Imágenes de páginas

Had gather'd from the reaper's luxury.

They both at last, glutted and wanton lie: Freely (said he) fall on, and never spare,

When, see the sad reverse of prosp'rous fate, The bounteous Gods will for to-morrow care. And what fierce storms on mortal glories wait: And thus at ease on beds of straw they lay,

With hideous noise down the rude servants come, And to their genius sacrific'd the day :

Six dogs before run barking into the room ; Yet the nice guest's Epicurean mind

The wretched gluttons fly with wild affright, (Though breeding made him civil seem and kind) And hate the fullness which retards their flight. Despis’d this country feast, and still his thought Our trembling peasant wishes now, in vain, Upon the cakes and pies of London wrought. That rocks and mountains cover'd him again. Your bounty and civility (said he)

Oh how the change of his poor life he curs'd! Which I'm surpris'd in these rude parts to see, This of all lives, said he, is sure the worst. Shews that the Gods have given you a mind

Give me again, ye Gods! my cave and wood; Too noble for the fate which here you find.

With peace, let tares and acorns be my food.
Why should a soul so virtuous and so great
Lose itself thus in an obscure retreat?

Let savage beasts lodge in a country den,
You should see towns, and manners know, and men ; Philosophy! the great and only heir
And taste the gen'rous lux'ry of the court,

Of all that human knowledge which has been Where all the mice of quality resort ;

Unforfeited by man's rebellious sin, Where thousand beauteous shes about you move, Though full of years he doth appear, And by high fare are pliant made to love.

(Philosophy! I say, and call it he, We all ere long must render up our breath,

For whatsoe'er the painter's fancy be, No cave or hole can shelter us from death.

It a male virtue seems to me) Since life is so uncertain and so short,

Has still been kept in nonage till of late, Let's spend it all in feasting and in sport.

Nor manag'd or enjoy'd his vast estate. (thought, Come, worthy sir! come with me, and partake Three or four thousand years, one would have All the great things that mortals happy make. To ripeness and perfection might have brought Alas! what virtue hath sufficient arms

A science so well bred and nurs’d, T'oppose bright honour and soft pleasure's charms ? And of such hopeful parts, too, at the first; What wisdom can their magic force repel ?

But, oh! the guardians and the tutors then, It draws this rev'rend hermit from his cell.

(Some negligent, and some ambitious men) It was the time, when witty poets tell,

Would ne'er consent to set him free, “ That Phæbus into Thetis' bosom fell:

Or his own nat'ral pow'rs to let him see, “ She blush'd at first, and then put out the light, Lest that should put an end to their authority. “ And drew the modest curtains of the night.” Plainly, the truth to tell, the sun was set,

That his own bus’ness he might quite forget, When to the town our weary'd trav’llers get. They amus'd him with the sports of wanton wit; To a lord's house, as lordly as can be,

With the deserts of poetry they fed him, Made for the use of pride and luxury,

Instead of solid meats t' increase his force ; They come; the gentle courtier at the door Instead of vig'rous exercise they led him Stops, and will hardly enter in before ;

Into the pleasant labyrinths of ever-fresh discourse : But ʼtis, sir, your command, and being so,

Instead of carrying him to see I'm sworn t' obedience; and so in they go.

The riches which do hoarded for him lie Behind a hanging in a spacious room,

In Nature's endless treasury, (The richest work of Mortlake's noble loom) They chose his eye to entertain They wait awhile, their weary'd limbs to rest (His curious, but not cov’tous eye) Till silence should invite them to their feast, With painted scenes and pageants of the brain. 6 About the hour that Cynthia's silver light Some few exalted sp'rits this latter age has shewn, “ Had touch'd the pale meridies of the night.” That labour'd to assert the liberty At last the various supper being done,

(From guardians who were now usurpers grown) It happen'd that the company was gone

Of this old minor, still captiv'd Philosophy; Into a room remote, servants and all,

But 'twas rebellion call’d, to fight
To please their noble fancies with a ball.

For such a long-oppressed right.
Our host leads forth his stranger, and does find Bacon, at last, a mighty man! arose,
All fitted to the bounties of his mind.

Whom a wise king and nature chose
Still on the table half-fill'd dishes stood,

Lord Chancellor of both their laws, And with delicious bits the floor was strew'd. And boldly undertook the injur'd pupil's cause. The courteous mouse presents him with the best, And both with fat varieties are bless'd:

Authority, which did a body boast, Th’industrious peasant ev'ry where does range, Though 'twas but air condens'd, and stalk'd about And thanks the Gods for his life's happy change. Like some old giant's more gigantic ghost, Lo! in the midst of a well-freighted pie

To terrify the learned rout

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With the plain magic of true reason's light, And were unjust if we should more require
He chas'd out of our sight,

From bis few years, divided 'twixt th' excess
Nor suffer'd living men to be misled

Of low affliction and high happiness:
By the vain shadows of the dead: (tom fled :

For who on things remote can fix his sight,
To graves, from whence it rose, the conquer'd phan- That's always in a triumph or a fight!
He broke that monstrous God which stood,
In midst of th' orchard, and the whole did claim, From you, great champions! we expect to get
Which with a useless scythe of wood,

These spacious countries but discover'd yet;
And something else not worth a name,

Countries where yet, instead of Nature, we
(Both vast for shew, yet neither fit

Her image and her idols worship'd see:
Or to defend or to beget,

These large and wealthy regions to subdue,
Ridiculous and senseless terrors !) made

Tho' learning has whole armies at command,
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Children and superstitious men afraid.

Quarter'd about in every land,
The orchard's open now, and free;

A better troop she ne'er together drew.
Bacon has broke that scarecrow deity :

Methinks, like Gideon's little band,
Come, enter all that will,

God with design bas pick'd out you,
Behold the ripen'd fruit, come, gather now your fill! To do these noble wonders by a few.
Yet still, methinks, we fain would be

When the whole host he saw, They are, said he,
Catching at the forbidden tree;

Too many to o'ercome for me:
We would be like the Deity;

And now he chooses out his men,
When truth and falsehood, good and evil, we Much in the way that he did then:
Without the senses' aid within ourselves would see; Not those many, whom he found
For 'tis God only who can find

Idly extended on the ground
All nature in his mind.

To drink, with their dejected head,

The stream, just so as by their mouths it fled: ould be From words, which are but pictures of the thought, No; but those few who took the waters up, brough:

(Though we our thoughts from them perversely And made of their laborious hands the cup,

st; To things, the mind's right object, he it brought; Thus you prepar'd, and in the glorious fight
nen, Like foolish birds to painted grapes we flew. Their wondrous pattern, too, you take :

He sought and gather'd for our use the true; Their old and empty pitchers first they brake,
And when on heaps the chosen bunches lay, And with their hands then lifted up the light.
He press'd them wisely the mechanic way,

lö! sound too the trumpets here! ority. Till all their juice did in one vessel join,

Already your victorious lights appear;
Ferment into a nourishment divine,

New scenes of Heav'n already we espy,
The thirsty soul's refreshing wine.

And crowds of golden worlds on high. con with Who to the life an exact piece would make,

Which from the spacious plains of earth and sea
Must not from others' work a copy take;

Could never yet discover'd be
No, not from Rubens or Vandyck;

By sailor's or Chaldean's watchful eye.
Much less content himself to make it like

Nature's great works no distance can obscure,
Th’ ideas and the images which lie

No smallness her near objects can secure:
In his own fancy or his memory:

Ye’ave taught the curious sight to press
No, he before his sight must place

Into the privatest recess
The natural and living face ;

Of her imperceptible littleness :
The real object must command

Ye’ave learn’d to read her smallest hand,
Each judgment of his eye and motion of his hand. And well begun her deepest sense to understand.
From these, and all long errors of the way,

Mischief and true dishonour fall on those
In which our wand'ring predecessors went,

Who would to laughter or to scoru expose
And, like th' old Hebrews, many years did stray

So virtuous and so noble a design,
In deserts, but of small extent,

So human for its use, for knowledge so divine.
Bacon! like Moses, led us forth at last;

The things which these proud men despise, and call
The barren wilderness he pass'd,

Impertinent, and vain, and small,
Did on the very border stand

Those smallest things of nature let me know,
Of the bless'd promis'd land,

Rather than all their greatest actions do.
And from the mountain's top of his exalted wit,

Whoever would deposed truth advance
Saw it himself, and shew'd as it.

Into the throne usurp'd from it,

Must feel at first the blows of ignorance,
But life did never to one man allow
Time to discover worlds, and conquer too;

And the sharp points of envious wit.
Nor can so short a line sufficient be

So when, by various turns of the celestial dance,

In many thousand years
To fathom the vast deeps of Nature's sea :

A star, so long unknown, appears,
The work he did we ought t'admire,

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Though Heav'n itself more beauteous by it grow,
It troubles and alarms the world below,
Does to the wise a star, to fools a meteor, shew.

But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there, for why Should ev'ry creature drink but I; Why, man of morals, tell me why?

With courage and success you the bold work begin;
Your cradle has not idle been :
None e'er but Hercules and you could be
At five years' age worthy a history:
And ne'er did Fortune better yet
Th' historian to the story fit.
As you from all old errors free
And purge the body of Philosophy,
So from all modern follies he
Has vindicated eloquence and wit:
His candid style like a clean stream does slide,
And his bright fancy all the way
Does, like the sunshine, in it play;
It does like Thames, the best of rivers, glide,
Where the God does not rudely overturn,
But gently pour, the crystal urn,

And with judicious hands does the whole current
It has all the beauties Nature can impart,
And all the comely dress, without the paint, of Art.


Love. I'll sing of beroes, and of kings, In mighty numbers, mighty things. Begin, my Muse! but, lo! the strings To my great song rebellious prove; The strings will sound of nought but love, I broke them all, and put on new; 'Tis this or nothing, sure, will do. These, sure, said I, will me obey; These, sure, heroic notes will play. Straight I began with thund'ring Jove, And all th' immortal powers but Love; Love smil'd, and from my enfeebled lyre Came gentle airs, such as inspire Melting love, and soft desire. Farewell then heroes, farewell kings, And mighty numbers, mighty things; Love tunes my heart just to my strings.

Drinking. The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again. The plants suck in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair. The sea itself, which one would think Should have but little need of drink, Drinks ten thousand rivers up, So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup. The busy sun, (and one would guess By's drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and when he'as done, The moon and stars drink up the sun. They drink and dance by their own light, They drink and reves all the night. Nothing in Nature's sober found,

Beauty. Liberal Nature did dispense To all things arms for their defence; And some she arms with sinewy force, And some with swiftness in the course ; Some with hard hoofs, or forked claws, And some with horns, or tusked jaws; And some with scales, and some with wings, And some with teeth, and some' with stings: Wisdom to man she did afford, Wisdom for shield, and wit for sword. What to beauteous womankind, What arms,

what armour, has she assign'd?
Beauty is both; for with the fair
What arms, what armour, can compare?
What steel, what gold, or diamond,
More impassable is found?
And yet what fame, what lightning e'er
So great an active force did bear?
They are all weapon, and they dart,
Like porcupines, from ev'ry part.
Who can, alas! their strength express,
Arm’d, when they themselves undress,
Cap à pè with nakedness.

Oft' am I by the women told,
Poor Anacreon! thou grow'st old,
Look how thy hairs are falling all ;
Poor Anacreon! how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
By th' effects I do not know ;
This I know without being told,
"Tis time to live if I grow old;
'Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.

The Account,
When all the stars are by thee told,
(The endless sums of heav'nly gold)
Or when the hairs are reckon'd all,
From sickly Autumn's head that fall,
Or when the drops that make the sea,
Whilst all her sands thy counters be,
Thou then, and thou alone, must prove
Th’ arithmetician of my love.
An hundred loves at Athens score,
At Corinth write an hundred more ;
Fair Corinth does such beauties bear,
So few is an escaping there.
Write then at Chios seventy-three,
Write then at Lesbos (let me see);
Write me at Lesbos ninety down,
Full ninety loves, and half a one;
And next to these let me present

The fair Ionian regiment;

Crown me with roses whilst I live, And next the Carian company,

Now your wines and ointments give; Five hundred both effectively;

After death I nothing crave, Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete;

Let me alive your pleasures have, Three hundred 'tis, I am sure, complete ;

All are Stoics in the grave.
For arms at Crete each face does bear,

The Grasshopper.
And ev'ry eye's an archer there.
Go on, this stop why dost thou make?

Happy insect! what can be
Thou think'st, perhaps, that I mistake.

In happiness compar'd to thee? Seems this to thee too great a sum?

Fed with nourishment divine, Why many thousands are to come;

The dewy morning's gentle wine ! The mighty Xerxes could not boast

Nature waits upon thee still, Such diff'rent nations in his host.

And thy verdant cup does fill; On; for my love, if thou be'st weary,

'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Must find some better secretary.

Nature self's thy Ganymede. I have not yet my Persian told,

Thou dost drink, and dance and sing, Nor yet my Syrian loves inrolld,

Happier than the happiest king! Nor ladian nor Arabian,

All the fields which thou dost see, Nor Cyprian loves nor African,

All the plants, belong to thee; Nor Scythian nor Italian flames;

All that summer-hours produce, There's a whole map behind of names,

Fertile made with early juice: Of gentle loves i’ th' Temp’rate Zone,

Man for thee does sow and plow; And cold ones in the Frigid one,

Farmer he, and landlord thou ! Cold frozen loves with which I pine,

Thou dost innocently joy, And parched loves beneath the Line.

Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
The Epicure.

More harmonious than he.
Fill the bowl with rosy wine,

Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Around our temples roses twine,

Prophet of the ripen'd year! And let us cheerfully awhile,

Thee Phæbus loves, and does inspire; Like the wine and roses smile;

Phæbus is himself thy sire. Crown'd with roses we contemn

To thee of all things upon earth, Gy ges' wealthy diadem.

Life is no longer than thy mirth. To-day is ours; what do we fear?

Happy insect! happy thou, To-day is ours, we have it here;

Dost neither age nor winter know: Let us treat it kindly, that it may

But when thou 'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung Wish, at least, with us to stay:

Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among, Let us banish business, banish sorrow;

(Voluptuous, and wise withal, To the gods belongs to-morrow.

Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy summer feast,

Thou retir'st to endless rest.
Underneath this myrtle shade,

The Swallow,
On flow'ry beds supinely laid,
With od’rous oils my head o'erflowing,

Foolish prater! what dost thou
And around it roses growing,

So early at my window do What should I do but drink away

With thy tuneless serenade? The heat and troubles of the day?

Well it had been had Tereus made In this more than kingly state,

Thee as dumb as Philomel; Lore himself shall on me wait.

There his knife had done but well. Fill to me, Love! nay fill it up,

In thy undiscover'd nest And mingled cast into the cup

Thou dost all the winter rest, Wit and mirth, and noble fires,

And dreamest o'er thy summer joys Vigorous health, and gay desires.

Free from the stormy season's noise ; The wheel of life no less will stay

Free from th' ill thou 'st done to me; In a smooth than rugged way;

Who disturbs or seeks out thee? Since it equally doth flee,

Hadst thou all the charming notes Let the motion pleasant be.

Of the woods' poetic throats, Why do we precious ointments show'r,

All thy art could never pay Nobler wines why do we pour?

What thou 'st ta'en from me away. Beauteous flow’rs why do we spread,

Cruel bird! thou 'st ta'en away l'pon the mon’ments of the dead?

A dream out of my arms to-day; Nothing they but dust can shew,

A dream that ne'er must equall'd be Or bones that hasten to be so.

By all that waking eyes may see:

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Thou this damage to repair,

Than men safe-landed, do the wind. Nothing half so sweet or fair,

Wisdom itself they should not hear Nothing half so good can'st bring,

When it presumes to be severe. Tho' men say thou bring'st the Spring.

Beauty alone they should admire,

Nor look at Fortune's vain attire, Elegy upon Anacreon who was choaked by a Grape

Nor ask what parents it can shew ; stone. Spoken by the God of Love.

With dead or old it has nought to do. How shall I lament thine end,

They should not love yet all, or any, My best servant and my friend?

But very much, and very many. Nay, and if from a deity

All their life should gilded be So much deify'd as I,

With mirth, and wit, and gaiety, It sound not too profane and odd,

Well rememb'ring, and applying Oh! my Master, and my God!

The necessity of dying. For 'tis true, most mighty Poet!

Their cheerful heads should always wear (Tho' I like not men should know it)

All that crowns the flow'ry year. I am in naked Nature less,

They should always laugh and sing, Less by much than in thy dress.

And dance, and strike th' harmonious string. All thy verse is softer far

Verse should from their tongue so flow, Than the downy feathers are

As if it in the mouth did grow; Of my wings, or of my arrows,

As swiftly answ'ring their command, Of my mother's doves or sparrows.

As tunes obey the artful hand: Sweet as lovers' freshest kisses,

And whilst I do thus discover Or their riper following blisses,

Th' ingredients of a happy lover, Graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round,

'Tis, my Anacreon! for thy sake All with Venus' girdle bound,

I of the Grape no mention make. And thy life was all the while

Till my Anacreon by thee fell, Kind and gentle as thy style:

Cursed Plant! I lov'd thee well, The smooth pac'd hours of ev'ry day

And 'twas oft my wanton use Glided num'rously away;

To dip my arrows in thy juice. Like thy verse each hour did pass,

Cursed Plant ! 'tis true I see Sweet and short, like that it was.

Th’old report that goes of thee, Some do but their youth allow me,

That with giants' blood th’ earth Just what they by Nature owe me,

Stain'd and poison'd gave thee birth. The time that's mine, and not their own,

And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spite The certain tribute of my crown;

On men in whom the Gods delight. When they grow old, they grow to be

Thy patron Bacchus, 'tis no wonder, Too busy or too wise for me.

Was brought forth in flames and thunder; Thou wert wiser, and didst know

In rage, in quarrels, and in fights, None too wise for love can grow.

Worse than his tigers he delights; Love was with thy life entwin'd,

In all our heav'n, I think there be Close as heat with fire is join'd;

No such ill-natur'd God as he. A pow'rful brand prescrib'd the date

Thou pretendest, trait'rous Wine ! Of thine, like Meleager's fate.

To be the Muses' friend and mine : Th' antiperistasis of age

With love and wit thou dost begin, More inflam'd thy amorous rage;

False fires, alas ! to draw us in ; Thy silver hairs yielded me more

Which, if our course we by them keep, Than even golden curls before.

Misguide to madness or to sleep: Had I the power of creation,

Sleep were well: thou hast learn'd a way As I have of generation,

To death itself now to betray. Where I the matter must obey,

It grieves me when I see what fate And cannot work plate out of clay,

Does on the best of mankind wait. My creatures should be all like thee;

Poets or lovers let them be, 'Tis thou shouldst their idea be.

'Tis neither love nor poesy They, like thee, should thoroughly hate

Can arm against Death's smallest dart Bus’ness, honour, title, state:

The poet's head or lover's heart; Other wealth they should not know

But when their life in its decline But what my living mines bestow:

Touches th' inevitable line, The pomp of kings they should confess

All the world's mortal to 'em then, At their crownings to be less

And wine is aconite to men: Than a lover's humblest guise,

Nay, in Death's hand the Grape-stone proves When at his mistress' feet he lies.

As ong as thunder is in Jove's. Rumour they no more should mind

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