Why dost thou sigh, why strike thy panting breast?
And steal from life the needful hours of rest?
Are thy kids starv'd by winter's early frost?
Are any of thy bleating stragglers loft?
Have strangers' cattle trod thy new-plough'd ground
Has great Joanna, or her greater shepherd, frown'd?
See my kids browze, my lambs securely play:
(Ah! were their master unconcern'd as they !)
No beafts (at noon I look'd) had trod my ground;
Nor has Joanna, or her shepherd, frown'd.
Then stop the lavish fountain of your eyes,
Nor let those fighs from your fwoln bosom rife;
Chase sadness, friend, and folitude away;
And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.
Say what can more our tortur'd fouls annoy,
Than to behold, admire, and lose our joy;
Whose fate more hard than those who fadly run,
For the last glimpse of the departing fun?
Or what feverer sentence can be given,
Than, having feen, to be excluded heaven?
AL. -Then ceafe to chide my cares!
And rather pity than restrain my tears;
Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed,
To think how great my joys; how foon they fled;
Itold thee, friend, (now bless the shepherd's name,
From whose dear care the kind occafion came,)
That I, even I, might happily receive
The facred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis give:
That I might fee the lovely awful swain,
Whose holy crofier guides our willing plain;
Whose pleasing power and ruling goodness keep
Our fouls with equal care as we our sheep;
Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each tongue
Whilft only he who caus'd, dislikes the fong.
To this great, humble, parting man I gain'd
Access, and happy for an hour I reign'd;
Happy as new-form'd man in paradife,
Ere fin debauch'd his inoffenfive blifs;
Happy as heroes after battles won,
Prophets entranc'd, or monarchs on the throne;
But (oh, my friend!) thofe joys with Daphnis flew
To them these tributary tears are due.
Was he so humble then? those joys so vast?
Cease to admire that both so quickly paft.
Too happy should we be, would fmiling fate
Render one blessing durable and great;
But (oh the fad viciffitude!) how foon
Unwelcome night fucceeds the chearful noon;
And rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!
Then grieve not, friend, like you, fince all mankind
A certain change of joy and forrow find.
Supprefs your figh, your down-cast eyelids raise,
Whom prefent you revere, him abfent praife.
To the COUNTESS of EXETER,
playing on the Lute.
WHAT charms you have, from what high race
Have been the pleasing subjects of my fong:
Unskill'd and young, yet something still I writ,
Of Ca'ndifh' beauty join'd to Cecil's wit.
But when you please to shew the labouring Muse,
What greater theme your Musick can produce;
My babbling praises I repeat no more,
But hear, rejoice, stand filent, and adore.
The Perfians thus, first gazing on the fun,
Admir'd how high 'twas plac'd, how bright it shone::
But, as his power was known, their thoughts were
And foon they worship'd, what at first they prais'd.
Eliza's glory lives in Spenser's song;
And Cowley's verse keeps fair Orinda young.
That as in birth, in beauty you excell,
The Muse might dictate, and the Poet tell :
Your art no other art can speak; and you,
To shew how well you play, must play anew:
Your musick's power your mufick must disclose;
For what light is, 'tis only light that shows.
Strange force of harmony, that thus controuls
Our thoughts, and turns and fanctifies our fouls:
While with its utmost art your fex could move
Our wonder only, or at best our love:
You far above both these your God did place,
That your high power might worldly thoughts de
That with your numbers you our zeal might raise,
And, like Himself, communicate your joy.
When to your native heaven you shall repair,
And with your prefence crown the bleffings there,
Your lute may wind its strings but little higher,
To tune their notes to that immortal quire.
Your art is perfect here; your numbers do,
More than our books, make the rude Atheist know,
That there's a heaven by what he hears below.
As in some piece, while Luke his skill expreft,
A cunning angel came, and drew the rest:
So when you play, fome godhead does impart
Harmonious aid, divinity helps art;
Some cherub finishes what you begun,
And to a miracle improves a tune.
To burning Rome, when frantic Nero play'd, Viewing that face, no more he had furvey'd The raging flames; but, struck with ftrange surprize, Confefs'd them less than those of Anna's eyes : But, had he heard thy lute, he foon had found His rage eluded, and his crime aton'd : Thine, like Amphion's hand, had wak'd the stone, And from destruction call'd the rifing town : Malice to musick had been forc'd to yield; Nor could he burn fo fast, as thou could'st build.
On a Picture of SENECA dying in a Bath. By
Jordain. At the Right Hon. the Earl of
EXETER'S, at Burleigh-house.
WHILE cruel Nero only drains
The moral Spaniard's ebbing veins,
By study worn, and flack with age,
How dull, how thoughtless, is his rage!
Heighten'd revenge would he have took,
He should have burnt his tutor's book;
And long have reign'd fupreme in vice:
One nobler wretch can only rife;
'Tis he whose fury shall deface
The stoic's image in this piece,
For while unhurt, divine Jordain,
Thy work and Seneca's remain,
He still has body, still has foul,
And lives and speaks, reftor'd and whole.
WHILE blooming youth and gay delighe
Sit on thy rofy cheeks confeft,
Thou hast, my dear, undoubted right
To triumph o'er this destin'd breaft.
My reafon bends to what thy eyes ordain ;
Tor I was born to love, and thou to reign.
|
