Such was the glorious entry of our king;
Enriching moisture dropp'd on every thing:
Plenty he sow'd below, and cast about him light.
But then, alas! to thee alone,
One of Old Gideon's miracles was shewn,
For ev'ry tree, and ev'ry herb around,
With pearly dew was crown'd,
And upon all the quicken'd ground
The fruitful seed of Heav'n did brooding lie,
And nothing but the Muse's fleece was dry.
It did all other threats surpass,
When God to his own people said,
(The men whom thro' long wand'rings he had led) That he would give them ev'n a heav'n of brass: They look'd up to that heav'n in vain,
That bounteous heav'n! which God did not restrain Upon the most unjust to shine and rain.
The Rachel, for which twice seven years and more,
Thou didst with faith and labour serve,
And didst (if faith and labour can) deserve,
Tho' she contracted was to thee,
Giv'n to another thou didst see,
Giv'n to another, who had store
Of fairer and of richer wives before,
And not a Leah left, thy recompense to be.
Go on, twice sev'n years more, thy fortune try,
Twice sev'n years more God in his bounty may
Give thee to fling away
Into the court's deceitful lottery:
But think how likely 'tis that thou,
With the dull work of thy unwieldy plough,
Shouldst in a hard and barren season thrive,
Shouldst even able be to live;
Thou! to whose share so little bread did fall
In the miraculous year when manna rain'd on all."
Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile,
That seem'd at once to pity and revile:
And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head,
The melancholy Cowley said:
"Ah! wanton foe! dost thou upbraid
The ills which thou thyself hast made?
When in the cradle innocent I lay,
Thou, wicked spirit! stolest me away,
And my abused soul didst bear
Into thy new-found worlds, I know not where,
Thy golden Indies in the air;
And ever since I strive in vain
My ravish'd freedom to regain;
Still I rebel, still thou dost reign;
Lo, still in verse, against thee I complain.
There is a sort of stubborn weeds,
Which, if the earth but once it ever breeds,
No wholesome herb can near them thrive,
No useful plant can keep alive:
The foolish sports I did on thee bestow
Make all my art and labour fruitless now; [grow.
Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth ever
When my new mind had no infusion known, Thou gav'st so deep a tincture of thine own,
That ever since I vainly try
To wash away th' inherent dye:
Long work, perhaps, may spoil thy colours quite, But never will reduce the native white.
To all the ports of honour and of gain
I often steer my course in vain ;
Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back again. Thou slacken'st all my nerves of industry,
By making them so oft to be
The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsy.
Whoever this world's happiness would see,
Must as entirely cast off thee,
As they who only heav'n desire
Do from the world retire.
This was my error, this my gross mistake,
Myself a demi-votary to make.
Thus with Sapphira and her husband's fate,
(A fault which I, like them, am taught too late)
For all that I gave up I nothing gain,
And perish for the part which I retain.
Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse!
The court and better king t' accuse;
The heav'n under which I live is fair,
The fertile soil will a full harvest bear:
Thine, thine is all the barrenness, if thou
Mak'st me sit still and sing, when I should plough.
When I but think how many a tedious year
Our patient sovereign did attend
His long misfortunes' fatal end;
How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear,
On the Great Sovereign's will he did depend,
I ought to be accurs'd if I refuse
To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse!
Kings have long hands, they say, and tho' I be
So distant, they may reach at length to me.
However, of all princes, thou
Shouldst not reproach rewards for being small or Thou! who rewardest but with pop'lar breath, And that too, after death!
THE COUNTRY MOUSE.
At the large foot of a fair hollow tree,
Close to plow'd ground, seated commodiously,
His ancient and hereditary house,
There dwelt a good substantial Country Mouse,
Frugal, and grave, and careful of the main.
A City Mouse, well coated, sleek, and gay,
A mouse of high degree, which lost his way,
Wantonly walking forth to take the air,
Had arriv'd early, and belighted there
For a day's lodging. The good hearty host
(The ancient plenty of his hall to boast)
Did all the stores produce that might excite,
With various tastes, the courtier's appetite:
Fitches and beans, peason, and oats, and wheat,
And a large chesnut, the delicious meat
Which Jove himself, were he a mouse, would eat.
And for a hautgout, there was mix'd with these
The swerd of bacon, and the coat of cheese,
The precious relics which at harvest he
Had gather'd from the reaper's luxury.
Freely (said he) fall on, and never spare,
The bounteous Gods will for to-morrow care.
And thus at ease on beds of straw they lay,
And to their genius sacrific'd the day :
Yet the nice guest's Epicurean mind
(Though breeding made him civil seem and kind)
Despis'd this country feast, and still his thought
Upon the cakes and pies of London wrought.
Your bounty and civility (said he)
Which I'm surpris'd in these rude parts to see,
Shews that the Gods have given you a mind
Too noble for the fate which here you find.
Why should a soul so virtuous and so great
Lose itself thus in an obscure retreat?
Let savage beasts lodge in a country den,
You should see towns, and manners know, and men ;
And taste the gen'rous lux'ry of the court,
Where all the mice of quality resort;
Where thousand beauteous shes about you move,
And by high fare are pliant made to love.
We all ere long must render up our breath,
No cave or hole can shelter us from death.
Since life is so uncertain and so short,
Let's spend it all in feasting and in sport.
Come, worthy sir! come with me, and partake
All the great things that mortals happy make.
Alas! what virtue hath sufficient arms
T'oppose bright honour and soft pleasure's charms ?
What wisdom can their magic force repel?
It draws this rev'rend hermit from his cell.
It was the time, when witty poets tell,
"That Phoebus into Thetis' bosom fell:
"She blush'd at first, and then put out the light,
"And drew the modest curtains of the night."
Plainly, the truth to tell, the sun was set,
When to the town our weary'd trav❜llers get.
To a lord's house, as lordly as can be,
Made for the use of pride and luxury,
They come; the gentle courtier at the door
Stops, and will hardly enter in before;
But 'tis, sir, your command, and being so,
I'm sworn t' obedience; and so in they go.
Behind a hanging in a spacious room,
(The richest work of Mortlake's noble loom)
They wait awhile, their weary'd limbs to rest
Till silence should invite them to their feast,
"About the hour that Cynthia's silver light
"Had touch'd the pale meridies of the night."
At last the various supper being done,
It happen'd that the company was gone
Into a room remote, servants and all,
To please their noble fancies with a ball.
Our host leads forth his stranger, and does find
All fitted to the bounties of his mind.
Still on the table half-fill'd dishes stood,
And with delicious bits the floor was strew'd.
The courteous mouse presents him with the best,
And both with fat varieties are bless'd:
Th' industrious peasant ev'ry where does range, And thanks the Gods for his life's happy change. Lo! in the midst of a well-freighted pie
They both at last, glutted and wanton lie:
When, see the sad reverse of prosp'rous fate,
And what fierce storms on mortal glories wait:
With hideous noise down the rude servants come,
Six dogs before run barking into the room;
The wretched gluttons fly with wild affright,
And hate the fullness which retards their flight.
Our trembling peasant wishes now, in vain,
That rocks and mountains cover'd him again.
Oh how the change of his poor life he curs'd!
This of all lives, said he, is sure the worst.
Give me again, ye Gods! my cave and wood;
With peace, let tares and acorns be my food.
TO THE ROYAL SOCIETY.
Philosophy! the great and only heir
Of all that human knowledge which has been
Unforfeited by man's rebellious sin,
Though full of years he doth appear,
(Philosophy! I say, and call it he,
For whatsoe'er the painter's fancy be,
It a male virtue seems to me)
Has still been kept in nonage till of late,
Nor manag'd or enjoy'd his vast estate. [thought,
Three or four thousand years, one would have
To ripeness and perfection might have brought
A science so well bred and nurs'd,
And of such hopeful parts, too, at the first;
But, oh! the guardians and the tutors then,
(Some negligent, and some ambitious men)
Would ne'er consent to set him free,
Or his own nat❜ral pow'rs to let him see,
Lest that should put an end to their authority.
That his own bus'ness he might quite forget,
They amus'd him with the sports of wanton wit;
With the deserts of poetry they fed him,
Instead of solid meats t' increase his force;
Instead of vig'rous exercise they led him
Into the pleasant labyrinths of ever-fresh discourse:
Instead of carrying him to see
The riches which do hoarded for him lie
In Nature's endless treasury,
They chose his eye to entertain
(His curious, but not cov'tous eye)
With painted scenes and pageants of the brain.
Some few exalted sp'rits this latter age has shewn,
That labour'd to assert the liberty
(From guardians who were now usurpers grown)
Of this old minor, still captiv'd Philosophy;
But 'twas rebellion call'd, to fight
For such a long-oppressed right.
Bacon, at last, a mighty man! arose,
Whom a wise king and nature chose
Lord Chancellor of both their laws,
And boldly undertook the injur'd pupil's cause.
Authority, which did a body boast,
Though 'twas but air condens'd, and stalk'd about
Like some old giant's more gigantic ghost,
To terrify the learned rout
To graves, from whence it rose, the conquer'd phan-
He broke that monstrous God which stood,
In midst of th' orchard, and the whole did claim,
Which with a useless scythe of wood,
And something else not worth a name,
(Both vast for shew, yet neither fit
Or to defend or to beget,
Ridiculous and senseless terrors!) made
Children and superstitious men afraid.
The orchard's open now, and free;
Bacon has broke that scarecrow deity:
Come, enter all that will,
Behold the ripen'd fruit, come, gather now your fill!
Yet still, methinks, we fain would be
Catching at the forbidden tree;
We would be like the Deity;
When truth and falsehood, good and evil, we
Without the senses' aid within ourselves would see;
For 'tis God only who can find
All nature in his mind.
From words, which are but pictures of the thought, (Though we our thoughts from them perversely drew)
To things, the mind's right object, he it brought;
Like foolish birds to painted grapes we flew.
He sought and gather'd for our use the true;
And when on heaps the chosen bunches lay,
He press'd them wisely the mechanic way,
Till all their juice did in one vessel join,
Ferment into a nourishment divine,
The thirsty soul's refreshing wine..
Who to the life an exact piece would make,
Must not from others' work a copy take;
No, not from Rubens or Vandyck;
Much less content himself to make it like
Th' ideas and the images which lie
In his own fancy or his memory:
No, he before his sight must place
The natural and living face;
The real object must command
Each judgment of his eye and motion of his hand.
From these, and all long errors of the way,
In which our wand'ring predecessors went,
And, like th' old Hebrews, many years did stray
In deserts, but of small extent,
Bacon! like Moses, led us forth at last;
The barren wilderness he pass'd,
Did on the very border stand
Of the bless'd promis'd land,
And from the mountain's top of his exalted wit,
Saw it himself, and shew'd us it.
But life did never to one man allow
Time to discover worlds, and conquer too;
Nor can so short a line sufficient be
To fathom the vast deeps of Nature's sea:
The work he did we ought t'admire,
And were unjust if we should more require
From his few years, divided 'twixt th' excess
Of low affliction and high happiness:
For who on things remote can fix his sight,
That's always in a triumph or a fight!
Thus you prepar'd, and in the glorious fight
Their wondrous pattern, too, you take:
Their old and empty pitchers first they brake,
And with their hands then lifted up the light.
lö! sound too the trumpets here!
Already your victorious lights appear;
New scenes of Heav'n already we espy,
And crowds of golden worlds on high.
Which from the spacious plains of earth and sea
Could never yet discover'd be
By sailor's or Chaldean's watchful eye.
Nature's great works no distance can obscure,
No smallness her near objects can secure :
Ye 'ave taught the curious sight to press
Into the privatest recess
Of her imperceptible littleness:
Ye 'ave learn'd to read her smallest hand,
And well begun her deepest sense to understand.
Mischief and true dishonour fall on those
Who would to laughter or to scoru expose
So virtuous and so noble a design,
So human for its use, for knowledge so divine.
The things which these proud men despise, and call
Impertinent, and vain, and small,
Those smallest things of nature let me know,
Rather than all their greatest actions do.
Whoever would deposed truth advance
Into the throne usurp'd from it,
Must feel at first the blows of ignorance,
And the sharp points of envious wit.
So when, by various turns of the celestial dance, In many thousand years
A star, so long unknown, appears,
With courage and success you the bold work begin;
Your cradle has not idle been:
None e'er but Hercules and you could be
At five years' age worthy a history:
And ne'er did Fortune better yet
Th' historian to the story fit.
As you from all old errors free
And purge the body of Philosophy,
So from all modern follies he
Has vindicated eloquence and wit:
His candid style like a clean stream does slide,
And his bright fancy all the way
Does, like the sunshine, in it play;
It does like Thames, the best of rivers, glide,
Where the God does not rudely overturn,
But gently pour, the crystal urn,
And with judicious hands does the whole current
It has all the beauties Nature can impart,
And all the comely dress, without the paint, of Art.
I'll sing of heroes, and of kings,
In mighty numbers, mighty things.
Begin, my Muse! but, lo! the strings
To my great song rebellious prove;
The strings will sound of nought but love,
I broke them all, and put on new;
'Tis this or nothing, sure, will do.
These, sure, said I, will me obey;
These, sure, heroic notes will play.
Straight I began with thund'ring Jove,
And all th' immortal powers but Love;
Love smil'd, and from my enfeebled lyre
Came gentle airs, such as inspire
Melting love, and soft desire.
Farewell then heroes, farewell kings,
And mighty numbers, mighty things;
Love tunes my heart just to my strings.
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again.
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.
The sea itself, which one would think
Should have but little need of drink,
Drinks ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun,
n, (and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks the sea,
up
and when he'as done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun.
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in Nature's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there, for why Should ev'ry creature drink but I; Why, man of morals, tell me why? Beauty.
Liberal Nature did dispense
To all things arms for their defence;
And some she arms with sinewy force,
And some with swiftness in the course;
Some with hard hoofs, or forked claws,
And some with horns, or tusked jaws;
And some with scales, and some with wings,
And some with teeth, and some with stings:
Wisdom to man she did afford,
Wisdom for shield, and wit for sword.
What to beauteous womankind,
What arms, what armour, has she assign'd?
Beauty is both; for with the fair
What arms, what armour, can compare?
What steel, what gold, or diamond,
More impassable is found?
And yet what flame, what lightning e'er
So great an active force did bear?
They are all weapon, and they dart,
Like porcupines, from ev'ry part.
Who can, alas! their strength express,
Arm'd, when they themselves undress,
Cap à pè with nakedness.
Oft' am I by the women told,
Poor Anacreon! thou grow'st old,
Look how thy hairs are falling all;
Poor Anacreon! how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
By th' effects I do not know;
This I know without being told,
"Tis time to live if I grow
old;
"Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.
When all the stars are by thee told,
(The endless sums of heav'nly gold)
Or when the hairs are reckon'd all,
From sickly Autumn's head that fall,
Or when the drops that make the sea,
Whilst all her sands thy counters be,
Thou then, and thou alone, must prove
Th' arithmetician of my love.
An hundred loves at Athens score,
At Corinth write an hundred more;
Fair Corinth does such beauties bear,
So few is an escaping there.
Write then at Chios seventy-three,
Write then at Lesbos (let me see);
Write me at Lesbos ninety down,
Full ninety loves, and half a one;
And next to these let me present
The fair Ionian regiment;
And next the Carian company,
Five hundred both effectively;
Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete;
Three hundred 'tis, I am sure, complete;
For arms at Crete each face does bear,
And ev'ry eye's an archer there.
Go on, this stop why dost thou make?
Thou think'st, perhaps, that I mistake.
Seems this to thee too great a sum?
Why many thousands are to come;
The mighty Xerxes could not boast
Such diff'rent nations in his host.
On; for my love, if thou be'st weary,
Must find some better secretary.
I have not yet my Persian told,
Nor yet my Syrian loves inroll'd,
Nor Indian nor Arabian,
Nor Cyprian loves nor African,
Nor Scythian nor Italian flames;
There's a whole map behind of names,
Of gentle loves i' th' Temp'rate Zone,
And cold ones in the Frigid one,
Cold frozen loves with which I pine,
And parched loves beneath the Line.
The Epicure.
Fill the bowl with rosy wine,
Around our temples roses twine,
And let us cheerfully awhile,
Like the wine and roses smile;
Crown'd with roses we contemn
Gyges' wealthy diadem.
To-day is ours; what do we fear?
To-day is ours, we have it here;
Let us treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay:
Let us banish bus'ness, banish sorrow;
To the gods belongs to-morrow.
Underneath this myrtle shade,
On flow'ry beds supinely laid,
With od❜rous oils my head o'erflowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state,
Love himself shall on me wait.
Fill to me, Love! nay fill it up,
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health, and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way;
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments show'r,
Nobler wines why do we pour?
Beauteous flow'rs why do we spread,
Upon the mon❜ments of the dead?
Nothing they but dust can shew,
Or bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with roses whilst I live,
Now your wines and ointments give;
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive your pleasures have,`
All are Stoics in the grave.
Happy insect! what can be
In happiness compar❜d to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
"Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice:
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy,
Nor does thy luxury destroy.
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!
Thee Phœbus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy sire.
To thee of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect! happy thou,
Dost neither age nor winter know:
But when thou 'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among, (Voluptuous, and wise withal,
Epicurean animal!)
Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest.
Foolish prater! what dost thou
So early at my window do
With thy tuneless serenade?
Well it had been had Tereus made
Thee as dumb as Philomel;
There his knife had done but well.
In thy undiscover'd nest
Thou dost all the winter rest,
And dreamest o'er thy summer joys
Free from the stormy season's noise;
Free from th' ill thou 'st done to me;
Who disturbs or seeks out thee?
Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the woods' poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou 'st ta'en from me away.
Cruel bird! thou 'st ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream that ne'er must equall'd be
By all that waking eyes may see:
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