Y art a poet is not made,
For though by art some better'd be,
Immediately his gift he had
From Thee, O God! from none but Thee:
And fitted in the womb he was
To be, by what Thou didst inspire,
In extraordinary place,
A chaplain of this lower choir;
Most poets future things declare,
And prophets, true or false, they are.
But where this gift puffs up with pride,
The devil enters in thereby ;
And through the same doth means provide
To raise his own inventions high:
Blasphemous fancies are infused,
All holy new things are expell'd;
He that hath most profanely mused,
Is famed as having most excell'd ;
And those are priests and prophets made
To Him from whom their strains they had.
Such were those poets who of old
To heathen gods their hymns did frame,
Or have blasphemous fables told,
To truth's abuse and virtue's blame:
Such are these poets in these days,
Who vent the fumes of lust and wine,
Then crown each other's heads with bays,
As if their poems were divine;
And such, though they some truths foresee,
False-hearted and false prophets be.
Therefore since I reputed am
Among these few on whom the times
Imposed have a poet's name,
Lord, give me grace to shun their crimes.
My precious gift let me employ,
Not as imprudent poets use,
That grace and virtue to destroy
Which I should strengthen by my muse;
But help to free them of the wrongs
Sustain'd by drunkards' rhymes and songs. [1 st. George Wither.
HERE the remote Bermudas ride,
In the ocean's bosom unespied;
From a small boat, that row'd along,
The listening winds received this song.
"What should we do but sing His praise,
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs,
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage.
gave
us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing;
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close,
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows;
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet,
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice;
With cedars chosen by his hand,
From Lebanon, he stores the land,
And makes the hollow seas, that roar,
Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The gospel's pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound his name.
Oh! let our voice his praise exalt,
Till it arrive at heaven's vault,
Which then, perhaps, rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay."
Thus sung they, in the English boat,
A holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
There can be slain
No sacrifice to God more acceptable
Than an unjust and wicked King.
FROM WITHER'S MOTTO.
(Nec habeo, nec careo, nec curo.)
HAVE no pleasure in acquaintance where
The rules of state and ceremony are
Observed so seriously, that I must dance
And act o'er all the compliments of France
And Spain and Italy before I can
Be taken for a well-bred Englishman ;
And every time we meet, be forced again
To put in action that most idle scene.
'Mong these, much precious time (unto my cost)
And much true, hearty meaning have I lost.
Which having found, I do resolve therefore
To lose my Time and Friendship so no more.
I have no Muses that will serve the turn
At every triumph, and rejoice or mourn
Upon a minute's warning for their hire,
If with old sherry they themselves inspire.
I am not of a temper like to those
That can provide an hour's sad talk in prose
For any funeral, and then go dine,
And choke my grief with sugar-plums and wine.
I cannot at the claret sit and laugh,
And then, half tipsy, write an epitaph.
I cannot (for my life) my pen compel
Upon the praise of any man to dwell,
Unless I know, or think, at least, his worth
To be the same which I have blazed forth.
Had I some honest suit, the gain of which
Would make me noble, eminent, and rich,
And that to compass it no means there were,
Unless I basely flatter'd some great peer;
Would with that suit my ruin I might get,
If on those terms I would endeavour it.
I have no friends, that once affected were,
But to my heart this day they sit as near
As when I most endeared them, though they seem
To fall from my opinion or esteem;
For precious time in idle would be spent,
If I with all should always compliment;
And till my love I may to purpose show,
I care not whe'r they think I love or no :
For sure I am, if any find me changed,
Their greatness, not their meanness, me estranged.
I have not been ashamed to confess
My lowest fortunes, or the kindnesses
Of poorest men; nor have I proud been made
By any favour from a great man had.
I have not fear'd who my religion knows;
Nor ever for preferment made I shows
Of what I was not. For, although I may
Through want be forced to put on worse array
Upon my body, I will ever find
Means to maintain a habit for my mind
Of truth in grain: and wear it in the sight
Of all the world, in all the world's despite.
What man is there among us doth not know
A thousand men this night to bed will go
Of many a hundred goodly things possest,
That shall have nought to-morrow but a chest,
And one poor sheet to lie in? What I may
Next morning have, I know not; but to-day
A friend, meat, drink, and fitting clothes to wear,
Some books and papers which my jewels are,
A servant and a horse, all this I have,
And, when I die, one promised me a grave.
|