Chapter IX

Never was Soul and Body better joyn’d,
A Mansion worthy of so blest a Mind;
See but the Shadow of her beauteous face,
The pretious minitures of every Grace,
There one may still such Charms behold,
That as Idolaters of old,
The works of their own hands ador’d,
And Gods which they themselves had made implor’d;
_Jove_ might again descend below,
And, with her Wit and Beauty charm’d, to his own Image bow.
But oh, the irrevocable doom of Nature’s Laws!
How soon the brightest Scene of Beauty draws!
Alas, what’s all the glittering Pride
Of the poor perishing Creatures of a day,
With what a violent and impetuous Tide,
E’er they’re flow’d in their glories ebb away?
The Pearl, the Diamond and Saphire must
Be blended with the common Pebbles dust,
And even _Astræa_ with all her sacred store,
Be wreckt on Death’s inevitable Shore,
Her Face ne’er seen and her dear Voice be heard no more.
And wisely therefore e’er it was too late,
She has revers’d the sad Decrees of Fate,
And in deep Characters of immortal Wit,
So large a _memorandum’s_ writ,
That the blest memory of her deathless Name
Shall stand recorded in the Book of Fame;
When Towns inter’d in their own ashes lie,
And Chronicles of Empires die,
When Monuments like Men want Tombs to tell
Where the remains of the vast ruines fell.

_To the excellent_ ASTRÆA.

We all can well admire, few well can praise
Where so great merit does the Subject raise:
To write our Thoughts alike from dulness free,
On this hand, as on that from flattery;
He who wou’d handsomly the _Medium_ hit,
Must have no little of _Astræa’s_ Wit.
Let others in the noble Task engage,
Call you the _Phoenix_, wonder of the Age,
The Glory of your Sex, the Shame of ours,
Crown you with Garlands of Rhetorick Flowers;
For me, alas, I nothing can design, }
To render your soft Numbers more divine, }
Than by comparison with these of mine: }
As beauteous paintings are set off by shades,
And some fair Ladies by their dowdy Maids;
Yet after all, forgive me if I name
One Fault where, _Madam_, you are much to blame,
To wound with Beauty’s fighting on the square,
But to o’ercome with Wit too is not fair;
‘Tis like the poison’d _Indian_ Arrows found,
For thus you’re sure to kill where once you wound.

_J.W._

_To Madam_ A. Behn _on the publication of her Poems._

When the sad news was spread,
The bright, the fair _Orinda’s_ dead,
We sigh’d, we mourn’d, we wept, we griev’d,
And fondly with our selves conceiv’d,
A loss so great could never be retriev’d.
The Ruddy Warriour laid his Truncheon by,
Sheath’d his bright sword, and glorious Arms forgot,
The sounds of Triumph, braggs of Victory,
Rais’d in his Breast no emulative thought;
For pond’ring on the common Lot,
Where is, said He the Diff’rence in the Grave,
Betwixt the Coward and the Brave?
Since She, alas, whose inspir’d Muse should tell
To unborn Ages how the Hero fell,
From the Impoverisht Ignorant World is fled,
T’inhance the mighty mighty Number of the dead.

II.

The trembling Lover broke his tuneless Lute,
And said be thou for ever mute:
Mute as the silent shades of night,
Whither _Orinda’s_ gone,
Thy musicks best instructress and thy musicks song;
She that could make
Thy inarticulated strings to speak,
In language soft as young desires,
In language chaste as _Vestal_ fires;
But she hath ta’n her Everlasting flight:
Ah! cruel Death,
How short’s the date of Learned breath!
No sooner do’s the blooming Rose,
Drest fresh and gay,
In the embroy’dries of her Native May,
Her odorous sweets expose,
But with thy fatal knife,
The fragrant flow’r is crop’t from off the stalk of life.

III.

Come, ye _Stoicks_, come away,
You that boast an Apathy,
And view our _Golgotha_;
See how the mourning Virgins all around,
With Tributary Tears bedew the sacred ground;
And tell me, tell me where’s the Eye
That can be dry,
Unless in hopes (nor are such hopes in vain)
Their universal cry,
Should mount the vaulted sky,
And of the Gods obtain,
A young succeeding _Phoenix_ might arise
From _Orinda’s_ spicy obsequies.
In Heaven the voice was heard,
Heaven does the Virgins pray’rs regard;
And none that dwells on high,
If once the beauteous Ask, the beauteous can deny.

IV.

‘Tis done, ‘tis done, th’ imperial grant is past,
We have our wish at last,
And now no more with sorrow be it said,
_Orinda’s_ dead;
Since in her seat _Astræa_ does Appear,
The God of Wit has chosen her,
To bear _Orinda’s_ and his Character.
The Laurel Chaplet seems to grow
On her more gracefull Brow;
And in her hand
Look how she waves his sacred Wand:
Loves Quiver’s tyde
In an Azure Mantle by her side,
And with more gentle Arts
Than he who owns the Aureal darts,
At once she wounds, and heals our hearts.

V.

Hark how the gladded Nymphs rejoyce,
And with a gracefull voice,
Commend _Apollo’s_ Choice.
The gladded Nymphs their Guardian Angel greet,
And chearfully her name repeat,
And chearfully admire and praise,
The Loyal musick of her layes;
Whilst they securely sit,
Beneath the banners of her wit,
And scorn th’ill-manner’d Ignorance of those,
Whose Stock’s so poor they cannot raise
To their dull Muse one subsidy of praise,
Unless they’re dubb’d the Sexes foes,
These squibbs of sense themselves expose.
Or if with stolen light
They shine one night,
The next their earth-born Lineage shows,
They perish in their slime,
And but to name them, wou’d defile _Astræa’s_ Rhime.

IV.

But you that would be truely wise,
And vertues fair _Idea_ prize;
You that would improve
In harmless Arts of not indecent Love:
Arts that _Romes_ fam’d Master never taught,
Or in the Shops of fortune’s bought.
Would you know what Wit doth mean,
Pleasant wit yet not obscene,
The several garbs that Humours wear,
The dull, the brisk, the jealous, the severe?
Wou’d you the pattern see
Of spotless and untainted Loyalty,
Deck’t in every gracefull word
That language that afford;
Tropes and Figures, Raptures and Conceits that ly,
Disperst in all the pleasant Fields of poesie?
Reade you then _Astræa’s_ lines,
‘Tis in those new discover’d Mines,
Those golden Quarries that this Ore is found
With which in Worlds as yet unknown _Astræa_ shall be crown’d.

VII.

And you th’ Advent’rous sons of fame,
You that would sleep in honours bed
With glorious Trophies garnished;
You that with living labours strive
Your dying Ashes to survive;
Pay your Tributes to _Astræa’s_ name,
Her Works can spare you immortality,
For sure her Works shall never dye.
Pyramids must fall and Mausolean Monuments decay,
Marble Tombs shall crumble into dust,
Noisie Wonders of a short liv’d day,
That must in time yield up their Trust;
And had e’er this been perisht quite
Ith’ ruines of Eternal night,
Had no kind Pen like her’s,
In powerfull numbers powerfull verse,
Too potent for the gripes of Avaritious fate,
To these our ages lost declar’d their pristine State.