Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

But, against that, thou sitt'st afloat,
Like Venus in her pearly boat;
The halcyons, calming all that's nigh,
Betwixt the air and water fly.
Or, if some rowling wave appears,
A mass of ambergrease it bears.
Nor blows more wind than what may well
Convoy the perfume to the smell.
These pictures, and a thousand more,
Of thee, my gallery do store,
In all the forms thou canst invent,
Either to please me, or torment:
For thou alone, to people me,
Art grown a num'rous colony;
And a collection choicer far

Than or Whitehall's or Mantua's were.
But of these pictures, and the rest,
That at the entrance likes me best,
Where the same posture, and the look
Remains, with which I first was took;
A tender shepherdess, whose hair
Hangs loosely playing in the air,
Transplanting flow'rs from the green hill,
To crown her head, and bosom fill.

UPON THE HILL AND GROVE AT BILLBOROW.

TO THE LORD FAIRFAX.

SEE how the arched earth does here
Rise in a perfect hemisphere !
The stiffest compass could not strike
A line more circular and like;
Nor softest pencil draw a brow
So equal as this hill does bow.
It seems as for a model laid,
And that the world by it was made.
Here learn, ye mountains more unjust,
Which to abrupter greatness thrust,
Which do, with your hook-shoulder'd height,
The earth deform, and heaven fright,
For whose excressence, ill design'd,
Nature must a new centre find;
Learn here those humble steps to tread,
Which to securer glory lead.
See what a soft access, and wide,
Lies open to its grassy side;
Nor with the rugged path deters
The feet of breathless travellers.
See then how courteous it ascends,
And all the way it rises, bends;
Nor for itself the height does gain,
But only strives to raise the plain.
Yet, thus it all the field commands,
And in unenvy'd greatness stands,
Discerning farther than the cliff
Of heaven-daring Teneriff.
How glad the weary seamen hast,
When they salute it from the mast!
By night, the northern star their way
Directs, and this no less by day.
Upon its crest, this mountain grave,
A plume of aged trees does wave.

No hostile hand does e'er invade,
With impious steel, the sacred shade,
For something always did appear
Of the great Master's terror there;
And men could hear his armour still
Rattling through all the grove and hill.
Fear of the Master, and respect
Of the great nymph, did it protect;
Vera, the nymph that him inspired,
To whom he often here retired,
And on these oaks engraved her name:
Such wounds alone these woods became.
But e'er he well the barks could part,
"Twas writ already in their heart:
For they, 'tis credible, have sense,
As we, of love and reverence,
And underneath the coarser rind,
The Genius of the house do bind.
Hence they successes seem to know,
And in their Lord's advancement grow;
But in no memory were seen,
As under this, so straight and green.
Yet now no farther strive to shoot,
Contented if they fix their root:
Nor to the wind's uncertain gust
Their prudent heads too far intrust.
Only sometimes a flutt'ring breeze
Discourses with the breathing trees;
Which in their modest whispers name
Those acts which swell'd the cheeks of Fame.
Much other groves, say they, than these,
And other hills, him once did please.
Through groves of pikes he thunder'd then,
And mountains raised of dying men.
For all the civic garlands due
To him, our branches are but few.
Nor are our trunks enough to bear
The trophies of one fertile year.
'Tis true, ye trees, nor ever spoke
More certain oracles in oak.
But peace (if you his favour prize)
That courage its own praises flies.
Therefore to your obscurer seats,
From his own brightness, he retreats:
Nor he the hills, without the groves,
Nor height, but with retirement, loves.

AN

HORATIAN ODE, UPON CROMWELL'S
RETURN FROM IRELAND.
THE forward youth that would appear,
Must now forsake his Muses dear;

Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing.

"Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armour's rust; Removing from the wall

The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,

But through adventurous war
Urged his active star;

And like the three-fork'd lightning, first,
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide:

For 'tis all one to courage high,
The emulous, or enemy;

And, with such, to enclose

Is more than to oppose.

Then burning through the air he went,
And palaces and temples rent;
And Cæsar's head at last

Did through his laurels blast.
"Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry heaven's flame;
And, if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,

Who from his private gardens, where
He lived reserved and austere,

(As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot),
Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of time,

And cast the kingdoms old
Into another mould!

Though justice against fate complain,
And plead the ancient rights in vain
But those do hold or break,
As men are strong or weak.
Nature, that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less,

And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil war,
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shews what part
He had of wiser art:

Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope,

That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook's narrow case; That thence the royal actor borne, The tragic scaffold might adorn.

While round the armed bands Did clap their bloody hands, He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene,

But with his keener eye

The axe's edge did try:

Nor called the Gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;

But bowed his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour,
Which first assured the forced power;

So when they did design

The Capitol's first line,

A bleeding head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate.

And now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed;
So much one man can do,

That does both act and know.

They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confest
How good he is, how just,
And fit for highest trust:

Nor yet grown stiffer by command,
But still in the Republic's hand,
How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey.

He to the Commons' feet presents
A kingdom for his first year's rents;
And, what he may, forbears
His fame to make it theirs :
And has his sword and spoils ungirt,
To lay them at the Public's skirt.
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,
She, having killed, no more does search
But on the next green bough to perch ;
Where, when he first does lure,
The falconer has her sure.
What may not then our isle presume,
While victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear,
If thus he crowns each year?
As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul;
To Italy an Hannibal;

And to all States not free
Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his parti-colour'd mind;
But from this valour sad
Shrink underneath the plaid,
Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war's and fortune's son,
March indefatigably on;

And, for the last effect,
Still keep the sword erect.
Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,

The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.

BUTLER-A. D. 1612-80.

CHARACTER OF HUDIBRAS AND RALPHO.

WHEN civil dudgeon first grew high,
And men fell out, they knew not why;
When hard words, jealousies, and fears,
Set folks together by the ears,

And made them fight, like mad or drunk,
For Dame Religion as for punk;
Whose honesty they all durst swear for,
Though not a man of them knew wherefore;
When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded
With long-car'd rout, to battle sounded;
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,
Was beat with fist instead of a stick:
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling,
And out he rode a-colonelling.

A wight he was, whose very sight would
Entitle him mirror of knighthood,
That never bow'd his stubborn knee
To any thing but chivalry,

Nor put up blow, but that which laid
Right worshipful on shoulder-blade;
Chief of domestic knights and errant,
Either for chartel or for warrant ;
Great on the bench, great in the saddle,
That could as well bind o'er as swaddle;
Mighty he was at both of these,
And styl'd of war, as well as peace:
(So some rats of amphibious nature
Are either for the land or water.)
But here some authors make a doubt
Whether he were more wise or stout;
Some hold the one, and some the other,
But, howsoe'er they make a pother,
The diff'rence was so small, his brain
Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain;
Which made some take him for a tool
That knaves do work with, called a fool:
For't has been held by many, that
As Montaigne, playing with his cat,
Complains she thought him but an ass,
Much more she would Sir Hudibras ;
(For that's the name our valiant knight
To all his challenges did write ;)
But they're mistaken very much;
"Tis plain enough he was not such.
We grant, although he had much wit,
H' was very shy of using it,
As being loth to wear it out,
And therefore bore it not about;
Unless on holidays or so,
As men their best apparel do.

Beside, 'tis known he could speak Greek
As naturally as pigs squeak;
That Latin was no more difficile
Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle:

Being rich in both, he never scanted
His bounty unto such as wanted;
But much of either would afford
To many that had not one word.

For Hebrew roots, although they're found
To flourish most in barren ground,
He had such plenty as suffic'd

To make some think him circumcis'd;
And truly so he was perhaps,
Not as a proselyte, but for claps.
He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skill'd in analytic:
He could distinguish, and divide
A hair 'twixt south and south-west side;
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute:
He'd undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl;
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks committee-men and trustees.
He'd run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination:
All this by syllogism true,

In mood and figure he would do.
For rhetoric, he could not ope
His mouth but out there flew a trope:
And when he happen'd to break off
I' th' middle of his speech, or cough,
H' had hard words ready to shew why,
And tell what rules he did it by;
Else when with greatest art he spoke,
You'd think he talk'd like other folk;
For all a rhetorician's rules

Teach nothing but to name his tools.
But, when he pleas'd to shew't, his speech,
In loftiness of sound, was rich;

A Babylonish dialect,

Which learned pedants much affect;
It was a party-coloured dress
Of patch'd and piebald languages;
'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,
Like fustian heretofore on satin;
It had an odd promiscuous tone,

As if h' had talk'd three parts in one;
Which made some think, when he did gabble,
Th' had heard three labourers of Babel,
Or Cerberus himself pronounce

A leash of languages at once.
This he as volubly would vent,
As if his stock would ne'er be spent:
And truly, to support that charge,
He had supplies as vast and large;
For he could coin or counterfeit
New words, with little or no wit;
Words so debas'd and hard, no stone
Was hard enough to touch them on;

And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em,
The ignorant for current took 'em;
That had the orator, who once

Did fill his mouth with pebble stones
When he harangu'd, but known his phrase,
He would have used no other ways.
In mathematics he was greater
Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater;
For he, by geometric scale,
Could take the size of pots of ale;
Resolve by sines and tangents straight
If bread or butter wanted weight;
And wisely tell what hour o' th' day
The clock does strike, by algebra.
Beside, he was a shrewd philosopher,
And had read ev'ry text and gloss over;
Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath,
He understood b' implicit faith:
Whatever sceptic could enquire for,
For ev'ry why he had a wherefore;
Knew more than forty of them do,
As far as words and terms could go;
All which he understood by rote,
And, as occasion serv'd, would quote;
No matter whether right or wrong;
They might be either said or sung.
His notions fitted things so well,

That which was which he could not tell,
But oftentimes mistook the one

For th' other, as great clerks have done.
He could reduce all things to acts,
And knew their natures by abstracts;
Where Entity and Quiddity,
The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly;
Where truth in person does appear,
Like words congeal'd in northern air.

He knew what's what, and that's as high
As metaphysic wit can fly:

In school-divinity as able

As he that hight Irrefragable;

A second Thomas; or, at once
To name them all, another Dunce:
Profound in all the Nominal
And Real ways beyond them all :
For he a rope of sand could twist
As tough as learned Sorbonist,
And weave fine cobwebs, fit for scull
That's empty when the moon is full;
Such as take lodgings in a head
That's to be let unfurnished.
He could raise scruples dark and nice,
And after solve 'em in a trice;
As if Divinity had catch'd
The itch, on purpose to be scratch'd;
Or, like a mountebank, did wound,
And stab herself with doubts profound,
Only to shew with how small pain
The sores of Faith are cur'd again;
Although by woful proof we find
They always leave a scar behind.
He knew the seat of Paradise,
Could tell in what degree it lies,
And, as he was dispos'd, could prove it
Below the moon, or else above it;
What Adam dreamt of, when his bride
Came from her closet in his side;

Whether the devil tempted her
By a high Dutch interpreter;
If either of them had a navel;
Who first made music malleable:
Whether the serpent, at the fall,
Had cloven feet, or none at all:
All this, without a gloss or comment,
He could unriddle in a moment,

In proper terms, such as men smatter,
When they throw out, and miss the matter.
For his religion, it was fit

To match his learning and his wit;
"Twas Presbyterian truc blue;
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true church militant;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery;

And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire and sword, and desolation,
A godly thorough Reformation,
Which always must be carry'd on,
And still be doing, never done;
As if religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended:
A sect whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss;
More peevish, cross, and splenetic,
Than dog distract or monkey sick;
That with more care kept holiday
The wrong, than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclined to,
By damning those they have no mind to:
Still so perverse and opposite,

As if they worshipp'd God for spite:
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for:
Free-will they one way disavow,
Another, nothing else allow :
All piety consists therein
In them, in other men all sin :
Rather than fail, they will defy

That which they love most tenderly;

Quarrel with mince pies, and disparage

Their best and dearest friend, plum porridge;

Fat pig and goose itself oppose,

And blaspheme custard through the nose.

Th' apostles of this fierce religion,
Like Mahomet's, were ass and widgeon,
To whom our knight, by fast instinct
Of wit and temper, was so linkt,
As if hypocrisy and nonsense
Had got th' advowson of his conscience.

Thus was he gifted and accouter'd,
We mean on th' inside, not the outward:
That next of all we shall discuss;
Then listen, sirs, it follows thus:
His tawny beard was th' equal grace
Both of his wisdom and his face;
In cut and die so like a tile,
A sudden view it would beguile;

The upper part whereof was whey,
The nether orange, mix'd with grey.
This hairy meteor did denounce
The fall of sceptres and of crowns;
With grisly type did represent
Declining age of government,
And tell, with hieroglyphic spade,
It's own grave and the state's were made:
Like Sampson's heart-breakers, it grew
In time to make a nation rue;
Though it contributed its own fall
To wait upon the public downfall;
It was monastic, and did grow
In holy orders by strict vow;
Of rule as sullen and severe
As that of rigid Cordelier:
"Twas bound to suffer persecution,
And martyrdom, with resolution;
T'oppose itself against the hate
And vengeance of th' incensed state,
In whose defiance it was worn,
Still ready to be pull'd and torn,
With red-hot irons to be tortur'd,
Revil'd, and spit upon, and martyr'd;
Maugre all which 'twas to stand fast
As long as monarchy should last:
But when the state should hap to reel,
'Twas to submit to fatal steel,
And fall, as it was consecrate,
A sacrifice to fall of state,

Whose thread of life the Fatal Sisters
Did twist together with its whiskers,

And twine so close, that Time should never,
In life or death, their fortunes sever,
But with his rusty sickle mow
Both down together at a blow.
So learned Taliacotius, from
The brawny part of Porter's bum,
Cut supplemental noses, which
Would last as long as parent breech,
But when the date of Nock was out,
Off dropt the sympathetic snout.

His back, or rather burthen, shew'd
As if it stoop'd with its own load:
For as Æneas bore his sire

Upon his shoulders through the fire,
Our knight did bear no less a pack
Of his own buttocks on his back;
Which now had almost got the upper-
Hand of his head for want of crupper:
To poise this equally, he bore
A paunch of the same bulk before,
Which still he had a special care

To keep well cramm'd with thrifty fare;
As white-pot, butter-milk, and curds,
Such as a country house affords ;
With other victual, which anon
We farther shall dilate upon,
When of his hose we come to treat,
The cupboard where he kept his meat.
His doublet was of sturdy buff,
And though not sword, yet cudgel-proof,
Whereby 'twas fitter for his use,
Who fear'd no blows but such as bruise.

His breeches were of rugged woollen,
And had been at the siege of Bullen;

To old King Harry so well known,
Some writers held they were his own:
Through they were lined with many a piece
Of ammunition bread and cheese,
And fat black-puddings, proper food
For warriors that delight in blood:
For, as we said, he always chose
To carry victual in his hose,
That often tempted rats and mice
The ammunition to surprise;
And when he put a hand but in
The one or t' other magazine,

They stoutly on defence on't stood,
And from the wounded foe drew blood,
And till they were storm'd and beaten out,
Ne'er left the fortify'd redoubt:

And though knights errant, as some think,
Of old did neither eat nor drink,
Because when thorough deserts vast,
And regions desolate, they past,
Where belly-timber above ground,
Or under, was not to be found,
Unless they grazed, there's not one word
Of their provision on record;
Which made some confidently write,
They had no stomachs but to fight.
"Tis false; for Arthur wore in hall
Round table like a farthingal,
On which, with shirt pull'd out behind,
And eke before, his good knights dined;
Though 'twas no table some suppose,
But a huge pair of round trunk hose,
In which he carry'd as much meat
As he and all the knights could eat,
When laying by their swords and truncheons,
They took their breakfasts, or their luncheons.
But let that pass at present, lest
We should forget where we digrest,
As learned authors use, to whom
We leave it, and to the purpose come.

His puissant sword unto his side,
Near his undaunted heart was ty'd,
With basket hilt that would hold broth,
And served for fight and dinner both;
In it he melted lead for bullets
To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,
To whom he bore so fell a grutch,
He ne'er gave quarter to any such.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,
For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack:
The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt,
The rancour of its edge had felt;
For of the lower end two handful
It had devour'd, 'twas so manful,
And so much scorn'd to lurk in case,
As if it durst not shew its face.
In many desperate attempts

Of warrants, exigents, contempts,
It had appear'd with courage bolder
Than Serjeant Bum invading shoulder:
Oft had it ta'en possession,
And pris'ners too, or made them run.
This sword a dagger had, his page,
That was but little for his age,

« AnteriorContinuar »