Part 78 (1/2)

Thus Cyrus tamed the Macedon; a tomb Checked him who thought the world too strait a room.

Have I obeyed the powers of a face, A beauty, able to undo the race Of easy man? I look but here, and straight I am informed; the lovely counterfeit Was but a smoother clay. That famished slave, Beggared by wealth, who starves that he may save, Brings. .h.i.ther but his sheet. Nay, the ostrich-man, That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can Outswear his lords.h.i.+p, and reply as tough To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff, Is chapfallen here: worms, without wit or fear, Defy him now; death has disarmed the bear.

Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score Of erring men, and having done, meet more.

Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents, Fantastic humours, perilous ascents, False, empty honours, traitorous delights, And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites,-- But these, and more, which the weak vermins swell, Are couched in this acc.u.mulative cell, Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone: Day leaves me in a double night, and I Must bid farewell to my sad library, Yet with these notes. Henceforth with thought of thee I'll season all succeeding jollity, Yet d.a.m.n not mirth, nor think too much is fit: Excess hath no religion, nor wit; But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain, One check from thee shall channel it again.

[1] Vast-tentered: extended.

[2] Air-mongering: dealing in air or unsubstantial visions.

ON GOMBAULD'S ENDYMION.

I've read thy soul's fair night-piece, and have seen The amours and courts.h.i.+p of the silent queen; Her stolen descents to earth, and what did move her To juggle first with heaven, then with a lover; With Latmos' louder rescue, and, alas!

To find her out, a hue and cry in bra.s.s; Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad Nocturnal pilgrimage; with thy dreams, clad In fancies darker than thy cave; thy gla.s.s Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pa.s.s In her calm voyage, what discourse she heard Of spirits; what dark groves and ill-shaped guard Ismena led thee through; with thy proud flight O'er Periardes, and deep-musing night Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green The neighbour shades wear; and what forms are seen In their large bowers; with that sad path and seat Which none but light-heeled nymphs and fairies beat, Their solitary life, and how exempt From common frailty, the severe contempt They have of man, their privilege to live A tree or fountain, and in that reprieve What ages they consume: with the sad vale Of Diophania; and the mournful tale Of the bleeding, vocal myrtle:--these and more, Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score To thy rare fancy for. Nor dost thou fall From thy first majesty, or ought at all Betray consumption. Thy full vigorous bays Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays Of style or matter; just as I have known Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down Derived her birth, in gentle murmurs steal To the next vale, and proudly there reveal Her streams in louder accents, adding still More noise and waters to her channel, till At last, swollen with increase, she glides along The lawns and meadows, in a wanton throng Of frothy billows, and in one great name Swallows the tributary brooks' drowned fame.

Nor are they mere inventions, for we In the same piece find scattered philosophy, And hidden, dispersed truths, that folded lie In the dark shades of deep allegory, So neatly weaved, like arras, they descry Fables with truth, fancy with history.

So that thou hast, in this thy curious mould, Cast that commended mixture wished of old, Which shall these contemplations render far Less mutable, and lasting as their star; And while there is a people, or a sun, Endymion's story with the moon shall run.

APOSTROPHE TO FLETCHER THE DRAMATIST.

I did believe, great Beaumont being dead, Thy widowed muse slept on his flowery bed.

But I am richly cozened, and can see Wit transmigrates--his spirit stayed with thee; Which, doubly advantaged by thy single pen, In life and death now treads the stage again.

And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit Which starved the land, since into schisms split, Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess Wit's last edition is now i' the press.

For thou hast drained invention, and he That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.

But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain At the designs of such a tragic brain?

Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see Thy most abominable policy?

Will not the Ears a.s.semble, and think't fit Their synod fast and pray against thy wit?

But they'll not tire in such an idle quest-- Thou dost but kill and circ.u.mvent in jest; And when thy angered muse swells to a blow, Tis but for Field's or Swansteed's overthrow.

Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve The peace of spirits; and when such deeds fail Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail.

But, happy! thou ne'er saw'st these storms our air Teemed with, even in thy time, though seeming fair.

Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease Withdrew betimes into the land of peace.

So, nested in some hospitable sh.o.r.e, The hermit-angler, when the mid seas roar, Packs up his lines, and ere the tempest raves, Retires, and leaves his station to the waves.

Thus thou diedst almost with our peace; and we, This breathing time, thy last fair issue see, Which I think such, if needless ink not soil So choice a muse, others are but thy foil; This or that age may write, but never see A wit that dares run parallel with thee.

True Ben must live; but bate him, and thou hast Undone all future wits, and matched the past.

PICTURE OF THE TOWN.

Abominable face of things!--here's noise Of banged mortars, blue ap.r.o.ns, and boys, Pigs, dogs, and drums; with the hoa.r.s.e, h.e.l.lish notes Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats; With new fine wors.h.i.+ps, and the old cast team Of justices, vexed with the cough and phlegm.

'Midst these, the cross looks sad; and in the s.h.i.+re- Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear, With brotherly rufts and beards, and a strange sight Of high, monumental hats, ta'en at the fight Of Eighty-eight; while every burgess foots The mortal pavement in eternal boots.

Hadst thou been bachelor, I had soon divined Thy close retirements, and monastic mind; Perhaps some nymph had been to visit; or The beauteous churl was to be waited for, And, like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss, You stayed and stroked the distaff for a kiss.

Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus, Thy memory will scarce remain with us.

The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim They have not seen thee here since Charles' reign; Or, if they mention thee, like some old man That at each word inserts--Sir, as I can Remember--so the cipherers puzzle me With a dark, cloudy character of thee; That, certes, I fear thou wilt be lost, and we Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee.

Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine And precious wit lie dead for want of thine.

Shall the dull market landlord, with his rout Of sneaking tenants, dirtily swill out This harmless liquor shall they knock and beat For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat?