THE Victory of Death; OR, The FALL OF BEAUTY. A Visionary Pindarick-Poem, Occasioned by the Ever to be deplored Death Of the Right Honourable the LADY CUTTS. By Mr. JOHN HOPKINS. Tanto Dea digna Marito. LONDON: Printed by B. M. and are to be sold by Sam. Buckley at the Dolphin in Fleetstreet; and Rich. Wellington at the Lute in St. Paul's Churchyaral 1698. To the truly Honourable The Lord CUTTS. Infandum Regina jubes renovare dolorem. A Modern Wit, (so swift his Notions ran) Described the Patron first, than named the Man, Whose wide spread Character high raised in Fame, Did the great Dorset to the World proclaim. Here I, my Lord, might different Tracks pursue, And praise as great a Dorset— but by naming you. Let others— for poor Gain the first resign, And seek new Patrons, you alone are mine. My Muse feels native Pride, and flatters none, But once enjoying you, she's yours alone. Yours— for 'tis you, my Lord, she dares to boast, The most a Courtier, yet above it most. Thus, well distinguished from the rest of Men, You slight the Feather, but command the Pen, With this my willing Temper does comply; Wholly my Patron, you, as much your Poet, I. Strait would my Genius flag, nor could I raise To Undesert a Pile of sordid Praise. I cannot bend too low my suppliant Mould, Nor flatter Fortune's Sons for servile Gold: Unawed, my Muse, to seek your Favour flies, Resolved to perish, or resolved to rise. Blessed is her Choice, grown conscious now of You, At once our Horace and Maecenas too. 'Tis here, her firm Allegiance she assures, No proud Superior your Desert endures, The Field of Wit, as well as War is yours. Whilst you protect me, who shall dare destroy! Not the Palladium better guarded Troy. I fear no Force illnatured Critics raise, I have their Envy, and despise their Praise, What here I offer, you alone can claim, An Angel couched in Florimena's Name, And sure 'tis yours, to guard your Lady's Fame. To you alone her Character is due, As she alive belonged alone to you. But no one Sphere has Phoebus' Rays confined; Her radiant Lustre shone on all Mankind. Her Fame from Flattery, my chaste Muse secures, She was what Woman could be— she was yours. This, to end all Debates, of force may serve, Who could charm CUTTS, indeed must all deserve. She must be more— tho' to a wonder fair; Possessed of double Powers, who conquers there. Forgive, my Lord, the transports of my Mind, This you would pardon, could you search behind. I give but little from so vast a store, All I can keep, I do; but that ran o'er, And 'tis with racking Pain I must refrain from more. You and your Merits dash the Poet's Hand, You slight our Praise, yet those our Praise command. Take then, this Gift alone; you can't refuse, But grant the Suit,— 'tis Florimena sues. Verse is the Muses Present; free, receive, Tho'I, my Lord, thus unexpected give. My humble Genius no great State assumes, Nor sends to tell she will, before she comes. My Visit now your Presence dares demand, I bring your bright loved Charmer in my Hand. Your Florimena sure will welcome grow, She would indeed, could she be truly so. O could my Verse the Nymph from Shades retrieve, And give her Life, who makes my Numbers live! Then should my Muse all charming to you fly, Could she boast truly that she should not die. Hour ', my candid Patron, gracious take, And prise the Picture for the Person's sake. In this, my Lord, my purposed End I find; I slight all Censures, if your judgement's kind. My Muse courts you alone, and here assures At once the Poem, and the Poet— Yours. THE PREFACE. — Hae nugae Seria ducent In mala, derisum semel, acceptumque sinister. IAm now I suppose, Gentlemen, (Critics I mean) about to write a Letter to you; but I presume you expect no loving Billet at my hands: for I must own I have no very tender Passion for you, neither do I design to court you; and if I ever humble myself before ye with the least show of Adoration, it must be through mere Fear, as Indians (damning themselves through dread of being damned) pay a blind Worship to the Devil. I must confess I have yet had no very particular Reason for attacking you; I wage War against you only as the common Enemy; who, like the noted Pirates, make prize of all you meet. But mine I conceive you thought so small a Sail, as was not worth a Chase. Thence 'tis my Quarrel with you rises, for the Muses are, like Russian Wives, never well satisfied, till beaten; and a Poet takes a Blow from a Critic for as great a Favour as he would from a Mistress. He must be indeed of very little Force whom you would not endeavour to disarm; and to take no notice of a young Lady, (who with a charming Assurance, sets up for a Beauty) is an Affront sufficient. Wit is like Courage, and all young Poets, like young Soldiers, catch at first occasions to make it known they have it; should no Provocations be of force to make the one draw his Pen, or the other his Sword, they must be indeed too cool to feel the Fire of Fancy or of Valour. For my part I think 'tis fittest for me to oppose you now, while the Body of my Forces is yet entire, for I shall be able to make but small Resistance, when you have strained, and barbarously disjointed the tender Limbs of my Muse upon the Rack of Criticism; and though there may perhaps be no Action for a while, 'tis (as our late good Friends the French have sometimes proved) no small Advantage, first to take the Field, and with an early Fury open the Campaign. On this Consideration I thought it best to draw a Circle round me, ere the Spirit was raised. and indeed this course seems strictly necessary here; for a malicious Critic is a Devil which all the Charms of Verse want power to lay. 'Tis now my business to observe where I lie most open to you in this last Sally, that I may the better parry your Thrusts, and stand upon my guard as much as possible. As to my former Poem called The Triumphs of Peace, I know nothing that has offered which requires my Defence, and I think it has been so little read, that its own bound Cover has been sufficient Safeguard, and the Poet as well as the Poem triumphs only perhaps by being unassaulted. I have heard indeed that some have said they kuew not what to make of it, and I confess I am apt to believe them; but I can no more make them Readers, than they can make me a Writer. I content myself, and with reason enough, that Mr. Congreve, Mr. Tate, and Mr. Dennis were pleased to like it, but above all, that it was honoured with the signal Approbation of its Patron, whom (and I have convincing Reasons to fix me in the opinion) I believe not at all inferior in Wit to either of the Former, nor to the Latter in judgement. As to the present Poem, if his Lordship shall please to accept and patronise that too, I shall here likewise have my Ends accomplished; for 'tis designed entire his Lordship's, as was the late bright Subject, who has given the sad Occasion. But if it miss the wished Success, there are but six Days lost, for I can produce unquestioned Witness, that within the Limits of that time I wrote it, nor did I sit up laboriously at it, like those who made the Mourning for her Ladyship's Relations, though I must own 'twas finished without any great Intermission, which gives me some Hopes that it máy all be of a piece. I must take leave to say too, (so large a Field such copious Merits gave me) that it flowed from me easy, free, and unconstrained, as from her Ladyship's Acquaintance did their Tears. Thence 'tis that the mourning Muse grown fond of her own Melody, has sung so long an Ode. However, long as it is, Mr. Congreve, beloved for his Candour, as much as for his Wit admired, was pleased not only to approve, but greatly to commend it, in having read it thrice. The Style is Pindarical, or at least, that which is vulgarly called so; 'tis of the same Libertine sort, tho' not such, as Mr. Cowley was so successful in; but indeed it deserves not to be thought even an Imitation of Pindar; for in all his Odes there was a constant Measure certainly observed; and tho' the Number of every Verse was not answered by the immediately succeeding Line, yet infallibly 'twas answered with an harmonious Disposition in some other in the Stanza, it was the artful Measure that his Genius kept, which made him appear so much at liberty, and his Muse, tho' fettered, with such Grace danced to the Music of her own Chains, she seemed to have her freedom. Thus, soaring so irregularly high, on that account indeed, I may be said to have out flown even Pindar. 'Tis no easy Task for the Muse constantly to beat her airy Wings in Fancy's middle Region, and yet to seem to the Beholders still to rise: Her Flight is to be performed like that of Daedalus, she's to be born up but by a constant Motion, and not only to shun the Ocean, the Abyss of Thought, but even the Heats of a too scorching Sun; tho' Phoebus is the God inspires her: But mine, yet artless, and making but her second journey through the Air, like Icarus, perhaps might miss her way; her Wings, like his, being only waxed. Unskilful as she is, she flies undaunted; for she esteems it better to have dared to rise, than not at all attempt it. She chose therefore that Style, whose rapid Current might bear her up the best; besides this mournful Theme (in my opinion) required such Numbers most, Numbers resembling the late bright Subject which has caused them, where awful Lustre shone at once, and tender Beauty warmed. Pastoral may seem to some to have been most proper here, that is indeed the common Mode of writing, and had the Subject here been common, I should have chosen it too; but 'tis a Path so worn already, that no Genius, less than that of the admirable Author of Pastora, can, without servilely following others Tracks, with any pleasure tread; and if he deviates from it, he may err; besides Pastoral only begs our Pity, but Pindaric forces. I shall now offer only this in respect of the present and the former Poem. To abuse the Poet, doubtless you may be apt to reflect upon his Muses; now I confess in both, I have been very familiar with them, nor quitted them till the very end; should I go about to excuse myself, I could urge that Mr. Cowley says: calling frequently on the Aid of the Muses, is a Liberty Pindaric can hardly live without; but if you are angry that I have made use of all of them at once, I'll only answer, 'Tis better to have them all, than (like you, when you pretend to write) to have none. When the Muse's Statues were to be made, they were at first designed but Three, but the Artist making Nine, (intending that the three most beautiful should be chosen,) found all too charming for any one to be denied, and sure the Muses should themselves be favoured rather than their Statues: But this, Gentlemen, I suppose won't take with you, who, I dare be bold to promise, will never raise a Statue to a Muse. THE VICTORY OF DEATH. I. COME all ye Muses, mourning come, The beauteous, matchless Florimena dead! The best, the loveliest Muse is fled: Hurl down your Lyres, their Voice must be As silent, and as dead as she. Hurl them, ah hurl them to the ground, Let Cypress Boughs alone be worn, Cypress must your Heads adorn. Pull off your Wreaths of Laurel now, The Laurel withers on the Muses Brow. From your pale Temples be they rudely torn. Throw down your Lyres, on them, her Crown. Let every weeping Muse throw down, Stifling the Music of the Lyre, Let them be strowed o'er Florimena's Tomb, And as the dying Tunes expire, Let no melodious Harmony be found, But at their Fall— let breaking Strings, in Murmurs only sound. II. Your gladsome Notes, late tuned to joys, I must not here awake, My Grief all Melody destroys, And my own Discord must my Music make. Let every Muse as chaste appear, As the fair Saint, for whom they now come here. Not on Parnassus' airy Heads In dancing measures shall ye move, Or flowery Lawns, or fragrant Meads, In any spreading Bower, or Grove, Or where your wanton Fancy leads, You shall not loosely now have leave to rove, But, silent, hear of Death, the fatal Death of Love. III. No more your Music I require, Your Voice is useless, useless is your Lyre, I want no Airs to fan a raging Fire. My Soul a hovering Cloud appears, Within it, gloomy Seeds it bears, The struggling Flashes of my Thought, Through their own Gloom to Light are brought, My Sighs are Winds, my Showers are Tears, My jars of Grief burst out in dismal Moans, And thunder loudly in distorted Groans. My opening Mind displays the awful Scene, See, see, the beauteous Heaven— dead Florimena lies within. IV. Behold, ye Daughters, sprung from jove; (Which used, in former Flights, to move Swift as his Lightnings from above,) To the Elyzian Shades repair, Their noiseless Pinions cut the Air, In mourning Clouds, see, they come slowly down, Those Wings, which oft so swift have flown, Dampt with their Tears, are heavy grown. Flagging, they gently beat the Sky, And rather seem to fall, than fly. Behold, they bend to Albion's Shore, The Clouds in Showers shed all their store, And Albion's chalky Cliffs are shadowed o'er. As when the Sun through darkened Skies is gone, Fleeting o'er Hills, Shades are seen passing on. So here, o'er us we see the Shadows run, Since Florimena's clouded ore— Fair Florimena— Britain's Sun. V. Low as my Thought can place the Scene, Their darksome Course the Muses bend, Low, wondrous low, confused they fall, And in thick Night descend, Down, round a spacious, gloomy Grove beneath, Close set with aged Cypress Trees, (Which each with shivering Horror sees,) With fluttering Wings, their journey past, Disorderly they light at last; Amazed they view the dismal Grove, Unlike the Scenes they viewed above, Ah! far unlike the Bowrs of Love. With trembling Eyes they look within, And down aghast they totter all, Deprived of Voice, deprived of Breath, They find these Mansions are the Courts of Death. No Ray of their bright God can here Amidst this solid Gloom appear, Their melancholy Thoughts to cheer. As interposing Bodies cloud his radiant Light, So is their Lustre here eclipsed by Death's oreshadowing Night. VI Above their head they view the Forest bore, Illboding Birds, instead of Leaves they see Sat croaking on their tops, and covering every Tree. The horrid Groans of Ghosts invade The shatt'ring Branches, and molest the shade. Murmurs, and Sighs make all the Breezes there, The Music which the Goddess Death delights alone to hear. Through all the Vale no blooming Plant appears, The deadly Soil nought but rank Poisons bears. And even those unripened lie Scattered beneath the Trees, and die. Here hoary Winter reigns through all the Year; Spread o'er with Tombs, and Graves, the spacious Field Does a vast Crop of Death, and dire Destruction yield. So dread a Burden does it bear, Such weighty Monuments of Pomp are there, The Vale resounds thro'out with Moans, And streams of Blood, oppressed with Bones, Instead of softer Murmurs, make complaint in Groans. VII. Within the awful Grove, a Temple stands, Long built by Fate's unalterable Hands; Round is its shape; four Iron Gates appear, To let in all— for all must enter here. Not in one posture do they ever stand, But as the dreadful Goddess please, They open, or they shut with ease, whenever she lifts her sacred Wand, Or only beckons with a bloody Hand. Old Age and Pains are Porters to the Doors, And (Goddess Death!) they make the whole Creation yours. The Gates with putrid Rust are overspread, And all besmeared with Blood of Lovers dead. The more the rusty Iron crumbles down, The Gates are still the stronger grown. Their Wickets, of themselves, clap to, and open fast, And flakes of clotted Gore they throw Off with their aged Rust below, Thus, by their own decay, they do for ever last. VIII. Death's Servants all in black appear, The Liv'ry of their Queen they wear, And mournful black the Walls of those Apartments bear. Here pitchy Tapers cast their Shades, And a thick Wreath of Smoke, in Clouds, o'er all the Temple spreads. The Goddess self, behind her gloomy Shrine, Does her grim Head upon her Arm recline. Behold, two Images before her stand, The greatest mortal Beauty, here, Upon her left, does pale appear, The greatest mortal Warrior on the other hand, Above her Head Diseases bear Her bloody Crown, all flaming in the Air. Dark is her Shrine, her Crown alone Glares with a glimmering Dread, and lights her sultry Throne. IX. No precious Stones within this Crown are worn, But, fixed at top, a Scull it bore, Oreflowing with black, putrid Gore, And dire, discoloured, sulphurous Flame does all its Parts adorn. Diseases hovering o'er her Throne, Infected by each other, tumble down. Fast does the one upon the other drop, And by their Fall, the tottering Crown they prop. Faint to their Goddess each arrives, Her pale, wan Lips they flutter o'er, Her blasting Breath does all their Pains restore, And thus, even Death itself revives. X. Behold, the Images are nearer placed And now the Goddess sets them close at last. See— Florimena— o'er the Head, May of the lovely, female, fair be read. In Characters of black that Name is understood. See— o'er the other's Head, a Name Renowned o'er all the Coasts of Fame, Behold, 'tis charactered in Blood. 'Tis glorious CUTTS, her Noble Lord, Who even in gloomy shades of Death shall ever be adored. XI. Heavens! How the awful Goddess stairs! Behold her fiery Eyes, see how their Lightning glares. See what a storm of sulphurous Breath she pours, Reluctant Fires, and rolling Smoke, From her wide jaws in flashes broke. See, see, towards the Fair she moves, Blasts all her happy Days, her tender Hours, Blasts, with the noisome Breath, which from her came, The purest light of Passion's sacred Flame, And blasts her Hero's fondest Loves. XII. Behold her Sceptre, dread with Iron rust, (Whose ponderous Load none else can bear,) No longer lies beneath her Throne, (Death's Sceptre buried deep in Dust,) Aloft, with pain she lifts,— and shakes in Air. Enraged she pounds on Carcases, and Bones, Distorted Looks in Flashes fly, Her very Sceptre trembles,— and her Crown Swayed by the Weight, seems tottering down. And now the frowning Goddess swells and groans, As if herself, even Death herself, would die. The lovely, loving Images she parts, Heaves up her Sceptre, now relents, And straight the threatened stroke reputes, But soon again, her Rage does glow, She leaps,— and bounds,— and strikes the Blow, The very Image of the Hero starts; Loud on her own dread Name Death proudly calls, Heavens! Now the stroke is given,— and Florimena falls. XIII. This must be all but visionary Dream, Which thus my Thoughts, through Indigestion frame. This kill Object cannot be, A Death, which makes me almost die to see. This wild Chimaera but in fancy lies, 'Tis then but fancy too that Florimena dies. Fancy!— Alas! Too well I know, (Whatever against my Soul may flow) My willing Mind would never fancy so. Not all the Rage of cruel War, The mighty Hero's Soul could move; Now mark his Thoughts,— behold they jar, 'Tis worse than Death,— not Life he loses, but he loses Love. XIV. And now another Scene appears, Death's Temple opens, and within, The dreadful, bloody Altar's seen. To which, the lovely Corpse her Priestess bears. Off rings of Skulls, and Bones she brings, The sacred Load into the Flame she flings, And the great Conquest of her Monarch sings. The eager Flames the Prey destroy, The ghastly Priestess grins a Smile, Pleased with the Ruin of the charming Pile, And the Fire crackles with excess of joy.. The sacred Altar where the Priestess stood, Still blushes for her Crime, while she grows drunk with Blood. XV. The Monster Death is blind we know, She had not else used Florimena so. See, see, the beauteous Charmer lies, And in the Flames expires; A Sacrifice to Death she's made, While yet no living Offering to great Love she paid, To Love, who mourns his now extinguished Fires. Hark, through the Courts of Death a dismal sound In hollow voice does from all sides rebound. Hark, Florimena is the Name, Swiftly the Noise in Echoes flies, The Echoes fainter the loved Noise proclaim, And even the very Name of Florimena dies. Rise, Muses, rise, your flight prepare, Quit the black Mansions of this Realm of Night, Prepare, make haste, prepare your flight, And cut the upper Air. Now Florimena does your Labours claim, I'll raise a lasting Monument of airy Fame. Swift with the Name round the Creation fly, And bear it kindly to the starry Sky, While Heaven and Stars shall last,- fair Florimena shall not die. XVI. To others airy, Fame shall be (Blessed Saint) a solid Monument to thee. Raised of the strongest, and the loftiest Verse, Which shall thy real Praise rehearse, Built by thy weeping Poet's hands, Firm as Death's Throne itself, the Pile for ever stands. The Throne of Death shall from thy Tomb arise, Her Empire's fixed, where Florimena lies. Famed shall it stand, when Ages shall be passed; My Grief alone shall here inspire; My cloudy Grief shall flash out Fire. No Muse shall loosely sing of you, Death now, since thou art seized, may seize the Muses too; This Mausoleum shall for ever last. The Muse's Harmony would now appear But jarring Discord, should they raise it here. Let them not dare to strike their Lyre, Unless the sound make all, who hear, expire. In decent Mourning be you only seen, Mourn Florimena dead,— fair Florimena was the Muse's Queen. XVII. I now all Aid you bring besides, refuse, You Muses, here yourselves would want a Muse. Sorrow alone inspires my mournful Lays, I sing with sorrow now fair Florimena's Praise. Whither, ye Laurels, on the Poet's Brow, An Air of mourning through my Lines shall pass, Since they can only tell that Florimena was. She was indeed all we could wish her now. Well may our Tears to her a Tribute fall, To Florimena— she deserves them all. To her,— who, when alive, blest every sight, To her alone, who crowned the use of light. Tho' now in Death's dark, gloomy night she lies, Our Tears are Offerings due,— alive, we offered up our Eyes. XVIII. Our Sorrow now, more than our Love we find, Sorrow, though always weeping, is not blind, Tho Love itself wants Eyes, too plain we see, Helped by its Flames, what our Misfortunes be. Too fierce is Passion's raging Fire; In vain, alas! in vain we strive, By Sorrow's streams to make its sparks expire, Tears quench not burning Love, but keep it more alive. Whatever bright Hymen's Lamps have Power to do, The Torch of Death, with glaring light, does all Disasters show. XIX. Behold, Queen Sorrow in a Mist appears, A dusky Robe of foggy Clouds she wears; Drawn by winged Sighs, see how she slowly glides, A smoking Torch she bears, extinguished, in her Hands. Pity and Love attend her Chariot's sides, Still in one Posture, leaning low, she lies, Fair is her Face, but blubbered are her Cheeks, and bleared her Eyes. Her dewy Crown is set with largest Tears; Above, her awful Mother, Silence, stands, And o'er her Head, Does a black melancholy Covering spread, Portrayed with inwrought Images of Ears; The Banners of her Foe she bears. Inly the troubled Goddess, Sorrow, moans, Like Sybil's Priestesses she swells, And, ere she sighs, that she will sigh, foretells: Or like the Sea, by late past Storms oppressed, Heaves slowly up her panting Breast, And heavily she groans. The Matron Silence hates the Noise she made, For she reigns only when her Daughter Sorrow's dead. XX. Come, Goddess, come, thy Airs infuse, A charming Eloquence Affliction bears, My Helicon shall be composed of Tears. Throw off thy sad Expressive, Matron Silence, now, Unlock thy Tongue, unlock thy Brow, Like melting Canens mourning for her Love, Breath out in sighs fair Florimena's Name Your Being to her Death you owe, Teach me in melancholy Airs to move, And fix her charming Praise in Fame, Of Florimena's Merits shall I boast, The Earth shall know, though dear the Knowledge cost, Know only, Paradise, and find it lost. None of the Nine, thou, Goddess, here I choose, Come, thou inspiring Sorrow, thou my Muse. XXI. Sad shall the weeping World her Virtues know, When she was grieved, she made all others so. Such Softness her Affliction wore, Thyself, great Goddess, could not move us more, Like Influence in her Tears, as in her Eyes she bore. whenever she wept, the World in floods she found, And (with another Deluge) all the Globe lay drowned. O could my Soul frame the least Dawn of Hope That Plaints and Wail could afford Relief, The Sluices of my Eyes should open, And I would roll in an impetuous flood of Grief. Yes, let me plunge, behold, I go, Her Praise shall bear me up in Fancy's Main, Now, now I rise, now Thoughts, like Seas, Insult, and dash me; there a Billow plays, And now my Sorrow sinks me down again. XXII. The mighty Artist, when his Skill excelled, Drawing the Greek in all his height of Woe, The Form, the Limbs, and Posture, just, did show, But, at the Face, he found the Pencil failed; A mourning Veil o'er that he wisely drew, So, Florimena, must thy Painter do; For could I run your numerous Virtues o'er, Tell if your Hero's Griefs, or your loved Charms were more, It were impossible to paint your Beauty too. XXIII. Beyond that Greek's, this Hero's Grief appears, He lost the best of Wives, and Hope of glorious Heirs. Lovely as Glory's self, the Nymph he viewed, Bright as his Arms——— Not Glory's self with greater Toils was wooed, His Tears he paid this Fair, the other only had his Blood. Ah! who successfully can paint So dread a Warrior, and so sweet a Saint! Terror and Beauty in this Pair combined; Well, mortal Artists here may make a stand, When Heaven itself can scarce renew its hand; Strong Mars and brighter Venus justly joined. In quest of this, and this alone we rove, If he had triumphed more in War, or she, in Love. XXIV. When famed for wondrous Conquests, wondrous Charms, No Pride this conquering, kill Beauty knew, But mildly, like her Lord, she looked on those she did subdue. Grown, by her Trophies, great enough to yield, To him, victorious still in every Field, Herself, the dearest Prize, surrendered to his Arms. If any Pride this brightest Fair could move, She felt it only in her warrior's Love; Proud of submitting to this conqueror, more Than of all Captives she had made before. Her judgement, not her Scorn, all else denies, His Sword alone she found was pointed as her Eyes. XXV. Strange Power of charming!— his Submission gains, He conquers thus, and triumphs through his Chains. And yet alone, he doubts of Conquest here, This mildest Foe knew how to raise his Fear. Against this Chief whole showers of Darts did move, Many were lodged within his manly Breast, But far, far deeper, deadlier than the rest, He felt the thrilling Dart of strong victorious Love. That, did his Senses, and his Thoughts control, Those pierced his Body only, that, his Soul. But now no Balm can cure his wounded Heart, For cruel, traitorous Love with Death has changed his Dart. XXVI. Great is the force of Paint, yet it denies The skilful Touches of the Artist's Thought; No Imagery from Colours can be brought To show enough the Griefs of his,— or Beauties of her Eyes. Orpheus, 'tis said, by Notes could draw, Forests, and Rocks, and Herds along, In spite of Nature's settled Law, To hear, all ravished, his delightful Song. The charming Poet softly plays, They leap, and dance, and time his Lays, No Rocks so hard but he could move, And soften with his Airs of Love, This Sense had Herds,—— but Florimena's Charms Had raised them with more fierce Alarms, Far greater would their Transports be, And only seeing (Fair) they would have followed thee. XXVII. As, happy Martyrs Visions show The joys of Heaven, which none till Death must view, So I, enlightened by thy Beauty's Flame, See all the Ecstasies that Thought can frame. Like the great, immoved Painter, I conceive, Such ravishing Ideas here, My Pencil would my Soul deceive, No fixed Proportion would the Painting bear, But I at once should ramble every where. O Sorrow, here thy Curtain place, Draw a black Veil o'er this too beauteous Face. To thee, alas! unhappily I run Alas! the Veil is drawn;— and Death the willing Task has done. XXVIII. Like Lightning, shining was her Beauty viewed, From a fair Sky produced, without a Cloud. A while the glittering Blessing strikes our Eyes. From Heaven its purest Flashes came, A heavenly, yet destroying Flame, Which only robs us of our Sight, and dies. The short lived Comfort shows our Fears, And straight again it disappears, Through darkest Gloom it brings us Light, Its Life conducts us to our Death, And guides us to black Shades beneath, The momentary View it cheers, It only now makes all the Globe seem bright, To pass, like fleeting Thought, away, and leave more solid Night. The World lies clad in Darkness, when 'tis gone, Storms, and fierce Showers descend, and straight, rolls the loud Thunder on. XXIX. Nor was it Beauty in this Nymph alone, Which made her conquering warrior's Soul her own. Tho wondrous Magic in soft Glances lies. Had it been true that Lovers, and that Love were blind, This bright, victorious Fair had triumphed in his Mind. Not all his Love from Looks the Hero drew, She had a Tongue as charming as her Eyes, At once a Venus, and Minerva too. Let meaner Beauties only boast, Their tuneful Voices Power to move, They find, that when they charm the most, Those Swains, whose Fires before did glow, A little ravished, own a Love, Their Breath can to that Height the Burnings blow. But Florimena's Airs much more could do, They raised the Fire, and kept it flaming too. XXX. This Nymph's each Cesture had some Grace that charmed, She could not look, or speak, or move, But she commanded awful Love; And the Beholders of all Sense disarmed. Her Glances (still so bright they flew) Or struck admiring Lovers blind, Or all their Senses to their Eyes confined, That they could only view. Or if the sung,— (Oh heavens! what Man can bear The very Thought of so divine an Air.) Methinks young Love, with hovering Spirits flies Around her charming Lips, and basks about her Eyes. No God from the sweet Spheres such Transports drew, So soft, so melting soft her Voice, and yet so piercing too. XXXI. Each Note excessive Transport brings, And still she charms the more, the more she sings. Hark, how pleased Echo does the Tunes restore, The Echo soft returns the Airs, And seems to listen, and has Fears, Lest any other Echo hears. Her coy Narcissus here the Maid had moved, Returning Florimena's Song, The charming Youth she would have drawn along, Not the reflection of a Face, but Voice he would have loved. Till Death shut in her Charms, (her) Charms, ah! now no more!) In every part— Music the lovely Florimena wore, In every part of her soft Frame,— and she was Harmony all ore. XXXII. The Sweets of Hybla from her Breath did flow, And her fair, lovely Cheeks did with fresh Beauty glow. Devouring Death luxurious now I see; (Strange! That no Art, not its own Charms, can save Beauty, almost immortal, from the Grave!) He blasts the blooming Fruit, and he destroys the Tree. Wherever the Glories of her Face were shown, Beauty in hers could not be surer seen, than Wonder in our own. So lovely fair!— if such a thing there be As Beauty's self,— 'twas Florimena,— and 'twas only she. XXXIII. But now, that Sun of Beauty, and of Love, Shines in an other Radiant Sphere above, Tho'nought could cloud her clear, Meridian Light, When the short space was ended, which she run, And the bright Task of radiant Day was done, She set all heavenly fair in Death's eternal Night. Night, and thick Darkness o'er the Globe we find, While smaller Beauties, by her absence, here, Like Stars with fainter Light appear. Which can't o'ercome those Clouds, which she has left behind. Such were the Beauties Florimena wore, The Stars themselves were not in Number more. Scarce the Nymph's other Merits can I trace, Transported so, With the aërial Images I grow, Of all the blushing Glories in her beauteous Face. My Pencil fond does of that Stroke appear, And who,— ah! who would stir, that could dwell ever here? XXXV. Too lovely Face to be expressed in Paint, Thou, the most charming Shrine of the most charming Saint. Seraphic Beauty reigned through out the whole, In all such wondrous Sweetness was displayed, Divine in Body, more divine in Soul, The one on purpose for the other made. Now may we mourn, since Florimena's dead, The second, but more fair, Astraea fled. The first by Strife, and impious Wars was driven, But this, when all her Prayers were heard, And Peace to flourish o'er the Globe prepared, Flew pleased, and calmly up to her own native Heaven. XXXVI. She fled indeed a blessed Astraea there, But left, alas! no Florimena here. All that we good, divine, and lovely call, Name but that Word,— it comprehends them all. Her Darts could every Gazer hit, One shooting Glance alone could move, (With lambent Fires of inoffensive Love,) She had the Flames of Beauty, and the Warmth of Wit. Swift as her Looks, could her bright Notions rise, Her Fancy, and her Thought, were clear, and charming as her Eyes. XXXVII. Her Frame, all Sweets, which Love desires, could boast, In her possession the blessed Hero knew The force of Beauty, and of Passion too, She was most lovely, and she loved the most. The transport of her mortal Charms, (If such the smallest Charm of hers could be,) Had been too vast a Prize for any other's Arms, But on her Lord Ambrosial Showers did fall, She proved, by all her Actions, Love could see, He had,— and he deserved them all, He only lovely to her Eyes did seem, Fondly, and dear she loved,— as fond was beloved by him. XXXVIII. Soft were the Flames their glowing Bosoms bore, Such bright, such pleasing Likeness in them lay, Such equal Influence too they wore, As those fair Beams, which in her Eyes did play. Him did this Nymph to all Mankind prefer, Her Hero's Passion did she prize, As dear as her own charming Eyes, Those Myrtles which her Love made grow, He valued high, as his own Lawrel-Bough, And of all Womankind he burned alone for her, Her, in whose soft Embrace such Bliss was given, He pressed a Goddess, and he thought himself in Heaven. XXXIX. As her bright Form beyond all else could move, So she excelled in the extremest Love. The purest, most seraphic Fires Were kindled in her fond Desires, Soft, as the thoughts of Angels, was her Soul As free from looseness, as 'tis now above. To the blessed Partner of her Flame, She gave it up entire;— for him its Wishes came; He had it, and enjoyed it whole, She gave her Soul, her Love, the dearest store, She kindly gave herself, gave all,— and wished to give him more. XL. Whatever soft, female Beauty could bestow, In Tides of flowing joys did roll, All that the Hero could desire to know Of most celestial Happiness did fall; She too possessed it most, when so she gave it all. But ah! That Rival, Death, with horrid Charms, Has snatched her pale, and ghastly from her Lover's Arms. He, cruel Monster, does the World control. No want of Beauty here her Ruin proved. Death was too much with her Attractions moved, And the grim Tyrant forced her, but because he loved. XLI. See where the lovely Charmer lies, (Ah! Goddess Sorrow! break your flight, Too much already am I moved with this too mournful Sight.) See, see, the fairest Work that Heaven has made, The fairest Blossom of the fair, That ere blest mortal Eyes, The Work of Heaven, its choicest Care, By an untimely, fatal Blast, Ere half the Bloom even of her youth is past, (O hard Decree of Fate!) must fade. Why, tell me why! Was such a heavenly Fire So sweetly kindled here below, If, soon as it begun to raise Its glowing Brightness to a Blaze, The selfsame amorous Breeze, which did so gently blow, Should by some whirl of Chance, so rudely make its Flames expire! See, Goddess Sorrow, see fair Florimena dead, Weep, weep, till thou art blind,— beat fast thy Breast, and gnash thy Teeth, and knock thy Head. XLII. Pressed by the Hand of Fate, I knew All other Mortals lay, And when he please to grasp us fast, We all inevitably breath our last, But never thought that Florimena too, Must sure as vulgar Crowds decay, How in the Dust can so much Beauty lie! Strange! that a thing so sacred, so divine, could die! XLIII. Mark, Sorrow, mark the saddest Scene displayed, Black as thy dismal Fancy ever laid. Here must thy gloomy, vast Ideas swell, Heave, heave, thy panting, tho' capacious Breast, For the reception of such Pomp of Woe, as cannot be expressed; Inspire me with thyself,— tho' not even thou canst half the Horror tell. Too plain alas! I view too plain This stroke of Fate, 'tis Florimena dies, I mark too well the mournful Scene, I see thou sheddest thy plenteous store, And Sorrow's flowing Eyes are deluged o'er. There, all that's loved, all that is lovely lies, I gaze on the afflicting sight,— Death's dismal Torches glaring in my Eyes. XLIV. There the all-beauteous Nymph in Pangs appears, See, by the Taper's glimmering light, I view the now amazing Sight; Behold, the sickly Taper hides its Fires, The sickly Taper too almost expires. Out let its Light be rudely blown, Since the most radiant Florimena's Eyes, Deprived of Lustre, now are languid grown, Let weaker Lights henceforth no more be shown, Drown, drown them all with flowing Tears, For soon the lovely Charmer dies, And like the setting Summer's Sun, She, who was Light itself, and Brightness— straight must to dark shades be gone. XLV. See, where the Nymph's victorious Lord appears, See how that Victor now lies bathed in Tears! Hear, hear the Hero's anxious Moans, See, on her Breast he leans his Head, Dying almost, lest Florimena should, alas! be dead, And with more torturing Pain than hers he groans. Unmanned, and void of Courage, robbed of all, Sunk with a load of Grief, down prostrate does he fall, Call oft on Heaven,— and oft— on Florimena call. XLVI. Behold, (Oh! killing Scene!) her dying Care, Was now to offer up her latest, grateful Prayer, If any Sins she had to be forgiven, She sues for Mercy, and she clears with Heaven. Pleased would she go, but still Remorse does find, On the account of her afflicted Love; Tho flying to the Seats of blissful joys above, She grieves to leave him, lost in Woe, behind. Now his loved Hand in hers she presses fast, A look ah! too, too languishing does cast, And catching thick at Breath—— Close clasps him to her Soul, and breathes these Words the last. XLVII. Now all my joys, those Dreams of Life, are gone, And Night, the lasting Night of Death is drawing on. From thee, unwillingly from thee I move, My Strength decaying shows my Passion great, What puts the Light out, raises more the Heat; I die, but dying thine,— Ah! happy ever prove, I lose my Lover, but preserve my Love. Sustain me, bear me, bear me in thy Arms, Thou best— thou dearest— Oh! adieu—— O thou, my Lord— my Love,— thou all o'er Charms, Take the last Pledge thy drying own can give, No longer now alas! no more I live— Another last farewell I must renew, Dear Man!— (there they embraced) and saint, she murmured— Be thou true. XLVIII. Here ceased the Nymph,— and gasping now she lies, Locked are the Charms of her soft Voice, and closed her Eyes. In haste the Hero starts, and spurns the ground, Catches her faster and aloud he cries, (Plunged in deep floods of Woe, which dash him round,) Stay, Charmer, stay, together will we go, Yes,— by our tenderest Loves, it must, it shall be so. Dread and amazing does this Object seem, Here, Death is even terrible to him. Now the last Pang from her fair Bosom flies, And down, oppressed, the Hero sinks, as Florimena dies. XLIX. Whither, ah! whither does this Vision lead? o'er Lawns, methinks, and Meads I rove, On scattered, dismal Yew, and Cypress boughs I tread. See, see, within a spacious Grove, A mourning Hearse, all decked with white, appears, Within, an open Coffin lies, Which holds the loveliest Fair that ere blessed human Eyes. See, at its side a gallant Chief does stand, His Cask, and Truncheon at his Feet he throws, A Face all drowned in Grief he shows, Tears off his wreaths of Laurel from his Brow, His useless, and valued Laurels now, The sacred Crowns disdainfully he tears, And leans his pensive Head upon his Hand, A view he takes of all his Blessings fled, Fixed are his Looks,— and as he loved her living, he adores her dead. L. Those lovely Breasts the Warrior does behold, Like Snow congealed, stiff in Death's Frost, and cold. Those Breasts, which still the living Nymph could show, Soft as that Milk, which when a Child she drew. No more the Hero must those Seats possess, No more delightful Transports must he know, No more their Sweets must all his Longings bless, Nor on her charming Lips must he find Pleasures grow. Her Eyes no more must with bright Motions roll, No more divine Impulses of fierce Love must move the warrior's Soul. So much, alas! this loving Pair was one, All his dear Sweets he sees, with Florimena, gone. LI. When all the Rage of horrid War was o'er, In which, a constant, prosperous share he bore, From all its Heat, and madding Fire, In happy, spreading, fragrant Groves, He wished at last to crown the tenderest Loves, And for a while retire, Supinely laid, Beneath some verdant, cooling shade, Whose Airs might Thoughts of calmer joys inspire. The thunderer so, when the rash Youth had burned Part of the Skies, and the terrestrial World, Seeing the Boy was headlong hurled, Now visiting the Meads and Bowers, Perceived a Nymph, and brighter Flames he bore, Than those which scorched the Globe, and burned his Skies before. With her he spent some pleasing Hours; No more the Ruins, which were made he mourned, But from that Heaven, back to his own returned. LII. Behold the God of Love upon the Plain; Not far from hence, behold his Train, Hymen, the God of Marriage too, appears, See, in his Hand a Torch he bears, Extinguished with his flowing Tears. The beauteous Cytherea there comes on, She rends her Locks, and beats her Breast, With all the signs of real Griefs expressed, And mourns the fairer Cytherea gone. Through every Bower, and every Grove, Wild, and distracted does she rove, Wild as the Forests where she runs— and mourns the Fall of Beauty, and of Love. LIII. See, where the pensive Cupid weeping stands, See, how he wrings his little Hands, Behold his slighted Quiver from him thrown, His smoking Torch too laid neglected down. Hark, on his Mother sadly does he call, He holds a deadly, piercing Dart, And shrill he cries, and points it at his Heart, And threatens there to fall. On those fair Banks the Loves prepare their Seat, And all lament lost Florimena's Fate; Those Streams to Helicon belong, Those vocal Streams, whose murmuring Voice Raise an harmonious, melancholy Noise, And of themselves pour forth a mournsul Song, Weeping whole Floods, as they glide down along. LIV. Behold, alas! the Hero now you see, Striving the former Flames to trace Of Florimena's lovely Face; Behold— he looks— almost as motionless, and dead as she. To whom his Story shall he now prepare? And taste the greatest Pleasures of successful War. Ah! how uncertain are our Blessings here, When all that's brave, and great, and soft, and heavenly Fair, Must stoop to sudden Chance, and in a moment disappear. Why in the Field did he such Wonders show? Why did this Chief immortal Honours gain? Since that— for which he felt the racks of Glory's burning Pain, The shining Mistress of his Arms was not immortal too. LV. Behold, Queen Sorrow now in haste is fled, And all the other mournful Train Departing fast, are scattered o'er the Plain, The warlike Lover too rears up, once more, his Head. See, see, another Scene the Prospect yields, Behold the peaceful, blessed Elyzian Fields. Mark all the shades, what preparation there They make, to welcome to their Groves, This far renowned, and celebrated Fair! The loveliest Nymph— that ever crowned the most exalted Loves. But see (O ravishing joy of all our sight!) See, see those Angels in that Cloud descend, Their course to Florimena's Grove they bend, See now, how smiling swift they all alight, Their Fellow-Angel up they bear, Bright as themselves, bright as she late shone here; The Scenes of Mourning quickly disappear; The Hero bows, his pious Thanks are given, She waves a flying Farewell in the Air, And on her dear-loved Chief she gazes till she enters Heaven. FINIS. THE MUSE To the PATRON. Tempora mutantur, & nos mutamur in illis.— Haec olim meminisse juvabit. BEhold, my Son, these mourning Robes I use, To show my Grief for your departed Muse. To Shades, ah! Too, too melancholy gone, Your Muse, your Mistress, and your Wife in one. ay, who have long been wooed, and won by you, Sue in my turn,— then hear me while I sue. The Soul should seldom with its Wants comply, Who faintly asks, but teaches to deny. Still should Wit's Cause be pleaded by the fair, The rising Poet is the Muse's care. 'Tis you, whose Bays with branching Laurels grow, My best-loved Son, the Muse addresses now. Beneath their shade, as a secure retreat, Afford my newborn Child an humble Seat, Fenced from the rude Insults of an impending Fate. A Poet's Name he to your Fame does owe, Yet now he sues to be no longer so. Or first, or last, all do my Charms despise, I make them witty oft, but seldom wise. 'Tis true, in Numbers still he feels Delight, He has a Genius: Born, and loves to write. But he repines, that Custom ill has made A liberal Art a mercenary Trade. None, but immortal Dryden, nobly vain, Great in his fancied Empire of Disdain, Felt Rage enough, and Courage only to sustain. But here this tend'rer Offspring faintly sings, With infant Voice, and flies with feebler Wings. Approaching Storms he dreads, nor can he bear The furious Blasts of a malignant Air. The Poet's Title he would now disown, Or rather boast it but for you alone. By you, and only you, (my Heir) 'twas given, That Mankind knows me to be sprung from Heaven. You, whose sublimest Genius reached the height, Whence first I flew, and tracked my sacred flight. Wisely to you does my new Off spring sue, Of all Mankind, he would serve chiefly you. If Verse has Charms, 'tis now they must prevail, Too well he knows all lost, if here he fail. You 'tis he claims, nor shall he poorly strive For any other Patron— CUTTS alive. But hold,— I find I must not dare to raise, Nor clap my joyful Wings to spread your Praise. The bashful Poet does my Suppliant stand, And gently checks me with his trembling Hand. So pure his Flames.— And they who love the best, Know what they feel can never be expressed. Warm are his Thoughts, as warm his new Desires, Yet bear no vain, or vast, ambitious Fires. To you, his generous Patron, lost, he flies, On you builds humble Hopes, on you relies. Nor rose his Wishes, since they first began, Above the Poet, or beneath the Man. He courts no transient Present from your Hands, 'Tis here his nobler Expectation stands. He would your Favours from your Choice derive, Pleased, he receives what you are pleased to give. But if your generous Temper doubts to choose, The Poet's Mind lies open to the Muse. Most fond he courts what you can best bestow, For most he serves himself, in serving you, Not that his Merits any Claim can boast, But Favours ne'er in grateful Souls are lost. All have their prosperous Hours, he courts the Time; Want of Success is ever charged a Crime; To make it certain who the Charm can raise! He asks of Heaven, and when it grants, gives Praise. Let not the happy view his Wreck with Scorn, He was, like them, to flowing Plenty born. His Scene of Life seemed all serene as theirs, With blooming Fortunes in his blooming Years. Then flourishing joys did on his Senses fall; But— when War's Thunder broke, it blasted all. On you, my Son, he owns his Hope must stand, Nor would be raised by any vulgar Hand. Tho' I, the Muse, through wilful Tracks have hurled, And snatched him hence to my aërial World, Like the famed Eagle, prosperous may I prove, Who bore up pale the trembling Youth above, And fixed his happy Seat, placed in the Courts of jove. FINIS.