« EdellinenJatka »
For poets frequent inroads there had made,
And perfectly could represent
The shape, the face, with every lineament, And all the large domains which the Dumb Sister
All bow'd beneath her government,
Receiv'd in triumph wheresoe'er she went. 105 Her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd, And oft the happy draught surpass’d the image in
her mind. The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks, And fruitful plains and barren rocks, Of shallow brooks that flow'd so clear The bottom did the top appear ; Of deeper too and ampler floods, Which, as in mirrors, show'd the woods ; Of lofty trees, with sacred shades, And perspectives of pleasant glades, Where nymphs of brightest form appear, And shaggy satyrs standing near, Which them at once admire and fear. The ruins too of some majestic piece, Boasting the power of ancient Rome, or Greece, Whose statues, friezes, columns broken lie, And, though defac'd, the wonder of the eye; What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame, Her forming hand gave feature to the name.
So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before, But when the peopled ark the whole creation
The scene then chang’d, with bold erected look Our martial king the sight with reverence strook : For not content to express his outward part, Her hand call’d out the image of his heart : His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, His high designing thoughts were figur'd there, As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear.
Our phenix queen was portray'd too so bright, Beauty alone could beauty take so right: Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, Were all observ'd, as well as heavenly face. With such a peerless majesty she stands, As in that day she took the crown from sacred
hands : Before a train of heroines was seen, In beauty foremost, as in rank, the queen.
Thus nothing to her genius was denied, But like a ball of fire the further thrown,
Still with a greater blaze she shone, And her bright soul broke out on every
side. What next she had design’d, heaven only knows : To such immoderate growth her conquest rose, That fate alone its progress could oppose.
Now all those charms, that blooming grace, The well proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes ; In earth the much lamented virgin lies.
Not wit, nor piety could fate prevent;
To sweep at once her life, and beauty too;
To work more mischievously slow,
And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd.
But thus Orinda died :
Meantime her warlike brother on the seas
His waving streamers to the winds displays, And vows for his return with vain devotion pays.
Ah, generous youth, that wish forbear,
The winds too soon will waft thee here ! Slack all thy sails, and fear to come, Alas, thou know'st not thou art wreck'd at home! No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,
V. 162. But thus Orinda died] The matchless Orinda, Mrs. Katherine Philips, was author of a book of poems published in folio, and wrote several other things. She died also of the small pox in 1664, being only thirty-two years of age. She was a woman of an indifferent appearance; but of great virtue, taste, and erudition, which endeared her to the first people of the age. The Duke of Ormond, the Earls of Orrery and Roscommon, Lady Corke, &c. Mr. Dryden, Mr. Cowley, &c. &c. were all her friends. D.
Thou hast already had her last embrace,
When in mid air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground:
When in the valley of Jehoshaphat,
And there the last assizes keep,
From the four corners of the sky;
And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; And straight, with in-born vigour, on the wing, Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shall go, As harbinger of heaven, the way to show, The way
which thou so well hast learnt below. 195 UPON THE DEATH OF THE EARL OF
Oh last and best of Scots! who didst maintain
V. 1. Oh last and best] The conduct and death of this truly valiant chieftain is described with much eloquence and animation in his account of the important battle at Killikranky, by Sir John Dalrymple, in the first volume of his Memoirs. Dundee, being wounded by a musket-ball, rode off the field, desiring his mischance to be concealed, and fainting, dropped from his horse; as soon as he was recovered, he desired to be raised, looked to the field, and asked, How things went?' Being told, All well;' then said he, 'I am well, and expired. Dr. J. W.