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TURNED INTO VERSE BY MRS. WHARTON.

OF THE FEAR OF GOD...OF DIVINE POESY.

79 No! though arriv'd at all the world can aim, Wrestling with death, these lines I did indite; This is the mark and glory of our frame.

No other theme could give my soul delight. A sool, capacious of the Deity,

O that my youth had thus einploy'd my pen! Nothing, but he that made, can satisfy.

Or that I now could write as well as then! A thousand worlds, if we with him compare, But 'tis of grace, if sickness, age, and pain, Less than so many drops of water are.

Are felt as throes, when we are born again : Men take no pleasure but in new designs,

Timely they come to wean us from this Earth, And what they hope for, what they have outshines. As pangs that wait upon a second birth. Our sheep and oxen seem no more to crave, With full content feeding on what they have Vex not themselves for an increase of store, But think tomorrow we shall give them more.

OF DIVINE POESY.
Wbat se from day to day receive from Heaven,

IN TWO CANTOS.
They do from us expect it should be given.
We made them not, yet they on us rely,

OCCASIONED UPON SIGUT OF THE 53D CHAPTER OF ISAIAK,
More than vain men upon the Deity :
More beasts than they! that will not understand,
That we are fed from his inmediate hand.

CANTO I.
Kian, that in himn has being, moves and lives, Poets we prize, when in their verse we find
What can he have or use but what he gives? Some great employment of a worthy mind.
Šo that no bread can nourishment afford,

Angels have been inquisitive to know
Or useful be, without his sacred word.

The secret, which this oracle does show.

What was to come, Isaiah did declare,
CANTO II.

Which she describes, as if she had been there;
FARTH praises conquerors for shedding blood, Had seen the wounds, which to the reader's view
Heaven, those that love their foes, and do them She draws so lively, that they bleed anew.
it is terrestrial honour to be crown'd [good. As ivy thrives, which on the oak takes hold,
For grosing men, like rushes, on the ground. So, with the prophet's, may her lines grow old!
True glory 'tis to rise above them all,

If they should die, who can the world forgive, Without th' advantage taken by their fall. (Such pious lines !) when wanton Sappho's live? He, that in fight diminishes mankind,

Who with his breath his image did inspire, Does no addition to his stature find :

Expects it should foment a nobler fire: But he, that does a noble nature show,

Not love which brutes, as well as men may know; Obliging others, still does higher grow.

But love like his, to whom that breath we owe. For virtue practis'd such an habit gives,

Verse so design'd, on that high subject wrote, Toat among men he like an angel lives.

Is the perfection of an ardent thought, Humbly he doth, and without envy, dwell, The smoke which we from burning incense raise, Lord and admir'd by those he does excel. When we complete the sacrifice of praise. Fools anger show, which politicians hide:

In boundless verse the fancy soars too high Blest with this fear, men let it not abide.

For any object, but the Deity. The humble man, when he receives a wrong, What mortal can with Heaven pretend to share Pefers revenge to whom it doth belong,

In the superlatives of wise and fair! Nor sees he reason why he should engage,

A meaner subject when with these we grace, Of sex his spirit, for another's rage.

A giant's habit on a dwarf we place. Plac'd on a rock, vain men he pities, tost

Sacred should be the product of our Muse, On raging waves, and in the tempest lost.

Like that sweet oil, above all private use, The rolling planets and the glorious Sun

On pain of death forbidden to be made, Still keep that order which they first begun: But when it should be on the altar laid. They their first lesson constantly repeat,

Verse shows a rich inestimable vein, Which their Creator, as a law, did set.

When, dropp'd from Heaven, 'tis thither sent again. Abore, below, exactly all obey :

Of bounty 'tis, that he admits our praise, But wretched men have found another way; Which does not him, but us that yield it, raise: Knowledge of good and evil, as at first,

For, as that angel up to Heaven did rise, (That vain persuasiou !) keeps them still accurst! Borne on the flame of Manoah's sacrifice : The sacred word refusing as a guide,

So, wing'd with praise, we penetrate the sky, Slaves they become to luxury and pride.

Teach clouds, and stars, to praise him as we fly; As clocks, remaining in the skilful hand

The whole creation (by our fall made groan!) Of some great master, at the figure stand,

His praise to echo, and suspend their moan. But wheti abroad, neglected they do go,

For that he reigns, all creatures should rejoice, A random strike, and the false hour do show: And we with songs supply their want of voice. So from our Maker wandering, we stray,

The church triumphant, and the church below,
Like birds that kpow not to their nests the way. In songs of praise their present union show:
In him we dwelt before our exile here,

Their joys are full; our expectation long ;
And may, returning, find contentment there; In life we differ, but we join in song:
True joy may find, perfection of delight,

Angels and we, assisted by this art,
Betold his face, and shun eternal night.

May sing together, though we dwell apart. Silence, my Muse! make not these jewels cheap, Thus we reach Heaven, while vainer poems must Exposing to the world too large an heap.

No higher rise, than winds may lift the dust. Of all we read, the Sacred Writ is best ;

From that they spring ; this, from his breath that Where great truths are in fewest words exprest. To the first dust th' immortal soul we have. [gave

ON THE

WRITTEN BY MRS. WHARTON.

His praise well sung (our great endeavour here) In songs of joy the angels sung his birth :
Shakes off the dust, and makes that breath appear. Here, how he treated was upon the Earth,

Trembling we read! th' affliction and the scorn,
CANTO II.

Which, for our guilt, so patiently was borne ! HE 4, that did first this way of writing grace, Conception, birth, and suffering, all belong Convers'd with the Almighty face to face: (Though various parts) to one celestial song: Wonders he did in sacred verse unfold,

And she, well using so divine an art, When he had more than eighty winters told : Has, in this concert, sung the tragic part. The writer feels no dire effect of age,

As Hannah's seed was vow'd to sacred use, Nor verse, that flows from so divine a rage.

So here this lady consecrates her Muse;
Eldest of poets, he beheld the light,

With like reward may Heaven her bed adorn,
When first it triumph'd o'er eternal night: With fruit as fair, as by her Muse is born!
Chaos he saw, and could distinctly tell
How that confusion into order fell:
As if consulted with, he has exprest
The work of the Creator, and his rest:
How the flood drown’d the first offending race,

PARAPHRASE ON THE LORD'S PRAYER,
Which might the figure of our globe deface.
For new-made earth, so even and so fair,

Silence, ye winds! listen ethereal lights ! Less equal now, uncertain makes the air:

While our Urania sings what Heaven indites : Surpris’d with heat and unexpected cold,

The numbers are the nymph's; but from above Early distempers make our youth look old:

Descends the pledge of that eternal love. Our days so evil, and so few, may tell

Here wretched mortals have not leave alone, That on the ruins of that world we dwell.

But are instructed to approach his throne:
Strong as the oaks that nourish'd them, and high,

And how can he to miserable men
That long-liv'd race did on their force rely,
Neglecting Heaven: but we, of shorter date!

Deny requests, which his own hand did pen?

In the Evangelists we find the prose, Should be more mindful of impending fate.

Which, paraphras'd by her, a poem grows; To worms, that crawl upon this rubbish here,

A devout rapture ! so divine a hymn, This span of life may yet too long appear:

It may become the highest seraphim! Enough to humble, and to make us great,

For they, like her, in that celestial choir, If it prepare us for a nobler seat.

Sing only what the Spirit does inspire. Which well observing, he, in numerous lines,

Taught by our Lord, and theirs, with us they may Taught wretched man how fast his life declines:

For all, but pardon for offences, pray.
In whom he dwelt, before the world was made,
And may again retire, when that shall fade.

SOME REFLECTIONS OF HIS UPON THE SEVERAL The lasting liads have not liv'd so long,

PETITIONS IN THE SAME PRAYER.
As his and Deborah's triumphant song.
Delphos unknown, no Muse could them inspire, 1. His sacred name, with reverence profound,
But that which govers the celestial choir. Should mention'd be, and trembling at the sound !
Heaven to the pious did this art reveal,

It was Jehovah ; 'tis our Father now;
And from their store succeeding poets steal. So low to us does Heaven vouchsafe to bow S!
Homer's Scamander for the Trojans fought, He brought it down, that taught us how to pray,
And swell’d so high, by her old Kishon taught : And did so dearly for our ransom pay.
His river scarce could tierce Achilles stay;

II. His kingdom come. For this we pray in vain,
Her's, more successful, swept her foes away. Unless he does in our affections reign:
The host of Heaven, his Phæbus and his Mars, Absurd it were to wish for such a King,
He arms; instructed by her fighting stars,

And not obedience to his sceptre bring, She led them all against the common foe:

Whose yoke is easy, and his burthen light, But he (misled by what he saw below!)

His service freedom, and his judgments right.
The powers above, like wretched men, divides, III. His will be done. In fact 'tis always done;
And breaks their union into different sides.

But, as in Heaven, it must be made our own.
The noblest parts which in his heroes shine His will should all our inclinations sway,
May be but copies of that heroine.

Whom Nature and the universe obey.
Homer himself and Agamemnon, she

Happy the man whose wishes are confin'd The writer could, and the commander, be.

To what has been eternally design'd;
Truth she relates, in a sublimer strain

Referring all to his paternal care,
Than all the tales the boldest Greeks could feign: To whom more dear, than to ourselves, we are.
For what she sung, that Spirit did inditc,

IV. It is not what our avarice hoards up;
Which gave her courage and success in fight. 'Tis he that feeds us, and that fills our cup;
A double garland crowns the matchless dame; Like new-born babes, depending on the breast,
From Heaven her poem and her conquest came. From day to day, we on his bounty feast.

Though of the Jews she merit most esteem, Nor should the soul expect above a day,
Yet here the Christian has the greater theme: To dwell in her frail tenement of clay:
Her martial song describes how Sis'ra fell: The setting Sun should seem to bound our race,
This sings our triumph over Death and Hell. And the new day a gift of special grace.
The rising light employ'd the sacred breath

V. That he should all our trespasses forgive,
Of the blest Virgin and Elizabeth.

While we in hatred with our neighbours live ; + Moses.

s Psalm xviü. 9.

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Though so to pray may seem an easy task, But, had like virtue shin'd in that fair Greek,
We curse ourselves when thus inclin'd we ask. The amorous shepherd had not dar'd to seek,
This prayer to use, we ought with equal care Or hope for pity, but, with silent moan,
Our souls, as to the sacrament, prepare.

And better fate, had perished alone.
The Boblest worship of the Power above,
Is to extol, and imitate, his love:
Not to forgive our enemies alone,

OF A LADY WHO WRIT IN PRAISE OF MIRA. But use our bounty that they may be won. While she pretends to make the graces known

VI. Gaard us from all temptations of the foe: Of matchless Mira, she reveals her own :
And those we may in several stations know:

And, when she would another's praise indite,
The rich and poor in slippery places stand :

Is by her glass instructed how to write.
Give us enough! but with a sparing hand!
Sa ill-persuading want; nor wanting wealth;
But what proportion'd is to life and health.

TO ONE MARRIED TO AN OLD MAN
For not the dead, but living, sing thy praise;
Eral thy kingdom, and thy glory raise.

Since thou wouldst needs (bewitch'd with some ill

charms !) Favete linguis!.........

Be bury'd in those monumental arms:
Virginibus puerisque canto. Horat.

All we can wish, is-May that earth lie light
Upon thy tender limbs! and so good night!

ON THE

AN EPIGRAM ON A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL FOREGOING DIVINE POEMS6.

TEETH.
Wary we for age could neither read nor write, Wene men so dull they could not see
The subject made us able to indite:

That Lycé painted; should they flee,
The soul, with nobler resolutions deck'd,

Like simple birds, into a net, The body stooping, does herself erect:

So grossly woven, and ill set; So mortal parts are requisite to raise

Her own teeth would undo the knot,
Her, that unbody'd can her Maker praise.

And let all go that she had got.
The seas are quiet, when the winds give o'er : Those teeth fair Lycé must not show,
Su calm are we, when passions are no more! If she would bite: her lovers, though
far then we know how vain it was to boast

Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes, offeeting things, so certain to be lost.

Are disabus'd when first she gapes : Coeds of affection from our younger eyes

The rotten bones discover'd there Conceal that emptiness, which age descries. Show 'tis a painted sepulchre.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, lats in new light, through chinks that time has made: Štriger by weakness, wiser men become,

EPIGRAM UPON THE GOLDEN MEDAL. As they draw near to their eternal home:

Our guard upon the royal side! Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,

On the reverse, our beauty's pride!
That stand upon the thresbold of the new.

Here we discern the frown and smile;
Miratur limen Olympi. Virg. The force and glory of our isle.

In the rich medal, both so like
Immortals stand, it seems autique;

Carv'd by some master, when the bold
EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, AND FRAG- Greeks made their Jove descend in gold;
MENTS.

And Danaë wondering at that shower,
Which, falling, storm'd her brazen tower,
Britannia there, the fort in rain

Had batter'd been with golden rain;
EPIGRAM".

Thunder itself had fail'd to pass :
Sepiars emigrans solitis, comitatus inermi

Virtue's a stronger guard than brass,
Rex turbå, simplex et diadema gerens,
Ecce redit bino Carolus diademate cinctus;
Hæc abi nuda dedit pompa ; quid arma dabunt? WRITTEN ON A CARD THAT HER MAJESTY 9
Ed. Á aller, Armiger, Coll. Regal.

TORE AT OMBRE.
The cards you tear in value rise,

So do the wounded by your eyes.
UNDER A LADY'S PICTURE.

Who to celestial things aspire,
Sc: Helen was! and who can blame the boy

Are by that passion rais'd the higher. That in so bright a flame consum'd his Troy?

6 Sep, in Duke's Poems, an elegant compliment TO MR. GRANVILLE (AFTERWARDS LORD LANDSMr. Waller, on this his last production. N.

DOWN) ON HIS VERSES TO KING JAMES II, ? From Rex Redux ; being Cambridge verses on An early plant ! which such a blossom bears, the return of Charles I. from Scotland, after his And shows a genius so beyond his years; ucation there in 1633.

9 Queen Catharine, TOL VIIL.

G

Paris.

A judgment ! that could make so fair a choice;
So high a subject, to employ his voice:

PRIDE.
Still as it grows, how sweetly will he sing

Nor the brave Macedonian youth' alone,
The growing greatness of our matchless king!

But base Caligula, when on the throne,
Boundless in power, would make himself a gods

As if the world depended on his nod.
LONG AND SHORT LIFE,

The Syrian king 'to beasts was headlong thrown CIRCLES are prais'd, not that abound

Ere to himself he could be mortal known. In largeness, but th' exactly round :

The meanest wretch, if Heaven should give him line, So life we praise, that does excel

Would never stop, till he were thought divine : Not in much time, but acting well.

All might within discern the serpent's pride,
If from ourselves nothing ourselves did hide.
Let the proud peacock his gay feathers spread,

And woo the female to his painted bed:
TRANSLATED OUT OF SPANISH.

Let winds and seas together rage and swell :
Though we may seem importunate,

This Nature teaches, and becomes them well. While your compassion we implore:

Pride was not made for men 3 : a conscious sense They, whom you make too fortunate,

Of guilt and folly, and their consequence,
May with presumption vex you more.

Destroys the claim: and to beholders tells,
Here nothing but the shape of manhood dwells

TRANSLATED OUT OF FRENCH. Fade, flowers, fade; Nature will have it so;

EPITAPH ON SIR GEORGE SPEKE. 'Tis but what we must in our autumn do ! And, as your leaves lie quiet on the ground,

Under this stone lies virtue, youth, The loss alone by those that lov'd them found:

Unblemish'd probity, and truth : So, in the grave, shall we as quiet lie,

Just unto all relations known, Miss'd by some few that lov'd our company.

A worthy patriot, pious son: But some so like to thorns and nettles live,

Whom neighbouring towns so often sent,
That none for them can, when they perish, grieve. With lives and fortunes

trusting one,
To give their sense in parliament;
Who so discreetly us'd his own.
Sober he was, wise, temperate;

Contented with an old estate,
SOME VERSES OF AN IMPERFECT COPY, DESIGNED Which no foul avarice did increase,
FOR A FRIEND,

Nor wanton luxury make less.
ON HIS TRANSLATION OF OVID'S FASTI.

While yet but young, his father dy'd,

And left him to an happy guide: Rome's holy days you tell, as if a guest

Not Lemuel's mother with more care With the old Romans you were wont to feast. Did counsel or instruct her heir; Numa's religion, by themselves believ'd,

Or teach with more success her son Excels the true, only in show receiv'd.

The vices of the time to shun. They made the nations round about them bow, An heiress, she, while yet alive, With their dictators taken from the plough: All that was hers to him did give: Such power has justice, faith, and honesty! And he just gratitude did show The world was conquer'd by morality.

To one that had oblig'd him so: Seeming devotion does but gild a knave,

Nothing too much for her he thought, That's neither faithful, honest, just, nor brave: By whom he was so bred and taught, But, where religion does with virtue join,

So (early made that path to tread,
It makes a hero like an angel shine.

Which did his youth to honour lead)
His short life did a pattern give,
How neighbours, husbands, friends, should live.

The virtues of a private life
ON THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES THE FIRST, Exceed the glorious poise and strife
AT CHARING-CROSS,

Of battles won: in those we find

The solid interest of mankind.
IN THE YEAR 1674.

Approv'd by all, and lor'd so well,
That the first Charles does here in triumph ride, Though young, like fruit that's ripe, he fell.
See his son reign, where he a martyr dy'd,
And people pay that reverence, as they pass,
(Which then he wanted !) to the sacred brass,

EPITAPH ON COLONEL CHARLES CAVENDISH. Is not th' effect of gratitude alone,

Here lies Charles Ca'ndish: let the marble stone To which we owe the statue and the stone : That hides his ashes, make his virtue known. But Heaven this lasting monument has wrought, Beauty and valour did his short life grace; That mortals may eternally be taught,

The grief and glory of his noble race ! Rebellion, though successful, is but vain;

Early abroad he did the world survey,
And kings so kill'd rise conquerors again.

As if he knew he had not long to stay:
This truth the royal image does proclaim,
Loud as the trumpet of surviving Fame.

" Alexander. * Nebuchadnezzar. 3 Ecclus, s. 19

EPITAPH TO BE WRITTEN UNDER THE LATIN

Saw what great Alexander in the East
Apd mighty Julius conquer'd in the West.
Then, with a mind as great as theirs, he came

INSCRIPTION UPON THE TOMB OF THE ONLY To fiod at home occasion for his fame :

SON OF THE LORD ANDOVER. Where dark confusion did the nations hide, And where the juster was the weaker side. 'Tis fit the English reader should be told, Two loyal brothers took their sovereign's part, In our own language, what this tomb does hold. Employ'd their wealth, their courage, and their art: 'Tis not a noble corpse alone does lie The elder * did whole regiments afford;

Under this stone, but a whole family: The younger brought his conduct and his sword.

His parents' pious care, their name, their joy, Born to command, a leader he begun,

And all their hope, lies buried with this boy: And on the rebels lasting honour won :

This lovely youth! for whom we all made moan, The horse, instructed by their general's worth, That knew his worth, as he had been our own. Still made the king victorious in the North :

Had there been space and years enough allow'd, Where Ca'ndish fought, the royalists prevailid; His courage, wit, and breeding to have show'd, Neither his corrage nor his judgment failid: We had not found, in all the numerous roll The current of his victories found no stop,

Of his fam'd ancestors, a greater soul : Til Cromwell came, his party's chiefest prop. His early virtues to that ancient stock Equal success had set these champions high, Gave as much honour, as from thence he took. And both resolv'd to conquer or to die:

Like buds appearing ere the frosts are past, Virtue with rage, fury with valour, strove;

To become man he made such fatal haste, Ent that must fall which is decreed above! And to perfection labour'd so to climb, Cromwell, with odds of number and of Fate,

Preventing slow experience and time, Renor'd this bulwark of the church and state:

That 'tis no wonder Death our hopes beguild: ich the sad issue of the war declar'd,

He's seldom old, that will not be a child.
And made his task, to ruin both, less hard.
So then the bank, neglected, is o'erthrown,
The boundless torrent does the country drown.
Tous fell the young, the lovely, and the brave;

EPITAPH, UNFINISHED,
Strex bays and flowers upon his honour'd grave!

Great soul! for whom Death will no longer stay,
But sends in haste to snatch our bliss away.

O cruel Death! to those you take more kind,
EPITAPH ON THE LADY SEDLEY.

Than to the wretched mortals left behind! Harz lies the learned Savil's heir;

Here beauty, youth, and noble virtue shin'd; So early wise, and lasting fair!

Free from the clouds of pride that shade the mind. That done, except her years they told,

Inspird verse may on this marble live,
Thoaght her a child, or thought her old.

But can no honour to thy ashes give.
All that her father knew, or got,
Hs art, his wealth, fell to her lot:
Lo sbe so well improv'd that stock,
Both of his knowledge and his flock,

EPITAPH ON HENRY DUNCH, ESQ.
That Wit and fortune, reconcil'd

IN NEWINGTON CHURCH IN OXFORDSHIRE, 1686. In het, upon each other smil'd. While she to every well-taught mind

Here lies the prop and glory of his race, Was so propitiously inclin'd,

Who, that no time his memory may deface, did gare such title to her store,

His grateful wife, under this speaking stone That none, but th' ignorant, were poor.

His ashes hid, to make his merit known. The Muses daily found supplies,

Sprung from an opulent and worthy line, Both from her hands and from her eyes;

Whose well-us'd fortune made their virtues shine, Her bounty did at once engage,

A rich example his fair life did give, And matchless beauty warm their rage.

How others should with their relations live. Such was this dame in calmer days,

A pious son, a husband, and a friend, Her nation's ornament and praise !

To neighbours too his bounty did extend But, wben a storm disturb’d our rest,

So far, that they lamented when he died, The port and refuge of th' opprest.

As if all to him had been near allied. The made her fortune understood,

His curious youth would men and manners know, Apl look'd on as some public good;

Which made him to the southern nations go. Sthat (her person and her state

Nearer the Sun, though they more civil seem, Exempted from the common fate)

Revenge and luxury have their esteem; In all our civil fury she

Which well observing, be return'd with more Stood, like a sacred temple, free.

Value for England, than he had before; May here her monument stand so,

Her true religion, and her statutes too, To credit this rude age! and show

He practised not less than scek'd to know ; To future times, that even we

And the whole country griev'd for their ill fate, Some patterns did of virtue see:

To lose so good, so just a magistrate. And one sublime example bad

To shed a tear may readers be inclin'd, Of good, among so many bad.

And pray for one he only left behind,

Till she, who does inherit his estate, * William earl of Devonshire.

May virtue love like him, and vices hate.

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