Enjoy (inimitable Bard!)

Of all thy pleasant toil the sweet reward,

And ever venerable be,

Till the unthinking world fhall once more lie
Immers'd in her first chaos of barbarity:
A curfe now to be dreaded, for with thee
Dy'd all the lovely decencies of poetry.

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THO. FLATMAN,

TO THE MEMORY

OF THE AUTHOR.

To fertile wits and plants of fruitful kind
Impartial Nature the fame laws affign'd;

Both have their spring before they reach their prime,
A time to bloffom, and a bearing time:

An early bloom to both has fatal been;

Those fooneft fade, whose verdure first was seen.
Alone exempted from the common fate,
The forward Cowley held a lasting date;
For Envy's blaft, and pow'rful Time, too strong,
He bloffom'd early, and he flourish'd long :
In whom the double miracle was feen,
Ripe in his fpring, and in his autumn green.
With us he left his gen'rous fruit behind,
The feast of wit, and banquet of the mind:
While the fair tree, transplanted to the fkies, 15'
In verdure with th' Elysian garden vies,
The pride of Earth before, and now of Paradise.

5

TO

Thus faint our strongest metaphors must be, Thus unproportion'd to thy Mufe and thee.

Those flowers, that did in thy rich garden smile, 20
Wither, tranfplanted to another foil.

Thus Orpheus' harp that did wild beasts command,
Had lost its force in any other hand.

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26

Saul's frantic rage harmonious founds obey'd,
His rage was charm'd, but 'twas when David play'd.
The artless since have touch'd thy facred lyre;
We have thy numbers, but we want thy fire.
Horace and Virgil, where they brightest shin'd,
Prov'd but thy ore, and were by thee refin'd:
The conquerors that from the general flame
Sav'd Pindar's roof, deferv'd a lasting name,
A greater thou, that didst preserve his fame.
A dark and huddled chaos long he lay,
Till thy diviner genius' pow'rful ray
Difpers'd the mists of night, and gave
No mists of time can make thy verse less bright,
Thou shin'st like Phœbus with unborrow'd light.
Henceforth no Phoebus we'll invoke, but thee;
Aufpicious to thy poor survivors be!
Who unrewarded plow the Muses' foil,
Our labour all the harvest of our toil;
And in excufe of fancies flag'd and tir'd,
Can only fay, Augustus * is expir'd.

him day.35.

* Written just when King Charles was dead.

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!

ON MR. COWLEY'S

JUVENILE POEMS,

AND THE

TRANSLATION OF HIS PLANTARUM.

A PINDARIC.

1.

WHEN young Alcides in his cradle lay,
And grafp'd in both his infant hands,
Broke from the nurfe's feeble bands,
The bloody gafping prey,

Aloft he those first trophies bore,
And fqueezes out their pois'nous gore;
The women shriek'd with wild amaze,
The men as much affrighted gaze;
But had the wife Tirefias come

Into the crowded room,

With deep prophetic joy

He 'ad heard the conquefts of the godlike boy,

And fung in facred rage

What ravenous men, and beafts engage:

Hence he'd propitious omens take,

And from the triumphs of his infancy

Portend his future victory

O'er the foul ferpent welt'ring wide in Lerna's dread

ful lake.

II.

Alcides Pindar, Pindar Cowley fings,
And while they strike the vocal firings,
To either both new honours brings.

But who shall now the mighty task sustain ?
And now our Hercules is there,

What Atlas can Olympus bear?

What mortal undergo th' unequal pain?
But 'tis a glorious fate

To fall with fuch a weight,
Tho' with unhallowed fingers, I
Will touch the ark, altho' I die.

Begin, begin, my Mufe! thy noble choir,

And aim at something worthy Pindar's lyre;
Within thy breast excite the kindling fire,
And fan it with thy voice!

Cowley does to Jove belong,

Jove and Cowley claim my fang.

These fair first-fruits of wit young Cowley bore,

Which promis'd if the happy tree.

Should ever reach maturity,

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To blefs the world with better and with more. 45

Thus in the kernel of the largest fruit
Is all the tree in little drawn,

The trunk, the branches, and the root;

Thus a fair day is pictur'd in a lovely dawn.

IV.

Taffo, a poet in his infancy,

Did hardly earlier rife than thee,

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Nor did he shoot so far, or shine so bright,

Or in his dawning beams or noon-day light.
The Mufes did young Cowley raise,

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They stole thee from thy nurse's arms,

Fed thee with facred love of praise,
And taught thee all their charms :

As if Apollo's self had been thy fire,

They daily rock'd thee on his lyre:

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Hence feeds of numbers in thy foul were fix'd,

Deep as the very reason there,

No force from thence could numbers tear,

Even with thy being mixt:

And there they lurk'd, till Spenfer's facred fame 65

Leap'd up and kindled thine,

Thy thoughts as regular and fine,

Thy foul the fame,

Like his, to honour and to love inclin'd,

As foft thy foul, as great thy mind.

V.

Whatever Cowley writes must please ;
Sure like the gods he speaks all languages,

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