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And was that Sappho last which once it was before.

If so, then cease thy flight, О heaven-born mind !
Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore,
Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind :
Return, to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind !


May we presume to say that at thy birth
New joy was sprung in heav'n as well as here on earth? 40

For sure the milder planets did combine
On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,
And ev'n the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth
Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high,

That all the people of the sky
Might know a poetess was born on earth;
And then, if ever, mortal ears
Had heard the music of the spheres.
And if no clust'ring swarm of bees

50 On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew,

'T was that such vulgar miracles

Heav'n had not leisure to renew; For all the blest fraternity of love Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above. 55



O gracious God! how far have we
Profaned thy heav'nly gift of poesy !
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debased to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordained above
For tongues of angels and for hymns of love!
Oh, wretched we! why were we hurried down

This lubric and adult’rate age
(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own),

T' increase the steaming ordures of the stage?
What can we say ť excuse our second fall?
Let this thy vestal, Heaven, atone for all:
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled,

Unmixed with foreign filth, and undefiled;
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.





Art she had none, yet wanted none,

For Nature did that want supply;
So rich in treasures of her own

She might our boasted stores defy:
Such noble vigour did her verse adorn
That it seemed borrowed where 't was only born.
Her morals too were in her bosom bred,

By great examples daily fed,
What in the best of books, her father's life, she read.

And to be read herself she need not fear;
Each test and ev'ry light her Muse will bear,
Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.

Ev'n love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest)
Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast,

Light as the vapours of a morning dream;
So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest.

'T was Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.

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Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,
One would have thought she should have been

To manage well that mighty government;
But what can young ambitious souls confine?

To the next realm she stretched her sway.

For Painture near adjoining lay,
A plenteous province and alluring prey:
A Chamber of Dependences was framed

05 (As conquerors will never want pretence,

When armed to justify th' offence),
And the whole fief in right of Poetry she claimed.

The country open lay without defence,
For poets frequent inroads there had made,

And perfectly could represent
The shape, the face, with ev'ry lineament,
And all the large demains which the dumb Sister swaved:

All bowed beneath her government, Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went.

105 Her pencil drew whate'er her soul designed


And oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her

The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks,
And fruitful plains and barren rocks;
Of shallow brooks that flowed so clear
The bottom did the top appear;
Of deeper too and ampler floods,
Which, as in mirrors, showed 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 pow'r of ancient Rome or Greece,
Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie,
And, though defaced, 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,

125 But when the peopled ark the whole creation bore.





The scene then changed: with bold erected look
Our martial King the sight with reverence strook,
For, not content t express his outward part,
Her hand called out the image of his heart;
His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear,
His high-designing thoughts, were figured there,
As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear.
Our,phænix Queen was portrayed, too, so bright
Beauty alone could beauty take so right:
Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace,
Were all observed, 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 farther thrown
Still with a greater blaze she shone,

140 145

And her bright soul broke out on ev'ry side.
What next she had designed, Heaven only knows;
To such immod'rate growth her conquest rose
That Fate alone its progress could oppose.




Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
The well-proportioned 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;
Nor was the cruel Destiny content
To finish all the murder at a blow,
To sweep at once her life and beauty too,
But, like a hardened felon, took a pride

To work more mischievously slow,

And plundered first, and then destroyed.
Oh, double sacrilege on things divine,
To rob the relic and deface the shrine !

But thus Orinda died:
Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate;
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.





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 wrecked at home.
No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face;
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft; and if thou ken’st from far,
Among the Pleiads, a new-kindled star,
If any sparkles th the rest more bright,
'T is she that shines in that propitious light.



When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,

To raise the nations under ground; When in the Valley of Jehosophat



The judging God shall close the book of Fate,

And there the last assizes keep
For those who wake and those who sleep;
When rattling bones together fly

From the four corners of the sky;
When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,
Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,

And foremost from the tomb shall bound,
For they are covered with the lightest ground, 190
And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing,
Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shalt go,
As harbinger of heaven, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learned below.

195 1685 or 1686.







A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged,
Fed on the lawns and in the forest ranged.
Without unspotted, innocent within,
She feared no danger, for she knew no sin:
Yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds
And Scythian shafts; and many winged wounds
Aimed at her heart; was often forced to fly,
And doomed to death, though fated not to die.

Not so her young, for their unequal line
Was hero's make, half human, half divine:
Their earthly mould obnoxious was to fate,
Th' immortal part assumed immortal state.
Of these a slaughtered army lay in blood,
Extended o'er the Caledonian wood,
Their native walk; whose vocal blood arose,
And cried for pardon on their perjured foes.
Their fate was fruitful; and the sanguine seed,
Endued with souls, increased the sacred breed.
So captive Israel multiplied in chains,
A numerous exile, and enjoyed her pains.

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