Thy deform'd Looks, and Dress, in such a Company:
Thou wert deceiv'd, rash Goddess, in thy hate,

If thou dist foolishly believe

That thou could'st him of ought deprive,

But, what men hold of thee, a great Estate.
And here indeed thou to the full did shew
All that thy Tyrant Deity could do,
His Virtues never did thy power obey,
In dissipating Storms, and routed Battles they
Did close and constant with their Captain stay;
They with him into Exile went,

And kept their Home in Banishment.
The Noble Youth was often forc'd to flee
From the insatiate Rage of thee,

Disguised, and Unknown;

In all His shap'es they always kept their own,
Nay, with the Foil of darkness, brighter shone,
And might Unwillingly have don,

But, that just Heaven thy wicked Will abhor'd,

What Virtues most detest, might have betrayd their Lord.

3.

Ah slothful Love, could'st thou with patience see
Fortune usurp that flowry Spring from thee;

And nip thy rosy Season with a Cold,

That comes too soon, when Life's short year grows old, Love his gross Error saw at last,

And promis'd large amends for what was past,

He promis'd, and has don it, which is more

Than I, who knew him long, e'er knew him do before.

H' has done it Nobly, and we must confess

Could do no more, though h' ought to do no less.
What has he don? he has repair'd

The Ruines which a luckless War did make,

And added to it a Reward

Greater than Conquest for its share could take.
His whole Estate could not such gain produce,
Had it layd out a hundred years at use.

4.

Now blessings to thy Noble choice betide,
Happy, and Happy-making Bride.
Though thou art born of a Victorious Race,
And all their rougher Victorie dost grace
With gentle Triumphs of thy Face,
Permit us in this milder War to prize

No less thy yeilding Heart, than thy Victorious Eyes.
Nor doubt the honour of that field,

Where thou didst first overcome, e'er thou didst yield.
And tho' thy Father's Martial Name

Has fill'd the Trumpets and the Drums of Fame,
Thy Husband triumphs now no less than He,
And it may justly question'd be,

Which was the Happiest Conqueror of the Three.

5.

There is in Fate (which none but Poets see)

There is in Fate the noblest Poetry,

And she has shown, Great Duke, her utmost Art in Thee; For after all the troubles of thy Scene,

Which so confus'd, and intricate have been,

She has ended with this Match thy Tragicomedy;
We all admire it, for the truth to tell,
Our Poet Fate ends not all Plays so well;

But this she as her Master-piece does boast,

And so indeed She may;

For in the middle Acts, and turnings of the Play,
Alas! we gave our Hero up for lost.

All men, I see, this with Applause receive,
And now let me have leave,

A Servant of the Person, and the Art,
To Speak this Prologue to the second part,

A

POEM

ON THE LATE

CIVIL WAR.

By Mr. ABRAHAM COWLEY.

[Design]

LONDON, Printed 1679.

The Publisher

TO THE

READER.

Eeting accidentally with this Poem in Manuscript, and

being informed that it was a Piece of the incomparable Mr. A C's, I thought it unjust to hide such a Treasure from the World. I remember'd that our Author in his Preface to his Works, makes mention of some Poems written by him on the late Civil War, of which the following Copy is questionably a part. In his most imperfect and unfinish'd Pieces, you will discover the Hand of so great a Master. And (whatever his own Modesty might have advised to the contrary) there is not one careless stroke of his but what should be kept sacred to Posterity. He could write nothing that was not worth the preserving, being habitually a Poet and Always Inspired. In this Piece the Judicious Reader will find the Turn of the Verse to be bis; the same Copious and Lively Imagery of Fancy, the same Warmth of Passion and Delicacy of Wit that sparkles in all his Writings. And certainly no Labours of a Genius so Rich in its self, and so Cultivated with Learning and Manners, can prove an unwelcome Present to the World.

W

A

POEM

On the late

CIVIL WAR.

Hat Rage does England from it self divide,

More than the Seas from all the World beside.

From every part the roaring Cannons play,

From every part Blood roars as loud as they.

What English Ground but still some Moisture bears,
Of Young Mens Blood, and more of Mothers Tears!
What Airs unthickened with the Sighs of Wives,
Tho' more of Maids for their dear Lovers Lives.
Alas, what Triumphs can this Victory shew,
That dies us Red in Blood and Blushes too!
How can we wish that Conquest, which bestows
Cypress, not Bays, upon the Conquering Brows,
It was not so when Henry's dreadful Name,
Not Sword, nor Cause, whole Nations overcame.
To farthest West did his swift Conquests run,
Nor did his Glory set but with the Sun.
In vain did Roderic to his Hold retreat,
In vain had wretched Ireland call'd him Great.
Ireland! which now most basely we begin
To labour more to lose than he to win,
It was not so when in the happy East,
Richard our Mars, Venus's Isle possest.

'Gainst the proud Moon, he the English Cross display'd,
Ecclips'd one Horn, and the other paler made.
When our dear Lives we ventured bravely there,
And digg'd our own to gain Christs Sepulchre.
That sacred Tomb which should we now enjoy,
We should with as much zeal fight to destroy.