Passion, and care, and anguish, to destroy;
Through him soft peace and plenitude of joy
Perpetual o’er the world redeem’d shall flow;
No more may man inquire or angel know.
Now, Solomon, remembering who thou art,
Act through thy remnant life a decent part:
Go forth; be strong; with patience and with care
Perform and suffer; to thyself severe,
Gracious to others, thy desires suppress’d,
Diffused thy virtues, first of men, be best.
Thy sum of duty let two words contain,
O may they graven in thy heart remain!
Be humble and be just. The angel said:
With upward speed his agile wings he spread,
Whilst on the holy ground I prostrate lay,
By various doubts impell’d, or to obey
Or to object; at length (my mournful look
Heavenward erect) determined, thus I spoke:
Supreme, all-wise, eternal Potentate!
Sole author, sole disposer, of our fate!
Enthroned in light and immortality,
Whom no man fully sees, and none can see!
Original of Beings! Power divine!
Since that I live, that I think, is thine;
Benign Creator! let thy plastic hand
Dispose its own effect: let thy command
Restore, great Father, thy instructed son,
And in my act may thy great will be done.
CONSIDERATIONS ON PART OF THE EIGHTY-EIGHTH PSALM.
A COLLEGE EXERCISE, 1690.
HEAVY, O Lord, on me Thy judgments lie,
Accurs’d I am, while God rejects my
Overwhelm’d in darkness and despair I groan;
And every place is hell; for God is gone.
O Lord! arise, and let Thy beams control
Those horrid clouds, that press my frighted soul:
Save the poor wanderer from eternal night,
Thou that art the God of light.
Downward I hasten to my destin’d place;
There none obtain Thy aid, or sing Thy praise. 10
Soon I shall lie in death’s deep ocean drown’d:
Is mercy there, or sweet forgiveness found?
O save me yet, whilst on the brink I stand;
Rebuke the storm, and waft my soul to land.
O let her rest beneath Thy wing secure,
Thou that art the God of power.
Behold the prodigal! to Thee I come,
To hail my Father, and to seek my home.
Nor refuge could I find, nor friend abroad,
Straying in vice, and destitute of God. 20
O let Thy terrors, and my anguish end!
Be Thou my refuge, and be Thou my friend:
Receive the son Thou didst so long reprove,
Thou that art the God of love.
TO THE REV. DR. FRANCIS TURNER.
BISHOP OF ELY, WHO HAD ADVISED A TRANSLATION
OF PRUDENTIUS.
IF poets, ere they cloth’d their infant
And the rude work to just perfection brought,
Did still some god, or godlike man invoke,
Whose mighty name their sacred silence broke:
Your goodness, Sir, will easily excuse
The bold requests of an aspiring muse;
Who, with your blessing would your aid implore,
And in her weakness justify your power. —
From your fair pattern she would strive to write,
And with unequal strength pursue your flight; 10
Yet hopes, she ne’er can err that follows you,
Led by your blest commands, and great example too.
Then smiling and aspiring influence give,
And make the muse and her endeavours live;
Claim all her future labours as your due,
Let every song begin and end with you
So to the blest retreat she’ll gladly go,
Where the saints’ palm and muses’ laurel grow;
Where kindly both in glad embrace shall join,
And round your brow their mingled honours twine;
Both to the virtue due, which could excel, 21
As much in writing, as in living well. —
So shall she proudly press the tuneful string,
And mighty things in mighty numbers sing;
Nor doubt to strike Prudentius’ daring lyre,
And humbly bring the verse which you inspire.
A PASTORAL. TO DR. TURNER, BISHOP OF ELY; ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM CAMBRIDGE.
DAMON.
TELL, dear Alexis, tell thy Damon, why
Dost thou in mournful shades obscurely lie?
Why dost thou sigh, why strike thy panting breast?
And steal from life the needful hours of rest?
Are thy kids starv’d by winter’s early frost?
Are any of thy bleating stragglers lost?
Have strangers’ cattle trod thy new-plough’d ground?
Has great Joanna, or her greater shepherd frown’d?
ALEXIS.
See my kids browse, my lambs securely play:
(Ah! were their master unconcern’d as they!) 10
No beasts (at noon I look’d) had trod my ground;
Nor has Joanna, or her shepherd, frown’d..
DAMON.
Then stop the lavish fountain of your eyes,
Nor let those sighs from your swoln bosom rise;
Chase sadness, friend, and solitude away;
And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.
ALEXIS.
Say what can more our tortur’d souls annoy,
Than to behold, admire, and lose our joy;
Whose fate more hard than those who sadly run,
For the last glimpse of the departing sun? 20
Or what severer sentence can be given,
Than, having seen, to be excluded Heaven?
DAMON.
None, shepherd, none —
ALEXIS.
— Then cease to chide my cares!
And rather pity than restrain my tears;
Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed,
To think how great my joys; how soon they fled;
I told thee, friend, (now bless the shepherd’s name,
From whose dear care the kind occasion came),
That I, even I, might happily receive 30
The sacred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis give,
That I might see the lovely awful swain,
Whose holy crosier guides our willing plain;
Whose pleasing power and ruling goodness keep
- Our souls with equal care as we our sheep;
Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each tongue:
Whilst only he who caus’d, dislikes the song.
To this great, humble, parting man I gain’d
Access, and happy for an hour I reign’d;
Happy as new-form’d man in paradise, 40
Ere sin debauch’d his inoffensive bliss;
Happy as heroes after battles won,
Prophets entranc’d, or monarchs on the throne;
But (oh, my friend!) those joys with Daphnis flew:
To them these tributary tears are due.
DAMON.
Was he so humble then? those joys so vast?
Cease to admire that both so quickly pass’d.
Too happy should we be, would smiling fate
Render one blessing durable and great;
But (oh, the sad vicissitude!) how soon 50
Unwelcome night succeeds the cheerful noon;
And rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!
Then grieve not, friend, like you, since all mankind
A certain change of joy and sorrow find.
Suppress your sigh, your downcast eyelids raise,
Whom present you revere, him absent praise.
AN EPISTLE TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHE
RD, ESQ.
WHEN crowding folks with strange ill
Were making legs and begging places,
And some with patents, some with merit,
‘Tir’d out [m]y good Lord Dorset’s spirit; —
Sneaking I stood amongst the crew,
Desiring much to speak with you.
I waited while the clock struck thrice,
And footman brought out fifty lies;
Till, patience vex’d, and legs grown weary,
I thought it was in vain to tarry: 10
But did opine it might be better,
By penny-post to send a letter;
Now if you miss of this epistle,
I’m balk’d again, and may go whistle.
My business, Sir, you’ll quickly guess,
Is to desire some little place:
And fair pretensions I have for’t,
Much need, and very small desert.
Whene’er I writ to you, I wanted;
I always begg’d, you always granted. 20
Now, as you took me up when little,
Gave me my learning and my vittle;
Ask’d for me, from my lord, things fitting,
Kind as I’d been your own begetting;
Confirm what formerly you’ve given,
Nor leave me now at six and seven,
As Sunderland has left Mun Stephen.
No family that takes a whelp
When first he laps and scarce can yelp,
Neglects or turns him out of gate 30
When he’s grown up to dog’s estate:
Nor parish, if they once adopt
The spurious brats by strollers dropt,
Leave them, when grown up lusty fellows,
To the wide world, that is, the gallows:
No, thank them for their, love, that’s worse
Than if they’d throttled them at nurse.
My uncle, rest his soul! when living,
Might have contriv’d me ways of thriving;
Taught me with cyder to replenish 40
My vats, or ebbing tide of rhenish.
So when for hock I drew prickt white-wine,
Swear’t had the flavour and was right wine.
Or sent me with ten pounds to
Furnival’s inn, to some good rogue-attorney;
Where now, by forging deeds, and cheating,
I’d found some handsome ways of getting.
All this you made me quit, to follow
The sneaking whey-fac’d god Apollo;
Sent me among a fiddling crew 50
Of folks, I’d never seen nor knew,
Calliope, and God knows who.
To add no more invectives to it,
You spoil’d the youth to make a poet.
In common justice, Sir, there’s no man
That makes the whore, but keeps the woman.
Among all honest Christian people,
Whoe’er breaks limbs maintains the cripple.
The sum of all I have to say,
Is, that you’d put me in some way; 60
And your petitioner shall pray —
There’s one thing more I had almost slipt,
But that may do as well in postscript:
My friend Charles Montague’s preferr’d;
Nor would I have it long observ’d,
That one mouse eats, while t’other’s starv’d.
AD VIRUM.
DOCTISSIMUM DOMINUM SAMUELEM SHAW, CUM THESES DE ICTERO PRO GRADU DOCTORIS DEFENDERET, 4 JUNII, 1692.
PHOEBE potens saevis morbis vel lædere
Læsas solerti vel relevare manu,
Aspice tu decus hoc nostrum, placidusque fatere
Indomitus quantum prosit in arte labor:
Non icterum posthac pestemve minaberis orbi,
Fortius hic juvenis dum medicamen habet;
Mitte dehinc iras, et nato carmina dona;
Neglectum telum dejice, sume lyram.
TRANSLATION.
BY MR. COOKE.
O PHŒBUS, deity, whose powerful hand
Can spread diseases through the joyful
Alike all-powerful to relieve the pain,
And bid the groaning nations smile again;
When this our pride you see, confess you find
In him what art can do with labour join’d:
No more the world thy direful threats shall fear,
While he, the youth, our remedy is near:
Suppress thy rage; with verse thy son inspire,
The dart neglected, to assume the lyre.
ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR.
THE town which Louis bought, Nassau reclaims,
And brings instead of bribes avenging — flames.
Now, Louis, take thy titles from above,
Boileau shall sing, and we’ll believe thee Jove:
Jove gain’d his mistress with alluring gold,
But Jove, like thee, was impotent and old!
Active and young he did like William stand,
He had stunn’d the dame, his thunder in his hand.
ODE IN IMITATION OF HORACE, III. OD. II.
WRITTEN IN 1692.
HOW long, deluded Albion, wilt thou lie
In the lethargic sleep, the sad repose,
By which thy close, thy constant enemy,
Has softly lull’d thee to thy woes?
Or wake, degenerate isle, or cease to own
What thy own kings in Gallic camps have done;
The spoils they brought thee back, the crowns they won:
William (so fame requires) again is arm’d;
Thy father to the field is gone:
Again Maria weeps her absent lord, 10
For thy repose content to rule alone.
Are thy enervate sons not yet alarm’d?
When William fights dare they look tamely on,
So slow to get their ancient fame restor’d,
As nor to melt at beauty’s tears, nor follow valour’s sword?
See the repenting isle awakes,
Her vicious chains the generous goddess breaks;
The fogs around her temples are dispell’d;
Abroad she looks, and sees arm’d Belgia stand
Prepar’d to meet their common lord’s command;
Her lions roaring by her side, her arrows in her hand: 21
And, blushing to have been so long withheld,
Weeps off her crime, and hastens to the field:
Henceforth her youth shall be inur’d to bear
Hazardous toil and active war:
To march beneath the dog-star’s raging heat,
Patient of summer’s drought, and martial sweat;
And only grieve in winter’s camps to find
Its days too short for labours they design’d:
All night beneath hard heavy arms to watch; 30
All day to mount the trench, to storm the breach;
And all the rugged paths to tread,
Where William and his virtue lead.
Silence is the soul of war;
Deliberate counsel must prepare
The mighty work, which valour must complete:
Thus William rescued, thus preserves the state;
Thus teaches us to think and dare.
As whilst his cannon just prepar’d to breathe
Avenging anger and swift death, 40
In the tried metal the close dangers glow,
And now, too late, the dying foe
Perceives the flame, yet cannot ward the blow;
So whilst in William’s breast ripe counsels lie,
Secret and sure as brooding fate,
No more of his design appears,
Than what awakens Gallia’s fears;
And (though guilt’s eye can sharply penetrate),
Distracted Lewis can descry
Only a long unmeasur’d ruin nigh. 50
On Norman coasts and banks of frighted Seine
Lo I the impending storms begin:
Bri
tannia safely through her master’s sea
Ploughs up her victorious way.
The French Salmoneus throws his bolts in vain,
Whilst the true thunderer asserts the main.
’Tis done! to shelves and rocks his fleets retire,
Swift victory in vengeful flames
Burns down the pride of their presumptuous names:
They run to shipwreck to avoid our fire, 60
And the torn vessels that regain their coast
Are but sad marks to show the rest are lost:
All this the mild, the beauteous queen has done,
And William’s softer half shakes Lewis’ throne:
Maria does the sea command
Whilst Gallia flies her husband’s arms by land.
So, the sun absent, with full sway the moon
Governs the isles, and rules the waves alone:
So Juno thunders when her Jove is gone.
Io Britannia! loose thy ocean’s chains, 70
Whilst Russel strikes the blow thy queen ordains:
Thus rescued, thus rever’d, for ever stand,
And bless the counsel, and reward the hand,
Io Britannia! thy Maria reigns.
From Mary’s conquests, and the rescued main,
Let France look back to Sambre’s armed shore,
And boast her joy for William’s death no more.
He lives; let France confess, the victor lives:
Her triumphs for his death were vain,
And spoke her terror of his life too plain. 80
The mighty years begin, the day draws nigh,
In which that one of Lewis’ many wives,
Who, by the baleful force of guilty charms,
Has long enthrall’d him in her wither’d arms,
Shall o’er the plains, from distant towers on high,
Cast around her mournful eye,
And with prophetic sorrow cry:
“Why does my ruin’d lord retard his flight?
Why does despair provoke his age to fight?
As well the wolf may venture to engage 90
The angry lion’s generous rage;
The ravenous vulture, and the bird of night,
As safely tempt the stooping eagle’s flight;
As Lewis to unequal arms defy
Complete Works of Matthew Prior Page 38
