Chapter VII: Canto III (3)

The world's Restorer once could not endure That finish'd Babel should those men secure, Whose pride design'd that fabric to have stood Above the reach of any second flood; 30 To thee, his chosen, more indulgent, he Dares trust such power with so much piety.

TO MR HENRY LAWES,[1] WHO HAD THEN NEWLY SET A SONG OF MINE IN THE YEAR 1635.

Verse makes heroic virtue live; But you can life to verses give. As when in open air we blow, The breath, though strain'd, sounds flat and low; But if a trumpet take the blast, It lifts it high, and makes it last: So in your airs our numbers dress'd, Make a shrill sally from the breast Of nymphs, who, singing what we penn'd, Our passions to themselves commend; 10 While love, victorious with thy art, Governs at once their voice and heart.

You by the help of tune and time, Can make that song that was but rhyme. Noy[2] pleading, no man doubts the cause; Or questions verses set by Lawes.

As a church window, thick with paint, Lets in a light but dim and faint; So others, with division, hide The light of sense, the poet's pride: 20 But you alone may proudly boast That not a syllable is lost; The writer's and the setter's skill At once the ravish'd ears do fill. Let those which only warble long, And gargle in their throats a song, Content themselves with Ut, Re, Mi:[3] Let words, and sense, be set by thee. [1] 'Lawes': an eminent musical composer, who composed the music for Milton's Comus. [2] 'Noy': Attorney-General to Charles I., had died in 1635. By a poetical licence Waller represents him still pleading. [3] 'Ut, Re, Mi': Lawes opposed the Italian music.

THE COUNTRY TO MY LADY CARLISLE.[1]

1 Madam, of all the sacred Muse inspired,
Orpheus alone could with the woods comply;
Their rude inhabitants his song admired,
And Nature's self, in those that could not lie:
Your beauty next our solitude invades,
And warms us, shining through the thickest shades.

2 Nor ought the tribute, which the wond'ring Court
Pays your fair eyes, prevail with you to scorn
The answer and consent to that report
Which, echo-like, the country does return:
Mirrors are taught to flatter, but our springs
Present th'impartial images of things.

3 A rural judge disposed of beauty's prize;
A simple shepherd was preferr'd to Jove;
Down to the mountains from the partial skies,
Came Juno, Pallas, and the Queen of Love,
To plead for that which was so justly given
To the bright Carlisle of the court of heaven.

4 Carlisle! a name which all our woods are taught,
Loud as their Amaryllis, to resound;
Carlisle! a name which on the bark is wrought
Of every tree that's worthy of the wound.
From Phoebus' rage our shadows and our streams
May guard us better than from Carlisle's beams.

[1] 'Lady Carlisle': the Lady Lucy Percy, daughter of the Earl of
Northumberland, married against her father's wishes to the Earl of
Carlisle. She was a wit and _intriguante_.

TO PHYLLIS.

Phyllis! 'twas love that injured you, And on that rock your Thrysis threw; Who for proud Celia could have died, While you no less accused his pride.

Fond Love his darts at random throws, And nothing springs from what he sows; From foes discharged, as often meet The shining points of arrows fleet, In the wide air creating fire, As souls that join in one desire. 10

Love made the lovely Venus burn In vain, and for the cold youth[1] mourn, Who the pursuit of churlish beasts Preferr'd to sleeping on her breasts.

Love makes so many hearts the prize Of the bright Carlisle's conqu'ring eyes, Which she regards no more than they The tears of lesser beauties weigh. So have I seen the lost clouds pour Into the sea an useless shower; 20 And the vex'd sailors curse the rain For which poor shepherds pray'd in vain.

Then, Phyllis, since our passions are Govern'd by chance, and not the care, But sport of heaven, which takes delight To look upon this Parthian fight Of love, still flying, or in chase, Never encount'ring face to face; No more to Love we'll sacrifice, But to the best of deities; 30 And let our hearts, which Love disjoin'd, By his kind mother be combin'd.

[1] 'Cold youth ': Adonis.

TO THE QUEEN-MOTHER OF FRANCE, UPON HER LANDING.[1]

Great Queen of Europe! where thy offspring wears All the chief crowns; where princes are thy heirs; As welcome thou to sea-girt Britain's shore, As erst Latona (who fair Cynthia bore) To Delos was; here shines a nymph as bright, By thee disclosed, with like increase of light. Why was her joy in Belgia confined? Or why did you so much regard the wind? Scarce could the ocean, though enraged, have toss'd Thy sov'reign bark, but where th'obsequious coast 10 Pays tribute to thy bed. Rome's conqu'ring hand More vanquished nations under her command Never reduced. Glad Berecynthia so Among her deathless progeny did go; A wreath of towers adorn'd her rev'rend head, Mother of all that on ambrosia fed. Thy godlike race must sway the age to come, As she Olympus peopled with her womb.

Would those commanders of mankind obey Their honour'd parent, all pretences lay 20 Down at your royal feet, compose their jars, And on the growing Turk discharge these wars; The Christian knights that sacred tomb should wrest From Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East; Our England's Prince, and Gallia's Dolphin, might Like young Rinaldo and Tancredi fight; In single combat by their swords again The proud Argantes and fierce Soldan slain; Again might we their valiant deeds recite, And with your Tuscan Muse[2] exalt the fight. 30

[2] 'Her landing': Mary de Medicis, widow of Henry IV., and mother of
the King of France, and of the Queens of England and Spain, coming
to England in 1638, was very ill received by the people, and forced
ultimately to leave the country.
[2] 'Tuscan Muse': Tasso.

TO VANDYCK.[1]

Rare Artisan, whose pencil moves Not our delights alone, but loves! From thy shop of beauty we Slaves return, that enter'd free. The heedless lover does not know Whose eyes they are that wound him so; But, confounded with thy art, Inquires her name that has his heart. Another, who did long refrain, Feels his old wound bleed fresh again 10 With dear remembrance of that face, Where now he reads new hope of grace: Nor scorn nor cruelty does find, But gladly suffers a false wind To blow the ashes of despair From the reviving brand of care. Fool! that forgets her stubborn look This softness from thy finger took. Strange! that thy hand should not inspire The beauty only, but the fire; 20 Not the form alone, and grace, But act and power of a face. Mayst thou yet thyself as well, As all the world besides, excel! So you th'unfeigned truth rehearse (That I may make it live in verse), Why thou couldst not at one assay,[2] The face to aftertimes convey, Which this admires. Was it thy wit To make her oft before thee sit? 30 Confess, and we'll forgive thee this; For who would not repeat that bliss, And frequent sight of such a dame Buy with the hazard of his fame? Yet who can tax thy blameless skill, Though thy good hand had failed still, When Nature's self so often errs? She for this many thousand years 38 Seems to have practised with much care, To frame the race of women fair; Yet never could a perfect birth Produce before to grace the earth, Which waxèd old ere it could see Her that amazed thy art and thee. But now 'tis done, oh, let me know Where those immortal colours grow, That could this deathless piece compose! In lilies? or the fading rose? No; for this theft thou hast climb'd higher Than did Prometheus for his fire. 50

[1] 'Vandyck': some think this refers to a picture of Saccharissa, by Vandyck, in Hall-Barn. [2] 'Assay': attempt.

TO MY LORD OF LEICESTER.[1]

1 Not that thy trees at Penshurst groan,
Oppressed with their timely load,
And seem to make their silent moan,
That their great lord is now abroad:
They to delight his taste, or eye,
Would spend themselves in fruit, and die.

2 Not that thy harmless deer repine,
And think themselves unjustly slain
By any other hand than thine,
Whose arrows they would gladly stain;
No, nor thy friends, which hold too dear
That peace with France which keeps thee there.

3 All these are less than that great cause
Which now exacts your presence here,
Wherein there meet the divers laws
Of public and domestic care.
For one bright nymph our youth contends,
And on your prudent choice depends.

4 Not the bright shield of Thetis' son[2]
(For which such stern debate did rise,
That the great Ajax Telamon
Refused to live without the prize),
Those Achive peers did more engage
Than she the gallants of our age.

5 That beam of beauty, which begun
To warm us so when thou wert here,
Now scorches like the raging sun,
When Sirius does first appear.
Oh, fix this flame! and let despair
Redeem the rest from endless care.

[1] 'Lord of Leicester': Saccharissa's father. He was employed at this time in foreign service. [2] 'Thetis' son': Achilles.

TO MRS BRAUGHTON, SERVANT TO SACCHARISSA.

Fair fellow-servant! may your gentle ear Prove more propitious to my slighted care Than the bright dame's we serve: for her relief (Vex'd with the long expressions of my grief) Receive these plaints; nor will her high disdain Forbid my humble Muse to court her train.

So, in those nations which the sun adore, Some modest Persian, or some weak-eyed Moor, No higher dares advance his dazzled sight, Than to some gilded cloud, which near the light 10 Of their ascending god adorns the east, And, gracèd with his beams, outshines the rest.

Thy skilful hand contributes to our woe, And whets those arrows which confound us so. A thousand Cupids in those curls do sit (Those curious nets!) thy slender fingers knit. The Graces put not more exactly on Th' attire of Venus, when the ball she won, Than Saccharissa by thy care is dress'd, When all our youth prefers her to the rest. 20

You the soft season know when best her mind May be to pity, or to love, inclined: In some well-chosen hour supply his fear, Whose hopeless love durst never tempt the ear Of that stern goddess. You, her priest, declare What offerings may propitiate the fair; Rich orient pearl, bright stones that ne'er decay, Or polish'd lines, which longer last than they; For if I thought she took delight in those, To where the cheerful morn does first disclose, 30 (The shady night removing with her beams), Wing'd with bold love, I'd fly to fetch such gems. But since her eyes, her teeth, her lip excels All that is found in mines or fishes' shells, Her nobler part as far exceeding these, None but immortal gifts her mind should please. The shining jewels Greece and Troy bestow'd On Sparta's queen,[1] her lovely neck did load, And snowy wrists; but when the town was burn'd, Those fading glories were to ashes turn'd; 40 Her beauty, too, had perished, and her fame, Had not the Muse redeemed them from the flame.

[1] 'Sparta's queen': Helen.

TO MY YOUNG LADY LUCY SIDNEY.[1]

1 Why came I so untimely forth
Into a world which, wanting thee,
Could entertain us with no worth
Or shadow of felicity?
That time should me so far remove
From that which I was born to love!

2 Yet, fairest blossom! do not slight
That age which you may know so soon;
The rosy morn resigns her light
And milder glory to the noon;
And then what wonders shall you do,
Whose dawning beauty warms us so?

3 Hope waits upon the flow'ry prime;
And summer, though it be less gay,
Yet is not look'd on as a time
Of declination or decay;
For with a full hand that does bring
All that was promised by the spring.

[1] 'Lady Lucy Sidney': the younger sister of Lady Dorothea; afterwards
married to Sir John Pelham.

TO AMORET.[1]

Fair! that you may truly know What you unto Thyrsis owe, I will tell you how I do Saccharissa love and you.

Joy salutes me, when I set My bless'd eyes on Amoret; But with wonder I am strook, 7 While I on the other look.

If sweet Amoret complains, I have sense of all her pains; But for Saccharissa I Do not only grieve, but die.

All that of myself is mine, Lovely Amoret! is thine; Saccharissa's captive fain Would untie his iron chain, And, those scorching beams to shun, To thy gentle shadow run.

If the soul had free election To dispose of her affection, 20 I would not thus long have borne Haughty Saccharissa's scorn; But 'tis sure some power above, Which controls our wills in love!

If not love, a strong desire To create and spread that fire In my breast, solicits me, Beauteous Amoret! for thee.

'Tis amazement more than love, Which her radiant eyes do move; 30 If less splendour wait on thine, Yet they so benignly shine, I would turn my dazzled sight To behold their milder light; But as hard 'tis to destroy That high flame, as to enjoy; Which how eas'ly I may do, Heaven (as eas'ly scaled) does know!

Amoret! as sweet and good As the most delicious food, 40 Which, but tested, does impart Life and gladness to the heart.

Saccharissa's beauty's wine, Which to madness doth incline; Such a liquor as no brain That is mortal can sustain.

Scarce can I to heaven excuse The devotion which I use Unto that adorèd dame; For 'tis not unlike the same 50 Which I thither ought to send; So that if it could take end, 'Twould to heaven itself be due To succeed her, and not you, Who already have of me All that's not idolatry; Which, though not so fierce a flame, Is longer like to be the same.

Then smile on me, and I will prove Wonder is shorter-liv'd than love. 60

[1] 'Amoret': see 'Life.'

TO MY LORD OF FALKLAND.[1]

Brave Holland leads, and with him Falkland goes: Who hears this told, and does not straight suppose We send the Graces and the Muses forth To civilise and to instruct the north? Not that these ornaments make swords less sharp; Apollo bears as well his bow as harp;[2] And though he be the patron of that spring, Where, in calm peace, the sacred virgins sing, He courage had to guard th'invaded throne 9 Of Jove, and cast th'ambitious giants down.

Ah, noble friend! with what impatience all That know thy worth, and know how prodigal Of thy great soul thou art (longing to twist Bays with that ivy which so early kiss'd Thy youthful temples), with what horror we Think on the blind events of war and thee! To fate exposing that all-knowing breast Among the throng, as cheaply as the rest; Where oaks and brambles (if the copse be burn'd) Confounded lie, to the same ashes turn'd. 20

Some happy wind over the ocean blow This tempest yet, which frights our island so! Guarded with ships, and all the sea our own, From heaven this mischief on our heads is thrown.

In a late dream, the genius of this land, Amazed, I saw, like the fair Hebrew, stand, When first she felt the twins begin to jar,[3] And found her womb the seat of civil war. Inclined to whose relief, and with presage Of better fortune for the present age, 30 Heaven sends, quoth I, this discord for our good, To warm, perhaps, but not to waste our blood; To raise our drooping spirits, grown the scorn Of our proud neighbours, who ere long shall mourn (Though now they joy in our expected harms) We had occasion to resume our arms.

A lion so with self-provoking smart (His rebel tail scourging his nobler part) Calls up his courage; then begins to roar, And charge his foes, who thought him mad before. 40

[1] 'Lord of Falkland': referring to the unsuccessful expedition of Charles I. against Scotland in 1639, frustrated by the cowardice or treachery of Lord Holland. [2] 'Bow as harp': Horace, Ode iv., lib. 3. [3] 'Twins begin to jar': Gen. xxv. 22.

TO MY LORD NORTHUMBERLAND, UPON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY.[1]

To this great loss a sea of tears is due; But the whole debt not to be paid by you. Charge not yourself with all, nor render vain Those show'rs the eyes of us your servants rain. Shall grief contract the largeness of that heart, In which nor fear, nor anger, has a part? Virtue would blush if time should boast (which dries, Her sole child dead, the tender mother's eyes) Your mind's relief, where reason triumphs so Over all passions, that they ne'er could grow 10 Beyond their limits in your noble breast, To harm another, or impeach your rest. This we observed, delighting to obey One who did never from his great self stray; Whose mild example seemed to engage Th' obsequious seas, and teach them not to rage.

The brave Aemilius, his great charge laid down (The force of Rome, and fate of Macedon), In his lost sons did feel the cruel stroke Of changing fortune, and thus highly spoke 20 Before Rome's people: 'We did oft implore, That if the heavens had any bad in store For your Aemilius, they would pour that ill On his own house, and let you flourish still.' You on the barren seas, my lord, have spent Whole springs and summers to the public lent; Suspended all the pleasures of your life, And shorten'd the short joy of such a wife; For which your country's more obligèd than 29 For many lives of old less happy men. You, that have sacrificed so great a part Of youth, and private bliss, ought to impart Your sorrow too, and give your friends a right As well in your affliction as delight. Then with Aemilian courage bear this cross, Since public persons only public loss Ought to affect. And though her form and youth, Her application to your will, and truth, That noble sweetness, and that humble state (All snatch'd away by such a hasty fate!) 40 Might give excuse to any common breast, With the huge weight of so just grief oppress'd; Yet let no portion of your life be stain'd With passion, but your character maintain'd To the last act. It is enough her stone May honour'd be with superscription Of the sole lady who had power to move The great Northumberland to grieve, and love.

[1] 'His lady': the Lady Anne Cecil, daughter of the Earl of Salisbury.
See a previous note.

TO MY LORD ADMIRAL, OF HIS LATE SICKNESS AND RECOVERY.

With joy like ours the Thracian youth invades Orpheus, returning from th'Elysian shades; Embrace the hero, and his stay implore; Make it their public suit he would no more Desert them so, and for his spouse's sake, His vanish'd love, tempt the Lethean lake. The ladies, too, the brightest of that time (Ambitious all his lofty bed to climb), Their doubtful hopes with expectation feed, 9 Who shall the fair Eurydice succeed: Eurydice! for whom his numerous moan Makes list'ning trees and savage mountains groan; Through all the air his sounding strings dilate Sorrow, like that which touch'd our hearts of late. Your pining sickness, and your restless pain, At once the land affecting, and the main, When the glad news that you were admiral Scarce through the nation spread,[1] 'twas feared by all That our great Charles, whose wisdom shines in you, Would be perplexed how to choose anew. 20 So more than private was the joy and grief, That at the worst it gave our souls relief, That in our age such sense of virtue lived, They joy'd so justly, and so justly grieved. Nature (her fairest light eclipsèd) seems Herself to suffer in those sharp extremes; While not from thine alone thy blood retires, But from those cheeks which all the world admires. The stem thus threaten'd, and the sap in thee, Droop all the branches of that noble tree! 30 Their beauty they, and we our love suspend; Nought can our wishes, save thy health, intend. As lilies overcharged with rain, they bend Their beauteous heads, and with high heaven contend; Fold thee within their snowy arms, and cry-- 'He is too faultless, and too young, to die!' So like immortals round about thee they Sit, that they fright approaching death away. Who would not languish, by so fair a train To be lamented, and restored again? 40

Or, thus withheld, what hasty soul would go, Though to the blest? O'er young Adonis so Fair Venus mourn'd, and with the precious shower Of her warm tears cherish'd the springing flower.

The next support, fair hope of your great name, And second pillar of that noble frame, By loss of thee would no advantage have, But step by step pursue thee to the grave.

And now relentless Fate, about to end The line which backward does so far extend 50 That antique stock, which still the world supplies With bravest spirits, and with brightest eyes, Kind Phoebus, interposing, bid me say, Such storms no more shall shake that house; but they, Like Neptune, and his sea-born niece,[1] shall be The shining glories of the land and sea; With courage guard, and beauty warm, our age, And lovers fill with like poetic rage.

[1] 'Nation spread': the Earl of Northumberland, appointed Lord High
Admiral in the year 1638.

TO THE QUEEN, OCCASIONED UPON SIGHT OF HER MAJESTY'S PICTURE.[2]

Well fare the hand, which to our humble sight Presents that beauty, which the dazzling light Of royal splendour hides from weaker eyes, And all access, save by this art, denies. Here only we have courage to behold This beam of glory; here we dare unfold In numbers thus the wonders we conceive; 7 The gracious image, seeming to give leave, Propitious stands, vouchsafing to be seen; And by our Muse saluted Mighty Queen, In whom th'extremes of power and beauty move, The Queen of Britain and the Queen of Love!

As the bright sun (to which we owe no sight Of equal glory to your beauty's light) Is wisely placed in so sublime a seat, T' extend his light, and moderate his heat; So, happy 'tis you move in such a sphere, As your high Majesty with awful fear In human breasts might qualify that fire, Which, kindled by those eyes, had flamèd higher 20 Than when the scorched world like hazard run, By the approach of the ill-guided sun.

No other nymphs have title to men's hearts, But as their meanness larger hope imparts; Your beauty more the fondest lover moves With admiration than his private loves; With admiration! for a pitch so high (Save sacred Charles his) never love durst fly. Heaven, that preferr'd a sceptre to your hand, Favour'd our freedom more than your command; 30 Beauty had crown'd you, and you must have been The whole world's mistress, other than a Queen. All had been rivals, and you might have spared, Or kill'd, and tyrannised, without a guard; No power achieved, either by arms or birth, Equals love's empire both in heaven and earth. Such eyes as yours on Jove himself have thrown As bright and fierce a lightning as his own; Witness our Jove, prevented by their flame In his swift passage to th'Hesperian dame; 40

When, like a lion, finding, in his way To some intended spoil, a fairer prey, The royal youth pursuing the report Of beauty, found it in the Gallic court; There public care with private passion fought A doubtful combat in his noble thought: Should he confess his greatness, and his love, And the free faith of your great brother[3] prove; With his Achates breaking through the cloud Of that disguise which did their graces shroud;[4] 50 And mixing with those gallants at the ball, Dance with the ladies, and outshine them all; Or on his journey o'er the mountains ride?-- So when the fair Leucothoë he espied, To check his steeds impatient Phoebus yearn'd, Though all the world was in his course concern'd. What may hereafter her meridian do, Whose dawning beauty warm'd his bosom so? Not so divine a flame, since deathless gods Forbore to visit the defiled abodes 60 Of men, in any mortal breast did burn; Nor shall, till piety and they return.

[1] 'Sea-born niece': Venus. [2] 'Majesty's picture': Henrietta, daughter of Henry IV., married by proxy to Charles I. in Paris, 1st May 1625. Marriages made in May are said to be unlucky--_this_ certainly was. [3] 'Great brother': Louis XIII., King of France. [4] 'Graces shroud': 'Achates,' the Duke of Buckingham.

TO AMORET.

1 Amoret! the Milky Way
Framed of many nameless stars!
The smooth stream where none can say
He this drop to that prefers!

2 Amoret! my lovely foe!
Tell me where thy strength does lie?
Where the pow'r that charms us so?
In thy soul, or in thy eye?

3 By that snowy neck alone,
Or thy grace in motion seen,
No such wonders could he done;
Yet thy waist is straight and clean
As Cupid's shaft, or Hermes' rod,
And pow'rful, too, as either god.

TO PHYLLIS.

Phyllis! why should we delay Pleasures shorter than the day? Could we (which we never can!) Stretch our lives beyond their span, Beauty like a shadow flies, And our youth before us dies. Or would youth and beauty stay, Love hath wings, and will away. Love hath swifter wings than Time, Change in love to heaven does climb. 10 Gods, that never change their state, Vary oft their love and hate.

Phyllis! to this truth we owe All the love betwixt us two. Let not you and I inquire What has been our past desire; On what shepherds you have smiled, Or what nymphs I have beguiled; Leave it to the planets too, 19 What we shall hereafter do; For the joys we now may prove, Take advice of present love.

TO SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT, UPON HIS TWO FIRST BOOKS OF GONDIBERT.[1] WRITTEN IN FRANCE.

Thus the wise nightingale that leaves her home, Her native wood, when storms and winter come, Pursuing constantly the cheerful spring, To foreign groves does her old music bring.

The drooping Hebrews' banish'd harps, unstrung, At Babylon upon the willows hung; Yours sounds aloud, and tells us you excel No less in courage, than in singing well; While, unconcern'd, you let your country know They have impoverish'd themselves, not you; 10 Who, with the Muses' help, can mock those fates Which threaten kingdoms, and disorder states. So Ovid, when from Cæsar's rage he fled, The Roman Muse to Pontus with him led; Where he so sung, that we, through pity's glass, See Nero milder than Augustus was. Hereafter such, in thy behalf, shall be Th' indulgent censure of posterity. To banish those who with such art can sing, Is a rude crime, which its own curse doth bring; 20 Ages to come shall ne'er know how they fought, Nor how to love, their present youth be taught.

This to thyself.--Now to thy matchless book, Wherein those few that can with judgment look, May find old love in pure fresh language told, Like new-stamp'd coin made out of angel-gold. Such truth in love as th'antique world did know, In such a style as courts may boast of now; Which no bold tales of gods or monsters swell, But human passions, such as with us dwell. 30 Man is thy theme; his virtue or his rage Drawn to the life in each elaborate page. Mars nor Bellona are not namèd here, But such a Gondibert as both might fear; Venus had here, and Hebe, been outshined By the bright Birtha and thy Rhodalind. Such is thy happy skill, and such the odds Betwixt thy worthies and the Grecian gods! Whose deities in vain had here come down, Where mortal beauty wears the Sovereign crown; 40 Such as of flesh compos'd, by flesh and blood, Though not resisted, may be understood.

[1] 'Sir William Davenant': Davenant fled to France in fear of the
displeasure of the Parliament, and there wrote the two first cantos
of _Gondibert_.

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MR WASE, THE TRANSLATOR OF GRATIUS.[1]

1 Thus, by the music, we may know
When noble wits a-hunting go,
Through groves that on Parnassus grow.

2 The Muses all the chase adorn;
My friend on Pegasus is borne;
And young Apollo winds the horn.

3 Having old Gratius in the wind,
No pack of critics e'er could find,
Or he know more of his own mind.

4 Here huntsmen with delight may read
How to choose dogs for scent or speed,
And how to change or mend the breed;

5 What arms to use, or nets to frame,
Wild beasts to combat or to tame;
With all the myst'ries of that game.

6 But, worthy friend! the face of war
In ancient times doth differ far
From what our fiery battles are.

7 Nor is it like, since powder known,
That man, so cruel to his own,
Should spare the race of beasts alone.

8 No quarter now, but with the gun
Men wait in trees from sun to sun,
And all is in a moment done.

9 And therefore we expect your next
Should be no comment, but a text
To tell how modern beasts are vex'd.

10 Thus would I further yet engage
Your gentle Muse to court the age
With somewhat of your proper rage;

11 Since none does more to Phoebus owe,
Or in more languages can show
Those arts which you so early know.

[1] 'Mr. Wase': Wase was a fellow of Cambridge, tutor to Lord Herbert,
and translator of Grathis on 'Hunting,' a very learned man.

TO A FRIEND, ON THE DIFFERENT SUCCESS OF THEIR LOVES.[1]

Thrice happy pair! of whom we cannot know Which first began to love, or loves most now; Fair course of passion! where two lovers start, And run together, heart still yoked with heart; Successful youth! whom love has taught the way To be victorious in the first essay. Sure love's an art best practisèd at first, And where th'experienced still prosper worst! I, with a different fate, pursued in vain The haughty Cælia, till my just disdain 10 Of her neglect, above that passion borne, Did pride to pride oppose, and scorn to scorn. Now she relents; but all too late to move A heart directed to a nobler love. The scales are turn'd, her kindness weighs no more Now, than my vows and service did before. So in some well-wrought hangings you may see How Hector leads, and how the Grecians flee; Here, the fierce Mars his courage so inspires, That with bold hands the Argive fleet he fires; 20 But there, from heaven the blue-eyed virgin[2] falls, And frighted Troy retires within her walls; They that are foremost in that bloody race, Turn head anon, and give the conqu'rors chase. So like the chances are of love and war, That they alone in this distinguish'd are, In love the victors from the vanquish'd fly; They fly that wound, and they pursue that die.

[1] 'Their loves': supposed to be Alexander Hampden, involved with Waller in the plot. See 'Life' [2] 'Blue-eyed virgin': Minerva.

TO ZELINDA.[1]

Fairest piece of well-form'd earth! Urge not thus your haughty birth; The power which you have o'er us lies Not in your race, but in your eyes. 'None but a prince!'--Alas! that voice Confines you to a narrow choice. Should you no honey vow to taste, But what the master-bees have placed In compass of their cells, how small A portion to your share would fall! 10 Nor all appear, among those few, Worthy the stock from whence they grew. The sap which at the root is bred In trees, through all the boughs is spread; But virtues which in parents shine, Make not like progress through the line. 'Tis not from whom, but where, we live; The place does oft those graces give. Great Julius, on the mountains bred, A flock perhaps, or herd, had led. 20 He that the world subdued,[2] had been But the best wrestler on the green. 'Tis art and knowledge which draw forth The hidden seeds of native worth; They blow those sparks, and make them rise Into such flames as touch the skies. To the old heroes hence was given A pedigree which reached to heaven; Of mortal seed they were not held, 29 Which other mortals so excell'd. And beauty, too, in such excess As yours, Zelinda! claims no less. Smile but on me, and you shall scorn, Henceforth, to be of princes born. I can describe, the shady grove Where your loved mother slept with Jove; And yet excuse the faultless dame, Caught with her spouse's shape and name. Thy matchless form will credit bring To all the wonders I shall sing. 40

[1] 'Zelinda': referring to a novel where the lady, a princess, refuses a lover, saying, 'I will have none but a prince!' [2] 'World subdued': Alexander.

TO MY LADY MORTON, ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY,[1] AT THE LOUVRE IN PARIS.

Madam! new years may well expect to find Welcome from you, to whom they are so kind; Still as they pass, they court and smile on you, And make your beauty, as themselves, seem new. To the fair Villiers we Dalkeith prefer, And fairest Morton now as much to her; So like the sun's advance your titles show, Which as he rises does the warmer grow.

But thus to style you fair, your sex's praise, Gives you but myrtle, who may challenge bays; 10 From armed foes to bring a royal prize, Shows your brave heart victorious as your eyes. If Judith, marching with the gen'ral's head, Can give us passion when her story's read, What may the living do, which brought away, Though a less bloody, yet a nobler prey; Who from our flaming Troy, with a bold hand, Snatch'd her fair charge, the Princess, like a brand? A brand! preserved to warm some prince's heart, And make whole kingdoms take her brother's part. 20 So Venus, from prevailing Greeks, did shroud The hope of Rome, and saved him in a cloud.

This gallant act may cancel all our rage, Begin a better, and absolve this age. Dark shades become the portrait of our time; Here weeps Misfortune, and there triumphs Crime! Let him that draws it hide the rest in night; This portion only may endure the light, Where the kind nymph, changing her faultless shape, Becomes unhandsome, handsomely to 'scape, 30 When through the guards, the river, and the sea, Faith, beauty, wit, and courage, made their way. As the brave eagle does with sorrow see The forest wasted, and that lofty tree Which holds her nest about to be o'erthrown, Before the feathers of her young are grown, She will not leave them, nor she cannot stay, But bears them boldly on her wings away; So fled the dame, and o'er the ocean bore Her princely burthen to the Gallic shore. 40 Born in the storms of war, this royal fair, Produced like lightning in tempestuous air, Though now she flies her native isle (less kind, Less safe for her than either sea or wind!) Shall, when the blossom of her beauty's blown, See her great brother on the British throne; Where peace shall smile, and no dispute arise, But which rules most, his sceptre, or her eyes.

[1] 'New-year's day': Lady Morton, daughter of Sir Edward Villiers,
niece of the Duke of Buckingham, and wife of Lord Douglas, of
Dalkeith, one of the most celebrated beauties of her day. She
accompanied the Princess Henrietta in disguise to Paris. Waller,
then in France, wrote these lines in 1650.

TO A FAIR LADY, PLAYING WITH A SNAKE.

1 Strange! that such horror and such grace
Should dwell together in one place;
A fury's arm, an angel's face!

2 'Tis innocence, and youth, which makes
In Chloris' fancy such mistakes,
To start at love, and play with snakes.

3 By this and by her coldness barr'd,
Her servants have a task too hard;
The tyrant has a double guard!

4 Thrice happy snake! that in her sleeve
May boldly creep; we dare not give
Our thoughts so unconfined a leave.

5 Contented in that nest of snow
He lies, as he his bliss did know,
And to the wood no more would go.

6 Take heed, fair Eve! you do not make
Another tempter of this snake;
A marble one so warm'd would speak.

TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND MASTER EVELYN,[1] UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF 'LUCRETIUS.'

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, noble 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 ships, whose sails employ more air; So does th'Italian to your genius vail, Moved with a fuller and a nobler 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 Tasso 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, Cælia! for thy sake I part With all that grew so near my heart; The passion 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 spacious 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 shining 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 Cælia 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 gods 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, Cælia, if you apprehend The Muse of your incensèd 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 shining 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 deservèd I to make
So ill a change, who ever won
Immortal praise for what I wrote,
Instructed by her noble 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 ladyship, in these:
And now 'tis forcèd to confess
That your great self did ne'er indite,
Nor that, to one more noble, 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 retirèd 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.

4 Could the resolve of love's neglect
Preserve you from the violation
Of coming years, then more respect
Were due to so divine a fashion,
Nor would I indulge my passion.

[1] 'Egyptian Queen': Cleopatra.

TO MR GEORGE SANDYS,[1] ON HIS TRANSLATION OF SOME PARTS OF THE BIBLE.

1 How bold a work attempts that pen,
Which would enrich our vulgar tongue
With the high raptures of those men
Who, here, with the same spirit sung
Wherewith they now assist the choir
Of angels, who their songs admire!

2 Whatever those inspirèd souls
Were urgèd to express, did shake
The aged deep and both the poles;
Their num'rous thunder could awake
Dull earth, which does with Heaven consent
To all they wrote, and all they meant.

3 Say, sacred bard! what could bestow
Courage on thee to soar so high?
Tell me, brave friend! what help'd thee so
To shake off all mortality?
To light this torch, thou hast climb'd higher
Than he who stole celestial fire.[2]

[1] 'Sandys,' besides his 'Ovid,' which Pope read and relished in his boyhood, versified some of the poetical parts of the Bible. [2] 'Celestial fire': Prometheus.

TO THE KING, UPON HIS MAJESTY'S HAPPY RETURN.

The rising sun complies with our weak sight, First gilds the clouds, then shows his globe of light At such a distance from our eyes, as though He knew what harm his hasty beams would do.

But your full majesty at once breaks forth In the meridian of your reign. Your worth, Your youth, and all the splendour of your state, (Wrapp'd up, till now, in clouds of adverse fate!) With such a flood of light invade our eyes, And our spread hearts with so great joy surprise, 10 That if your grace incline that we should live, You must not, sir! too hastily forgive. Our guilt preserves us from th'excess of joy, Which scatters spirits, and would life destroy. All are obnoxious! and this faulty land, Like fainting Esther, does before you stand, Watching your sceptre. The revolted sea Trembles to think she did your foes obey.

Great Britain, like blind Polypheme, of late, In a wild rage, became the scorn and hate 20 Of her proud neighbours, who began to think She, with the weight of her own force, would sink. But you are come, and all their hopes are vain; This giant isle has got her eye again. Now she might spare the ocean, and oppose Your conduct to the fiercest of her foes. Naked, the Graces guarded you from all Dangers abroad; and now your thunder shall. Princes that saw you, diff'rent passions prove, For now they dread the object of their love; 30 Nor without envy can behold his height, Whose conversation was their late delight. So Semele, contented with the rape Of Jove disguisèd in a mortal shape, When she beheld his hands with lightning fill'd, And his bright rays, was with amazement kill'd.

And though it be our sorrow, and our crime, To have accepted life so long a time Without you here, yet does this absence gain No small advantage to your present reign; 40 For, having view'd the persons and the things, The councils, state, and strength of Europe's kings, You know your work; ambition to restrain, And set them bounds, as Heaven does to the main. We have you now with ruling wisdom fraught, Not such as books, but such as practice, taught. So the lost sun, while least by us enjoy'd, Is the whole night for our concern employ'd; He ripens spices, fruits, and precious gums, Which from remotest regions hither comes. 50

This seat of yours (from th'other world removed) Had Archimedes known, he might have proved His engine's force, fix'd here; your power and skill Make the world's motion wait upon your will.

Much suffring monarch! the first English born That has the crown of these three nations worn! How has your patience, with the barb'rous rage Of your own soil, contended half an age? Till (your tried virtue, and your sacred word, At last preventing your unwilling sword) 60 Armies and fleets which kept you out so long, Own'd their great sov'reign, and redress'd his wrong; When straight the people, by no force compell'd, Nor longer from their inclination held, Break forth at once, like powder set on fire, And, with a noble rage, their king require. So th'injured sea, which from her wonted course, To gain some acres, avarice did force, If the new banks, neglected once, decay, No longer will from her old channel stay; 70 Raging, the late got land she overflows, And all that's built upon't to ruin goes.

Offenders now, the chiefest, do begin To strive for grace, and expiate their sin. All winds blow fair, that did the world embroil; Your vipers treacle yield, and scorpions oil.

If then such praise the Macedonian[1] got, For having rudely cut the Gordian knot, What glory's due to him that could divide Such ravell'd interests; has the knot untied, 80 And without stroke so smooth a passage made, Where craft and malice such impeachments laid?

But while we praise you, you ascribe it all To His high hand, which threw the untouch'd wall Of self-demolish'd Jericho so low; His angel 'twas that did before you go, Tamed savage hearts, and made affections yield, Like ears of corn when wind salutes the field.

Thus, patience-crown'd, like Job's, your trouble ends, Having your foes to pardon, and your friends; 90 For, though your courage were so firm a rock, What private virtue could endure the shock? Like your Great Master, you the storm withstood, And pitied those who love with frailty show'd.

Rude Indians, tort'ring all the royal race, Him with the throne and dear-bought sceptre grace That suffers best. What region could be found, 97 Where your heroic head had not been crown'd?

The next experience of your mighty mind Is, how you combat Fortune, now she's kind. And this way, too, you are victorious found; She flatters with the same success she frown'd. While to yourself severe, to others kind, With pow'r unbounded, and a will confined, Of this vast empire you possess the care, The softer parts fall to the people's share. Safety, and equal government, are things Which subjects make as happy as their kings.

Faith, Law, and Piety, (that banished train!) Justice and Truth, with you return again. 110 The city's trade, and country's easy life, Once more shall flourish without fraud or strife. Your reign no less assures the ploughman's peace, Than the warm sun advances his increase; And does the shepherds as securely keep From all their fears, as they preserve their sheep.

But, above all, the Muse-inspirèd train Triumph, and raise their drooping heads again! Kind Heaven at once has, in your person, sent Their sacred judge, their guard, and argument. 120

Nec magis expressi vultus per ahenea signa,
Quam per vatis opus mores, animique, virorum
Clarorum apparent.... HOR.

[1] 'Macedonian': Alexander.

TO A LADY, FROM WHOM HE RECEIVED THE COPY OF THE POEM ENTITLED 'OF A TREE CUT IN PAPER,' WHICH FOR MANY YEARS HAD BEEN LOST.

Nothing lies hid from radiant eyes; All they subdue become their spies. Secrets, as choicest jewels, are Presented to oblige the fair; No wonder, then, that a lost thought Should there be found, where souls are caught.

The picture of fair Venus (that For which men say the goddess sat) Was lost, till Lely from your book Again that glorious image took.

If Virtue's self were lost, we might From your fair mind new copies write. All things but one you can restore; The heart you get returns no more.

TO THE QUEEN, UPON HER MAJESTY'S BIRTHDAY, AFTER HER HAPPY RECOVERY FROM A DANGEROUS SICKNESS.[1]

Farewell the year! which threaten'd so The fairest light the world can show. Welcome the new! whose every day, Restoring what was snatch'd away By pining sickness from the fair, That matchless beauty does repair So fast, that the approaching spring (Which does to flow'ry meadows bring What the rude winter from them tore) Shall give her all she had before. 10