Poetical Works of Edmund Waller and Sir John Denham Part 26

Lucretius, (with a stork-like fate, Born, and translated, in a state) Comes to proclaim, in English verse, No Monarch rules the universe; But chance, and atoms, make this All In order democratical, Where bodies freely run their course, Without design, or fate, or force.

And this in such a strain he sings, As if his Muse, with angels' wings, 10 Had soar'd beyond our utmost sphere, And other worlds discover'd there; For his immortal, boundless wit, To Nature does no bounds permit, But boldly has removed those bars Of heaven, and earth, and seas, and stars, By which they were before supposed, By narrow wits, to be enclosed, Till his free Muse threw down the pale, And did at once dispark them all. 20

So vast this argument did seem, That the wise author did esteem The Roman language (which was spread O'er the whole world, in triumph led) A tongue too narrow to unfold The wonders which he would have told.

This speaks thy glory, n.o.ble friend!

And British language does commend; For here Lucretius whole we find, His words, his music, and his mind. 30 Thy art has to our country brought All that he writ, and all he thought.

Ovid translated, Virgil too, Show'd long since what our tongue could do; Nor Lucan we, nor Horace spared; Only Lucretius was too hard.

Lucretius, like a fort, did stand 37 Untouch'd, till your victorious hand Did from his head this garland bear, Which now upon your own you wear: A garland made of such new bays, And sought in such untrodden ways, As no man's temples e'er did crown, Save this great author's, and your own!

[1] 'Master Evelyn': the well-known author of 'Sylva,' translated the first book of Lucretius, 'De Rerum Natura.'

TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND SIR THOMAS HIGGONS,[1]

UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF 'THE VENETIAN TRIUMPH.'

The winged lion's not so fierce in fight As Liberi's hand presents him to our sight; Nor would his pencil make him half so fierce, Or roar so loud, as Businello's verse; But your translation does all three excel, The fight, the piece, and lofty Businel.

As their small galleys may not hold compare With our tall s.h.i.+ps, whose sails employ more air; So does th'Italian to your genius vail, Moved with a fuller and a n.o.bler gale. 10 Thus, while your Muse spreads the Venetian story, You make all Europe emulate her glory; You make them blush weak Venice should defend The cause of Heaven, while they for words contend; Shed Christian blood, and pop'lous cities raze, Because they're taught to use some different phrase.

If, list'ning to your charms, we could our jars Compose, and on the Turk discharge these wars, Our British arms the sacred tomb might wrest 19 From Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East; And then you might our own high deeds recite, And with great Ta.s.so celebrate the fight.

[1] 'Sir T. Higgons': a knight of some note, who translated the 'Venetian Triumph,' an Italian poem by Businello, addressed to Liberi, the painter.

TO A LADY SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING.

1 Chloris! yourself you so excel, When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, That, like a spirit, with this spell Of my own teaching, I am caught.

2 That eagle's fate[1] and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

3 Had Echo, with so sweet a grace, Narcissus' loud complaints return'd, Not for reflection of his face, But of his voice, the boy had burn'd.

[1] 'Eagle's fate': Byron copies this thought in his verses on Kirke White

TO THE MUTABLE FAIR.

Here, Caelia! for thy sake I part With all that grew so near my heart; The pa.s.sion that I had for thee, The faith, the love, the constancy!

And, that I may successful prove, Transform myself to what you love.

Fool that I was! so much to prize Those simple virtues you despise; Fool! that with such dull arrows strove, Or hoped to reach a flying dove; 10 For you, that are in motion still, Decline our force, and mock our skill; Who, like Don Quixote, do advance Against a windmill our vain lance.

Now will I wander through the air, Mount, make a stoop at every fair; And, with a fancy unconfined (As lawless as the sea or wind), Pursue you wheresoe'er you fly, And with your various thoughts comply. 20

The formal stars do travel so, As we their names and courses know; And he that on their changes looks, Would think them govern'd by our books; But never were the clouds reduced To any art; the motions used By those free vapours are so light, So frequent, that the conquer'd sight Despairs to find the rules that guide Those gilded shadows as they slide; 30 And therefore of the s.p.a.cious air, Jove's royal consort had the care; And by that power did once escape, Declining bold Ixion's rape; She with her own resemblance graced A s.h.i.+ning cloud, which he embraced.

Such was that image, so it smiled With seeming kindness which beguiled Your Thyrsis lately, when he thought He had his fleeting Caelia caught. 40 'Twas shaped like her, but, for the fair, He fill'd his arms with yielding air.

A fate for which he grieves the less, Because the G.o.ds had like success; For in their story one, we see, Pursues a nymph, and takes a tree; A second, with a lover's haste, Soon overtakes whom he had chased, But she that did a virgin seem, Possess'd, appears a wand'ring stream; 50 For his supposed love, a third Lays greedy hold upon a bird, And stands amazed to find his dear A wild inhabitant of the air.

To these old tales such nymphs as you Give credit, and still make them new; The am'rous now like wonders find In the swift changes of your mind.

But, Caelia, if you apprehend The Muse of your incensed friend, 60 Nor would that he record your blame, And make it live, repeat the same; Again deceive him, and again, And then he swears he'll not complain; For still to be deluded so, Is all the pleasure lovers know; Who, like good falc'ners, take delight, Not in the quarry, but the flight.

TO A LADY, FROM WHOM HE RECEIVED A SILVER PEN.

1 Madam! intending to have tried The silver favour which you gave, In ink the s.h.i.+ning point I dyed, And drench'd it in the sable wave; When, grieved to be so foully stain'd, On you it thus to me complain'd.

2 'Suppose you had deserved to take From her fair hand so fair a boon, Yet how deserved I to make So ill a change, who ever won Immortal praise for what I wrote, Instructed by her n.o.ble thought?

3 'I, that expressed her commands To mighty lords, and princely dames, Always most welcome to their hands, Proud that I would record their names, Must now be taught an humble style, Some meaner beauty to beguile!'

4 So I, the wronged pen to please, Make it my humble thanks express Unto your ladys.h.i.+p, in these: And now 'tis forced to confess That your great self did ne'er indite, Nor that, to one more n.o.ble, write.

TO CHLORIS.

Chloris! since first our calm of peace Was frighted hence, this good we find, Your favours with your fears increase, And growing mischiefs make you kind.

So the fair tree, which still preserves Her fruit and state while no wind blows, In storms from that uprightness swerves, And the glad earth about her strows With treasure, from her yielding boughs.

TO A LADY IN RETIREMENT.

1 Sees not my love how time resumes The glory which he lent these flowers?

Though none should taste of their perfumes, Yet must they live but some few hours: Time what we forbear devours!

2 Had Helen, or the Egyptian Queen,[1]

Been ne'er so thrifty of their graces, Those beauties must at length have been The spoil of age, which finds out faces In the most retired places.

3 Should some malignant planet bring A barren drought, or ceaseless shower, Upon the autumn or the spring, And spare us neither fruit nor flower; Winter would not stay an hour.