deluded Mortals with an empty Name XXIX Thou own'dst no Crimes that shun'd the Light Whose Horror might thy Blood affright And force it to its known Retreat While the pale Cheeks do Penance in their White And tell that Blushes are too weak to expiate Thy Faults might all be on thy Forehead wore And the whole World thy Confessor Conscience within still kept Assize To punish and deter Impieties That inbred Judg such strict Inspection bore So travers'd all thy Actions ore Th' Eternal Judge could scarce do more Those little Escapades of Vice Which pass the Cognizance of most I' th' Crowd of following Sins forgot and lost Could ne'er its Sentence or Arraignment miss Thou didst prevent the young desires of ill And them in their first Motions kill The very thoughts in others unconfin'd And lawless as the Wind Thou couldst to Rule and Order bind They durst not any Stamp but that of Virtue bear And free from stain as thy most publick Actions were Let wild Debauchees hug their darling Vice And court no other Paradise Till want of Power Bids 'em discard the stale Amour And when disabled Strength shall force A short Divorce Miscall that weak forbearance Abstinence Which wise Morality and better Sence Stiles but at best a sneaking Impotence Thine far a Nobler Pitch did fly 'T was all free choice nought of Necessity Thou didst that puny Soul disdain Whose half strain Virtue only can restrain Nor wouldst that empty Being own Which springs from Negatives alone But truly thoughtst it always Virtues Skeleton XXX Nor didst thou those mean Spirits more approve Who Virtue only for its Dowry love Unbrib'd thou didst her sterling self espouse Nor wouldst a better Mistris choose Thou couldst Affection to her bare Idoea pay The first that e'er caress'd her the Platonick way To see her in her own Attractions drest Did all thy Love arrest Nor lack'd there new Efforts to storm thy Brest Thy generous Loyalty Would ne'er a Mercenary be But chose to serve her still without a Livery Yet wast thou not of Recompence debarr'd But countedst Honesty it s own Reward Thou didst not wish a greater Bliss t' accrue For to be good to thee was to be happy too That secret Triumph of thy Mind Which always thou in doing well didst find Were Heaven enough were there no other Heaven design'd XXXI What Virtues few possess but by Retail In gross could thee their Owner call They all did in thy single Circle fall Thou wast a living System where were wrote All those high Morals which in Books are sought Thy Practice did more Virtues share Than heretofore the learned Porch e'er knew Or in the Stagyrites scant Ethics grew Devout thou wast as holy Hermits are Which share their time 'twixt Ecstasie and Prayer Modest as Infant Roses in their bloom Which in a Blush their Lives consume So Chast the Dead are only more Who lie divorc'd from Objects and from Power So pure that if blest Saints could be Taught Innocence they 'd gladly learn of thee Thy Virtues height in Heaven alone could grow Nor to ought else would for Accession owe It only now 's more perfect than it was below XXXII Hence tho' at once thy Soul liv'd here and there Yet Heaven alone its Thoughts did share It own'd no home but in the active Sphere Its Motions always did to that bright Centre rowl And seem'd t' inform thee only on Parole Look how the Needle does to its dear North incline As wer 't not fixt 't would to that Region climb Or mark what hidden force Bids the Flame upwards take its course And makes it with that Swiftness rise As if'twere wing'd by th' Air thro' which it flies Such a strong Virtue did thy Inclinations bend And made 'em still to the blest Mansions tend That mighty Slave whom the proud Victor's Rage Shut Pris'ner in a golden Cage Condemn'd to glorious Vassalage Ne'er long'd for dear Enlargement more Nor his gay Bondage with less patience bore Than this great Spirit brookt its tedious Stay While fetter'd here in brittle Clay And wish'd to disengage and fly away It vex'd and chaf'd and still desir'd to be Releas'd to the sweet Freedom of Eternity XXXIII Nor were its Wishes long unheard Fate soon at its desire appear'd And strait for an Assault prepar'd A sudden and a swift Disease First on thy Heart Life's chiefest Fort does seize And then on all the Suburb-vitals preys Next it corrupts thy tainted Blood And scatters Poyson through its purple Flood Sharp Aches in thick Troops it sends And Pain which like a Rack the Nerves extends Anguish through every Member flies And all those inward Gemonies Whereby frail Flesh in Torture dies All the staid Glories of thy Face Where sprightly Youth lay checkt with manly Grace Are now impair'd And quite by the rude hand of Sickness mar'd Thy Body where due Symmetry In just proportions once did lie Now hardly could be known It s very Figure out of Fashion grown And should thy Soul to its old Seat return And Life once more adjourn 'T would stand amaz'd to see its alter'd Frame And doubt almost whether its own Carcass were the same XXXIV And here thy Sickness does new matter raise Both for thy Virtue and our Praise 'T was here thy Picture look'd most neat When deep'st in Shades 't was set Thy Virtues only thus could fairer be Advantag'd by the Foil of Misery Thy Soul which hasten'd now to be enlarg'd And of its grosser Load discharg'd Began to act above its wonted rate And gave a Praelude of its next unbody'd State. So dying Tapers near their Fall When their own Lustre lights their Funeral Contract their Strength into one brighter Fire And in that Blaze triumphantly expire So the bright Globe that rules the Skies Tho' he gild Heav'n with a glorious Rise Reserves his choicest Beams to grace his Set And then he looks most great And then in greatest Splendor dies XXXVI Thou sharpest Pains didst with that Courage bear And still thy Looks so unconcern'd didst wear Beholders seem'd more indispos'd than thee For they were sick in Effigie Like some well-fashion'd Arch thy Patience stood And purchas'd Firmness from its greater Load Those Shapes of Torture which to view in Paint Would make another faint Thou could'st endure in true Reality And feel what some could hardly bear to see Those Indians who their Kings by Tortures chose Subjecting all the Royal Issue to that Test Could ne'er thy Sway refuse If he deserves to reign that suffers best Had those fierce Savages thy Patience view'd thou 'dst claim'd their Choice alone They with a Crown had paid thy Fortitude And turn'd thy Death-bed to a Throne XXVII All those Heroick Pieties Whose Zeal to Truth made them its Sacrifice Those nobler Scaevola's whose holy Rage Did their whole selves in cruel Flames engage Who did amidst their Force unmov'd appear As if those Fires but lambent were Or they had found their Empyreum there Might
REMAINS OF Mr. John Oldham IN VERSE and PROSE LONDON Printed for Jo. Hindmarsh at the Golden Ball over against the Royal Exchange in Cornhil 1687. ADVERTISEMENT THE Author of these following Poems being dead the Publisher thought fit to acquaint the World that the reason why he exposed them now in Print was not so much for his own Interest tho a Bookseller that disclaims Interest for a pretence will no more be believed now adays than a thorough paced Fanatick that pretends he makes a journey to New England purely for Conscience sake but for securing the reputation of Mr. Oldham which might otherwise have suffered from worse hands and out of a desire he has to Print the last Remains of his friend since he had the good fortune to publish his first Pieces He confesses that it is the greatest piece of injustice to publish the posthumous Works of Authors especially such that we may suppose they had brought to the File and sent out with more advantages into the World had they not been prevented by untimely death and therefore assures you he had never presumed to Print these following Miscellanies had they not already been countenanced by men of unquestionable repute and esteem He is not of the same persuasion with several others of his own profession that never care how much they lessen the reputation of the Poet if they can but inhance the value of the Book that ransack the Studies of the deceased and Print all that passed under the Author's hands from Fifteen to Forty and upwards and as the incomparable Mr. Cowley has exprest it think a rude heap of ill placed Stones a better Monument than a neat Tomb of Marble To the MEMORY of Mr. OLDHAM FArewel too little and too lately known Whom I began to think and call my own For sure our Souls were near ally'd and thine Cast in the same Poetick mould with mine One common Note on either Lyre did strike And Knaves and Fools we both abhorr'd alike To the same Goal did both our Studies drive The last set out the soonest did arrive Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place While his young Friend perform'd and won the Race O early ripe to thy abundant store What could advancing Age have added more It might what Nature never gives the young Have taught the numbers of thy native Tongue But Satyr needs not those and Wit will shine Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line A noble Error and but seldom made When Poets are by too much force betray'd Thy generous fruits though gather'd ere their prime Still shew'd a quickness and maturing time But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of Rhime Once more hail and farewel farewel thou young But ah too short Marcellus of our Tongue Thy Brows with Ivy and with Laurels bound But Fate and gloomy Night encompass thee around John Dryden Authori Epitaphium HOC ô Viator marmore conditoe Charoe recumbunt Exuviae brevem Viventis oh sors dura vitam Praecoce coelum animâ petentis Nec praepedita est Mens celeris diù Quin Pustularum mille tumoribus Effloruit portisque mille Praepes iter patefecit altum Musarum Alumnus jà m fuit artibus Instructus almis quas studio pio Atque aure quà m fidâ repostas Oxonii coluit Parentis Hîc quadriennis proemia Filii Dignus recepi Vellera candida Collati Honoris signa necnon Innocui simulacra cordis Sed manè montis summa cacumina Ascendit ardens Pierio jugo Insedit atque errore multo Ipsum Helicona scatere vidit Nunc pura veri Flumina perspicit Nunc mira Mundi semina concipit Pulchrasque primoevi figuras In speculo species creante At Tu Viator Numina poscito Vt dissolutis reliquits vaga Dùm mens remigret detur ah sit Terra levis placidusque somnus On the Death of Mr. John Oldham A Pindarique Pastoral Ode Stanza I. UNdoubtedly 't is thy peculiar Fate Ah miserable Astragon Thou art condemn'd alone To bear the Burthen of a wretched Life Still in this howling Wilderness to roam While all thy Bosom-friends unkindly go And leave thee to lament them here below Thy dear Alexis would not stay Joy of thy Life and Pleasure of thine Eyes Dear Alexis went away With an invincible Surprize Th' Angel-like Youth early dislik'd this State And chearfully submitted to his Fate Never did Soul of a Celestial Birth Inform a purer piece of Earth O that 't were not in vain To wish what 's past might be retriev'd again Thy Dotage thy Alexis then Had answer'd all thy Vows and Pray'rs And Crown'd with pregnant Joys thy silver Hairs Lov'd to this day among the living Sons of Men. II. And thou my Friend hast left me too Menalcas poor Menalcas even thou Of whom so loudly Fame has spoke In the Records of her immortal Book Whose disregarded Worth Ages to come Shall wail with Indignation o'er thy Tomb. Worthy wert thou to live as long as Vice Should need a Satyr that the frantick Age Might tremble at the Lash of thy poetick Rage Th' untutor'd World in after Times May live uncensur'd for their Crimes Freed from the Dreads of thy reforming Pen Turn to old Chaos once again Of all th' instructive Bards whose more than Theban Lyre Could savage Souls with manly Thoughts inspire Menalcas worthy was to live Say you his Fellow-Shepherds that survive Tell me you mournful Swains Has my ador'd Menalcas left behind In all these pensive Plains A gentler Shepherd with a braver mind Which of you all did more Majestick Show Or wore the Garland on a sweeter Brow III. But wayward Astragon resolves no more The Loss of his Menalcas to deplore The place to which he wisely is withdrawn Is altogether blest There no Clouds o'erwhelm his Breast No Midnight Cares can break his Rest For all is everlasting cheerful Dawn The Poet's Bliss there shall he long possess Perfect Ease and soft Recess The treacherous World no more shall him deceive Of Hope and Fortune he has taken Leave And now in mighty Triumph does he reign His Head adorn'd with Beams of Light O'er the unthinking Rabble's Spire And the dull wealthy Fool 's disdain Thrice happy he that dies the Muses Friend He needs no Obelisque no Pyramid His sacred Dust to hide He needs not for his Memory to provide For he might well foresee his Praise can never end Thomas Flatman In Memory of the Author TAke this short summon'd loose unfinisht Verse Cold as thy Tomb and sudden as thy Herse From my sick Thoughts thou canst no better crave Who scarce drag Life and envy thee thy Grave Me Phoebus always faintly did inspire And gave my narrow Breast more scanty Fire My Hybla Muse through humble Meads sought Spoil Collecting little Sweets with mighty Toil Yet when some Friend 's just Fame did Theme afford Her Voice amongst the tow'ring Swans was heard In vain for such Attendance now I call My Ink o'erflows with Spleen my Blood
Damon's Muse and Damon's Fate Their mutual Lamentations gave them Ease For sometimes Melancholy it self does please Like Philomel abandon'd to distress Yet ev'n their Griefs in Musick they express Cor. I 'll sing no more since Verses want a Charm The Muses could not their own Damon arm At least I 'll touch this useless Pipe no more Unless like Orpheus I could Shades restore A. Rather like Orpheus celebrate your Friend And with your Musick Hell it self suspend Tax Proserpine of Cruelty and Hate And sing of Damon's Muse and Damon's Fate C. When Damon sung he sung with such a Grace Lord how the very London-brutes did gaze Sharp was his Satyr nor allay'd with Gall 'T was Rage 't was generous Indignation all A. Oh had he liv'd and to Perfection grown Not like Marcellus only to be shown He would have charm'd their Sence a nobler way Taught Virgins how to sigh and Priests to pray C. Let Priests and Virgins then to him address And in their Songs their Gratitude express While we that know the Worth of easie Verse Secure the Laurel to adorn his Herse A. Codrus you know that sacred Badge does wear And 't were injurious not to leave it there But since no Merit can strike Envy dumb Do you with Baccar guard and grace his Tomb. C. While you dear Swain with unaffected Rhime Majestick sad and suited to the Time His Name to future Ages consecrate By praising of his Muse and mourning of his Fate A. Alas I never must pretend to this My Pipe scarce knows a Tune but what is his Let future Ages then for Damon's sake From his own Works a just Idaea take Yet then but like Alcides he 'll be shown And from his meanest part his Size be known C. 'T will be your Duty then to set it down A. Once and but once so Heaven and Fate ordain I met the gentle Youth upon the Plain Kindly cries he if You Alexis be And though I know you not you must he be Too long already we have Strangers been This Day at least our Friendship must begin Let Business that perverse Intruder wait To be above it is poetical and great Then with Assyrian Nard our Heads did shine While rich Sabaean Spice exalts the Wine Which to a just Degree our Spirits fir'd But he was by a greater God inspir'd Wit was the Theme which he did well describe With Modesty unusual to his Tribe But as with ominous Doubts and aking Heart When Lovers after first Enjoyment part Not half content for this was but a Taste And wond'ring how the Minutes flew so fast They vow a Friendship that shall ever last So we but oh how much am I accurs'd To think that this last Office is my first Occasioned by the present Edition of the ensuing Poems and the Death of the ingenious Author CUrs'd be the day when first this Godly Isle Vile Books and useless thinking did defile In Greek and Latin-Bogs our Time we waste When all is Pain and Weariness at best Mountains of Whims and Doubts we travel o'er While treacherous Fancy dances on before Pleas'd with our Danger still we stumble on Too late repent and are too soon undone Let Bodley now in its own ruins lie By th' common Hangman burnt for Heresie Avoid the nasty learned dust 't will breed More Plagues than ever Jakes or Dunghils did The want of Dulness will the World undo 'T is Learning makes us mad and Rebels too Learning a Jilt which while we do enjoy Slily our Rest and Quiet steals away That greedily the Blood of Youth receives And nought but Blindness and a Dotage gives Worse than the Pox or scolding Woman fly The awkward Madness of Philosophy That Bedlam Bess Religion never more Phantastick pie-ball'd antick Dresses wore Opinion Pride Moroseness gives a Fame 'T is Folly christen'd with a modish Name Let dull Divinity no more delight It spoils the Man and makes an Hypocrite The chief Professors to Preferment fly By Cringe and Scrape the basest Simony The humble Clown will best the Gospel teach And inspir'd Ign'rance sounder Doctrines preach A way to Heaven mere Nature well does shew Which reasoning and Disputes can never know Yet still proud Tyrant Sence in Pomp appears And claims a Tribute of full threescore Years Sew'd in a Sack with Darkness circl'd round Each man must be with Snakes and Monkeys drown'd Laborious Folly and compendious Art To waste that Life whose longest Date 's too short Laborious Folly to wind up with Pain What Death unravels soon and renders vain We blindly hurry on in Mystick ways Nor wisely tread the Paths of solid Praise There 's nought deserves one precious drop of sweat But Poetry the noblest Gift of Fate Which after Death does a more lasting Life beget Not that which sudden frantick Heats produce Where Wine and Pride not Heaven shall raise the Muse Not that small Stock which does Translators make That Trade poor Bankrupt-Poetasters take But such when God his Fiat did express And powerful Numbers wrought an Universe With such great David tun'd his charming Lyre That even Saul and Madness could admire With such Great Oldham bravely did excel That David's Lamentation sung so well Oldham the Man that could with Judgment write Our Oxford's Glory and the World's Delight Sometimes in boundless keenest Satyr bold Sometimes as soft as those Love-tales he told That Vice could praise and Virtue too disgrace The first Excess of Wit that e'er did please Scarce Cowley such Pindarique soaring knew Yet by his Reader still was kept in view His Fancy like Jove's Eagle liv'd above And bearing Thunder still would upward move Oh noble Kingston had thy lovely Guest With a large stock of Youth and Life been blest Not all thy Greatness or thy Vertues store Had surer Comforts been or pleased thee more But Oh! the date is short of mighty Worth And Angels never tarry long on Earth His soul the bright the pure Etherial Flame To those lov'd Regions flew from whence it came And spight of what Mankind had long believ'd My Creed says only Poets can be sav'd That God has only for a number staid To stop the breach which Rebel Angels made For none their absence can so well supply They are all o'r Scraphick Harmony Then and not that till then the World shall burn And its base Dross Mankind their fortune mourn While all to their old nothing quick return The peevish Critick then shall be asham'd And for his Sins of Vanity be damn'd T. Wood. Oxon May the 26th 1684. On the Death of Mr. Oldham A PASTORAL On the Remains of an old blasted Oak Unmindful of himself Menalcas lean'd He sought not now in heat the shades of Trees But shun'd the flowing Rivers pleasing bank His Pipe and Hook lay scatter'd on the Grass Nor fed his Sheep together on the Plain Left to themselves they wandred out at large In this Lamenting state Young Corydon His Friend and Dear Companion of his Hour