The songs of Moses and Deborah paraphras'd with poems on several occasions : never before publish'd : to which is added, a Pindarick on Mr. L'Estrange.
         Cleeve, Charles, b. 1661.
      
       
         
           1685
        
      
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             The songs of Moses and Deborah paraphras'd with poems on several occasions : never before publish'd : to which is added, a Pindarick on Mr. L'Estrange.
             Cleeve, Charles, b. 1661.
          
           [16], 142, [2] p.
           
             Printed for Luke Meredith ...,
             London :
             1685.
          
           
             Attributed to Charles Cleeve. Cf. BM.
             Errata: p. 142.
             Advertisement: p. [1]-[2] at end.
             Dedication to John Churchill (later Duke of Marlborough) signed: C. Cleeve.
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           L'Estrange, Roger, -- Sir, 1616-1704 -- Poetry.
           Bible. -- O.T. -- Exodus -- Paraphrases.
        
      
    
     
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           THE
           SONGS
           OF
           MOSeS
           and
           DEBORAH
           Paraphras'd
           .
        
         
           WITH
           POEMS
           ON
           Several
           Occasions
           .
        
         
           
             Never
             before
             Publish'd
          
           .
        
         
           To
           which
           is
           added
           ,
           A
           PINDARICK
           ON
           Mr.
           L'ESTRANGE
           .
        
         
           Veniam
           dabimus
           petimusque
           vicissim
           .
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           for
           
             Luke
             Meredith
          
           ,
           at
           the
           King's
           Head
           ,
           at
           the
           West-End
           of
           St.
           Paul's
           Church-Yard
           .
           MDCLXXXV
           .
        
      
       
         
         
         
           TO
           THE
           RIGHT
           HONOURABLE
           JOHN
           LORD
           CHVRCHILL
           .
        
         
           
             MY
             LORD
             ,
          
        
         
           THere
           are
           several
           things
           in
           the
           World
           that
           carry
           along
           with
           them
           no
           real
           use
           or
           profit
           ;
           but
           serve
           only
           to
           fill
           up
           the
           vacuities
           of
           the
           Creation
           ,
           and
           please
           purely
           upon
           the
           account
           of
           Variety
           :
           Among
           this
           class
           of
           Beings
           some
           Men
           have
           
           graciously
           vouchsafed
           to
           rank
           all
           Essayers
           in
           this
           kind
           :
           and
           our
           Authors
           further
           add
           ,
           That
           if
           Nature
           ever
           made
           any
           thing
           in
           Vain
           ,
           't
           was
           a
           Poet.
           Well
           ,
           for
           once
           let
           Poets
           have
           the
           worshipful
           Name
           of
           Jesters
           to
           Mankind
           ;
           let
           us
           grant
           for
           once
           ,
           That
           they
           are
           but
           
             Risus
             plorantis
             Mundi
          
           ,
           as
           was
           said
           of
           the
           Rainbow
           ,
           the
           Sport
           and
           Caprice
           of
           Nature
           ;
           Men
           work'd
           off
           when
           she
           was
           in
           an
           excellent
           merry
           vein
           .
           Yet
           hard
           Fate
           it
           is
           ,
           That
           while
           like
           Silk-Worms
           ,
           they
           unravel
           their
           very
           Bowels
           for
           the
           Pleasure
           and
           Luxury
           of
           Mankind
           ;
           they
           must
           lye
           Entomb'd
           in
           their
           own
           bottoms
           .
           We
           read
           ,
           I
           confess
           ,
           of
           few
           of
           the
           Tribe
           that
           have
           been
           Lord
           Mayors
           or
           Secretaries
           of
           State
           ,
           Men
           of
           vast
           Business
           or
           Politicks
           :
           Yet
           
           let
           me
           oppose
           to
           this
           bold
           Slander
           ,
           by
           way
           of
           Apology
           ,
           for
           the
           usefulness
           of
           Poetry
           ,
           what
           stands
           Recorded
           of
           the
           Famous
           Alcaeus
           ,
           that
           great
           Poet
           and
           Souldier
           ,
           who
           used
           to
           make
           his
           Speeches
           in
           Verse
           at
           the
           head
           of
           his
           Army
           ;
           and
           thought
           there
           was
           as
           much
           Martial
           Musick
           in
           the
           Harmonious
           Cadence
           of
           Numbers
           ,
           as
           in
           the
           louder
           noise
           of
           Drums
           and
           Hautboys
           .
           Nay
           we
           further
           read
           ,
           Poets
           were
           the
           Civility
           Masters
           to
           Mankind
           ,
           and
           the
           only
           Divines
           of
           the
           old
           World
           :
           and
           even
           the
           greatest
           Preachers
           of
           our
           days
           are
           not
           ashamed
           to
           make
           use
           of
           their
           Sermon-Notes
           ,
           and
           bespangle
           their
           Discourse
           with
           the
           Golden
           Remains
           of
           their
           Compositions
           .
        
         
         
           I
           question
           not
           ,
           but
           Your
           Lordship
           does
           presently
           fore-see
           what
           Advantage
           I
           intend
           to
           make
           of
           this
           Preamble
           ;
           For
           where
           now
           shou'd
           persecuted
           Poetry
           fly
           ,
           but
           to
           the
           Patronage
           of
           the
           Great
           ?
           Whose
           very
           Title
           ,
           at
           the
           Front
           of
           its
           Productions
           ,
           is
           Charm
           enough
           against
           all
           the
           peevish
           Bolts
           of
           an
           ill-judging
           Age.
           And
           ,
           I
           hope
           ,
           Your
           Lordship
           will
           the
           more
           easily
           pardon
           the
           Presumption
           ,
           in
           prefixing
           Your
           awful
           Name
           to
           these
           Trifles
           ,
           when
           You
           shall
           consider
           ,
           That
           the
           Greatest
           Men
           the
           World
           yet
           produc'd
           ,
           have
           been
           Your
           Fellow-sufferers
           ,
           have
           been
           pester'd
           with
           Addresses
           of
           this
           kind
           :
           The
           great
           Scipio
           had
           Ennius
           always
           in
           his
           Camp
           :
           And
           a
           greater
           than
           he
           ,
           the
           Macedonian
           Youth
           ,
           carried
           a
           whole
           Knot
           
           of
           the
           Brothers
           of
           the
           Quill
           ,
           into
           Asia
           ,
           with
           him
           .
           And
           Your
           Lordship
           may
           ,
           with
           Modesty
           enough
           ,
           put
           in
           for
           a
           Share
           in
           this
           Privilege
           ,
           of
           having
           
             Poeta
             a
             latere
          
           ;
           whose
           Sword
           has
           already
           acted
           Wonders
           ;
           and
           will
           in
           time
           ,
           no
           question
           ,
           cut
           out
           more
           Work
           for
           Heroick
           Poetry
           ;
           than
           the
           ablest
           Pen
           can
           engrave
           .
        
         
           But
           still
           ,
           
             My
             Lord
          
           ,
           these
           Motives
           had
           been
           too
           weak
           ,
           had
           not
           Your
           Natural
           Candor
           and
           Ingenuity
           open'd
           a
           way
           for
           this
           bold
           Attempt
           :
           And
           here
           I
           have
           but
           too
           large
           a
           Field
           to
           expatiate
           in
           .
           I
           may
           safely
           say
           ,
           You
           possess
           all
           the
           Virtues
           ,
           separate
           from
           the
           Vices
           of
           a
           Courtier
           .
           All
           that
           have
           the
           Honour
           of
           Your
           Lordship's
           Acquaintance
           ,
           proclaim
           You
           Master
           of
           a
           Soul
           ,
           that
           
           is
           unruffled
           with
           Passion
           ,
           undisturbed
           with
           the
           Freakishness
           of
           Humour
           ;
           where
           Affability
           with
           State
           ,
           Humility
           with
           Greatness
           ,
           meet
           and
           center
           .
        
         
           This
           is
           Great
           and
           Illustrious
           :
           But
           Your
           Lordship
           's
           steady
           and
           unbyass'd
           Loyalty
           ,
           is
           the
           Brightest
           Star
           in
           this
           Constellation
           of
           Virtues
           :
           Far
           from
           the
           Humor
           of
           some
           Male-Contents
           of
           our
           Age
           ,
           who
           upon
           the
           least
           Pique
           ,
           and
           Court-Disgust
           ,
           fly
           off
           to
           the
           Faction
           ;
           not
           unlike
           the
           Fellow
           ,
           who
           had
           God
           on
           one
           side
           of
           his
           Shield
           ,
           and
           the
           Devil
           on
           the
           other
           ,
           with
           this
           Motto
           ,
           
             If
             You
             won't
             have
             me
             ,
             here
             's
             One
             will.
             
          
        
         
           Thus
           ,
           when
           Nature
           had
           fitly
           fram'd
           Your
           Mind
           ,
           she
           left
           not
           off
           here
           ,
           but
           took
           order
           the
           fair
           Inhabitant
           shou'd
           be
           lodg'd
           in
           as
           delicate
           
           a
           Body
           ;
           a
           Structure
           of
           such
           admirable
           Contrivance
           and
           Regularity
           ,
           that
           I
           must
           here
           apply
           what
           Plato
           has
           said
           of
           Philosophers
           ,
           That
           the
           Souls
           of
           Vulgar
           Persons
           are
           lodg'd
           in
           their
           Bodies
           ,
           but
           the
           Bodies
           of
           Philosophers
           in
           their
           Souls
           ;
           their
           very
           Bodies
           being
           so
           pure
           ,
           defecate
           and
           refin'd
           :
           Never
           was
           a
           happier
           Match
           made
           by
           Fate
           ,
           except
           in
           that
           bless'd
           Conjunction
           of
           Your
           other
           Half
           ,
           Your
           Honour'd
           Lady
           ,
           and
           Your Self
           ;
           a
           Couple
           so
           well
           pair'd
           by
           Heaven
           ,
           that
           if
           all
           the
           Beauty
           and
           Proportion
           of
           both
           Sexes
           shou'd
           be
           lost
           ,
           here
           it
           might
           be
           retriev'd
           :
           And
           such
           is
           the
           Harmony
           of
           Your
           Souls
           ,
           so
           strong
           the
           Tie
           of
           Conjugal
           Affection
           ,
           as
           it
           cou'd
           scarce
           be
           greater
           ,
           when
           the
           whole
           World
           had
           but
           
           Two
           in
           Family
           :
           An
           Example
           of
           such
           admirable
           Influence
           ,
           that
           it
           were
           able
           throughly
           to
           Convert
           any
           Age
           ,
           less
           lewd
           than
           That
           we
           live
           in
           .
        
         
           But
           in
           vain
           ,
           
             My
             Lord
          
           ,
           I
           seek
           to
           play
           the
           Panegyrist
           ,
           when
           Heaven
           it self
           has
           long
           since
           design'd
           You
           for
           a
           lasting
           Ornament
           to
           this
           Nation
           ,
           by
           chusing
           Your
           Lordship
           to
           be
           a
           Part
           of
           those
           precious
           Remains
           of
           the
           
             Scoth
             Wreck
          
           :
           and
           his
           
             Royal
             Highness
          
           has
           taught
           the
           World
           how
           to
           value
           so
           much
           Worth
           and
           Excellency
           ,
           when
           Your
           Lordship
           had
           the
           Honour
           to
           be
           the
           Second
           Man
           call'd
           into
           the
           Long-Boat
           .
        
         
           As
           for
           these
           ensuing
           Trifles
           Your
           Lordship
           may
           easily
           perceive
           by
           the
           Weakness
           of
           the
           Child
           ,
           that
           the
           Parent
           is
           of
           no
           strong
           Masculine
           
           Constitution
           in
           Poetry
           :
           But
           if
           the
           World
           will
           be
           pleas'd
           to
           take
           'em
           as
           they
           are
           ,
           I
           promise
           ,
           for
           their
           Comfort
           ,
           never
           to
           trouble
           'em
           more
           .
           But
           why
           do
           I
           appeal
           to
           the
           Many
           ?
           No
           :
           With
           the
           Wise
           Heathen
           ,
           
             Contemno
             minutos
             istos
             Deos
             modo
             Jovem
             propitium
             habeo
             :
          
           Let
           the
           World
           freely
           damn
           'em
           for
           their
           Money
           ,
           so
           they
           live
           but
           in
           the
           favourable
           Opinion
           of
           Your
           Lordship
           ;
           which
           is
           the
           utmost
           Ambition
           of
           ,
        
         
           
             My
             Lord
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Lordship
             's
             Most
             Devoted
             Servant
             ,
             
               C.
               Cleeve
            
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
         
           To
           my
           Friend
           the
           AUTHOR
           .
        
         
           AS
           you
           and
           I
           have
           walk'd
           along
           by
           Pauls
           ,
        
         
           And
           happen'd
           there
           to
           see
           the
           numerous
           shoals
        
         
           Of
           Authors
           scatter'd
           upon
           every
           Stall
           ,
        
         
           Which
           hourly
           wait
           for
           an
           
             effectual
             call
          
           :
        
         
           How
           often
           have
           I
           cry'd
           ,
           Look
           here
           my
           Friend
           ,
        
         
           Of
           writing
           Verse
           you
           find
           there
           is
           no
           end
           ;
        
         
           For
           see
           where
           
             Denham
             ,
             Dryden
             ,
             Oldham
          
           ,
           lye
           :
        
         
           Few
           read
           the
           Title
           Page
           ,
           and
           fewer
           buy
           .
        
         
           When
           to
           the
           Book-Retailing
           Coxcomb's
           price
           ,
        
         
           Perhaps
           the
           cautious
           Buyer
           will
           not
           rise
           ;
        
         
           Come
           ,
           Sir
           ,
           says
           he
           ,
           to
           fetch
           him
           to
           his
           Gin
           ,
        
         
           See
           I
           'll
           be
           kind
           ,
           here
           take
           the
           Medal
           in
           .
        
         
           Audacious
           Sot
           !
           to
           use
           a
           Poet
           so
           ,
        
         
           Thus
           Chandlers
           with
           their
           Penny
           Chapmen
           do
           ;
        
         
           Into
           the
           Bargain
           Thread
           and
           Paper
           throw
           .
        
         
           To
           see
           'em
           ty'd
           and
           strung
           on
           ev'ery
           Board
           ,
        
         
           It
           does
           at
           once
           Pity
           and
           Mirth
           afford
           :
        
         
           For
           then
           methinks
           all
           the
           Harmonious
           Band
           ,
        
         
           Just
           like
           so
           many
           Country
           Fidlers
           stand
           ;
        
         
         
           Please
           you
           a
           Lesson
           ,
           Masters
           ;
           here
           is
           good
        
         
           Store
           of
           Pindarick
           ,
           Pastoral
           and
           Ode
           .
        
         
           Oh
           cursed
           killing
           shame
           !
           and
           yet
           in
           spite
        
         
           Of
           this
           ill
           Fate
           ;
           spite
           of
           your
           Stars
           you
           'd
           write
           .
        
         
           If
           you
           had
           been
           so
           plaguy
           fond
           to
           know
        
         
           How
           we●●
           the
           world
           approv'd
           your
           vein
           or
           so
           ,
        
         
           You
           might
           have
           clap'd
           a
           Copy
           in
           the
           dark
        
         
           Before
           a
           Book
           ;
           like
           a
           raw
           entring
           Spark
           ,
        
         
           Have
           writ
           
             C.
             C.
          
           and
           only
           set
           your
           Mark.
           
        
         
           
             T.
             KING
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           THE
           CONTENTS
           .
        
         
           
             THE
             Song
             of
             Moses
             Paraphras'd
             .
             Pag.
             1
          
           
             The
             Song
             of
             Deborah
             Paraphras'd
             .
             13
          
           
             Miracles
             ,
             Works
             above
             and
             contrary
             to
             Nature
             .
             Occasioned
             by
             the
             Publishing
             a
             Book
             ,
             Entituled
             ,
             
               Miracles
               no
               violation
               of
               the
               Laws
               of
               Nature
               .
            
             55
          
           
             A
             Dialogue
             between
             the
             Two
             Rivers
             ,
             Cham
             and
             Isis
             ,
             on
             the
             King
             's
             Dissolving
             the
             Oxford
             Parliment
             .
             62
          
           
             A
             Poem
             ,
             written
             on
             the
             occasion
             of
             the
             Thanksgiving-Day
             for
             the
             Discovery
             of
             the
             
               Phanatical
               Plot
               ,
               September
            
             9.
             1683.
             69
          
           
             An
             Epitaph
             on
             the
             late
             E.
             of
             S.
             81
          
           
             The
             Tower
             of
             London
             .
             On
             the
             Commitment
             of
             some
             Great
             Persons
             .
             83
          
           
             
               Religio
               vi
               &
               armis
               non
               est
               propaganda
               .
            
             85
          
           
             
             A
             short
             Satyr
             against
             Keeping
             .
             88
          
           
             The
             Penitent
             .
             95
          
           
             The
             Wooing
             .
             99
          
           
             The
             Fifth
             Ode
             of
             the
             Second
             Book
             of
             Horace
             imitated
             .
             101
          
           
             On
             two
             Lads
             unfortunately
             expell'd
             the
             University
             for
             a
             Riot
             .
             103
          
           
             On
             Three
             Ladies
             who
             going
             abroad
             in
             Masquerade
             ,
             met
             with
             some
             Bullies
             ,
             Drew
             and
             Fought
             'em
             ;
             in
             the
             Fray
             ,
             one
             of
             the
             Ladies
             was
             desperately
             Wounded
             ,
             1683.
             106
          
           
             A
             Poem
             on
             the
             Prince's
             Marriage
             .
             111
          
           
             To
             the
             Memory
             of
             the
             Learned
             Dr.
             
               J.
               N.
            
             who
             died
             of
             a
             Consumption
             ,
             1683.
             118
          
           
             On
             the
             Famous
             Painter
             Mr.
             
               J.
               E.
            
             Pindarick
             Odes
             .
             124
          
           
             A
             Poem
             on
             
               Mr.
               L'Estrange
            
             .
             135
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           THE
           SONG
           OF
           MOSES
           Paraphras'd
           .
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             NOW
             had
             bless'd
             Israel
             gain'd
             the
             distant
             Shore
             ,
          
           
             They
             long
             had
             reacht
             with
             greedy
             Eyes
             before
             ,
          
           
             When
             their
             Great
             Guide
             wav'd
             his
             Mysterious
             Wand
             ,
          
           
             Beck'ning
             the
             Sacred
             Host
             to
             make
             a
             Stand
             ;
          
           
             They
             own'd
             the
             mighty
             Sign
             ,
             and
             strait
             obey'd
             ;
          
           
             They
             turn'd
             ,
             and
             all
             around
             the
             wondrous
             Wreck
             survey'd
             .
          
           
           
             The
             parted
             Seas
             ran
             to
             embrace
             afresh
             ,
          
           
             And
             hide
             their
             Father
             Neptune's
             Nakedness
             ;
          
           
             These
             Secrets
             ,
             which
             now
             long
             unveil'd
             had
             been
             ,
          
           
             Since
             Nature's
             Birth
             before
             ne'r
             seen
             .
          
           
             For
             scatter'd
             o'er
             the
             Bottom
             of
             the
             Deep
             ,
          
           
             (
             The
             Store-house
             ,
             where
             the
             Sea
             its
             Spoils
             is
             wont
             to
             keep
             )
          
           
             Lay
             Anchors
             ,
             Helmets
             ,
             shatter'd
             Bones
             ,
          
           
             Lay
             Heaps
             of
             Jewels
             ,
             and
             unvalued
             Stones
             ;
          
           
             Some
             were
             lodg'd
             in
             dead
             Men's
             Skulls
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             self-same
             Holes
             ,
          
           
             Where
             Eyes
             of
             old
             did
             dwell
             with
             their
             Enlivening
             Beams
             ,
          
           
             There
             were
             hid
             reflecting
             Gems
             .
          
           
             With
             as
             swift
             Pace
             the
             Waves
             to
             their
             old
             Beds
             did
             move
             ,
          
           
             As
             when
             at
             first
             the
             Almighty
             Fiat
             spake
             ,
          
           
             Bidding
             them
             strait
             ,
             dry
             Land
             forsake
             ;
          
           
             And
             to
             one
             great
             Abyss
             the
             scatter'd
             Waters
             drove
             ▪
          
           
             The
             Waves
             in
             Triumph
             bore
             their
             Spoils
             along
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             fresh
             Prizes
             fraught
             ,
          
           
             Which
             in
             their
             Watry
             Net
             they
             'd
             caught
             ,
          
           
             In
             numerous
             Bands
             to
             th'
             wondring
             Shore
             did
             throng
             .
          
           
           
             Close
             by
             the
             Hebrews
             side
             ,
             upon
             the
             spacious
             Sand
             ,
          
           
             Lay
             all
             the
             Pride
             of
             Aegypt's
             Land
             ;
          
           
             One
             Wave
             the
             mighty
             Cenchres
             bore
             ,
          
           
             Another
             brought
             his
             faithful
             Page
             to
             Shore
             .
          
           
             Curst
             Pharaoh
             !
             now
             as
             much
             with
             Water
             swell'd
             ,
          
           
             As
             he
             before
             with
             haughty
             Pride
             was
             fill'd
             .
          
           
             Here
             lay
             a
             Prince
             ,
             and
             there
             a
             Swain
             ,
          
           
             Both
             clad
             in
             th'
             Native
             Scarlet
             of
             the
             Main
             ;
          
           
             In
             equal
             Death
             both
             the
             same
             State
             maintain
             .
          
           
             Each
             Hebrew
             at
             his
             Feet
             his
             Master
             now
             do's
             view
             ,
          
           
             Each
             Man
             his
             curs'd
             Oppressor
             knew
             :
          
           
             Their
             Pleasure
             tho'
             a
             secret
             Fear
             controul'd
             ;
          
           
             For
             yet
             they
             look't
             as
             cruel
             ,
             fierce
             and
             bold
             ;
          
           
             And
             yet
             they
             seem'd
             to
             grin
             out
             their
             Commands
             ,
          
           
             And
             still
             to
             threaten
             with
             up-lifted
             Hands
             .
          
           
             Now
             dead
             ,
             the
             Hebrews
             fear
             'em
             more
             ,
          
           
             Than
             living
             they
             had
             done
             before
             .
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             Thus
             ,
             O
             ye
             Sons
             of
             Israel
             ,
             be
             it
             done
             ,
          
           
             Cryes
             Amram's
             mighty
             Son
             ;
          
           
             May
             thus
             a
             speedy
             Ruin
             seize
             on
             those
             ,
          
           
             Who
             dare
             our
             God
             ,
             or
             's
             Prophet's
             Voice
             oppose
             :
          
           
           
             For
             He
             it
             is
             ,
             that
             great
             unutterable
             Name
             ,
          
           
             Who
             now
             has
             done
             this
             Glorious
             Work
             of
             Fame
             .
          
           
             'T
             was
             by
             his
             Hand
             the
             Chamian
             Army
             fell
             ;
          
           
             Down
             like
             a
             Stone
             they
             went
             ,
             and
             sunk
             as
             deep
             as
             Hell.
          
           
             The
             generous
             Horse
             ,
             proud
             of
             his
             Master's
             Weight
             ,
          
           
             At
             first
             pranc'd
             down
             the
             Gulph
             with
             stately
             Gate
             :
          
           
             As
             pleas'd
             and
             glad
             he
             stood
             ,
          
           
             As
             when
             he
             us'd
             to
             water
             at
             some
             Neighbouring
             Flood
             :
          
           
             But
             when
             the
             rowling
             Seas
             came
             down
             amain
             ,
          
           
             He
             started
             strait
             ,
             and
             flounc'd
             ,
             and
             slip't
             the
             useless
             Rein.
          
           
             No
             Aid
             the
             Faithful
             Beast
             can
             lend
             ;
          
           
             But
             Horse
             and
             Rider
             too
             beneath
             this
             watry
             Fate
             must
             bend
             .
          
           
             He
             grew
             unruly
             with
             the
             Fright
             ,
          
           
             Not
             us'd
             to
             this
             odd
             way
             of
             Fight
             .
          
           
             He
             saw
             no
             other
             Enemy
             throughout
             the
             Field
             ,
          
           
             But
             Water
             ,
             which
             beneath
             his
             pressing
             Hoof
             did
             yield
             .
          
           
             But
             still
             the
             slippery
             Foe
             came
             on
             him
             fresh
             again
             ,
          
           
             And
             plung'd
             him
             down
             ,
             at
             last
             ,
             into
             the
             faithless
             Main
             :
          
           
           
             There
             in
             watry
             Stalls
             to
             feed
          
           
             With
             Horses
             of
             another
             Breed
             .
          
           
             Pity
             ,
             that
             Vengeance
             innocent
             Beasts
             shou'd
             slay
             !
          
           
             Pity
             ,
             that
             they
             for
             sinning
             Man
             shou'd
             pay
             !
          
           
             Upon
             the
             floating
             Chariots
             head
             .
          
           
             Where
             once
             proud
             Aegypt's
             purpled
             Monarch
             sate
             ,
          
           
             All
             the
             Scaly
             Herd
             were
             got
             ;
          
           
             It
             pleas'd
             'em
             far
             above
             their
             Watry
             Bed.
          
           
             Thus
             plac'd
             ,
             as
             proud
             the
             Sea-Born
             Monsters
             mov'd
             ,
          
           
             As
             their
             Brother
             Fish
             above
             ;
          
           
             Who
             in
             that
             Sea
             of
             Air
             ,
             which
             there
             does
             flow
             ,
          
           
             With
             all
             the
             other
             Signs
             ,
             an
             endless
             Journey
             go
             .
          
           
             See
             there
             sad
             Aegypt's
             Ruines
             scatter'd
             o're
             the
             Main
             :
          
           
             This
             did
             the
             Lord
             himself
             ,
             a
             Glorious
             Name
             to
             gain
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             Our
             God
             ,
             (
             sang
             on
             the
             Great
             Inspired
             Seer
             )
          
           
             The
             All-wise
             God
             ,
             whom
             we
             adore
             and
             fear
             ,
          
           
             No
             lazy
             Deity
             is
             ,
             or
             idle
             Looker-on
             ,
          
           
             Whil'st
             his
             People
             suffer
             Wrong
             .
          
           
           
             A
             Jealous
             Being
             ,
             ready
             to
             redress
             :
          
           
             Nor
             will
             He
             see
             his
             Votaries
             borne
             down
             by
             thriving
             Wickedness
             .
          
           
             His
             Power
             oft
             in
             Battles
             has
             been
             shown
          
           
             Against
             the
             Enemies
             of
             his
             Heavenly
             Crown
             .
          
           
             When
             He
             goes
             forth
             to
             War
             ,
          
           
             He
             wears
             no
             Armor
             ,
             weilds
             no
             Spear
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             's
             wont
             with
             Steed
             or
             Chariot
             to
             appear
             ,
          
           
             The
             Officious
             Winds
             beneath
             Him
             bend
             ;
          
           
             And
             in
             a
             well-form'd
             Vehicle
             of
             Clouds
             He
             does
             descend
             .
          
           
             A
             dazling
             Glory
             round
             his
             Head
             does
             stand
             ,
          
           
             And
             forked
             Thunder
             fills
             his
             Hand
             .
          
           
             'T
             was
             thus
             upon
             the
             Plains
             of
             endless
             Day
             ,
          
           
             He
             thro'
             the
             Embattel'd
             Seraphims
             forc'd
             his
             way
             :
          
           
             'T
             was
             thus
             He
             met
             the
             Rebel
             Sons
             of
             Light
             ,
          
           
             And
             sent
             'em
             howling
             down
             into
             Eternal
             Night
             .
          
           
             Thus
             He
             of
             Old
             did
             call
          
           
             The
             Waters
             o'er
             the
             Universal
             Ball
             ;
          
           
             As
             soon
             as
             e're
             He
             spoke
             ,
          
           
             The
             troubled
             Sea
             from
             its
             dark
             Chambers
             broke
             ;
          
           
             All
             the
             Cataracts
             of
             the
             Sky
          
           
             Precipitated
             from
             on
             high
             ;
          
           
           
             Heaven's
             Flood-gates
             burst
             asunder
             :
          
           
             To
             them
             joyn'd
             Lightning
             ,
             Hail
             and
             Thunder
             ;
          
           
             And
             from
             Above
             they
             came
             with
             a
             disorder'd
             Course
             ,
          
           
             To
             meet
             the
             Sea
             's
             Auxiliary
             Force
             :
          
           
             The
             Sea
             and
             Rain
             ,
             as
             old
             Acquaintance
             ,
             joyn
             ;
          
           
             (
             For
             the
             Sun's
             Rays
             from
             hence
             these
             Show'rs
             did
             once
             refine
             .
             )
          
           
             The
             wondring
             World
             ,
             as
             in
             an
             Ambush
             ta'n
             ,
          
           
             Was
             cover'd
             o'er
             by
             the
             wild
             Deluge
             ,
             and
             prevailing
             Main
             .
          
           
             Thus
             from
             the
             Walls
             of
             Heaven
             ,
             the
             Eternal
             King
             look't
             down
             ,
          
           
             And
             saw
             strange
             Fires
             burn
             Sodom's
             lustful
             Town
             .
          
           
             Each
             Angel
             shook
             his
             Starry
             Sphere
             ,
             and
             down
             there
             came
          
           
             Whole
             Gushes
             strait
             of
             flaming
             Rain
             .
          
           
             The
             amazed
             Sodomites
             now
             wonder
             more
             :
          
           
             They
             oft
             had
             seen
             Stars
             fall
             by
             Night
             ,
          
           
             That
             was
             a
             common
             Sight
             ;
          
           
             But
             never
             thought
             they
             carried
             Fire
             ,
             before
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             Hand
             the
             Chamian
             Army
             fell
             ;
          
           
             As
             swift
             as
             Light
             they
             went
             ,
             and
             sunk
             as
             deep
             as
             Hell.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             Tell
             this
             ,
             ye
             Winds
             ,
             bear
             on
             your
             Wings
             the
             same
             ,
          
           
             To
             the
             far
             distant
             Coasts
             of
             Fame
             !
          
           
             The
             Lord
             of
             Hosts
             ,
             that
             is
             his
             wondrous
             Name
             !
          
           
             Whisper
             it
             to
             each
             Country
             ,
             where
             you
             come
             ,
          
           
             As
             through
             your
             Stormy
             Empire
             you
             do
             roam
             :
          
           
             But
             to
             the
             Aegyptian
             Court
             ,
          
           
             Be
             sure
             ye
             strait
             resort
             ,
          
           
             And
             There
             proclaim
             aloud
             the
             killing
             Sound
             ,
          
           
             That
             Pharaoh
             ,
             and
             his
             Host
             ,
             are
             drown'd
             !
          
           
             Ye
             Erythraean
             Waves
             ,
             whene're
             ye
             joyn
             ,
          
           
             The
             Seas
             that
             run
             beyond
             the
             Line
             ,
          
           
             If
             they
             enquire
             from
             whence
             these
             Spoyls
             you
             bear
             ,
          
           
             What
             makes
             your
             Waves
             twice
             dy'd
             in
             red
             appear
             ?
          
           
             Tell
             'em
             ,
             Proud
             Aegypt's
             King
             ,
             with
             all
             his
             Luxury
             ,
          
           
             Within
             your
             watry
             Grave
             entomb'd
             does
             lie
             :
          
           
             And
             tell
             'em
             ,
             Tho'
             a
             Thousand
             Shores
             they
             wash
             ,
          
           
             And
             as
             many
             Countries
             pass
             ;
          
           
             There
             no
             Heathen
             Idols
             are
             ,
          
           
             Who
             can
             with
             Israel's
             God
             compare
             .
          
           
           
             Ye
             Fields
             of
             Zoan
             ,
             say
             ;
             for
             you
             have
             been
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Heavenly
             Wonders
             ,
             the
             unhappy
             Scene
             ;
          
           
             Can
             all
             your
             numerous
             Stock
             of
             Gods
             afford
          
           
             One
             ,
             who
             dare
             stand
             before
             the
             Lord
             ?
          
           
             When
             on
             your
             Cattle
             He
             a
             Murrain
             sent
             ,
          
           
             Among
             the
             meaner
             Herd
             the
             adored
             Heifer
             went.
          
           
             When
             the
             ripe
             Corn
             and
             Fruits
             did
             blasted
             lie
             ,
          
           
             With
             them
             your
             
               Garden
               Gods
            
             did
             hang
             their
             Heads
             ,
             and
             die
             .
          
           
             When
             Nile
             was
             turn'd
             to
             Blood
             ,
             and
             putrid
             Gore
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Sacred
             Crocodile
             came
             forth
             ,
             and
             dy'd
             upon
             the
             Shore
             .
          
           
             But
             let
             not
             injur'd
             Nile
             complain
             ;
          
           
             The
             same
             
               Almighty
               Rod
            
             again
             ,
          
           
             Which
             did
             his
             Waters
             paint
             ,
             has
             dy'd
             the
             Neighboring
             Main
             .
          
        
         
           
             V.
             
          
           
             'T
             was
             then
             (
             continued
             he
             his
             tuneful
             Song
             )
          
           
             When
             our
             Army
             march'd
             along
             ,
          
           
             The
             
               Travelling
               Flame
            
             before
             us
             did
             appear
             ,
          
           
             The
             never-failing
             Cloud
             fell
             in
             the
             Rear
             .
          
           
             The
             
               Queen
               of
               Heaven
            
             wonder'd
             ,
             still
             by
             Night
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             a
             Fire
             below
             ,
             so
             Glorious
             ,
             Fierce
             and
             Bright
             .
          
           
           
             The
             Sun
             himself
             surpriz'd
             as
             much
             by
             Day
             ,
          
           
             That
             with
             his
             Rays
             he
             ne'r
             could
             chase
             this
             Cloud
             away
             .
          
           
             At
             the
             first
             Sight
             of
             the
             
               Mysterious
               Rod
            
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             they
             'd
             spy'd
             the
             Finger
             of
             a
             God
             ,
          
           
             The
             Waters
             loos'd
             their
             close
             Embrace
             ,
          
           
             Crowding
             back
             with
             furious
             Haste
             .
          
           
             Into
             the
             secret
             Paths
             our
             Host
             did
             move
             ,
          
           
             Paths
             so
             full
             of
             Mystery
             ,
          
           
             That
             the
             Heavenly
             Host
             above
             ,
          
           
             Were
             surpriz'd
             as
             much
             as
             We.
          
           
             For
             the
             Stars
             cou'd
             never
             guess
             ,
          
           
             Why
             in
             the
             Ocean's
             polish'd
             Glass
             ,
          
           
             They
             cou'd
             no
             longer
             see
             their
             Face
             .
          
           
             After
             our
             Troops
             the
             Pharian
             Tyrant
             bent
             ,
          
           
             With
             violent
             Haste
             ,
             blaspheming
             as
             he
             went.
          
           
             In
             vain
             you
             try
             ,
             ye
             Slaves
             ,
             to
             shun
             your
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             Or
             fly
             my
             just
             provoked
             Hate
             .
          
           
             I
             fear
             no
             longer
             now
             your
             God
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             the
             damn'd
             Sorcerer's
             Conjuring
             Rod.
          
           
             More
             the
             bold
             Monster
             wou'd
             have
             said
             ,
             and
             worse
             ,
          
           
             But
             a
             fierce
             bidden
             Wave
             came
             on
             ,
             and
             stop't
             th●
             foolish
             Curse
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             VI.
             
          
           
             In
             Aegypt's
             Sky
             now
             let
             sad
             Clouds
             appear
             ,
          
           
             Tho'
             they
             were
             ne'r
             before
             seen
             there
             .
          
           
             Now
             howl
             ,
             ye
             beastly
             Pharian
             Deities
             ,
          
           
             And
             echo
             thro'
             Heaven's
             Vault
             your
             hideous
             Cries
             .
          
           
             Now
             hang
             again
             ,
             ye
             Garden
             Gods
             ,
             your
             Head
             ;
          
           
             For
             He
             ,
             the
             mighty
             He
             ,
             that
             made
             you
             so
             ,
             is
             dead
             .
          
           
             O'er
             trembling
             Edom
             too
             ,
             and
             Moab
             ,
             let
             the
             Sound
             ,
          
           
             And
             even
             to
             Canaan's
             Land
             ,
             rebound
             :
          
           
             Let
             Jordan
             now
             back
             to
             his
             Fountain
             run
             .
          
           
             For
             what
             was
             here
             begun
             ,
          
           
             Said
             the
             great
             Inspired
             Seer
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             again
             be
             acted
             there
             .
          
           
             His
             Waves
             at
             God's
             Command
             shall
             make
             a
             stand
             ,
          
           
             And
             open
             too
             a
             Path
             for
             Israel's
             Sacred
             Band.
             
          
        
      
       
         
         
         
           THE
           SONG
           OF
           DEBORAH
           Paraphras'd
           .
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             NOW
             breath
             We
             ,
             warlike
             Mates
             ,
             good
             Fortune
             bids
             us
             pause
             :
          
           
             See
             the
             hoarse
             Trumpets
             threatning
             Voice
             be
             drown'd
             ;
          
           
             See
             it
             no
             more
             the
             Neighboring
             Valleys
             wound
             ;
          
           
             In
             softer
             peaceful
             Strains
             we'll
             Anthems
             sound
          
           
             To
             the
             Great
             Name
             ,
             that
             did
             espouse
             our
             Righteous
             Cause
             .
          
           
           
             Israel
             a
             Captive
             now
             no
             longer
             shall
             be
             said
             :
          
           
             Ah!
             Blessed
             Israel
             ,
             raise
             thy
             ransom'd
             Head
             !
          
           
             Sisera's
             no
             more
             ;
             his
             Soul
             is
             with
             his
             Army
             fled
             .
          
           
             Proud
             Midian
             now
             has
             clear'd
             the
             mighty
             Score
             ,
          
           
             That
             has
             been
             running
             up
             this
             Twenty
             Suns
             ,
             and
             more
             .
          
           
             The
             vast
             Arrears
             of
             Rapine
             ,
             Death
             and
             Spoil
             ,
          
           
             One
             Day
             has
             paid
             ,
             this
             black
             Day
             's
             memorable
             Foil
             .
          
           
             There
             Hecatombs
             to
             Shades
             below
             are
             gone
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             for
             injured
             Hebrew
             Ghosts
             atone
             .
          
           
             Ye
             Midian
             Slaves
             ,
             go
             ,
             and
             this
             Victory
             tell
             ;
          
           
             Our
             Fathers
             dy'd
             ,
             and
             said
             ,
             
               Revenge
               us
            
             ,
             as
             they
             fell
             .
          
           
             The
             Cries
             of
             Brothers
             ,
             Husbands
             ,
             Children
             slain
             ,
          
           
             For
             this
             Avenging
             Light
             did
             long
             complain
             .
          
           
             I
             saw
             their
             Blessed
             Spirits
             hover
             o're
          
           
             These
             Plains
             ,
             which
             once
             had
             drunk
             their
             Sacre
             Gore
             .
          
           
             They
             smil'd
             to
             see
             Proud
             Jabin
             fall
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             us
             deal
             round
             Death
             to
             All
             :
          
           
             They
             lean'd
             their
             subtle
             Organs
             down
             to
             catch
             th●
             Steam
             ,
          
           
             Which
             in
             great
             Mists
             from
             Midianitish
             Blood
             di●
             Stream
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             II.
             
          
           
             God
             ,
             and
             your
             Arms
             be
             prais'd
             !
             Ah!
             foolish
             I
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             to
             Purloin
             from
             Heaven
             a
             Victory
             !
          
           
             For
             ,
             Oh!
             Ye
             Powers
             above
             ,
             what
             Mortal
             may
          
           
             Share
             in
             the
             Glory
             of
             this
             Day
             ?
          
           
             Our
             little
             ,
             meager
             ,
             trembling
             Host
          
           
             Look't
             like
             a
             wild
             disorder'd
             Rout
             of
             Ghosts
             :
          
           
             No
             ,
             Thou
             Great
             God
             ,
             alone
             ,
             thy
             Power
             did'st
             exert
             ;
          
           
             It
             was
             thy
             Arm
             ;
             Thou
             both
             the
             Sword
             and
             Buckler
             wert
             .
          
           
             Baruck
             ,
             and
             I
             ,
             can
             lay
             no
             Claim
          
           
             To
             this
             mighty
             Work
             of
             Fame
             .
          
           
             May
             I
             thy
             humble
             Prophetess
             still
             counted
             be
             ;
          
           
             The
             Deity
             's
             great
             Lieutenant
             ,
             He.
          
           
             Hear
             this
             ,
             ye
             Kings
             ,
             ye
             Earthly
             Gods
             ,
          
           
             Who
             of
             your
             Numbers
             boast
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Armed
             Towns
             ,
             and
             well-appointed
             Hosts
             :
          
           
             'Twixt
             Heaven
             ,
             and
             You
             ,
             see
             here
             the
             mighty
             Odds.
          
           
             The
             Almighty
             from
             Above
             does
             see
             ,
          
           
             How
             wondrous
             careful
             ,
             and
             sollicitous
             you
             be
             :
          
           
           
             He
             sees
             your
             Men
             ,
             like
             busie
             Emmets
             ,
             crawl
          
           
             Over
             the
             Mole-hill
             of
             this
             Earthly
             Ball
             ;
          
           
             He
             sits
             ,
             and
             with
             a
             scornful
             Smile
             surveys
             it
             all
             .
          
           
             Your
             very
             Chariots
             fail
             in
             a
             Retreat
             :
          
           
             Jabin's
             proud
             General
             had
          
           
             Numbers
             of
             Scores
             in
             sturdy
             Iron
             clad
             ;
          
           
             And
             yet
             was
             forc'd
             to
             owe
             his
             Safety
             to
             his
             Feet
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             With
             it
             this
             frightful
             Day
             such
             dire
             Confusion
             bore
             ,
          
           
             As
             when
             thro'
             Idumea's
             Hilly
             Coast
             ,
          
           
             Amram's
             great
             Son
             led
             the
             
               Beloved
               Host
            
             ;
          
           
             Our
             Army
             came
             behind
             ,
             and
             Terror
             march'd
             before
             .
          
           
             Fame
             hasted
             strait
             ,
             and
             all
             around
             ,
          
           
             Threw
             the
             astonishing
             Sound
             ;
          
           
             Into
             their
             Towns
             she
             flew
             ,
             and
             scatter'd
             there
             ,
          
           
             Blind
             Terror
             ,
             deaf
             Disorder
             ,
             helpless
             Fear
             .
          
           
             Edom
             cou'd
             now
             it self
             no
             more
             command
             ,
          
           
             But
             wish'd
             surrounded
             with
             more
             Hills
             ,
             to
             stand
             .
          
           
             Thus
             't
             was
             of
             old
             on
             smoaking
             Sinah's
             Head
             ,
          
           
             With
             such
             Amazement
             was
             it
             over-spread
             ,
          
           
           
             When
             the
             Great
             Law
             first
             took
             its
             Birth
             ,
          
           
             And
             Heaven
             convers'd
             with
             Earth
             ,
          
           
             God
             and
             his
             Creature
             in
             Conjunction
             sate
             ,
             Familiarly
             did
             debate
             :
          
           
             Man
             's
             ravish'd
             Opticks
             feasted
             on
             the
             Sight
             Divine
             ,
          
           
             Which
             way
             ,
             we
             know
             no
             more
             ,
             than
             how
             the
             Soul
             and
             Body
             joyn
             .
          
           
             When
             first
             upon
             the
             Mountain's
             Top
             ,
          
           
             The
             
               Eternal
               King
            
             came
             down
             ;
          
           
             The
             shuffling
             Clouds
             ,
             to
             make
             Him
             room
             ,
          
           
             Together
             rush't
             ,
             and
             hence
             loud
             Storms
             did
             come
             .
          
           
             By
             Smoak
             ,
             and
             vaporous
             Heat
             ,
             the
             Lightning
             fed
             ,
          
           
             Stood
             like
             a
             short-liv'd
             Glory
             ro●nd
             his
             Head
             :
          
           
             At
             every
             Word
             the
             list'ning
             Thunder
             roar'd
             aloud
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             in
             dire
             Accents
             ,
             told
             it
             to
             the
             trembling
             Crowd
             .
          
           
             Such
             Sights
             ,
             upon
             its
             Plains
             ,
             the
             Heavens
             ne'r
             did
             know
             .
          
           
             Since
             the
             bold
             Sons
             of
             Light
             here
             met
             their
             Overthrow
             .
          
           
             Such
             was
             the
             dismal
             Scene
             of
             this
             
               Black
               Day
            
             :
          
           
             As
             Sion
             shook
             ,
             as
             Edom
             trembled
             then
             ,
             so
             now
             did
             they
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             Moses
             ,
             at
             first
             ,
             our
             Captive-Neck
             did
             free
          
           
             From
             curs'd
             Aegyptian
             Slavery
             :
          
           
             But
             He
             ,
             and
             his
             Commission
             ,
             dy'd
             ;
          
           
             And
             Joshua's
             Sword
             the
             
               Active
               Rod
            
             supply'd
             :
          
           
             And
             what
             He
             did
             we
             have
             been
             taught
             ,
          
           
             And
             how
             he
             Wonders
             wrought
             :
          
           
             From
             East
             to
             West
             his
             Conquering
             Arms
             he
             threw
             ,
          
           
             And
             did
             even
             Humane
             Thought
             out-go
             .
          
           
             An
             Age
             or
             more
             his
             Fame
             secur'd
             our
             Peace
             ;
          
           
             To
             That
             we
             ow'd
             our
             very
             Bread
             and
             Ease
             .
          
           
             In
             after
             Days
          
           
             God
             did
             some
             well-fram'd
             Spirits
             raise
             ;
          
           
             
               Othniel
               ,
               Ehud
            
             ,
             and
             great
             Shamgar's
             Arm
          
           
             Defended
             Israel's
             Flock
             from
             Harm
             :
          
           
             The
             bordering
             Tyrant's
             Force
             they
             did
             rebate
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             for
             a
             while
             ,
             kept
             off
             the
             Bolts
             of
             angry
             Fate
             .
          
           
             For
             ever
             live
             ,
             for
             ever
             let
             recorded
             stand
          
           
             The
             Illustrious
             Acts
             of
             Shamgar's
             Hand
             :
          
           
             Quitting
             his
             Plow
             ,
             unarm'd
             he
             took
             his
             Course
             ,
          
           
             Where
             lay
             Encamp't
             all
             the
             Philistian
             Force
             .
          
           
           
             His
             Hand
             a
             peaceful
             Goad
             did
             bear
             ,
          
           
             (
             A
             Tool
             unpractic'd
             in
             the
             Art
             of
             War
             :
             )
          
           
             With
             this
             he
             rul'd
             his
             Beasts
             ,
             with
             the
             same
             Goad
             he
             scar'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             drove
             before
             him
             the
             whole
             Pagan
             Herd
             .
          
           
             And
             when
             he
             had
             the
             Heavenly
             Call
             obey'd
             ,
          
           
             He
             hasten'd
             to
             his
             plain
             unfinish'd
             Trade
             .
          
           
             But
             still
             our
             fetter'd
             Land
             her
             Griefs
             bemoan'd
             ;
          
           
             And
             still
             beneath
             inglorious
             Bondage
             groan'd
             .
          
           
             This
             struggling
             shew'd
             she
             had
             some
             Courage
             left
             ;
          
           
             Of
             Life
             and
             Spirits
             not
             yet
             quite
             bereft
             :
          
           
             And
             that
             ,
             Alas
             !
             was
             all
             ,
          
           
             That
             we
             these
             few
             and
             vain
             Attempts
             could
             call
             .
          
           
             As
             when
             Diseases
             do
             our
             Body
             take
             ,
          
           
             Nature
             some
             Help
             wou'd
             fain
             afford
             ;
          
           
             Some
             weak
             Essays
             she
             's
             wont
             to
             make
             ,
          
           
             To
             throw
             her
             Rider
             off
             ,
             and
             cast
             the
             painful
             Load
             .
          
           
             Such
             was
             the
             Temper
             of
             our
             baffled
             Power
             ;
          
           
             It
             serv'd
             to
             shew
             our
             Weakness
             more
             :
          
           
             And
             this
             was
             all
             we
             gain'd
             hereby
             ,
          
           
             To
             change
             our
             Masters
             ,
             not
             our
             Misery
             .
          
           
             Like
             some
             poor
             Bark
             ,
             which
             just
             has
             scap't
             a
             Wreck
             ,
          
           
             And
             after
             finds
             a
             Pirate
             seizing
             on
             her
             Deck
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             V.
             
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             can
             we
             !
             can
             we
             !
             without
             Blushes
             ,
             name
             ,
          
           
             Our
             memorable
             Shame
             ?
          
           
             When
             Palestine
             ,
             the
             wretched
             Palestine
             ,
             was
             grown
          
           
             Like
             one
             besieged
             Town
             ,
          
           
             Tho'
             business
             call'd
             ,
             we
             ne're
             durst
             look
             abroad
             :
          
           
             The
             straggling
             Canaanite
             beset
             the
             common
             Road.
          
           
             The
             Merchant's
             Camel
             ,
             and
             the
             Peasant's
             Team
             ,
          
           
             Thro'
             unknown
             Paths
             ,
             and
             Hills
             were
             wont
             to
             climb
             :
          
           
             Thro'
             Woods
             ,
             by
             Wild
             Beast's
             Dens
             ,
             they
             took
             their
             painful
             way
             ,
          
           
             To
             escape
             Men
             ,
             less
             Merciful
             than
             they
             .
          
           
             The
             Villager
             his
             Herds
             to
             lonesome
             Caves
             did
             drive
             ;
          
           
             And
             there
             ,
             on
             equal
             Terms
             ,
             was
             forc'd
             to
             live
             .
          
           
             Every
             thing
             wore
             the
             face
             of
             War
             ;
          
           
             And
             we
             at
             Home
             close
             Prisoners
             were
             .
          
           
             Like
             a
             young
             Infant
             ,
             of
             his
             Friends
             bereft
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             accursed
             Guardians
             left
             ,
          
           
             It
             s
             poor
             defenceless
             Innocence
             is
             torn
             ;
          
           
             To
             every
             one
             a
             Prey
             ,
             to
             every
             one
             a
             Scorn
             .
          
           
           
             Thus
             Israel
             mourn'd
             her
             Fate
             ;
             'till
             I
             arose
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             All-wise
             Heaven
             for
             this
             high
             Task
             did
             choose
             :
          
           
             Leaving
             my
             Palm-tree
             Shade
             ,
             an
             humble
             Seat
             ;
          
           
             From
             Misery
             and
             Noise
             a
             blest
             Retreat
             .
          
           
             I
             fixt
             her
             giddy
             State
             ,
             so
             long
             abus'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             by
             proud
             Jabin's
             Iron
             Scepter
             bruis'd
             ;
          
           
             I
             thro'
             her
             dying
             Parts
             new
             Life
             and
             Soul
             infus'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             VI.
             
          
           
             But
             yet
             ,
             't
             was
             strange
             ,
             Religion
             stood
             ,
          
           
             And
             '
             scap't
             the
             Universal
             Flood
             :
          
           
             'T
             was
             passing
             strange
             ,
             maugre
             this
             noisy
             Rout
             ,
          
           
             War
             shou'd
             make
             Men
             more
             Devout
             .
          
           
             They
             who
             alone
             did
             worship
             but
             one
             God
             before
             ,
          
           
             Now
             only
             they
             all
             Gods
             adore
             .
          
           
             Before
             their
             Conquerors
             they
             fall
             ;
          
           
             And
             next
             ,
             upon
             their
             Conqueror's
             Gods
             they
             call
             .
          
           
             Curs'd
             Fate
             !
             That
             made
             'em
             at
             one
             Stroke
             forego
          
           
             Their
             Soul
             and
             Body
             too
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             grim
             Baal
             ,
             and
             horned
             Ashtaroth
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             foppish
             Pageantry
          
           
             Of
             black
             Idolatry
             ,
          
           
           
             They
             pour
             their
             faithless
             Souls
             and
             Prayers
             forth
             .
          
           
             Plain
             must
             the
             Object
             of
             their
             Worship
             be
             :
          
           
             They
             scorn
             to
             kneel
             to
             any
             Deity
             ,
          
           
             But
             what
             they
             may
             both
             feel
             and
             see
             .
          
           
             No
             more
             to
             that
             
               Vnutterable
               Name
            
             they
             pray
             ,
          
           
             That
             led
             'em
             with
             a
             Mighty
             Hand
             ,
          
           
             Thro'
             the
             wild
             Desarts
             parched
             Sands
             ,
          
           
             And
             scatter'd
             slaughter'd
             Nations
             in
             their
             way
             .
          
           
             Their
             Father's
             Courage
             ,
             and
             their
             Father's
             God
             ,
          
           
             Joshua's
             fell
             Sword
             ,
             and
             Moses's
             sacred
             Rod
             ,
          
           
             Are
             now
             forgot
             ,
             can
             now
             no
             more
             Impression
             make
             :
          
           
             They
             want
             new
             Miracles
             to
             buoy
             their
             sinking
             Faith.
          
           
             To
             Hazor
             ,
             the
             proud
             Jabin's
             Seat
             ,
             they
             bend
             ,
          
           
             As
             to
             the
             Mother-Church
             ,
             and
             there
             their
             Offerings
             send
             .
          
           
             They
             fetch'd
             the
             old
             cast
             Gods
             of
             all
             the
             Country
             round
             :
          
           
             They
             worshipp'd
             all
             that
             cou'd
             be
             made
             or
             found
             ;
          
           
             And
             Deities
             were
             bought
             and
             sold
             ,
          
           
             Like
             other
             Ware
             ,
             like
             Spices
             ,
             Balm
             ,
             and
             Gold.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             VII
             .
          
           
             Thus
             the
             offended
             Monarch
             of
             the
             Skies
             ,
          
           
             From
             Pagan
             Altars
             saw
             their
             Incense
             rise
             ;
          
           
             Their
             Worship
             tender'd
             at
             a
             Foreign
             Shrine
             ;
          
           
             In
             cursed
             Moloch's
             Fane
             their
             Offerings
             shine
             :
          
           
             And
             cou'd
             no
             longer
             hold
             ;
             but
             with
             a
             Parent
             's
             Care
             ,
          
           
             Took
             up
             the
             Rod
             ,
             and
             did
             for
             War
             prepare
             ,
          
           
             To
             bring
             the
             Truant
             Israel
             to
             an
             humble
             Sence
          
           
             Of
             Duty
             and
             Allegiance
             .
          
           
             Commissions
             strait
             were
             issued
             out
             ,
          
           
             To
             all
             the
             willing
             Nations
             round
             about
             .
          
           
             We
             in
             our
             Walls
             ,
             by
             leaguering
             Troops
             ,
             were
             barr'd
             ;
          
           
             They
             at
             our
             very
             Gates
             kept
             Guard.
          
           
             We
             treated
             were
             just
             like
             a
             common
             Foe
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             he
             that
             fights
             '
             gainst
             Heaven
             ,
             must
             be
             so
             .
             )
          
           
             Mark't
             out
             by
             Heaven
             for
             Ruin
             ,
             thus
             we
             lay
             ;
          
           
             And
             learnt
             (
             too
             late
             ,
             Alas
             !
             )
             the
             right
             Way
             how
             to
             Pray
             .
          
           
             The
             frighted
             Pleader
             left
             the
             Bar
             ,
          
           
             At
             the
             grim
             Approach
             of
             War.
          
           
           
             The
             awful
             Judge
             ,
             who
             Justice
             doth
             dispence
          
           
             Within
             our
             Gates
             ,
             was
             often
             forced
             thence
             .
          
           
             He
             often
             stop't
             a
             Cause
             ,
          
           
             To
             hear
             the
             Trumpet
             's
             threatning
             Noise
             .
          
           
             In
             our
             saint
             Breasts
             a
             chilling
             Fear
             there
             reign'd
             ;
          
           
             Of
             Blood
             our
             Veins
             ,
             of
             Arms
             our
             Magazines
             were
             drain'd
             .
          
           
             We
             cou'd
             not
             boast
             a
             Sword
             ,
             or
             serviceable
             Pike
             ;
          
           
             Bondage
             had
             canker'd
             o'er
             our
             Souls
             and
             Arms
             alike
             .
          
           
             Accouter'd
             so
             ,
             our
             Troops
             for
             Fight
             prepare
             ;
          
           
             As
             when
             a
             ravenous
             Wolf
             is
             near
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             his
             well-known
             Sound
             alarms
          
           
             The
             Villagers
             ,
             and
             calls
             to
             Arms.
          
           
             The
             affrighted
             Swains
             came
             out
             ,
             and
             on
             the
             Hills
             appear
             ;
          
           
             Some
             Goads
             ,
             some
             Flails
             ,
             and
             Plow-shares
             bear
             ;
          
           
             Some
             Axes
             ,
             knotted
             Clubs
             ,
             and
             Darts
             ,
          
           
             With
             all
             those
             rude
             and
             innocent
             Arts
             ,
          
           
             With
             which
             our
             plain
             Fore-Fathers
             armed
             went
             ,
          
           
             'Fore
             Death
             ,
             ingenious
             grown
             ,
             worse
             Engines
             did
             invent
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             VIII
             .
          
           
             For
             ever
             bless'd
             ,
             and
             sure
             they
             blessed
             are
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             Heaven
             will
             ratifie
             my
             prayer
             )
          
           
             Those
             glorious
             Chiefs
             who
             bore
             the
             heat
          
           
             Of
             this
             days
             toil
             ,
             and
             sweat
             ,
          
           
             When
             God
             and
             injur'd
             Israels
             wrongs
             obterg'd
             ;
          
           
             In
             Honors
             Bed
             they
             rather
             chose
             to
             lye
             ,
          
           
             Than
             tamely
             and
             ingloriously
             dye
             ;
          
           
             Than
             wait
             the
             Stone
             ,
             the
             Gout
             ,
             or
             Fevers
             lingring
             siege
             .
          
           
             In
             that
             great
             Roll
             of
             Warriors
             which
             is
             hurl'd
             ,
          
           
             By
             babling
             Fame
             ,
             around
             the
             World.
          
           
             What
             place
             so
             e're
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Moses
             shall
             or
             Joshua
             hear
             ;
          
           
             In
             the
             same
             rank
             these
             Worthies
             shall
             appear
             .
          
           
             In
             each
             black
             wound
             their
             glutted
             swords
             did
             give
             ,
          
           
             As
             in
             well
             written
             Lines
             ,
             their
             Deathless
             Names
          
           
             shall
             live
             .
          
           
             Fame
             will
             to
             after
             times
             show
             'em
             without
             a
             blot
             :
          
           
             Nor
             shall
             unworthy
             Deborah
             and
             Baruc
             be
             forgot
             .
          
           
             Now
             we
             from
             Blood
             and
             War
             have
             got
             a
             full
             Release
             ;
          
           
             Say
             ,
             who
             reaps
             not
             the
             fruits
             of
             Peace
             ?
          
           
           
             The
             universal
             good
          
           
             By
             all
             is
             own'd
             ,
             is
             understood
             .
          
           
             Speak
             ,
             you
             ,
             who
             Head
             our
             Tribes
             ,
             and
             bear
             a
             Princes
             Train
             ;
          
           
             Your
             Scarlet
             Honors
             cannot
             now
             complain
          
           
             Of
             a
             double
             dye
             and
             stain
             .
          
           
             No
             more
             your
             Sons
             as
             Guards
             are
             forc'd
             to
             wait
          
           
             Upon
             the
             Tyrants
             State.
          
           
             Your
             beauteous
             Daughters
             now
             no
             more
             are
             fain
             to
             be
          
           
             Slaves
             to
             his
             Pride
             and
             Luxurie
             .
          
           
             What
             ever
             Earth
             ,
             or
             Air
             ,
             or
             Seas
             afford
             ,
          
           
             Now
             your
             well
             spread
             Tables
             load
             .
          
           
             Before
             ,
             your
             very
             Water
             in
             great
             charges
             stood
             ;
          
           
             We
             once
             were
             forc'd
             to
             buy
             it
             with
             our
             Blood.
          
           
             In
             vain
             through
             secret
             Sands
             the
             Chymist
             Nature
             strain'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             for
             our
             use
             the
             Ocean
             drain'd
             .
          
           
             Our
             Wells
             and
             Springs
             were
             at
             the
             Conquerors
             will
             ,
          
           
             And
             at
             a
             distance
             thus
             they
             strove
             to
             kill
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             IX
             .
          
           
             All
             things
             are
             chang'd
             ,
             and
             wear
             a
             different
             face
             ,
          
           
             The
             frighted
             Judge
             resumes
             his
             wonted
             place
             ;
          
           
             And
             War
             no
             more
             does
             Property
             deface
             .
          
           
             The
             labouring
             Peasant
             on
             his
             Team
             does
             wait
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             fears
             being
             Press'd
             for
             Service
             of
             the
             State.
          
           
             Upon
             the
             pleasant
             Hills
             the
             Flocks
             again
             do
             stray
             ;
          
           
             The
             Shepherd
             tunes
             his
             Pipe
             ,
             and
             sees
             'em
             play
             .
          
           
             Now
             War
             ,
             that
             hungry
             Wolf
             ,
             is
             dead
             ,
          
           
             All
             other
             fears
             are
             with
             it
             fled
             .
          
           
             To
             his
             thatcht
             Cell
             the
             Villager
             repairs
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             with
             rural
             pastime
             drowns
             his
             cares
             .
          
           
             No
             more
             his
             mid-night
             sleep
             is
             broke
             by
             loud
             alarms
          
           
             Of
             Trumpets
             ,
             clashing
             Swords
             ,
             and
             rattling
             Arms.
          
           
             Traffick
             ,
             and
             all
             the
             train
             of
             peaceful
             arts
             do
             thrive
             :
          
           
             Now
             Wars
             obnoxious
             weed
          
           
             Is
             gone
             and
             withered
             ;
          
           
             Which
             wou'd
             before
             let
             nothing
             by
             it
             thrive
             .
          
           
             Such
             strange
             tumultuous
             joys
             we
             hear
             .
          
           
             Such
             noisy
             Triumphs
             thro'
             our
             Tribes
             are
             shown
             ,
          
           
             As
             in
             a
             Fort
             or
             walled
             Town
             ;
          
           
           
             After
             a
             tedious
             Ten
             months
             Siege
             appear
             :
          
           
             Out
             run
             the
             Rabble
             at
             the
             widen'd
             Ports
             ,
          
           
             And
             fall
             to
             Songs
             ,
             and
             discontinued
             sports
             .
          
           
             Secure
             they
             tread
             those
             paths
             ,
             which
             not
             a
             Moon
             ago
             ,
          
           
             Lay
             cover'd
             with
             a
             threatning
             Foe
             :
          
           
             With
             pleasure
             ,
             point
             ,
             and
             say
             ,
             along
             this
             Coast
          
           
             Lay
             all
             the
             mighty
             Jabin's
             Host
             :
          
           
             Here
             stood
             his
             Guards
             ,
             and
             there
             the
             General
             's
             Tent
             ;
          
           
             And
             here
             his
             Armed
             Chariots
             went.
          
           
             The
             Air
             shall
             undisturb'd
             with
             groans
             remain
             ;
          
           
             The
             blooded
             Rivers
             shall
             no
             more
             complain
             :
          
           
             No
             more
             shall
             streaming
             Gore
             the
             Verdant
             Meadows
             stain
             ;
          
           
             But
             Air
             ,
             and
             Floods
             ,
             and
             Earth
             its
             head
             shall
             rear
             ,
          
           
             And
             joyful
             as
             our
             looks
             appear
             .
          
        
         
           
             X.
             
          
           
             Deborah
             ,
             arise
             ,
             and
             let
             thy
             numbers
             flow
          
           
             Briskly
             ,
             as
             thy
             enliven'd
             spirits
             do
             :
          
           
             Begin
             thy
             hallow'd
             strains
             ,
          
           
             'To
             Hazor
             bear
             the
             sound
             :
          
           
             Let
             nothing
             there
             but
             grief
             abound
             .
          
           
           
             Strike
             all
             the
             Hills
             ,
             echo
             it
             o're
             the
             Plains
             ;
          
           
             Then
             Israel
             too
             will
             joyn
             ,
             as
             in
             a
             well
             tun'd
             Quire
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             with
             general
             joy
             inspire
             .
          
           
             Thus
             the
             shrill
             Harbinger
             of
             day
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             himself
             does
             first
             essay
             .
          
           
             Clapping
             his
             wings
             ,
             he
             wakes
             himself
             ,
             and
             then
          
           
             Rouses
             the
             World
             and
             sleeping
             Man.
          
           
             The
             Sun
             in
             all
             his
             Rounds
             cou'd
             never
             boast
             ,
          
           
             A
             gladder
             day
             ;
             not
             when
             the
             Pharian
             Host
          
           
             'Fore
             the
             Mysterious
             Rod
             of
             Moses
             fell
             .
          
           
             Not
             when
             bold
             Joshua
             sent
             five
             Kings
             uncrown'd
             to
             Hell.
          
           
             Ill
             fortune
             ,
             like
             the
             Clouds
             above
             ,
          
           
             From
             clime
             to
             clime
             does
             shift
             and
             rove
             .
          
           
             Long
             has
             it
             stood
             o're
             Palestine
             ,
          
           
             Engendr'd
             with
             loud
             Storms
             and
             Rain
             .
          
           
             Now
             the
             big-bellied
             Fate
             to
             Midians
             sky
             is
             flown
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             has
             broke
             ,
             and
             there
             amazing
             terror
             thrown
             .
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             how
             my
             labouring
             breast
             does
             team
          
           
             With
             the
             transporting
             Theam
             !
          
           
             So
             where
             Abinoam's
             God-like
             Son
             does
             wait
             ;
          
           
             Here
             ,
             mighty
             Baruc
             ,
             take
             me
             for
             thy
             War-like
             mate
             .
          
           
           
             Thus
             hand
             in
             hand
             we
             'll
             bravely
             move
             ;
          
           
             Crown'd
             with
             Victory
             from
             above
             .
          
           
             Now
             ,
             now
             our
             Triumphs
             are
             begun
             :
          
           
             War
             ,
             like
             a
             tamed
             Lyon
             ,
             by
             our
             side
             does
             run
             .
          
           
             Thus
             when
             two
             silver
             Currents
             do
             combine
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             their
             journey
             to
             the
             Ocean
             joyn
             :
          
           
             The
             thirsty
             Meadows
             feel
             the
             welcome
             Flood
             and
             are
          
           
             With
             drinking
             ,
             fresh
             and
             fair
             .
          
           
             The
             joyful
             Hind
             stands
             on
             the
             River
             side
             ,
          
           
             And
             blesses
             still
             the
             rowling
             beauteous
             Tide
             .
          
        
         
           
             XI
             .
          
           
             Now
             are
             our
             conquering
             brows
             with
             Lawre
             bound
             ,
          
           
             With
             Monumental
             Arms
             our
             Walls
             are
             crown'd
          
           
             And
             Oh!
             may
             they
             hang
             still
             ,
             for
             ever
             there
             b●
             kept
          
           
             Useless
             ,
             as
             when
             within
             the
             Mine
             they
             slept
             .
          
           
             At
             slavery
             and
             wounds
             the
             heated
             Souldier
             laughs
          
           
             And
             unbought
             Wines
             in
             his
             full
             Helmet
             quaffs
             .
          
           
             The
             Aged
             Parent
             creeps
             to
             meet
             his
             darling
             Boy
          
           
             Come
             reeking
             from
             the
             Chace
             ,
          
           
             But
             dyes
             in
             the
             embrace
             :
          
           
           
             His
             feeble
             spirits
             sink
             beneath
             the
             weighty
             joy
             .
          
           
             With
             holy
             Songs
             our
             Virgins
             to
             the
             Altars
             press
             ;
          
           
             And
             there
             aloud
             proclaim
          
           
             The
             Hallow'd
             Name
             ,
          
           
             By
             whom
             our
             Wars
             are
             hush'd
             ,
             or
             soon
             in
             Victory
             cease
             .
          
           
             With
             bended
             Heads
             the
             Midian
             Nobles
             wait
          
           
             Upon
             the
             solemn
             Pomp
             and
             State.
          
           
             The
             cursed
             Pagan
             spoils
             are
             doom'd
             to
             fire
             ,
          
           
             In
             the
             same
             flames
             their
             Vassal'd
             Gods
             expire
             .
          
           
             Tabor
             a
             glad
             spectator
             was
             of
             this
             days
             fight
             :
          
           
             Tabor
             beheld
             the
             Tragick
             sight
             .
          
           
             With
             numerous
             Deaths
             see
             how
             the
             Mountain
             swells
             ;
          
           
             See
             how
             the
             slaughter'd
             Troops
             enlarge
             his
             Hills
             .
          
           
             At
             his
             extended
             Foot
             the
             Echos
             play
             and
             ring
             :
          
           
             The
             Valleys
             ,
             stuck
             with
             Corn
             ,
             rejoyce
             and
             sing
             .
          
           
             Midian's
             unbounded
             spoil
          
           
             No
             longer
             mocks
             the
             Plowman's
             toil
             :
          
           
             Till
             the
             ripe
             Harvest
             now
             uncrop'd
             they
             stand
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             fear
             being
             torn
             by
             the
             rude
             Souldiers
             Hand
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             XII
             .
          
           
             Go
             on
             my
             blest
             Inspired
             Strains
             ,
             and
             say
             ,
          
           
             Who
             shar'd
             the
             Glory
             of
             this
             Day
             .
          
           
             In
             mighty
             numbers
             sing
             each
             Tribe
             ,
             and
             Name
             :
          
           
             This
             Task
             does
             challenge
             all
             the
             Lungs
             of
             Fame
             .
          
           
             The
             willing
             Ephraim
             led
             this
             Sacred
             Band
             ;
          
           
             The
             Benjamite
             must
             next
             in
             Honour
             stand
             :
          
           
             In
             the
             same
             Rank
             place
             Issachar
             ;
          
           
             His
             Tribe
             alone
             a
             War
             :
          
           
             Out-step't
             his
             Princes
             at
             the
             Trumpet
             's
             Call
             ;
          
           
             Baruc
             ,
             the
             Noble
             Baruc
             ,
             was
             their
             General
             .
          
           
             The
             Odds
             ,
             which
             Fate
             did
             give
             ,
             he
             scorn'd
             to
             take
             ;
          
           
             But
             did
             the
             Hills
             forsake
             .
          
           
             Hills
             so
             vastly
             steep
             and
             high
             ,
          
           
             Tho'
             the
             spik'd
             Chariots
             of
             great
             Sisera
             ,
          
           
             With
             Wings
             ,
             instead
             of
             Wheels
             ,
             had
             cut
             the
             way
             ,
          
           
             They
             scarce
             cou'd
             thither
             fly
             .
          
           
             Next
             in
             the
             War-like
             Dance
             ,
          
           
             Does
             Napthali
             advance
             .
          
           
             Not
             far
             behind
             ,
             see
             Zebulon
          
           
             Comes
             marching
             bravely
             on
             .
          
           
           
             Bold
             Zebulon
             laid
             aside
             the
             Thirst
             of
             sordid
             Pelf
             :
          
           
             Bold
             Zebulon
             lov'd
             his
             Country
             as
             himself
             :
          
           
             He
             scorn'd
             the
             paltry
             Tyes
             of
             Gain
             or
             Blood
             ;
          
           
             So
             well
             he
             understood
          
           
             The
             louder
             Voice
             of
             Publick
             Good.
             
          
        
         
           
             XIII
             .
          
           
             In
             our
             triumphant
             Army's
             Rear
          
           
             The
             Scholar
             ,
             and
             the
             Scribe
             appear
             .
          
           
             With
             eager
             Steps
             ,
             and
             a
             disorder'd
             Pace
             they
             come
             ,
          
           
             Quitting
             their
             living
             Tomb
             ;
          
           
             Where
             they
             for
             many
             Winters
             buried
             lay
             ,
          
           
             And
             only
             had
             been
             taught
             to
             Read
             and
             Pray
             .
          
           
             They
             oft
             had
             heard
             of
             Fights
             ,
          
           
             And
             such
             unusual
             Sights
             ;
          
           
             Oft
             in
             the
             compass
             of
             a
             Page
             ,
          
           
             Seen
             Armies
             furiously
             engage
             :
          
           
             At
             Speculation's
             duller
             Trade
             they
             'd
             been
             ;
          
           
             But
             never
             yet
             the
             Practick
             seen
             .
          
           
             They
             throw
             away
             their
             Pens
             :
             Hence
             ,
             hence
             ,
             then
             foolish
             Quill
             ;
          
           
             Of
             Blood
             and
             Death
             give
             us
             our
             Fill
             :
          
           
             A
             scaly
             Gantlet
             now
             ,
             with
             Joynts
             of
             Steel
             ,
          
           
           
             Must
             glove
             our
             Hand
             ;
             and
             thus
             we
             'll
             Slaughter
             deal
             .
          
           
             With
             this
             we
             'll
             Blows
             ,
             as
             thick
             as
             Hail
             ,
             dispence
             ,
          
           
             And
             Souldiers
             in
             a
             Day
             commence
             :
          
           
             As
             glorious
             Things
             we
             'll
             act
             ;
             as
             much
             we
             'll
             dare
             ,
          
           
             As
             those
             have
             serv'd
             a
             '
             Prenticeship
             in
             War.
          
           
             And
             more
             than
             this
             ;
             We
             can
             record
             the
             bloody
             Scene
             ;
          
           
             And
             what
             our
             Swords
             have
             fought
             ,
             can
             blazor
             with
             our
             Pen.
             
          
        
         
           
             XIV
             .
          
           
             But
             ,
             Ah!
             what
             binds
             the
             Hands
             ,
             or
             does
             controul
          
           
             Dispirited
             Reuben's
             niggard
             Soul
             ?
          
           
             To
             thee
             ,
             with
             Sighs
             and
             Tears
             ,
             our
             Widow'd
             Lan●
             repairs
             :
          
           
             These
             idly
             blow
             ,
          
           
             These
             idly
             fall
             :
          
           
             The
             Sea
             and
             Winds
             as
             soon
             would
             listen
             to
             our
             Pray'rs
             .
          
           
             Does
             servile
             Bondage
             Charms
             and
             Magick
             wear
             ?
          
           
             Are
             you
             so
             fond
             of
             Slavery
             and
             Pain
             ?
          
           
             Or
             is
             there
             Musick
             in
             your
             Chain
             ,
          
           
             That
             now
             't
             is
             offer'd
             cheap
             ,
             yet
             Liberty
             you
             fear
             ▪
          
           
           
             Where
             are
             the
             Men
             ,
             that
             saw
             the
             Pharian
             Tyrant
             die
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             with
             their
             Conquering
             Arms
             ,
             thro'
             Sandy
             Wastes
             did
             flie
             ;
          
           
             Tho'
             fiery
             Serpents
             strow'd
             their
             way
             ,
          
           
             And
             Anak's
             Off-spring
             ,
             Monsters
             worse
             than
             they
             ?
          
           
             In
             vain
             ,
             fond
             Men
             ,
             we
             count
             our
             Victories
             ;
          
           
             Posterity
             will
             take
             'em
             all
             for
             Forgeries
             and
             Lies
             .
          
           
             Our
             lank
             and
             sickly
             Veins
          
           
             None
             of
             their
             generous
             Blood
             contains
             .
          
           
             Our
             Cowardize
             has
             taught
             our
             Neighbours
             not
             to
             fear
             :
          
           
             What
             We
             of
             old
             to
             them
             ,
             now
             They
             to
             us
             appear
             .
          
        
         
           
             XV.
             
          
           
             Full
             Twenty
             times
             the
             labouring
             Sun
          
           
             His
             yearly
             Round
             has
             gone
             ;
          
           
             And
             still
             ,
             ignoble
             Souls
             ,
             we
             're
             found
          
           
             With
             Midian's
             undeserved
             Fetters
             bound
             .
          
           
             
               Gilead
               ,
               Manasses
            
             !
             Oh
             ,
             accursed
             Theam
             !
          
           
             Whose
             happy
             Lots
             are
             faln
             by
             Beauteous
             Jordan's
             Stream
             .
          
           
           
             Look
             on
             that
             heap
             of
             Stones
             ,
             which
             in
             the
             Flood
             ,
          
           
             For
             many
             Ages
             now
             ,
             a
             Miracle
             has
             stood
             ;
          
           
             And
             learn
             once
             more
             to
             trust
             the
             self-same
             God.
          
           
             Asher
             and
             Dan
             ,
             like
             Slaves
             of
             Business
             ,
             toil
             ;
          
           
             Follow
             their
             Trade
             ,
             and
             sordid
             Gain
             ,
          
           
             (
             Oh
             deathless
             Shame
             ,
             immortal
             Stain
             !
             )
          
           
             Whil'st
             all
             around
             ,
             the
             Foe
             their
             Country
             tears
             and
             spoils
             .
          
           
             So
             a
             mad
             Pilot
             ,
             when
             the
             Waves
             run
             high
             ,
          
           
             And
             threatning
             ,
             dare
             the
             very
             Sky
             ;
          
           
             When
             every
             Billow
             shews
             a
             gaping
             Grave
             ,
          
           
             Runs
             from
             the
             Helm
             ,
             a
             Chest
             or
             Trunk
             to
             save
             :
          
           
             A
             mighty
             Sea
             comes
             on
             ,
             and
             swallows
             all
             ;
          
           
             Miser
             and
             Pelf
             go
             down
             together
             at
             one
             Fall.
             
          
        
         
           
             XVI
             .
          
           
             But
             these
             perhaps
             may
             '
             scape
             the
             Rod
          
           
             Of
             an
             avenging
             God
             :
          
           
             These
             are
             innocent
             and
             free
             ,
          
           
             Meroz
             ,
             if
             compar'd
             with
             thee
             .
          
           
             On
             thee
             our
             Stock
             of
             Curses
             we
             must
             show'r
             .
          
           
             Curse
             Meroz
             ,
             (
             said
             some
             Heavenly
             Power
             .
             )
          
           
           
             The
             Hills
             around
             that
             stood
             ,
          
           
             Took
             the
             glad
             Sound
             ,
             and
             struck
             it
             on
             the
             Neighbouring
             Flood
             .
          
           
             Oh
             base
             Neutrality
             !
          
           
             From
             thy
             curs'd
             Battlements
             ,
             with
             careless
             Eye
             ,
          
           
             Contending
             Armies
             thou
             could'st
             spy
             ;
          
           
             As
             in
             a
             Theater
             ,
             gaze
             and
             point
             at
             us
             beneath
             ,
          
           
             And
             laugh
             at
             our
             amazing
             Scenes
             of
             Death
             .
          
           
             A
             narrow
             compass
             sure
             thy
             Soul
             does
             own
             ;
          
           
             Man
             for
             himself
             was
             ne'r
             design'd
             alone
             .
          
           
             Heaven
             does
             by
             us
             ,
             as
             here
             by
             Lamps
             is
             done
             ;
          
           
             They
             shine
             for
             themselves
             ,
             but
             still
             dispence
          
           
             Their
             welcom
             Influence
             ,
          
           
             And
             do
             the
             Business
             of
             the
             absent
             Sun.
          
           
             Nature
             for
             every
             Grain
          
           
             Of
             Beauty
             ,
             Worth
             or
             Excellence
             ,
          
           
             That
             She
             bestows
             upon
             her
             Favourite
             ,
             Man
             ;
          
           
             Still
             ,
             like
             a
             thrifty
             Goddess
             ,
             does
             design
             ;
          
           
             And
             cries
             ,
             the
             Glory
             shall
             be
             mine
             .
          
        
         
           
             XVII
             .
          
           
             Every
             thing
             here
             below
             is
             priz'd
             ,
             and
             understood
             ,
          
           
             As
             it
             comes
             near
             an
             Universal
             Good.
          
           
           
             When
             the
             Sea
             ,
             that
             Watry
             Foe
             ,
          
           
             Its
             Cup
             does
             over-flow
             ,
          
           
             We
             take
             the
             Hills
             ,
             and
             there
             securely
             lie
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             its
             fruitless
             Rage
             desire
             .
          
           
             So
             when
             our
             beggar'd
             Land
             denies
          
           
             Its
             usual
             Supplies
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Corn
             ,
             and
             Fruits
             ,
             and
             Plenty's
             store
             ;
          
           
             The
             kind
             Waves
             take
             our
             Ships
             ,
             and
             bring
             us
             more
             .
          
           
             Thus
             Man
             to
             Man
             is
             link't
             by
             pure
             necessity
             ;
          
           
             And
             he
             that
             mutual
             Succors
             does
             deny
             ,
          
           
             To
             all
             the
             World
             't
             is
             plain
             ,
          
           
             The
             half-soul'd
             niggard
             Fool
             wou'd
             break
             the
             Chain
             .
          
           
             May
             all
             the
             Ills
             that
             Israel
             ever
             knew
             ,
          
           
             Or
             has
             deserv'd
             ;
             may
             these
             ,
             and
             thousand
             more
             ,
          
           
             That
             Heaven
             ,
             for
             sinning
             Man
             ,
             reserves
             in
             store
             ,
          
           
             Be
             thy
             accursed
             Due
             .
          
           
             Rot
             may
             thy
             very
             Name
             ,
             that
             late
             Posterity
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             doubting
             say
             ,
             Where
             did
             this
             cursed
             City
             lye
             ?
          
           
             I
             see
             ,
             I
             see
             ,
             't
             is
             done
             ;
             no
             more
             repeat
             ;
          
           
             They
             're
             heard
             ,
             like
             Prayers
             ,
             and
             Heaven
             has
             made
             'em
             Fate
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             XVIII
             .
          
           
             Down
             came
             the
             Midian
             Host
             ,
             with
             all
             their
             Travelling
             Gods
             ,
          
           
             And
             like
             a
             Torrent
             did
             our
             Land
             bestride
             :
          
           
             Confederate
             Kings
             ,
             like
             mingling
             Floods
             ,
          
           
             Swell'd
             up
             the
             mighty
             Tide
             .
          
           
             In
             the
             first
             Rank
             did
             stand
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Voluntiers
             a
             fiery
             Band
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             unsettled
             Humors
             of
             the
             Land.
          
           
             They
             took
             no
             Money
             ,
             had
             no
             Pay
             ;
          
           
             Their
             Fortunes
             in
             their
             Scabbards
             lay
             :
          
           
             So
             that
             ,
             who
             e're
             for
             Fight
             did
             first
             prepare
             ,
          
           
             We
             were
             to
             pay
             the
             Charges
             of
             the
             War.
          
           
             Megiddo's
             Waters
             saw
             the
             frightful
             sight
          
           
             Of
             a
             rude
             Host
             ,
             so
             terrible
             and
             bright
             ;
          
           
             And
             to
             their
             Mother-Streams
             they
             hasted
             in
             a
             Fright
             .
          
           
             Five
             hundred
             rowling
             Carrs
             ,
             with
             Spikes
             and
             Iron
             bound
             ,
          
           
             Came
             on
             ,
             and
             as
             they
             pass'd
             ,
             they
             furrow'd
             all
             the
             Ground
             .
          
           
             The
             base
             retailing
             way
             of
             Death
             they
             did
             disown
             ,
          
           
             And
             now
             they
             came
             to
             mow
             whole
             Armies
             down
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             XIX
             .
          
           
             The
             War-like
             Sisera
             in
             the
             Van
             appear'd
             ,
          
           
             By
             Hebrew
             Mothers
             so
             long
             curs'd
             and
             fear'd
             :
          
           
             He
             smil'd
             to
             see
             our
             wild
             disorder'd
             Rout
             ;
          
           
             For
             sure
             't
             was
             never
             for
             a
             Fight
             cut
             out
             .
          
           
             Look
             here
             ,
             ye
             Midian
             Chiefs
             ,
             (
             he
             cries
             )
          
           
             Cast
             round
             your
             willing
             Eyes
             ;
          
           
             Do
             but
             behold
             you
             poor
             and
             starved
             Band
             ,
          
           
             How
             like
             the
             Husks
             and
             Shales
             of
             Men
             they
             stand
             .
          
           
             This
             meager
             Host
             will
             scarce
             afford
          
           
             Work
             enough
             for
             all
             our
             Swords
             :
          
           
             Scarce
             Blood
             enough
             their
             sickly
             Veins
             contain
             ,
          
           
             To
             give
             each
             naked
             Spear
             a
             Stain
             :
          
           
             See
             ,
             their
             Executors
             ,
             the
             knavish
             Daws
             ,
             appear
             ,
          
           
             And
             still
             ,
             with
             watchful
             Eye
             ,
             keep
             in
             their
             Army's
             Rear
             .
          
           
             Ye
             Slaves
             ,
             attend
             the
             Terms
             that
             mighty
             Jabin
             gives
             ;
          
           
             And
             from
             our
             Hands
             receive
             your
             forfeit
             Lives
             .
          
           
             No
             Moses
             now
             ,
             nor
             Joshua
             is
             here
             ,
          
           
             To
             save
             you
             from
             our
             all-avenging
             Spear
             .
          
           
           
             Go
             Home
             ,
             fond
             Men
             ,
             beneath
             the
             Palm-tree's
             Shade
             ,
          
           
             There
             attend
             your
             War-like
             Maid
             :
          
           
             There
             sit
             ,
             and
             listen
             to
             those
             Laws
             ,
          
           
             That
             We
             ,
             your
             gracious
             Conquerors
             ,
             will
             impose
             .
          
        
         
           
             XX.
             
          
           
             In
             such
             vile
             Threats
             the
             railing
             Tyrant
             spoke
             .
          
           
             But
             Baruc
             did
             high
             Heaven
             invoke
             :
          
           
             God's
             Arm
             strike
             with
             Us
             ;
             't
             is
             a
             fearful
             Odds
             :
          
           
             Yet
             the
             
               Eternal
               Power
            
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             we
             adore
             ,
          
           
             Alone
             surpasses
             all
             their
             numerous
             Rout
             of
             Gods.
          
           
             Think
             not
             to
             Day
             ,
             
               Great
               God
            
             ,
             O
             not
             to
             Day
             ,
          
           
             We
             humbly
             pray
             ,
          
           
             On
             our
             Fore-Father's
             guilty
             Times
             ;
          
           
             Or
             the
             additional
             numbers
             of
             our
             Crimes
             ;
          
           
             Wherein
             We
             ,
             their
             forward
             Sons
             ,
          
           
             Our
             sinning
             Fathers
             have
             out-done
             .
          
           
             He
             spoke
             ,
             the
             Armies
             joyn'd
             ;
             but
             ,
             Oh
             ,
             surprizing
             Sight
             !
          
           
             It
             never
             cou'd
             be
             stil'd
             on
             th'
             Midian's
             Part
             ,
             a
             Fight
             :
          
           
           
             But
             as
             if
             a
             fearful
             Damp
          
           
             Had
             by
             some
             Angel's
             Hand
             been
             scatter'd
             through
             their
             Camp.
          
           
             On
             such
             cheap
             Terms
             they
             sold
             the
             Victory
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             they
             came
             but
             to
             be
             slain
             ,
             and
             die
             :
          
           
             With
             furious
             haste
             their
             Chariots
             backward
             press'd
             ,
          
           
             Mowing
             whole
             Squadrons
             as
             they
             pass'd
             .
          
           
             How
             many
             Images
             ,
          
           
             Which
             had
             by
             God
             ,
             and
             Midian
             Fathers
             been
          
           
             Twenty
             Years
             and
             more
             a
             fashioning
             ,
          
           
             Were
             in
             a
             moment
             torn
             ,
             defac'd
             and
             spoil'd
             ?
          
           
             The
             Roads
             and
             Fields
             were
             strown
             with
             Limbs
             of
             Man
             and
             Horse
             ;
          
           
             These
             Arts
             of
             Death
             the
             Inventors
             selves
             now
             Curse
             .
          
           
             Fond
             Men
             ,
             so
             witty
             grown
          
           
             To
             their
             own
             Destruction
             !
          
        
         
           
             XXI
             .
          
           
             All
             the
             Fraternity
          
           
             Of
             Elements
             ,
             Fire
             ,
             Water
             ,
             Earth
             and
             Sky
             ,
          
           
             In
             a
             joynt
             Conspiracy
             ,
          
           
             Hasted
             to
             divide
             the
             Prey
             ,
          
           
             And
             share
             the
             Glory
             of
             this
             Tragick
             Day
             .
          
           
           
             Kishon
             ,
             that
             antient
             Flood
             ,
          
           
             With
             pouring
             Cataracts
             ,
             swell'd
             of
             Rain
             and
             Blood
             ,
          
           
             Finding
             his
             peaceful
             Journey
             home
          
           
             Disturb'd
             ,
             began
             to
             rave
             and
             foam
             ;
          
           
             In
             a
             wild
             Rage
             ,
             he
             let
             his
             Sluces
             out
             ,
          
           
             And
             swept
             the
             Field
             ,
             and
             harass'd
             all
             the
             Plains
             about
             :
          
           
             Down
             the
             glad
             Tide
             went
             Baggage
             ,
             Horses
             ,
             and
             Infantry
             ,
          
           
             And
             help't
             t'
             increase
             the
             Riches
             of
             the
             adjoyning
             Sea.
          
           
             Heaven
             kept
             its
             Word
             ,
             and
             all
             its
             Forces
             brought
             ;
          
           
             Beneath
             our
             Banners
             ,
             warring
             Angels
             fought
             :
          
           
             Each
             took
             his
             Charge
             ;
             some
             threw
             whole
             Sheets
             of
             Flame
             ;
          
           
             Arm'd
             with
             Thunder
             ,
             others
             came
             .
          
           
             Some
             at
             as
             sad
             a
             Task
             had
             been
             ,
          
           
             All
             to
             enhance
             the
             dismal
             Scene
             .
          
           
             Levies
             of
             howling
             Winds
             ,
             they
             there
             convey'd
             ,
          
           
             Which
             round
             their
             Head
             fearfully
             roar'd
             and
             plaid
             .
          
           
             The
             rowling
             Fires
             above
             their
             baleful
             Influence
             shed
             ,
          
           
             And
             hung
             ,
             like
             bearded
             Comets
             ,
             o're
             their
             Head
             :
          
           
           
             And
             all
             the
             Help
             they
             from
             these
             Tapers
             have
             ,
          
           
             Was
             but
             to
             light
             'em
             to
             their
             Grave
             .
          
           
             In
             vain
             we
             spent
             our
             Strokes
             ,
             the
             Work
             was
             done
             ,
          
           
             And
             Heaven
             finish'd
             what
             we
             had
             begun
             .
          
        
         
           
             XXII
             .
          
           
             Now
             ,
             my
             bold
             Song
             ,
             thy
             highest
             Strains
             command
             ;
          
           
             And
             thus
             enshrin'd
             ,
             let
             Jael
             stand
             .
          
           
             Jael
             ,
             great
             Glory
             of
             our
             Sex
             ,
          
           
             If
             to
             thy
             Name
             we
             wou'd
             be
             just
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             deathless
             Worth
             shou'd
             never
             mix
          
           
             With
             common
             Numbers
             ,
             or
             with
             common
             Dust
             .
          
           
             Whole
             Jael
             shall
             not
             die
             ;
             my
             well-tun'd
             Song
             shall
             save
          
           
             The
             greatest
             Portion
             of
             her
             from
             the
             Grave
             .
          
           
             When
             Israel's
             ransom'd
             Land
          
           
             Shall
             cease
             to
             understand
             ,
          
           
             What
             's
             meant
             by
             Plenty
             ,
             Peace
             and
             Liberty
             ;
          
           
             Then
             ,
             not
             till
             then
             ,
             thy
             Fame
             shall
             die
             .
          
           
             Our
             Hebrew
             Virgins
             shall
             Embalm
             ,
          
           
             In
             Annual
             Songs
             ,
             the
             mighty
             Kenite's
             Name
             :
          
           
             With
             Joy
             and
             Wonder
             read
             thy
             Story
             o're
             ;
          
           
             And
             thence
             inspir'd
             ,
             greater
             shall
             act
             ,
             and
             more
             .
          
           
           
             The
             Midian
             Dames
             ,
             at
             mention
             of
             thy
             Name
             ,
             shall
             fly
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             it
             still
             their
             Children
             ,
             when
             they
             cry
             .
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             blessed
             be
             that
             Hand
             ,
             that
             made
             the
             Whole
             !
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             blessed
             be
             the
             Heart
             ,
             that
             did
             the
             Hand
             controul
             !
          
        
         
           
             XXIII
             .
          
           
             Gloriously
             smear'd
             with
             sordid
             Dust
             and
             Sweat
             ,
          
           
             As
             to
             a
             kind
             Retreat
             ,
          
           
             Into
             her
             Tent
             the
             wretched
             Sisera
             prest
             ;
          
           
             The
             new-drawn
             Blood
             lay
             reeking
             on
             his
             Helmets
             Crest
             .
          
           
             Her
             Board
             with
             choicest
             Country-Viands
             spread
             ;
          
           
             With
             pleasant
             Looks
             her
             Face
             ,
             she
             beg'd
             him
             feed
             :
          
           
             And
             all
             to
             cloak
             the
             Pious
             Cheat
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             suspicion
             skreen
             his
             black
             impending
             Fate
             .
          
           
             But
             now
             to
             Rest
             inclin'd
             ;
          
           
             Sleep
             to
             its
             Temples
             did
             its
             Leaden
             Plummets
             bind
             .
          
           
             Through
             his
             distracted
             Brain
             strange
             Images
             did
             rove
             ,
          
           
             A
             thousand
             gliding
             Phantoms
             move
             :
          
           
           
             He
             saw
             the
             Field
             ,
             with
             Armed
             Troops
             ,
             o'erspred
             ;
          
           
             His
             Men
             ,
             like
             Leaves
             in
             Autumn
             ,
             faln
             ,
             and
             scattered
             :
          
           
             The
             Battle
             was
             again
             fought
             over
             in
             his
             Head.
          
           
             Thus
             whirl'd
             in
             Fancy's
             Airy
             Coach
             ,
          
           
             He
             pass'd
             by
             various
             Things
             ,
             and
             various
             Fates
             ;
          
           
             Downfal
             of
             Men
             and
             States
             .
          
           
             Something
             ,
             at
             last
             ,
             there
             did
             approach
             ,
          
           
             In
             an
             imperfect
             Vision
             's
             gloomy
             Scene
             ;
          
           
             It
             look'd
             as
             if
             his
             own
             ill
             Fate
             't
             had
             been
             ,
          
           
             With
             this
             ill-boding
             Sight
             ,
             unruly
             grown
             .
          
           
             Away
             his
             drowzy
             Chain
             he
             wou'd
             have
             thrown
          
           
             But
             Sleep
             lay
             heavy
             on
             him
             ,
             as
             afore
             :
          
           
             For
             Fate
             had
             said
             ,
             Sisera
             shall
             wake
             no
             more
             .
          
        
         
           
             XXIV
             .
          
           
             Into
             her
             willing
             Hands
          
           
             Strait
             she
             commands
          
           
             The
             little
             Instrument
             of
             Fate
             :
          
           
             But
             Fear
             ,
             our
             Sexes
             Curse
             ,
             her
             Courage
             did
             rebate
             .
          
           
             How
             shall
             I
             such
             a
             bold
             Act
             essay
          
           
             Against
             the
             World's
             great
             Captain
             ,
             Sisera
             ?
          
           
           
             What
             if
             my
             trembling
             Hand
             shou'd
             miss
             the
             Stroke
             ,
          
           
             And
             his
             unruly
             Soul
             the
             Fetters
             loose
             ,
          
           
             In
             which
             dull
             Sleep
             the
             Hero
             does
             enclose
             ;
          
           
             What
             Plagues
             and
             Furies
             must
             I
             needs
             provoke
             ?
          
           
             His
             Troops
             perhaps
             do
             this
             way
             fly
             ,
          
           
             May
             reach
             my
             Tent
             before
             the
             Tragedy
             :
          
           
             Then
             tho'
             the
             wild
             Attempt
             be
             solely
             mine
             ,
          
           
             Revenge
             will
             light
             on
             every
             Branch
             of
             Heber's
             Line
             .
          
           
             By
             this
             one
             Stroke
          
           
             All
             Hospitable
             Laws
             are
             broke
             :
          
           
             Came
             he
             not
             hither
             as
             a
             Friend
             ?
          
           
             Cannot
             that
             Thought
             some
             Pity
             lend
             ?
          
           
             Begone
             Relentings
             ,
             which
             as
             Mists
             arise
             ,
          
           
             And
             fain
             wou'd
             cloud
             this
             Glorious
             Enterprize
             .
          
           
             Shall
             I
             a
             League
             with
             that
             curs'd
             Man
             commence
             ,
          
           
             Who
             to
             Heaven's
             King
             owes
             no
             Allegiance
             ?
          
           
             Jael
             ,
             be
             great
             in
             Act
             ,
             as
             thou
             hast
             been
             in
             Thought
             ;
          
           
             That
             Heart
             will
             aid
             ,
             which
             first
             the
             Motion
             brought
             .
          
           
             Our
             Sex
             to
             Pity
             is
             inclin'd
             :
          
           
             'T
             was
             Heaven
             the
             Project
             first
             design'd
             ;
          
           
           
             From
             thence
             ,
             from
             thence
             it
             came
             :
          
           
             Such
             a
             bold
             Thought
             wou'd
             shake
             and
             stagger
             Woman's
             Fame
             .
          
           
             The
             groaning
             Widows
             Cries
             ,
             methinks
             ,
             I
             hear
             ;
          
           
             The
             Shrieks
             of
             ravish'd
             Virgins
             strike
             my
             Ear
             :
          
           
             Our
             Sex
             the
             Tyrant
             ne're
             wou'd
             spare
             .
          
           
             T
             's
             but
             one
             Man
             (
             a
             mighty
             Man
             )
             that
             's
             lost
             ;
          
           
             What
             's
             that
             to
             all
             our
             Blood
             and
             Cost
             ;
          
           
             To
             all
             the
             Lives
             this
             Monster
             's
             Sword
             can
             boast
             ?
          
        
         
           
             XXV
             .
          
           
             Bare
             and
             expos'd
             he
             lay
             ;
             a
             tempting
             Sight
             ,
          
           
             That
             a
             less
             daring
             Hand
             might
             e'ne
             invite
             .
          
           
             She
             look'd
             around
             her
             ,
             lest
             some
             straggling
             Page
             shou'd
             come
             ,
          
           
             And
             change
             the
             Fatal
             Doom
             .
          
           
             Forbear
             ,
             said
             she
             ,
             hard-hearted
             Jael
             ;
             do
             ;
          
           
             These
             bloody
             Acts
             befit
             not
             you
             :
          
           
             With
             that
             the
             Instrument
             of
             Death
             away
             she
             threw
             .
          
           
             But
             noble
             ,
             manly
             Anger
             soon
          
           
             Bid
             her
             pursue
             what
             she
             had
             once
             begun
             .
          
           
             The
             Blood
             ,
             by
             Midian
             spilt
             ,
             her
             staggering
             Courage
             fir'd
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             the
             Black
             Scene
             of
             all
             her
             Country's
             Woes
             appear'd
             .
          
           
             Shamgar
             and
             Ehud
             to
             her
             Thoughts
             repair
             :
          
           
             The
             Instance
             pleas'd
             ;
             with
             that
             she
             smooth'd
             aside
             his
             Hair.
          
           
             Thus
             having
             quell'd
             the
             doubtful
             Strife
             ,
          
           
             The
             fatal
             Hammer
             hovering
             o're
             his
             Head
             ,
          
           
             The
             Imperial
             Seat
             of
             Life
             ;
          
           
             Great
             God
             of
             Israel
             ,
             guide
             my
             Hand
             ,
             (
             she
             said
             .
             )
          
           
             Betwixt
             his
             Temples
             pierc'd
             the
             willing
             Tool
             ;
          
           
             And
             at
             the
             little
             Vent
             came
             out
             his
             mighty
             Soul.
             
          
        
         
           
             XXVI
             .
          
           
             There
             lie
             ,
             thou
             bloodless
             Remnant
             of
             great
             Sisera
             ;
          
           
             To
             ravenous
             Beasts
             and
             Fowls
             a
             Prey
             ;
          
           
             As
             greedy
             once
             of
             Blood
             ,
             as
             they
             .
          
           
             Cheated
             by
             Fate
             ,
             trepann'd
             ,
             deceiv'd
             ;
          
           
             Of
             Life's
             last
             Stake
             by
             a
             Woman's
             Hand
             bereav'd
             .
          
           
             Unhappy
             too
             in
             this
             ;
             Thou
             ne're
             must
             know
          
           
             The
             feeble
             Hand
             ,
             that
             gave
             the
             Blow
             .
          
           
             How
             small
             a
             thing
             ,
             well
             manag'd
             by
             our
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             Can
             open
             thro'
             Life's
             Golden
             Gate
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             our
             vast
             Designs
             defeat
             ?
          
           
           
             Where
             be
             the
             fawning
             Peers
             ,
             that
             cring'd
             and
             bow'd
             ?
          
           
             Where
             be
             the
             thronging
             Troops
             ,
             that
             hemm'd
             thee
             round
             ?
          
           
             Where
             be
             the
             Chariots
             ,
             which
             so
             many
             Death
             once
             bore
             ,
          
           
             That
             a
             destroying
             Angel
             scarce
             has
             more
             ?
          
           
             Ill-natur'd
             Fate
             ,
             that
             can't
             afford
          
           
             So
             much
             as
             one
             poor
             Page
             t'
             attend
             his
             dying
             Lord
             !
          
           
             To
             the
             cold
             Ground
             he
             lean'd
             his
             bending
             Head
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             his
             list'ning
             Body
             wou'd
          
           
             Full
             fain
             have
             understood
             ,
          
           
             Which
             way
             the
             Soul
             ,
             his
             dearest
             Mate
             ,
             was
             fled
             .
          
        
         
           
             XXVII
             .
          
           
             Surrounded
             with
             her
             beauteous
             Maiden
             Train
             ,
          
           
             Which
             thither
             did
             resort
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             and
             make
             the
             Glories
             of
             the
             Midian
             Court
             ▪
          
           
             Sate
             his
             proud
             Mother
             ,
             rack't
             with
             pressing
             Pain
          
           
             A
             Civil
             War
             her
             labouring
             Breast
             maintain'd
             ;
          
           
             And
             Joy
             and
             Fear
             ,
             by
             turns
             ,
             the
             Empire
             gain'd
             .
          
           
             As
             when
             two
             adverse
             Winds
             ,
             upon
             the
             Sea
             ,
          
           
             Dispute
             for
             Victory
             ;
          
           
           
             The
             Wat'ry
             Plains
             are
             harass'd
             with
             their
             Shocks
             :
          
           
             All
             curse
             these
             Stormy
             Foes
             ,
             Ships
             ,
             Seas
             and
             Rocks
             .
          
           
             Oft
             ,
             from
             her
             Palace
             Top
             ,
             she
             cast
             an
             eager
             Look
          
           
             Over
             the
             Plains
             ,
             till
             the
             arched
             Heaven
             took
          
           
             Her
             bounded
             Sight
             ;
             but
             yet
             her
             Fancy
             stray'd
             ;
          
           
             Her
             anxious
             Thoughts
             a
             farther
             Journey
             made
             .
          
           
             Why
             stays
             my
             Son
             ?
             where
             is
             his
             loytering
             Host
             ?
          
           
             This
             Victory
             perhaps
             much
             Blood
             and
             Sweat
             has
             cost
             .
          
           
             Despair
             has
             arm'd
             these
             rebel
             Hebrews
             ,
             sure
             ,
          
           
             That
             they
             durst
             more
             than
             just
             his
             Army's
             sight
             endure
             .
          
           
             No
             :
             His
             clogg'd
             Chariots
             the
             vast
             Prey
             does
             load
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             that
             retards
             him
             on
             the
             Road.
          
           
             They
             slowly
             move
             with
             a
             Triumphant
             Grace
             ;
          
           
             And
             come
             but
             just
             a
             Conqueror's
             pace
             .
          
           
             Hazor
             ,
             throw
             ope
             thy
             enlarged
             Gates
             ;
             prepare
          
           
             To
             meet
             the
             God
             of
             War.
          
           
             Hung
             round
             with
             Spoils
             ,
             hither
             his
             Troops
             does
             bend
             :
          
           
             Those
             old
             Aegyptian
             Tenants
             ,
             to
             vile
             Slavery
             born
             ,
          
           
             In
             Crowds
             the
             Solemn
             Pomp
             adorn
             ,
          
           
             Hazor
             ,
             prepare
             to
             share
             the
             mighty
             Dividend
             .
          
           
           
             Now
             Jewish
             Virgins
             sentenc'd
             are
          
           
             To
             sigh
             whole
             Years
             away
             in
             Foreign
             Air.
          
           
             And
             the
             rich
             Births
             of
             all
             their
             Hebrew
             Looms
             ,
          
           
             To
             Us
             unbought
             ,
             unpurchas'd
             come
             .
          
           
             For
             Us
             ,
             like
             painful
             Bees
             ,
             they
             work
             and
             toil
             :
          
           
             We
             have
             the
             Crop
             ,
             whoe're
             manur'd
             the
             stubborn
             Soil
             .
          
        
         
           
             XXVIII
             .
          
           
             Thus
             ,
             thus
             let
             all
          
           
             Unpitied
             fall
             ;
          
           
             And
             such
             be
             still
             the
             Doom
             ,
             and
             worse
             ,
          
           
             Of
             those
             ,
             whose
             impious
             Threats
             are
             driven
          
           
             Against
             the
             invulnerable
             Clouds
             of
             Heaven
             ;
          
           
             Who
             dare
             pull
             down
             the
             Eternal
             Vengeance
             of
             its
             Curse
             .
          
           
             Who
             fights
             with
             Heaven
             ,
             and
             wou'd
             Associate
          
           
             His
             Fellow-Creatures
             ,
             '
             gainst
             the
             Eternal
             Mind
             of
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             Shoots
             up
             an
             Arrow
             in
             the
             Air
             ,
             and
             strives
          
           
             Upon
             their
             Fountains
             Streams
             to
             drive
             ;
          
           
             The
             Dart
             descends
             ,
             the
             Stream
             slows
             back
             again
             ,
          
           
             And
             mocks
             the
             vain
             Projector
             's
             fruitless
             Toil
             and
             ●ain
             .
          
           
           
             And
             thus
             it
             needs
             must
             be
             ,
          
           
             When
             weak
             Mortality
             ;
          
           
             When
             wretched
             Dust
             and
             Ashes
             ,
             poor
             contending
             Man
             ,
          
           
             Wou'd
             the
             great
             Mover's
             Counsels
             contradict
             and
             scan
             .
          
           
             The
             lowest
             Class
             of
             Insects
             ,
             in
             some
             Sense
             ,
             may
             vie
          
           
             With
             the
             Coelestial
             Hierarchy
             :
          
           
             The
             vilest
             Worm
             may
             call
             the
             Angel
             ,
             Brother
             ;
          
           
             Their
             Pedigree
             deriv'd
             does
             stand
          
           
             From
             the
             same
             great
             Artist's
             Hand
             :
          
           
             He
             that
             made
             One
             of
             Earth
             ,
             with
             Light
             dress'd
             up
             the
             Other
             .
          
           
             Thus
             these
             Extreams
             of
             the
             Creation
          
           
             Meet
             in
             a
             single
             Point
             ,
             and
             join
             ;
          
           
             And
             thus
             admit
             of
             some
             Comparison
             .
          
           
             Thus
             ,
             thus
             let
             all
          
           
             Unpitied
             fall
             ;
          
           
             And
             such
             be
             still
             the
             Doom
             ,
             and
             worse
             ,
          
           
             Of
             those
             ,
             whose
             impious
             Threats
             are
             driven
          
           
             Against
             the
             Invulnerable
             Clouds
             of
             Heaven
             ;
          
           
             Who
             dare
             pull
             down
             the
             Eternal
             Vengeance
             of
             its
             Curse
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             But
             the
             Great
             God
             has
             Blessings
             scarce
             enough
             in
             store
             ,
          
           
             For
             those
             who
             ,
             with
             an
             humble
             Sense
             ,
          
           
             With
             a
             well-temper'd
             Confidence
             ,
          
           
             Fear
             where
             they
             love
             ,
             and
             love
             where
             they
             adore
             .
          
           
             May
             such
             an
             equal
             Race
             of
             Glory
             run
          
           
             With
             yon
             
               Meridian
               Sun
            
             ,
          
           
             Who
             never
             leaves
             aspiring
             ,
             till
             he
             has
             reach't
             his
             Noon
             .
          
           
             And
             ,
             Oh!
             Ye
             pious
             Souls
             ,
             a
             farther
             Journey
             go
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             like
             him
             ,
             ne're
             Declension
             know
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           MIRACLES
           ,
           Works
           Above
           and
           Contrary
           to
           NATURE
           .
           Occasion'd
           by
           the
           Publishing
           of
           a
           Book
           ,
           Entituled
           ,
           
             Miracles
             no
             Violation
             of
             the
             Laws
             of
             Nature
             .
          
           1682.
           
        
         
           
             
               —
               Fiunt
               non
               haec
               sine
               numine
               Divum
               .
            
             
               Virg.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             WHen
             that
             bold
             Hand
             of
             old
             did
             Fire
             convey
          
           
             From
             out
             Jove's
             Arsenal
             ,
             where
             still
             does
             lie
          
           
             All
             his
             Materials
             for
             Mortality
             .
          
           
           
             Daring
             Attempt
             !
             to
             animate
             his
             well-wrought
             
               Man
               of
               Clay
            
             !
          
           
             This
             Vital
             Fire
             ,
             which
             After-times
             call'd
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             Within
             its
             Earthly
             Dungeon
             pent
             ,
          
           
             Grew
             quickly
             weary
             of
             Imprisonment
             :
          
           
             The
             Body
             scarce
             cou'd
             its
             new
             Guests
             controul
             .
          
           
             Tho'
             this
             Corporeal
             Seat
             was
             beautified
          
           
             With
             all
             things
             ,
             both
             for
             Use
             and
             Pride
             ;
          
           
             Several
             fair
             Rooms
             the
             gentle
             Artist
             made
             ,
          
           
             In
             which
             he
             wondrous
             Skill
             display'd
             ;
          
           
             The
             Heart
             ,
             the
             Liver
             ,
             and
             the
             Brain
             ,
          
           
             Which
             might
             the
             Heaven-born
             Soul
             contain
             ;
          
           
             Which
             with
             their
             Beauty
             might
             her
             wand'ring
          
           
             Thoughts
             restrain
             .
          
           
             Five
             Port-hole
             Senses
             too
             he
             made
             ,
          
           
             By
             which
             all
             Objects
             were
             convey'd
             :
          
           
             So
             that
             what
             still
             abroad
             was
             done
             ,
          
           
             Was
             within
             as
             quickly
             known
             .
          
           
             What-e're
             was
             tasted
             ,
             smelt
             ,
             seen
             ,
             felt
             or
             heard
             ,
          
           
             As
             swift
             as
             Thought
             it
             runs
          
           
             Thro'
             winding
             Paths
             ,
             and
             secret
             Turns
             ;
          
           
             And
             to
             the
             Soul
             's
             remote
             Apartment
             straight
             repair'd
             .
          
           
             But
             yet
             for
             all
             this
             seeming
             Pomp
             and
             State
             ,
          
           
           
             Which
             on
             the
             fair
             Inhabitant
             did
             wait
             ,
          
           
             In
             scanty
             Bounds
             her
             Empire
             was
             restrain'd
             ;
          
           
             Measure
             the
             Man
             ,
          
           
             Six
             Foot
             of
             Body
             ,
             and
             a
             Span
             ,
          
           
             Her
             vast
             Dominions
             did
             contain
             .
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             No
             :
             She
             wou'd
             often
             break
             her
             solitary
             Cage
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             a
             curious
             search
             engage
             .
          
           
             Thro'
             all
             the
             Regions
             of
             endless
             Day
             ,
          
           
             She
             took
             her
             painful
             way
             :
          
           
             Thro'
             the
             wide
             Courts
             of
             all
             the
             Starry
             Sky
             ;
          
           
             Thro'
             Nature's
             darkest
             Cells
             she
             'd
             fly
             ;
          
           
             Where
             Causes
             and
             Effects
             do
             brooding
             ly
             .
          
           
             Still
             homewards
             wou'd
             her
             piercing
             Fancy
             rove
             ,
          
           
             And
             commune
             with
             her
             kindred
             ,
             Souls
             above
             :
          
           
             Thro'
             all
             the
             World
             's
             Mysterious
             Maze
             she
             'd
             strole
             ;
          
           
             But
             still
             was
             out
             a
             Prisoner
             on
             Parole
             .
          
           
             Hence
             't
             is
             ,
             we
             find
             in
             Man
             such
             Thirst
             ,
             and
             strong
             Desire
             ,
          
           
             Into
             the
             hidden
             Depths
             of
             Nature
             to
             enquire
             .
          
           
             What
             Rarities
             soe're
             the
             Ocean
             breeds
             ,
          
           
           
             Whatever
             Earth
             within
             its
             Womb
             contains
             ;
          
           
             On
             these
             with
             careful
             and
             unwearied
             Pains
             ,
          
           
             His
             vast
             unbounded
             Appetite
             he
             feeds
             :
          
           
             Whether
             the
             World
             were
             made
             by
             Fate
             or
             Chance
             ?
          
           
             What
             makes
             the
             Sphaeres
             keep
             their
             well-measur'd
             Dance
             ?
          
           
             What
             makes
             the
             fixt
             Stars
             look
             so
             bright
             ?
          
           
             Whence
             't
             is
             they
             borrow
             their
             large
             Draughts
             of
             Light
             ;
          
           
             Which
             ,
             with
             a
             bounteous
             Hand
             ,
             they
             throw
          
           
             On
             all
             benighted
             Beings
             here
             below
             ?
          
           
             What
             Torments
             't
             is
             the
             Clouds
             do
             undergo
             ,
          
           
             When
             with
             their
             Cracks
             they
             scare
             us
             Mortals
             so
             ?
          
           
             What
             makes
             'em
             bellow
             out
             ,
             and
             roar
             ?
          
           
             These
             ,
             and
             a
             thousand
             more
             ;
          
           
             All
             the
             choice
             Work
             of
             checquer'd
             Nature's
             Art
             ,
          
           
             The
             Soul
             pursues
             through
             every
             Nook
             ,
             and
             secret
             Part.
             
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             But
             when
             through
             all
             the
             windings
             ,
             turns
             ,
             and
             folds
             ,
          
           
             Through
             Plants
             ,
             Beasts
             ,
             Stars
             ,
             and
             all
             her
             strongest
             Holds
             ,
          
           
           
             Nature
             is
             trac'd
             ,
             and
             now
             run
             down
             :
          
           
             Her
             doubling
             Arts
             and
             Tricks
             must
             quite
             disown
             :
          
           
             Here
             't
             is
             the
             scanty
             Soul
             of
             Man
             is
             at
             a
             fault
             ;
          
           
             Various
             things
             arise
             ,
          
           
             Of
             which
             the
             reason
             she
             can
             ne'r
             devise
             :
          
           
             So
             must
             the
             rest
             by
             Nature's
             God
             be
             taught
             ;
          
           
             For
             the
             
               Eternal
               Mover
            
             has
             thought
             fit
             ,
          
           
             Nature
             ,
             his
             Viceroy
             ,
             bounds
             to
             set
             ,
          
           
             Which
             she
             can
             ne'r
             transgress
             of
             skip
             :
          
           
             Her
             Tedder
             she
             can
             never
             slip
             .
          
           
             (
             And
             as
             he
             said
             once
             to
             the
             raging
             Sea.
             )
          
           
             This
             be
             thy
             Goal
             ,
             let
             this
             thy
             utmost
             journey
             be
             :
          
           
             These
             various
             Arts
             play
             o're
             ,
             these
             shapes
             put
             on
             .
          
           
             Be
             it
             thy
             Task
             alone
          
           
             Thunder
             to
             form
             ,
             and
             Winter's
             howling
             Storm
             ;
          
           
             Which
             all
             the
             nether
             world
             alarms
             .
          
           
             With
             Subterranean
             Fires
             the
             Sea
             distil
             ;
          
           
             Then
             into
             Fountains
             let
             it
             trill
             .
          
           
             Pick
             though
             the
             fleecy
             Snow
             ,
             and
             scatter
             Rain
             ;
          
           
             And
             'twixt
             all
             ranks
             of
             things
             the
             well-knit
             League
             maintain
             .
          
           
             Of
             thy
             great
             sway
             this
             is
             utmost
             Verge
             ;
          
           
             Further
             thy
             Limits
             see
             thou
             ne're
             enlarge
             :
          
           
           
             For
             God
             has
             thrown
             a
             duskey
             Vail
             o're
             all
          
           
             The
             things
             we
             Miracles
             call
             :
          
           
             That
             Ark
             of
             Mysteries
             he
             cover'd
             keeps
             :
          
           
             The
             saucy
             Mortal
             dyes
             ,
             who
             into
             't
             peeps
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             For
             tell
             me
             ,
             Nature's
             Sage
             ,
             who
             looks
             so
             wondrous
             Wise
             ,
          
           
             Whence
             sprung
             that
             glorious
             Star
             ,
          
           
             Which
             did
             our
             SAVIOVR's
             way
             prepare
             :
          
           
             That
             with
             such
             streaming
             Rays
             was
             lighted
             in
             the
             Skies
             ?
          
           
             This
             serv'd
             to
             fill
             with
             Learned
             cares
          
           
             The
             
               Eastern
               Sages
            
             ,
             and
             Astronomers
             ;
          
           
             They
             were
             confounded
             at
             the
             new
             born
             Light
             ;
          
           
             The
             Stars
             themselves
             came
             wondring
             to
             the
             sight
             ,
          
           
             Now
             in
             the
             Sea
             they
             saw
             a
             Star
             unknown
             ,
             so
             bright
             .
          
           
             Say
             ,
             What
             was
             that
             that
             fetter'd
             up
             the
             Flood
             ,
          
           
             When
             the
             great
             
               Hebrew
               Guide
            
             those
             secret
             journeys
             trod
             ?
          
           
             What
             was
             the
             cause
             ,
             I
             fain
             would
             know
             ,
          
           
             (
             You
             that
             to
             Nature's
             Idol
             so
             do
             bow
             )
          
           
             What
             made
             the
             Shade
             run
             back
          
           
             Upon
             the
             Dial's
             Plate
             ,
             and
             its
             old
             rode
             forsake
             ?
          
           
           
             Time
             ,
             to
             all
             other
             Men
             ,
             is
             Bald
             behind
             ;
          
           
             That
             Pious
             Soul
             alone
             sure
             hold
             cou'd
             find
             .
          
           
             The
             glorious
             Charioteer
             of
             Day
             ,
          
           
             At
             the
             bold
             Chief's
             Command
             ,
          
           
             On
             Gibea's
             Mount
             once
             made
             a
             stand
             ;
          
           
             Here
             he
             quite
             turn'd
             his
             Coach
             ,
             and
             drove
             another
             way
             .
          
           
             Pale
             Nature
             startled
             at
             the
             bold
             design
             ,
          
           
             And
             her
             approaching
             Fate
             cou'd
             easily
             divine
             .
          
           
             The
             Western
             Sea
             wrap'd
             in
             confusion
             stood
             ,
          
           
             No
             more
             cou'd
             hope
             to
             see
             him
             plunge
             into
             its
             flood
             .
          
           
             The
             frighted
             Persian
             trembled
             for
             his
             non-plust
             God.
          
           
             The
             second
             causes
             of
             things
             here
             below
             ,
          
           
             And
             Hand-maid
             Nature's
             Arts
             ,
             is
             all
             that
             Man
             can
             know
             ;
          
           
             But
             he
             that
             further
             strives
             to
             penetrate
          
           
             Into
             the
             winding
             Chambers
             of
             Eternal
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             And
             wou'd
             peruse
             that
             
               Brazen
               Book
            
             ,
          
           
             In
             which
             dark
             Register
             no
             Mortal
             e're
             shall
             look
             ;
          
           
             Th'
             Almighty
             pitying
             this
             his
             search
             so
             vain
             ,
          
           
             Or
             angry
             at
             the
             pride
             of
             frail
             short-sighted
             Man
             ,
          
           
             With
             various
             wiles
             his
             prying
             thoughts
             does
             fool
             ,
          
           
             And
             through
             a
             maze
             of
             terrors
             leads
             his
             wandring
             Soul.
             
          
        
      
       
         
         
           A
           DIALOGUE
           Between
           the
           Two
           RIVERS
           ,
           CHAM
           and
           ISIS
           ,
           ON
           THE
           KING's
           Dissolving
           the
           Oxford
           PARLIAMENT
           .
        
         
           
             Written
             ,
             
               May
               ,
               1681.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             CHAM
             .
          
           
             HAIL
             Sacred
             Nymph
             !
             the
             best
             beloved
             of
             all
          
           
             The
             Goddesses
             that
             croud
             great
             Neptune's
             Hall.
          
           
           
             Why
             ,
             gentle
             Isis
             ,
             tell
             me
             ,
             does
             thy
             Flood
             ,
          
           
             Impetuous
             grown
             ,
             begin
             to
             rage
             so
             loud
             ?
          
           
             I
             see
             its
             frowns
             in
             surly
             Billows
             rise
             ,
          
           
             And
             grumbling
             Waves
             complain
             in
             doleful
             wise
             .
          
           
             No
             Verdant
             Green
             thy
             Temples
             now
             can
             boast
             :
          
           
             Thy
             Rushes
             all
             are
             scatter'd
             ,
             torn
             and
             lost
             .
          
           
             With
             grief
             and
             rage
             thy
             glowing
             Eyes
             do
             burn
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             the
             Bank
             lies
             thy
             negelcted
             Vrn
             .
          
           
             Say
             what
             's
             the
             cause
             ,
             quickly
             declare
             thy
             harms
             .
          
           
             Does
             some
             proud
             River-God
             resist
             thy
             Charms
             ?
          
           
             Or
             did
             some
             Sylvan
             naked
             thee
             espie
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             in
             a
             flaggy
             covert
             thou
             didst
             lie
             .
          
        
         
           
             ISIS
             .
          
           
             〈◊〉
             the
             Sun
             leaves
             our
             Clime
             ,
             and
             hastens
             down
          
           
             To
             〈◊〉
             the
             Indian
             World
             ,
             and
             there
             to
             crown
          
           
             His
             ●●●●ct
             Adorers
             hopes
             ,
             we
             see
             him
             reel
          
           
             Into
             the
             other
             Earth
             ;
             and
             soon
             we
             feel
          
           
             (
             Through
             want
             )
             the
             Blessings
             which
             he
             once
             did
             bring
             .
          
           
             The
             Tenants
             of
             the
             Air
             refuse
             to
             sing
             ,
          
           
             And
             after
             him
             to
             the
             other
             World
             take
             wing
             .
          
           
             Old
             Nature's
             self
             ,
             does
             faint
             and
             drooping
             lye
             ;
          
           
             Half
             the
             Creation's
             just
             about
             to
             die
             .
          
           
           
             My
             Caesar
             gone
             ,
             I
             straight
             did
             overturn
          
           
             My
             Pitcher
             ,
             and
             cashier'd
             the
             empty
             Vrn
             :
          
           
             I
             bid
             my
             Waters
             drive
             without
             their
             guide
             ;
          
           
             Which
             swelling
             ,
             straight
             run
             roughly
             by
             my
             side
             ,
          
           
             With
             furious
             hast
             the
             head-strong
             Waters
             mov'd
             ,
          
           
             Lashing
             the
             sounding
             Shores
             as
             they
             did
             rove
             .
          
           
             I
             tore
             my
             Chaplets
             off
             ,
             and
             said
             aloud
             ,
          
           
             (
             My
             flaming
             Eyes
             hid
             in
             a
             watry
             Cloud
             )
          
           
             How
             soon
             the
             Heaven
             of
             my
             joy
             's
             o'recast
             ?
          
           
             How
             soon
             my
             short-liv'd
             Glory
             's
             gone
             and
             past
             ?
          
           
             This
             world
             no
             lasting
             solid
             good
             contains
             ,
          
           
             But
             like
             a
             gloomy
             Winters
             day
             remains
             ;
          
           
             Beset
             with
             Cloudy
             Suns
             ,
             and
             falling
             Rains.
          
           
             How
             strange
             a
             damp
             my
             thriving
             hopes
             has
             cross'd
             ?
          
           
             Is
             this
             the
             only
             thing
             that
             we
             can
             boast
             ,
          
           
             That
             once
             Great
             Charles
             was
             ours
             ?
             Had
             we
             no
             charms
             ,
          
           
             But
             he
             must
             straight
             be
             ravish'd
             from
             our
             Arms
          
           
             By
             that
             proud
             City
             ?
             Thus
             of
             old
             great
             Jove
             ,
          
           
             With
             all
             the
             Cavalcade
             of
             Gods
             above
             ,
          
           
             To
             the
             Black
             Aethiop
             did
             a
             visit
             pay
             ;
          
           
             Where
             ,
             like
             fond
             Mothers
             who
             their
             Babes
             o're-lay
             ,
          
           
             The
             Sun
             displays
             too
             powerful
             a
             Ray.
          
           
           
             For
             twelve
             days
             space
             they
             regal'd
             him
             with
             Fumes
          
           
             Of
             Southern
             Spices
             and
             divenest
             Gums
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             with
             all
             his
             Court
             he
             left
             their
             shore
             ,
          
           
             And
             made
             that
             Hell
             which
             was
             an
             Heaven
             before
             .
          
           
             Oh
             cursed
             Faction's
             black
             ungrateful
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             with
             their
             very
             Maker
             to
             contend
             !
          
           
             His
             Gracious
             Reign
             all
             their
             Enjoyments
             gives
             ;
          
           
             To
             his
             forgiving
             Hand
             they
             owe
             their
             forfeit
             Lives
             .
          
           
             Look
             but
             on
             me
             ,
             and
             there
             your
             duty
             read
             ,
          
           
             You
             Rebel
             Dathanites
             ,
             who
             every
             day
          
           
             My
             Tax
             of
             Waters
             to
             the
             Ocean
             pay
             ,
          
           
             To
             the
             kind
             source
             from
             whence
             my
             Stream
             is
             fed
             .
          
           
             Curse
             on
             my
             Stars
             ,
             that
             mock'd
             my
             ripening
             Joys
             ,
          
           
             They
             said
             
               Be
               blest
            
             .
             My
             currents
             murmuring
             noise
          
           
             Stood
             still
             ,
             and
             all
             my
             Silver-winged
             Fry
          
           
             (
             As
             if
             they
             'd
             heard
             it
             too
             )
             swam
             gladly
             by
             :
          
           
             When
             now
             ,
             as
             if
             my
             Fates
             were
             lavish
             grown
             ,
          
           
             They
             snatch
             my
             Charles
             ,
             and
             with
             him
             all
             is
             flown
             .
          
        
         
           
             CHAM
             .
          
           
             Hold
             ,
             foolish
             Nymph
             ,
             forbear
             thy
             groundless
             moan
             ,
          
           
             What
             though
             this
             
               Pomp
               and
               painted
               Cloud
            
             be
             gone
             ?
          
           
           
             A
             quiet
             solitude
             ,
             and
             calms
             of
             Rest
             ,
          
           
             With
             their
             blest
             Train
             do
             now
             enrich
             thy
             Breast
             .
          
           
             Content
             in
             Camps
             or
             Courts
             was
             never
             found
             ,
          
           
             Where
             all
             with
             noise
             and
             tumult
             does
             resound
             .
          
           
             In
             humble
             Grots
             and
             Cells
             she
             loves
             to
             lye
             ;
          
           
             From
             thronged
             Palaces
             the
             bashful
             Nymph
             does
             flye
             .
          
           
             I
             saw
             those
             shoals
             of
             Boats
             thy
             floud
             bestride
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             Men
             ,
             as
             thick
             ,
             stood
             wondering
             by
             the
             side
             .
          
           
             They
             on
             thy
             Captive
             Neck
             did
             proudly
             lye
             ,
          
           
             I
             saw
             and
             griev'd
             thy
             
               Glorious
               Misery
            
             .
          
           
             None
             of
             those
             things
             my
             case
             does
             vex
             and
             rack
             :
          
           
             No
             Royal
             Vessel
             plows
             my
             Aged
             Back
             .
          
           
             Free
             from
             these
             stately
             ills
             ,
             I
             gently
             glide
             ,
          
           
             Close
             by
             the
             Melancholy
             Student's
             side
             :
          
           
             Who
             oft
             me
             Tagus
             ,
             oft
             Pactolus
             names
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             my
             Streams
             courts
             the
             Aonian
             Dames
             .
          
           
             He
             sees
             my
             purer
             Flood
             ,
             and
             well
             does
             know
             ,
          
           
             Set
             by
             my
             Banks
             his
             Laurels
             needs
             must
             grow
             .
          
           
             Our
             Schools
             and
             Colleges
             ,
             the
             Muses
             Seat
             ,
          
           
             No
             Courtier
             ranges
             with
             his
             Gouty
             Feet
             ;
          
           
             His
             Oaths
             and
             noise
             the
             Fop
             ne're
             belches
             here
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             in
             our
             empty
             Desks
             does
             strut
             and
             stare
             ;
          
           
           
             Driving
             those
             little
             Insects
             from
             our
             Hive
             ,
          
           
             We
             in
             the
             Muses
             shade
             securely
             thrive
             .
          
        
         
           
             ISIS
             .
          
           
             I
             call
             the
             Gods
             to
             witness
             all
             ,
             how
             proud
          
           
             And
             glad
             I
             was
             to
             bear
             the
             Pompous
             load
          
           
             Of
             Ships
             and
             Boats
             ,
             that
             did
             my
             Waters
             grace
             :
          
           
             I
             kiss'd
             the
             Keel
             that
             furrow'd
             on
             my
             face
             .
          
           
             I
             scarce
             with
             half
             the
             joy
          
           
             The
             Mandates
             of
             dread
             Neptune
             did
             obey
             ,
          
           
             When
             all
             of
             us
             were
             summon'd
             to
             convey
          
           
             The
             Mother
             of
             the
             Gods
             to
             th'
             Latin
             shore
             .
          
           
             (
             For
             I
             was
             there
             ,
             and
             no
             small
             part
             I
             bore
          
           
             In
             that
             great
             Entry
             ,
             with
             those
             famous
             three
             ,
          
           
             
               Cymothoe
               ,
               Arethuse
               ,
               Callirrhoe
            
             .
             )
          
           
             But
             now
             like
             some
             forsaken
             Nymph
             I
             lye
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             all
             her
             Lovers
             scornfully
             do
             flye
             .
          
           
             No
             Ship
             lyes
             rocking
             on
             my
             swelling
             Flood
          
           
             With
             Canvass
             wings
             expanded
             o're
             my
             head
             :
          
           
             All
             's
             clear
             and
             unfrequented
             ,
             as
             the
             Sea
             ,
          
           
             After
             a
             sweeping
             Storm
             is
             wont
             to
             be
             .
          
           
             No
             Waves
             of
             crouding
             people
             pass
             our
             Street
             ,
          
           
             But
             an
             eternal
             silence
             every
             where
             you
             meet
             .
          
           
           
             The
             Nine
             their
             great
             Apollo's
             loss
             bemoan
             ;
          
           
             For
             him
             the
             Hills
             ,
             for
             him
             the
             Woods
             do
             groan
             .
          
           
             The
             stately
             Buskin
             now
             no
             more
             the
             Muse
             will
             wear
             :
          
           
             In
             humble
             Elogy
             her
             pains
             she
             does
             declare
             .
          
           
             Like
             Men
             in
             Greenland
             ,
             now
             our
             Sun
             's
             once
             set
             ,
          
           
             A
             tedious
             live
             long
             Night
             usurps
             its
             seat
             :
          
           
             Upon
             its
             flaggy
             Wings
             old
             Winter
             comes
             ,
          
           
             And
             every
             where
             through
             this
             black
             Empire
             roams
             :
          
           
             Binds
             up
             the
             Brooks
             ,
             and
             does
             the
             Floods
             benum
             .
          
           
             The
             pretty
             purling
             Streams
             for
             ever
             must
             be
             dumb
             .
          
           
             Our
             Orator
             and
             Grave
             Philosopher
             ,
          
           
             No
             sence
             now
             in
             their
             Books
             can
             find
             ,
             they
             swear
             ;
          
           
             The
             
               Poets
               Lyre
            
             touch'd
             with
             one
             single
             Ray
          
           
             Of
             our
             Great
             Charles
             ,
             before
             would
             sweetly
             play
             ;
          
           
             Divinely
             Sing
             of
             Hero's
             and
             of
             Kings
             ;
          
           
             The
             useless
             thing
             now
             on
             the
             Willows
             hangs
             .
          
           
             Thus
             God-like
             Kings
             with
             Heaven
             seem
             to
             share
          
           
             In
             that
             its
             great
             Prerogative
             ;
             when
             e're
          
           
             In
             wrath
             they
             speak
             ,
             upon
             their
             Lips
             destruction
             hangs
             ,
          
           
             And
             winged
             ruine
             waits
             their
             dread
             commands
             .
          
           
             Well
             :
             I
             cou'd
             ne're
             Great
             Charles's
             loss
             sustain
             ,
          
           
             But
             that
             I
             in
             my
             Flood
             each
             Night
             behold
             his
             Wain
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           A
           POEM
           ,
           Writen
           on
           the
           occasion
           of
           the
           THANKSGIVING-DAY
           FOR
           THE
           DISCOVERY
           OF
           THE
           
             Phanatical
             Plot
          
           ,
           September
           9.
           1683.
           
        
         
           
             
               Hic
               genus
               antiquum
               terrae
               ,
               Titania
               pubes
               ,
            
             
               Fulmine
               dejecti
               ,
               fundo
               volvuntur
               in
               imo
               .
            
             
               Virg.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             OUR
             State-Convulsions
             had
             of
             late
             so
             chang'd
          
           
             The
             Muse's
             Empire
             ;
             through
             her
             Countries
             rang'd
             ;
          
           
           
             Had
             drown'd
             her
             sweet
             and
             tuneful
             voice
          
           
             In
             Pamphleteering
             Scriblers
             croaking
             noise
             .
          
           
             I
             in
             a
             rage
             threw
             by
             my
             Quill
             ,
             and
             vow'd
          
           
             A
             sullen
             silence
             with
             th'
             unthinking
             crowd
             ;
          
           
             Ne're
             more
             in
             Sacred
             Verse
             to
             traffick
             or
             delight
             ,
          
           
             When
             lo
             !
             the
             fair
             Britannia
             appear'd
             in
             sight
             .
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             No
             weeping
             showers
             had
             stain'd
             her
             Heavenly
             Face
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             her
             torn
             Hair
             impair'd
             her
             Native
             Grace
             :
          
           
             No
             Tempest
             had
             o'recast
             her
             sight
             ;
          
           
             Her
             eyes
             were
             rather
             drunk
             with
             light
             .
          
           
             Nor
             was
             She
             mantled
             in
             Grief's
             Sable
             dress
             ,
          
           
             As
             when
             she
             mourn'd
             o're
             the
             Great
             Martyr's
             Hearse
             ;
          
           
             But
             Majesty
             with
             charming
             sweets
             allay'd
             ,
          
           
             Was
             in
             her
             looks
             ,
             which
             did
             at
             once
             perswade
          
           
             And
             force
             ;
             scarce
             so
             divine
             the
             Queen
             of
             Love
             ,
          
           
             When
             to
             the
             Phrygian
             Boy
             in
             Ida's
             Grove
             ,
          
           
             Naked
             she
             stood
             :
             My
             sence
             with
             wondrous
             A●
          
           
             Run
             o're
             the
             whole
             ,
             yet
             seem'd
             to
             dwell
             on
             every
             part
             .
          
           
           
             A
             thin
             light
             Vest
             her
             beauties
             strove
             to
             hide
          
           
             In
             vain
             :
             through
             th'
             silken
             Cloud
             ,
             with
             glorious
             pride
             ,
          
           
             Her
             brightness
             broke
             ;
             she
             stood
             and
             smil'd
             a
             while
             ,
          
           
             Then
             in
             these
             pleasing
             accents
             did
             revile
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             And
             does
             my
             Loyal
             Slave
             supinely
             lye
             ?
          
           
             So
             some
             poor
             Sinner
             sleeps
             away
             a
             Jubilee
             .
          
           
             Does
             he
             no
             joy
             nor
             sence
             betray
             ,
          
           
             While
             vaulting
             Flames
             around
             him
             play
             ?
          
           
             While
             the
             whole
             circuit
             of
             our
             Isle
             is
             crown'd
          
           
             With
             flames
             as
             great
             ,
             as
             in
             the
             Skies
             are
             shown
          
           
             When
             the
             Sun
             ,
             blood
             red
             ,
             goes
             down
             ;
          
           
             And
             with
             huge
             tracks
             of
             light
             the
             Horizon
             fringes
             round
             .
          
           
             But
             now
          
           
             I
             saw
             two
             Comets
             tilting
             in
             the
             Air
             ,
          
           
             Their
             grifly
             Mains
             woven
             with
             flaming
             Hair
             :
          
           
             A
             thousand
             ways
             with
             restless
             pains
             they
             went
             ;
          
           
             Th'
             embowell'd
             Fire
             ,
             in
             their
             close
             Entrails
             pent
             ,
          
           
             Made
             'em
             to
             rage
             :
             sometimes
             they
             run
             and
             miss'd
             ,
          
           
             Then
             turning
             stop'd
             ,
             and
             at
             each
             other
             hiss'd
             .
          
           
           
             At
             last
             they
             shot
             through
             th'
             Air
             ,
             and
             did
             retire
             ,
          
           
             Leaving
             behind
             'em
             a
             long
             path
             of
             glowing
             Fire
             .
          
           
             The
             gazing
             crowd
             pleas'd
             at
             these
             harmless
             Wars
             ,
          
           
             Lodg'd
             with
             their
             louder
             cryes
             the
             falling
             Stars
             .
          
           
             So
             to
             th'
             Hesperian
             Shore
             each
             Night
             the
             Natives
             crowd
             ,
          
           
             To
             hear
             Sol's
             hissing
             Wheels
             plunge
             in
             the
             Western
             Flood
             .
          
           
             So
             sets
             the
             Sun
             ,
             and
             so
             fell
             they
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             Our
             flaming
             Isle
             does
             Scaldis
             Banks
             amuse
             ,
          
           
             Who
             asks
             from
             every
             mingling
             Wave
             what
             news
             .
          
           
             Some
             say
             ,
             a
             
               burning
               Mount
            
             they
             fear
             ;
          
           
             And
             others
             straight
             set
             down
             the
             Year
             .
          
           
             The
             trembling
             Dutchman
             never
             wonder'd
             more
          
           
             Since
             Drake
             his
             Fire-ship
             through
             the
             Channel
             bore
             .
          
           
             The
             scattering
             light
             gilds
             all
             the
             watry
             way
             :
          
           
             The
             Fishes
             think
             they
             in
             the
             Sun-shine
             play
             .
          
           
             Yet
             unconcern'd
             ,
             like
             Snow
             on
             Aetna's
             top
             ,
          
           
             Amidst
             these
             flames
             can'st
             thou
             so
             thoughtless
             sleep
             ?
          
           
             Assume
             thy
             Lyre
             ;
             to
             Albion's
             fires
             ,
             this
             day
             ,
          
           
             A
             blameless
             ,
             pious
             Nero
             ,
             thou
             mayst
             play
             .
          
           
           
             With
             that
             she
             took
             her
             Wand
             ,
             that
             all
             commanding
             thing
             ,
          
           
             And
             gently
             touch'd
             my
             Lips
             ,
             and
             thus
             she
             bid
             me
             sing
             .
          
        
         
           
             V.
             
          
           
             It
             was
             that
             Halcyon
             Age
          
           
             When
             Loyalty
             and
             Fortune
             did
             engage
          
           
             In
             a
             blest
             Conspiracy
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             our
             Land
             forget
             her
             former
             misery
             .
          
           
             The
             
               Martyr'd
               Sire
            
             was
             dead
             ,
          
           
             And
             Charles
             the
             Second
             Reigned
             in
             his
             stead
             .
          
           
             Great
             Charles
             !
             whose
             Noble
             Veins
          
           
             As
             Princely
             Blood
             contains
             :
          
           
             In
             whom
             as
             many
             
               Royal
               Houses
            
             met
             ,
          
           
             As
             in
             the
             Heavens
             e're
             Astronomers
             cou'd
             fancy
             yet
             .
          
           
             A
             Prince
             ,
             whose
             Youth
             in
             Courts
             abroad
             was
             bred
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             with
             Arts
             and
             Manners
             fashioned
             .
          
           
             (
             Like
             his
             
               Incarnate
               Lord
            
             )
          
           
             His
             own
             dear
             Land
             did
             not
             afford
          
           
             A
             place
             to
             lay
             his
             Exil'd
             weary
             Head
             ;
          
           
             And
             there
             he
             this
             Oraculous
             Truth
             was
             taught
             ,
          
           
             Friends
             best
             when
             try'd
             ,
             Experience
             best
             when
             bought
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             VI.
             
          
           
             At
             his
             Illustrious
             Return
             ,
          
           
             Our
             Widow'd
             Land
             left
             off
             to
             mourn
             :
          
           
             And
             as
             the
             cheerful
             Morning's
             Light
             ,
          
           
             After
             a
             tedious
             stormy
             Night
             ,
          
           
             Looks
             brisk
             and
             gay
             ,
             and
             with
             fresh
             Joy
             does
             ru●
          
           
             To
             meet
             and
             welcome
             back
             the
             Rising
             Sun.
          
           
             Peace
             ,
             Plenty
             ,
             and
             the
             Arts
             ,
             with
             all
             their
             Beauteous
             Train
             ,
          
           
             Did
             peep
             abroad
             ,
             and
             everywhere
             abound
             ;
          
           
             Which
             now
             entomb'd
             had
             lain
          
           
             A
             tedious
             Night
             of
             twenty
             Winters
             under
             ground
          
           
             Fortune
             to
             Pity
             now
             enclin'd
             ,
          
           
             Forgot
             to
             be
             unkind
             ,
          
           
             Left
             off
             to
             vex
             our
             Earth
             ,
          
           
             With
             civil
             Discord's
             monstrous
             Births
             .
          
           
             Mars
             did
             no
             longer
             stain
             fair
             Albion's
             Face
             ,
          
           
             But
             fled
             to
             his
             Beloved
             Thrace
             .
          
           
             No
             noise
             was
             heard
             of
             broken
             Leagues
             or
             Wars
             ▪
          
           
             And
             Love
             usurp't
             upon
             our
             Home-bred
             Jarrs
             .
          
           
             Neptune's
             self
             was
             now
             content
             ,
          
           
             Since
             ,
             Charles
             left
             thund'ring
             in
             his
             Element
             ;
          
           
           
             Since
             he
             enjoy'd
             the
             Sovereignty
          
           
             Of
             the
             Asserted
             Sea.
          
           
             The
             British
             Oak
             rid
             Admiral
          
           
             Among
             the
             floating
             Forest
             ;
             every
             Sail
          
           
             Paid
             Homage
             to
             this
             God
             o'
             th'
             Watry
             Main
             ;
          
           
             And
             Foreign
             Fleets
             ,
             like
             Pleasure-Boats
             ,
             made
             up
             his
             Train
             .
          
        
         
           
             VII
             .
          
           
             Our
             Mother-Isle
             ,
             blest
             with
             her
             Young
             Ones
             ,
             lay
             ,
          
           
             And
             seem'd
             to
             put
             the
             other
             Earth
             away
             :
          
           
             So
             lay
             Peru
             ,
             with
             all
             the
             
               Western
               World
            
             ,
          
           
             Before
             the
             greedy
             Spaniard
             dream't
             of
             Gold
             ,
          
           
             In
             rich
             Potozi's
             Mines
             .
          
           
             Rome
             and
             Geneva
             off
             we
             flung
             ;
          
           
             And
             all
             that
             Romish
             was
             ,
             except
             the
             Tongue
             .
          
           
             When
             all
             the
             World
             beside
             blind
             Monkish
             Error
             led
             ,
          
           
             And
             Pure
             Religion
             ,
             frighted
             ,
             from
             it
             fled
             ;
          
           
             Our
             Land
             leap't
             up
             ,
             and
             ,
             like
             another
             Dele
             ,
          
           
             The
             wand'ring
             Goddess
             took
             ,
             and
             us'd
             her
             well
             .
          
           
             Their
             subtle
             Pedlars
             of
             Divinity
          
           
             Had
             all
             pack't
             up
             their
             Wares
             ;
             no
             Bigot
             Knee
          
           
             Bow'd
             yearly
             at
             St.
             Peter's
             sacred
             Gate
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             at
             Loretta's
             thronged
             Shrine
             did
             wait
             .
          
           
           
             Their
             Dei's
             no
             rich
             Fleeces
             gave
             ;
          
           
             They
             ne're
             of
             late
             cou'd
             in
             our
             English
             Pastures
             thrive
             .
          
        
         
           
             VIII
             .
          
           
             Thus
             against
             all
             the
             open
             ,
             fore-seen
             Bolts
             of
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             Firmly
             we
             had
             secur'd
             our
             State
             ;
          
           
             '
             Gainst
             France
             and
             Holland's
             Pride
             ,
             and
             restless
             Tiber's
             Hate
             .
          
           
             But
             as
             the
             Fruit
             ,
             which
             long
             has
             stood
             ,
          
           
             Maugre
             the
             nipping
             Frosts
             ,
             and
             Winter
             Blasts
             ,
          
           
             By
             some
             home-bred
             Worm
             ,
             at
             last
             ,
          
           
             Is
             canker'd
             ,
             and
             is
             withered
             ;
          
           
             Pale
             Faction
             saw
             ,
             and
             curs'd
             our
             blest
             Estate
             ;
          
           
             They
             saw
             themselves
             dethron'd
             ,
             their
             Power
             abate
             .
          
           
             Thus
             from
             Ambition's
             Root
             sprung
             all
             their
             Discontent
             ;
          
           
             They
             now
             repent
          
           
             Of
             that
             
               Blest
               Prince
            
             ,
             whom
             Heaven
             ,
             and
             their
             own
             Choice
             ,
             had
             sent
             .
          
           
             Discarded
             Lords
             ,
             Priests
             ,
             Atheists
             ,
             all
             were
             met
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             private
             Juncto
             sate
             :
          
           
             The
             dexterous
             Achitophel
             ,
          
           
             (
             That
             word
             alone
             contains
             an
             Hell
             )
          
           
           
             Among
             the
             Boldest
             did
             appear
             ,
          
           
             And
             briskly
             took
             the
             Chair
             :
          
           
             The
             bloody
             Senate
             sate
             ,
             the
             Crippled
             Thing
          
           
             Rais'd
             himself
             ,
             and
             thus
             began
             .
          
        
         
           
             IX
             .
          
           
             Contemn'd
             ,
             scorn'd
             ,
             trampled
             on
             ,
             and
             nothing
             made
             !
          
           
             Thus
             by
             a
             weak
             and
             Puny
             King
             out-brav'd
             !
          
           
             From
             Honor's
             Pitch
             ,
             to
             vilest
             Drudgery
             thrown
             ,
          
           
             By
             a
             poor
             Thing
             ,
             a
             
               Creature
               of
               our
               Own
            
             !
          
           
             Too
             far
             oblig'd
             ,
             our
             Worth
             he
             can't
             repay
             ;
          
           
             And
             so
             like
             dangerous
             Tools
             we
             're
             thrown
             away
             :
          
           
             Fore
             long
             ,
             perhaps
             ,
             must
             share
             a
             Turkish
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             And
             Life
             and
             Honours
             lose
          
           
             By
             Axe
             ,
             or
             Hempen
             Noose
             ,
          
           
             Lest
             we
             reveal
             the
             Secrets
             of
             the
             State.
          
           
             What
             Mortal
             Men
             ,
             that
             Souls
             ,
             like
             ours
             ,
             do
             own
             ,
          
           
             Cou'd
             see
             the
             Care
             of
             Government
             and
             Laws
             ,
          
           
             The
             Honours
             both
             of
             Sword
             and
             Gown
             ,
          
           
             On
             those
             vile
             Wretches
             heap't
             and
             thrown
             ,
          
           
             Who
             are
             Deserters
             of
             our
             
               Holy
               Cause
            
             ?
          
           
             Yet
             so
             it
             is
             ;
             Upon
             his
             Bed
             and
             Throne
          
           
           
             These
             Villains
             wait
             ,
             and
             hang
             ,
             these
             damn'd
             State-Burrs
             ,
          
           
             And
             entertain
             the
             Monarch's
             leisure
             Hours
             ;
          
           
             To
             such
             an
             height
             the
             Turn-coat
             Slaves
             are
             grown
             .
          
           
             Unlike
             to
             me
             ,
             I
             thank
             my
             Stars
             ,
             who
             ne're
          
           
             Wou'd
             court
             that
             Childish
             Toy
             ,
             a
             Monarch's
             Ear
             ;
          
           
             Unlike
             to
             me
             ,
             who
             this
             great
             Tenent
             boast
             ,
          
           
             I
             always
             hated
             what
             was
             uppermost
             .
          
        
         
           
             X.
             
          
           
             Can
             we
             so
             tamely
             all
             our
             Right
             forgo
             ?
          
           
             Or
             is
             the
             Lechery
             of
             Ambition
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             luscious
             Sweets
             of
             Power
             to
             us
             unknown
             ?
          
           
             With
             full
             Command
             we
             reign'd
             here
             once
             ,
             w●
             know
             ;
          
           
             Can
             we
             so
             soon
             forget
             our
             Prosperous
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             When
             we
             ,
             with
             Pious
             Cheats
             ,
             Vnking'd
             the
             State
          
           
             Cullied
             the
             Monarch
             of
             his
             Sting
             and
             Pow'r
             ,
          
           
             And
             sent
             the
             uselss
             Drone
             to
             beg
             from
             Door
             t●
             Door
             ?
          
           
             But
             now
             we
             're
             come
             to
             murmuring
             Israel's
             Pitch
             ▪
          
           
             Because
             our
             Hands
             once
             got
             Rebellion's
             Itch
             ,
          
           
           
             Like
             out-law'd
             Felons
             we
             must
             stand
             ,
          
           
             And
             ne're
             enjoy
             Preferment
             's
             
               Promis'd
               Land.
            
          
           
             No
             ,
             no
             :
             'T
             is
             but
             another
             Charles
             that
             's
             lost
             ;
          
           
             And
             if
             He
             live
             ,
             our
             brave
             Designs
             are
             crost
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             old
             tedious
             Road
             of
             Justice
             we
          
           
             Scorn
             to
             procure
             his
             Destiny
             ;
          
           
             The
             Second
             Charles
             must
             fall
             a
             bolder
             way
             ;
          
           
             A
             Gun
             shall
             do
             the
             Work
             ;
             nor
             give
             him
             time
             to
             Pray
             .
          
           
             He
             spoke
             ,
             and
             threw
             his
             baleful
             Eyes
             around
             :
          
           
             
               Bravely
               Resolv'd
            
             !
             thro'
             all
             the
             willing
             Court
             resounds
             .
          
           
             The
             Hellish
             Voice
             down
             to
             the
             Center
             strook
             ;
          
           
             Infernal
             Jove's
             black
             Palace
             shook
             :
          
           
             The
             Furies
             for
             this
             joyful
             Hour
             prepare
             ,
          
           
             And
             straight
             threw
             Hisses
             round
             the
             Air
             :
          
           
             They
             lean'd
             their
             hungry
             Jaws
             ,
             and
             stood
          
           
             Longing
             to
             gorge
             and
             wanton
             once
             again
             in
             British
             Blood.
             
          
        
         
           
             XI
             .
          
           
             But
             their
             blind
             Rage
             begot
             so
             vast
             a
             Birth
             ,
          
           
             At
             last
             ,
             they
             wanted
             Strength
             to
             bring
             it
             forth
             .
          
           
             Like
             the
             fam'd
             Man
             ,
             who
             did
             of
             old
             to
             Heaven
             aspire
          
           
           
             In
             flaming
             Coach
             ,
             and
             '
             scap't
             Mortality
             ,
          
           
             (
             That
             Ditch
             ,
             which
             in
             the
             middle
             way
             did
             lie
             )
             ;
          
           
             Our
             
               God-like
               Monarch
            
             was
             preserv'd
             by
             Fire
             ;
          
           
             And
             Heaven
             rever'd
             his
             Doom
             ;
             the
             Gun
             recoil'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             its
             proud
             Planter
             with
             loud
             Ruine
             foil'd
             .
          
           
             Thus
             when
             Earth's
             cursed
             Race
             with
             Heaven
             made
             War
             ,
          
           
             And
             strove
             to
             fool
             the
             Thunderer
             ;
          
           
             Daring
             Typhoeus
             clasp't
             the
             Mountain's
             Waste
             ,
          
           
             And
             furiously
             he
             tore
             it
             from
             its
             Base
             :
          
           
             The
             bleating
             Sheep
             upon
             the
             Top
             did
             feed
             ,
          
           
             The
             harmless
             Cattle
             low'd
             in
             ev'ry
             Mead.
          
           
             At
             first
             he
             stagger'd
             with
             the
             Mountain's
             Load
             :
          
           
             To
             see
             Hills
             upward
             move
             ,
             scar'd
             every
             God.
          
           
             But
             ,
             in
             a
             trice
             ,
             it
             crush'd
             him
             ,
             and
             his
             Grave
             di●
             prove
             ;
          
           
             He
             heaving
             lay
             ,
             and
             curs'd
             the
             Gods
             above
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           AN
           EPITAPH
           On
           the
           late
           E.
           of
           S.
           
        
         
           BEneath
           this
           Turf
           of
           Grass
           does
           lye
        
         
           The
           Good
           Old
           Cause
           and
           Antony
           :
        
         
           Tony
           ,
           a
           Judgment
           sent
           by
           Heaven's
           Command
           ;
        
         
           Tony
           ,
           the
           Prince
           Elect
           of
           Fairy-Land
           ;
        
         
           The
           Golden
           Calf
           of
           the
           unthinking
           Crowd
           ,
        
         
           Before
           whom
           each
           blue-apron'd
           Statesman
           bow'd
           .
        
         
           Finding
           his
           Pious
           Cheats
           won't
           do
        
         
           In
           this
           our
           World
           ,
           he
           's
           gone
           to
           Hell
           below
           ;
        
         
           And
           there
           he
           vends
           his
           Politicks
           in
           Fashion
           ,
        
         
           To
           Corah's
           Tribe
           reads
           his
           Association
           ;
        
         
           Flying
           the
           Rod
           of
           injur'd
           Majesty
           ,
        
         
           He
           cross'd
           the
           Seas
           for
           
             Gospel
             Liberty
          
           ,
        
         
           Of
           hatching
           Treasons
           ,
           and
           embroiling
           States
           .
        
         
           But
           lo
           !
           the
           Justice
           of
           the
           Eternal
           Fates
           :
        
         
         
           The
           Dutch
           ,
           whom
           he
           to
           ruine
           once
           had
           doom'd
           ,
        
         
           Saw
           him
           and
           all
           his
           little
           arts
           entomb'd
           ;
        
         
           There
           's
           nought
           to
           fear
           but
           this
           now
           ,
           come
           the
           worst
           ,
        
         
           Lest
           from
           his
           busie
           factious
           dust
           ,
        
         
           Pent
           within
           his
           Country's
           Womb
           ,
        
         
           An
           after-Earthquake
           thence
           shou'd
           come
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           THE
           TOWER
           of
           LONDON
           .
        
         
           On
           the
           Commitment
           of
           some
           Great
           Persons
           .
        
         
           FOR
           Stones
           to
           speak
           ,
           is
           not
           a
           flight
           so
           high
           ,
        
         
           Is
           no
           great
           miracle
           in
           Poetry
           ;
        
         
           E're
           since
           Amphion
           once
           did
           call
        
         
           The
           willing
           Stones
           into
           the
           Theban
           Wall
           ,
        
         
           All
           our
           whole
           Off-spring
           have
           been
           Musical
           .
        
         
           I
           am
           the
           great
           Physician
           of
           the
           State
           ,
        
         
           And
           the
           Commands
           of
           my
           dread
           Master
           wait
           ;
        
         
           Whoe're
           of
           this
           great
           Family
           I
           see
        
         
           Oppress'd
           with
           some
           usurping
           Malady
           ,
        
         
           My
           Soveraign
           Doses
           strait
           I
           do
           prepare
           ,
        
         
           For
           them
           good
           Diet
           and
           a
           better
           Air
           ,
        
         
           Who
           standing
           on
           the
           giddy
           heights
           of
           State
           ,
        
         
           Are
           grown
           light-headed
           ,
           and
           so
           tempt
           their
           fate
           ;
        
         
           With
           some
           mild
           Med'cines
           work
           ,
           some
           desperate
           be
           ,
        
         
           And
           them
           I
           cure
           by
           a
           Phlebotomy
           .
        
         
         
           I
           am
           the
           Haven
           of
           Security
        
         
           To
           those
           that
           long
           been
           driving
           on
           the
           Sea
        
         
           Of
           factious
           Courts
           ;
           't
           was
           here
           our
           Raleigh
           found
        
         
           Experience
           ,
           Learning
           ,
           Health
           ,
           in
           short
           ,
           firm
           ground
           ▪
        
         
           When
           all
           abroad
           nothing
           but
           wrecks
           appear'd
        
         
           Of
           floating
           Statesmen
           ;
           he
           securely
           steer'd
           .
        
         
           Entomb'd
           in
           me
           he
           full
           twelve
           Winters
           past
           ,
        
         
           And
           here
           his
           mighty
           Pen
           he
           drew
           at
           last
           ;
        
         
           Here
           he
           cou'd
           safely
           at
           Guiana
           touch
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           be
           afraid
           of
           Spaniard
           or
           of
           Dutch.
        
         
           A
           greater
           Man
           my
           Walls
           did
           ne're
           enrich
           ,
        
         
           Since
           my
           own
           Julius
           here
           his
           Camp
           did
           pitch
           .
        
         
           Here
           restless
           Spirits
           at
           last
           center'd
           be
           ,
        
         
           Their
           motion
           spent
           and
           tir'd
           ,
           they
           fix
           in
           me
           .
        
         
           Thus
           't
           is
           ;
           these
           are
           the
           
             Airy
             Castles
          
           all
        
         
           Build
           to
           themselves
           ,
           who
           Plot
           their
           Country's
           fall
           ▪
        
         
           Now
           harmless
           as
           my
           uncharg'd
           Cannon
           are
           ,
        
         
           So
           tame
           these
           
             Sons
             of
             great
             Intrigue
          
           appear
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           Religio
           vi
           &
           armis
           non
           est
           propaganda
           .
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             NO
             ,
             no
             ,
             I
             'm
             sure
             it
             cannot
             be
             ,
          
           
             What
             e're
             the
             bloody
             Jesuit
             crys
             ,
          
           
             That
             such
             a
             gentle
             Deity
          
           
             Should
             take
             delight
             in
             humane
             Sacrifice
             ;
          
           
             Let
             Dian's
             Priests
             such
             notions
             teach
             ,
          
           
             Such
             savage
             Doctrine
             the
             wild
             Brachman
             preach
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             craving
             God
             must
             every
             day
             be
             fed
             ,
          
           
             With
             humane
             steam
             and
             gore
             must
             every
             day
             be
             pampered
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             Altars
             with
             these
             poor
             recruits
             they
             ply
             ,
          
           
             To
             lengthen
             out
             his
             Immortality
             .
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             Religion
             takes
             a
             different
             course
             ,
          
           
             She
             wants
             no
             Arms
             or
             outward
             force
             ,
          
           
             With
             secret
             Charms
             she
             does
             unlock
          
           
             The
             inmost
             Rooms
             and
             Chambers
             of
             the
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             With
             Swords
             and
             Racks
             in
             vain
             she
             trys
             to
             shock
             ,
          
           
             Or
             reasons
             nobler
             power
             controul
             ,
          
           
           
             By
             parlee
             and
             capitulation
          
           
             The
             Mind
             's
             Imperial
             Fort
             is
             won
             ;
          
           
             Like
             lightning
             she
             unto
             the
             heart
             can
             pierce
             ,
          
           
             The
             outward
             case
             yet
             ne're
             the
             worse
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             Religion
             is
             a
             
               lambent
               Flame
            
             ,
          
           
             Gentle
             and
             calm
             its
             influence
             ;
          
           
             Within
             her
             Family
             ne're
             Zealot
             came
             ;
          
           
             With
             him
             she
             never
             could
             dispence
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             blind
             Enthusiasms
             hot
             desire
             ,
          
           
             Would
             make
             a
             man
             believe
             ,
          
           
             That
             ,
             Persian
             like
             ,
          
           
             All
             his
             Religion
             he
             had
             plac'd
             in
             Fire
             ;
          
           
             The
             effects
             of
             ignorant
             and
             misty
             zeal
          
           
             (
             Drawn
             into
             errors
             Bogs
             and
             Fens
             we
             feel
             )
          
           
             Where
             it
             is
             wont
             our
             reason
             to
             benight
             ,
          
           
             So
             shews
             it
             carrys
             heat
             without
             a
             spark
             of
             light
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             When
             Heathen
             Rome
             with
             Heathen
             Britain
             warr'd
             ,
          
           
             Honour
             and
             not
             Religion
             was
             the
             stake
             ;
          
           
             This
             was
             the
             Game
             their
             Eagle
             did
             regard
             ,
          
           
             For
             this
             its
             humble
             stoops
             did
             make
             ;
          
           
           
             The
             painted
             Britain
             then
             might
             fall
          
           
             Before
             his
             Fathers
             Gods
             ,
             and
             on
             'em
             call
             :
          
           
             Our
             
               Sacred
               Things
            
             they
             let
             alone
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             forc'd
             us
             change
             our
             Gods
             of
             wood
             for
             theirs
             of
             stone
             .
          
           
             This
             Rome's
             Arch-flamen
             never
             did
             desire
             ,
          
           
             This
             cruel
             task
             ne're
             at
             our
             hands
             require
             ,
          
           
             That
             as
             our
             Coin
             a
             Caesar's
             Head
             did
             bear
             ,
          
           
             So
             our
             Religion
             too
             the
             Roman
             stamp
             should
             wear
             .
          
        
         
           
             V.
             
          
           
             If
             the
             Sword
             can
             Converts
             make
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             the
             Faggot
             and
             the
             Stake
             ,
          
           
             There
             's
             no
             more
             powerful
             argument
             ;
          
           
             I
             now
             shall
             think
             there
             's
             something
             in
             't
             ,
          
           
             When
             next
             I
             see
             th'
             Apostles
             pictur'd
             stand
             ,
          
           
             Some
             Swords
             ,
             some
             Saws
             ,
             some
             Axes
             in
             their
             hand
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           A
           SHORT
           SATYR
           AGAINST
           KEEPING
           ▪
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             TELL
             me
             not
             what
             the
             rage
             of
             Poets
             is
             ,
          
           
             Who
             of
             their
             promis'd
             Pence
             and
             Glories
             miss
             ;
          
           
             When
             venturing
             out
             their
             stock
             of
             Rhime
             and
             Wit
          
           
             To
             Fame's
             wild
             Coast
             ,
             they
             'r
             bauk'd
             the
             third
             Days
             hit
             :
          
           
             Or
             what
             the
             curst
             ambitious
             Statesman
             feels
             ,
          
           
             Who
             thunder-strucken
             downwards
             headlong
             reels
             ;
          
           
             Or
             what
             the
             Pleader
             feels
             that's
             turned
             or
             '
             th'
             Bar
             ,
          
           
             Or
             the
             black
             Hell
             that
             cashier'd
             Favorites
             bear
             .
          
           
             This
             is
             too
             poor
             ,
             with
             greater
             I
             'd
             ingage
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             steel
             Whips
             of
             furies
             lash
             the
             Age
             :
          
           
             Come
             then
             ,
             lead
             on
             ,
             do
             thou
             inspire
             my
             Pen
             ,
          
           
             Juno
             !
             poor
             injur'd
             Queen
             of
             Gods
             and
             Men
             ;
          
           
           
             For
             Jove
             cou'd
             not
             restrain
             his
             lustful
             Soul
             ;
          
           
             He
             (
             Poets
             say
             )
             was
             the
             first
             
               Keeping
               Fool
            
             ;
          
           
             He
             first
             of
             all
             the
             Stallion
             Gods
             above
             ,
          
           
             Rambling
             from
             home
             in
             Masquerade
             ,
             made
             Love
             ;
          
           
             At
             
               Athens
               ,
               Sparta
               ,
               Dele
            
             he
             us'd
             to
             kiss
             ,
          
           
             At
             every
             stage
             he
             past
             ,
             he
             kept
             a
             Miss
             ;
          
           
             Wives
             ,
             Virgins
             ,
             every
             Female
             he
             assay'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             whole
             World
             one
             great
             Seraglio
             made
             .
          
           
             Great
             Princess
             !
             with
             such
             keen
             Revenge
             inspire
             ,
          
           
             Fill
             all
             my
             veins
             with
             such
             a
             restless
             fire
             ,
          
           
             As
             when
             from
             fair
             Alemena's
             Breast
             you
             tore
             ,
          
           
             The
             Bastard
             which
             to
             Jupiter
             she
             bore
             ;
          
           
             As
             when
             at
             last
             you
             made
             the
             spurious
             Fop
          
           
             Pay
             for
             his
             Fathers
             sport
             on
             Aeta's
             top
             .
          
           
             With
             this
             ,
             and
             more
             ,
             arm
             thou
             my
             stabbing
             Quill
             ;
          
           
             Envenom'd
             thus
             ,
             the
             Arrow
             needs
             must
             kill
             .
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             How
             strange
             a
             Slave
             ?
             how
             fond
             and
             dull
             a
             Fool
          
           
             Is
             he
             that
             deals
             and
             parcels
             out
             his
             Soul
          
           
             Twixt
             Wife
             and
             Miss
             ?
             so
             shuns
             a
             chaste
             embrace
          
           
             To
             court
             the
             gaudy
             Pageant
             of
             a
             Face
             ;
          
           
             Say
             not
             't
             is
             Love
             ,
             't
             is
             Lust
             divides
             the
             Man
          
           
             'Twixt
             what
             he
             wou'd
             ,
             what
             lawfully
             he
             can
             ;
          
           
           
             Pure
             Love
             does
             in
             one
             constant
             current
             swim
             ,
          
           
             Lust
             cuts
             a
             Chanel
             ,
             and
             le
             ts
             out
             the
             stream
             ;
          
           
             In
             Lust
             and
             Love
             we
             see
             the
             difference
             ,
          
           
             Betwixt
             a
             Tyrant
             and
             a
             
               Lawful
               Prince
            
             ;
          
           
             The
             Sympathy
             of
             Love
             cements
             the
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             Wanting
             this
             stay
             from
             Plagues
             to
             Plagues
             we
             rowl
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             But
             in
             this
             freakish
             Age
             ,
             of
             all
             the
             worst
             ,
          
           
             (
             Since
             our
             whole
             race
             was
             for
             a
             Woman
             curst
             )
          
           
             An
             honourable
             Love
             we
             flout
             and
             spurn
             ,
          
           
             This
             Fire
             can't
             in
             our
             colder
             Regions
             burn
             ;
          
           
             Led
             by
             a
             wandring
             and
             fantastick
             flame
             ,
          
           
             We
             act
             o're
             Lusts
             ,
             which
             we
             want
             words
             to
             name
             .
          
           
             Marriage
             !
             I
             that
             's
             the
             word
             ;
             't
             is
             never
             spoke
          
           
             But
             we
             strait
             fall
             to
             crossing
             ,
             or
             invoke
          
           
             Some
             Angel
             ,
             or
             the
             Deity
             to
             defend
          
           
             From
             that
             infernal
             out-of-fashion
             Friend
             .
          
           
             If
             in
             the
             Gordian
             Matrimonial
             Knot
             ,
          
           
             Against
             his
             will
             ,
             perhaps
             ,
             the
             Man
             be
             got
             ,
          
           
             Hopes
             of
             great
             Friends
             ,
             or
             Pence
             have
             drawn
             him
             in
             ,
          
           
             Within
             three
             days
             to
             cool
             he
             doth
             begin
             ;
          
           
             Love's
             raging
             Calenture
             is
             pass'd
             and
             o're
             ,
          
           
             And
             his
             pulse
             beats
             as
             even
             as
             before
             ;
          
           
           
             His
             Love
             ebbs
             out
             ,
             and
             Lust
             flows
             in
             as
             fast
             ;
          
           
             Whater'e
             is
             violent
             can
             seldom
             last
             :
          
           
             He
             breaks
             the
             Damm
             in
             which
             he
             was
             inclos'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             the
             common
             rout
             of
             Waters
             flows
             ;
          
           
             He
             straight
             begins
             to
             damn
             the
             pall'd
             delight
             ,
          
           
             New
             Kickshaws
             now
             must
             raise
             his
             appetite
             ;
          
           
             Any
             Salacious
             Bitch
             that
             is
             at
             hand
             ,
          
           
             That
             Oaths
             ,
             or
             Prayers
             ,
             or
             Money
             can
             command
             ;
          
           
             An
             old
             cast
             Mistress
             now
             will
             serve
             the
             turn
             ,
          
           
             To
             quench
             those
             flames
             in
             which
             he
             frys
             and
             burn
             .
          
           
             The
             Jilts
             their
             little
             arts
             ,
             like
             sawces
             ,
             use
             ,
          
           
             The
             tir'd
             and
             nauseate
             taste
             to
             disabuse
             ;
          
           
             And
             garnish'd
             Poyson
             does
             more
             grateful
             come
             ,
          
           
             Than
             a
             course
             cleanly
             dish
             prepar'd
             at
             home
             .
          
           
             These
             are
             the
             modish
             Sparks
             ,
             who
             still
             complain
          
           
             That
             step-dame
             Nature
             does
             all
             men
             restrain
             ;
          
           
             That
             none
             injoy
             a
             bliss
             so
             defaecate
             and
             good
             ,
          
           
             As
             those
             that
             savage
             run
             about
             the
             wood
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             Our
             Grandame
             at
             one
             clap
             the
             World
             did
             shamm
             ,
          
           
             And
             these
             her
             Daughters
             do
             by
             piece-meal
             damm
             .
          
           
             Below
             the
             Navel
             no
             Religion
             ,
          
           
             This
             for
             a
             standing
             truth
             they
             know
             and
             own
             ;
          
           
           
             Thus
             arm'd
             ,
             from
             every
             age
             they
             gather
             spoils
             ,
          
           
             From
             twelve
             to
             fifty
             fall
             into
             their
             toils
             ;
          
           
             The
             old
             decrepit
             Lecher
             ,
             one
             wou'd
             think
             ,
          
           
             Shou'd
             now
             at
             last
             leave
             off
             to
             Whore
             and
             Drink
             ,
          
           
             Beneath
             the
             weight
             of
             Claps
             and
             Years
             shou'd
             sink
             ;
          
           
             But
             Lust
             ,
             like
             generous
             Wine
             ,
             does
             stronger
             grow
             ,
          
           
             And
             still
             with
             age
             its
             sprightly
             force
             renew
             ;
          
           
             The
             Snow
             upon
             his
             candid
             Locks
             appears
             ,
          
           
             Within
             ,
             he
             flames
             ,
             as
             great
             as
             Aetna
             bears
             ;
          
           
             The
             harass'd
             Bawd
             has
             her
             quietus
             pass
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             old
             jaded
             Horse
             is
             turn'd
             to
             grass
             ;
          
           
             Tir'd
             ,
             not
             yet
             conquer'd
             ,
             he
             must
             work
             and
             slave
          
           
             To
             feed
             his
             Lust
             ,
             as
             hungry
             as
             the
             Grave
             ;
          
           
             His
             worn
             out
             joys
             he
             fain
             would
             still
             repeat
             ,
          
           
             A
             brace
             of
             Whores
             his
             aged
             side
             must
             heat
             ,
          
           
             As
             in
             a
             Feaver
             we
             lay
             Pigeons
             to
             the
             Feet
             .
          
           
             These
             rampant
             Minxes
             have
             enslav'd
             the
             Town
             ,
          
           
             From
             Westminster
             to
             Cornhil
             all
             's
             their
             own
             .
          
           
             These
             not
             ty'd
             up
             to
             honours
             nicer
             rules
             ,
          
           
             Please
             far
             beyond
             those
             squeamish
             Virtuous
             Fools
             ,
          
           
             Who
             are
             so
             corded
             to
             a
             Marriage
             Bed
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             have
             the
             trick
             to
             sell
             a
             Maiden-head
             ,
          
           
           
             Twenty
             times
             o're
             :
             in
             these
             light
             Vessels
             all
          
           
             The
             Sparks
             of
             Court
             ,
             and
             Town
             are
             wont
             to
             sail
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             Virtuous
             Wives
             ,
             like
             sluggish
             Ships
             of
             Trade
             ,
          
           
             Move
             slow
             ,
             for
             Profit
             ,
             not
             for
             Pleasure
             made
             .
          
           
             The
             Paradise
             of
             every
             forward
             Fop
             ,
          
           
             From
             Bully
             
               down
               to
            
             Fore-man
             of
             the
             Shop
             .
          
           
             The
             Merchant's
             Man
             upon
             his
             Madam
             waits
             ,
          
           
             Not
             two
             Years
             serv'd
             ,
             he
             needs
             must
             pass
             these
             Straits
             .
          
           
             These
             Coolers
             (
             rot
             'em
             )
             are
             expos'd
             and
             shown
          
           
             When
             my
             young
             Master's
             Worship
             comes
             to
             Town
             .
          
           
             The
             Country
             Squire
             does
             strait
             to
             nibling
             run
             ,
          
           
             Once
             enter'd
             ,
             soon
             grows
             lewd
             ,
             and
             is
             undone
             .
          
        
         
           
             V.
             
          
           
             What
             e're
             the
             great
             Reformers
             of
             the
             Age
             ,
          
           
             Dryden
             and
             Lee
             can
             say
             ,
             those
             Preachers
             of
             the
             Stage
             ,
          
           
             Or
             mighty
             Oldham's
             keen
             Satyrick
             rage
             ;
          
           
             Spight
             of
             all
             these
             ,
             the
             grand
             Debauch
             does
             live
             ,
          
           
             As
             some
             Men
             do
             for
             railing
             ,
             better
             thrive
             .
          
           
           
             Dryden
             ,
             good
             Man
             ,
             thought
             Keepers
             to
             reclaim
             ,
          
           
             Writ
             a
             kind
             Satyr
             ,
             call'd
             it
             Limberham
             .
          
           
             This
             all
             the
             herd
             of
             Lechers
             strait
             alarms
             ,
          
           
             From
             Charing-Cross
             to
             Bow
             was
             up
             in
             Arms
             ;
          
           
             They
             damn'd
             the
             Play
             all
             at
             one
             fatal
             blow
             ,
          
           
             And
             broke
             the
             Glass
             that
             did
             their
             Picture
             show
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           THE
           PENITENT
           .
        
         
           BOötes
           just
           had
           lodg'd
           his
           drowsie
           Carr
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           the
           scatter'd
           seeds
           of
           light
           from
           far
        
         
           Began
           to
           move
           ,
           and
           crowd
           their
           ranks
           to
           fill
           ,
        
         
           When
           first
           they
           spy'd
           Sol
           on
           the
           Eastern
           Hill
           ,
        
         
           Who
           driving
           briskly
           o're
           the
           Azure
           way
           ,
        
         
           Whipp'd
           on
           the
           sluggish
           morn
           ;
           in
           plain
           ,
           't
           was
           Day
           :
        
         
           I
           wak'd
           ,
           and
           wonder'd
           how
           I
           had
           slept
           in
           pain
           ,
        
         
           My
           labouring
           Breast
           did
           furious
           Wars
           maintain
           ;
        
         
           The
           out-works
           of
           my
           heart
           beleaguer'd
           stood
        
         
           With
           sighs
           and
           throbbing
           pains
           ,
           my
           circling
           Blood
        
         
           Beat
           quick
           ,
           and
           trembled
           at
           the
           unequal
           strife
        
         
           Betwixt
           the
           proud
           Disease
           and
           strugling
           life
           ▪
        
         
           Whilst
           the
           dull
           Cent'nels
           of
           my
           Senses
           slept
        
         
           (
           Surcharg'd
           with
           Wine
           ,
           and
           from
           their
           duty
           kept
           )
        
         
           Through
           the
           unguarded
           Ports
           the
           Foe
           did
           start
        
         
           To
           the
           Pavilion
           Royal
           of
           my
           Heart
           ;
        
         
         
           I
           thought
           at
           first
           to
           let
           the
           sluces
           out
           ,
        
         
           And
           so
           to
           drown
           the
           Country
           round
           about
           ;
        
         
           In
           vain
           alas
           !
           so
           strange
           a
           Pleurisie
        
         
           Was
           never
           cured
           by
           Phlebotomy
           :
        
         
           At
           last
           I
           found
           it
           to
           be
           Love
           ,
           and
           that
        
         
           My
           froward
           Heart
           cry'd
           ,
           nor
           yet
           did
           know
           for
           what
           ;
        
         
           Love's
           Magick
           vanish'd
           thus
           from
           'fore
           my
           Face
           ,
        
         
           I
           saw
           a
           thousand
           Cupids
           in
           the
           place
           ;
        
         
           Each
           bore
           a
           little
           shield
           ,
           on
           which
           appear'd
        
         
           Whole
           show'rs
           of
           Tears
           ,
           and
           Hearts
           with
           Blood
           ▪
           besmear'd
           ;
        
         
           This
           Army
           led
           by
           Venus
           and
           her
           Boy
        
         
           (
           She
           had
           forgot
           the
           Wound
           she
           felt
           at
           Troy
           )
        
         
           I
           search'd
           my
           Heart
           ,
           it
           was
           all
           o're
           one
           Wound
           ,
        
         
           Quivers
           of
           bearded
           Shafts
           I
           sticking
           found
           ;
        
         
           Smiling
           ,
           I
           shall
           not
           now
           I
           see
           ,
           said
           I
           ,
        
         
           Love's
           Martyr
           ,
           but
           a
           Malefactor
           dye
           ;
        
         
           I
           laugh'd
           at
           Cupid
           as
           the
           Poets
           Creature
           ,
        
         
           And
           swore
           his
           Mother
           had
           not
           one
           good
           Feature
           ,
        
         
           Blasphem'd
           his
           Power
           ,
           his
           God-ship
           I
           defy'd
           ,
        
         
           Bid
           the
           Boy
           do
           his
           worst
           ;
           and
           thus
           I
           cry'd
           ;
        
         
           I
           call'd
           his
           Votaries
           all
           whining
           Fools
           ,
        
         
           Who
           stood
           to
           that
           blind
           Archer's
           Laws
           and
           Rules
           ▪
        
         
         
           The
           Slave
           some
           pleasure
           at
           the
           Oar
           may
           find
           ,
        
         
           His
           Body
           chain'd
           ,
           yet
           free
           as
           Air
           his
           Mind
           :
        
         
           But
           who
           Love's
           Gally
           towes
           ,
           through
           Seas
           of
           Tears
        
         
           And
           Hurricanes
           of
           Sighs
           his
           Passage
           steers
           ;
        
         
           I
           play'd
           the
           Traytor
           with
           this
           King
           of
           hearts
           ,
        
         
           Expos'd
           his
           ways
           ,
           and
           all
           his
           little
           Arts
           ,
        
         
           I
           vow'd
           I
           'd
           toss
           the
           Phaeton
           from
           his
           Chair
           ,
        
         
           Who
           wrapt
           in
           Flames
           sets
           all
           the
           World
           on
           Fire
           .
        
         
           I
           yield
           ,
           Ye
           mighty
           Powers
           of
           Love
           ,
           I
           yield
           ,
        
         
           No
           longer
           able
           to
           maintain
           the
           Field
           ,
        
         
           My
           stubborn
           Soul
           gives
           way
           ,
           the
           day
           's
           your
           own
           ,
        
         
           My
           frozen
           Heart
           dissolves
           before
           your
           Sun
           ;
        
         
           A
           dreadful
           Victim
           to
           Love's
           God
           I
           'm
           made
           ,
        
         
           With
           Lightning
           scorch'd
           ,
           with
           which
           before
           I
           plaid
           ;
        
         
           Forbear
           your
           eager
           Darts
           ,
           I
           beg
           ,
           lest
           so
        
         
           My
           heart
           you
           scarce
           from
           your
           own
           Quiver
           know
           .
        
         
           A
           sad
           ungracious
           Rebel
           I
           have
           been
           ,
        
         
           And
           long
           bore
           Arms
           against
           Love's
           Sovereign
           Queen
           .
        
         
           Now
           ,
           like
           some
           Sinner
           ,
           my
           past
           life
           I
           mourn
           ,
        
         
           And
           like
           him
           straight
           grow
           wise
           ,
           repent
           and
           turn
           ,
        
         
         
           My
           heart
           within
           its
           Urn
           shall
           hourly
           strive
        
         
           To
           keep
           Love's
           gentle
           Fire
           still
           alive
           .
        
         
           Clorinda's
           Name
           shall
           be
           the
           charming
           Air
           ,
        
         
           She
           in
           my
           Songs
           the
           only
           part
           shall
           bear
           ,
        
         
           On
           her
           fair
           Body
           I
           'll
           my
           Altar
           raise
           ,
        
         
           And
           there
           each
           Morn
           and
           Evening
           sacrifice
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           THE
           WOOING
           .
        
         
           
             I
          
           
             MAdam
             ,
             for
             God's
             sake
             what
             d'
             ye
             mean
             to
             do
             ?
          
           
             This
             (
             like
             the
             Persian
             )
             is
             to
             buy
             ,
             not
             woo
             ;
          
           
             I
             'm
             frozen
             to
             a
             Statue
             ,
             while
             in
             vain
          
           
             Under
             your
             Window
             I
             declare
             my
             pain
             ,
          
           
             And
             yet
             my
             inward
             flame
             the
             brisker
             burns
             ,
          
           
             The
             all
             surrounding
             cold
             to
             fuel
             turns
             ;
          
           
             So
             that
             an
             Ant'peristasis
             I
             see
          
           
             In
             Love
             as
             well
             as
             in
             Philosophy
             .
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             Heaven's
             twinkling
             Host
             are
             mask'd
             in
             Clouds
             ,
          
           
             Darkness
             and
             Night
             each
             lovely
             Object
             shrouds
             ,
          
           
             Loud
             Boreas
             hears
             me
             call
             you
             cruel-fair
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             his
             Brother
             Wind
             the
             sound
             does
             bear
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             led
             by
             Love's
             false
             dancing
             light
             I
             rove
             ,
          
           
             Through
             thickest
             Cold
             and
             Night
             I
             blindly
             move
             ,
          
           
           
             Th'
             officious
             Winds
             themselves
             conspire
             the
             same
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             their
             Wings
             serve
             but
             to
             fan
             my
             Flame
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             Madam
             ,
             I
             swear
             ,
             if
             you
             but
             once
             will
             break
             ,
          
           
             From
             Bed
             the
             rev'ling
             Winds
             no
             more
             shall
             speak
             ,
          
           
             But
             to
             their
             broken
             Prisons
             sneak
             .
          
           
             Terrour
             and
             Night
             shall
             march
             away
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Spirits
             at
             the
             approach
             of
             Day
             ,
          
           
             Through
             th'
             Casement
             of
             my
             Breast
             your
             Eye
             Beams
             hurl'd
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             make
             it
             Day
             too
             in
             my
             lesser
             World.
             
          
        
      
       
         
         
           The
           Fifth
           Ode
           of
           the
           Second
           Book
           of
           Horace
           imitated
           .
        
         
           PRethee
           ,
           for
           shame
           thy
           passion
           hide
           ,
        
         
           The
           thing
           's
           too
           young
           to
           make
           a
           Bride
           ,
        
         
           I
           can't
           devise
           what
           this
           wild
           fancy
           means
           ,
        
         
           The
           Girl
           's
           but
           just
           now
           got
           into
           her
           Teens
           ;
        
         
           Dost
           think
           you
           tender
           ,
           untry'd
           Neck
           can
           e'r
        
         
           Endure
           Love's
           pond'rous
           Yoke
           to
           wear
           ?
        
         
           Not
           ripe
           for
           sport
           ,
           nor
           yet
           for
           action
           fit
           ,
        
         
           How
           shou'd
           her
           humour
           with
           a
           Husband
           hit
           ?
        
         
           Shou'd
           you
           your
           eager
           Flames
           but
           try
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           Love
           's
           mighty
           Dose
           apply
           ,
        
         
           The
           o'rcharg'd
           Girl
           wou'd
           in
           the
           Combat
           dy
           .
        
         
           With
           it
           the
           puling
           Maid
           cou'd
           ne'r
           dispence
           ,
        
         
           The
           luscious
           Sweets
           wou'd
           overcome
           her
           Infant
           sence
           .
        
         
           Keep
           her
           at
           Hackney
           or
           at
           Islington
        
         
           A
           Year
           or
           two
           before
           she
           comes
           to
           Town
           .
        
         
           There
           by
           the
           Mother
           of
           the
           Maids
           she
           'll
           be
        
         
           Soon
           tutour'd
           in
           the
           hidden
           Mystery
           ,
        
         
           There
           she
           'll
           be
           taught
           new
           studied
           Arts
           and
           Charms
           ,
        
         
           And
           come
           a
           full-blown
           Bride
           into
           your
           Arms.
        
         
         
           Take
           her
           abroad
           ,
           and
           walk
           her
           in
           the
           Fields
           ,
        
         
           And
           let
           her
           see
           what
           teeming
           Nature
           yields
           ;
        
         
           Show
           her
           the
           lovely
           Cow
           how
           't's
           milk'd
           ,
           that
           can
           ▪
        
         
           Perhaps
           her
           fancy
           raise
           ,
           and
           make
           her
           think
           on
           Man.
        
         
           For
           every
           thing
           it's
           time
           and
           tide
           does
           know
           ,
        
         
           When
           did
           you
           see
           ripe
           Grapes
           at
           Easter
           ,
           trow
           ?
        
         
           It
           is
           a
           sight
           with
           us
           exceeding
           rare
           ,
        
         
           But
           they
           are
           plenty
           at
           the
           Fair
           :
        
         
           Stay
           till
           the
           Vine
           has
           had
           the
           Summer-Sun
           ,
        
         
           And
           Autumn's
           brought
           it
           to
           perfection
           ;
        
         
           The
           bladder'd
           Grapes
           shall
           then
           in
           Clusters
           bend
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           your
           taste
           its
           racy
           Liquor
           send
           .
        
         
           She
           'll
           soon
           write
           Woman
           ;
           for
           Time's
           partial
           hand
           ▪
        
         
           Takes
           from
           your
           Glass
           ,
           and
           adds
           unto
           her
           Sand.
        
         
           Now
           make
           your
           court
           ,
           my
           life
           for
           yours
           ,
        
         
           She
           'll
           briskly
           answer
           your
           amours
           ;
        
         
           Now
           draw
           down
           all
           Love
           's
           grand
           Artillery
           ,
        
         
           And
           Night
           and
           Day
           your
           Leaguer
           ply
           ,
        
         
           Now
           Sigh
           for
           Sigh
           she
           'll
           give
           ,
           and
           Vow
           for
           Vow
           ▪
        
         
           And
           learn
           to
           toy
           and
           wanton
           well
           as
           you
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           On
           two
           Lads
           unfortunately
           expell'd
           the
           University
           for
           a
           Riot
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             COme
             ,
             dearest
             Timon
             ,
             prethee
             let
             's
             be
             gone
             ,
          
           
             And
             quit
             this
             lov'd
             ,
             ungrateful
             Town
             ;
          
           
             If
             the
             mad
             Tempest
             will
             not
             cease
          
           
             Till
             we
             th'
             angry
             Gods
             appease
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             better
             thou
             and
             I
             shou'd
             dye
          
           
             Than
             the
             whole
             Ship
             's
             Company
             ;
          
           
             If
             nought
             but
             humane
             Sacrifice
          
           
             Will
             satisfie
             these
             hungry
             Deities
             ,
          
           
             With
             the
             fam'd
             Curtius
             boldly
             plunge
             into
             the
             Cave
             ,
          
           
             And
             Death
             and
             all
             our
             peevish
             Fates
             out-brave
             ;
          
           
             'T
             was
             He
             the
             mighty
             He
             alone
             ,
          
           
             Who
             did
             the
             sins
             of
             a
             whole
             Host
             atone
             :
          
           
             Death
             unmask'd
             to
             him
             did
             come
             ,
          
           
             He
             living
             rode
             into
             his
             Tomb
             ,
          
           
             The
             mighty
             Debt
             alone
             He
             paid
             ,
          
           
             It
             took
             him
             in
             its
             hungry
             Jaws
             ,
             and
             so
             the
             Plague
             was
             staid
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             II.
             
          
           
             Over
             the
             Universal
             Ball
          
           
             Undauntedly
             we
             'll
             move
             ,
          
           
             Where'r
             the
             fleeting
             Goddess
             Fortune
             calls
             ,
          
           
             Until
             at
             last
             she
             constant
             prove
             ;
          
           
             Like
             Birds
             of
             Paradise
             we
             'll
             daily
             live
          
           
             (
             For
             sure
             none
             like
             these
             happy
             Creatures
             thrive
             )
          
           
             With
             mutual
             enjoyments
             blest
             ,
          
           
             Ever
             loving
             ,
          
           
             Ever
             moving
             ,
          
           
             Till
             we
             find
             a
             place
             of
             rest
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             See
             where
             our
             better
             Genius
             goes
             ,
          
           
             A
             happy
             Guide
             and
             Partner
             in
             our
             woes
             ,
          
           
             See
             how
             the
             loving
             Phantom
             glides
             along
             ,
          
           
             Leaving
             behind
             a
             gloeing
             track
             of
             light
             ,
          
           
             To
             be
             our
             Convoy
             through
             this
             gloomy
             Night
             ,
          
           
             Through
             want
             ,
             disgrace
             ,
             and
             all
             th'
             ignoble
             throng
             ▪
          
           
             But
             lo
             !
             the
             dismal
             Scene
             appears
             ;
          
           
             What
             's
             this
             that
             strikes
             my
             eyes
             ,
             alarms
             my
             ears
             ?
          
           
             I
             see
             drawn
             Swords
             and
             Drums
             ;
             a
             Camp
             no
             doubt
             ;
          
           
             Away
             ,
             I
             hate
             this
             cursed
             bloudy
             Rout
             ;
          
           
           
             As
             Pallas
             over
             Arts
             presideth
             there
             ,
          
           
             So
             here
             the
             Goddess
             wields
             a
             Spear
             ,
          
           
             That
             even
             in
             a
             Camp
             ,
             I
             'm
             sure
             ,
          
           
             The
             Muses
             Sons
             might
             be
             secure
             ,
          
           
             But
             nothing
             here
             appears
             but
             bloud
             and
             wounds
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             abhor
             what
             looks
             like
             Scarlet
             Gowns
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             See
             where
             the
             cheating
             Citts
             ,
             and
             supple
             Courtiers
             stand
             ,
          
           
             Those
             Locusts
             of
             our
             pleasant
             Land
             ,
          
           
             Go
             forward
             ,
             pass
             'em
             all
             ,
             and
             never
             stop
          
           
             Until
             you
             reach
             Parnassus
             flourishing
             top
             ,
          
           
             Cambridge
             one
             side
             o'
             th'
             forked
             Hill
             commands
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             the
             Other
             Oxford
             stands
             ;
          
           
             Here
             ,
             here
             ,
             we
             'll
             lay
             our
             wearied
             heads
             ,
          
           
             By
             gentle
             Isis
             Banks
             and
             verdant
             Meads
          
           
             We
             'll
             sit
             and
             tune
             our
             tender
             Reeds
             .
          
           
             What
             surly
             Cam
             wou'd
             ne'r
             allow
             ,
          
           
             We
             to
             this
             beauteous
             Nymph
             must
             owe
             ;
          
           
             Our
             longing
             Souls
             we
             'll
             in
             her
             Waters
             drench
             ,
          
           
             And
             at
             her
             Floud
             our
             thirst
             of
             Learning
             quench
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           On
           three
           Ladies
           ,
           who
           going
           abroad
           in
           Masquerade
           met
           with
           some
           Bullies
           ,
           drew
           and
           fought
           'em
           ;
           in
           the
           Fray
           one
           of
           the
           Ladies
           was
           desperately
           wounded
           ,
           1683.
           
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             ROmantick
             Dames
             !
             who
             dare
             disown
             ,
          
           
             For
             Sword
             and
             Perruque
             ,
             Petticoat
             and
             Gown
             ;
          
           
             In
             ancient
             times
             thus
             a
             bold
             Son
             of
             Fame
          
           
             Wou'd
             imitate
             Jove's
             Thunder
             ,
             and
             his
             forked
             Flame
             ,
          
           
             The
             God
             with
             scornful
             smile
             the
             Wretch
             surveys
             ,
          
           
             And
             posts
             a
             Counter-bolt
             to
             end
             his
             days
             .
          
           
             Patroclus
             thus
             Achilles's
             Arms
             wou'd
             wear
             ,
          
           
             Tickled
             and
             proud
             the
             ponderous
             Shield
             to
             bear
             ,
          
           
             The
             Trojan
             Captains
             soon
             espi'ed
             the
             Cheat
             ,
          
           
             So
             the
             Fool
             dy'd
             only
             for
             seeming
             great
             .
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             much
             ,
             
               Old
               Boy
            
             ,
             to
             thy
             brave
             hand
             we
             owe
             ,
          
           
             A
             Secret
             rare
             and
             choice
             it
             did
             on
             us
             bestow
             ,
          
           
             A
             Woman
             's
             flinty
             Breast
             with
             Streams
             of
             Bloud
             does
             flow
             .
          
           
           
             Before
             we
             thought
             'em
             all
             Divinities
             ,
          
           
             And
             as
             we
             do
             to
             other
             Deities
             ,
          
           
             Besotted
             Fools
             !
             were
             Altans
             wont
             to
             raise
             .
          
           
             But
             now
             the
             thing
             is
             better
             understood
             ,
          
           
             We
             find
             they
             're
             nothing
             else
             but
             Flesh
             and
             Bloud
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             Wounded
             !
             nay
             then
             I'saith
             I
             find
          
           
             We
             're
             all
             deceiv'd
             in
             Womankind
             .
          
           
             The
             Poets
             in
             their
             usual
             Tone
          
           
             Cry
             Womens
             hearts
             are
             made
             of
             Stone
             ;
          
           
             But
             we
             need
             never
             now
             despair
             ,
          
           
             Though
             whole
             Quarries
             should
             be
             there
             ,
          
           
             To
             pass
             these
             Alps
             a
             way
             is
             show'd
             us
             here
             ,
          
           
             Without
             the
             help
             of
             Fire
             and
             Vinegar
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             Thou
             hadst
             ,
             
               Old
               Soul
            
             ,
             a
             lucky
             hand
             ,
          
           
             For
             now
             we
             plainly
             see
             the
             New-found-Land
          
           
             Of
             Womans
             heart
             ,
             which
             in
             past
             Ages
             lay
          
           
             Like
             O
             Brazile
             or
             Terra
             incognita
             .
          
           
             A
             Womans
             heart
             is
             Love's
             ▪
             Acropolis
             ,
          
           
             Where
             like
             some
             Mountain-King
             he
             lies
             ,
          
           
             Secur'd
             by
             Frost
             and
             Snow
             from
             Enemies
             ;
          
           
           
             Pride
             ,
             scorn
             and
             cold
             disdain
             ,
             〈◊〉
             Menial
             Servants
             ,
             waits
             ,
          
           
             And
             foolish
             bug-bear
             Honour
             keeps
             the
             Gates
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             piercing
             Sword
             without
             delay
          
           
             To
             Love's
             proud
             Bulwark
             forc'd
             its
             way
             ,
          
           
             And
             though
             thou
             hast
             not
             ta'n
             the
             Town
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             all
             the
             Out-works
             are
             thine
             own
             ,
          
           
             So
             very
             near
             the
             Walls
             you
             came
             ,
          
           
             That
             the
             unguarded
             places
             you
             can
             name
             ,
          
           
             That
             you
             cou'd
             now
             securely
             see
          
           
             Where
             she
             might
             best
             assaulted
             be
             ,
          
           
             A
             blest
             Discovery
             no
             doubt
             ,
          
           
             For
             Women
             after
             this
             can
             never
             long
             hold
             out
             .
          
        
         
           
             V.
             
          
           
             Unhappy
             Lady
             ,
             to
             expose
          
           
             A
             Life
             ,
             which
             rather
             than
             you
             e'r
             shou'd
             lose
             ,
          
           
             I
             my self
             to
             dye
             wou'd
             chuse
             !
          
           
             But
             why
             shou'd
             foolish
             I
             such
             pity
             show
          
           
             To
             that
             curst
             Sex
             ,
             who
             none
             for
             man
             does
             know
             ?
          
           
             Man
             daily
             falls
             a
             Sacrifice
             ,
          
           
             And
             wounded
             by
             their
             Witchcraft
             lies
             ,
          
           
           
             Yet
             not
             one
             sigh
             or
             falling
             tear
             ,
          
           
             Not
             one
             kind
             Beam
             does
             e'r
             appear
          
           
             Their
             dying
             Worshipper
             to
             cheer
             .
          
           
             But
             still
             with
             scorn
             and
             taunts
             they
             do
             abound
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             throw
             Salt
             into
             the
             rankling
             Wound
             .
          
        
         
           
             VI.
             
          
           
             In
             Women
             still
             this
             fighting
             freak
             does
             reign
          
           
             From
             Troy's
             fam'd
             Wars
             ,
             down
             to
             the
             
               French
               Campagn
            
             ;
          
           
             For
             Mother
             Venus
             (
             as
             the
             Story
             goes
             )
          
           
             Once
             ventur'd
             out
             against
             her
             Grecian
             Foes
             :
          
           
             That
             she
             was
             breech'd
             and
             booted
             ,
             't
             is
             not
             said
             ;
          
           
             But
             this
             is
             sure
             ,
             She
             went
             in
             Masquerade
             .
          
           
             The
             Grecian
             and
             the
             Trojan
             Huffs
          
           
             Were
             helter
             skelter
             faln
             to
             Cuffs
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Light'ning
             on
             the
             formost
             Ranks
             she
             flew
             ,
          
           
             But
             in
             a
             Camp
             'las
             what
             shou'd
             Women
             do
             ?
          
           
             She
             soon
             was
             spied
             by
             
               Bully
               Diomed
            
             ;
          
           
             Who
             at
             first
             touch
             e'n
             set
             her
             on
             her
             head
             :
          
           
             He
             drew
             and
             cut
             her
             through
             her
             Gauntlet-Glove
             ,
          
           
             And
             sent
             her
             whining
             to
             her
             Father
             Jove
             :
          
           
             Yet
             still
             we
             see
             her
             Daughters
             love
             the
             sport
             ,
          
           
             Though
             once
             their
             Mother
             paid
             so
             dearly
             for
             't
             ;
          
           
           
             But
             somewhat
             strange
             it
             seems
             to
             be
             ,
          
           
             And
             e'en
             a
             Riddle
             is
             to
             me
             ,
          
           
             That
             Venus
             naked
             all
             men
             does
             o'rcome
             ,
          
           
             And
             now
             well
             arm'd
             shou'd
             meet
             so
             sad
             a
             Doom
             .
          
        
         
           
             VII
             .
          
           
             My
             little
             
               Female
               Bully
            
             ,
             what
             design
          
           
             Had'st
             thou
             in
             this
             odd
             Garb
             and
             warlike
             Mein
             ?
          
           
             Arm'd
             with
             dite
             Steel
             ,
             why
             wouldst
             thou
             e'r
             appear
             ?
          
           
             Thy
             hands
             were
             made
             to
             weild
             another
             Spear
             :
          
           
             In
             Love's
             soft
             Battels
             you
             may
             Glory
             win
             ;
          
           
             But
             here
             to
             think
             to
             do
             so
             is
             a
             sin
             :
          
           
             Nay
             ,
             if
             we
             will
             believe
             some
             Writers
             Pen
             ,
          
           
             One
             Woman
             there
             's
             too
             hard
             for
             twenty
             Men.
          
           
             Now
             I
             'm
             not
             so
             much
             a
             Sot
             ,
          
           
             But
             can
             with
             ease
             find
             out
             your
             Plot
             ;
          
           
             By
             sin
             you
             lost
             your
             Empire
             and
             your
             sway
             ,
          
           
             And
             now
             wou'd
             fain
             retrieve
             the
             day
             ,
          
           
             Well
             then
             !
             pray
             thus
             let
             me
             decide
             the
             Fray
             :
          
           
             Trust
             me
             ,
             't
             will
             be
             a
             far
             more
             glorious
             Prize
             ,
          
           
             Lay
             by
             these
             Arms
             ,
             and
             conquer
             with
             your
             Eyes
             ;
          
           
             Only
             let
             Man
             be
             Master
             in
             the
             Streets
             ,
          
           
             And
             you
             shall
             always
             beat
             between
             the
             Sheets
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           A
           POEM
           ON
           THE
           Prince's
           Marriage
           .
        
         
           
             
               Vt
               gaudent
               Pater
               Aeneas
               ,
               &
               Avunculus
               Hector
               .
            
             Virgil.
             
          
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             ALmighty
             Love
             !
             who
             can
             thy
             ways
             define
             ?
          
           
             Thou
             small
             intrieguing
             God
             ,
             thou
             'rt
             all
             design
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             Quiver
             and
             thy
             Darts
             are
             farther
             known
          
           
             Than
             the
             gay
             wandring
             Bow
             which
             in
             the
             Clouds
             is
             shown
             ;
          
           
             Thou
             keep'st
             the
             Gods
             themselves
             in
             awe
          
           
             By
             thy
             Universal
             Law
             ;
          
           
             Jove
             ,
             though
             amidst
             his
             stores
             of
             Rain
             and
             Hail
             ,
          
           
             Against
             thy
             secret
             Flames
             can
             nought
             prevail
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             breakest
             through
             his
             Guards
             ,
             and
             with
             thy
             Dart
          
           
             Doest
             pierce
             the
             groaning
             Monarch
             to
             the
             heart
             .
          
           
           
             Neptune
             ,
             though
             all
             around
             with
             Waves
             opprest
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             by
             the
             Ocean
             finds
             his
             Love
             encreast
             ,
          
           
             Like
             water
             that
             on
             fire
             's
             cast
             .
          
           
             Nay
             ,
             thou
             beyond
             the
             Tropicks
             canst
             approach
             ,
          
           
             Where
             Sol
             in
             all
             his
             Journey
             dare
             not
             touch
             ;
          
           
             Let
             it
             be
             Torrid
             ,
             or
             the
             
               Frigid
               Zone
            
             ,
          
           
             There
             an
             Empire
             thou
             dost
             owne
             ,
          
           
             Which
             wou'd
             both
             temperate
             be
             ,
          
           
             Were
             it
             not
             ,
             bold
             God
             ,
             for
             thee
             .
          
           
             Denmark
             ,
             which
             lies
             remoter
             from
             the
             Sun
             ,
          
           
             With
             as
             brisk
             Flames
             ,
             we
             find
             ,
             as
             Britain
             burn
             .
          
           
             O
             Love
             ,
             thou
             weakest
             part
             in
             Souls
             the
             most
             Divine
             !
          
           
             Against
             the
             Prince's
             warlike
             Brest
          
           
             First
             against
             His
             ease
             and
             rest
             ,
          
           
             By
             practis'd
             Arts
             and
             tricks
             thou
             didst
             design
             ;
          
           
             He
             own'd
             thy
             power
             ,
             and
             never
             stay'd
             ,
          
           
             But
             thy
             Godship
             soon
             obey'd
             ;
          
           
             Led
             by
             thy
             light
             through
             rolling
             Seas
             He
             mov'd
          
           
             To
             meet
             his
             
               Royal
               Love.
            
          
           
             He
             fear'd
             no
             Rocks
             that
             lay
             between
             ,
          
           
             So
             that
             within
             her
             Breast
             none
             cou'd
             be
             seen
             ;
          
           
             He
             fear'd
             not
             all
             the
             ills
             from
             Seas
             and
             Winds
             cou'd
             come
             ,
          
           
             So
             that
             her
             breath
             did
             not
             pronounce
             his
             fatal
             Doom
             .
          
           
           
             Thus
             Vesta's
             Flame
             it self
             did
             once
             maintain
          
           
             Through
             the
             black
             Deep
             ,
             till
             it
             the
             Port
             did
             gain
             ,
          
           
             Till
             it
             at
             Rome
             had
             reacht
             the
             
               Sacred
               Fane
            
             .
          
           
             Nor
             did
             he
             long
             expect
             his
             Doom
             ,
          
           
             He
             did
             but
             come
             ,
             and
             see
             ,
             and
             overcome
             ;
          
           
             By
             Parlee
             ,
             and
             Capitulation
             ,
          
           
             In
             ten
             days
             space
             her
             Virgin
             Fort
             was
             won
             .
          
           
             An
             easier
             Conquest
             Jove
             cou'd
             never
             boast
             ,
          
           
             No
             Mistris
             ever
             stood
             him
             in
             less
             cost
             ;
          
           
             When
             cloyster'd
             Danae
             he
             wou'd
             gain
             ,
          
           
             To
             bribe
             her
             Keepers
             he
             was
             fain
             ;
          
           
             With
             Gold
             his
             Godship
             then
             was
             forc'd
             to
             buy
          
           
             New
             Morsels
             and
             Supplies
             for
             his
             unbounded
             Luxury
             .
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             Pardon
             ,
             blest
             Pair
             ,
             these
             rude
             unpolish'd
             Lines
             ,
          
           
             With
             which
             a
             Loyal
             Muse
             wou'd
             now
             adorn
             your
             Shrines
             ;
          
           
             Like
             some
             young
             Virgin
             ,
             who
             when
             half
             undrest
             ,
          
           
             (
             Around
             her
             loosely
             casts
             her
             Vest
             )
          
           
             Into
             the
             Croud
             with
             eager
             steps
             does
             go
             ,
          
           
             To
             gaze
             and
             wonder
             at
             the
             pompous
             show
             :
          
           
             Welcome
             ,
             
               Great
               Prince
            
             ,
             to
             our
             once
             happy
             shore
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             
               this
               once
               one
               time
            
             ,
             dear
             Land
             ,
             thy
             pardon
             I
             implore
             )
          
           
           
             For
             many
             years
             the
             Pride
             of
             all
             the
             Floud
             ,
          
           
             The
             envy
             of
             the
             Western
             World
             it
             stood
             ;
          
           
             In
             this
             our
             Isle
             ,
             as
             once
             of
             Rhodes
             was
             said
             ,
          
           
             The
             Sun
             was
             never
             thought
             to
             hide
             his
             head
             ;
          
           
             Antiquity
             with
             all
             its
             searching
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             Cou'd
             never
             fansie
             or
             devise
             ,
          
           
             That
             once
             in
             Aegypt
             ,
             or
             in
             Albion
             ,
             Clouds
             cou'd
             rise
             .
          
           
             Let
             Fortunate
             or
             Happy
             now
             no
             longer
             be
             its
             Name
             ,
          
           
             But
             style
             it
             henceforth
             Europe's
             shame
             :
          
           
             As
             in
             Greek
             Story
             ,
             we
             of
             Countries
             reade
             ,
          
           
             That
             for
             their
             sins
             have
             often
             chang'd
             their
             Breed
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Men
             ,
             or
             Manners
             ;
             so
             ,
             no
             more
             appears
             ,
          
           
             But
             all
             are
             here
             transform'd
             to
             Lyons
             ,
             Dogs
             and
             Bears
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             But
             the
             mistaken
             World
             may
             fansie
             yet
             ,
          
           
             That
             happiness
             here
             keeps
             her
             peaceful
             Seat
             ,
          
           
             Who
             see
             our
             thronged
             Streets
             still
             ebb
             and
             flow
          
           
             With
             Waves
             of
             people
             crouding
             to
             and
             fro
             ;
          
           
             Who
             with
             such
             artful
             Beauty
             and
             surprize
          
           
             See
             all
             our
             Palaces
             and
             Temples
             rise
             ,
          
           
             Who
             see
             our
             Navies
             daily
             plough
             the
             Main
             ,
          
           
             With
             a
             full
             Harvest
             blest
             of
             dear-bought
             gain
             ;
          
           
           
             Some
             freighted
             with
             the
             Golden
             Spoils
             o'
             th'
             West
             ,
          
           
             Some
             with
             the
             shining
             Entrails
             of
             the
             East
             :
          
           
             So
             a
             poor
             Swain
             viewing
             a
             Tyrant's
             State
             ,
          
           
             With
             secret
             Envy
             does
             applaud
             his
             Fate
             ;
          
           
             But
             yet
             ne'r
             learns
             to
             prize
             his
             own
             dear
             peaceful
             rest
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             sees
             those
             inward
             flames
             that
             rack
             the
             gaudy
             Pageant
             's
             Brest
             .
          
           
             Thus
             Aetna
             to
             the
             distant
             Sailers
             sight
          
           
             Shews
             with
             a
             top
             that
             's
             verdant
             ,
             flourishing
             and
             bright
             ;
          
           
             But
             yet
             within
             its
             burning
             Womb
             contains
          
           
             Nothing
             but
             Brimstone
             ,
             Lime
             ,
             and
             scorching
             sulphurous
             Veins
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             Yet
             from
             these
             Mists
             ,
             Great
             Sir
             ,
             that
             darken
             all
             the
             Air
             ,
          
           
             A
             sudden
             joy
             does
             dart
             ,
             and
             scatter
             our
             despair
             ,
          
           
             When
             thus
             by
             you
             a
             way
             we
             open'd
             find
          
           
             How
             the
             Fates
             may
             still
             be
             kind
             ,
          
           
             How
             by
             your
             Royal
             Progeny
          
           
             We
             and
             our
             Sons
             may
             ever
             happy
             be
             .
          
           
             So
             have
             I
             seen
             a
             kind
             auspicious
             Star
          
           
             Shine
             forth
             and
             guide
             the
             wandring
             Traveller
             ,
          
           
           
             While
             all
             else
             stood
             with
             thickest
             Night
             beset
             ,
          
           
             This
             sparkled
             like
             a
             Diamond
             set
             in
             Jet
             .
          
           
             So
             from
             two
             warring
             Clouds
             black
             teeming
             Womb
          
           
             Oft
             have
             I
             seen
             the
             nimble
             Lightning
             come
             ,
          
           
             And
             trembling
             run
             o'r
             all
             the
             Azure
             way
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             its
             light
             create
             a
             short-liv'd
             Day
             .
          
           
             The
             unruly
             Many
             now
             shall
             cease
             to
             rage
             ,
          
           
             Or
             ever
             more
             disturb
             the
             Age
             :
          
           
             No
             more
             shall
             Schism
             ,
             and
             bold
             Anarchy
          
           
             Among
             our
             English
             Manufactures
             number'd
             be
             ;
          
           
             Pale
             Faction
             now
             shall
             hang
             its
             drooping
             head
             ,
          
           
             It
             shall
             be
             through
             the
             World
             proclaim'd
             ,
          
           
             That
             Oracles
             are
             once
             more
             ceast
             ,
          
           
             That
             the
             
               Old
               Cause
            
             ,
             the
             
               mighty
               Pan
               is
               dead
            
             .
          
           
             These
             curst
             heart-burnings
             ,
             and
             ill-boding
             Flames
          
           
             Shall
             hence
             be
             exorcis'd
             by
             your
             illustrious
             Names
             ,
             As
             Culinary
             Fire
          
           
             In
             the
             Suns
             Beams
             does
             lose
             its
             force
             ,
             and
             strait
             expire
             .
          
           
             The
             giddy
             Rabble
             and
             the
             Beasts
             of
             Prey
          
           
             Shall
             by
             your
             
               Nuptial
               Fires
            
             be
             scar'd
             away
             ;
          
           
             As
             men
             in
             Africa
             do
             Bonfires
             rear
             ,
          
           
             To
             keep
             'em
             from
             the
             Lyon
             and
             the
             savage
             Bear.
          
           
           
             Then
             let
             our
             
               British
               Annals
            
             talk
             no
             more
          
           
             Of
             one
             St
             George
             ,
             his
             Deeds
             and
             wondrous
             Pow'r
             ;
          
           
             This
             is
             the
             Man
             ;
             Him
             the
             Great
             ORDER
             shall
          
           
             In
             future
             times
             their
             Saint
             and
             Patron
             call
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             before
             was
             Legend
             ,
             Fable
             ,
             Lye
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             pass
             for
             Current
             and
             Authentick
             History
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           To
           the
           Memory
           of
           the
           Learned
           Dr.
           
             J.
             N.
          
           who
           died
           of
           a
           
             Consumption
             ,
             1683.
          
           
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             PITY
             it
             is
             all
             our
             Poetick
             rage
          
           
             Must
             waste
             in
             Libel
             against
             Death
             ,
             each
             blubber'd
             Page
          
           
             Must
             weep
             in
             Verse
             ,
             each
             faint
             and
             piteous
             strain
          
           
             Of
             Saints
             departed
             must
             complain
             ;
          
           
             Death
             has
             of
             late
             with
             utmost
             rage
             and
             cruelty
          
           
             Harass'd
             the
             Muse's
             Family
             ,
          
           
             And
             made
             her
             free-born
             Subjects
             wear
             the
             Chain
          
           
             With
             which
             Plebeian
             Souls
             he
             aws
             ;
          
           
             I
             wonder'd
             at
             the
             spiteful
             Cause
             ,
          
           
             And
             thus
             'twixt
             grief
             and
             rage
             did
             strait
             complain
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             Sure
             the
             pale
             Monarch
             of
             Eternal
             Night
          
           
             Mistakes
             his
             Creet
             ,
             whilst
             here
             with
             Tyrant's
             spight
          
           
             He
             sports
             and
             laughs
             to
             see
             so
             many
             Victims
             fall
             ;
          
           
             Creet
             !
             where
             stood
             his
             hallowed
             Stall
             ,
          
           
           
             Creet
             ,
             where
             the
             Caitiff
             still
             had
             store
             ,
          
           
             Glutting
             himself
             with
             humane
             Gore
             ,
          
           
             When
             yearly
             with
             the
             reeking
             bloud
          
           
             Of
             seven
             young
             Boys
          
           
             He
             gorg'd
             his
             Jaws
             ,
          
           
             Till
             high-born
             Theseus
             stopt
             the
             sacred
             Floud
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             I
             know
             the
             secret
             cause
             ,
             it
             must
             be
             it
             ,
          
           
             Why
             Death
             does
             wage
             immortal
             War
             with
             Wit
             ;
          
           
             Learning
             and
             Wit
             a
             Lease
             of
             Life
             can
             give
          
           
             And
             make
             our
             Names
             in
             after-ages
             bud
             and
             thrive
             ,
          
           
             These
             to
             the
             Tyrant
             are
             no
             Friends
             ,
          
           
             But
             baulk
             his
             curst
             ignoble
             Ends
             ;
          
           
             So
             these
             Lights
             must
             go
             out
             ,
             that
             he
             again
          
           
             In
             Night
             and
             darkness
             uncontroul'd
             may
             reign
             ;
          
           
             Like
             some
             bold
             Villain
             ,
             who
             the
             Archives
             burns
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             blest
             Remains
             to
             Ashes
             turns
             ,
          
           
             That
             there
             no
             Proof
             in
             future
             times
             may
             be
          
           
             Of
             his
             low
             Birth
             ,
             and
             Dunghil
             Pedigree
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             Death's
             cold
             embrace
             what
             Mortal
             e'er
             can
             fly
             ?
          
           
             Since
             Phoebus's
             dearest
             Son
             does
             breathless
             lye
             ;
          
           
           
             Lov'd
             by
             the
             God
             upon
             a
             double
             score
             ,
          
           
             He
             Physick
             added
             to
             Arts
             general
             store
             ;
          
           
             If
             a
             Disease
             had
             stroke
             a
             wounded
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             He
             wou'd
             the
             sawcy
             Malady
             controul
             ,
          
           
             With
             choicest
             Simples
             ,
             and
             Herbs
             Sovereign
             Juice
             ,
          
           
             (
             Which
             seldom
             did
             his
             just
             Commands
             refuse
             )
          
           
             But
             if
             weak
             Nature
             in
             her
             part
             did
             fail
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             Destroyer
             o'er
             his
             Druggs
             prevail
             ,
          
           
             He
             straight
             cou'd
             with
             his
             Pen
          
           
             Fetch
             him
             to
             life
             again
             .
          
           
             Embalm
             the
             Memory
             of
             the
             Just
             ,
          
           
             And
             make
             it
             flourish
             in
             the
             Dust
             ;
          
           
             Death
             here
             with
             witty
             malice
             doth
             repay
          
           
             All
             favours
             and
             civilities
             past
             ,
          
           
             And
             let
             those
             Devils
             he
             once
             cast
          
           
             Out
             of
             our
             Bodies
             ,
             on
             himself
             now
             prey
             ;
          
           
             That
             Death
             ,
             which
             for
             a
             punishment
             was
             meant
             ,
          
           
             Shou'd
             fly
             on
             those
             that
             are
             most
             innocent
             !
          
        
         
           
             V.
             
          
           
             Nature
             had
             cast
             him
             in
             her
             largest
             Mould
             ,
          
           
             This
             well-built
             Frame
             a
             Mind
             as
             large
             controul'd
             ;
          
           
             I
             saw
             it
             ,
             happy
             Saint
             ,
             and
             said
             go
             on
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             surely
             wilt
             compleat
             the
             wretched
             Span.
          
           
           
             (
             Life's
             longest
             Stage
             )
             thy
             threescore
             years
             and
             ten
             .
          
           
             Fond
             man
             !
             deceiv'd
             and
             gull'd
             by
             outward
             shew
             ,
          
           
             What
             cou'd
             his
             Soul
             with
             such
             a
             Partner
             do
             !
          
           
             His
             Mind
             and
             Body
             were
             ill-pair'd
             by
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             To
             act
             things
             vastly
             good
             ,
             Divinely
             great
             ;
          
           
             His
             eager
             Soul
             with
             Learning's
             thirst
             was
             fir'd
             ,
          
           
             His
             Body
             lagg'd
             ,
             and
             in
             the
             Journey
             tir'd
             ,
          
           
             Like
             generous
             Wine
             ,
             his
             Soul
             for
             ease
             complain'd
             ,
          
           
             Broke
             the
             frail
             Cask
             ,
             that
             its
             vast
             Spirits
             contain'd
             ;
          
           
             Whatever
             Vertue
             Druggs
             and
             Herbs
             can
             boast
             ,
          
           
             Unhappy
             Friend
             ,
             were
             on
             thee
             lost
             :
          
           
             So
             that
             the
             Artist's
             skill
             we
             must
             adore
             ,
          
           
             And
             rather
             say
             the
             Art
             it self
             was
             poor
             ;
          
           
             But
             one
             faint
             Spark
             of
             Life
             was
             left
             ,
             I
             doubt
             ,
          
           
             With
             pious
             care
             he
             blew
             ,
             and
             chanc'd
             to
             put
             it
             out
             .
          
        
         
           
             VI.
             
          
           
             To
             our
             Forefather's
             Death
             ,
             and
             kinder
             Fate
          
           
             Gave
             longer
             Truce
             ,
             in
             Life's
             sweet
             Bower
             they
             sate
          
           
             Five
             times
             as
             long
             ,
             when
             to
             the
             hundredth
             Year
          
           
             They'd
             climb'd
             ,
             the
             pleasing
             Task
             did
             still
             appear
          
           
             Renew'd
             ,
             and
             still
             with
             haste
             the
             rowling
             Year
             Came
             back
             again
             .
          
           
           
             Their
             hopes
             did
             with
             their
             lengthen'd
             Ages
             thrive
             ,
          
           
             And
             now
             by
             Custom
             they
             might
             plead
             to
             live
             .
          
           
             Death
             in
             his
             winged
             Chariot
             might
             have
             flown
          
           
             To
             the
             wide
             Ocean
             ,
             or
             the
             swarthy
             Zone
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             have
             trifled
             many
             a
             Year
             ,
             and
             fed
          
           
             His
             pamper'd
             Steeds
             with
             steam
             of
             Indian
             bloud
             ,
          
           
             Then
             have
             return'd
             .
          
           
             While
             we
             alas
             !
             who
             '
             have
             more
             to
             do
             than
             they
             ,
          
           
             A
             World
             of
             Art
             ,
             as
             well
             as
             Nature
             ,
             to
             survey
             ,
          
           
             Just
             know
             what
             't
             is
             to
             live
             ,
             then
             straight
             are
             snatcht
             away
             .
          
        
         
           
             VII
             .
          
           
             His
             winged
             Shaft
             with
             wondrous
             Art
          
           
             A
             thousand
             ways
             the
             Tyrant
             does
             impart
             ;
          
           
             Burns
             in
             a
             Feaver
             ,
             in
             a
             Dropsie
             drowns
             ,
          
           
             And
             Man
             ,
             the
             lesser
             World
             ,
             with
             slimy
             Rheume
             confounds
             ,
          
           
             Plucking
             up
             all
             the
             Sluces
             in
             its
             Rounds
             .
          
           
             With
             more
             than
             Syren's
             Art
             he
             flatters
             still
          
           
             In
             a
             Consumption
             ,
             when
             he
             means
             to
             kill
             ;
          
           
             Here
             like
             the
             sleep
             of
             Infants
             ,
             Death
          
           
             Lays
             by
             his
             Leaden
             hand
             ,
             and
             gently
             takes
             our
             breath
             ,
          
           
           
             With
             all
             the
             Graces
             the
             stern
             Monarch
             wears
             ,
          
           
             Allays
             our
             fears
             ,
             and
             sweetly
             stills
             our
             cares
             ;
          
           
             Thus
             He
             to
             thee
             appear'd
             ,
             dear
             Saint
             ,
             the
             kindest
             Dart
          
           
             In
             all
             Death's
             Quiver
             struck
             thee
             to
             the
             heart
             .
          
           
             So
             the
             fam'd
             Seneca
             expir'd
             ,
          
           
             Feeling
             his
             trickling
             Blood
             retir'd
             ;
          
           
             His
             heart
             unman'd
             ,
             defenceless
             quite
             ,
          
           
             In
             a
             soft
             Dream
             his
             Soul
             took
             flight
             ,
          
           
             And
             hasted
             to
             the
             Shades
             of
             Night
             .
          
           
             Death
             long
             had
             laid
             her
             Siege
             to
             thee
             ,
          
           
             That
             ,
             like
             Ostend
             ,
             thou
             needs
             must
             be
          
           
             Nothing
             but
             Ruines
             at
             Delivery
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           On
           the
           Famous
           PAINTER
           Mr.
           
             J.
             E.
             Pindarick
             Odes
          
           .
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             THE
             blustring
             Hero
             struts
             in
             slow-pac'd
             lines
             ▪
          
           
             In
             humble
             Elegy
             the
             Lover
             whines
             ,
          
           
             In
             keen
             Iambicks
             others
             scold
             and
             rail
             ,
          
           
             The
             Lyrick
             Verse
             has
             many
             a
             pretty
             Tale
             ,
          
           
             These
             old
             starch'd
             ways
             and
             I
             can
             ne'er
             agree
             ,
          
           
             For
             Poets
             well
             as
             Painters
             too
          
           
             (
             If
             the
             observing
             World
             says
             true
             )
          
           
             Are
             still
             for
             bold
             Pindarick
             Liberty
             .
          
           
             Dull
             measure
             will
             my
             fancy
             sink
             ,
             not
             raise
             ,
          
           
             When
             I
             design
             intemperately
             to
             praise
             ;
          
           
             I
             sing
             a
             wondrous
             man
             and
             wondrous
             things
             ,
          
           
             What
             need
             of
             gouty
             Feet
             ;
             my
             Muse
             has
             got
             her
             wings
             .
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             But
             stay
             ,
             my
             Muse
             ,
             wilt
             thou
             no
             God
             invoke
             ,
          
           
             Is
             no
             kind
             Deity
             bespoke
             ,
          
           
           
             To
             guide
             thee
             through
             the
             vast
             mysterious
             maze
          
           
             Of
             his
             unbounded
             praise
             ?
          
           
             Great
             Phoebus
             !
             daign
             for
             once
             to
             lend
             an
             ear
          
           
             To
             an
             humble
             Poet's
             Prayer
             ;
          
           
             With
             open
             Arms
             so
             may
             thy
             Thetis
             run
          
           
             To
             meet
             thy
             Teem
             and
             setting
             Sun
             ;
          
           
             So
             may
             thy
             glorious
             Head
             for
             ever
             be
          
           
             From
             sooty
             Earthly
             Vapours
             free
             ,
          
           
             With
             undisturbed
             Rays
             may
             shine
             ,
          
           
             Till
             the
             last
             Flames
             shall
             the
             whole
             World
             refine
             ,
          
           
             When
             thou
             must
             too
             expire
             ,
          
           
             As
             in
             thy
             Beams
             now
             Culinary
             Fire
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             But
             why
             shou'd
             I
             with
             so
             much
             passion
             ask
          
           
             That
             which
             thou
             count'st
             thy
             daily
             Task
             ?
          
           
             Poets
             and
             Painters
             too
          
           
             To
             thee
             their
             fair
             designments
             owe
             ;
          
           
             In
             vain
             the
             feeble
             Poets
             write
          
           
             Unless
             the
             God
             of
             Wit
             indite
             ;
          
           
             In
             vain
             they
             paint
             ,
             and
             show
             their
             Art
             ,
          
           
             Unless
             thou
             play
             thy
             Part
             ;
          
           
             Shoud'st
             thou
             but
             once
             deny
             their
             Pieces
             light
             ,
          
           
             Their
             best-wrought
             Draughts
             must
             lye
             in
             endless
             Night
             .
          
           
           
             For
             at
             the
             Call
             of
             thy
             approaching
             Sun
             ,
          
           
             The
             hidden
             Colours
             all
             do
             run
             ,
          
           
             The
             green
             ,
             the
             blue
             ,
             the
             yellow
             ,
             and
             the
             red
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             Regiment
             make
             Head
             ,
          
           
             When
             in
             a
             Morn
             thou
             risest
             first
             from
             sleep
             ,
          
           
             Each
             colour
             to
             its
             well-known
             feature
             creepe
             .
          
           
             What
             is
             that
             thing
             ,
             I
             fain
             wou'd
             know
             ,
          
           
             With
             which
             thou'
             rt
             wont
             to
             gild
             the
             watry
             Bow
             ,
          
           
             What
             are
             those
             all-enlivening
             Beams
          
           
             With
             which
             thou
             paint'st
             the
             murmuring
             Streams
             ,
          
           
             With
             which
             thou
             trickest
             up
             the
             Air
             and
             Skies
             ,
          
           
             Which
             on
             the
             Plants
             in
             gaudy
             colours
             lies
             !
          
           
             With
             that
             same
             Pencil
             let
             me
             stand
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             Lines
             and
             Strokes
             command
          
           
             With
             measure
             and
             due
             Art
             to
             march
             along
          
           
             Into
             my
             well-proportion'd
             Song
             .
          
           
             That
             while
             I
             sing
             this
             matchless
             Morn
             ,
          
           
             (
             Who
             through
             various
             Climes
             has
             run
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             the
             greatest
             skill
             has
             gather'd
             thence
          
           
             Paintings
             Elixir
             and
             true
             Quintessence
             )
          
           
             Here
             a
             soft
             gentle
             Stroke
             may
             rise
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             a
             bolder
             may
             surprize
             .
          
           
           
             Thus
             ,
             Dearest
             Friend
             ,
             you
             see
          
           
             How
             we
             are
             outdone
             by
             thee
          
           
             In
             our
             own
             Calling
             ,
             Poetry
             ,
          
           
             Even
             Words
             and
             Metaphors
             you
             must
             impart
          
           
             They
             all
             are
             borrow'd
             from
             the
             Storehouse
             of
             thy
             Art.
             
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             
               Zeuxes
               ,
               Apelles
            
             ,
             and
             those
             mighty
             Names
             ,
          
           
             That
             swell
             so
             big
             the
             mouth
             of
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             For
             many
             Ages
             did
             retain
          
           
             The
             Universal
             Painting
             Reign
             .
          
           
             Courted
             and
             lov'd
             by
             all
             ,
             with
             wonder
             view'd
             ,
          
           
             By
             dull
             Antiquities
             admiring
             Crowd
             ;
          
           
             But
             their
             poor
             Images
             were
             wont
             to
             wear
          
           
             Their
             Pointers
             ,
             this
             a
             Dog
             and
             that
             Bear
             ;
          
           
             They
             ne'er
             cou'd
             higher
             than
             a
             Landskip
             rise
             ,
          
           
             Which
             at
             first
             sight
             might
             pleasingly
             surprize
             .
          
           
             The
             foolish
             Birds
             ,
             I
             think
             we
             read
             ,
             were
             caught
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             their
             painted
             Berries
             brought
             ;
          
           
             Alas
             !
             my
             Friend
             ,
             hadst
             thou
             but
             liv'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             Painters
             Mighty
             Self
             had
             been
             deceiv'd
             :
          
           
             But
             these
             to
             Titian
             and
             Angelo
          
           
             Their
             Sovereign
             Empire
             did
             forego
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             Painting
             still
             was
             in
             its
             stripling
             Age
             ,
          
           
             Till
             Lely
             and
             Vandike
             did
             mount
             the
             Stage
             ;
          
           
             And
             when
             these
             Prophets
             went
             at
             Death's
             great
             Call
             ,
          
           
             They
             let
             their
             Mantle
             on
             thee
             fall
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             the
             same
             they
             did
             impart
          
           
             A
             double
             Portion
             of
             their
             Spirit
             and
             Art.
             
          
        
         
           
             V.
             
          
           
             But
             stay
             ,
             here
             Friendship
             's
             Sacred
             Name
          
           
             In
             my
             bold
             Song
             an
             equal
             share
             does
             claim
             .
          
           
             What!
             Can
             my
             overweaning
             Muse
          
           
             The
             Mighty
             Ryley's
             Praise
             refuse
             ?
          
           
             Ryley
             ,
             the
             second
             Glory
             of
             our
             Age
             ,
          
           
             The
             Darling
             of
             the
             Court
             ,
             the
             Town
             and
             Stage
             ;
          
           
             Ryley
             by
             Heaven
             sent
          
           
             By
             way
             of
             an
             experiment
             ,
          
           
             To
             show
             the
             World
             how
             feeble
             Natures
             part
          
           
             May
             be
             outdone
             by
             her
             great
             Scholar
             ,
             Art.
          
           
             Upon
             the
             weight
             of
             these
             two
             Columns
             lye
          
           
             Paintings
             Universal
             Monarchy
             .
          
           
             The
             Gyants
             War
             describ'd
             upon
             a
             Shield
             ,
          
           
             Was
             all
             Antiquity
             cou'd
             yield
             ;
          
           
           
             Or
             Gods
             that
             on
             their
             painted
             Poops
             did
             pass
             ,
          
           
             Viewing
             themselves
             within
             the
             liquid
             Glass
             :
          
           
             A
             timorous
             Age
             !
             that
             crept
             along
             the
             Sand
             ,
          
           
             But
             never
             durst
             lose
             sight
             of
             Land.
          
           
             But
             thou
             ,
             my
             Friend
             ,
             didst
             boldly
             out
             to
             Sea
             ,
          
           
             And
             thy
             own
             Pilot
             too
             wilt
             be
             ;
          
           
             And
             scorn'st
             to
             sneak
             to
             servile
             Arts
             and
             Rules
             ,
          
           
             Made
             to
             fetter
             Dastard
             Souls
             .
          
        
         
           
             VI.
             
          
           
             With
             such
             a
             glowing
             Warmth
             ,
             as
             I
             pass
             by
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Pictures
             strike
             my
             cheated
             Eye
             ;
          
           
             They
             seem
             to
             move
             ,
             and
             nod
             ,
             and
             speak
             ▪
          
           
             And
             into
             violent
             passions
             break
             ;
          
           
             That
             for
             the
             time
             to
             come
          
           
             Painting
             no
             more
             shall
             be
             an
             Art
             that
             's
             dumb
             .
          
           
             Whatever
             skill
             or
             cost
          
           
             The
             famous
             Raphael's
             Pieces
             boast
             ;
          
           
             Now
             to
             oblivion
             and
             contempt
             they
             're
             damn'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             into
             Corners
             and
             dark
             Entries
             cram'd
             ;
          
           
             But
             thy
             Great
             Fame
             (
             as
             some
             good
             Pictures
             do
             ,
          
           
             Which
             best
             appear
             when
             far
             remov'd
             from
             view
             )
          
           
             With
             After-times
             shall
             still
             maintain
             its
             light
             ,
          
           
             And
             at
             an
             Ages
             distance
             shine
             more
             bright
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             VII
             .
          
           
             Methinks
             ,
             I
             in
             thy
             wondrous
             Art
             adore
          
           
             Something
             that
             looks
             like
             a
             Creating
             Pow'r
             ;
          
           
             For
             when
             this
             World
             's
             great
             Draught
             ,
             and
             well
             ▪
             wrought
             Piece
          
           
             Of
             Air
             ,
             and
             Earth
             ,
             and
             Seas
             ,
          
           
             Was
             fashion'd
             by
             the
             Thunderer's
             hand
             ,
          
           
             All
             things
             at
             first
             did
             mixt
             and
             huddled
             stand
             ,
          
           
             All
             things
             together
             lay
             in
             Nature's
             tiring
             Room
             ,
          
           
             The
             Water
             and
             the
             Fire
             both
             struggled
             in
             on●
             Womb
             ,
          
           
             Gold
             things
             with
             hot
             ,
             and
             moist
             with
             dry
          
           
             Did
             undistinguish'd
             ly
             ;
          
           
             When
             by
             a
             touch
             of
             their
             Great
             Makers
             Art
             ,
          
           
             The
             jarring
             Seeds
             of
             things
             did
             freely
             part
             ,
          
           
             They
             humbly
             did
             retire
             without
             complaint
             ,
          
           
             And
             out
             there
             leapt
             this
             World's
             most
             beauteo●
             Piece
             of
             Paint
             .
          
           
             So
             o'er
             the
             Chaos
             of
             a
             gloomy
             Ground
          
           
             Oft
             have
             I
             seen
             thy
             nimble
             Pencil
             move
             ;
          
           
             And
             here
             a
             Hill
             the
             sight
             wou'd
             bound
             ,
          
           
             And
             here
             wou'd
             peep
             a
             Floud
             ,
             and
             there
             a
             Grove
          
           
           
             And
             straight
             a
             glorious
             Heaven
             wou'd
             arise
             ,
          
           
             Spangled
             and
             stuck
             with
             starry
             Eyes
             ;
          
           
             And
             here
             a
             beauteous
             Nymph
             her
             head
             wou'd
             reer
             ▪
          
           
             With
             Eyes
             so
             killing
             ,
             Mien
             so
             wondrous
             rare
             ,
          
           
             That
             though
             some
             foolish
             Men
             may
             call
          
           
             This
             lovely
             Creature
             Shadow
             all
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             here
             I
             vow
             with
             fam'd
             Pygmalion
             .
          
           
             If
             I
             must
             go
             a
             wooing
             ,
          
           
             For
             Shadows
             of
             thy
             doing
             ,
          
           
             I
             'd
             some
             of
             Nature's
             Substances
             disown
             .
          
        
         
           
             VIII
             .
          
           
             Philosophy
             this
             Notion
             clears
             ,
          
           
             That
             the
             pale
             Moon
             two
             Faces
             wears
             ,
          
           
             With
             one
             she
             looks
             at
             us
             ,
             they
             say
             ,
          
           
             Which
             radiant
             is
             and
             bright
             ;
          
           
             The
             other's
             always
             turn'd
             away
             ,
          
           
             And
             hid
             in
             thickest
             Night
             :
          
           
             But
             if
             the
             Picture
             of
             thy
             well-fraught
             Mind
          
           
             I
             regularly
             draw
             ,
             my
             Friend
             ,
          
           
             There
             must
             no
             Shade
             be
             there
             at
             all
             ,
          
           
             Nothing
             that
             we
             may
             darkness
             call
             ;
          
           
             Thou
             ,
             like
             the
             Sun
             ,
             art
             a
             full
             Globe
             of
             Light
             ,
          
           
             Shining
             in
             every
             part
             ,
             throughout
             the
             whole
             most
             bright
             ,
          
           
           
             Adorn'd
             with
             every
             Artful
             Grace
             that
             can
          
           
             Make
             up
             an
             Illustrious
             Man.
          
           
             Painting
             the
             Jewel
             is
             ,
             I
             own
             ,
          
           
             Which
             in
             thy
             Ring
             of
             Arts
             is
             set
             and
             shown
             ;
          
           
             But
             though
             in
             this
             thou
             dost
             excel
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             other
             things
             beside
             thy
             Praises
             tell
             ,
          
           
             A
             Sword
             ,
             as
             well
             as
             Pencil
             ,
             thou
             canst
             wield
             ,
          
           
             And
             dare
             to
             tread
             ,
             as
             well
             as
             paint
             a
             Field
             .
          
           
             His
             Hand
             ,
             which
             with
             such
             gentle
             Strokes
             you
             saw
          
           
             But
             now
             that
             beauteous
             Woman
             shape
             and
             draw
             ,
          
           
             Can
             ,
             rougher
             grown
             ,
             with
             as
             unerring
             Art
          
           
             Its
             Passage
             force
             to
             a
             bold
             Rival's
             heart
             ;
          
           
             His
             Courage
             equal
             to
             his
             Fancy's
             shown
             ,
          
           
             Both
             with
             as
             vigorous
             heat
             do
             burn
             ,
          
           
             If
             once
             provoke't
             ,
             his
             Pencils
             Rod
             thrown
             down
             ,
          
           
             Into
             a
             Serpent
             he
             can
             turn
             .
          
        
         
           
             IX
             .
          
           
             And
             since
             all
             Strokes
             and
             Lines
             we
             find
          
           
             Humbly
             to
             wait
             at
             thy
             Command
             ,
          
           
             As
             readily
             obey
             thy
             hand
          
           
             As
             that
             the
             motions
             of
             thy
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             Prethee
             go
             on
          
           
             My
             best
             beloved
             Song
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             tell
             thy
             humble
             Masters
             just
             desire
             ,
          
           
             The
             God
             of
             Wit
             will
             still
             thy
             Strains
             inspire
             ;
          
           
             Ah
             gentle
             Artist
             ,
             when
             thou
             tak'st
             in
             hand
          
           
             The
             cruel
             Mistress
             of
             my
             heart
             ,
          
           
             Which
             like
             my
             Soul
             within
             me
             stands
             ,
          
           
             Is
             all
             in
             all
             ,
             and
             all
             in
             every
             Part
             ,
          
           
             Dress
             her
             in
             charms
             of
             choicest
             white
             and
             red
             ,
          
           
             And
             show
             the
             World
             what
             ne'er
             has
             been
          
           
             In
             all
             past
             Ages
             heard
             or
             seen
             ,
          
           
             That
             thou
             canst
             draw
             a
             perfect
             Maidenhead
             .
          
           
             The
             Face
             with
             interfering
             Circles
             fill'd
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Nature's
             Alphabet
             does
             stand
             ,
          
           
             In
             every
             Letter
             thou
             art
             skill'd
             ,
          
           
             Though
             darkly
             writ
             by
             Nature's
             hand
             ;
          
           
             By
             each
             small
             Track
             and
             winding
             Line
          
           
             The
             temper
             of
             the
             Soul
             thou
             canst
             Divine
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             Dame
             Nature
             thou
             hadst
             stood
             and
             view'd
          
           
             Whilst
             She
             complexions
             did
             divide
             and
             brew
             ;
          
           
             So
             by
             my
             Sylvia's
             features
             thou
             canst
             guess
          
           
             My
             eternal
             wo
             or
             bliss
             ,
          
           
             By
             these
             perhaps
             thou'lt
             find
          
           
             Whether
             she
             ever
             will
             prove
             kind
             ;
          
           
             As
             your
             rich
             Mines
             have
             oft
             been
             found
          
           
             By
             the
             bare
             surface
             of
             the
             Ground
             .
          
           
           
             But
             ,
             gentle
             Artist
             ,
             in
             her
             eyes
          
           
             Let
             none
             of
             that
             fierce
             Lightning
             rise
             ;
          
           
             All
             sweet
             and
             charming
             let
             her
             be
             ,
          
           
             That
             without
             fear
             I
             her
             lov'd
             face
             may
             see
             ;
          
           
             Let
             no
             frowns
             on
             the
             Copy
             fall
             ,
          
           
             Whatever
             may
             be
             seen
             in
             the
             Original
             .
          
           
             And
             then
             to
             thy
             great
             Name
             ,
             and
             greater
             Art
             I
             'll
             bow
             ,
          
           
             And
             She
             shall
             by
             thy
             hand
             immortal
             grow
             ;
          
           
             Her
             Image
             Time
             nor
             Fate
             shall
             e'er
             devour
             ;
          
           
             So
             small
             is
             Death's
             ,
             so
             great
             the
             Painter's
             power
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           A
           POEM
           ON
           Mr
           L'Estrange
           .
        
         
           
             —
             In
             magnis
             voluisse
             sat
             est
             .
          
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             A
             Task
             too
             vast
             for
             any
             living
             Mortal
             Wight
          
           
             Oh
             cou'd
             we
             call
             back
             from
             the
             shades
             again
          
           
             Great
             
               Oldham
               ,
               Cowley
            
             ,
             or
             
               Immortal
               Ben
            
             ,
          
           
             Those
             happy
             Bards
             might
             something
             worthy
             thee
             indite
             ;
          
           
             And
             though
             these
             three
             to
             our
             assistance
             came
             ,
          
           
             With
             all
             their
             rich
             and
             shining
             Eloquence
             ,
          
           
             With
             all
             the
             gaudy
             Trappings
             of
             their
             sence
             ,
          
           
             The
             Dress
             wou'd
             prove
             too
             poor
             and
             scanty
             for
             thy
             Fame
             ;
          
           
             Their
             startling
             Metaphors
             and
             Simile's
             ,
          
           
             Their
             soaring
             Flights
             and
             bold
             Hyperbole's
          
           
           
             Wou'd
             vastly
             fall
             beneath
             their
             hopes
             ,
          
           
             If
             spoke
             on
             thee
             ,
             wou'd
             never
             pass
             for
             Flourishes
             or
             Tropes
             .
          
           
             And
             yet
             amidst
             this
             plenteous
             store
          
           
             Of
             Theme
             and
             Subject
             ,
             miser-like
             ,
             I
             'm
             poor
             ;
          
           
             Who
             e'er
             at
             too
             much
             Sea-room
             griev'd
             before
             ?
          
           
             Long
             have
             I
             trembling
             stood
             upon
             the
             Sand
             ,
          
           
             And
             dreaded
             to
             put
             off
             from
             Land
             ,
          
           
             When
             straight
             ,
             I
             know
             not
             how
             ,
             I
             'm
             tost
          
           
             Into
             the
             boundless
             Main
             ,
             in
             Heaps
             of
             Waters
             lost
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             from
             my
             weak
             unaided
             sight
             ,
          
           
             The
             Shore
             ,
             the
             Fields
             and
             Turrets
             take
             their
             hasty
             flight
             .
          
        
         
           
             II.
             
          
           
             I
             come
             with
             equal
             veneration
             stor'd
             ,
          
           
             As
             big
             with
             shame
             ,
             with
             as
             much
             wonder
             fraught
             ,
          
           
             As
             what
             the
             World
             of
             old
             their
             Children
             taught
             ;
          
           
             When
             the
             Diluvian
             Patriarch
             they
             ador'd
             ;
          
           
             With
             such
             swell'd
             hopes
             ,
             with
             such
             concern
             they
             ran
          
           
             To
             see
             and
             hear
             that
             Great
             Surviving
             Man
             ,
          
           
             Who
             of
             two
             Worlds
             a
             Citizen
             had
             been
             .
          
           
             The
             Janus-Noah
             wore
             a
             double
             face
             ,
          
           
             Present
             and
             past
             together
             here
             took
             place
             .
          
           
           
             Like
             that
             fam'd
             Sire
             ,
             You
             liv'd
             before
             the
             Flood
             ,
          
           
             And
             well
             do
             know
             how
             't
             was
             our
             old
             World
             stood
             ,
          
           
             That
             curst
             prevailing
             Deluge
             ,
             which
             o'rflow'd
          
           
             (
             A
             heavier
             Judgment
             !
             )
             with
             polluted
             Streams
             of
             Blood
             ,
          
           
             And
             You
             were
             sav'd
             ,
             like
             him
             ,
             the
             World
             to
             bless
             ,
          
           
             To
             stock
             it
             with
             a
             more
             obedient
             Race
             ,
          
           
             To
             be
             a
             Preacher
             of
             sound
             Loyalty
             and
             righteousness
             .
          
           
             Gyants
             did
             then
             infest
             the
             Land
             ,
          
           
             Clubbs
             and
             Committees
             with
             their
             hundred
             hands
             ;
          
           
             But
             some
             of
             these
             are
             gone
             unto
             their
             Place
             ,
          
           
             By
             a
             dissenting
             Levite's
             special
             Grace
          
           
             (
             Maugre
             their
             crimes
             )
             they
             sweetly
             are
             possest
          
           
             Among
             the
             Saints
             of
             EVERLASTING
             REST.
          
           
             But
             if
             Rebellion
             can
             such
             blest
             rewards
             assign
             ,
          
           
             Cheer
             up
             ,
             Beelzebub
             ,
             the
             next
             turn
             is
             thine
             ;
          
           
             We
             must
             not
             say
             the
             Learned
             Father
             rav'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             Devil
             himself
             may
             at
             long
             run
             be
             sav'd
             :
          
           
             If
             Bloud
             and
             Treason
             lead
             to
             happiness
             ,
          
           
             If
             these
             insure
             Eternal
             bliss
             ,
          
           
             In
             the
             wise
             Indian's
             Prayer
             ,
          
           
             Oh
             may
             I
             ,
             may
             I
             ne'r
             come
             there
             ;
          
           
           
             In
             such
             a
             Crew
             let
             me
             be
             never
             seen
             ,
          
           
             But
             ,
             like
             the
             Rotterdammer
             ,
             rather
             hang
             between
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             Can
             He
             whom
             Truth
             and
             Loyalty
             their
             Patron
             chose
             ,
             Want
             a
             befitting
             Muse
             ?
          
           
             Go
             on
             ,
             my
             Song
             ,
             and
             give
             but
             one
             Poetick
             loose
             ;
          
           
             He
             that
             the
             Python
             and
             the
             Hydra
             slew
             ,
          
           
             He
             that
             the
             savage
             Herds
             with
             Musick
             drew
             ,
          
           
             Had
             Paeans
             fram'd
             ,
             and
             Altars
             rais'd
             ,
          
           
             Were
             sung
             in
             Verse
             ,
             ador'd
             and
             prais'd
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             these
             were
             all
             but
             misty
             Types
             of
             You.
          
           
             Much
             greater
             Conquests
             crown
             thy
             mighty
             Pen
             :
          
           
             Beasts
             were
             their
             Prize
             ,
             but
             thou
             hast
             tamed
             Men
             ,
          
           
             Men
             with
             their
             Reasons
             blind
             ,
             their
             Senses
             foully
             gross
             ,
          
           
             Less
             docible
             than
             the
             Rhinoceros
             ,
          
           
             To
             kneel
             for
             CHARLES
             that
             may
             in
             time
             be
             taught
             ,
          
           
             To
             pray
             or
             drink
             for
             Him
             the
             Rabble's
             hardly
             brought
             ;
          
           
             The
             Rabble
             ,
             which
             if
             one
             by
             one
             you
             singly
             place
             ,
          
           
             For
             reasonable
             Beings
             they
             may
             pass
             ;
          
           
             But
             if
             together
             they
             associate
             be
             ,
          
           
             Call
             'em
             a
             shapeless
             Lump
             of
             blind
             Monstrosity
             .
          
           
           
             Methinks
             ,
             like
             fabulous
             Scylla
             ,
             thou
             dost
             lye
             ,
          
           
             Beset
             with
             barking
             Currs
             incessant
             Cry
             :
          
           
             This
             is
             thy
             Task
             ;
             severer
             far
             than
             theirs
             ,
          
           
             Condemn'd
             to
             fight
             with
             Beasts
             in
             Amphitheaters
             ;
          
           
             And
             harder
             much
             thy
             Fate
             (
             a
             Fate
             too
             harsh
             and
             sowre
             ,
             )
          
           
             (
             Thou
             Loyalty's
             undaunted
             Confessor
             )
          
           
             For
             Scars
             as
             thick
             thy
             injur'd
             Fame
             does
             know
             ,
          
           
             As
             Scaeva
             on
             his
             Buckler
             Darts
             cou'd
             show
             ;
          
           
             He
             shook
             the
             Pointed
             Harvest
             off
             his
             Shield
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             fresh
             courage
             rang'd
             the
             Field
             ;
          
           
             And
             so
             do
             you
             ,
          
           
             With
             vigorous
             heat
             the
             Fight
             renew
             ,
          
           
             With
             interest
             return
             'em
             all
             on
             the
             admiring
             Foe
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             When
             You
             ,
             by
             Ostracism
             damn'd
             ,
          
           
             Were
             forc'd
             to
             quit
             your
             Native
             Land
             ;
          
           
             It
             did
             at
             once
             pity
             and
             wonder
             move
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             the
             frantick
             mirth
             that
             ev'ry
             where
          
           
             Among
             the
             Many
             did
             appear
             ,
          
           
             (
             So
             short
             and
             quick
             the
             Turns
             of
             popular
             hate
             and
             love
             .
             )
          
           
             At
             thy
             Eclipse
             much
             louder
             Shouts
             were
             found
             ,
          
           
             Than
             e'r
             are
             heard
             on
             the
             Arcadian
             Ground
             ,
          
           
           
             When
             all
             the
             silly
             Swains
          
           
             Come
             with
             their
             Brass
             ,
             to
             ease
             the
             labouring
             Cynthia's
             Pains
             .
          
           
             The
             Rout
             ,
             who
             live
             a
             bare
             Mechanick
             life
             ,
          
           
             Admit
             of
             no
             Dispute
             ,
             or
             reasoning
             strife
             ;
          
           
             They
             with
             their
             moving
             Leaders
             must
             comply
             ,
          
           
             Who
             act
             ,
             
               true
               Brutes
            
             ,
             by
             pure
             necessity
             .
          
           
             For
             if
             we
             wou'd
             the
             Mystery
             behold
             ,
          
           
             The
             Wolves
             were
             now
             turn'd
             Keepers
             of
             the
             Fold
             ;
          
           
             And
             thou
             shou'dst
             been
             like
             Banisht
             Tully
             mourn'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             shou'dst
             have
             ,
             like
             him
             too
             ,
             with
             Songs
             return'd
             .
          
           
             Great
             Engineer
             of
             State
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             well-purg'd
             Ears
             ,
             and
             watchful
             Eye
          
           
             Cou'd
             all
             our
             Catilines
             defeat
             ,
          
           
             Cou'd
             all
             their
             subterraneous
             Works
             and
             Mines
             descry
             .
          
           
             For
             in
             thy
             Lines
             ,
             as
             in
             a
             Necromantick
             Glass
             ,
          
           
             At
             three
             Years
             distance
             was
             distinctly
             shown
          
           
             (
             Though
             thy
             Prophetick
             Gift
             we
             n'er
             wou'd
             own
             )
          
           
             The
             Figure
             of
             their
             Plot
             ,
             its
             features
             ,
             Limbs
             and
             Face
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             V.
             
          
           
             Sidney
             *
             ,
             the
             Muses
             humble
             Seat
             ,
          
           
             (
             But
             by
             L'Estrange's
             Name
             made
             great
             )
          
           
             Sidney
             no
             longer
             mourns
             ;
             but
             joys
             to
             bring
             Thee
             forth
             ,
          
           
             No
             longer
             blushes
             at
             her
             *
             other
             guilty
             Birth
             :
          
           
             For
             in
             this
             fair
             Rebecca's
             Womb
          
           
             You
             struggled
             both
             ,
             from
             hence
             you
             both
             did
             come
             ;
          
           
             Supplanter
             is
             thy
             Name
             ,
             design'd
             by
             Fate
          
           
             The
             great
             Usurper
             to
             defeat
             :
          
           
             For
             thy
             blest
             Pen
             by
             this
             does
             half
             atone
          
           
             For
             all
             the
             mighty
             Ills
             his
             Sword
             has
             done
             ;
          
           
             You
             Loyal
             nourishment
             and
             Vertue
             bore
          
           
             From
             the
             same
             Breast
             ,
             whence
             that
             black
             Fiend
             before
          
           
             Suckt
             nought
             but
             Bloud
             and
             unconcocted
             Gore
             .
          
           
             Thus
             
               Natures
               Sages
            
             wisely
             prove
             and
             show
          
           
             From
             the
             same
             Cause
             different
             Effects
             may
             slow
             ;
          
           
             The
             Suns
             kind
             Rays
             can
             choicest
             Beings
             form
             ,
          
           
             If
             pure
             and
             fine
             the
             Subject
             which
             they
             warm
             ;
          
           
             But
             if
             on
             Mud
             receiv'd
             ,
             how
             can
             they
             chuse
             ,
          
           
             But
             Frogs
             and
             Toads
             ,
             and
             such
             vile
             Births
             produce
             .
          
           
           
             Go
             on
             ,
             Brave
             man
             ,
             boldly
             ride
             out
             the
             Storm
             ,
          
           
             With
             which
             this
             peevish
             Age
             Thy
             Sacred
             Head
             wou'd
             harm
             ;
          
           
             In
             after-times
             the
             Mighty
             Good
          
           
             Shall
             be
             better
             understood
             ,
          
           
             And
             if
             the
             Muse
             Futurities
             can
             read
             ,
          
           
             Fame
             ,
             like
             thy
             Body
             ,
             shall
             weigh
             more
             when
             dead
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             Friends
             ,
             like
             Amulets
             ,
             thy
             Lines
             shall
             bear
             ,
          
           
             As
             once
             the
             World
             Great
             Castriot's
             Bones
             did
             wear
             ;
          
           
             Like
             the
             Bohemian's
             famous
             Drum
          
           
             Thy
             blest
             Remains
             shall
             Glory
             win
             ,
          
           
             As
             surely
             scare
             thy
             Foes
             ,
             as
             surely
             strike
             'em
             dumb
             ,
          
           
             Though
             that
             was
             cover'd
             with
             his
             Skin
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           ERRATA
           .
        
         
           PAge
           24.
           
           Line
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           come
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           for
           So
           r.
           See.
           p.
           33.
           l.
           18.
           r.
           
             thou
             foolish
             Quill
          
           .
           p
           ▪
           34.
           l.
           11.
           r.
           Those
           .
           p.
           37.
           l.
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           r.
           
             shine
             not
             for
          
           .
           p.
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           .
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           ib.
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             sleep
             to
             his
          
           .
           p.
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             Oh
             how
             shall
             I.
          
           p.
           47.
           l.
           18.
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           .
           p.
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           l.
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           .
           p.
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             Pleader
             turned
             o'er
             the.
          
           p.
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           .
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             who
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           ,
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             break
             From
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             ,
             the.
          
           p.
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           dele
           once
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           p.
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           Man.
           
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           Books
           Printed
           and
           Sold
           by
           
             Luke
             Meredith
          
           ,
           at
           the
           King's
           Head
           in
           St.
           Paul's
           Church-yard
           .
        
         
           AN
           Introduction
           to
           the
           Old
           English
           History
           .
           Comprehended
           in
           three
           several
           Tracts
           .
           The
           First
           ,
           An
           Answer
           to
           Mr.
           Petyt's
           
             Rights
             of
             the
             Commons
             Asserted
          
           ;
           and
           to
           a
           Book
           Intituled
           ,
           
             Jani
             Anglorum
             Facies
             Nova
          
           ;
           The
           Second
           Edition
           very
           much
           enlarged
           .
           The
           Second
           ,
           An
           Answer
           to
           a
           Book
           Intituled
           ,
           
             Argumentum
             Antinormanicum
          
           ,
           much
           upon
           the
           same
           Subject
           ;
           Never
           before
           Published
           .
           The
           Third
           ,
           The
           Exact
           History
           of
           the
           Succession
           of
           the
           Crown
           of
           England
           ;
           The
           Second
           Edition
           ,
           also
           very
           much
           enlarged
           .
           Together
           with
           an
           Appendix
           ,
           Containing
           several
           Records
           ,
           and
           a
           Series
           of
           
             Great
             Councils
          
           and
           Parliaments
           Before
           and
           After
           the
           Conquest
           ,
           unto
           the
           End
           of
           the
           Reign
           of
           Henry
           the
           Third
           .
           And
           a
           Glossary
           expounding
           many
           Words
           ,
           used
           frequently
           in
           our
           antient
           Records
           ,
           Laws
           and
           Historians
           .
           Published
           for
           the
           Vindication
           of
           Truth
           ,
           and
           the
           Assistance
           of
           such
           as
           desire
           with
           satisfaction
           to
           read
           ,
           and
           truly
           understand
           the
           Antient
           English
           Historians
           ,
           and
           other
           Pieces
           of
           Antiquity
           .
           By
           
             Robert
             Brady
          
           ,
           Doctor
           in
           Physick
           .
        
         
         
           Two
           Treatises
           .
           The
           First
           ,
           Concerning
           Reproaching
           and
           Censure
           :
           The
           Second
           ,
           An
           Answer
           to
           Mr.
           Serjeant's
           Sure-Footing
           .
           To
           which
           are
           annexed
           
             Three
             Sermons
          
           Preached
           upon
           several
           Occasions
           ,
           and
           very
           useful
           for
           these
           Times
           .
           By
           the
           late
           Learned
           and
           Reverend
           
             William
             Falkner
          
           ,
           D.
           D.
           
        
         
           A
           Dialogue
           between
           a
           Pastor
           and
           his
           Parishiner
           touching
           the
           Lord's
           Supper
           .
        
         
           
             Rhetoricae
             Libri
             Duo
             :
             Quorum
             Prior
             de
          
           Tropis
           &
           Figuris
           ,
           
             Posterior
             de
          
           Voce
           &
           Gestu
           
             praecipit
             .
             In
             usum
             Scholarum
             postremò
             recogniti
             ,
             infinitisque
             paenè
             mendis
             expurgati
             .
             Autore
          
           Carolo
           Butlero
           ,
           
             Madg.
             Artium
             Magistro
          
           .
        
         
      
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A33398-e34530
           
             *
             College
             in
             Camhridge
             .
          
           
             *
             Oliver
             Cromw
             .