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When from black clouds no part of sky is clear,
But just so much as lets the sun appear,
Heav'n then would seem thy image, and reflect
Those sable vestments and that bright aspect.
A spark of virtue by the deepest shade
Of sad adversity is fairer made;
Nor less advantage doth thy beauty get,
A Venus rising from a sea of jet!
Such was the appearance of new-formed Light,
While yet it struggled with eternal Night.
Then mourn no more, lest thou admit increase
Of glory by thy noble Lord's decease.
We find not that the laughter-loving dame'
Mourn’d for Anchises; 'twas enough she came
To grace the mortal with her deathless bed,
And that his living eyes such beauty fed:
Had she been there, untimely joy through all
Men's hearts diffus'd, had marrd the funeral.
Those eyes were made to banish grief: as well
Bright Phæbus might affect in shades to dwell,
As they to put on sorrow : nothing stands,
But pow'r to grieve, exempt from thy commands.
If thou lament, thou must do so alone ;
Grief in thy presence can lay hold on none.
Yet still persist the memory to love
Of that great Mercury of our mighty Jove,
Who, by the pow'r of bis inchanting tongue,
Swords from the hands of threatening monarchs
War he prevented, or soon made it cease,
Instructing princes in the arts of peace;
Such as made Sheba's curious queen resort
To the large-hearted Hebrew's 3 famous court.
Had Homer sat amongst his wondering guests,
He might have learn'd, at those stupendous feasts,
With greater bounty and more sacred state,
The banquets of the gods to celebrate.
But, oh! what elocution might he use,
What potent charms, that could so soon infuse
His absent master's love into the heart
Of Henrietta ! forcing her to part
From her lov'd brother, country, and the sun,
And, like Camilla, o'er the waves to run
Into his arms ? while the Parisian dames
Mourn for the ravish'd glory; at her flames
No less amaz'd than the amazed stars,
When the bold charmer of Thessalia wars
With Heav'n itself, and numbers does repeat,
Which call descending Cynthia from her seat.
WRIT A LIBEL AGAINST THE COUNTESS
What fury has provok'd thy wit to dare,
With Diomede, to wound the Queen of Love? Thy mistress' envy, or thine own despair?
Not the just Pallas in thy breast did move So blind a rage, with such a diff'rent fate; He honour won where thou hast purchas'd hate.
She gave assistance to his Trojan foe;
Thou, that without a rival thou may'st love, Dost to the beauty of this Lady owe,
While after her the gazing world does move. Canst thou not be content to love alone? Or is thy mistress not content with one? Hast thou not read of Fairy Arthur's shield,
Which but disclos'd amaz'd the weaker eyes
Of proudest foes, and won the doubtful field ?
So shall thy rebel wit become her prize.
Should thy Iambics swell into a book,
All were confuted with one radiant look.
Heav'n he oblig'd that plac'd her in the skies ;
Rewarding Phæbus for inspiring so
His noble brain, by likening to those eyes
His joyful beams; but Phæbus is thy foe,
And neither aids thy fancy nor thy sight,
So ill thou rhym'st against so fair a light.
They taste of death that do at Heav'n arrive,
But we this paradise approach alive.
Instead of Death, the dart of Love does strike,
And renders all within these walls alike,
'The high in titles, and the shepherd, here
Forgets his greatness, and forgets his fear.
All stand amaz'd, and gazing on the fair,
Lose thought of what themselves or others are:
Ambition lose, and have no other scope,
Save Carlisle's favour, to employ their hope.
The Thracian' could (though all those tales were true
The bold Greeks tell) no greater wonders do:
Before his feet so sheep and lions lay,
Fearless and wrathless while they heard him play.
The gay, the wise, the gallant, and the grave,
Subdued alike, all but one passion have:
No worthy mind but finds in her's there is
Sometliing proportion'd to the rule of his :
While she with cheerful, but impartial grace,
(Born for no one, but to delight the race
Of men) like Phæbus so divides her light,
And warms us, that she stoops not from her height.
LADY DOROTHY SIDNEY'S PICTURE.
Such was Philoclea, and such Dorus' 'flame !
The matchless Sidney ?, that immortal frame
Of perfect beauty, on two pillars plac'd,
Not his high fancy could one pattern, grac'd
With such extremes of excellence, compose,
Wonders so distant in one face disclose !
Such cheerful modesty, such humble state,
Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate
As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see
Inviting fruit on too sublime a tree.
All the rich flowers through his Arcadia found,
Amaz'd we see in this one garland bound.
Had but this copy (which the artist took
From the fair picture of that noble book)
Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends 3 had jarr'd,
And, rivals made, the ensuing story marrd.
Just Nature, first instructed by his thought,
In his own house thus practis'd what he taught :
This glorious piece transcends what he could think,
So much his blood is nobler than his ink!