OF THE QUEEN.

THE lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to build
Her humble nest, lies silent in the field;
But if (the promise of a cloudless day)
Aurora, smiling, bids her rise and play, [voice
Then straight she shows 'twas not for want of
Or power to climb, she made so low a choice:
Singing she mounts; her airy wings are stretch'd
Tow'rds heaven, as if from heaven her note she
fetch'd.

So we, retiring from the busy throng,
Use to restrain th' ambition of our song;
But since the light which now informs our age
Breaks from the court, indulgent to her rage,
Thither my Muse, like bold Prometheus, flies,
To light her torch at Gloriana's eyes.

ON MY LADY DOROTHY SYDNEY'S PICTURE.
SUCH was Philoclea, and such Dorus' flame!
The matchless Sydney, that immortal frame
Of perfect beauty, on two pillars placed,
Not his high fancy could one pattern, graced
With such extremes of excellence, compose
Wonders so distant in one face disclose!
Such cheerful modesty, such humble state,
Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate
As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see
Inviting fruit on too sublime a tree.

All the rich flowers through his Arcadia found,
Amazed we see in this one garland bound.
Had but this copy (which the artist took
From the fair picture of that noble book)
Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends had jarr'd,
And, rivals made, th' ensuing story marr'd.
Just Nature, first instructed by his thought,
In his own house thus practised what he taught.
This glorious piece transcends what he could think,

So much his blood is nobler than his ink!

AT PENSHURST.

HAD Dorothea lived when mortals made
Choice of their deities, this sacred shade
Had held an altar to her power that gave
The peace and glory which these alleys have;

Embroider'd so with flowers where she stood,
That it became a garden of a wood.
Her presence has such more than human grace,
That it can civilize the rudest place;
And beauty too, and order, can impart,
Where Nature ne'er intended it, nor art.
The plants acknowledge this, and her admire,
No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre.
If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd,
They round about her into arbours crowd;
Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand,
Like some well-marshall'd and obsequious band.
Amphion so made stones and timber leap
Into fair figures, from a confused heap:
And in the symmetry of her parts is found
A power like that of harmony in sound.

Ye lofty beeches! tell this matchless dame,
That if together ye fed all one flame,
It could not equalize the hundredth part
Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart!
Go, boy, and carve this passion on the bark
Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark
Of noble Sydney's birth;* when such benign,
Such more than mortal-making stars did shine,
That there they cannot but for ever prove
The monument and pledge of humble love;
His humble love whose hope shall ne'er rise higher
Than for a pardon that he dares admire.

THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE APPLIED.†
THYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa loved, but loved in vain :
Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous 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 through flow'ry
Invoked to testify the lover's care,

[meads.

Or form some image of his cruel fair.
Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; 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 passion, and approve his song.
Like Phoebus, thus acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arm with bays.

[That taller tree, which of a nut was set, At his great birth, where all the Muses met. BEN JOHNSON, To Penshurst.] [The French claim this as belonging to them. To whomsoever it belongs, the thought is finely turned.-GOLDSMITH.]

AT PENSHURST.

WHILE in this park I sing, the list'ning deer
Attend my passion, and forget to fear;
When to the beeches I report my flame,
They bow their heads, as if they felt the same.
To gods appealing, when I reach their bowers
With loud complaints, they answer me in showers.
To thee a wild and cruel soul is given,

More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heaven!

Love's foe profess'd! why dost thou falsely feign
Thyself a Sydney? from which noble strain
He sprung, that could so far exalt the name
Of Love, and warm our nation with his flame;
That all we can of love or high desire,
Seems but the smoke of am'rous Sydney's fire.
Nor call her mother who so well does prove
One breast may hold both chastity and love.
Never can she, that so exceeds the Spring
In joy and bounty, be supposed to bring
One so destructive. To no human stock
We owe this fierce unkindness, but the rock,
That cloven rock produced thee, by whose side
Nature, to recompense the fatal pride

Of such stern beauty, placed those healing springs
Which not more help than that destruction brings.
Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stone,
I might, like Orpheus, with my numerous moan
Melt to compassion: now my trait'rous song
With thee conspires to do the singer wrong;
While thus I suffer not myself to lose
The memory of what augments my woes;
But with my own breath still foment the fire,
Which flames as high as fancy can aspire!

This last complaint th' indulgent ears did pierce
Of just Apollo, president of verse;
Highly concerned that the Muse should bring
Damage to one whom he had taught to sing:
Thus he advised me: "on yon aged tree
Hang up my lute, and hie thee to the sea,
That there with wonders thy diverted mind
Some truce, at least, may with this passion find."
Ah, cruel nymph! from whom her humble swain
Flies for relief into the raging main,

And from the winds and tempests does expect
A milder fate than from her cold neglect!
Yet there he'll pray that the unkind may prove
Bless'd in her choice; and vows this endless love
Springs from no hope of what she can confer,
But from those gifts which heaven has heap'd
on her.

OF LOVE.

ANGER, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes;
And sorrow too finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief:
So ev'ry passion but fond love
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep;

Postures which render him despised,
Where he endeavours to be prized.
For women (born to be controll'd,)
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the gen'rous steed opprest
Not kneeling did salute the beast,
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tamed th' unruly horse.
Unwisely we the wiser East
Pity, supposing them opprest
With tyrants' force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill:
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should some brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses, bright and young,
And beckons to the willing dame,
Preferr'd to quench his present flame,
Behold as many gallants here,
With modest guise and silent fear,
All to one female idol bend,

While her high pride does scarce descend
To mark their follies, he would swear
That these her guard of eunuchs were,
And that a more majestic queen,
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.

All this with indignation spoke,
In vain I struggled with the yoke
Of mighty Love: that conqu'ring look,
When next beheld, like lightning strook
My blasted soul, and made me bow
Lower than those I pitied now.

So the tall stag, upon the brink
Of some smooth stream about to drink,
Surveying there his armed head,
With shame remembers that he fled
The scorned dogs, resolves to try
The combat next; but if their cry
Invades again his trembling ear,
He straight resumes his wonted care,
Leaves the untasted spring behind,
And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind.

OF MY LADY ISABELLA PLAYING THE LUTE. SUCH moving sounds from such a careless touch! So unconcern'd herself, and we so much! What art is this, that with so little pains Transports us thus, and o'er our spirits reigns? The trembling strings about her fingers crowd, And tell their joy for ev'ry kiss aloud.

Small force there needs to make them tremble so;
Touch'd by that hand who would not tremble too?
Here Love takes stand, and while she charms
the ear,

Empties his quiver on the list'ning deer.
Music so softens and disarms the mind,
That not an arrow does resistance find.
Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize,
And acts herself the triumph of her eyes:
So Nero once, with harp in hand, survey'd
His flaming Rome, and as it burn'd he play'd.

OF LOVING AT FIRST SIGHT.

Nor caring to observe the wind,
Or the new sea explore,

Snatch'd from myself how far behind
Already I behold the shore!

May not a thousand dangers sleep
In the smooth bosom of this deep?
No: 'tis so rockless and so clear,
That the rich bottom does appear
Paved all with precious things; not torn
From shipwreck'd vessels, but there born.
Sweetness, truth, and every grace,
Which time and use are wont to teach,
The eye may in a moment reach
And read distinctly in her face.

Some other nymphs, with colours faint,
And pencil slow, may Cupid paint,
And a weak heart in time destroy;
She has a stamp, and prints the boy;
Can with a single look inflame
The coldest breast, the rudest tame.

THE SELF-BANISHED.

Ir is not that I love you less,
Than when before your feet I lay;
But to prevent the sad increase
Of hopeless love, I keep away.

In vain, alas! for every thing
Which I have known belong to you
Your form does to my fancy bring,

And makes my old wounds bleed anew.

Who in the spring, from the new sun,
Already has a fever got,

Too late begins those shafts to shun,
Which Phoebus through his veins has shot.
Too late he would the pain assuage,

And to thick shadows does retire;
About with him he bears the rage,

And in his tainted blood the fire. But vow'd I have, and never must Your banish'd servant trouble you. For if I break, you may mistrust

The vow I made-to love you too.

THE NIGHT-PIECE, OR A PICTURE DRAWN IN THE
DARK.

DARKNESS, which fairest nymphs disarms,
Defends us ill from Mira's charms:

Mira can lay her beauty by,

Take no advantage of the eye,
Quit all that Lely's art can take,

And yet a thousand captives make.

Her speech is graced with sweeter sound Than in another's song is found; And all her well-placed words are darts, Which need no light to reach our hearts. As the bright stars and Milky-way, Show'd by the night, are hid by day;

So we, in that accomplish'd mind,
Help'd by the night, new graces find,
Which by the splendour of her view,
Dazzled before, we never knew.

While we converse with her, we mark
No want of day, nor think it dark;
Her shining image is a light
Fix'd in our hearts, and conquers night.

Like jewels to advantage set, Her beauty by the shade does get; There blushes, frowns, and cold disdain, All that our passion might restrain, Is hid, and our indulgent mind Presents the fair idea kind.

Yet friended by the night, we dare Only in whispers tell our care: He that on her his bold hand lays, With Cupid's pointed arrows plays; They with a touch (they are so keen!) Wound us unshot, and she unseen.

All near approaches threaten death;
We may be shipwreck'd by her breath:
Love favour'd once with that sweet gale,
Doubles his haste, and fills his sail,
Till he arrive where she must prove
The haven or the rock of love.

So we th' Arabian coast do know
At distance, when the spices blow;
By the rich odour taught to steer,
Though neither day nor stars appear.

THE NAVAL GLORY OF ENGLAND.
FROM VERSES ON A WAR WITH SPAIN.

OTHERS may use the ocean as their road,
Only the English make it their abode,
Whose ready sails with every wind can fly,
And make a covenant with th' inconstant sky:
Our oaks secure as if they there took root,
We tread on billows with a steady foot.

THERE is a careless and happy humour in this poet's Voyage to Ireland, which seems to anticipate the manner of Anstey, in the Bath Guide. The tasteless indelicacy of his parody of the Eneid has found but too many admirers. His imitations of Lucian betray the grossest misconception of humorous effect when he attempts to burlesque that which is ludicrous already. He was acquainted with French and Italian; and, among several works from the former language, translated "The Horace" of Corneille, and Montaigne's Essays.

The father of Cotton is described by Lord Clarendon as an accomplished and honourable man, who was driven by domestic afflictions to habits which rendered his age less reverenced than his youth, and made his best friends wish that he had not lived so long. From him our poet inherited an encumbered estate, with a disposition to extravagance little calculated to improve it. After having studied at Cambridge, and returned from his travels abroad, he married

the daughter of Sir Thomas Owthorp, in Nottinghamshire. He went to Ireland as a captain in the army, but of his military progress nothing is recorded. Having embraced the soldier's life merely as a shift in distress, he was not likely to pursue it with much ambition. It was probably in Ireland that he met with his second wife, Mary Countess Dowager of Ardglass, the widow of Lord Cornwall. She had a jointure of £1500 a year, secured from his imprudent management. He died insolvent at Westminster. One of his favourite recreations was angling; and his house, which was situated on the Dove, a fine trout stream which divides the counties of Derby and Stafford, was the frequent resort of his friend Isaak Walton. There he built a fishing-house, "Piscatoribus sacrum," with the initials of honest Isaak's name and his own united in ciphers over the door. The walls were painted with fishing scenes, and the portraits of Cotton and Walton were upon the beaufet.

A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE.
CANTO I.

THE lives of frail men are compared by the sages
Or unto short journies, or pilgrimages,
As men to their inns do come sooner or later,
That is to their ends (to be plain in my matter);
From whence when one dead is, it currently
follows,

He has run his race, though his goal be the gallows;
And this 'tis, I fancy, set folks so a madding,
And makes men and women so eager of gadding;

Or, had the same humour still run in my toes,
A voyage to Ireland I ne'er should have chose;
But to tell you the truth on't, indeed it was neither
Improvement nor pleasure for which I went
thither;

I know then you'll presently ask me for what? Why, faith, it was that makes the old woman trot;

And therefore I think I'm not much to be blamed
If I went to the place whereof Nick was ashamed.
O Coryate! thou traveller famed as Ulysses,
In such a stupendous labour as this is,

Come lend me the aids of thy hands and thy feet,
Though the first be pedantic, the other not sweet,
Yet both are so restless in peregrination,
They'll help both my journey, and eke my relation.

"Twas now the most beautiful time of the year, The days were now long, and the sky was now clear,

And May, that fair lady of splendid renown, Had dress'd herself fine, in her flower'd tabby gown,

When about some two hours and a half after noon, When it grew something late, though I thought it too soon,

With a pitiful voice, and a most heavy heart,
I tuned up my pipes to sing "loth to depart;"
The ditty concluded, I call'd for my horse,
And with a good pack did the jument endorse,
Till he groan'd and he f-d under the burden,
For sorrow had made me a cumbersome lurden;
And now farewell Dove, where I've caught such
brave dishes

Of over-grown, golden, and silver-scaled fishes;
Thy trout and thy grailing may now feed securely,
I've left none behind me can take 'em so surely;
Feed on then, and breed on, until the next year,
But if I return I expect my arrear.

By pacing and trotting betimes in the even, Ere the sun had forsaken one-half of the Heaven, We all at fair Congerton took up our inn,

queen:

But who do you think came to welcome me there? No worse a man, marry, than good master mayor, With his staff of command, yet the man was not lame,

But he needed it more when he went, than he

came;

After three or four hours of friendly potation
We took leave of each other in courteous fashion,
When each one, to keep his brains fast in his
head,

Put on a good nightcap, and straightway to bed. Next morn, having paid for boil'd, roasted, and bacon,

And of sovereign hostess our leaves kindly taken, (For her king (as 'twas rumour'd) by late pouring down,

This morning had got a foul flaw in his crown,) We mounted again, and full soberly riding, Three miles we had rid ere we met with a biding; But there (having over-night plied the tap well) We now must needs water at place call'd Holmes Chapel :

silk,

As clear as a milkmaid, as white as her milk,
With visage as oval and sleek as an egg,
As straight as an arrow, as right as my leg:
A curtsey she made, as demure as a sister,
I could not forbear, but alighted and kissed her:
Then ducking another with most modest mien,
The first word she said, was, " Will't please you

walk in ?"

I thank'd her; but told her, I then could not stay,
For the haste of my bus'ness did call me away.
She said, she was sorry it fell out so odd,
But if, when again I should travel that road,
I would stay there a night, she assured me the
nation

Should nowhere afford better accommodation;
Meanwhile my spruce landlord has broken the cork,
And call'd for a bodkin, though he had a fork;
But I show'd him a screw, which I told my brisk
gull

A trepan was for bottles had broken their scull; Which, as it was true, he believed without doubt, But 'twas I that apply'd it, and pull'd the cork out.