The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne:
His valiant peers were placed around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound:
So should desert in arms be crowned.
The lovely Thais by his side.
Sat, like a blooming Eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserve the fair.
As precious gums are not for lasting fire,
They but perfume the temple and expire,
So was she soon exhaled and vanished hence-
A short sweet odor of a vast expense.
She vanished-we can scarcely say she died,
For but a "now" did heaven and earth divide ;
She passed serenely with a single breath,
This moment perfect health, the next was death.
One sigh did her eternal bliss assure,
So little penance needs when souls are almost pure.
As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue,
Or, one dream passed, we slide into a new,
So close they follow, such wild order keep,
We think ourselves awake, and are asleep.
So softly death succeeded life in her,
She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.
No pains she suffered, nor expired with noise;
Her soul was whispered out with God's still voice;
As an old friend is beckoned to a feast,
And treated like a long familiar guest,
He took her as he found, but found her so
As one in hourly readiness to go.
WHEN I consider life, 'tis all a cheat;
Yet, fool'd with hope, men favor the deceit :
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay:
To-morrow's falser than the former day;
Lies worse; and while it says we shall be blest
With some new joys cuts off what we possessed.
Strange cozenage! None would live past years again;
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain ;
And from the dregs of life think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give.
A PARISH priest was of the pilgrim train,
An awful, reverend, and religious man.
His eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor,
(As God hath clothed His own ambassador),
For such, on earth, his blessed Redeemer bore.
Of sixty years he seemed; and well might last ·
To sixty more, but that he lived too fast;
Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense,
And made almost a sin of abstinence.
TO THE EVENING STAR.
BRIGHT star! by Venus fix'd above,
To rule the happy realms of Love;
Who in the dewy rear of day,
Advancing thy distinguish'd ray,
Dost other lights as far outshine
As Cynthia's silver glories thine;
Known by superior beauty there,
As much as Pastorella here.
Exert, bright Star, thy friendly light,
And guide me through the dusky night!
Defrauded of her beams, the Moon
Shines dim, and will be vanish'd soon.
I would not rob the shepherd's fold;
I seek no miser's hoarded gold;
To find a nymph I'm forced to stray,
Who lately stole my heart away.
George Stepney, 1663-1707.
RIVALRY IN LOVE.
Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst.
By partners in each other kind
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are lab'ring in my breast,
I beg not you would favor me,
Would you but slight the rest.
How great soe'er your rigors are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.
William Walsh, 1663-1709.
THEN hear me, bounteous Heaven,
Pour down your blessings on this beauteous head,
Where everlasting sweets are always springing,
With a continual giving hand: let peace,
Honor, and safety always hover round her:
Feed her with plenty; let her eyes ne'er see
A sight of sorrow, nor her heart know mourning;
Crown all her days with joy, her nights with rest,
Harmless as her own thoughts; and prop her virtue,
To bear the loss of one that too much loved;
And comfort her with patience in our parting.
Thomas Otway, 1651-'85.
COME, all ye youths whose hearts e'er bled
By cruel beauty's pride,
Bring each a garland on his head,
Let none his sorrows hide
But hand in hand, around me move,
Singing the saddest tales of love;
And see, when your complaints ye join,
If all your wrongs can equal mine.
The happiest mortal once was I,
My heart no sorrow knew;
Pity the pain with which I die,
But ask not whence it grew;
Yet if a tempting fair you find
That 's very lovely, very kind,
Though bright as heaven whose stamp she bears,
Think on my fate and shun her snares.
WHAT torments are allotted those sad spirits,
Who, groaning with the burden of despair,
No longer will endure the cares of life,
But boldly set themselves at liberty,
Through the dark caves of death to wander on.
Like wilder'd travellers, without a guide;
Eternal rovers in the gloomy maze,
Where scarce the twilight of an infant morn,
By a faint glimmer check'ring through the trees,
Reflects to dismal view the walking ghosts,
That never hope to reach the blessed fields.
Nathaniel Lee-About 1689.
SPEECH is morning to the mind!
It spreads the beauteous images abroad,
Which else lie furled and clouded in the soul.
I HATE these potent madmen, who keep all
Mankind awake, while they, by their great deeds,
Are drumming hard upon this hollow world,
Only to make a sound to last for ages.
WE oft by lightning read in darkest nights;
And by your passions I read all your natures,
Though you at other times can keep them dark.
John Crowne,-About 1665.
THESE are great maxims, sir, it is confess'd;
Too stately for a woman's narrow breast.
Poor love is lost in men's capacious minds;
In ours, it fills up all the room it finds.
John Crowne,-About 1665.
A CURSE upon that faithless maid
Who first her sex's liberty betray'd;
Born free as man to love and range,
Till nobler nature did to custom change;
Custom, that dull excuse for fools,
Who think all virtue to consist in rules.
· From love our fetters never sprung,
That smiling god, all wanton, gay, and young,
Shows by his wings he cannot be
Confined to artless slavery;
But here and there at random roves,
Not fix'd to glittering courts or shady groves.
Then she that constancy profess'd
Was but a well dissembler at the best;
And that imaginary sway
She seem'd to give in feigning to obey,
Was but the height of prudent art
To deal with greater liberty her heart.
Aphra Behn, 1630-'83
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