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Yet, when the rage of battle ceas’d,
Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
filial breast shall beat ;
ON THE DEATH OF THE
Our poetry was not quite harmonized in Waller's
time; so that this, which would be now looked upon as a slovenly sort of versification, was, with respect to the times in which it was written, almost a prodigy of harmony. A modern reader will chiefly be ftruck with the strength of thinking, and the turn of the compliments bestowed upon the usurper. Every body has heard the answer our poet made Charles II ; who asked him how his
poem upon Cromwell came to be finer than his panegyric upon himself, “ Your majesty, replies Waller, “knows, that poets always suco ceed beft in fiction.”
E must resign! Heav'n his great foul does claimi
In storms, as loud as his immortal fame :
The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear
THE STORY OF
PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE,
A P P L I E D.
The French claim this as belonging to them. To whomsoever it belongs the thought is finely turned.
HYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sachariffa lov'd, but lov'd in vain : Like Phæbus sung the no less amorous boy ; Like Daphne she; as lovely, and as coy ! With numbers he the flying nymph pursues ; With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use ! Such is the chase when love and fancy leads, O'er craggy mountains, and thro’ Aow'ry meads; Invok'd to testify the lover's care, Or form fome image of his cruel fair. Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer, O’er these he fed, and now approaching near, Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay, Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. Yet, what he sung in his immortal strain, Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain : All, but the nymph that should redress his wrong, Attend his paffion, and approve his song. Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unfought praise, He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.