POEMS TO THE MEMORY Of that Incomparable POET Edmond Waller Esquire.  
By Several Hands.  
LONDON, Printed for joseph Knight, and Francis Saunders, at the Blue Anchor, in the lower Walk of the New Exchange. 1688.   

To the Memory of my Noble Friend, Mr. Waller.  
NOT Sleep, beneath the Shade in Flowery Fields,  
To th' weary Traveller more Pleasure yields;  
Nor, to assuage his Thirst, the living Spring,  
I'th' heat of Summer, more delight does bring;  
Than unto me thy well Tuned Numbers do,  
In which thou dost both please and profit too.  
Born in a Clime where Storms and Tempests grow;  
Far from the Place where Helicon does flow:  
The Muses travelled far to bless thy Sight,  
And taught thee how to Think, and how to Write.  
Th' 
* Hesiod.  Ascraean Shepherd tells us he indeed  
Had seen them dancing, while his Flocks did feed.  
Not Petrarch's Laura, nor bright Stella's Fame,  
Shall longer live than Sacharissa's Name.  
Thou dost not write like those, who brand the Times,  
And themselves most, with sharp Satiric Rhimes:  
Nor does thy Muse, with smutty Verses, tear  
The modest Virgin's chaste and tender Ear.  
Free from their Faults, what e'er thy Muse indites,  
Not Ovid, nor Tibullus softer writes.  
The choice of tuneful Words t'express our Thought,  
By thy Example we have first been taught.  
Our English 
* Cowley  Virgil, and our Pindar too,  
In this ('tis said) some negligence did show.  
I'll add but this, lest while I think to raise  
Thy worth, I kindly injure thee with Praise;  
Thy Verses have a Genius, and must  
Live until all things crumble into Dust.  
Sir John Cotton, Bar.   

Poems, etc.  

Upon my Noble Friend, Mr. Waller.  
THough I can add but little to his Name,  
Whose Muse hath given him such immortal Fame;  
Yet, in the Crowd of those who dress his Hearse,  
I come to pay the Tribute of a Verse.  
Athens and Rome, when Learning flourished most,  
Could never such a Finished Poet boast:  
Whose matchless softness in the English Tongue  
Outdoes what Horace, or Anacreon Sung.  
Judgement does some to Reputation raise;  
And for Invention others wear the Bayss:  
He possessed both, with such a Talon still.  
As showed not only force of Wit, but Skill.  
So faultless was his Muse, 'tis hard to know  
If he did more to Art, or Nature owe.  
Read where you will, he's Music all along,  
And his Sense easy, as his Thought is strong.  
Some striving to be Clear, fall Flat and Low;  
And when they think to mount, obscure they grow.  
He is not darker for his lofty Flight;  
Nor does his Easiness depress his Height;  
But still pespicuous, wheresoever he fly,  
And, like the Sun, is brightest, when he's high.  
Ladies admire, and taste his gentle Vein,  
Which does the greatest Statesmen entertain.  
His Verses do all sorts of Readers warm,  
Philosophers instruct, and Women charm.  
Nor did he all Men in his Verse outdo,  
But gave the Law in Conversation too:  
He tuned the Company where ere he came,  
Still leaving with them something of his Flame.  
He seemed by Nature made for every thing,  
And could harangue, and talk, as well as sing;  
Persuade in Council, and Assemblies lead;  
Now make them bold, and then as much afraid:  
Give them his Passions, make them of his Mind;  
And their Opinion change, as he inclined.  
The English he hath to Perfection brought;  
And we to speak are by his Measures taught.  
Those very Words, which are in Fashion now,  
He brought in Credit half an Age ago.  
Thus Petrarch mended the Italian Tongue:  
And now they speak the Language which he sung.  
They both like Honour to their Countries do;  
Their Saints they both inimitably woe.  
They both alike Eternity do give;  
And Sacharissa shall with Laura live.  
Sir THO. higgon's.   

On Mr. Waller.  

WAller is dead; and lofty Number's lost.  
Now English Verse (with nothing left to boast)  
May hobble on, and vex goods Pindar's Ghost.  
What was it Three and Eighty Years to live?  
Short is this Boon to what the Muses give:  
They so Insured his Immortality,  
That scarce he knew, in any kind, to die.  
Two Ages he the Sacred Garland bore;  
Peerless in this, and Prince of that before.  
Rare Genius, his; alike their Glory made,  
In glittering Courts, and in the Country Shade.  
There, by four Kings beloved, how high he shone!  
Inseparable Jewel of the Crown;  
Yet thence no borrowed Heat, or Lustre got,  
Warm of himself; and Sun he wanted not.  
And if the Diamond stood hard Fortune's shock,  
Thanks to his old Hereditary Rock.  
For all the Court, for all the Muse's Snares;  
Our Journals also tell his public Cares.  
From james to james, they count him o'er and o'er,  
In four Successive Reigns, a Senator.  
On him, amidst the legislative Throng,  
Their Eyes, and Ears, and every Heart they hung.  
Within those Walls if we Apollo knew,  
Less could he warm, nor throw a Shaft so true.  
What Life, what Lightning blanched around the Chair?  
(It was no House, if Waller was not there:)  
And that Respect still to his Speech, or Nods,  
As he had come from Councils of the Gods.  
How would he tune their contradicting Notes?  
With ready Wit facilitate the Votes?  
As in his Verse, so every where display  
An Air of something Great, and something Gay?  
And, like Amphion, when he formed a Town,  
Put Life in every Stock, and every Stone?  
Oh! had he lived one Meeting more to Sat,  
How would the Times his generous Mind have hit?  
What he so long contested for, in vain,  
Set loose from all Ecclesiastic Chain,  
With Transport he would find Religion, free,  
And now no longer a Monopoly.  
Watch Home, and Harbour; nay, shut up the Sea:  
But who shall ere with Heaven our Traffic stay?  
Or there erect a Block-house in the way?  
Our stubborn Body is not used so ill;  
It must no Rack (that foreign Engine) feel;  
And yet they bring poor Conscience to the Wheel.  
Error they scourge; so Children whip their Top;  
The certain only, means to keep it up.  
Thus would he play, and many a pointed Jest  
Still fling against the persecuting Beast.  
Easy to run in endless Histories;  
Tracing a Life of one who never dies.  
How he the Orbs of Courts and Councils moved:  
But, Muses, how he Sung, and how he Loved.  
What Spirit fills his Verse, your Care defines;  
Amongst the Stars how Sacharissa shines:  
How still her Altars fume with Sacrifice,  
When gone are all the Goddesses of Greece.  
Language and Wit he raised to such an height,  
We should suspect, with him, the Empire's Fate,  
Did not Auspicious james support the Weight.  
This Northern Speech refined to that degree,  
Soft France we scorn, nor envy Italy:  
But for a fit Comparison must seek  
In Virgil's Latin, or in Homer's Greek.   

Anger is mad; and Choler, mere Disease:  
His Muse sought what was sweet, & what would please:  
Still led where Nature's beauteous Rays entice;  
Not touching vile Deformities, or Vice.  
Here no Chimaera skips, no Goblin frights;  
No Satyr's here, nor Monster else, that bites.  
Sweetness his very Vinegar allayed;  
And all his Snakes in Lady's Bosom played.  
Nature rejoiced beneath his charming power;  
His lucky hand made every thing a Flower.  
So every Shrub to jessamin improves;  
And rudest Holts, to goodly Myrtle Groves.  
Some, from a Sprig he carelessly had thrown,  
Have furnished a whole Garden of their own.  
Some, by a Spark that from his Chariot came,  
Take Fire, and blaze, and raise a deathless Name.  
Others a luckless Imitation try;  
And, whilst they soar, and whilst they venture high,  
Flutter and flounce, but have not Wing to fly.  
Some, in loose Words their empty Fancies bind,  
Which whirl about, with Chaff, before the Wind.  
Here, brave Conceits in the Expression fail:  
There, big the Words, but with no Sense at all.  
Still Waller's Sense might Waller's Language trust;  
Both poised, and always bold, and always just.  
None ere may reach that strange Felicity,  
Where Thoughts are easy, Verse so sweet, and free,  
Yet not descend one Step from Majesty.   
T. RYMER.   


Monsieur St. Euremon. 1684.  
WAller, qui ne sent rien des Maux de la vieillesse.  
Don't la vivacité fait honte aux jeunes Gens;  
S'attache â la Beauté pour viure plus long temps,  
Et ce qu'on nomeroit dans un autre foiblesse,  
Est en ce rare Esprit une sage tendresse,  
Qui le fait resister à l'injure des Ans.   

In English, by T. R.  
VAin Gallants, look on Waller, and despair:  
He, only he, may boast the Grand Receipt;  
Of Fourscore Years he never feels the weight:  
Still in his Element, when with the Fair;  
There gay, and fresh, drinks in the rosy Air:  
There happy, he enjoys his leisure hours;  
Nor thinks of Winter, whilst amidst the Flowers.    

Upon the Inimitable Mr. Waller.  

THE Witty, and the Brave, survive the Tomb;  
Poets, and Heroes, Death itself o'ercome:  
By what they write, or act, Immortal made,  
They only change their World, but are not Dead.   

Waller can never die, of Life secure  
As long as Fame, or aged Time, endure.  
A Tree of Life is Sacred Poetry;  
whoever has leave to taste, can never die.  
Many Pretenders to the Fruit there be.  
Who, against Nature's Will do pluek the Tree;  
They nibble, and are Damned: But only those  
Have Life, who are by partial Nature chose.  
Waller was Nature's Darling, free to taste  
Of all her Store; The Master of the Feast:  
Not like old Adam, stinted in his Choice,  
But Lord of all the spacious Paradise.  
Mysteriously the Bounteous Gods were kind,  
And in his Favour Contradictions joined.  
Honest and Just, yet Courted by the Great;  
A Poet, yet a Plentiful Estate:  
Witty, yet Wise; Unenvied, and yet Praised;  
And showed the Age could be with Merit pleased.  
Malice and Spite, to Virtue certain Foes,  
Were dumb to him, nor durst his Fame oppose;  
Those cruel Wolves he tamed, their Rage disarmed,  
And, with his tuneful Song, like Orpheus charmed.  
To Love, or Business, both he was inclined,  
Could counsel Senates, or make Virgins kind;  
The Factious, with persuasive Rhetoric, move,  
Or teach disdainful Fair ones how to love;  
The stubborn of each Sex, to Reason bring:  
Like Cato he could Speak, like Ovid Sing.  
Our British Kings are raised above the Hearse,  
Immortal made, in his immortal Verse.  
No more are Mars and jove Poetic Themes,  
But the two peaceful Charlese, and Great james.  
julia, and Delia, do no more delight,  
But Sacharissa now is only bright.  
Nor can the Paphian Goddess longer move;  
But Gloriana is the Queen of Love.  
The Father of so many Gods is he,  
He must himself be sure some Deity.  
Minerva and Apollo shall submit,  
And Waller be the only God of Wit.  
This equal Rise be to his Merit given,  
On Earth the King, the God of Verse in Heaven.  
GEORGE GRANVILLE.    

On the Death of Mr. Waller.  

AH! had thy Body lasted, as thy Name,  
Secure of Life, as now thou art of Fame;  
Thou hadst more Ages than old Nestor seen:  
Nor had thy Phoebus' more immortal been.   

To thee alone we are beholden more  
Than all the Poets of the Times before.  
Thy Muse, inspired with a Genteeler Rage,  
Did first refine the Genius of our Age.  
In thee a clear and female Softness shined,  
With Masculine Vigour, Force, and Judgement joined.  
You, in soft Strains, for Courts and Ladies, sung,  
So natural your Thought, so sweet your Song,  
The gentle Sex did still partake your Flame,  
And all the Coyness of your Mistress blame;  
Still moved with you, did the same Passions find,  
And vowed that Sacharissa was unkind.  
Oh! may the World ne'er lose so brave a Flame;  
May one succeed in Genius, and in Fame.  
May, from thy Urn, some Phoenix, Waller, rise,  
Whom the admiring World, like thee, may prise;  
May he, in thy immortal Numbers, sing,  
And paint the Glories of our matchless King:  
Oh! may his Verse of mighty Waller taste,  
And mend the coming Age, as you the last.  
Within that Sacred Pile where Kings do come,  
Both to receive their Crowns, and find a Tomb,  
There is a lonely Isle; which holy Place  
The lasting Monuments of Poet's grace.  
Thither, amongst th'inspired Train, convey,  
And, in their Company, his Ashes lay:  
Let him with Spencer and great Cowley be,  
He, who is much the greatest of the Three.  
Tho' there so many Crowns and Mitres lie,  
(For Kings, and Saints, as well as we, must die)  
Those venerable Walls were never blest,  
Since their Foundation, with a nobler Guest.   

With them, great Soul, thou shalt Immortal live,  
And, in thy deathless Numbers Fate survive:  
Fresh, as thy Sacharissa's Beauty, still  
Thy Bays shall grow, which Time can never kill.  
Far as our conquering British Lion roars,  
Far as the Poles, or the remotest Shores,  
wherever is known or heard the English Name,  
The distant World shall hear of Waller's Fame.  
Thou only shalt with Nature's self expire,  
And all the World, in the supremest Fire;  
When Horace and famed Virgil die, when all  
That's Great, or Noble, shall together fall.  
BEVILL higgon's.    

On the Death of E. Waller, Esq  

HOW, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring  
(Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering?  
ay, who by Toils of Sickness, am become  
Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb?  
While every soft, and every tender Strain  
Is ruffled, and ill-natured grown with Pain.  
But, at thy Name, my languished Muse revives,  
And a new Spark in the dull Ashes strives.  
I hear thy tuneful Verse, thy Song Divine;  
And am Inspired by every charming Line.  
But, Oh!—  
What Inspiration, at the second hand,  
Can an Immortal Elegy Command?  
Unless, like Pious Offerings, mine should be  
Made Sacred, being Consecrate to thee.  
Eternal, as thy own Almighty Verse,  
Should be those Trophies that adorn thy Hearse.  
The Thought Illustrious, and the Fancy Young;  
The Wit Sublime, the judgement Fine, and Strong;  
Soft, as thy Notes to Sacharissa sung.  
Whilst mine, like Transitory Flowers, decay,  
That come to deck thy Tomb a short-lived Day.  
Such Tributes are, like Tenors, only fit  
To show from whom we hold our Right to Wit.   

Hail, wondrous Bard, whose heaven-born Genius first  
My Infant Muse, and Blooming Fancy Nursed.  
With thy soft Food of Love I first began,  
Then fed on nobler Panegyric Strain,  
Numbers Seraphic! and, at every View,  
My Soul extended, and much larger grew:  
Where e'er I Read, new Raptures seized my Blood;  
Methought I heard the Language of a God.  
Long did the untuned World in ignorance stray,  
Producing nothing that was Great and Gay,  
Till taught, by thee, the true Poetic way.  
Rough were the Tracts before, Dull, and Obscure;  
Nor Pleasure, nor Instruction could procure.  
Their thoughtless Labour could no Passion move;  
Sure, in that Age, the Poets knew not Love:  
That Charming God, like Apparitions, than  
Was only talked on, but ne'er seen by Men:  
Darkness was o'er the Muse's Land displayed,  
And even the Chosen Tribe unguided strayed.  
Till, by thee rescued from th' Egyptian Night,  
They now look up, and view the God of Light,  
That taught them how to Love, and how to Write;  
And to Enhance the Blessing which Heaven lent,  
When for our great Instructor thou wert sent.   

Large was thy Life, but yet thy Glories more;  
And, like the Sun, did still dispense thy Power,  
Producing something wondrous every hour:  
And, in thy Circulary Course, didst see  
The very Life and Death of Poetry.  
Thou saw'st the Generous Nine neglected lie,  
None listening to their Heavenly Harmony;  
The World being grown to that low Ebb of Sense,  
To disesteem the noblest Excellence;  
And no Encouragement to Prophets shown,  
Who in past Ages got so great Renown.  
Though Fortune Elevated thee above  
Its scanty Gratitude, or fickle Love;  
Yet, sullen with the World, untired by Age,  
Scorning th'unthinking Crowd, thou quit'st the Stage.  
A. BEHN.    

On the Death of Mr. Waller.  

Tho' ne'er so Base, or never so Sublime,  
All Human things must be the Spoil of Time:  
Poet and Hero with the rest must go;  
Their Fame may mount, their Dust must lie as low.  
Thus mighty Waller is, at last, expired,  
With Cowley, from a vicious Age retired,  
As much Lamented, and as much Admired.  
Long we enjoyed him; on his tuneful Tongue  
All Ears and Hearts with the same Rapture hung,  
As his on lovely Chloris while she Sung!  
His Style does so much Strength and Sweetness bear,  
Hear it but once, and you'd for ever hear!   

Various his Subjects, yet they jointly warm,  
All Spirit, Life, and every Line a Charm:  
Correct throughout, so tightly penned,  
What he had Finished nothing else could mend.   

Now, in soft Notes, like dying Swans, h'ed Sing,  
Now tower aloft, like Eagles on the Wing;  
Speak of adventurous Deeds in such a Strain,  
As all but Milton would attempt in vain;  
And only there, where his raped Muse does tell  
How in th' Aetherial War th' Apostate Angels fell.   

His Labours, thus, peculiar Glory claim,  
As writ with something more than Mortal Flame:  
Wit, Judgement, Fancy, and a Heat Divine,  
Throughout each part, throughout the whole does shine:  
Th'Expression clear, the Thought sublime, and high,  
No flut'ring, but with even wing he glides along the Sky.  
Here the two bold contending Fleets are found,  
The mighty Rivals of the watery Round;  
In Smoke and Flame involved, they could not Fight  
With so much Force and Fire as he does Write.  
Here Galatea mourns; In such sad Strains  
Poor Philomela her wretched Fate complains.  
Here Fletcher and Immortal johnson shine,  
Deathless, preserved in his Immortal Line.  
But where, O mighty Bard, where is that He,  
Surviving now, to do the same for Thee?  
At such a Theme my conscious Muse retires,  
Unable to attempt thy Praise, she silently admires.   

Whether for Peaceful Charles, or Warlike james,  
His Lyre was Strung, the Muse's dearest Themes:  
Whether of Love's Success, when in the Eyes  
Of the kind Nymph the conscious Glances rise,  
When, blushing, she breathes short, and with constraint denies;  
Whether he paint the Lover's restless Care,  
Or Sacharissa, the disdainful Fair;  
(Relentless Sacharissa, Deaf to Love,  
The only She his Verse could never move;  
But sure she stopped her Ears, and shut her Eyes,  
He could not else have missed the Heavenly Prize.)  
All this is managed with that Strength of Wit,  
So Happily, So Smoothly, Courtly writ,  
As nothing but himself could e'er have done;  
And we no more must hope now he (great King of Verse) is gone.   

Nor did Old Age damp the Poetic Flame,  
Loaded with Fourscore Years, 'twas still the same.  
Some we may see, who in their Youth have writ  
Good Sense, at Fifty take their leave of Wit,  
Chimaeras and incongruous Fables feign,  
Tedious, Insipid, Impudent, and Vain:  
But he knew no Decay; the Sacred Fire,  
Bright to the last, did with himself expire.  
Such was the Man, whose Loss we now deplore,  
Such was the Man, but we should call him more.  
Immortal in himself, we need not strive  
To keep his Sacred Memory alive.  
Just, Loyal, Brave, Obliging, Generous, Kind;  
The English he has, to the height refined,  
And the best Standard of it leaves (his Legacy) behind.    

To Mr. Riley, Drawing Mr. Waller's Picture.  
NOT Flesh and Blood can Riley's Pride confine,  
He must be adding still some Ray Divine;  
Nor is content when he true Likeness shows,  
Unless that Glory also Crown the Brows.  
This Subject, Riley, this (for long has he  
Scow'rd the bright Roads of Immortality)  
New Rapture wants: no human Touch can reach  
His Laurels, and Poetic Triumphs pitch.  
On Face and Outside stay thy bold Design;  
'Tis Sacred, 'tis Apollo's all within.  
Thou may'st slight Sketches of the Surface show,  
Not vex the Mine, whence Godlike Treasures flow.  
Came twenty Nymphs, his Muse contented all,  
None went away without her Golden Ball;  
The Gods of old were not so liberal.  
How many, free from Fate, enjoy his Song,  
Drink Nectar, ever Gay, and ever Young?  
Tho' to thy Genius no Attempt is vain,  
Think not to draw the Poet, but the Man.  
Yet, Riley, thus thou endless Fame must share;  
His Generous Pen thy Pencil shall prefer,  
It draw him Man, and he make it a Star.  
T. R.   
FINIS.