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1 THOU 1 youngest Virgin-Daughter of the Skies, | |
| Made in the last Promotion of the Blest; | |
| Whose Palms, 2 new pluckt from Paradise, | |
| In spreading Branches more sublimely rise, | |
| Rich with Immortal Green above the rest: | 5 |
| Whether, adopted to some Neighbouring Star, | |
| Thou rol’st above us in thy wand’ring Race, | |
| Or, in Procession fixt and regular, | |
| Mov’d with the Heavens Majestick pace; | |
| Or, call’d to more Superiour Bliss, | 10 |
| Thou tread’st, with Seraphims, the vast Abyss: | |
| Whatever happy region is 3 thy place, | |
| Cease thy Celestial Song a little space; | |
| (Thou wilt have time enough for Hymns Divine, | |
| Since Heav’ns Eternal Year is thine.) | 15 |
| Hear then a Mortal Muse thy praise rehearse | |
| In no ignoble Verse; | |
| But such as thy own voice did practise here, | |
| When thy first Fruits of Poesie were given, | |
| To make thyself a welcome Inmate there; | 20 |
| While yet a young Probationer, | |
| And Candidate of Heav’n. | |
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2 If by Traduction came thy Mind, | |
| Our Wonder is the less to find | |
| A Soul so charming from a Stock so good; | 25 |
| Thy Father was transfus’d into thy Blood: 4 | |
| So wert thou born into the tuneful strain, | |
| (An early, rich, and inexhausted Vein.) | |
| But if thy Præ-existing 5 Soul | |
| Was form’d, at first, with Myriads more, | 30 |
| It did through all the Mighty Poets roul | |
| Who Greek or Latine Laurels wore, | |
| And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. | |
| If so, then cease thy flight, O Heav’n-born Mind! | |
| Thou hast no Dross to purge from thy Rich Ore: | 35 |
| Nor can thy Soul a fairer Mansion find | |
| Than was the Beauteous Frame she left behind: | |
| Return, to fill or mend the Quire of thy Celestial kind. | |
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3 May we presume to say, that at thy Birth, | |
| New joy was sprung in HEAV’N as well as here on Earth? | 40 |
| For sure the Milder Planets did combine | |
| On thy Auspicious Horoscope to shine, | |
| And ev’n the most Malicious were in Trine. | |
| Thy Brother-Angels 6 at thy Birth | |
| Strung each his Lyre, and tun’d it high, | 45 |
| That all the People of the Skie | |
| Might know a Poetess was born on Earth. | |
| And then if ever, Mortal Ears | |
| Had heard the Musick of the Spheres! | |
| And if no clust’ring Swarm of Bees | 50 |
| On thy sweet Mouth distill’d their golden Dew, | |
| ’Twas that, such vulgar Miracles | |
| Heav’n had not Leasure to renew: | |
| For all the Blest Fraternity of Love | |
| Solemniz’d there thy Birth, and kept thy Holyday above. | 55 |
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4 O Gracious God! How far have we | |
| Prophan’d thy Heav’nly Gift of Poesy! | |
| Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, | |
| Debas’d to each obscene and impious use, | |
| Whose Harmony was first ordain’d Above, | 60 |
| For Tongues of Angels and for Hymns of Love! | |
| Oh wretched We! why were we hurry’d down | |
| This lubrique and adult’rate age, | |
| (Nay, added fat Pollutions of our own) | |
| T’ increase the steaming Ordures of the Stage? | 65 |
| What can we say t’ excuse our Second Fall? | |
| Let this thy Vestal, Heav’n, atone 7 for all: | |
| Her Arethusian Stream remains unsoil’d, | |
| Unmixt with Forreign Filth and undefil’d, | |
| Her Wit was more than Man, her Innocence a Child. | 70 |
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5 Art she had none, yet wanted none, | |
| For Nature did that Want supply: | |
| So rich in Treasures of her Own, | |
| She might our boasted Stores defy: | |
| Such Noble Vigour did her Verse adorn, | 75 |
| That it seem’d borrow’d, where ’twas only born. | |
| Her Morals too were in her Bosom 8 bred | |
| By great Examples daily fed, | |
| What in the best of Books, her Father’s Life, she read. | |
| And to be read her self she need not fear; | 80 |
| Each Test, and ev’ry Light, her Muse will bear, | |
| Though Epictetus with his Lamp were there. | |
| Ev’n Love (for Love sometimes her Muse exprest), | |
| Was but a Lambent-flame which play’d about her Breast: 9 | |
| Light as the Vapours of a Morning Dream, | 85 |
| So cold herself, whilst she such Warmth exprest, | |
| ’Twas Cupid bathing in Diana’s Stream. | |
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6 Born to the Spacious Empire of the Nine, | |
| One wou’d have thought, she should have been content | |
| To manage well that Mighty Government; | 90 |
| But what can young ambitious Souls confine? | |
| To the next Realm she stretcht her Sway, | |
| For Painture near 10 adjoyning lay, | |
| A plenteous Province, and alluring Prey. | |
| A Chamber of Dependences was fram’d, | 95 |
| (As Conquerors will never want Pretence, | |
| When arm’d, to justifie th’ Offence), | |
| And the whole Fief, in right of Poetry she claim’d. | |
| The Country open lay without Defence; | |
| For Poets frequent In-rodes there had made, | 100 |
| And perfectly cou’d represent | |
| The Shape, the Face, with ev’ry Lineament; | |
| And all the large Demains which the Dumb-sister sway’d; | |
| All bow’d beneath her Government, | |
| Receiv’d in Triumph wheresoe’re she went. | 105 |
| Her Pencil drew whate’re her Soul design’d | |
| And oft the happy Draught surpass’d the Image in her Mind. | |
| The Sylvan Scenes of Herds and Flocks | |
| And fruitful Plains and barren Rocks, | |
| Of shallow Brooks that flow’d so clear, | 110 |
| The bottom did the top appear, | |
| Of deeper too and ampler Floods 11 | |
| Which as in Mirrors, shew’d the Woods; | |
| Of lofty Trees, with Sacred Shades | |
| And Perspectives of pleasant Glades, | 115 |
| Where Nymphs of brightest Form appear, | |
| And shaggy Satyrs standing near, 12 | |
| Which them at once admire and fear. | |
| The Ruines too of some Majestick Piece, | |
| Boasting the Pow’r of ancient Rome or Greece, | 120 |
| Whose Statues, Freezes, Columns, broken lie, | |
| And, tho’ defac’d, 13 the Wonder of the Eye; | |
| What Nature, Art, bold Fiction, e’re durst frame, | |
| Her forming Hand gave Feature to 14 the Name. | |
| So strange a Concourse ne’re was seen before, | 125 |
| But when the peopl’d Ark the whole Creation bore. | |
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7 The Scene then chang’d; with bold Erected Look | |
| Our Martial King the sight with Reverence strook: | |
| For, not content t’ express his Outward Part, | |
| Her hand call’d out the Image of his Heart, | 130 |
| His Warlike Mind, his Soul devoid of Fear, | |
| His High-designing Thoughts were figurd’ there, | |
| As when, by Magick, Ghosts are made appear. | |
| Our Phenix queen was portrai’d too so bright, | |
| Beauty alone cou’d Beauty take so right: | 135 |
| Her Dress, her Shape, her matchless Grace, | |
| Were all observ’d, as well as heav’nly Face. | |
| With such a Peerless Majesty she stands, | |
| As in that Day she took the Crown from Sacred hands: 15 | |
| Before a Train of Heroins was seen, | 140 |
| In Beauty foremost, as in Rank, the Queen! | |
| Thus nothing to her Genius was deny’d, | |
| But like a Ball of Fire, the farther thrown, | |
| Still with a greater Blaze she shone, | |
| And her bright Soul broke out on ev’ry side. | 145 |
| What next she had design’d, Heaven only knows: | |
| To such Immod’rate Growth her Conquest rose | |
| That Fate alone its Progress cou’d oppose. | |
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8 Now all those Charms, 16 that blooming Grace, | |
| The well-proportion’d Shape and beauteous Face, | 150 |
| Shall never more be seen by Mortal Eyes; | |
| In Earth the much-lamented Virgin lies! | |
| Not Wit nor Piety cou’d Fate prevent; | |
| Nor was the cruel Destiny content | |
| To finish all the Murder at a blow, | 155 |
| To sweep at once her Life and Beauty too; | |
| But, like a hardn’d Fellon, took a pride | |
| To work more Mischievously slow, | |
| And plunder’d first, and then destroy’d. | |
| O double Sacriledge on things Divine, | 160 |
| To rob the Relique, and deface the Shrine! | |
| But thus Orinda dy’d: | |
| Heav’n, by the same Disease, did both translate, | |
| As equal were their Souls, so equal was their fate. | |
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9 Mean time, her Warlike Brother on the Seas | 165 |
| His waving Streamers to the Winds displays, | |
| And vows for his Return, with vain Devotion, pays. | |
| Ah, Generous Youth! that Wish for-bear, | |
| The Winds too soon will waft thee here! | |
| Slack all thy Sails, 17 and fear to come, | 170 |
| Alas, thou know’st not, thou art wreck’d at home! | |
| No more shalt thou behold thy Sister’s Face, | |
| Thou hast already had her last Embrace. | |
| But look aloft, and if thou ken’st from far, | |
| Among the Pleiad’s, a New-kindl’d star, | 175 |
| If any sparkles, than the rest, more bright, | |
| ’Tis she that shines in that propitious Light. | |
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10 When in mid-Air 18 the Golden Trump shall sound, | |
| To raise the Nations under ground; | |
| When in the Valley of Jehosaphat | 180 |
| The Judging God shall close the book of Fate; | |
| And there the last Assizes keep | |
| For those who Wake and those who Sleep; | |
| When ratling Bones together fly | |
| From the four Corners of the Skie, | 185 |
| When Sinews o’re the Skeletons are spread, | |
| Those cloath’d with Flesh, and Life inspires the Dead; | |
| The Sacred Poets first shall hear the Sound, | |
| And formost from the Tomb shall bound: | |
| For they are cover’d with the lightest ground; | 190 |
| And streight, with in-born Vigour, on the Wing, | |
| Like mounting Larks, 19 to the New Morning sing. | |
| There Thou, sweet Saint, before the Quire shalt go, | |
| As Harbinger of Heav’n, the Way to show, | |
| The Way which thou so well hast learn’d below. | 195 |
