URANIA's Temple: OR, A satire UPON THE Silent-Poets. Carmina nulla canam — Virg. LONDON, Printed by J. M. and B. B. and are to be Sold by Rich. Baldwin, near the Oxford Arms in Warwick-Lane, 1695. Urania's Temple: OR, A satire Upon the SILENT Poets. BEneath the Foot of proud Parnassus' Mount, Watered by the Eternal hallowed Fount, Whence th' inspired Sisters, the whole sacred Nine Deliver all there Oracles Divine: A Pile their stands, stupendious Work, erect Like Theban towers, Poetic Architect; Spacious the Walls for the large Choir they bear, For the whole Delphic Hierarchy sing there. Eternal Spring on this blessed Temple waits, Laurel the verdant Umbrage round the Gates. Garlands of floury Sweets perfume the Air, Our fairest British ROSE the sweetest there. How rich, how all magnificently Great The towers and Pinnacles of this proud Seat, Enough the monumental Fabric stands Erected by the MUSES Artist-hands; An easy Cost, nor Wealth can want, nor State, Raised by those Founders even whole Worlds create. Around the Columns in fair Tablet-paints Hang the bright Portraits of Translated Saints, Mosaic Faces all; and all enroled Are holy Numbers writ in Leaves of Gold. The IO Paeans to the Mighty Dead, Inauguration Songs to th' Heav'n-crowned Head. Incense is all the Altar-Offrings here, A Vestals fragrant sigh, or Virgins Tear, Or those more rare all Phoenix Spices, LOVE; True Turtle Innocence, the Haltion Dove, So seldom seen below, and so high-prized above. The pious Rites that tune this peaceful Sphere (For Harmony's the whole Devotion here) Are Anthems, which exalted Raptures raise Or to some GOD, or God's Vicegerents praise, Crowned Heads; but Crowned heads only, the True Race Of the Coelestials, where each heavenly Grace, Religion, Piety, dart their brightest Ray, Virtues that light and warm the World they sway; The whole Divinity the represent: Blessings too seldom to poor Mortals lent. True Copies of their Great Original, Our Songs rare Theme, and honoured Wonders all. One sacred Vault alone the Temple held, A Casket with uncommon Relics filled. To KINGS by their own Fames embalmed, the Tomb: Peculiar Grace, and which the narrow room To rich Imperial Dust can only spare; Unless sometimes a hallowed Bard sleeps there: And 'tis but just, to share one Funeral State The Royal Trump the Royal Urn should wait, The Poet lodged so near the Dust of Kings, Beneath the Feet of those Great Lives he sings. The Goddess of this Roof, (for Oh no less Than an Immortal must this Fane Possess) URANIA of the All the most Divine, Does here in her whole Sovereign Glory shine. 'Twas here, (when, lo, the fatal Call was given, That that Fair SOUL, the brightest Spark of Heaven, Albion's divine Promethean must ascend, And to Eternal Day new Lustre lend:) As the Apollinanry GOD beheld A BEAM which might even his own Chariot gild, A winged Mercury t' Urania's Shrine, He sent to summon the whole sacred Nine. Th' Etherial Pursuivant, what though he rod On Lightning as he flew, a posting God; The Musical Divan was sat before: So swift Great MARYs Trump the Echo bore, From mourning Thames to th' murmuring Helicon-shore. Now all th' Enthusiastic Choir began In Notes that up to Heavens high Ela ran. No poor Lucina's to that easy Muse, No Powers were called that Poetry t' infuse. The great unstudied Theme so well to those Consenting Raptures, willing Numbers risen: MARY alone could their Inspirer be, The very LIFE they sung all HARMONY. Nor was this Royal Hymn to Light all bound TO Urania's Walls alone: Th' ascending Sound Was heard above; heard and repeated too, Up to her own Third Heaven the Muse's highest Region flew: Both Quires united Song. Nay, and to fill The sacred Chantry with more Voices still; Even the most humble poorest Shepherd Breed Taught by the soft Alexis well-tuned Reed, Their Great PASTORA sung; on every Tree A Chorus, the whole Grove one rhapsody. The mournful Philomela sat warbling there, Nor wants a Thorn to wake to such an Air. Around her a whole Nest of chanting Throats. Even the aspiring Lark, with those rich Notes, Above the very Clouds bears her proud Wings, To mount, if possible, up to the Theme she sings. MARIA's Song (to breathe her Oracles The Heavenly Truths, her wondrous Story tells) A Theme, that even inanimate Woods might move; Make every Tree a whole Dodona's Grove. But whilst this Universal Choir thus filled The Delphic God (that great All-Eye) beheld, Pleased with the mighty Rites; as he looked round, A sullen Knot of Tonguetied Sons he found: With Rancour choked their Muse all speechless lies: 'Tis true, a spiteful Smile gins to rise; For their whole Souls speak only through their Eyes. Apollinary Heads, Medusa-drest, The Grin, the Hiss, whole Gorgon Snakes their Crest. All true Athenian; for the Muse's Spring Has those Night-birds that boot, as those that sing. Not that a cloudy Ignorance had veiled Their shaded Senses, or their Silence sealed: But obstinately Mutes; and to their shame A murmuring Race, no strangers to that FAME. Thus ENVY, though a Fiend of inmost Hell, Does still heavens ever nearest Borderer dwell: Where Virtue builds her Throne, she digs her Cell. 'Tis true, not one but a true Mussulman, (So high their mad prophetic Phantoms ran,) Waits th' opening Clouds, a Mecha-pilgrims Ape For wondrous Resurrections all a-gape. To their great Dagon Hecatombs divine Are all too small: But to Maria's Shrine Not their own Brother Cain's lean Sheaf they bring; No, not an empty stubble Offering. To Truth and Honour they're Nonjurants all: Not one bent-knee to those loathed Names must fall. But to warped Laws, stretched Oaths (all Homage due) Th' old Coronation Cobweb-Lawn still true, There with a keen Toads Eye, and a Lark's Wing, They only want th' old Maudlin Choir to sing. This Chaos-brood, the Sons of Discontent, Made up of every jarring Element, Ashamed, I dare not say, (that stranger Grace A Blush was never seen in such a Face) With a disdainful Scorn from this bright Choir To their own darker sullen Cells retire. A House there stands where once a Covent stood, A Nursery still to the old Covent-Brood: This ever hospitable Roof of yore The famous Sign of th' old Osiris bore, A fair red Io, hieroglyphick-fair; For all the suckling Wits o'th' Town milcht there. This long old Emblematic, that had passed Full many a bleak Winters shaking blast, At last with Age fell down, some say, Confusion, Shamed and quite dashed at the new REVOLUTION; Dropped out of modesty, (as most suppose) Not daring face the new bright ROYAL ROSE. Here in supiner State, twixt reaking Tiff, And fumigating clouds of Funk and Whiff, Snug in a nook, his dusky Tripos, sits A Senjor Delphic ' mongst the minor Wits; Feared like an Indian God, a God indeed True Indian, smoked with his own native Weed. From this oped mouth, soft Eloquence rich Mint Steals now and then a keen well hammered Hint, Some sharp State-rallery, or politic Squint, Hard-midwived Wit, Births by slow Labours stopped, Sense not profusely showered, but only dropped. Sometimes for Oracles yet more profound, A titillating Sonnets handed round, Some Abdication-Damon Madrigal His own sour Pens too overflowing Gall. I must confess, in pure poetic Rage, Bowed down to the old Moloch of that Age, His strange Muse our wonder saw Tuned to the late great Court-Tarantula. What though worn out in Pleasures, old and stolen the reverend Outly sculkt within the Pale: It was enough like the old Mahomet's Pigeon He lured to Bread, and masked into Religion. Had that, now silent, Muse been but so kind As to this Funeral Dirge her Numbers joined, On that great Theme what Wonders had he told: For though the Bard, the Quill is not grown old, Writes young Apollo still, with his whole Rays Encircled and enriched, though not his Bays. Thus when the WREATH, so long so justly due, The Great MAECENAS from those Brows withdrew, With pain he saw such Merit sunk so far, Shame'd that the Dragons-Tail swept down the Star. Not that the Conscience-shackle tied so hard But had he been the Prophet, as the Bard, Prognosticked the diminutive slender Birth His Sev'n-hilled Mountain-labour has brought forth, His fore-seen Precipice; that Thought alone Had stopped his Fall, secured him all our own: Free from his hypocondriac Dreams he had slept, And still his unsold Esau's Birthright kept. 'Tis thus we see him lost, thus mourn his Fall: That single Teint alone has sullied All. So have I in the Muse's Garden seen the spreading Rose, or blooming Jassimine; Once from whose Bosom the whole Hybla-train Th' industrious Treasurers of the rich Plain, Those wingred Foragers for their fragrant Prey, On loaded Thighs bore thousand Sweets away; Now shaded by a sullen venomed Guest Cankered and sooted o'er t' a Spider's Nest. His Sweets thus soured, what melancholy Change, What an ill-natured Lour, a Face so strange, His Life one whole long Scene of all Unrest, And airy Hopes his thin Cameleon-Feast; Pleased only with the Pride of being preferred The echoed Voice to his own listening Herd, A Magisterial Bell-wether Tupe The Lordly Leader of his Bleating Troop. Methinks I hear even his young Pupils cry, We writ a Junior MARY's Elegy! For full Third Days, and Claps good store and hearty, Our Work's to trim, not disoblige a Party. What, shall we draw our Pens, engage our Quills In such a Cause; and drink our Dish at Will's! We dare no more hang out, no more display A blazing Rhyme that does but light that way, Than he a Candle on a King WILL's Day. For Poetry, alas, on this occasion Is ten times worse than an Illumination: 'Tis downright to bewray our Nests, mere Nonsense; Like Clodpates Fiddler sing against our Conscience. 'Tis true, out of mere shame we rig in Blacks, The modish Whitehall Livery on our Backs; But let not that dark Badge make the Court-tools Think they have Converts of us: No poor fools, To tell the truth, we wear this sable Dress, For good old Luxemburgh, not young Queen Bess. But now I talk of Wills, pray do not think That we come there for sober Coffee drink; 'Tis true we sup our Dish: But how! We take The Turkish Liquor for the Turkish sake. Lewis and Mahomet in Leagues Divine Are th' only Gemini in our Zodiac shine. Party per pale alone our Coat adorns, We own no Cross, but what the Crescent horns. However should we feel an Itch of Verse, To hang some Couplets on that Royal Hearse; On such a subject: Death! What can we say? You know our Genius lies another way. Religion and grave Sanctity! All Phlegm. Virtue and Piety are not Our Theme. The saturnine dull Features of a SAINT, Are what our airyer Pencils ne'er can paint. True, we have seen that shining Presence warm The Theatre, and the Spectators charm. The Stage has felt her influencing Power: Nay, some of Us perhaps, at some kind Hour, Have caught the Goddess in a Golden shower. A Royal Grace of that obliging Kind, As leaves us all those vast Arrears behind. But to that Charmer we must stop our Ears, For Gratitude our Rubric never bears. Besides Great MART in the Box, our Wit Can no more reach— Our Talon lies more fit For little Jenny Cromwell in the Pit; For Sonnets to some Phyllis of the Grove Conveyed by that kind Vehicle of Love; Some soft She-sinner, melting Miss; ay, marry, Our Pegasus can swoop at such a Quarry. These Doctrines our young Sullenists preach round, The Texts which their poetic Silence found. But why the Doctor of their Chair; why Thou their great Rabbinick Voice thus silent too? Could Noll's once meteor Glories blaze so fair, to make Thee that all- prostrate Zealot there? Strange, that that Fiery Nose could boast that Charm, Thy Muse with those Seraphick-raptures warm! And our fair ALBION Star to shine so bleak, HER radiant Influence so i'll, so weak! Gorged with His riotous Festival of Fame, Could thy weak stomach pule at MARY's Name! Or was thy Junior palate more canine, And now in years grows squeamish and more fine! Fie, peivish Niggard, with thy flowing store To play the churl,— Excuse thy shame no more. WIT's a free Denizen of the whole World, Claims Passport every where; with sails unfurld, Like the famed Drake's once Universal round, Should range the Globe, and know no Check nor Bound. The Muses too would Meanly be reproached, By wretched Faction, or poor Spite deboacht. Rouse then, nor let such empty phantoms fright; But take thy generous Pen, sit down, and write. And if the sullen Thing be still too- stout, Play thy own Exorcist, and drive him out. Not that th' unjust imposing World would ask, From thy kind Hands, unreasonable Task. For though Her Altars do not just with thine, thou hast Theme enough besides, and all Divine. Draw but Her BEAUTY, paint each lovely Grace: There's not one Heretick-Line in that whole FACE: A Face that even All Churches reconciles: No Faith but what must own those Angel-Smiles. From Her bright Eyes, survey Her Brighter MIND, The Leading Virtue of Her whole fair Kind: Her Goodness, Mercy, Charity, Her whole Rich Treasury the Hoard of that Fair Soul: The fragrant perfumes those kind Odours breath; But above All, Her sweeter NUPTIAL Wreath: Her bright Ascendant MORALS; Subjects more Than Wit can reach, Heights where no pen can soar, Those dear Domestic Menials of Her Reign, Abstracted from Her loftier Temple-Train. Nay, not to give thy own dear Rome the Lie; Her warm Devotion, so much Piety, A Piety, though Her mistaken Guide, A Zeal so high, if on the Erring Side, Has Beauties even for whole charmed Worlds t' admire, A Theme enough the nicest Mose t' inspire, Though SHE knelt only to a Vestal Fire. FINIS.