They, neighbours to your eyes,

Then Revenge, married to Ambition,
Show but like Phosphor when the Sun doth rise. Begat black War; then Avarice crept on;
I would have all my mistress' parts

Then limits to each field were strain'd,
One more to Nature than to arts;

And Terminus a god-head gain'd,
I would not woo the dress,

To meu before was found,
Or one whose nights give less

Besides the sea, no bound.
Contentment than the day,

In what plain, or what river, hath not been
She's fair, whose beauty only makes her gay. War's story writ in blood (sad story!) seen?

This truth too well our England knows : For 'tis not buildings make a court,

'Twas civil slaughter dy'd her rose ; Or pomp, but 'tis the king's resort : If Jupiter down pour

Nay, then her lily too

With blood's loss paler grew.
Himself, and in a shower
Hide such bright majesty,

Such griefs, nay worse than these, we now should le than a golden one it cannot be.

feel,

Did not just Charles silence the rage of steel;
ODE IV.

He to our land blest Peace doth bring,

All neighbour countries envying.
ON THE UNCERTAINTY OF FORTUNE.

Happy who did remain
A TRANSLATION.

Unborn till Charles's reign!
Leave off unfit complaints, and clear

Where dreaming chymics! is your pain and cost ?

How is your oil, how is your Labour lost! From sighs your breast, and from black clouds

Our Charles, blest alchymist! (though strange, . your brow,

Believe it, future times !) did change
When the Sun shines not with his wonted cheer,

The iron-age of old
And Fortune throws an adverse cast for you!
That sea which vext with Notus is,

Into an age of gold.
The merry East-winds will to morrow kiss.

ODE VI.
The Sun to day rides drowsily,
To-morrow 'twill put on a look more fair:

UTON THE SHORTNCSS OF MAN'S LIFE.
Taughter and groaning do alternately

Mark that swift arrow! how it cuts the air, Return, and tears sport's nearest neigbbours are.

How it out-runs thy following eye! 'Tis by the gods appointed so,

Use all persuasions now, and try
That good fare should with mingled dangers flow.

If thou canst call it back, or stay it there.
Who drave his oxen yesterday,

That way it went ; but thou shalt find
Doth now over the noblest Romans reign,

No tract is left behind. And on the Gabii and the Cures lay

Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou.
The yoke which from his oxen he had ta'en:

Of all the time thou'st shot away,
Whom Hesperus saw poor and low,

I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,
The Morning's eye beholds him greatest now. And it shall be too hard a task to do.

Besides repentance, what canst find
If Fortune knit amongst her play

That it hath left behind ?
Put seriousness, he shall again go home

Our life is carried with too strong a tide ; To his old country-farm of yesterday,

A doubtful cloud our substance bears,
To scoffing people no mcan jest become;

And is the horse of all our years.
And with the crowned axe, which he

Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride.
Had rul'd the world, go back and prune some tree;

We and our glass run out, and must
Nay, if he want the fuel cold requires,

Both render up our dust.
With his own fasces he shall make him fires.

But his past life who without grief can see;

Who never thinks his end too near,
ODEV.

But says to Fame, “ Thou art mine heir;'*

That man extends life's natural brevity-
IN COMMENDATION OF THE TIME WE LIVE UNDER, THE

This is, this is the only way
REIGN OF OUR GRACIOUS KING CHARLES.

To out-live Nestor in a day. Cuest be that wretoh (Death's factor sure) who AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO brought

nght

CAMBRIDGE.
Dire swords into the peaceful world, and
Smiths (who before could only make

Nichols, my better self! forbear;
The spade, the plough-share, and the rake)

For, if thou tell'st what Cambridge pleasures
Arts, in most cruel wise

are, Man's life t' epitomize!

The schoolboy's sin will light on me,

I shall, in mind at least, a truant be. Then men (fond men, alas!) ride post to th' grare.

Tell me not how you feed your mind And cut those threads which yet the Fates would

With dainties of philosophy;
save;

In Ovid's nut I shall not find
Then Charon sweated at his trade,

The taste once pleased me.
And had a larger ferry made;

O tell me not of logic's diverse cheer!
Then, then the silver hair,
Frequent before, grew rare,

I shall begin to loathe our crambo herra

Tell me not how the waves appear

Why do I stay then? I would meet
Of Cam, or how it cuts the learned shire;

Thee there, but plummets hang upon my feet;
I shall contemn the troubled Thames

'Tis my clief wish to live with thee,
On her chief holiday ; ev’n when her streams But not till I deserve thy company :
Are with rich folly gilded ; when

Till then, we'll scorn to let that toy,
The quondam dung-boat is made gay,

Some forty miles, divide our hearts :
Just like the bravery of the men,

Write to me, and I shall enjoy
And graces with fresh paint that day;

Friendship and wit, thy better parts. When th'city shines with flags and pageants there, Though envious Fortune larger hindrance brings, And satin doublets, scen not twice a year,

We'll easily see each other; Love hath wings.

MISCELLANIES.

1

THE MOTTO.

And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards go,

See us, and clouds, below,
TENTANDA VIA EST, &c.
WHAT shall I do to be for ever known,

ODE. OF WIT.
And make the age to come my own?
I shall, like beasts or common people, die,

Tell me, tell, what kind of thing is Wit,
Unless you write my elegy ;

Thou who master art of it?
Whilst others great, by being born, are grown;

For the first matter loves variety less; Their mothers' labour, not their own.

Less women love 't, either in love or dress. In this scale gold, in th' other fame does lie,

A thousand different shapes it bears, The weight of that mounts this so high.

Comely in thousand shapes appears. These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright; Yonder we saw it plain; and here 'tis now,

Brought forth with their own fire and light: Like spirits, in a place we know not how. If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,

London, that vents of false ware so much store, Out of myself it must be strook,

In no ware deceives us more; Yet I must on. What sound is 't strikes mine ear? For men, led by the colour and the shape, Sure I Fame's trumpet hear:

Like Zeuxis' birds, fly to the painted grape. It sounds like the last trumpet ; for it can

Some things do through our judginent Raise up the buried man.

pass Unpast Alps stop me ; but I'll cut them all,

As through a multiplying-glass;
And march, the Muses' Hannibal.

And sometimes, if the object be too far, lence, all the flattering vanities that lay

We take a falling meteor for a star,
Yets of roses in the way!

Hence 'tis, a Wit, that greatest word of fame,
Hence, the desire of honours or estate,

Grows such a common name;
And all that is not above Fate !

And Wits by our creation they become, · Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days !

Just so as titular bishops made at Rome.
Which intercepts my coming praise.

'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me

Allmir'd with laughter at a feast, on ;

Nor florid talk, which can that title gain;
"Tis time that I were gone.

The proofs of Wit for ever must remain.
Welcome, great Stagyrite! and teach me now
All I was bom to know:

'Tis not to force some lifeless verses meet Thy scholar's victories thou dost far out-do;

With their five gouty feet.
He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you.

All, every where, like man's, must be the soul,
Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and And Reason the inferior powers cortroul.
wit

Such were the numbers which could call Preserves Rome's greatness yet :

The stones into the Theban wall.
Thou art the first of orators; only he

Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see
Who best can praise thee, next must be.

No towps or houses rais'd by poetry.
Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise ! Yet'tis not to adorn and gi!d each part;
Whose verse walks highest, but not flies;

That shows more cost than art.
Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age,

Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear;
And made that art which was a rage.

Rather than all things Wit, let none be there.
Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I da

Several lights will not be seen,
To be like one of you?

If there be nothing else between.
Pat you have climb'd the mountain's top, there sit Men doubt, because they stand so thick i’ th' sky,
On the calm flourishing head of it,

If those be stars which paint the galaxy.

It's not when two like words make up one noise Whilst we, like younger brothers, get at best

(Jests for Dutcb' men and English boys); But a small stock, and must work out the rest. In which who finds out Wit, the same may see How could he answer 't, should the state think sit In an grams and acrostic poetry :

To question a monopoly of wit ?
Much less can that have any place

Such is the man whom we require the saine
At which a virgin hides her face.

We lent the North ; untouch'd, as is his fame.
'Such dross the fire must purge away: 'tis just He is too good for war, and onght to be
The author blush there, where the reader must. As far from danger, as from fear he's free.
Tis not such lines as almost crack the stage

Those men alone (and those are useful too)
When Bajazet begins to rage;

Whose valour is the only art they know
Nor'a tall metaphor in the bombast way ;

Were for sad war and bloody battles born;
Nor the dry chips of short-lung'd Senica;

Let them the state defend, and he adorn.
Nor upon all things to obtrude

And force some odd similitude.
What is it then, which, like the power divine,

ON THE DEATH OF
We only can by negatives define?

SIR HENRY WOOTTON.
In a true piece of Wit all things must be,

What shall we say, since silent now is he
Yet all things there agree;
As in the ark, join'd without force or strife,

Why when he spoke, all things would silent be? All creatures dwelt; all creatures that had life:

Who had so many languages in store,
Or, as the primitive forms of all

That only Fame shall speak of him in more;
(If we compare great things with small)

Whom England now no more returu'd must see; Which, without discord, or confusion, lie

He's gone to Heaven on his fourth embassy,

On Earth be travell’d often ; not to say In that strange mirror of the Deity:

H’ had been abroad, or pass loose time away. But Love, that moulds one man up out of two, In whatsoever land he chanc'd to come,

Makes me forget, and injure you ; He read the men and manners, bringing home I took you for myself, sure, when I thought

Their wisdom, learning, and their piety,
That you in any thing were to be taught,

As if he went to conqner, not too see.
Correct my errour with thy pen ;

So well he understood the most and best
And, if any ask me then

Of tongues, that Babel sent i ro the West ; What thing right Wit and height of genius is, Spoke them so truly, that he had (you'd swear) I'll only show your lines, and say, 'Tis this,

Not only liv'd, but been born every where.
Justly each nation's speoch to him was known,
Who for the world was made, not us alone;

Nor ought the language of that man be less,
TO THE LORD FALKLAND, Who in his breast had all things to express.

We say, that learning's endless, and blame Fate
For not allowing life a louger date:

He did the atmost bounds of knowledge find, Great is thy charge, O North! be wise apd just, He found them not so large as was his mind; England coumits her Falkland to thy trust;

But, like the brave. Pellæan youth, did moan Return him safe; Learning would rather choose Because that art had no more worlds than one; Her Badley or her Vatican to lose :

And, when he saw that he through all had past, All things that are but writ or printed there, He dy'd, lest he should idle grow at last. In bis unbounded breast engraven aie. There all the sciences togeiher meet, And every art does all her kindred greet, Yet justle not, nor quarrel; but as well

ON THE DEATH OF MR. JORDAN, Agree as in some common principle. So, in an army govern'd right, we see

SECOND MASTER AT WESTMINSTER SCHOOL. (Though out of several countries rais'd it be) That all their order and their place maintain,

Hence, and make room for me, all you who come The English, Dutch, the Frenchman, and the Dane: Only to read the epitaph on this tomb ! So thousand divers species fill the air,

Here lies the master of my tender years, Yet neither crowd nor mix confus'dly there ; The guardian of my parents' hope and fears; Beasts, houses, trees, and men, together le, Whose government ne'er stood me in a tear; Yet enter undisturb'd into the eye.

All weeping was reserv'd to spend it here. And this great prince of knowledge is by Fate Come hither, all who his rare virtues knew, Thrust into th' noise and business of a state.

And mourn with me: he was your tutor too. All virtues, and some customs of the court,

Let's join our sighs, till they fy far, and shew Other men's labour, are at least his sport;

His native Belgia what she's now to do. Whilst we, who can no action undertake,

The league of grief bids her with us lament; Whun idleness itself might learned make;

By her he was brought forth, and hither sent Who hear of nothing, and as yet scarce know, In payment of all men we there had lost, Whether the Scots in England be or no;

And all the English blood those wars have cost. Pace dully on, oft tire, and often stay,

Wisely did Nature this learn'd man divide ; Yet see his nimble Pegasus fly away.

His birth was theirs, his death the mournful pride Tis Nature's fault, who did thus partial grow, Of England ; and, t'avoid the envious strife And her cstate of wit on one bestow;

Of other lands, all Europe had his life,

FOR HIS SAFE RETURN FROM THE NORTHERN

EXPEDITION AGAINST THE SCOTS.

ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN...DEATH OF VANDYCK.

69

But re in chief; our country soon was grown

How justly would our neighbours sinile A debtor more to him, than he to 's own.

At these mad quarrels of our isle ; He pluckt from youth the follies and the crimes, Swell’d with proud hopes to snatch the whole away And built up men against the future times; Whilst we bet all, and yet for nothing play! For deeds of age are in their causes then,

How was the silver Tine frighted before,
And though he taught but boys, he made the men.

And durst not kiss the armed shore !
Hence 'twas a master, in those ancient days
When men sought knowledge first, and by it And hasted to the sea to tell the news :

His waters ran more swiftly than they use,
praise,

The sea itself, how rough soe'er, Was a thing full of reverence, profit, fame;

Could scarce believe such fury here. Father itself was but a second naine.

How could the Scots and we be enemies grown? He scorn'd the profit; his instructions all

That, and its master Charles, had made us one. Were, like the science, free and liberal. He deserv'd honours, but despis'd them too,

No blood so loud as that of civil war: As much as those who have them others do.

It calls for dangers from afar. He knew not that which compliment they call;

Let's rather go and seek out them and fame; Could flatter none, but himself least of all.

Thus our fore-fathers got, thus left, a name : So true, so faithful, and so just, as he

All their rich blood was spent with gains, Was nought on Earth but his own memory ;

But that which swells their children's veins. His memory, where all things written were, Why sit we still, our spirits wrapt in lead ? As sure and fixt as in Fate's books they are.

Not like them whilst they liv'd, but now they're Thus be in arts so vast a treasure gain'd,

dead. Whilst still the use came in, and stock remain'd:

The noise at home was but Fate's policy, And, having purchas'd all that man can know,

To raise our spirits inore high : He labour'd with 't to enrich others now;

So a bold lion, ere he seeks his prey, Did thus a new and harder task sustain,

Lashes his sides and roars, and then away. Like those that work in mines for others' gain :

How would the German eagle fear, He, though more nobly, had much more to do,

To see a new Gustavus there; To search the vein, dig, purge, and mint it too.

How would it shake, though as 'twas wont to do Though my excuse would be, I must confess,

For Jove of old, it now bure thunder too!
Much better had his diligence been less;
But, if a Muse hereafter smile on me,

Sure there are actions of this height and praise

Destin'd to Charles's days!
And say, “ Be thou a poet !" menshall see
That none could a more grateful scholar have ;

What will the triumphs of his battles be,
For what I ow'd his life I'll pay his grave.

Whose very peace itself is victory !

When Heaven bestows the best of kings,

It bids us think of inighty things :

His valour, wisdom, offspring, speak no less; ON THIS MAJESTY'S RETURN And we, the prophets' sons, write not by guess.

OUT OF SCOTLAND.
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 !

SIR ANTHONY VANDYCK,
Fur that to thee, for thee to Heaven we owe.

Others by war their conquests gain,
You like a god your ends obtain;

Vandyck is dead; but what bold Muse shall dare Who, when rude Chaos for his help did call,

(Though poets in that word with painters share) Spoke but the word and sweetly order'd all.

T express her sadness ? Poesy must become This happy concord in no blood is writ,

An art like Painting here, an art that's dumb. None can grudge Heaven full thanks for it : Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep, No mothers here lament their children's fate, Like some sad picture which he made to weep, And like the peace, but think it comes too late. Or those who saw't; for none his works could view No widows hear the jocund bells,

Unmoved with the same passions wbich he drew, And take them for their husbands' knells : His pieces so with their live objects strive, No drop of blood is spilt, which might be said That both or pictures seem, or both alive. To mark our joyful holiday with red.

Nature herself, amaz'd, does doubting stand, 'Twas only Heaven could work this wondrous thing, | And does attempt the like with less success,

Which is her own, and which the pajuter's hand ; And only work’t by such a king.

When her own work in twips she would express, Again the northern hinds may sing and plough, And fear no harm'but from the weather now;

His all-resembling pencil did out-pass

The mimic imagery of looking-glass.
Again may tradesmen love their pain,
By knowing now for whom they gain;

Nor was bis life less perfect than his art.
The armour now may be hung up to sight,

Nor was his hand less erring than his heart. And only in their halls the children fright.

There was no false or fading colour there,

The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were. The gain of civil wars will not allow

Most other men, set next to him in view, Bay to the conqueror's brow :

Appear'd more shadows than the men hc drew. At such a game what fool would venture in, Thus still he liv'd, till Heav'n did for him call; #bere one must lose yet neither side can win ? Where referend Luke salutes him first of all;

ON THE DEATH OF

THE FAMOUS PAINTER.