There was no number now of death, The fifters fcarce flood ftill themfelves to breathe: In cutting fingle thread. One ftroke did give whole houfes dooms: "The aged and decrepid years; They fell, and only begg'd of fate Some few months more, but 'twas alas too late. Then death, as if afham'd of that, A conqueft fo degenerate, Cut off the young and lufty too: The young were reckoning o'er What happy days, what joys they had in ftore: But fate, e'er they had finish'd their account, them flew. The wretched ufurer died, And had no time to tell where he his treasures hid; The merchant did behold His Chips return with fpice and gold; He faw't, and turn'd afide his head, Nor thank'd the gods, but fell amidst his riches dead. XXII. The meetings and affemblies ceafe; no more No courfe of juftice did appear, 'The fenate caft away The robe of honour, and obey Death's more refiflcis way, Doth all the great and leffer officers devour. No purpie aw'd the rout: A purple of their own did faew: Laws that, like his, in blood are writ. For the advantage of the flate, Now his fucceffers do to truly initute. Up ftarts the foldier from his bed, He, though death's fervant, is not freed, Death him cafer'd, 'caufe now his help the not need. He that ne'er knew before to yield, Let me at least, if I must die, Send, gods, the Perfian troops again: Let me furvive to die at Syracufe, Where my dear country fhall her glory of Slaughters and battles to the coming age: Oh! might I die upon that glorious flaget, Oh that but then he grafp'd his fword, n death concludes his rage. XXIV. Draw back, draw back thy fword, ✪ Fate! Thou tarve thyfelf at last : What men wilt thou referve in store, Whom in the time to come thou may't devour, When thou fhalt have deftroyed all before? But, if thou wilt not yet give o'er, If yet thy greedy ftomach calls for møre, If more remain whom thou must kill, And if thy jaws are craving ftill, Carry thy fury to the Scythian coafts, The northern wildernefs and eternal frosts! Against thofe barbarous crowds thy arrows whet, Where arts and laws are ftrangers yet; Where thou may'ft kill, and yet the lofs will not be great. There rage, there fpread, and there infect the air, Marder whole towns and families there, There thou may't walk unfeer, and bold, There let thy flames their empire hold. Unto the fartheft feas, and nature's ends, Where never fummer's fun its beams extends, Carry thy plagues, thy pains, thy heats, They'll thank the very flames with which they do confume.' XXV. Then if that banquet will not thee fuffice, And all that in the hollow mountains dwell; Thofe wild and untame troops devour, Thereby thou wilt the reft of men fecure, And that the rest of men will thank thee for. Let all thofe human beafts be flain, Till fcarce their memory remain; Thyfelf with that ignoble flaughter fill, 'Twill be permitted thee that blood to spill. Mcafure the ruder world throughout, Attempt thofe lands which yet are hid Nor is this all which we thee grant; Rather than thou should'ft full employment want, (We do permit) in Greece thy kingdom plant. Ranfack Lycurgus' streets throughout, They've no defence of walls to keep thee out. On wanton and proud Corinth feize, Nor let her double waves thy flames appeafe. Let Cyprus feel more fires than those of love: Let Delos, which at first did give the fun, See unknown flames in her begun, All that thou find'ft in field, or camp, or fhop: Of Touch not the facred throng, And let Apollo's priefts be, like him, young, Like him, be healthful too, and strong. But ah! too ravenous Plague, whilft I Strive to keep off the mifery, The learned too, as faft as others, round me die; XXVII. They turn'd their authors o'er, to try What help, what cure, what remedy, All nature's ftores against this plague supply; And though befides they fhunn'd it every where, They fearch'd it in their books, and fain would meet it there; They turn'd the records of the ancient times, And chiefly those that were made famous by their crimes, To find if men were punish'd so before; Nature, alas! was now furpris'd, And all her forces feiz'd, Before he was how to refift advis'd. Before they knew their foes, [pofe. Before they understood fuch dreadful troops t'op XXVIII. Now every different fect agrees Against their common adverfary, the disease, The Pythagoreans from their precepts swerve, Out of their schools they run, They now defir'd their metempsychosis; That they might turn to beafts, or fowls, or fish. They would have curs'd their master's year, When all things fhall be as they were, When they again the fame difeafe fhall bear : All the philofophers would now, What the great Stagyrite fhall do, Themfelves into the waters headlong throw. XXIX. The Stoics felt the deadly stroke, At first affault their courage was not broke, They call'd in all the cobweb aid Of rules and precepts, which in store they had; They bid their hearts stand out, Bid them be calm and tout, But all the ftrength of precept will not do't. A ficrifice or feen heinre; Of lambs or bulls, fhould now Loaded with priests see its own altars too! Xxx. The woods gave funeral piles no more, Into each other's graves are thrust. So much their Athens' danger did them move. But now, alas! were quite difmay'd, But what, great Gods! was worst of all, Hell forth its magazines of luft did call, Nor would it be content With the thick troops of fouls were thither fent; That the few good which did furvive [live Were angry with the plague for fuffering them to More for the living than the dead did grieve. Some robb'd the very dead, Though fure to be infected ere they fled, Though in the very air fure to be punished. Some nor the fhrines nor temples fpar'd, Nor gods nor heavens fear'd, Though fuch example of their power appear'd Virtue was now efteem'd an empty name, And honefty the foolish voice of fame; For, having paft those torturing flames befite, They thought the punishment already o'er, Thought heaven no worse torments had in ftore; Here having felt one hell, they thought there wa no more. What angel fat upon thy pen when thou didst They rofe, and knew not by what magic force they write? What holy vestal hearth, Did give fo pure poetic flame its birth? Of fuch an unmix'd glorious fhine, Was Prometheus's flame, Which from no less than heaven came. And as he haften'd down With the robb'd flames his hands ftill fhone, And feem'd as if they were burnt for the theft. Thy poetry's compounded of the fame, Such a bright immortal flame; hung. So were his words, fo plac'd his founds, Which forc'd the marbles rife from out their grounds, Which cut and carved, made them shine, A work which can be outdone by none but thine. Th' amazed poet faw the building rife, And knew not how to truft his eyes: The willing mortar came, and all the trees Leap into beams he fees. He faw the streets appear, Streets, that muft needs be harmonious there : And all like the creation by a word was bred. Marble monuments to thy praife; Yet 'tis no matter, cities they must fall, And houses, by the greatest glutton Time be eaten all: But thy verfe builds a fame for thee, Which fire cannot devour, nor purify, Which fword and thunder doth defy, As round, and full, as the great circle of eternity. The very nature of good poetry. He was a poet that could fpeak least truth: Sober and grave men fcorn'd the name, Which once was thought the greatest fame. Poets had nought elfe of Apollo, but his youth: Few ever spake in rhyme, but that their feet The trencher of fome liberal man might meet. Or elfe they did fome rotten mistress paint, Call her their goddess, or their faint. Though contrary in this they to their master run, For the great god of wit, the fun, When he doth fhew his miftrefs, the white moon, He makes her spots, as well as beauty, to be fhewn. Till now the fifters were too old, and therefore You, Sir, have rais'd the price of wit, Reign without dissembling too. And be fill'd with his oracles, without being mad; Before God the great cenfor them bestow'd, According to their ranks, in feveral tribes abroad; Whilft yet the fun and moon Were in perpetual conjunction: Whilft all the stars were but one milky way, And in natural embraces lay. Whilft yet none of the lamps of heaven might Call this their own, and that another's light, So glorious a lump as thine, Which chemistry may feparate, but not refine: So mixt, fo pure, fo united does it shine, A chain of fand, of which each link is all divine Where we a pure exalted mufe do find, Such as may well become a glorified mind. Such fongs tune angels when they love, And do make courtship to fome filter-mind above (For angels need not scorn such soft defires, Seeing thy heart is touch'd with the fame tires). So when they clothe themfelves in fleth, And their light in fome human shapes do drefs (For which they fetch'd ftuff from the nigh bouring air): So when they stoop, to like fome mortal fair, Such words, fuch odes as thine they ufe, With fuch foft ftrains, love into her heart infle Thy love is on the top, if not above mortality; C'e in, and from corruption free, Such as affections in eternity fhall be ; Which fhall remain unspotted there, Thy Venus has the falt, but not the froth o'th' XI. Thy high Pindarics foar So high, where never any wing till now could get Doth feem fo great, as thofe that do fly lower. Thou haft brought him from the duft, Pindar has left his barbarous Greece, and thinks & When his word did affuage Than that great conqueror fav'd him from, a brighter flanie. [ftay, He only left fome walls where Pindar's name night Which with time and age decay: But thou haft made him once again to live; Thou hast made him rife more glorious, and put on you, Than ever be in happy Thebes or Greece could fhew. |