputed gifts inherent are in thee.

Then live for ever--and by high desert-- In thy own mirror, matchless Gondibert, And in bright Birtha leave thy love enshrin'd Fresh as her em'rald, and fair as her mind, While all confess thee--as they ought to do-- The prince of poets, and of lovers too.

[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. V. ELEG. III.

TO HIS FELLOW-POETS AT ROME, UPON THE BIRTHDAY OF BACCHUS.

This is the day--blithe G.o.d of sack--which we, If I mistake not, consecrate to thee, When the soft rose we marry to the bays, And, warm'd with thy own wine, rehea.r.s.e thy praise; 'Mongst whom--while to thy poet fate gave way-- I have been held no small part of the day.

But now, dull'd with the cold Bear's frozen seat, Sarmatia holds me, and the warlike Gete.

My former life, unlike to this my last, With Rome's best wits of thy full cup did taste, Who since have seen the savage Pontic band, And all the choler of the sea and land.

Whether sad chance or Heav'n hath this design'd, And at my birth some fatal planet s.h.i.+n'd, Of right thou shouldst the sisters' knots undo, And free thy votary and poet too; Or are you G.o.ds--like us--in such a state As cannot alter the decrees of fate?

I know with much ado thou didst obtain Thy jovial G.o.dhead, and on earth thy pain Was no whit less, for, wand'ring, thou didst run To the Getes too, and snow-weeping Strymon, With Persia, Ganges, and whatever streams The thirsty Moor drinks in the mid-day beams.

But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee --To make all sure--doubled thy misery.

My sufferings too are many--if it be Held safe for me to boast adversity-- Nor was't a common blow, but from above, Like his that died for imitating Jove; Which, when thou heardst, a ruin so divine And mother-like should make thee pity mine, And on this day, which poets unto thee Crown with full bowls, ask what's become of me?

Help, buxom G.o.d, then! so may thy lov'd vine Swarm with the num'rous grape, and big with wine Load the kind elm, and so thy orgies be With priests' loud shouts and satyrs' kept to thee!

So may in death Lycurgus ne'er be blest, Nor Pentheus' wand'ring ghost find any rest!

And so for ever bright--thy chief desires-- May thy wife's crown outs.h.i.+ne the lesser fires!

If but now, mindful of my love to thee, Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be.

You G.o.ds have commerce with yourselves; try then If Caesar will restore me Rome again.

And you, my trusty friends--the jolly crew Of careless poets! when, without me, you Perform this day's glad myst'ries, let it be Your first appeal unto his deity, And let one of you--touch'd with my sad name-- Mixing his wine with tears, lay down the same, And--sighing--to the rest this thought commend, O! where is Ovid now, our banish'd friend?

This do, if in your b.r.e.a.s.t.s I e'er deserv'd So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd, Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow Condemning others, did myself allow.

And may your happier wits grow loud with fame As you--my best of friends!--preserve my name.

[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. III. [EPIST. VII.].

TO HIS FRIENDS--AFTER HIS MANY SOLICITATIONS--REFUSING TO PEt.i.tION CaeSAR FOR HIS RELEAs.e.m.e.nT.

You have consum'd my language, and my pen, Incens'd with begging, scorns to write again.