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UM more antiquo jejunia festa coluntur,

Et populum pascit religiosa fames,
Quinta beat nostram soboles formosa Mariam:
Pere iterum nobis, late December, ades.
Ite, quibus lusum Bacchusque Ceresque ministrant,
Et risum vitis lacryma rubra movet.
Nos sine lætitiæ strepitu, sine murmure læti:
Ipsa dies novit vix sibi verba dari.

Cum corda arcanâ saltant festiva choreâ,

Cur pede vel tellus trita frequente sonet?
Quidve bibat Regi, quam perdit turba, salutem?
Sint mea pro tanto sobria vota viro.
Crede mihi, non sunt, non sunt ea gaudia vera,
Quæ fiunt pompâ gaudia vera suâ.
VICISTI tandem, vicisti, casta Maria;
Cedit de sexu Carolus ipse suo.

A te sic vinci magnus quàm gau leat ille!
Vix hostes tanti vel superâsse fuit.
Jam tua plus vivit pictura; at proxima fiet
Regis, et in methodo te peperisse juvat,
O bona conjugii concors discordia vestri !
O sancta hæc inter jurgia vetus amor!
Non Caroli puro respirans vultus in auro

Tam populo (et notum est quàm placet ille)
placet.

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Da veniam, hîc omnes nimium quòd simus avari;
Da veniam, hîc animos quòd satiare nequis.
Cúmque (sed ô nostris fiat lux serior annis)
In currum ascendas læta per astra tuum,
Natorum in facie tua viva et mollis imago
Non minus in terris, quàm tua sculpta, regat.
ABRAHAMUS COWLEY, T[rin], C[oll},

"From the Tn2a1a, sive Musarum Cantabrigiensium Consentus et Congratulatio, ad serenissimum Britanniarum Regem Carolum, de quinta sua sobole [Princess Anne], clarissima Principe, sibi nuper felicissimmè nata. Cantabrigiæ, 1637. I doubt not but it will prove a pleasing amusement to the curious reader, to trace the first dawnings of genius in some of our first-rate poetic characters; and to compare them with the eminence they afterwards attained to, and the rank they at last held among their brethren of the laurel. Some early specimens of Dryden's genius may be seen in the first volume of his poems. Those of Cowley, here printed, abound with strokes of wit, some true, but the far greater part false; which thoroughly characterise the writer, and may be justly pronounced to point out his genius and manner, in miniature. K.-This species of entertainment the kind attention of Mr. Kynaston (the friend to whom I owe these remarks) enables me considerably to extend, by furnishing the earliest poetica! productions of some writers who are now universally looked up to as excellent; none of which are to be found in any edition of their respective works. In such juvenile performances, it is well observed by an admirable critic, "the absurd conceits and extravagant fancies are the true seeds and germs, which afterwards ripen, by proper culture, into the most luxuriant harvests." See Annual Register, 1779, p. 180. J. N

IN FELICISSIMAM REGINÆ MARIE, Leave off then, London, to accuse the starres

FERTILITATEM.

NATURE facies renovatur quolibet anno,
Et sese mirùm festilis ipsa parit.

Sic quoque Naturæ exemplar Regina, decusque,
In fætu toties se videt ipsa novam,

Penè omnem signas tam sæpè puerpera mensem,
Et cupit à partu nomen habere tuo.
Quæque tuos toties audit Lucina labores,
Vix ipsa in proprio sæpiùs Orbe tumet.
Fæcundam semper spectabis Jane, Mariam,
Sive hâc sive illâ fronte videre voles.
Discite, subjecti, officium: Regina Marito
Annua jam toties ipsa tributa dedit.

Drм redit à sanctis non fessus Carolus aris,
Principis occurit nuntia fama novi.
Non mirum, existat cùm proximus ipse Tonanti,
Vicinum attingunt quòd citò vota Deum.
Non mirum, cùm sit tam sanctâ mente precatus,
Quòd precibus merces tam properata venit.
Factura ô longùm nobis jejunia festum !
O magnas epulas exhibitura fames!

[bam

En fundunt gemituin et lacrymarum flumina; tur-
Cum Reginâ ipsam parturiîsse putes.
Credibile est puerum populi sensisse dolores;
Edidit hine maestos flebilis ipse sonos.

For adding a worse terrour to the warres;

Nor quarrel with the Heavens, 'cause they beginne
To send the worst effect and scorge of sinne,
That dreadfull plague, which wheresoe're 't abide,
Devours both man and each disease beside.
For every life which from great Charles does flow,
And 's female self, weighs down a crowd of low
And vulgar souls: Fate rids of them the Earth,
To make more room for a great prince's birth.
So when the Sunne, after his watrie rest,
Comes dancing from his chamber of the east,
A thousand pettie lamps, spread ore the skie,
Shrink in their doubtfull beams, then wink, and die:
Yet no man grieves; the very birds arise,
And sing glad notes in stead of elegies:
The leaves and painted flowers, which did erewhile
Tremble with mournfull drops, beginne to smile.
The losse of many why should they bemone,
Who for them more than many have in one?

How blest must thou thy self, bright Mary, be,
Who by thy wombe can'st blesse our miserie?
May 't still be fruitful! May your offspring too
Spread largely, as your fame and virtues do!
Fill every season thus: Time, which devours
It's own sonnes, will be glad and proud of yours.
So will the year (though sure it weari'd be
With often revolutions) when 't shall see

A. COWLEY, A. B. T[rin]. C[oll.] The honour by such births it doth attain,
Joy to return into it self again.

UPON THE HAPPIE BIRTH OF THE

DUKE

WHILST the rude North Charles his slow wrath
doth call,

Whilst warre is fear'd, and conquest hop'd by all,
The severall shires their various forces lend,
And some do men, some gallant horses send,
Some steel, and some (the stronger weapon) gold:
These warlike contributions are but old.
That countrey learn'd a new and better way,
Which did this royall prince for tribute pay.
Who shall henceforth be with such rage possest,
To rouse our English lion from his rest?
When a new sonne doth his blest stock adorn,
Then to great Charles is a new armie born.
In private births hopes challenge the first place:
There's certaintie at first in the king's race;
And we may say, Such will his glories be,
Such his great acts, and, yet not prophesie.
I see in him his father's boundiesse sprite,
Powerfull as flame, yet gentle as the light.
I see him through an adverse battle thrust,
Bedeck'd with noble sweat and comely dust.
I see the pietie of the day appeare,
Joyn'd with the heate and valour of the yeare,
Which happie Fate did to this birth allow :
I see all this; for sure 'tis present now.

From the Voces Votivæ ab Academicis Cantabrigiensibus pro novissimo Caroli et Mariæ Prinsipe Filio, emissæ. Cantabrigiæ, 1640.

9 Henry, who was declared by his father duke of Gloucester in 1641, but not so created till May 13, 1659. He died September 13, 1660.-The Verses are taken from the Voces Votivæ, &c. 1640. J. N.

A. COWLEY, A. B. T[rin]. C[oll],

AN ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE DUDLEY
LORD CARLETON, VISCOUNT DORCHESTER, LATE
PRINCIPAL SECRETARY OF STATE.

TH' infernal sisters did a council call
Of all the fiends, to the black Stygian hall;
The dire Tartarian monsters, hating light,
Begot by dismal Erebus and Night,
Where'er dispers'd abroad, hearing the fame
Of their accursed meeting, thither came.
Revenge, whose greedy mind no blood can fill,
And Envy, never satisfy'd with ill:

Thither blind Boldness, and impatient Rage,
Resorted, with Death's neighbour, envious Age.
These, to oppress the Earth, the Furies sent':
The council thus dissolv'd, an angry Fever,
Whose quenchless thirst by blood was sated never,
Envying the riches, honour, greatness, love,
And virtue (load-stone, that all these did move)
Of noble Carleton, him she took away,
And, like a greedy vulture, seiz'd her prey.
Weep with me, each who either reads or hears,
And know his loss deserves his country's tears!
The Muses lost a patron by his fate,
Virtue a husband, and a prop the State.
Sol's chorus weeps, and, to adorn his hearse,
Calliope would sing a tragic verse.
And, had there been before no spring of theirs,
They would have made a Helicon with tears.

ABR. COWLEY.

Something is here wanting, as appears from the want both of rhyme and connection. J. N.

AN ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF MY LOVING FRIEND AND COUSIN

MR. RICHARD CLARKE, GENT.

LATE OF LINCOLN'S-INN.

It was decreed by stedfast Destiny

(The world from chaos turn'd) that all should die.
He who durst fearless pass black Acheron,
And dangers of th' infernal region,
Leading Hell's triple porter captivate,
Was overcome himself by conquering Fate.
The Roman Tully's pleasing eloquence,
Which in the ears did lock up every sense
Of the rapt hearer; his mellifluous breath
Could not at all charm unremorseless Death;
Nor Solon, so by Greece admir'd, could save
Himself, with all his wisdom, from the grave.
Stern Fate brought Moro to his funeral flame,
And would have ended in that fire his fame;
Burning those lofty lines, which now shall be
Time's conquerors, and out-last eternity.
Even so lov'd Clarke from death no 'scape could find,
Though arm'd with great Alcides' valiant mind.
He was adorn'd, in years though far more young,
With learn'd Cicero's, or a sweeter tongue.
And, could dead Virgil hear his lofty strain,
He would condemn his own to fire again.
His youth a Solon's wisdom did presage,
Had envious Time but giv'n him Solon's age.
Who would not therefore now, if Learning's friend,
Bewail his fatal and untimely end?

Who hath such hard, such unrelenting eyes,
As not to weep when so much virtue dies?
The god of poets doth in darkness shrowd
His glorious face, and weeps behind a cloud.
The doleful Muses thinking now to write
Sad elegies, their tears confound their sight:
But him t' Elysium's lasting joys they bring,
Where winged angels his sad requiems sing.

A DREAM OF ELYSIUM.

PHOEBUS, expell'd by the approaching night,
Blush'd, and for shame clos'd in his bashful light,
While I, with leaden Morpheus overcome,
The Muse whom I adore enter'd the room:
Her hair with looser curiosity
Did on her comely back dishevell❜d lie:
Her eyes with such attractive beauty shone,
As might have wak'd sleeping Endymion.
She bade me rise, and promis'd I should see
Those fields, those mansions of felicity,
We mortals so admire at: speaking thus,
She lifts me up upon wing'd Pegasus,
On whom I rid; knowing, wherever she
Did go, that place must needs a temple be.
No sooner was my flying courser come

To the blest dwellings of Elysium,
When strait a thousand unknown joys resort,

Distilling honey; here doth nectar pass,
With copious current, through the verdant grass:
Here Hyacinth, his fate writ in his looks,
And thou, Narcissus, loving still the brooks,
Once lovely boys! and Acis, now a flower,
Are nourish'd with that rarer herb, whose power
Created thee, War's potent god! here grows
The spotless lily and the blushing rose;
And all those divers ornaments abound,
That variously may paint the gaudy ground.
No willow, Sorrow's garland, there hath room,
Nor cypress, sad attendant of a tomb.
None but Apollo's tree, and th' ivy twine
Embracing the stout oak, the fruitful vine,
And trees with golden apples loaded down,
On whose fair tops sweet Philomel alone,
Unmindful of her former misery,

Tunes with her voice a ravishing harmony;
Whilst all the murmuring brooks that glide along,
Make up a burthen to her pleasing song.
No screech-owl, sad companion of the night;
No hideous raven with prodigious flight,
Presaging future ill; nor, Progne, thee,
Yet spotted with young Itis' tragedy,
Those sacred bowers receive. There's nothing thera
That is not pure; all innocent and rare.
Turning my greedy sight another way,
Under a row of storm contemning bay,

I saw the Thracian singer with his lyre
Teach the deaf stones to hear him and admire.
Him the whole poets' chorus compass'd round,
All whom the oak, all whom the laurel crown'd.
There banish'd Ovid had a lasting home,
Better than thou could'st give, ungrateful Rome!
And Lucan (spite of Nero) in each vein
Had every drop of his spilt blood again:
Homer, Sol's first-born, was not poor or blind,
But saw as well in body as in mind.
Tully, grave Cato, Solon, and the rest
Of Greece's admir'd wise-men, here possest
A large reward for their past deeds, and gain
A life as everlasting as their fame.

By these the valiant heroes take their place;
All who stern Death and perils did embrace
For Virtue's cause. Great Alexander there
Laughs at the Earth's small empire, and did wear
A nobler crown than the whole world could give:
There did Horatius, Cocles, Sceva, live,
And valiant Decius; who now freely cease
From war, and purchase an eternal peace.

Next them, beneath a myrtle bower, where doves
And gall-less pigeons build their nests, all Love's
True faithful servants, with an amorous kiss
And soft embrace, enjoy their greediest wish.
Leander with his beauteous Hero plays,
Nor are they parted with dividing seas:
Porcia enjoys her Brutus; Death no more
Can now divorce their wedding, as before:
Thisbe her Pyramus kiss'd, his Thisbe he
Embrac'd, each bless'd with t' other's company:
And every couple, always dancing, sing
Eternal pleasures to Elysium's king.

And hemm'd me round; chaste Love's innocuousBut see how soon these pleasures fade away! sport!

A thousand sweets, hought with no following gall,
Joys, not like ours, short, but perpetual.
How many objects charm my wandering eye,
And bid my soul gaze there eternally!

Here in full streams, Bacchus, thy liquor flows,
Nor knows to ebb; here Jove's broad tree bestows

How near to evening is Delight's short day!
The watching bird, true nuncius of the light,
Strait crowd; and all these vanish'd from my sight:
My very Muse herself forsook me too.
Me grief and wonder wak'd: what should I do?
Oh let me follow thee (said I) and go
From life, that I may dream for ever so.

With that my flying Muse I thought to clasp
Within my arms, but did a shadow grasp.
Thus chiefest joys glide with the swiftest stream,
And all our greatest pleasure's but a dream.

ON HIS MAJESTY'S

RETURN OUT OF SCOTLAND.

GREAT Charles!-there stop, ye trumpeters of
Fame!

For he who speaks his titles, his great name,
Must have a breathing time our king:-stay there;
Speak by degrees; let the inquisitive ear
Be held in doubt, and, ere you say
"is come,"
Let every heart prepare a spacious room
For ample joys: then lo sing, as loud
As thunder shot from the divided cloud!

Let Cygnus pluck from the Arabian waves
The ruby of the rock, the pearl that paves
Great Neptune's court: let every sparrow bear
From the three Sisters' weeping bark a tear :
Let spotted lynxes their sharp talons fill
With crystal, fetch'd from the Promethean hill:
Let Cytherea's birds fresh wreaths compose,
Knitting the pale-fac'd lily with the rose:
Let the self-gotten phenix rob his nest,
Spoil his own funeral pile, and all his best
Of myrrh, of frankincense, of cassia, bring,
To strew the way for our returned king!

Let every post a panegyric wear,
Each wall, each pillar, gratulations bear:
And yet, let no man invocate a Muse;
The very matter will itself infuse
A sacred fury: let the merry bells
(For unknown joys work unknown miracles)
Ring without help of sexton, and presage
A new-made holy-day for future age!

And, if the ancients us'd to dedicate
A golden temple to propitious Fate,
At the return of any noble men,

Of heroes, or of emperors, we must then
Raise up a double trophy; for their fame
Was but the shadow of our Charles's name.
Who is there where all virtues mingled flow,
Where no defects or imperfections grow?
Whose head is always crown'd with victory,
Snatch'd from Bellona's hand; him Luxury
In peace debilitates: whose tongue can win
Tully's own garland, Pride to him creeps in.
On whom (like Atlas' shoulders) the propt state
(As he were primum mobile of Fate)

Solely relies; him blind Ambition moves ;
His tyranny the bridled subject proves.
But all those virtues which they all possest
Divided, are collected in thy breast,

Great Charles! Let Cæsar boast Pharsalia's fight,
Honorius praise the Parthian's unfeign'd flight:
Let Alexander call himself Jove's peer,

And place his image near the thunderer;

Yet while our Charles with equal balance reigns "Twixt Mercy and Astrea, and maintains A noble peace, 'tis he, 'tis only he,

Who is most near, most like, the Deity,

SONG,

ON THE SAME.

HENCE, clouded looks; hence, briny tears,
Hence eye that Sorrow's livery wears!
What though awhile Apollo please
To visit the Antipodes ?

Yet he returns, and with his light
Expels what he hath caus'd-the night.
What though the Spring vanish away,
And with it the Earth's form decay?
Yet his new-birth will soon restore
What its departure took before.
What though we miss'd our absent king
Awhile? great Charles is come again;
And with his presence makes us know
The gratitude to Heaven we owe.
So doth a cruel storin impart
And teach us Palinurus' art:
So from salt floods, wept by our eyes,
A joyful Venus doth arise.

A VOTE.

LEST the misjudging world should chance to say

I durst not but in secret murmurs pray;
To whisper in Jove's ear

How much I wish that funeral,

Or gape at such a great one's fall;
This let all ages hear,

And future times in my soul's picture see
What I abhor, what I desire to be.

I would not be a puritan, though he
Can preach two hours, and yet his sermon be
But half a quarter long;

Though, from his old mechanic trade,
By vision he's a pastor made,

His faith was grown so strong;
Nay, though he think to gain salvation
By calling th' pope the Whore of Babylon.

I would not be a school-master, though he
His rods no less than fasces deems to be;
Though he in many a place
Turns Lilly oftener than his gowns,
Till at the last he make the nouns
Fight with the verbs apace;
Nay, though he can, in a poetic heat,
Figures, born since, out of poor Virgil beat.
I would not be justice of peace, though he
Can with equality divide the fee,

And stakes with his clerk draw;
Nay, though he sits upon the place
Of judgment, with a learned face
Intricate as the law;

And, whilst he mulets enormities demurely,
Breaks Priscian's head with sentences securely.

I would not be a courtier, though he
Makes his whole life the truest comedy,
Although he be a man

In whom the taylor's forming art,
And nimble barber, claim more part
Than Nature herself can ;

Though, as he uses men, 'tis his intent
To put off Death too with a compliment.

From lawyer's tongues, though they can spin with "The shortest cause into a paraphrase;

From usurers' conscience

(For swallowing up young heirs so fast, Without all doubt, they'll choak at last)

Make me all innocence,

[case

Good Heaven! and from thy eyes, O Justice! keep;
For though they be not blind, they're oft asleep.

From singing-mens' religion, who are
Always at church, just like the crows, 'cause there

They build themselves a nest: From too much poetry, which shines With gold in nothing but its lines,

Free, O you powers! my breast.
And from astronomy, which in the skies
Finds fish and bulls, yet doth but tantalize.

From your court-madams' beauty, which doth
At morning May, at night a January:

From the grave city brow

(For though it want an R, it has

The letter of Pythagoras)

Keep me, O Fortune, now!

[carry

And chines of beef innumerable send me,
Or from the stomach of the guard defend me.
This only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.
Some honour I would have,
Not from great deeds, but good alone;
Th' unknown are better than ill-known;

Rumour can ope the grave!

Acquaintance I would have; but when 't depends
Not from the number, but the choice, of friends.
Books should, not business, entertain the light;
And sleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night.
My house a cottage more

Than palace; and should fitting be

For all my use, no luxury.

My garden painted o'er

To strike me: doubtless there had been a fray,
Had not I providently skipp'd away
Without replying; for to scold is ill,
Where every tongue's the clapper of a mill,
And can out-sound Homer's Gradivus; so
Away got I: but ere I far did go,

I flung (the darts of wounding poetry)
These two or three sharp curses back: "May he
Be by his father in his study took

At Shakespeare's plays, instead of my lord Coke!
May he (though all his writings grow as soon
As Butter's out of estimation)

Get him a poet's name, and so ne'er come
Into a serjeant's or dead judge's room!
May he become some poor physician's prey,
Who keeps men with that conscience in delay
As he his client doth, till his health be
As far-fetcht as a Greek noun's pedigree!
Nay, for all that, may the disease be gone
Never but in the long vocation!
May neighbours use all quarrels to decide;
But if for law any to London ride,
Of all those clients let not one be his,
Unless he come in forma pauperis!

Grant this, ye gods that favour poetry!
That all these never-ceasing tongues may be
Brought into reformation, and not dare

To quarrel with a thread-bare black but spare
Them who bear scholars' names, lest some one take

With Nature's hand, not Art's; that pleasures yield Spleen, and another Ignoramus make.”

Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

Thus would I double my life's fading space;
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,

These unbought sports, and happy state,
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate;
But boldly say, each night,

To morrow let my Sun his beams display,
Or in clouds hide them; I have liv'd to day 2.

A POETICAL REVENGE.
WESTMINSTER-hall a friend and I agreed

To meet in; he (some business 'twas did breed
His absence) came not there; I up did go
To the next court; for though I could not know
Much what they meant, yet I might see and hear
(As most spectators do at theatre)

Things very strange: Fortune did seem to grace
My coming there, and helpt me to a place.
But, being newly settled at the sport,
A semi-gentleman of the inus of court,
In a satin suit, redeem'd but yesterday,
One who is ravish'd with a cock-pit play,
Who prays God to deliver him from no evil
Besides a taylor's bill, and fears no devil
Besides a serjeant, thrust me from my seat:
At which I 'gan to quarrel, till a neat
Man in a ruff (whom therefore I did take
For barrister) open'd his mouth and spake ;
"Boy, get you gone, this is no school." "Oh no;
For, if it were, all you gown'd men would go
Up for false Latin." They grew straight to be
Incens'd; I fear'd they would have brought on me
An action of trespass: till the young man
Aforesaid, in the satin suit, began

The three concluding stanzas of this poem are introduced by Mr. Cowley in his Essays in Verse and Prose. N.

TO THE DUTCHESS OF
BUCKINGHAM.

IF I should say, that in your face were seen
Nature's best picture of the Cyprian queen;
If I should swear, under Minerva's name,
Poets (who prophets are) foretold your fame;
The future age would think it flattery;
But to the present, which can witness be,
"Twould seem beneath your high deserts, as far
As you above the rest of women are.

When Manners' name with Villiers' join'd I see,
How do I reverence your nobility!
But when the virtues of your stock I view,
(Envy'd in your dead lord, admir'd in you)
I half adore them; for what woman can,
Besides yourself (nay, I might say what man)
But sex, and birth, and fate, and years excel
In mind, in fame, in worth, in living well?
Oh, how had this begot idolatry,

If you had liv'd in the world's infancy,
When man's too much religion made the best
Or deities, or semi-gods at least!
But we, forbidden this by piety,
Or, if we were not, by your modesty,
Will make our hearts an altar, and there pray
Not to, but for, you; nor that England may
Enjoy your equal, when you once are gone,
But, what's more possible, t'enjoy you long.

TO HIS VERY MUCH HONOURED

GODFATHER, MR. A. B.
I LOVE (for that upon the wings of Fame
Shall perhaps mock Death or Time's darts) my

name.

I love it more, because 'twas given by you;

I love it most, because 'twas your name too;
For if I chance to slip, a conscious shame
Plucks me, and bids me not defile your name.

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