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Because so long divided from the sphere,

What wondrous life in this I lead! Restless it rolls, and unsecure,

Ripe apples drop about my head. Trembling, lest it grows impure ;

The luscious clusters of the vine Till the warm sun pitys its pain,

Upon my mouth do crush their wine. And to the skys exhales it back again.

The nectarine, the curious peach, So the soul, that drop, that ray,

Into my hands themselves do reach. Of the clear fountain of eternal day,

Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Could it within the human flow'r be seen,

Insnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass. Rememb'ring still its former height,

Mean while the mind, from pleasure less, Shuns the sweet leaves, and blossoms green ; Withdraws into its happyness ; And, recollecting its own light,

The mind, that ocean where each kind Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express Does straight its own resemblance find; The greater heaven in an heaven less..

Yet it creates, transcending these, In how coy a figure wound,

Far other worlds, and other seas; Every way it turns away:

Annihilating all that's made So the world excluding round,

To a green thought in a green shade. Yet receiving in the day.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Dark beneath, but bright above ;

Or at some fruit tree's mossy root, Here disdaining, there in love.

Casting the body's vest aside, How loose and easy hence to go;

My soul into the boughs does glide : How girt and ready to ascend :

There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Moving, but on a point below,

Then whets, and claps its silver wings; It all about does upwards bend.

And, till prepar'd for longer flight, Such did the manna's sacred dew distil,

Waves in its plumes the various light. White and entire, although congeal'd and chill; Such was that happy garden-state, Congeald on earth ; but does, dissolving, run While man there walk'd without a mate : Into the glorys of th'almighty sun.

After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet !

But 'twas beyond a mortal's share

To wander solitary there :
How vainly men themselves amaze,

Two Paradises are in one, To win the palm, the oak, or bays ;

To live in Paradise alone. And their incessant labours see

How well the skilful gard'ner drew Crown'd from some single herb, or tree,

Of flow'rs, and herbs, this dial new : Whose short and narrow verged shade

Where, from above, the milder sun Does prudently their toils upbraid ;

Does through a fragrant zodiac run : While all the flow'rs, and trees do close,

And, as it works, th' industrious bee To weave the garlands of Repose.

Computes his time as well as we. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,

How could such sweet and wholesome hours And Innocence, thy sister dear!

Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs.
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companys of men.

Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.

Clora, come view my soul, and tell
Society is all but rude

Whether I have contriv'd it well. To this delicious solitude.

How all its several lodgings lye, No white, nor red was ever seen

Composed into one gallery; So am'rous as this lovely green.

And the great arras-hangings, made Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,

Of various faces, by are laid Cut in these trees their mistress' name.

That, for all furniture, you'll find Little, alas, they know or heed,

Only your picture in my mind. How far these beautys her exceed !

Here thou art painted in the dress Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,

Of an inhumane murtheress; No name shall but your own be found.

Examining upon our hearts, When we have run our passion's heat,

Thy fertile shop of cruel arts : Love bither makes his best retreat.

Engines more keen than ever yet The Gods, who mortal beauty chase,

Adorn’d a tyrant's cabinet; Still in a tree did end their race.

Of which the most tormenting are, Apollo hunted Daphne so,

Black eyes, red lips, and curled hair, Only that she might laurel grow :

But, on the other side, th' art drawn, And Pan did after Syrinx speed,

Like to Aurora in the dawn; Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

When in the east she slumb'ring lyes,

And stretches out her milky thighs ;

The feet of breathless travellers. While all the morning quire does sing,

See then how courteous it ascends, And manna falls, and roses spring;

And all the way it rises, bends ; And, at thy feet, the wooing doves

Nor for itself the height does gain, Sit perfecting their harmless loves.

But only strives to raise the plain. Like an enchantress here thou show'st,

Yet, thus it all the field commands, Vexing thy restless lover's ghost;

And in unenvy'd greatness stands, And, by a light obscure, dost rave

Discerning farther than the cliff Over his entrails, in the cave;

Of heaven-daring Teneriff. Divining thence, with horrid care,

How glad the weary seamen hast, How long thou shalt continue fair;

When they salute it from the mast ! And (when inform’d) them throw'st away,

By night, the northern star their way To be the greedy vulture's prey.

Directs, and this no less by day. But, against that, thou sitt'st afloat,

Upon its crest, this mountain grave, Like Venus in her pearly boat ;

A plume of aged trees does wave. The halcyons, calming all that's nigh,

No hostile hand does e'er invade, Betwixt the air and water fly.

With impious steel, the sacred shade, Or, if some rowling wave appears,

For something always did appear A mass of ambergrease it bears.

Of the great Master's terror there ; Nor blows more wind than what may well

And men could hear his armour still Convoy the perfume to the smell.

Rattling through all the grove and hill. These pictures, and a thousand more,

Fear of the Master, and respect Of thee, my gallery do store,

Of the great nymph, did it protect ; In all the forms thou canst invent,

Vera, the nymph, that him inspired, Either to please me, or torment:

To whom he often here retired, For thou alone, to people me,

And on these oaks engraved her name : Art grown a num'rous colony ;

Such wounds alone these woods became. And a collection choicer far

But e'er he well the barks could part, Than or Whitehall's, or Mantua's were.

'Twas writ already in their heart : But of these pictures, and the rest,

For they, 'tis credible, have sense, That at the entrance likes me best,

As we, of love and reverence, Where the same posture, and the look

And underneath the coarser rind, Remains, with which I first was took ;

The Genius of the house do bind. A tender shepherdess, whose hair

Hence they successes seem to know, Hangs loosely playing in the air,

And in their Lord's advancement grow ; Transplanting flow'rs from the green hill,

But in no memory were seen,
To crown her head, and bosom fill.

As under this, so straight and green.
Yet now no farther strive to shoot,

Contented, if they fix their root :
UPON THE HILL AND GROVE AT Nor to the wind's uncertain gust

Their prudent heads too far intrust.
Only sometimes a flutt'ring breeze

Discourses with the breathing trees;
See how the arched earth does here

Which, in their modest whispers name Rise in a perfect hemisphere !

Those acts which swell'd the cheeks of Fame. The stiffest compass could not strike

Much other groves, say they, than these, A line more circular and like ;

And other hills, him once did please. Nor softest pencil draw a brow

Through groves of pikes he thunder'd then, So equal as this hill does bow.

And mountains raised of dying me It seems as for a model laid,

For all the civic garlands due And that the world by it was made.

To him, our branches are but few. Here learn, ye mountains more unjust,

Nor are our trunks enough to bear Which to abrupter greatness thrust,

The trophies of one fertile year. Which do, with your hook-shoulder'd height, 'Tis true, ye trees, nor ever spoke The earth deform, and heaven fright,

More certain oracles in oak. For whose excressence, ill design'd,

But peace (if you his favour prize) Nature must a new centre find;

That courage its own praises flies. Learn here those humble steps to tread,

Therefore to your obscurer seats, Which to securer glory lead.

From his own brightness, he retreats : See what a soft access, and wide,

Nor he the hills, without the groves, Lies open to its grassy side ;

Nor height, but with retirement, loves. Nor with the rugged path deters




That Charles himself might chase HORATIAN ODE, UPON CROMWELL'S

To Carisbrook's narrow case; RETURN FROM IRELAND.

That thence the royal actor borne, The forward youth that would appear,

The tragic scaffold might adorn. Must now forsake his Muses dear ;

While round the armed bands Nor in the shadows sing

Did clap their bloody hands, His numbers languishing.

He nothing common did or mean "Tis time to leave the books in dust,

Upon that memorable scene, And oil the unused armour's rust;

But with his keener eye Removing from the wall

The axe's edge did try : The corslet of the hall.

Nor called the Gods, with vulgar spite, So restless Cromwell could not cease

To vindicate his helpless right; In the inglorious arts of peace,

But bowed his comely head But through adventurous war

Down, as upon a bed. Urged his active star;

This was that memorable hour, And like the three-fork'd lightning, first,

Which first assured the forced power ; Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,

So when they did design Did thorough his own side

The Capitol's first line, His fiery way divide :

A bleeding head, where they begun, For 'tis all one to courage high,

Did fright the architects to run; The emulous, or enemy ;

And yet in that the State And, with such, to enclose

Foresaw its happy fate. Is more than to oppose.

And now the Irish are ashamed Then burning through the air he went,

To see themselves in one year tamed ; And palaces and temples rent;

So much one man can do, And Cæsar's head at last

That does both act and know. Did through his laurels blast.

They can affirm his praises best, 'Tis madness to resist or blame

And have, though overcome, confest The face of angry heaven's flame;

How good he is, how just, And, if we would speak true,

And fit for highest trust : Much to the man is due,

Nor yet grown stiffer by command, Who from his private gardens, where

But still in the Republic's hand, He lived reserved and austere,

How fit he is to sway (As if his highest plot

That can so well obey. To plant the bergamot),

He to the Commons' feet presents

A kingdom for his first year's rents ; Could by industrious valour climb

And, what he may, forbears
To ruin the great work of time,

His fame to make it theirs ;
And cast the kingdoms old
Into another mould !

And has his sword and spoils ungirt,

To lay them at the Public's skirt. Though justice against fate complain,

So when the falcon high
And plead the ancient rights in vain-

Falls heavy from the sky,
But those do hold or break,
As men are strong or weak.

She, having killed, no more does search

But on the next green bough to perch; Nature, that hateth emptiness,

Where, when he first does lure, Allows of penetration less,

The falconer has her sure. And therefore must make room

What may not then our isle presume, Where greater spirits come.

While victory his crest does plume? What field of all the civil war,

What may not others fear, Where his were not the deepest scar?"

If thus he crowns each year? And Hampton shews what part

As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul; He had of wiser art :

To Italy an Hannibal ; Where, twining subtle fears with hope,

And to all States not free He wove a net of such a scope,

Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find

But thou, the war's and fortune's son, Within his parti-colour'd mind;

March indefatigably on ; But from this valour sad

And, for the last effect, Shrink underneath the plaid,

Still keep the sword erect. Happy, if in the tufted brake

Besides the force it has to fright The English hunter him mistake,

The spirits of the shady night, Nor lay his hounds in near

The same arts that did gain The Caledonian deer.

A power, must it maintain,

BUTLER A. D. 1612-80.


When civil dudgeon first grew high,
And men fell out, they knew not why;
When bard words, jealousies, and fears,
Set folks together by the ears,
And made them fight, like mad or drunk,
For Dame Religion as for punk;
Whose honesty they all durst swear for,
Though not a man of them knew wherefore;
When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded
With long-ear'd rout, to battle sounded;
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,
Was beat with fist instead of a stick:
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling,
And out he rode a-colonelling.
A wight he was, whose very sight would
Entitle him mirror of knighthood,
That never bow'd his stubborn knee
To any thing but chivalry,
Nor put up blow, but that which laid
Right worshipful on shoulder-blade;
Chief of domestic knights and errant,
Either for chartel or for warrant;
Great on the bench, great in the saddle,
That could as well bind o'er as swaddle;
Mighty he was at both of these,
And styl'd of war, as well as peace:
(So some rats of amphibious nature
Are either for the land or water)
But here some authors make a doubt
Whether he were more wise or stout;
Some hold the one, and some the other,
But, howsoe'er they make a pother,
The diff'rence was so small, his brain
Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain ;
Which made some take him for a tool
That knaves do work with, called a fool:
For't has been held by many, that
As Montaigne, playing with his cat,
Complains she thought him but an ass,
Much more she would Sir Hudibras ;
(For that's the name our valiant knight
To all his challenges did write ;)
But they're mistaken very much;
'Tis plain enough he was not such.
We grant, although he had much wit,
H' was very shy of using it,
As being loth to wear it out,
And therefore bore it not about;
Unless on holidays or so,
As men their best apparel do.
Beside, 'tis known he could speak Greek
As naturally as pigs squeak;

That Latin was no more difficile
Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle:
Being rich in both, he never scanted
His bounty unto such as wanted;
But much of either would afford
To many that had not one word.
For Hebrew roots, although they're found
To flourish most in barren ground,
He had such plenty as suffic'd
To make some think him circumcis'd;
And truly so he was perhaps,
Not as a proselyte, but for claps.

He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skill'd in analytic:
He could distinguish, and divide
A hair 'twixt south and south-west side;
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute:
He'd undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl;
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks committee-men and trustees,
He'd run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination :
All this by syllogism true,
In mood and figure he would do.
For rhetoric, he could not ope
His mouth but out there flew a trope:
And when he happen’d to break off
l'th' middle of his speech, or cough,
H' had hard words ready to shew why,
And tell what rules he did it by;
Else when with greatest art he spoke,
You'd think he talk'd like other folk;
For all a rhetorician's rules
Teach nothing but to name his tools.
But, when he pleas’d to shew't, his speech,
In loftiness of sound, was rich;
A Babylonish dialect,
Which learned pedants much affect;
It was a party-coloured dress
Of patch'd and piebald languages;
'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,
Like fustian heretofore on satin;
It had an odd promiscuous tone,
As if h' had talk'd three parts in one;
Which made some think, when he did gabble,
Th' had heard three labourers of Babel,
Or Cerberus himself pronounce
A leash of languages at once.
This he as volubly would vent,
As if his stock would ne'er be spent:


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