VOTUM, SEU VITA IN TERRIS BEATA.

AD VIRUM DIGNISSIMUM JOHANNEM HARTOPPIUM, BART.

HARTOPPI, eximio stemmate nobilis

Venaque ingenii divite, si roges

Quem mea musa beat,
Ille mihi felix ter et amplius,
Et similes superis annos agit,

"Qui sibi sufficiens semper adest sibi."
Hunc, longe a curis mortalibus,
Inter agros sylvasque silentes,

Se musisque suis tranquilla in pace fruentem, Sol oriens videt et recumbens.

Non suæ vulgi favor insolentis
(Plausus insani tumidus popelli)
Mentis ad sacram penetrabit arcem,
Feriat licet æthera clamor.

Nec gaza flammans divitis Indiæ,
Nec, Tage, vestræ fulgor arenulæ,
Ducent ab obscura quiete
Ad laquear radiantis aulæ.

O si daretur stamina proprii
Tractare fusi pollice proprio,

Atque meum mihi fingere fatum,
Candidus vitæ color innocentis
Fila nativo decoraret albo,

Non Tyria vitiata concha.

Non aurum, non gemma nitens, nec purpura telæ
Intertexta forent invidiosa meæ.

Longe a triumphis, et sonitu tubæ
Longe remotos transigerem dies:
Abstate fasces, splendida vanitas!
Et vos abstate, coronæ !

Pro meo tecto casa sit, salubres
Captet auroras, procul urbis atro
Distet a fumo, fugiatque longe

Dura phthisis mala, dura tussis.
Displicet byrsa et fremitu molesto
Turba mercantum; gratius alvear
Demulcet aures murmure, gratius
Fons salientis aquæ.

Litigiosa fori me terrent jurgia; lenes

Ad sylvas properans rixosas execror artes,

Eminus in tuto a linguis

Blandimenta artis simul æquus odi:

Valete, cives, et amoena fraudis

Verba, proh mores! et inane sacri

Nomen amici.

Tuque, quæ nostris inimica musis
Felle sacratum vitias amorem,

Absis æternum, diva libidinis,

Et pharetrate puer !

Hinc, hinc, Cupido, longius avola !
Nil mihi cum fœdis, puer, ignibus;
Etherea fervent face pectora,
Sacra mihi Venus est Urania,
Et juvenis Jessæus amor mihi.

Coeleste carmen (nec taceat lyra
Jessæa) lætis auribus insonet,
Nec Watsianis e medullis

Ulla dies rapiet vel hora.

Sacri libelli, deliciæ meæ, Et vos, sodales, semper amabiles, Nunc simul adsitis, nunc vicissim, Et fallite tædia vitæ.

1702.

TO MRS. SINGER,

(NOW MRS. ROWE,)

ON THE SIGHT OF SOME OF HER DIVINE

POEMS, NEVER PRINTED.

On the fair banks of gentle Thames

I tun'd my harp, nor did celestial themes

I

Refuse to dance upon my strings:

There beneath the evening sky

sung my cares asleep, and raised my wishes high To everlasting things.

Sudden from Albion's western coast

Harmonious notes come gliding by:

The neighb'ring shepherds knew the silver sound; ""Tis Philomela's voice," the neighbouring shepherds cry;

At once my strings all silent lie,

At once my fainting muse was lost,
In the superior sweetness drown'd.
In vain I bid my tuneful powers

unite;

My soul retir'd and left my tongue, I was all ear, and Philomela's song Was all divine delight.

Now be my harp for ever dumb,

My muse attempt no more.

"Twas long ago

I bid adieu to mortal things,

To Grecian tales, and wars of Rome,

'Twas long ago I broke all but the immortal strings: Now those immortal strings have no employ, Since a fair angel dwells below,

To tune the notes of heaven, and propagate the joy, Let all my powers, with awe profound,

While Philomela sings,

Attend the rapture of the sound,

And my devotion rise on her seraphic wings.

July 19, 1706.