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ODE TO BEN JONSON.
EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H. Au Ben !
Wouldst thou heare what man can say Say how or when
In a little ? - reader, stay ! Shall we, thy guests,
Underneath this stone doth lye
As much beauty as could dye, -
Which in life did harbor give
To more vertue than doth live. Where we such clusters had
If at all she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth, -
The other, let it sleep with death :
Fitter where it dyed to tell,
Than that it lived at all. Farewell !
UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF JOHN Wisely to husband it,
MILTON. Lest we that talent spend :
PREFIXED TO "PARADISE LOST."
THREE Poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
more. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed ;
The next in majesty ; in both the last.
To make a third, she joined the former two. BEN JONSON'S COMMON PLACE BOOK.
JOHN DRYDEN His learning such, no author, old or new, Escaped his reading that deserved his view;
TO MILTON. And such his judginent, so exact his taste,
" LONDON, 1802." Of what was best in books, or what books best, That had he joined those notes his labors took MILTON ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : From each most praised and praise-deserving England hath need of thee : she is a fen book,
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, And could the world of that choice treasure boast, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, It need not care though all the rest were lost. Have forfeited their ancient English dower LUCIUS CARY (LORD FALKLAND). Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again ;
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart : EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : PEMBROKE.
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way, UNDERNEATH this sable hearse
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart Lies the subject of all verse,
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. Sydney's sister, -- Pembroke's mother.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Death, ere thou hast slain another Fair and wise and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee!
THE SONNET. Marble piles let no man raise
Scorn not the sonnet ; critic, you have frowned, To her name in after days ;
Mindless of its just honors ; with this key · Some kind woman, born as she,
Shakespeare unlocked his heart : the melody Reading this, like Niobe
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound · Shall turn marble, and become
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; Bɔth her mourner and her tomb.
With it Camoëns soothed an exile's grief ;
He sought the storms ; but for a calm unfit, On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly,
JOHN DRYDEN. | Stern famine guards the solitary coast,
And winter barricades the realms of frost.
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay, ZIMRI.
Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day!
The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, (GEORGE VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, 1682.J | And shows his miseries in distant lands : FROM " ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL," PART I. Condemned a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies iutcrpose and slaves debate. Some of their chiefs were princes of the land ;
But did not chance at length her error mend : In the first rank of these did Zimri stand ;
Did no subverted empire mark his end! A man so various, that he seemed to be
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound, Not one, but all mankind's epitome :
Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong;
His fall was destined to a barren strand, Was everything by starts, and nothing long ;
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; But, in the course of one revolving moon,
He left the name, at which the world grew pale, Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon;
To point a moral or adorn a tale. Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking,
DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ, With something new to wish or to enjoy!
TO THE LORD-GENERAL CROMWELL. Railing and praising were his usual themes ; And both, to show his judgment, in extremes : CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a So over-violent or over-civil,
cloud, That every man with him was god or devil.
Not of war only, but detractions rude, In squandering wealth was his peculiar art;
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, Nothing went unrewarded but desert.
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast Beggared by fools, whom still he found too late :
ploughed, He had his jest, and they had his estate.
And on the neck of crowned fortune proud He laughed himself froin court, then sought relief
Hast reared God's trophies, and his work purBy forming parties, but could ne'er be chief;
sued, For, spite of him, the weight of business fell
While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imOn Absalom, and wise Achitophel.
bued, Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft,
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, He left no faction, but of that was left.
And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much re-
No less renowned than War : new foes arise,
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains:
Help us to save free conscience from the paw FROM "VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.”
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. On what foundations stands the warrior's pride,
(LORD HERVEY.] No joys to him pacific sceptres yield,
FROM THE “PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES."
LET Sporus tremble. - A.* What? that thing And one capitulate, and one resign ;
of silk, Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in
Sporus, that mere white curd of asses' milk •
Satire or sense, alas ! can Sporus feel ? vain ; “Think nothing gained,” he cries, “ till naught
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel? remain,
P.* Yet let me Alap this bug with gilded TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE wings,
DEATH OF ADDISON.
IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys :
And left her debt to Addison unpaid,
| Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoala, Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, .
And judge, 0, judge my bosom by your own. As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. .
What mourner ever felt poetic fires ! Whether in florid impotence he speaks,
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires : And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
Can I forget the dismal night that gave
My soul's best part forever to the grave ?
How silent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, Now high, now low, now master up, now miss,
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Through rows of warriors and through walks of And he himself oue vile antithesis. , Amphibious thing ! that, acting either part,
What awe did the slow, solemn knell inspire ; The trifling liead, or the corrupted heart,
| The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; Fop at the toilet, Patterer at the board, Now trips a laily, and now struts a lord.
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid ;
And the last words, that dust to dust conveyed ! Eve's tempter thus the rabbins have exprest,
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest ;
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
O, gone forever ! take this long adieu ;
And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague.
To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine,
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.
If e'er from me thy loved memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart; PEACE to all such! but were there one whose fires of thee forgetful if I form a song, True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ; My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, Blest with each talent and each art to please, My grief be doubled, from thy image free, And born to write, converse, and live with ease : And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee! Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown, And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; Along the walls where speaking marbles show Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, What worthies form the hallowed mould below; And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled ; Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blooil, Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; A timorous foe, and a suspicions friend ;
Just men, by whom impartial laws were given ; Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged, And saints, who taught and led the way to And so obliging that he ne'er obliged ;
heaven; Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty l'est, And sit attentive to his own applause;
Since their foundation came a nobler guest;
| What new employments please the unbodied
A winged Virtue, through the ethereal sky, And these sad accents, murmured o'er his un, From world to world unwearied does he fiy ? Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. Or curious trace the long laborious maze
O, must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels And Craggst in death to Addison succeeds) gaze?
The verse," begun to one lost friend, prolong, Does he delight to hear bolil seraphs tell And weep a second in the unfinished song! How Michael battled and the dragon fell; Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow
These works divine, which on his death-bed laid In hymns of love, not ill-essayed below! To thee, O Craggs! the expiring sage conveyed, Or dost thou warn poor mortals lest hehind, Great, but ill-omeneu, monument of fame, A task well suited to thy gentle mind!
Vor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. 0, if sometimes thy spotless form descend, Swift after hiin thy social spirit flies, To me thy aid, thou guarilian genius, leud! | And close to his, how soon ! thy coffin lies. When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, Blest pair ! whose union future bards shall tell When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, In future tongues: each other's boast! farewell : In silent whispi-rings purer thoughts impart, Farewell ! whom, joined in faine, in friendship And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; i tried, Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. Till bliss shall join, nor death can part is more.
That awful form which, so the heavens decree,
THE POET'S FRIEND.
(LORD DOLING BROKE.) If business calls, or crowded courts invite,
FROM "AN ESSAY ON MAN," EPISTLE IV The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight;
Come then, my friend ! my genius! come along; If in the stage I seek to soothe my care,
O master of the poet, and the song ! I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there ;
And while the muse now stoops, or now ascends, If pensive to the rural shades I rove,
To man's low passions, or their glorions ends, His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, "T was there of just and good he reasoned strong,
.! To fall with dignity, with temper rise ; Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious
Formed by thy converse happily to steer
From grave to gay, froin lively to severe ;
Intent to reason, or polite to please.
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, Thou Hill, whose brow the antique structures Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale? grace,
When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race. Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, Why, once so loved, whene'er thy hower ap
Shall then this verse to future age pretend pears,
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend ! O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears? That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair. From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart : Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air ! | For wit's false mirror held up Nature's light; How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, Showed erring pride, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT, Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze!
ALEXANDER POPE. His image thy forsaken bowers restore ; Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; No more the summer in thy glooms allay,
NAPOLEON. Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday shade.
FROM "CHILDE HAROLD," CANTO III From other hills, however fortune' frowned, THERE sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Some refuge in the Muse's art I found ;
Whose spirit antithetically mixed Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, One moment of the mightiest, and again Bereft of him who taught me how to sing; On little objects with like firmness fixed,