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-heel'd 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 th' 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 chrystal spring, that from the neighbour down
Deriv'd 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, swoll'n 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' drown'd fame.
Nor are they mere inventions, for we
In the same piece find scatter'd philosophy,
And hidden, dispers'd truths, that folded lie
In the dark shades of deep allegory,
So neatly weav'd, like arras, they descry
Fables with truth, fancy with history.
So that thou hast, in this thy curious mould,
Cast that commended mixture wish'd 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."
The versification of these poems is also well worthy of notice, both for the facility of the rhyme, and the variety and ease of the rhythm, by which the poet is enabled to adapt his verse to all kinds of subjects, from the gravest to the gayest.
Perhaps his command over the language is more particularly shewn in the subsequent extracts, which we likewise quote with other views.
Apostrophizing Fletcher, on the posthumous publication of his plays, 1647, he says:
"I did believe (great Beaumont being dead)
Thy widow'd muse slept on his flow'ry bed.
But I am richly cozen'd, and can see
Wit transmigrates-his spirit stay'd with thee;
Which, doubly advantag'd by thy single pen,
In life and death now treads the stage agen.
And thus are we free'd from that dearth of wit
Which starv'd the land, since into schisms split,
Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess
Wit's last edition is now i' th' press.
For thou hast drain'd 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 assemble, 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 circumvent in jest ;
And when thy anger'd 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
Teem'd with, ev'n 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 shore,.
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 match'd the past."
Again, in an elegy on a friend slain at Pontefract, 1648, he
"Nor is't a common valour we deplore,
But such as with fifteen a hundred bore;
And, lightning like, (not coop'd within a wall)
In storms of fire and steel, fell on them all.
Thou wert no woolsack soldier; nor of those
Whose courage lies in winking at their foes-
That live at loop-holes, and consume their breath
On match or pipes, and sometimes peep at death;
No, it were sin to number these with thee,
But that, thus poiz'd, our loss we better see.
The fair and open valour was thy shield;
And thy known station, the defying field."
He thus concludes an address to Powell, on his translation of Malvezzi:
Come, then, rare politicians of the time,
Brains of some standing, elders in our clime,
See here the method: a wise, solid state
Is quick in acting, friendly in debate,
Joint in advice, in resolutions just,
Mild in success, true to the common trust.
It cements ruptures, and by gentle hand
Allays the heat and burnings of a land.
Religion guides it, and in all the tract
Designs so twist, that heaven confirms the act.
If from these lists you wander as you steer,
Look back, and catechise your actions here;
These are the marks to which true statesmen tend,
And greatness here with goodness hath one end."
The latter part of this small volume is composed of translations from Ovid, Ausonius, Boëtius, and Casimir, together with a few copies of original verse. Nearly the whole of this part of our author's productions is well worthy of being revived; but it is to the versions of the Metra of Boëtius, that we should most wish to draw the attention of our readers.
He has, with great judgment, adopted the octo-syllabic
measure, which, by its airy facility, is best of all fitted for conveying an idea of lyrical Latin poetry to the English reader. Part of the Second Metrum, Book First, of Boëtius, runs thus:
This soul, sometime wont to survey
The spangled Zodiack's fiery way,
Saw th' early sun in roses drest,
With the cool moon's unstable crest;
And whatsoever wanton star
In various courses near or far,
Pierc'd through the orbs, he cou'd full well
Track all her journey, and would tell
Her mansions, turnings, rise, and fall,
By curious calculation all.
Of sudden winds the hidden cause,
And why the calm sea's quiet face
With impetuous waves is curl'd.
What spirit wheels the harmonious world;
Or why a star dropp'd in the West,
Is seen to rise again by East.
Who gives the warm spring temp'rate hours,
Decking the earth with spicy flowers.
Or how it comes (for man's recruit)
That autumn yields both grape and fruit.
With many other secrets, he
Could show the cause and mystery.
But now that light is almost out,
And the brave soul lies chain'd about
With outward cares, whose pensive weight
Sinks down her eyes with their first height,
And clear contrary to her birth
Pores on this vile and foolish earth.
The following is a version of an address to the Deity, which forms the Fifth Metrum:
"O thou great builder of this starry frame,
Who, fix'd in thine eternal throne, dost tame
The rapid spheres, and lest they jar,
Hast giv'n a law to every star!
Thou art the cause that now the moon
With full orb dulls the stars, and soon
Again grows dark, her light being done,
The nearer still she's to the sun.
Thou, in the early hours of night,
Mak'st the cool ev'ning-star shine bright,
And at sun-rising, ('cause the least,)
Look pale and sleepy in the East.
Thou, when the leaves in winter stray,
Appoint'st the sun a shorter way;
And in the pleasant summer-light,
With nimble hours dost wing the night.
Thy hand the various year quite through
Discreetly tempers,-that what now
The North-wind tears from ev'ry tree
In spring again restor❜d we see.
Then what the winter-stars between
The furrows in mere seed have seen,
The dog-star, since grown up and born,
Hath burnt in stately, full-ear'd corn.
Thus by creation's law controul'd,
All things their proper stations hold,
Observing (as thou didst intend)
Why they were made, and for what end.
Only human actions thou
Hast no care of, but to the flow
And ebb of fortune leav'st them all.
Hence th' inn'cent endure that thrall
Due to the wicked, whilst alone
They sit possessors of his throne;
The just are killed, and virtue lies
Buried in obscurities;
And (which of all things is most sad)
The good man suffers by the bad.
No perjuries, nor damn'd pretence,
Colour'd with holy, lying sense,
Can them annoy, but when they mind
To try their force, which most men find,
They, from the highest sway of things,
Can pull down great and pious kings.
O then, at length, thus loosely hurl'd,
Look on this miserable world,
Whoe'er thou art, that from above
Dost in such order all things move;
And let not man (of divine art
Not the least, nor vilest part)
By casual evils thus bandied, be
The sport of fate's obliquity.
But with that faith thou guid'st the heav'n,
Settle this earth, and make them even.
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