LOYALTY CONFINED. BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas blow; Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof: Your incivility doth show, That innocence is tempest proof; So he that struck at Jason's life, Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife Did only wound him to a cure: Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts Mischief, oft-times proves favour by th' are calm; Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm. That which the world miscalls a jail, And innocence my liberty: I, whilst I wisht to be retired, Into this private room was turn'd; As if their wisdoms had conspired The salamander should be burn'd: Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish. The cynick loves his poverty: The pelican her wilderness; And 'tis the Indian's pride to be These manacles upon my arm I, as my mistress' favours, wear; And for to keep my ankles warm, I have some iron shackles there: These walls are but my garrison; this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. I'm in the cabinet lockt up, Like some high-prized margarite, Or, like the great mogul or pope, Am cloyster'd up from publick sight: Retiredness is a piece of majesty, And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee. Here sin for want of food must starve, event. When once my prince affliction hath, I can learn patiènce from him: What though I cannot see my king Yet contemplation is a thing That renders what I have not, mine: My king from me what adamant can part, Whom I do wear engraven on my heart! Have you not seen the nightingale, A prisoner like, coopt in a cage, How doth she chaunt her wonted tale, In that her narrow hermitage! Even then her charming melody doth prove, That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. I am that bird, whom they combine Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. My soul is free, as ambient air, Although my baser part's immew'd, Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair T'accompany my solitude: Although rebellion do my body binde, My king alone can captivate my minde. SIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE. EPITAPH EXTEMPORE. NOBLES and heralds, by your leave, Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher? MATTHEW PRIOR. What Plato thought, and godlike Cato IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath was: No common object to your sight displays, But what with pleasure Heaven itself sur veys, stay'd, And left her debt to Addison unpaid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, A brave man struggling in the storms of And judge, oh judge my bosom by your fate, And greatly falling, with a falling state. While Cato gives his little senate laws, What bosom beats not in his country's cause? Who sees him act, but envies every deed? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? own. What mourner ever felt poetic fires? Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, Can I forget the dismal night that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave? Even when proud Cæsar, 'midst triumphal How silent did his old companions tread, Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in Through rows of warriors, and through The duties by the lawn-robed prelate A wingèd Virtue, through th' ethereal sky, From world to world unwearied does he paid; And the last words, that dust to dust convey'd? While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, fly? Or curious trace the long, laborious maze Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? Accept these tears, thou dear, departed Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell My lyre be broken, and untuned my In silent whisperings purer thoughts im tongue; My grief be doubled from thy image free, And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee. Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown; Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form the hallow'd mould below; part, And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. That awful form, which, so the heavens decree, Must still be loved and still deplored by me, Proud names, who once the reins of empire In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, held; In arms who triumph'd, or in arts excell'd; Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. If business calls, or crowded courts invite, Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight; Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, stood; Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; If pensive to the rural shades I rove, And saints who taught, and led, the way His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening Then maids and youths shall linger here, Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame, Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. Swift after him thy social spirit flies, And, while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in pity's ear To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar To bid his gentle spirit rest! And oft as ease and health retire The friend shall view yon whitening spire, But thou, who own'st that earthly bed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail? Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, And joy desert the blooming year. But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side Whose cold turf hides the buried friend! And see, the fairy valleys fade, Dun night has veil'd the solemn view! In future tongues; each other's boast! Yet once again, dear parted shade, farewell, Farewell! whom join'd in fame, in friendship tried, No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. THOMAS TICKELL. Meek Nature's child, again adieu! The genial meads assign'd to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes, O vales and wild woods, shall he say, In yonder grave your Druid lies! WILLIAM COLLINS. ON THE DEATH OF DR. LEVETT. CONDEMN'D to hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away. Well tried through many a varying year, See Levett to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection's eye, Thy praise to merit unrefined. When fainting Nature call'd for aid, The power of art without the show. In misery's darkest cavern known, Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan, No summons mock'd by chill delay, The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walk'd their narrow round, The busy day, the peaceful night, His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then with no fiery throbbing pain, |