NAPLES, too credulous, ah! boast no more The sweet-voiced Siren buried on thy shore, That, when Parthenope deceased, she gave Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic grave,
For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course,
Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains, Of magic song, both gods and men detains.
THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD.
A PEASANT to his lord paid yearly court, Presenting pippins, of so rich a sort
That he, displeased to have a part alone, Removed the tree, that all might be his own. The tree, too old to travel, though before So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more. The 'squire, perceiving all his labour void, Cursed his own pains, so foolishly employ'd. And "Oh," he cried, "that I had lived content With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant! My avarice has expensive proved to me, Has cost me both my pippins, and my tree."
TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN,
WITH CROMWELL'S PICTURE.
CHRISTINA, maiden of heroic mien !
Star of the North! of northern stars the queen! Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and how The iron casque still chafes my veteran brow, While following fate's dark footsteps, I fulfil The dictates of a hardy people's will. But soften'd, in thy sight, my looks appear, Not to all Queens or Kings alike severe.
ON THE DEATH OF THE VICE-CHANCELLOR,
LEARN, ye nations of the earth, The condition of your birth; Now be taught your feeble state; Know, that all must yield to fate!
If the mournful rover, Death,
Say but once-" Resign your breath!" Vainly of escape you dream,
You must pass the Stygian stream.
Could the stoutest overcome
Death's assault, and baffle doom,
Hercules had both withstood,
Undiseased by Nessus' blood.
Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain By a trick of Pallas slain,
Nor the chief to Jove allied By Achilles' phantom died.
Could enchantments life prolong, Circe, saved by magic song, Still had lived, and equal skill Had preserved Medea still.
Dwelt in herbs, and drugs, a power To avert man's destined hour, Learn'd Machaon should have known Doubtless to avert his own.
Chiron had survived the smart
Of the Hydra-tainted dart,
And Jove's bolt had been, with ease,
Foil'd by Asclepiades.
Thou too, sage! of whom forlorn Helicon and Cirrha mourn,
Still hadst fill'd thy princely place, Regent of the gowned race;
Hadst advanced to higher fame Still, thy much-ennobled name, Nor in Charon's skiff explored The Tartarean gulf abhorr'd.
But resentful Proserpine, Jealous of thy skill divine, Snapping short thy vital thread,
Thee too number'd with the dead.
Wise and good! untroubled be The green turf, that covers thee! Thence, in gay profusion, grow
All the sweetest flowers that blow !
Pluto's consort bid thee rest! Eacus pronounce thee blest, To her home thy shade consign, Make Elysium ever thine!
ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF ELY.
WRITTEN IN THE AUTHOR'S SEVENTEENTH YEAR.
My lids with grief were tumid yet,
And still my sullied cheek was wet With briny tears, profusely shed
For venerable Winton dead;
When Fame, whose tales of saddest sound,
Alas! are ever truest found,
The news through all our cities spread
Of yet another mitred head
By ruthless fate to death consign'd, Ely, the honour of his kind!
At once, a storm of passion heaved My boiling bosom; much I grieved, But more I raged, at every breath Devoting Death himself to death. With less revenge did Naso teem, When hated Ibis was his theme; With less, Archilochus, denied
The lovely Greek, his promised bride.
But lo! while thus I execrate, Incensed, the minister of fate, Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear, Wafted on the gale I hear.
"Ah, much deluded! lay aside Thy threats, and anger misapplied! Art not afraid with sounds like these To offend, where thou canst not appease? Death is not (wherefore dream'st thou thus?) The son of Night and Erebus;
Nor was of fell Erynnis born
On gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn : But, sent from God, his presence leaves, To gather home his ripen'd sheaves, To call encumber'd souls away From fleshly bonds to boundless day, (As when the winged hours excite, And summon forth the morning-light) And each to convoy to her place Before the Eternal Father's face. But not the wicked;-them, severe Yet just, from all their pleasures here He hurries to the realms below, Terrific realms of penal woe! Myself no sooner heard his call, Than, 'scaping through my prison-wall, I bade adieu to bolts and bars,
And soar'd, with angels, to the stars, Like him of old, to whom 'twas given To mount, on fiery wheels, to heaven. Boötes' waggon, slow with cold, Appall'd me not; nor to behold
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