By you he fits those subjects to obey;
As heav'n's eternal Monarch does convey
His pow'r unseen, and man to his designs
By his bright ministers, the stars, inclines.
Our setting sun, from his declining seat, Shot beams of kindness on you, not of heat; And when his love was bounded in a few, That were unhappy that they might be true, Made you the fav'rite of his last sad times, That is, a suff’rer in his subjects' crimes. Thus those first favours you receiv'd, were sent, Like heav'n's rewards, in earthly punishment; Yet Fortune, conscious of your destiny, E'en then took care to lay you softly by: And wrapp'd your Fate among her precious things, Kept fresh, to be unfolded with your King's. Shewn, all at once you dazzled so our eyes, As new-born Pallas did the gods surprise; When, springing forth from Jove's new-closing She struck the warlike spear into the ground, [wound, Which sprouting leaves did suddenly inclose, And peaceful olives shaded as they rose.
How strangely active are the arts of peace, Whose restless motions less than wars do cease! Peace is not freed from labour, but from noise, And war more force, but not more pains, employs. Such is the mighty swiftness of your mind, That, like the earth, it leaves, our sense behind, 110 While you so smoothly turn and roll our sphere, That rapid motion does but rest appear.
For as in Nature's swiftness. with the throng
Of flying orbs while our's is borne along,
All seems at rest to the deluded eye,
Mov'd by the soul of the same harmony;
So, carried on by your unwearied care,
We rest in peace, and yet in motion share.
Let Envy, then, those crimes within you see,
From which the happy never must be free; 120
Envy, that does with Misery reside,
The joy and the revenge of ruin'd pride.
Think it not hard if, at so cheap a rate,
You can secure the constancy of Fate;
Whose kindness sent what does their malice seem,
By lesser ills the greater to redeem.
Nor can we this weak show'r a tempest call,
But drops of heat that in a sunshine fall.
You have already weary'd Fortune so,
She cannot farther be friend or foe;
your
But sits all breathless, and admires to feel
A fate so weighty, that it stops her wheel.
In all things else above our humble fate,
Your equal mind yet swells not into state,
But, like some mountain, in those happy isles,
Where in perpetual spring young Nature smiles,
Your greatness shows no horror to affright;
But trees for shade, and flow'rs to court the sight.
Sometimes the hill submits itself a while
In.small descents, which do its height beguile; 110
And sometimes mounts, but so as billows play,
Whose rise not hinders, but makes short our way.
Your brow, which does no fear of thunder know,
Sees rolling tempests vainly beat below;
And, like Olympus' top, th' impression wears
Of love and friendship, writ in former years:
Yet, unimpair'd with labours, or with time,
Your age but seems to a new youth to climb.
Thus heav'nly bodies do our time beget,
And measure change, but share no part of it; 150
And still it shall without a weight increase,
Like this New-year, whose motions never cease:
For since the glorious course you have begun
Is led by Charles, as that is by the sun,
It must both weightless and immortal prove,
Because the centre of it-is above.
honoured friend Sir ROBERT HOWARD, on his excellent poems.
As there is music, uninform'd by art,
In those wiid notes, which, with a merry heart,
The birds in unfrequented shades express,
Who, better taught at home, yet please us less;
So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,
Which shames composure, and its art excels.
Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.
Yet as when mighty rivers gently creep,
Their even calmness does suppose them deep: 10
Such is you Muse: no metaphor swell'd high,
With dangerous holdness, lifts her to the sky:
Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Shew sand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samson's riddle meet.
The Epistles, are, in this edition, arranged according to chronological order, which was never before done, except in the edition of the Miscellanies in 1760, in four volumes octavo. The epistle to Mr. Julian is retained, not from any high opinion of its value; but because, finding it in the Miscellanies, we cannot suppose it to be an inposition.
'Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear,
And yet no sign of toil, no sweat appear.
Either your art hides art, (as Stoics feign
Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain; 20
And we, dull souls! admire, but cannot see
What hidden springs within the engine be ;)
Or 'tis some happiness that still pursues
Each act and motion your graceful Muse.
Or is it fortune's work, that, in your head-
The curious net that is for fancies spread-
Lets thro' its meshes ev'ry meaner thought,
While rich ideas, there, are, only, caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a peace too fair,
To be the child of Chance, and not of Care.
No atoms casually together hurl'd,
Could e'er produce so beautiful a world:
Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit
As would destroy the providence of Wit.
'Tis your strong genius, then, which does not feel
Those weights, would make a weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run so lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.
Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more
Than not to feel those heav'ns and gods he bore. 40
Your easier Odes, which for delight were penn'd,
Yet our instruction make the second end;
We're both enrich'd and pleas'd, like them that woo
At once a beauty, and a fortune too.
Of moral knowledge Poesy was queen,
And still she might, had wanton wits not been;
|