Greenwich-Hill. A POEM. By Mr Manning. Quod superest, ultrò sacris largire Camaenis. Lord Coke. LONDON, Printed by Tho. Warren, for Francis Saunders at the Blue Anchor, in the lower Walk of the New Exchange in the Strand, 1697. TO Dr HENRY NEWTON. DEAR SIR, THE following piece has a natural recourse to you, for 'twas your character of the distinguished Prospects which Greenwich afforded, (before I had taken a very strict view of them Myself) that first inclined me to attempt the draught: and tho' Cooper's Hill has not suffered me to pretend to an Original, yet is it Honour enough for me to Copy after That, especially since it gives me an occasion to publish the just regard I have for any thing that You commend. Sir John Denham, you know, was a great Wit, and the Poem I mentioned is justly celebrated for a Masterpiece in the kind. But then as the Hill He chose admits not such variety of Prospect as Greenwich, (which Barclay who had been a great Traveller, prefers to any He had seen) one may easily conceive, that had That famous Poet taken Greenwich for his Theme, it must in his hands have raised itself even above Cooper's Hill. But here, Sir, in such an artless performance as Mine, you must not think of the least Comparison. I have only attempted what He could have made complete. To have proportion, good sense, beauty, and harmony in a Poem, belongs to very few Writers in these days. Not but that we have several living Examples of true Genius, and refined Art amongst us. Some, who tho' they ne'er attempted to write Epic Poems, yet in the Judgement of Skilful Men could have exceeded any Modern Undertake of that kind. But even among the best, where do we find a concurrence of those Qualifications, that aught to be distinguished in a Poet? I have often agreed with you, that to the making of a good Poet it is requisite that He should have a round stock of Learning, a Conversation with the Court, and the Art of Versifying. These things, besides a Genius which is the Soul of all, are so connected with each other, that a Man can never be said to be finished without them all. That Mr. Waller was perhaps the Man amongst us that has most deserved this Character, will, I believe, upon consideration go very near to be granted. He was indeed a great Genius, nor had He less Art and Happiness in the ordering and expressing of his thoughts. A Man of a wonderful fancy, an inimitable softness, a delicacy as well as a justness of sense, a politeness of Language even in his first pieces, (which may give us Wonder, when we consider there was not much above twenty years between Spencer and Him) and a most harmonious turn of words. All is easy, natural, and flowing, and yet his industry is such, that every thing be says is of full weight, and attended with all the Shining Graces of Poetry. Many of the rest appear full of Genius, and sprightly Wit, but without seeming to inherit all that is necessary: And some, you are sensible, swollen with Envy and ill Nature (failings, which Men of true Wit and generous breeding would be ashamed of) make a trade of carping at every trivial fault in other Men's Works, when their own are too abominable even to merit Censure. I do confess a good Critic is of great use in the Commonwealth of Learning: One who is just enough to separate a Man's Person from his Works, and in the last to censure such faults only, as are either unnatural, indecent, or wholly disagreeing with their subject; not to be rigidly Censorious, but to observe and practise the good-natured rule of Horace. — Ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis Offendar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit, Aut humana parum cavit Natura. How averse our Critics are to such humanity of temper, I need not mention; since you, who are truly endued with so much of it, have often justly despised them for their barbarity in attacking the slender failings of Great Men, and not only in avoiding their Excellencies, but presuming with a shameful vanity to make a fault sometimes by their own false Judgement of what is exceeding proper in the Author they censure. For my own part I know myself below their Envy, and therefore dare speak. Besides, what I have done in relation to Greenwich, was chief in obedience to some Friends, whose commands are of more weight with me than all the dangers of pride, and ill-nature from those Wretches, who being unacquainted with good Manners and true Sense, make Detraction and Envy the Employment of their Lives. I may very well call it ill-Nature and Envy, and want of breeding in them, and not so good a sense of Men and things as others have, that excites them to be so censorious, since in You we find not only an Universal Knowledge, accompanied with a perfect Civility and good Nature; but such an extraordinary Modesty, that were it not for your goodness, I could scarce hope to be forgiven by you for publishing a Truth, which all that know you will do you the justice to declare, as well as Your most Affectionate Brother, and very Faithful, Humble Servant, F. M. Greenwich-Hill. SInce every Mountain, where the Muses come, Is called Parnassus, and induces some Poetic Friend to celebrate its Name: Here, Greenwich, I attempt to sing Thy Fame. Led by the Wonders, which my ravished sight Views from Thy lovely Park's aspiring height. O! could I make my Numbers but attain To Denham's sweetness, not His Hill should gain A rise o'er Thee, nor yet proportion hold With Thy just Fame, which I could then unfold With greater force, transported with each grace So charming, that surrounds the lofty Place. Then shouldst Thou be to me, as that to Him Parnassus was, and merit more esteem. For That, exalted by his Muse alone, Without his Song had still remained unknown: But Thou by Nature such Renown dost claim, Thou want'st not Poet's Art to give Thee Fame. And if Thy various Beauties I could trace, As they deserve, with more than common grace, The Writer's credit, and the Poem's Fame Would spring from Thee, whilst Thou art still the same. Here then my rising Eye, before my Feet Ascend the Mount, so fair a Pile doth meet, As in a Poet's fancy well might prove Apollo's Palace, or the Seat of Jove. And the aspiring Hill, on which 'tis laid, Might be Parnassus, or Olympus made. This view, which of a sudden strikes my sight, Fills me with so surprising a delight, That I'm overjoyed at what I can descry From hence, nor wish more limits to my Eye. And viewing well this Prospect's Beauteous store, It gives me wonder to be promised more. Thus in some Painter's outward room we find Enough to please and to surprise the Mind: And when the Artist labours to invite Our Eyes to more variety of sight, We part not without pain from what before We saw so pleasing, that we wished no more. No steep Ascent discourages our Feet, But all so fair, and regular we meet, That filled with joy by gentle steps we rise To that fair House, which first confined our Eyes. But there arrived, and turning to look down, We wonder that we reached the Height so soon. This House, Erected at a * Charles II. Kingls Command, Displays the goodness of a Royal hand; Nor is't, tho' small, unworthy of That Fame, But High, and Graceful, as its Founder's Name. Here, Flamsted, mounted to This lofty Seat, Where all the Arts of thy profession meet, Thou show'st Mankind how much improved by Thee Are all the wonders of Astronomy. Thou, reverend Man, from Thy auspicious Hill Canst all the secrets of the Stars reveal. Thy Astrolabes are made with so much Art, They can the distance of the Sun impart. Disclose a Paralax i'th' Heavenly Sphere, And show the Place of every Wand'ring Star. Now shall we fear no more mistakes, we see Celestial Motions all set right by Thee. Nor need we mourn Great Archimedes Sphere, Lost tho' the finished Labour be, since here In Thee revived his Genius doth appear. Nor doth Thy hand the hoarding Miser play, But all the Uses of Thy Art convey To serve Mankind. Now, Flamsted, give me leave Here from thy Walls That prospect to receive, Which Nature's wide indulgence doth afford To each surveying Eye. Here mine descending from the Hill salutes A pleasant Vale, whose constant Beauty suits The Queen's fair House, that seems below to vie With equal grace the Pile that stands so high. More safe, for This like every lofty state Is liable to Envy or to Hate: The blasts of Fortune, or the rage of Winds, Which spoil the proudest, and the best Designs. Whilst That, like one with milder place content, Is less exposed, more firm, and innocent. Here shouldst Thou dwell, my Muse, at least reveal What Gratitude forbids Thee to conceal: That entering here, amidst the various Paint * By Rubens. Old as it is, disdaining to be faint, The Muses we behold divinely fair, With all the proper Emblems of their Care. And here, O teach me to unfold that Birth, Which dignifies so much this spot of Earth, That of the Great Eliza, [so renowned In all the Arts of Empire, and so found In Fame's Immortal Volume,] in whose time True English worth most flourished in this Clime. And as it risen with her, so her decrease Made that decline, and almost with Her cease. So doomed a while, till Nature gained recruits, Improved the Soil, and brought forth better fruits. Here should my Praise enlarge, but that my Eye, Too quick for Thought, beholds a Valley nigh: Whose flowery Pasture oft invites to graze Whole droves of the Horned Herd, a fearful race, The Hunter's pastime, now retired for shade Beneath a lofty Hill, by Nature made A common and a safe retreat, to shun A Northern tempest, or a scorching Sun. Here they delight to wanton, play, and rove, To make their Courship, and enjoy their Love. Rambling they Love, nor are to one confined, But free as Air, and uncontrolled as Wind. No Law they know, but guided by their Eyes Take their own choice to Love or to despise. How then is Man deceived! how weak, how vain Is He, who thinks by Reason to obtain Advantage over Brutes, who know no cares Of racking Love, no hopes, or wild despairs: But run with joy the destined course of Life, Tied to no Rule, no Slavery, no Wife! Whilst we triumphing falsely o'er their state, Misguided by our Reason, soon or late Split on the fatal Rocks of Love and Hate. Behind the Queen's another Royal Pile Next courts my view, the Hope of Britains-Isle. * Charles II. A King's Foundation, and designed his Seat, When State-affairs would suffer his retreat: When care of Empire, and the toil of Power Had well prepared Him to enjoy an Hour. Close to the Banks of Silver Thames it stands, With Majest it rises, and commands A Noble Prospect, for at once it views An English Fleet, our Isle's defence, and shows A Mixture of all Nations and of Things, Which the kind flood receiving, hither brings. The view, I mean, it brings, for all the store Unlades itself upon the Neighbouring shore Of the Fair City, whose extending side Swells in my Eye with so August a Pride, So near me too, that did not here my Muse Urge a suspense, I could not well refuse More than a transient offering to its praise, But that's reserved a while my thoughts to raise Upon another View. Crossing the Stream that flows between the Pile And the next shore, we view a spacious Isle, Whose bosom teeming by an ambient flood Produces Plenty of such wholesome food, That grazing here the worn, abandoned Steed Regains his Vigour, and renews his Speed. Now gentle Thames, concerned for our delight, Presents a hundred wind to our sight. Which as they turn, still flow with such a grace, Giving so much advantage to each place They run between, that no Maeander shows Such turn, or so fair a view bestows. See with what joyful haste He takes his course, Yet how serene, and how averse to force. No rapid Waves throughout his Channel roll, Yet swift as Fame, that flies without control. Tho' liberal, yet within his bounds he flows, And tho' reserved, He visits, as He goes, The Neighbouring Meads, and cherishing the Earth, Presents the Mower with a plenteous birth. O happy Thames, whose current could invite Immortal Denham's Muse Thy praise to write! Now shall Thy just preeminence o'er All The Ocean's Sons, by no endeavours fall: By no dark cloud of Malice be overcast, As long as His eternal Work shall last. Next Windsor, rising with a stately Mien, Shows his proud Head, aspiring to be seen So far remote from hence, tho' here it seems A distant Mountain only, when the Beams Of a clear Sun diffuse not o'er the place Their Brightness, to disclose its frame and grace. High, as the God's Olympus, seems the Hill On which it stands, and Shining doth reveal A Palace as Majestic, and as Fair, As Poets fruitful heads have fancied there. Thou, Windsor, too art happy in the praise Which the same Heavenly Muse to Thee did raise. Who knows not now Thy Beauty, and Thy force, Thy matchless Hero's, and their Warlike course, Thy Garter's first Original, and Fame, By King's esteemed an Honour to their Name? Here when Desert has challenged from the King Thy Order, what profusion doth it bring Of Pomp and Beauty to Thy stately Choir, How do we throng to gaze, and to admire! And tho' devouring Time has left no Name Of Thy first Founder in the Books of Fame: Yet this we know, that to suspend Thy Fate, 'Twas * II. Charles repaired Thee, and enlarged Thy State. Now, gentle Muse, assist me to return To the King's House, that was so long forlorn, A bandoned, left unfinished, till a Queen, [Equal in All to great Eliza seen, Her Godlike Bounty, and capacious Soul, The Arts of Empire, and success of Rule: Now Equal too in Death, alas! O Weight Of most uncomfortable Woe!] Partly in pity to its falling State, But more by Love conducted, and by Fate, Fond of Her People's Good, spread forth Her Mind, Renewed the Building, and its use designed For Poor, disabled Seamen, whom the War Invading should deny from Wounds to spare. See how the busy labourers urge the Pile, That is to Succour, and oblige our Isle. Some hasten to extend its Walls, and some Adorn the inward Roof, whilst These assume The Carving part, and every Order shape, And Those surveying let no Art escape That may advance the Beauty of the Frame As shining, as its second Founder's Name. Just so the Bees, when Summer is begun Spread o'er the Fields, and labour in the Sun. Part cull the Blooming Flowers, and load their Thighs With various Sweets; and part with humming Cries Emit their Young, whilst others to relieve The most oppressed, their burdens do receive, And bear them Home, where other Bees salute Their safe Arrival, and dispose their Fruit Within their Cells, or with unwearied toil Thicken the liquid Juice, and guard the spoil. Whilst Others ranged in gallant order, drive The Drones, a lazy Insect, from their Hive. All urge the Work, whilst the Nectarean Food Exerts a fragrant Odour from the Wood Now shall our England flourish, and extend Its greatness to the World's extremest end: For since so Noble a support was made By William's bounty for the Soldier's trade Before at Chelsey (whose sweet fabric might Suffice alone for ample Theme to write) By this enlargement of the Royal Mind, The Nation's Soul shall be no more confined: But wheresoever our Fleets or Armies go, We'll spread our Glory, and insult our Foe. Here rest, my Muse, a while to ease my sight, Which grows unsteady with the distant slight My Eyes have made, then gently hover round What lies behind, and view the lofty ground. Whilst I refresh myself beneath the shade Of an adjacent Grove, supinely laid, To ease my Limbs oppressed and faint with heat, Greedy of rest, impatient for retreat. There will I lie, and wait Thy airy flight, Rise at Thy call, and spread again my sight. But 'tis in vain I beg a space for ease, Not so the Muse, whom I invoke, decrees. Grown passive I to her impressions bend, Walk a few steps, and then my Eyes descend Upon a Visto, whose unlooked for sight Strikes me with such amazement of delight, That I no longer my complaints pursue, But find new Vigour from the healing View. So for a while an absent Friend we mourn, And beg of Heaven to hasten his return. But should some lovely Dame invade our Eyes, Whose aspect fills us with a sweet surprise, No more we feel the torments of our grief, But from each charming view we gain relief. Here my transported Eye through even rows Of Trees, which Mountains shelter and enclose, Meets with so distant and so fair a sight, So much variety of true delight, That I'm concerned, left doubting which to choose, My dazzled Eyes amidst the heap should lose Part of the beauteous store. Assist me then Here, my companion Muse, and teach my Pen To set in order what my sight commands, And praise each worthy object, as it stands. First then my careful Eye reviewing down, Salutes the Chapel of the Neighbouring Town: Here the bright Dames, that dwell about the place, (And Greenwich boasts of some, whose Heavenly grace Commands remembrance) daily come to pay Thanks for those blessings, which their Charms display. Humble in all their Beauty may concern, But proud to those who for that Beauty burn. Not imitating Heaven, that was so kind To grace their Bodies, and enrich their Mind. Else would Aurelia match the purest flame, That ever touched a heart, or found a Name. Aurelia, in whom sparkles every Grace, Juno in Mien, and Venus in her Face. Aurelia, whom the Groves and Walks rehearse, The Ornament, and Grandeur of my Verse. But oh! the same both Groves and Walks repeat, That Thyrsis lies still dying at her Feet. Next the fair River offers to my view A rising Grove of Ships, that gently flow In with the Tide, whose shaded Waters seem To be no part of the encircling Stream. Which might be ta'en for Land, as here it shows, But for the Motion which the Ships disclose. Tall Sons of Oak, that on the Waves aspire To lift themselves above their lofty Sire That grew at Land, and by the help of Sails Waiting for Seasons, and for prosperous Gales, Spread the wide Ocean over, and for our use Bring home the Riches that all Climes produce: Whilst the whole World with fear and wonder meets Our Flags, and pays low homage to our Fleets. Which still with all their Pride my Eyes can trace Winding the River to salute that Place, Which claims their just Obedience, and gives To them that secure it from them receives. Here London swelling doth itself present So stately, and with such a huge extent, That my fixed Eye with admiration filled Dwells on a view, that such a scene doth yield Of lofty Monuments, that rise so high, As if they would again the Heavens defy, And make the Earth contiguous with the Sky. Among the rest, contending for the Height, Two the most eminent engage my Sight. Both with such state, and such a towering rise, As if they scorned the reach of humane Eyes: But swelled with emulation would aspire To be consumed in Elemental Fire. As Rival Statesmen, scorning to abide An Equal, often sink beneath their pride. In a more humble, yet a sweet Ascent The City's Fortress doth itself present Full in my Eye, and with an easier Face (In all its compass strength unites with Grace.) Diverts the horror of the former sight, Raised by the Rival Spire's amazing height. From hence our numerous Armies are supplied With all their Stores, here William can provide For greater Forces, nor would yet the Place Appear exhausted, but disclose a face Of vast surrounding War, to show our store By Him made endless, as our Isle secure. Here are the Regal Ensigns kept with care In solemn state, amidst the Pomp of War. An Emblem of our Monarch's lofty Name, Who has so much surpassed all Kings in Fame, In Fields of Battle, and at home in peace, Born to Triumph, and make Disorder cease. Nor doth this famous Tower alone disclose Peculiar Wonders of our own, but shows Variety of Creatures hither brought By curious Men from Countries far remote, As Presents fit for Kings, who here maintain The Captive Beasts, such as the Lybian Plain And Deserts of wild afric once obeyed As Lords of all their Waste, and barbarous Shade. Till Men by Stratagem their Power controlled, And dared to seize them in their strongest hold. Now my unsteady Eye removing flies O'er all the lofty buildings, and espies Beyond their wide extent a spacious Hill, Whose gentle rise, and fruitful sides reveal A beauteous Prospect, and whose towering height Looks o'er the stately Town, and bounds my sight. It's lofty top seems level with the Sky, Affording Wonder, as it gives me joy. Whilst o'er its wide, extended face is seen Perpetual bloom, and ever springing Green. * In allusion to Sir John Denbam. O could I rise like Thee, and make Thy height The graceful measure of my Muse's flight! Bounded tho' wide, tho' mild, yet full of state, High without Force, without aspiring Great. Here, Hamsted, I should dwell upon thy praise, Search all Thy Beauties, and delight to gaze Upon Thy face, could but my labouring Eyes Preserve their Vigour, and avoid Surprise. But such Thy distance is, and such Thy grace, That dazzled with Thy lustre, and the space That lies between, my strained, o'er burdened sight Is forced to lose Thy Beauty, and Thy height. But so surrounded is the lovely Hill, Whereon I stand, with Perspectives that fill My Eyes with Admiration and Delight, That wheresoever I turn, I please my sight With some new Prospect, such variety, Such mixture of extremes in all I see, Of Joy and Wonder, that my ravished Eyes Descry throughout a perfect Paradise. But that which most delights me, is that Pair Of Groves, where all that's pleasant, sweet, or fair In Art or Nature doth oblige my sight, And where a Maze of Walks might well invite The God of Love to keep his amorous Court, His wanton Revels, and his Midnight sport. The Muses too with all their train might here Indulge their thoughts apart, nor interfere With other pastime, but apply their trade, Tune all their Harps, and court Apollo's Aid. Then in a Critical, well-chosen hour, The God inspiring, use his offered Power. O happy Groves, that thus may conscious prove Of heavenly Numbers, and Celestial Love! Here, various Dames we see, divinely Bright, Walk in these Shades, when Time and Air invite. Doomed to disquiet we their steps pursue, And unprepared feel wounds at every view. But oh! Aurelia shoots the keenest dart, Which not my sense alone, but pierces through my Heart. As in the Groves of lofty Cynthus, when Diana walks with all her shining train To seek some cool retreat, each lovely Maid Reflects a thousand graces through the Shade. The Goddess by her Stature, Shape, and Air, Majestically tall, proportioned, fair, Surpasses all the rest: such here we see Aurelia, when She leads her Company Within the Groves on this delightful Hill; So doth She Shine, such Excellence reveal. O lovely Greenwich, how dost thou surprise Our Souls with Wonder, and with Joy our Eyes! Thy numerous different Beauties to rehearse Requires the strength of more exalted Verse. Fain would I trace them, but my stock of Art Is unproportioned to the willing part. Yet sure 'twere stupid to forget to Name The RANGER of Thy Park, so high in Fame. DORSET the Patron, and the Rule of Wit, The Nation's Honour, and the Court's Delight. The Soul of Goodness, and the Spring of Sense, The Poet's Theme, Reward, and Great Defence. Here when the restless toil of being Great, Makes Him retire from all the Pomp of state, Free with a chosen Friend, He takes his ease, Unbends his Mind, and tastes the Joys of Peace: Reads o'er the Poets with impartial Eyes, And then determines who shall fall or rise. So in old Rome, when weary of Affairs Of State, Maecenas would release his cares: Fond of retreat, with Horace only blest, He left his Grandeur, and his Joy confessed. Judged with like freedom what the Romans writ, Which was base Metal, and which Standard Wit. FINIS. BOOKS lately Printed. AN Essay on Poetry, written by the Marquis of Normanby; and the same in Latin by another hand, with several other Poems; viz. An Epistle to the Lord Chamberlain on his Majesty's Victory in Ireland. By the Honourable Mr. Montague. An Epistle to the Honourable Mr. Montague, on his Majesty's Voyage to Holland. By Mr. Stepney. An Epistle to Monsieur Boileau. By Mr. Arwaker. A Poem on the Promotion of several Eminent Persons in Church and State. By Mr. Tate. To which are added the following Poems, never before in Print, viz. An Ode in Memory of the late Queen. By a Person of Quality. A Poem on the Late Horrid Conspiracy. By Mr. Stepney. Price 2 s. The Temple of Death. A Poem Written by the Marquis of Normanby. Horace of the Art of Poetry▪ Made English by the Earl of Roscommon. The Duel of the Staggs. By the Honourable Sir Robert Howard. Together with several other Excellent Poems. By the Earls of Rochester, and Orrery, Sir Charles Sedley, Sir George Etheridge, the Honourable Mr. Montague, Mr. Granvill, Mr. Dryden, Mr. Chetwood, and Mr. Tate. To which are added several Poems of the Honourable Madam Wharton. Second Edition. Price 2 s. 6 d. Five Romances in one Vol or single, viz. Said, a Spanish History, Zingis, a Tartarian History. The Amours of Charles Duke of Mantua, and the Countess of Rovera. The Husband forced to be jealous, or the good Fortune of those Women that have jealous Husbands, The Cimmerian Matron, 8vo. Price 4 s. 6 d. A Lady's Religion in a Letter to the Honourable the Lady Howard. By a Divine of the Church of England.