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Sunk by degrees from glories past,
Then nought but words it grew,
It perish'd, and it vanish'd there; [ty air! The life and soul, breath'd out, became but empThe fields, which answer'd well the ancients' plough,
Spent and out-worn, return no harvest now;
We break-up tombs with sacrilegious hands;
To walk in ruins, like vain ghosts, we love,
And with fond divining wands
We search among the dead
Whilst still the liberal Earth does hold So many virgin-mines of undiscover'd gold.
The Baltic, Euxine, and the Caspian,
And nothing sees but seas and skies,
Thou great Columbus of the golden lands of new
Thy task was harder much than his;
I little thought before,
(Nor, being my own self so poor, Could comprehend so vast a store)
That all the wardrobe of rich Eloquence
To cloathe the mighty limbs of thy gigantic Sense.
Too strong to take a mark from any mortal dart,
Then, when they 're sure to lose the combat by't.
"Whate'er these seem, whate'er philosophy
'Tis their own wisdom moulds their state,
An unseen hand makes all their moves;
And some are great, and some are small, Some climb to good, some from good-fortune falls
Me from the womb the midwife Muse did take: She cut my navel, wash'd me, and mine head With her own hands she fashioned; She did a covenant with me make, [spake: And circumcis'd my tender soul, and thus she "Thou of my church shalt be; Hate and renounce," said she, [me. "Wealth, honour, pleasures, all the world, for Thou neither great at court, nor in the war, Nor at th' exchange, shalt be, nor at the wrang
Content thyself with the small barren praise,
Took their unlucky doom.
Their several ways of life let others chuse,
With Fate what boots it to contend?
And some small light it did dispense,
No matter, Cowley! let proud Fortune see,
Let all her gifts the portion be
Rebellion and Hypocrisy ;
Do thou not grieve, nor blush to be,
As all th' inspired tuneful
In standing pools we seek the sky, That stars, so high above,should seem to us below. Can we stand by and see
Our mother robb'd, and bound, and ravish'd be,
Pleas'd with the strength and beauty of the ra-
There's none but Brutus could deserve
Ill Fate assum'd a body thee t'affright, And wrap'd itself i' th' terrours of the night: "I'll meet thee at Philippi," said the sprite; "I'll meet thee there," saidst thou, With such a voice, and such a brow, As put the trembling ghost to sudden flight; It vanish'd, as a taper's light
Goes out when spirits appear in sight. One would have thought 't had heard the morning crow,
Or seen her well-appointed star
Come marching up the eastern hill afar.
But, unseen, attack'd thee there:
And all thy great forefathers, were, from Homer Had it presum'd in any shape thee to oppose,
down to Ben.
EXCELLENT Brutus! of all human race
The best, till Nature was improv'd by Grace;
In all their contrariety:
Thou would'st have forc'd it back upon thy foes:
The false Octavius and wild Antony,
God-like Brutus! conquer thee?
What can we say, but thine own tragic word-
An idol only, and a name.
Each had his motion natural and free,
world, could be.
These mighty gulphs are yet Too deep for all thy judgment and thy wit.
From thy strict rule some think that thou didst The time's set forth already which shall quell
(Mistaken, honest men!) in Cæsar's blood;
Are so far from understood,
We count them vice: alas! our sight's so ill,
On her supreme idea, brave and bright,
Stiff Reason, when it offers to rebel;
Which these great secrets shall unseal,
A few years more, so soon hadst thou not dy'd,
TO DR. SCARBOROUGH.
The subtle Ague, that for sureness' sake
That's sometimes roll'd away in vain,
The Indian son of Lust (that foul disease
If thou but succour the besieged heart,
Than Aaron's incense, or than Phineas' dart.
The vast and barbarous lexicon
At thy strong charms it must be gone Though a disease, as well as devil, were called
From creeping moss to soaring cedar thou
Who, whilst thy wondrous skill in plants they see, Fear lest the tree of life should be found out by thee.
And thy well-travell'd knowledge, too, does give
As the great artist in his sphere of glass
But whole Apollo is thine own;
There are who all their patients' chagrin have,
Ah, learned friend! it grieves me, when I think
And all thy noble reparations sink [tality.
T' enjoy at once their health and thee: Some hours, at least, to thine own pleasures spare: Since the whole stock may soon exhausted be, Bestow 't not all in charity.
Let Nature and let Art do what they please,
LIFE AND FAME.
OH, Life! thou Nothing's younger brother! So like, that one might take one for the other!
What's somebody, or nobody?
In all the cobwebs of the schoolmen's trade,
Up betwixt two eternities !
Yet canst nor wave nor wind sustain,
But, broken and o'erwhelm'd, the endless oceans meet again.
And with what rare inventions do we strive
Some with vast costly tombs would purchase it, And by the proofs of death pretend to live.
"Here lies the great"-false Marble ! where? Nothing but small and sordid dust lies there.— Some build enormous mountain-palaces,
The fools and architects to please;
A lasting life in well-hewn stone they rear:
Lives in the dropping ruins of his amphitheatre.
His father-in-law an higher place does claim
He, since that toy his death, Does fill all mouths, and breathes in all men's "Tis true, the two immortal syllables remain; But, oh, ye learned men! explain What essence, what existence, this, What substance, whatsubsistence, what hypostasis, In six poor letters is!
In those alone does the great Cæsar live,
'Tis all the conquer'd world could give.
With a refin'd fantastic vanity,
Think we not only have, but give, eternity.
Who his to morrow would bestow,
Through several orbs which one fair planet bear, Where I behold distinctly, as I pass,
The hints of Galileo's glass,
I touch at last the spangled sphere:
"Tis all so bright and gay,
And the joint eyes of night make up a perfect day.
Where am I now? Angels, and God is here;
Swallows my senses quite,
And drowns all what, or how, or where !
The tyrannous pleasure could express.
Oh, 'tis too much for man! but let it ne'er be
The mighty Elijah mounted so on high,
And went not downwards to the sky!
(As conquering kings in triumph go)
And wondrous was his way, and wondrous was his
For all old Homer's life, e'er since he dy'd till 'Twas gaudy all; and rich in every part
Where shall I find the noble British land?
Lo! I at last a northern speck espy,
Which in the sea does lie,
And seems a grain o' th' sand!
And is it this, alas! which we
I pass by th' arched magazines which hold
Nor shake with fear or cold:
I meet clouds charg'd with thunder,
And lightnings, in my way,
Like harmless lambent fires, about my temples play.
Now into a gentle sea of rolling flame
So great, so pure, so bright a fire,
Was that unfortunate desire,
My faithful breast did cover,
Of essences, of gems; and spirit of gold
Was its substantial mould,
Drawn forth by chymic angels' art.
And flaming manes their necks array'd:
But such light solid ones as shine
On the transparent rocks o' th' Heaven crystal
Thus mounted the great prophet to the skies;
Or that which so they call,
Wonder'd from hence to see one rise.
Awhile the sacred footsteps bore;
The wheels and horses' hoofs hizz'd as they past
them o'er !
He past by th' Moon and planets, and did fright
But where he stopp'd will ne'er be known,
To a better thing do aspire,
And mount herself, like him, to eternity in fire.
TO THE NEW YEAR.
GREAT Janus! (who dost,sure, my mysteries view
hen, when I was of late a wretched mortal lover. | With all thine eyes, yet think'st them all too few
If thy fore-face do see
No better things prepar'd for me, Than did thy face behind;
If still her breast must shut against me be, (For 'tis not Peace that temple's gate does bind) Oh, let my life, if thou so many deaths a coming With thine old year its voyage take, Borne down that stream of Time which no return can make !
Alas! what need I thus to pray?
Sourness and lees, which to the bottom sink,
If then, young Year ! thou needst must come,
The birth beyond its time can never tarry,
Chuse thy attendants well; for 'tis not thee
Either black Sin, or gaudy Vanity:
Nay, if thou lov st me, gentle Year!
There's of this caution little need,
How thou dost make
And mighty voyages we take,
And mighty journeys seem to make,
O'er sea and land, the little point that has no
Because we fight, and battles gain;
Some captives call, and say," the rest are slain:"
And, like Egyptian chroniclers,
Whilst all these shadows, that for things we
Are but the empty dreams which in Death's sleep we make.