Praise is devotion fit for mightie minds! The diff'ring world's agreeing sacrifice, For pray'r the ocean is, where diversly Men steer their course, each to a sev'ral coast; That half beg winds by which the rest are lost. By Penitence, when we ourselves forsake, Its utmost force, like powder's, is unknown! Heav'n's vault receives, what would the palace tear." We do not think we shall mis-spend either our own time, or that of our readers, in selecting a few insulated stanzas, which possess considerable beauty. The following comparison is well worth extracting. "As rivers to their ruin hastie be, So life, still earnest, loud, and swift, runs post And vainly travels to be quickly lost." His apostrophe to Honor is exceedingly beautiful. Cherish'd and watch'd, and hum'rously esteem'd, And is, when lost, no more than life, redeem'd." These four lines, on the two friends of Oswald who were slain in the combat, are written in that pointed and epigrammatic style which distinguishes our author. "And cold as he lies noble Dargonet, And Paradine, who wore the victor's crown; And again: 'Borgio and he from this dire region haste, Shame makes them sightless to themselves, and dumb; Their thoughts flie swift as Time from what is past, In speaking of Gondibert's father, the poet has the following stanza, which is nobly expressed. "He to submiss devotion more was given For favours past, than bow for bounty sought." And also: "Care, that in cloysters onely seals her eyes, She visits cities, but she dwells in thrones." This stanza conveys a very striking impression of vastness. "So vast of height, to which such space And there walk free as winds that pass unseen." Gartha, the sister of Oswald, arrives at the camp of the army of her late brother, to rouse them to revenge. Her anger is depicted by this fine image. "The sun did thus to threatned Nature show Her anger red, whilst guilt look'd pale in all, In the character and love of Birtha, we have a picture of most absolute loveliness and dove-like simplicity. Never was that delightful passion pourtrayed with a more chaste and exquisite pencil. Venus, when she arose from the white spray of the sea, a fresh and beautiful creation, and gazed around with hardly awakened consciousness and strange timidity, 'was not more retiringly pure-more delicately graceful. The art of the poet is most conspicuous-" most sweet and commendable." "To Astragon, heav'n for succession gave One onely pledge, and Birtha was her name; Whose mother slept, where flowers grew on her grave, She ne'r saw courts, yet courts could have undone She never had in busie cities bin, Ne'r warm'd with hopes, nor ere allay'd with fears; Not seeing punishment, could guess no sin; And sin not seeing, ne'r had use of tears. But here her father's precepts gave her skill, Her own free virtue silently employs, Whilst her great mistress, Nature, thus she tends, The just historians, Birtha thus express, Black melancholy mists, that fed despair Through wounds' long rage, with sprinkled vervin cleer'd, Strew'd leaves of willow to refresh the air, And with rich fumes his sullen senses cheer'd. He that had serv'd great Love with rev'rend heart, And she kills faster than her father cures. Her heedless innocence as little knew The wounds she gave, as those from Love she took; Love he had lik'd, yet never lodg'd before; So strange disorder, now he pines for health, Makes him conceal this reveller with shame; And never but in songs had heard his name. Yet then it was, when she did smile at hearts Which countrey lovers wear in bleeding seals; And this, her ancient maid with sharp complaints Nor mock those martyrs, Love had captive led. The lucky mirtle, more than willow, worn. This grave rebuke, officious memory Presents to Birtha's thought; who now believ'd Such sighing songs, as tell why lovers die, And prais'd their faith, who wept when poets griev'd. She, full of inward questions, walks alone, To take her heart aside in secret shade; Or else some stranger did usurp its room; Nor the guide sober that him thither brought, To treat of love, her most unstudy'd theam; With open ears, and ever-waking eyes, And flying feet, love's fire she from the sight Beneath a mirtle covert now does spend In maids' weak wishes, her whole stock of thought; Fond maids! who love, with mind's fine stuff would mend, Which nature purposely of bodies wrought. She fashions him she lov'd of angels kind, As eagles then, when nearest heaven they flie, Soon her opinion of his hurtless heart, Affection turns to faith; and then love's fire If I do love, (said she) that love, O heav'n! And you, my alter'd mother (grown above Great nature, which you read, and rev'renc'd here) Chide not such kindness, as you once call'd love, When you as mortal as my father were. This said, her soul into her breast retires! With Love's vain diligence of heart she dreams And trusts unanchor'd hope in fleeting streams. She thinks how her imagin'd spouse and she, No more than Time himself is overta'ne. Or should he touch them as he by does pass, That they shall live, and not as two, but one. |