The golden pomp is come; For now each tree does wear, Made of her pap and gum, Rich beads of amber here. Now reigns the Rose, and now Homer! this health to thee, Next, Virgil I'll call forth, To pledge this second health In wine, whose each cup's worth An Indian commonwealth. A goblet next I'll drink To Ovid; and suppose Then this immensive cup Of aromatic wine, Catullus, I quaff up To that terse muse of thine. Wild I am now with heat, O Bacchus! cool thy rays; Or frantic I shall eat Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bays. Round, round, the roof does run; Now, to Tibullus next, This flood I drink to thee; But stay, I see a text, That this presents to me. Behold! Tibullus lies Here burnt, whose small return Of ashes scarce suffice To fill a little urn. Trust to good verses then; Are lost in the funeral fire. And when all bodies meet In Lethe, to be drowned; Then only numbers sweet, With endless life are crowned. HERRICK. TO SIR HENRY VANE.. VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old, Than whom a better senator ne'er held The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled The fierce Epirot, and the African bold, Whether to settle peace, or to unfold The drift of hollow states, hard to be spelled; Then to advise how War may, best upheld, Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold, In all her equipage: besides to know Both spiritual power and civil, what each means, What severs each, thou hast learned, which few have done: The bounds of either sword to thee we owe: Therefore on thy firm hand In peace, and reckons thee her O, FOR my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide, Than public means, which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer's hand: Pity me then, and wish I were renewed; Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink Potions of eyesell, 'gainst my strong infection: No bitterness that I will bitter think, Nor double penance, to correct correction. Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye, Even that your pity is enough to Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow? From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But clear and artless, pouring through the plain Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary traveller repose? Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise? "The Man of Ross," each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread: He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state, Where age and want sit smiling at the gate: Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blest, The young who labor, and the old who rest. Is any sick? The Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives. Is there a variance? enter but his door, Balked are the courts, and contest is Blush grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw your blaze; Ye little stars! hide your diminished rays. And what? no monument, inscription, stone, His race, his form, his name almost unknown? Who builds a church to God, and not to fame Will never mark the marble with his name. POPE. ELEGY ON MISTRESS ELIZABETH DRURY. SHE, of whose soul, if we may say, 'twas gold, Her body was the Electrum, and did hold Many degrees of that; we understood Her by her sight; her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That one might almost say, her body thought. She, she thus richly, largely housed, is gone, And chides us slow-paced snails who crawl upon Our prison's prison, Earth, nor think us well Longer than whilst we bear our little shell. And see all things despoiled of fallacies; Thou shalt not peep through lattices of eyes, Nor hear through labyrinths of ears, nor learn By circuit or collections to discern; In heaven then straight know'st all concerning it, And what concerns it not, shall straight forget. There thou but in no other school mayst be Perchance as learned and as full as she; She, who all libraries had thoroughly read At home in her own thoughts, and practisèd So much good as would make as many more. Up, up, my drowsy soul! where thy new ear Shall in the angels' songs no discord hear; Where thou shalt see the blessed Mother-maid Joy in not being that which men have said; Where she's exalted more for being good, |