The theatre for a young poet's rhymes Is a bold venture in our knowing times: An author cannot easily purchase fame; Critics are always apt to hiss, and blame: You may be judg'd by every ass in town, The privilege is bought for half a crown. To please, you must a hundred changes try; Sometimes be humble, then must soar on high: In noble thoughts must every where abound, Be easy, pleasant, solid, and profound: To these you must surprising touches join, And show us a new wonder in each line: That all, in a just method well-design'd, May leave a strong impression in the mind. These are the arts that Tragedy maintain:
But the Heroic claims a loftier strain.
In the narration of some great design,
Invention, art, and fable, all must join:
Here fiction must employ its utmost grace;
All must assume a body, mind, and face:
Each virtue a divinity is seen;
Prudence is Pallas, Beauty Paphos' queen.
"Tis not, a cloud from whence swift lightnings fly;
But Jupiter, that thunders from the sky:
Nor a rough storm that gives the sailor pain;
But angry Neptune ploughing up the main :
Echo's no more an empty airy sound;
But a fair nymph that weeps her lover drown'd.
Thus in the endless treasure of his mind,
The poet does a thousand figures find,
Around the work his ornaments he pours,
And strows with lavish hand his opening flowers.
'Tis not a wonder if a tempest bore
The Trojan fleet against the Libyan shore;
From faithless Fortune this is no surprise,
For every day 'tis common to our eyes;
But angry Juno, that she might destroy,
And overwhelm the rest of ruin'd Troy:
That Eolus with the fierce goddess join'd,
Open'd the hollow prisons of the wind;
Till angry Neptune looking o'er the main,
Rebukes the tempest, calms the waves again,
Their vessels from the dangerous quicksands steers;
These are the springs that move our hopes and
fears:
Without these ornaments before our eyes,
Th' unsinew'd poem languishes and dies:
Your poet in his art will always fail,
And tell you but a dull insipid tale.
In vain have our mistaken authors try'd
To lay these ancient ornaments aside,
Thinking our God, and prophets that he sent,
Might act like those the poets did invent,
To fright poor readers in each line with Hell,
And talk of Satan, Ashtaroth, and Bel;
The mysteries which Christians must believe
Disdain such shifting pageants to receive:
The gospel offers nothing to our thoughts
But penitence, or punishment for faults;
And mingling falsehoods with those mysteries,
Would make our sacred truths appear like lies,
Besides, what pleasure can it be to hear
The howlings of repining Lucifer,
Whose rage at your imagin'd hero flies,
And oft with God himself disputes the prize?
Tasso you'll say has done it with applause.
It is not here I mean to judge his cause:
Yet, though our age has so extoll'd his name,
His works had never gain'd immortal fame,
If holy Godfrey in his ecstasies
Had only conquer'd Satan on his knees;
If Tancred and Armida's pleasing form
Did not his melancholy theme adorn.
'Tis not, that Christian poems ought to be
Fill'd with the fictions of idolatry;
But in a common subject to reject
The gods, and heathen ornaments neglect;
To banish Tritons who the seas invade,
To take Pan's whistle, or the Fates degrade,
To hinder Charon in his leaky boat
To pass the shepherd with the man of note,
Is with vain scruples to disturb your mind,
And search perfection you can never find:
As well they may forbid us to present
Prudence or Justice for an ornament,
To paint old Janus with his front of brass,
And take from Time his scythe, his wings and glass,
And every where, as 'twere idolatry,
Banish descriptions from our poetry.
Leave them their pious follies to pursue;
But let our reason such vain fears subdue:
And let us not, amongst our vanities,
Of the true God create a God of lies.
In fable we a thousand pleasures see,
And the smooth names seem made for poetry;
As Hector, Alexander, Helen, Phyllis,
Ulysses, Agamemnon, and Achilles :
In such a crowd, the poet were to blame
To choose king Chilperie for his hero's name.
Sometimes the name being well or ill apply'd,
Will the whole fortune of your work decide.
Would you your reader never should be tir'd?
Choose some great hero, fit to be admir'd;
In courage signal, and in virtue bright,
Let e'en his very failings give delight;
Let his great actions our attention bind,
Like Cæsar, or like Scipio, frame his mind,
And not like Edipus his perjur'd race;
A common conqueror is a theme too base.
Choose not your tale of accidents too full;
Too much variety may make it dull:
Achilles' rage alone, when wrought with skill,
Abundantly does a whole Iliad fill.
Be your narrations lively, short, and smart ;
In your descriptions show your noblest art:
There 'tis your poetry may be employ'd:
Yet you must trivial accidents avoid.
Nor imitate that fool, who, to describe
The wondrous marches of the chosen tribe,
Plac'd on the sides, to see their armies pass,
The fishes, staring through the liquid glass;
Describ'd a child, who, with his little hand,
Pick'd up the shining pebbles from the sand.
Such objects are too mean to stay our sight;
Allow your work a just and nobler flight.
Be your beginning plain; and take good heed
Too soon you mount not on the airy steed;
Nor tell your reader in a thundering verse,
"I sing the conqueror of the universe."
What can an author after this produce?
The labouring mountain must bring forth a mouse.
Much better are we pleas'd with his address,
Who, without making such vast promises,
Says, in an easier style and plainer sense,
"I sing the combats of that pious prince
Who from the Phrygian coast his armies bore,
And landed first on the Lavinian shore."
His opening Muse sets not the world on fire,
And yet performs more than we can require;
Quickly you'll hear him celebrate the fame
And future glory of the Roman name;
Of Styx and Acheron describe the floods,
And Cæsar's wandering in th' Elysian woods:
With figures numberless his story grace,
And every thing in beauteous colours trace.
At once you may be pleasing and sublime:
I hate a heavy melancholy rhyme:
I'd rather read Orlando's comic tale,
Than a dull author always stiff and stale,
Who thinks himself dishonour'd in his style,
If on bis works the Graces do but smile.
'Tis said, that Homer, matchless in his art,
Stole Venus' girdle to engage the heart:
His works indeed vast treasures do unfold,
And whatsoe'er he touches turns to gold:
All in his hands new beauty does acquire;
He always pleases, and can never tire.
A happy warmth he every where may boast;
Nor is he in too long digressions lost:
His verses without rule a method find,
And of themselves appear in order join'd:"
All without trouble answers his intent;
Each syllable is tending to th' event.
Let bis example your endeavours raise:
To love his writings is a kind of praise.
A poem, where we all perfections find,
Is not the work of a fantastic mind:
By mild reproofs recover'd minds diseas'd,
And, sparing persons, innocently pleas'd.
Each one was nicely shown in this new glass,
And smil'd to think he was not meant the ass:
A miser oft would laugh at first, to find
A faithful draught of his own sordid mind;
And fops were with such care and cunning writ,
They lik'd the piece for which themselves did sit.
You then, that would the comic laurels wear,
To study Nature be your only care:
Whoe'er knows man, and by a curious art
Discerns the hidden secrets of the heart;
He who observes, and naturally can paint
The jealous fool, the fawning sycophant,
A sober wit, an enterprising ass,
A humorous Otter, or a Hudibras ;
May safely in those noble lists engage,
And make them act and speak upon the stage.
Strive to be natural in all you write,
And paint with colours that may please the
sight:
Nature in various figures does abound,
And in each mind are different humours found;
A glance, a touch, discovers to the wise;
But every man has not discerning eyes.
All-changing time does also change the mind;
And different ages different pleasures find:
Youth, hot and furious, cannot brook delay,
By flattering vice is easily led away;
Vain in discourse, inconstant in desire,
There must be care, and time, and skill, and pains; In censure, rash, in pleasures, all on fire.
Not the first heat of unexperienc'd brains.
Yet sometimes artless poets, when the rage
Of a warm faucy does their minds engage,
Puff'd with vaiu pride, presume they understand,
And boldly take the trumpet in their hand;
Their fustian Muse each accident confounds;
Nor can she fly, but rise by leaps and bounds,
Till, their small stock of learning quickly spent,
Their poem dies for want of nourishment.
In vain mankind the hot-brain'd fool decries,
No branding censures can unveil his eyes;
With impudence the laurel they invade,
Resolv'd to like the monsters they have made.
Virgil, compared to them, is flat and dry;
And Homer understood not poetry:
Against their merit if this age rebel,
To future times for justice they appeal.
But waiting till mankind shall do them right,
And bring their works triumphantly to light;
Neglected heaps we in by-corners lay,
Where they become to worms and moths a prey;
Forgot, in dust and cobwebs let them rest,
Whilst we return from whence we first digrest.
The great success which tragic writers found,
In Athens first the comedy renown'd;
Th' abusive Grecian there by pleasing ways,
Dispers'd his natural malice in his plays:
Wisdom and virtue, honour, wit, and sense,
Were subject to buffooning insolence:
Poets were publicly approv'd, and sought,
That vice extoll'd, and virtue set at nought!
A Socrates himself, in that loose age,
Was made the pastime of a scoffing stage:
At last the public took in hand the cause,
And cur'd this madness by the power of laws;
Forbad at any time, or any place,
To name the person, or describe the face.
The stage its ancient fury thus let fall,
And comedy diverted without gall:
The manly age does steadier thoughts enjoy;
Power and ambition do his soul employ:
Against the turns of Fate he sets his mind;
And by the past the future hopes to find.
Decrepit age, still adding to his stores,
For others heaps the treasure he adores,
In all his actions keeps a frozen pace;
Past times extols, the present to debase:
Incapable of pleasures youth abuse,
In others blames what age does him refuse.
Your actors must by reason be control'd;
Let young men speak like young, old men like
Observe the town, and study well the court:
For thither various characters resort:
Thus 'twas great Jonson purchas'd his renown,
And in his art had borne away the crown;
If, less desirous of the people's praise,
He had not with low farce debas'd his plays;
Mixing dull buffoonry with wit refin'd,
And Harlequin with noble Terence join'd.
When in the Fox I see the Tortoise hist,
I lose the author of the Alchymist.
The comic wit, born with a smiling air,
Must tragic grief and pompons verse forbear;
Yet may he not, as on a market-place,
With bawdy jests amuse the populace:
With well-bred conversation you must please,
And your intrigue unravell'd be with ease: "
Your action still should reason's rules obey,
Nor in an empty scene may lose its way.
Your humble style must sometimes gently rise;
And your discourse sententious be, and wise:
The passions must to Nature be confin'd;
And scenes to scenes with artful weaving join'd.
Your wit must not unseasonably play;
But follow bus'ness, never lead the way.
Observe how Terence does this errour shun;
A careful father chides his amorous son:
Then see that son, whom no advice can move,
Forget those orders, and pursue his love.
'Tis not a well-drawn picture we discover:
'Tis a true son, a father, and a lover.
I like an author that reforms the age,
And keeps the right decorum of the stage;
That always pleases by just reason's rule:
But for a tedious droll, a quibbling fool,
Who with low nauseous bawdry fills his plays;
Let him be gone, and on two tressels raise
Some Smithfield stage, where he may act his pranks;
And make Jack-Puddings speak to mountebanks.
IN Florence dwelt a doctor of renown,
The scourge of God, and terrour of the town,
Who all the cant of physic had by heart,
And never murder'd but by rules of art.
The public mischief was his private gain;
Children their slaughter'd parents sought in vain:
A brother here his poison'd brother wept;
Some bloodless dy'd, and some by opium slept.
Colds, at his presence, would to frenzies turn;
And agues, like malignant fevers, burn.
Hated, at last, his practice gives him o'er;
One friend, unkill'd by drugs, of all his store,
In his new country-house affords him place;
'Twas a rich abbot, and a building ass:
Here first the doctor's talent came in play,
He seems inspir'd, and talks like Wren or May:
Of this new portico condemns the face,
And turns the entrance to a better place;
Designs the stair-case at the other end:
His friend approves, does for his mason send.
He comes; the doctor's arguments prevail.
In short, to finish this our humorous tale,
He Galen's dangerous science does reject,
And from ill doctor turns good architect.
In this example we may have our part:
Rather be mason, 'tis a useful art!
'Than a dull poet; for that trade accurst,
Admits no mean betwixt the best and worst.
In other sciences, without disgrace,
A candidate may fill a second place;
But poetry no medium can admit,
No reader suffers an indifferent wit:
The ruin'd stationers against him bawl,
And Herringham degrades him from his stall.
Burlesque, at least, our laughter may excite:
But a cold writer never can delight.›
The Counter-Scuffle has more wit and art,
Than the stiff formal style of Gondibert.
Be not affected with that empty praise
Which your vain flatterers will sometimes raise,
And when you read, with ecstasy will say,
"The finish'd piece! the admirable play!"
Which, when expos'd to censure and to light,
Cannot endure a critic's piercing sight.
A hundred authors' fates have been foretold,
And Shadwell's works are printed, but not sold.
Hear all the world; consider every thought;
A fool by chance may stumble on a fault:
Yet, when Apollo does your Muse inspire,
Be not impatient to expose your fire;
Nor imitate the Settles of our times,
Those tuneful readers of their own dull rhymes.
Who seize on all th' acquaintance they can meet,
And stop the passengers that walk the street:
There is no sanctuary you can choose
For a defence from their pursuing Muse.
I've said before, be patient when they blame;
To alter for the better, is no shame.
Yet yield not to a fool's impertinence :
Sometimes conceited sceptics, void of sense,
By their false taste condemn some finish'd part,
And blame the noblest flights of wit and art;
In vain their fond opinions you deride,
With their lov'd follies they are satisfy'd;
And their weak judgment, void of sense and light,
Thinks nothing can escape their feeble sight:
Their dangerous counsels do not cure, but wound;
To shun the storm, they run your verse aground,
And, thinking to escape a rock, are drown'd.
Choose a sure judge to censure what you write,
Whose reason leads, and knowledge gives you
light;
Whose steady hand will prove your faithful guide,
And touch the darling follies you would hide:
He, in your doubts, will carefully advise,
And clear the mist before your feeble eyes.
'Tis he will tell you to what noble height
A generous Muse may sometimes take her flight;
When too much fetter'd with the rules of art,
May from her stricter bounds and limits part:
But such a perfect judge is hard to see,
And every rhymer knows not poetry;
Nay some there are, for writing verse extoll'd,
Who know not Lucan's dross from Virgil's gold.
Would you in this great art acquire renown?
Authors, observe the rules I here lay down.
In prudent lessons every where abound:
With pleasant join the useful and the sound:
A sober reader a vain tale will slight;
He seeks as well instruction as delight.
Let all your thoughts to virtue be confin'd,
Still offering nobler figures to our mind:
I like not those loose writers who employ
Their guilty Muse, good manners to destroy;
Who with false colours still deceive our eyes,
And show us Vice dress'd in a fair disguise.
Yet do I not their sullen Muse approve,
Who from all modest writings banish love:
That strip the playhouse of its chief intrigue,
And make a murderer of Roderigue:
The lightest love, if decently exprest,
Will raise no vicious motions in our breast.
Dido in vain may weep, and ask relief;
I blame her folly, whilst I share her grief.
A virtuous author, in his charming art,
To please the sense needs not corrupt the heart:
His heat will never cause a guilty fire:
To follow virtue then be your desire.
In vain your art and vigour are exprest;
Th' obscene expression shows th' infected breast.
But above all, base jealousies avoid,
In which detracting poets are employ'd.
A noble wit dares literally contend;
And scorns to grudge at his deserving friend.
Base rivals, who true wit and merit hate,
Caballing still against it with the great,
Maliciously aspire to gain renown,
By standing up, and pulling others down.
Never debase yourself by treacherous ways,
Nor by such abject methods seek for praise:
Let not your only business be to write;
Be virtuous, just, and in your friends delight.
'Tis not enough your poems be admir'd;
But strive your conversation be desir'd:
Write for immortal fame; nor ever choose
Gold for the object of a generous Muse.
I know a noble wit may, without crime,
Receive a lawful tribute for his time:
Yet I abhor those writers, who despise
Their honour; and alone their profits prize;
Who their Apollo basely will degrade,
And of a noble science make a trade.
Before kind Reason did her light display,
And government taught mortals to obey,
Men, like wild beasts, did Nature's laws pursue,
They fed on herbs, and drink from rivers drew;
Their brutal force, on lust and rapine bent,
Committed murder without punishment:
Reason at last, by her all-conquering arts,
Reduc'd these savages, and turn'd their hearts;
Mankind from bogs, and woods, and caverns calls,
And towns and cities fortifies with walls:
Thus fear of Justice made proud Rapine cease,
And shelter'd Innocence by laws and peace.
These benefits from poets we receiv'd,
From whence are rais'd those fictions since believ'd:
That Orpheus, by his soft harmonious strains,
Tam'd the fierce tigers of the Thracian plains;
Amphion's notes, by their melodious powers,
Drew rocks and woods, and rais'd the Theban
towers;
These miracles from numbers did arise:
Since which, in verse Heaven taught his mysteries,
And by a priest, possess'd with rage divine,
Apollo spoke from his prophetic shrine.
Soon after Homer the old heroes prais'd,
And noble minds by great examples rais'd;
Then Hesiod did his Grecian swains incline
To till the fields, and prune the bounteous vine.
Thus useful rules were by the poet's aid,
In easy numbers to rude men convey'd,
And pleasingly their precepts did impart;
Sing then his glory, celebrate his fame;
Your noblest theme is his immortal name.
Let mighty Spenser raise his reverend head,
Cowley and Denham start up from the dead;
Waller his age renew, and offerings bring,
Our monarch's praise let bright-ey'd virgins sing;
Let Dryden with new rules our stage refine,
And his great models form by this design:
But where's a second Virgii to rehearse
Our hero's glories in his epic verse?
What Orpheus sing his triumphs o'er the main,
And make the hills and forests move again;
Show his bold fleet on the Batavian shore,
And Holland trembling as his cannons roar;
Paint Europe's balance in his steady hand,
Whilst the two worlds in expectation stand
Of
peace or war, that wait on his command?
But as I speak new glories strike my eyes,
Glories, which Heaven itself does give and prize,
Blessings of peace; that with their milder rays
Adorn his reign, and bring Saturnian days:
| Now let rebellion, discord, vice, and rage,
That have in patriots' forms debauch'd our age,
Vanish with all the ministers of Hell:
His rays their poisonous vapours shall dispel:
| 'Tis he alone our safety did create,
His own firm soul secur'd the nation's fate,
Oppos'd to all the Bout'feu's of the state.
Authors, for him your great endeavours raise;
The loftiest numbers will but reach his praise.
For me, whose verse in satire has been bred,
And never durst heroic measures tread;
Yet you shall see me, in that famous field,
With eyes and voice, my best assistance yield:
Offer your lessons, that my infant Muse
Learnt, when she Horace for her guide did choose:
Second your zeal with wishes, heart, and eyes,
And from afar hold up the glorious prize.
First charm'd the ear, and then engag'd the heart: But pardon too, if, zealous for the right,
The Muses thus their reputation rais'd,
And with just gratitude in Greece were prais'd.
With pleasure mortals did their wonders see,
And sacrific'd to their divinity;
But Want, at last, base Flattery entertain'd,
And old Parnassus with this vice was stain'd:
Desire of gain dazzling the poets' eyes,
Their works were fill'd with fulsome flatteries.
Thus needy wits a vile revenue made,
And verse became a mercenary trade.
Debase not with so mean a vice thy art:
If gold must be the idol of thy heart,
Fly, fly th' unfruitful Heliconian strand,
Those streams are not enrich'd with golden sand:
Great wits, as well as warriors, only gain
Laurels and honours for their toil and pain:
"But what? an author cannot live on fame,
Or pay a reckoning with a lofty name:
A poet to whom Fortune is unkind,
Who when he goes to bed has hardly din'd,
Takes little pleasure in Parnassus' dreams,
Or relishes the Heliconian streams.
Horace had ease and plenty when he writ,
And, free from cares for money or for meat,
Did not expect his dinner from his wit."
'Tis true; but verse is cherish'd by the great,
And now none famish who deserve to eat :
What can we fear, when virtue, arts, and sense,
Receive the stars' propitious influence;
When a sharp-sighted prince, by early grants,
Rewards your merits, and prevents your wants?
A strict observer of each noble flight,
From the fine gold I separate the allay,
And show how hasty writers sometimes stray:
Apter to blame, than knowing how to mend :
A sharp, but yet a necessary friend.
A FUNERAL PINDARIC POEM, SACRED to the happy
MEMORY OF KING CHARLES II.
THUS long my grief has kept me dumb:
Sure there's a lethargy in mighty woe,
Tears stand congeal'd, and cannot flow!
And the sad soul retires into her inmost room:
Tears, for a stroke foreseen, afford relief;
But, unprovided for a sudden blow,
Like Niobé we marble grow;
And petrify with grief.
Our British Heaven was all serene,
No threatening cloud was nigh,
Not the least wrinkle to deform the sky;
We liv'd as unconcern'd and happily
As the first age in Nature's golden scene;
Supine amidst our flowing store,
We slept securely and we dreamt of more:
When suddenly the thunder-clap was heard,
It took us unprepar'd and out of guard,
Already lost before we fear'd.
Th' amazing news of Charles at once were spread, | Mercy above did hourly plead
At once the general voice declar'd,
"Our gracious prince was dead."
No sickness known before, no slow disease,
To soften grief by just degrees,
But like an hurricane on Indian seas,
The tempest rose;
An unexpected burst of woes:
With scarce a breathing space betwixt,
This now becalm'd, and perishing the next.
As if great Atlas from his height
Should sink beneath his heavenly weight,
And with a mighty flaw, the flaming wall
As once it shall,
Should gape immense, and rushing down, o'erwhelm this nether ball;
So swift and so surprising was our fear:
Our Atlas fell indeed; but Hercules was near.
His pious brother, sure the best
Who ever bore that name, Was newly risen from his rest,
And, with a fervent flame,
His usual morning vows had just addrest
For his dear sovereign's health;
And hop'd to have them heard,
In long increase of years,
In honour, fame, and wealth:
Guiltless of greatness thus he always pray'd:
Nor knew nor wish'd those vows he made,'
On his own head should be repay'd.
Soon as th' ill-omen'd rumour reach'd his ear,
Ill news is wing'd with fate, and flies apace,
Who can describe th' amazement of his face!
Horrour in all his pomp was there,
Mute and magnificent without a tear:
And then the hero first was seen to fear.
Half unarray'd he ran to his relief,
So hasty and so artless was his grief:
Approaching Greatness met him with her charms
Of power and future state;
But look'd so ghastly in a brother's fate,
He shook her from his arms.
Arriv'd within the mournful room, he saw
A wild distraction, void of awe,
And arbitrary grief unbounded by a law.
God's image, God's anointed, lay
Without motion, pulse, or breath,
A senseless lump of sacred clay,
An image now of Death.
Amidst his sad attendants' groans and cries,
The lines of that ador'd, forgiving face,
Distorted from their native grace;
An iron slumber sat on his majestic eyes.
The pious duke-Forbear, audacious Muse!
No terms thy feeble art can use
Are able to adorn so vast a woe:
For her resemblance here below; And mild Forgiveness intercede
To stop the coming blow.
New miracles approach'd th' ethereal throne,
Such as his wondrous life had oft and lately known,
And urg'd that still they might be shown.
On Earth his pious brother pray'd and vow'd,
Renouncing greatness at so dear a rate,
Himself defending what he could,
From all the glories of his future fate.
With him th' innumerable crowd,
Knock'd at the gates of Heaven, and knock'd aloud;
The first well-meaning rude petitioners.
All for his life assail'd the throne,
[own.
All would have brib'd the skies by offering up their
So great a throng not Heaven itself could bar;
Twas almost borne by force as in the giants' war.
The prayers at least for his reprieve were heard;
His death, like Hezekiah's, was deferr'd:
Against the Sun the shadow went;
Five days, those five degrees, were lent
To form our patience and prepare th' event.
The second causes took the swift command,
The medicinal head, the ready hand,
All eager to perform their part;
All but eternal doom was conquer'd by their art: Once more the fleeting soul came back
T' inspire the mortal frame;
And in the body took a doubtful stand,
Doubtful and hovering like expiring flame,
That mounts and falls by turns, and trembles o'er
the brand.
The joyful short-liv'd news soon spread around,
Took the same train, the same impetuous bound:
The drooping town in smiles again was drest,
Gladness in every face exprest,
Their eyes before their tongues confest.
Men met each other with erected look,
The steps were higher that they took,
Friends to congratulate their friends made haste;
And long-inveterate foes saluted as they past:
Above the rest heroic James appear'd
Exalted more, because he more had fear'd:
His manly heart, whose noble pride
Was still above
Dissembled hate or varnish'd love,
Its more than common transport could not hide; But like an eagre rode in triumph o'er the tide. Thus, in alternate course,
The tyrant passions, hope and fear,
Did in extremes appear,
And flash'd upon the soul with equal force.
Thus, at half ebb, a rolling sea
Returns and wins upon the shore;
The grief of all the rest like subject-grief did show, The watery herd, affrighted at the roar,
His like a sovereign did transcend;
No wife, no brother, such a grief could know, Nor any name but friend.
O wondrous changes of a fatal scene,
Still varying to the last!
Heaven, though its hard decree was past,
Seem'd pointing to a gracious turn again:
And Death's uplifted arm arrested in its haste. Heaven half repented of the doom,
And almost griev'd it had foreseen,
What by foresight it will'd eternally to come,
Rest on their fins a while, and stay,
Then backward take their wondering way:
|