内厄姆·泰特诗11首
Whilst Shepherds Watch'D
Whilst Shepherds watch'd their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around.
Fear not, said he, for mighty dread
Had seized their troubled mind,
Glad tidings of great joy I bring
To you and all mankind.
To you in David's town this day
Is born of David's line
A Saviour, which is Christ the Lord;
And this shall be the sign.
The heavenly Babe you there shall find,
To human view display'd,
All meanly wrapt in swaddling bands
And in a manger laid.
Thus spake the Seraph, and forthwith
Appeared a heavenly throng
Of Angels praising God, and thus
Address'd their joyful song:
All glory be to God on high,
And to the earth be peace,
Good-will henceforth from Heav'n to men
Begin and never cease.
Hallelujah.
Carmina, 55 and 58b
Now if thou hast one dram of Grace,
Save a Friends Life and shew thy Face.
From me before thou ne're wast hid.
I saw thee tho the Sun ne're did.
Come forth I say thou sculking Elf,
Save a Friends Life and shew thy self.
For thee I've searched, and search'd again
Park, Tavern, Play-house, but in vain;
All these thou long hast left i'th lurch,
I might as well have search'd a Church.
Distracted now I scour the street,
And seize all Females that I meet;
Where's my Friend aloud I cry,
Naughty Creatures, speak or die,
One, making bare her snowy Breasts,
Cry'd — Seek no further, here he rests.
I'm tired with this Herculean work,
'Tis worse than tugging for the Turk.
Y'are in intrigue you'l say — be't so!
With Quality — That may be too;
Come tell your Conquest then say I,
That's Pleasure — T'other's Drudgery.
Mischief take Thee Graceless Elf.
Where canst thou thus conceal thy self?
I think (I'll swear) should I turn Witch,
To ride upon a liquer'd Switch,
Mount Lightning, and out-fly the Wind,
This Sculker I shall never find.
New Year's Day Song
Chorus
What then should happy Britain do?
Blest with the gift and giver too.
On warlike enterprizes bent
To foreign fields the hero went;
The dreadful part he there perform'd
Of battles fought, and cities storm'd:
But now the drum and trumpet cease,
And wish'd success his sword has sheath'd,
To us returns, with olive wreath'd,
To practice here the milder arts of peace.
Grand chorus
Happy, happy, past expressing,
Britain, if thou know'st thy blessing;
Home-bred discord ne'er alarm thee,
Other mischief cannot harm thee.
Happy, if thou know'st thy blessing
Happy, happy, past expressing.
Procris' Immortal Lelaps: Cephalus' Story
CEPHALUS' STORY
But with herself she kindly did confer
What gifts the goddess had bestowed on her;
The fleetest greyhound, with this lovely dart,
And I of both have wonders to impart.
Near Thebes a savage beast, of race unknown,
Laid waste the field, and bore the vineyards down;
The swains fled from him, and with one consent
Our Grecian youth to chase the monster went;
More swift than lightning he the toils surpast,
And in his course spears, men, and trees o'ercast.
We slipt our dogs, and last my Lelaps too,
When none of all the mortal race would do:
He long before was struggling from my hands,
And, ere we could unloose him, broke his bands,
That minute where he was, we could not find,
And only saw the dust he left behind.
I climbed a neighbouring hill to view the chase,
While in the plain they held an equal race;
The savage now seems caught; and now by force
To quit himself, nor holds the same straight course;
But running counter, from the foe withdraws,
And with short turning cheats his gaping jaws:
Which he retrieves, and still so closely prest,
You'd fear at every stretch he were possessed:
Yet for the gripe his fangs in vain prepare;
The game shoots from him, and he chops the air,
To cast my jav'lin then I took my stand;
But as the thongs were fitting to my hand,
While to the valley I o'erlooked the wood,
Before my eyes two marble statues stood;
That, as pursued appearing at full stretch,
This, barking after, and at point to catch:
Some god their course did with this wonder grace,
That neither might be conquered in the chase.
Prologue
If yet there be a few that take delight
In that which reasonable Men should write,
To them Alone we Dedicate this Night.
The Rest may satisfie their curious Itch
With City Gazets, or some Factious Speech,
Or what-ere Libel, for the Publick Good,
Stirs up the Shrove-tide Crew to Fire and Blood!
Remove your Benches, you apostate Pit,
And take Above, twelve penny-worth of Wit;
Go back to your dear Dancing on the Rope,
Or see what's worse, the Devil and the Pope!
The Plays that take on our Corrupted Stage,
Methinks, resemble the distracted Age;
Noise, Madness, all unreasonable Things,
That strike at Sense, as Rebels do at Kings!
The stile of Forty One our Poets write,
And you are grown to judge like Forty Eight.
Such Censures our mistaking Audience make,
That 'tis almost grown Scandalous to Take!
They talk of Feavours that infect the Brains,
But Non-sence is the new Disease that reigns.
Weak Stomachs, with a long Disease opprest,
Cannot the Cordials of strong Wit digest;
Therefore thin Nourishment of Farce ye choose,
Decoctions of a Barly-water Muse:
A Meal of Tragedy wou'd make ye Sick,
Unless it were a very tender Chick.
Some Scenes in Sippets wou'd be worth our time,
Those wou'd go down; some Love that's poach'd in Rime;
If these shou'd fail--
We must lie down, and, after all our cost,
Keep Holy-day, like Water-men in Frost;
Whilst you turn Players on the Worlds great Stage,
And Act your selves the Farce of your own Age.
Story of Cephalus and Procris -
To th' inmost Courts the Grecian Youths were led,
And plac'd by Phocus on a Tyrian Bed;
Who, soon observing Cephalus to hold
A Dart of unknown Wood, but arm'd with Gold;
None better loves (said he) the Hunts-man's Sport,
Or does more often to the Woods resort;
Yet I that Jav'lin's Stem with Wonder view,
Too brown for Box, too smooth a Grain for Yew.
I cannot guess the Tree; but never Art
Did form, or Eyes behold so fair a Dart!
The Guest then interrupts him — 'Twou'd produce
Still greater Wonder, if you knew its Use.
It never fails to strike the Game, and then
Comes bloody back into your Hand again.
Then Phocus each Particular desires,
And th' Author of the wond'rous Gift enquires.
To which the Owner thus, with weeping Eyes,
And Sorrow for his Wife's sad Fate, replies,
This Weapon here (O Prince!) can you believe
This Dart the Cause for which so much I grieve;
And shall continue to grieve on, 'till Fate
Afford such wretched Life no longer Date.
Would I this fatal Gift had ne'er enjoy'd,
This fatal Gift my tender Wife destroy'd:
Procris her Name, ally'd in Charms and Blood
To fair Oryshia courted by a God
Her Father seal'd my Hopes with Rites Divine,
But firmer Love before had made her mine.
Men call'd me blest, and blest I was indeed.
The second Month our Nuptials did succeed;
When (as upon Hymettus ' dewy Head,
For Mountain Stags, my Net betimes I spread)
Aurora spy'd, and ravish'd me away,
With Rev'rence to the Goddess, I must say,
Against my Will, for Procris had my Heart,
Nor wou'd her Image from my Thoughts depart.
At last, in Rage she cry'd, Ingrateful Boy
Go to your Procris ; take your fatal Joy;
And so dismiss'd me: Musing, as I went,
What those Expressions of the Goddess meant,
A thousand jealous Fears possess me now;
Lest Procris had prophan'd her Nuptial Vow:
Her Youth and Charms did to my Fancy paint
A lewd Adultress, but her Life a Saint
Yet I was absent long, the Goddess too
Taught me how far a Woman cou'd be true.
Aurora 's Treatment much Suspicion bred;
Besides, who truly love, ev'n Shadows dread:
I strait impatient for the Tryal grew,
What Courtship back'd with richest Gifts cou'd do.
Aurora 's Envy aided my Design,
And lent me Features far unlike to mine.
In this Disguise to my own House I came,
But all was chaste, no conscious Sign of Blame:
With thousand Arts I scarce Admittance found,
And then beheld her weeping on the Ground
For her lost Husband; hardly I retain'd
My Purpose, scarce the wish'd Embrace refrain'd.
How charming was her Grief! Then, Phocus , guess
What killing Beauties waited on her Dress.
Her constant Answer, when my Suit I prest,
Forbear, my Lord's dear Image guards this Breast,
Where-e'er he is, whatever Cause detains,
Who-e'er has his, my Heart unmov'd remains
What greater Proofs of Truth than these cou'd be?
Yet I persist, and urge my Destiny.
At length, she found, when my own Form return'd,
Her jealous Lover there, whose Loss she mourn'd.
Enrag'd with my Suspicion, swift as Wind,
She fled at once from me and all Mankind;
And so became, her Purpose to retain,
A Nymph, and Huntress in Diana 's Train:
Forsaken thus, I found my Flames encrease,
I own'd my Folly, and I su'd for Peace
It was a Fault, but not of Guilt, to move
Such Punishment, a Fault of too much Love.
Thus I retriev'd her to my longing Arms,
And many happy Days possess'd her Charms.
But with herself she kindly did confer,
What Gifts the Goddess had bestow'd on her;
The fleetest Grey-hound, with this lovely Dart,
And I of both have Wonders to impart
Near Thebes a Savage Beast, of Race unknown,
Laid waste the Field, and bore the Vineyards down;
The Swains fled from him, and with one Consent
Our Grecian Youth to chase the Monster went;
More swift than Light'ning he the Toils surpast,
And in his Course Spears, Men, and Trees o'er-cast.
We slipt our Dogs, and last my Lelaps too,
When none of all the mortal Race wou'd do:
He long before was struggling from my Hands,
And, e're we cou'd unloose him, broke his Bands.
That Minute where he was we cou'd not find,
And only saw the Dust he left behind
I climb'd a neighb'ring Hill to view the Chase,
While in the Plain they held an equal Race;
The Savage now seems caught, and now by Force
To quit himself, nor holds the same strait Course;
But running counter, from the Foe withdraws,
And with short Turning cheats his gaping Jaws:
Which he retrieves, and still so closely prest,
You'd fear at ev'ry Stretch he were possess'd;
Yet for the Gripe his Fangs in vain prepare,
The Game shoots from him, and he chops the Air.
To cast my Jav'lin then I took my Stand;
But as the Thongs were fitting to my Hand,
While to the Valley I o'er-look'd the Wood,
Before my Eyes two Marble Statues stood.
That, as pursu'd, appearing at full Stretch,
This barking after, and at point to catch.
Some God their Course did with this Wonder grace,
That neither might be conquer'd in the Chase;
A sudden Silence here his Tongue supprest,
He here stops short, and fain wou'd wave the rest.
The eager Prince then urg'd him to impart,
The Fortune that attended on the Dart.
First then (said he) past Joys let me relate,
For Bliss was the Foundation of my Fate.
No Language can those happy Hours express,
Did from our Nuptials me and Procris bless:
The kindest Pair! What more cou'd Heav'n confer?
For She was all to me, and I to her.
Had Jove made Love, great Jove had been despis'd;
And I my Procris more than Venus priz'd:
Thus while no other Joy we did aspire,
We grew at last one Soul, and one Desire.
Forth to the Woods I went at Break of Day,
(The constant Practice of my Youth) for Prey:
Nor yet for Servant, Horse, or Dog did call,
I found this single Dart to serve for all.
With Slaughter tir'd, I sought the cooler Shade,
And Winds that from the Mountains pierc'd the Glade:
Come, gentle Air, (so was I wont to say)
Come, gentle Air, sweet Aura come away.
This always was the Burden of my Song,
Come swage my Flames, sweet Aura come along.
Thou always art most welcome to my Breast;
I faint; approach, thou dearest, kindest Guest!
These Blandishments, and more than these, I said,
(By Fate to unsuspected Ruin led)
Thou art my Joy, for thy dear sake I love
Each desart Hill and solitary Grove;
When (faint with Labour) I Refreshment need,
For Cordials on thy fragrant Breath I feed.
At last a wand'ring Swain in hearing came,
And cheated with the Sound of Aura 's Name,
He thought I had some Assignation made;
And to my Procris ' Ear the News convey'd.
Great Love is soonest with Suspicion fir'd,
She swoon'd, and with the Tale almost expir'd
Ah! wretched Heart, (she cry'd) ah! faithless Man!
And then to curse th'imagin'd Nymph began:
Yet oft she doubts, oft hopes she is deceiv'd,
And chides herself that ever she believ'd
Her Lord to such Injustice cou'd proceed,
Till she herself were Witness of the Deed
Next Morn I to the Woods again repair,
And, weary with the Chase, invoke the Air;
Approach, dear Aura , and my Bosom chear:
At which a mournful Sound did strike my Ear;
Yet I proceeded, 'till the Thicket by,
With rustling Noise and Motion, drew my Eye;
I thought some Beast of Prey was shelter'd there,
And to the Covert threw my certain Spear;
From whence a tender Sigh my Soul did wound,
Ah me! it cry'd, and did like Procris sound.
Procris was there, too well the Voice I knew,
And to the Place with headlong Horror flew;
Where I beheld her gasping on the Ground,
In vain attempting from the deadly Wound
To draw the Dart, her Love's dear fatal Gift!
My guilty Arms had scarce the Strength to lift
The beauteous Load; my Silks and Hair I tore
(If possible) to stanch the pressing Gore;
For Pity begg'd her keep her flitting Breath,
And not to leave me guilty of her Death.
While I intreat she fainted fast away,
And these few Words had only Strength to say;
By all the sacred Bonds of plighted Love,
By all your Rev'rence to the Pow'rs above,
By all that made me charming once appear,
By all the Truth for which you held me dear,
And last by Love, the Cause through which I bleed,
Let Aura never to my Bed succeed.
I then perceiv'd the Error of our Fate,
And told it her, but found and told too late!
I felt her lower to my Bosom fall,
And while her Eyes had any Sight at all,
On mine she fix'd them; in her Pangs still prest
My Hand, and sigh'd her Soul into my Breast;
Yet, being undeceiv'd, resign'd her Breath
Methought more chearfully, and smil'd in Death.
With such Concern the weeping Heroe told
This Tale, that none who heard him cou'd with-hold
From melting into sympathizing Tears,
Till Æacus with his two Sons appears;
Whom he commits, with their new-levy'd Bands,
To Fortune's, and so brave a Gen'ral's Hands.
The Choice
Grant me, indulgent Heaven, a rural seat,
Rather contemptible than great;
Where, though I taste life's sweets, still I may be
Athirst for immortality.
I would have business, but exempt from strife;
A private, but an active, life;
A conscience bold, and punctual to his charge;
My stock of health, or patience, large.
Some book I'd have, and some acquaintance too,
But very good, and very few.
Then (if one mortal two such grants may crave)
From silent life I'd steal into my grave.
The Death of Pelias
Thus far obliging Love employ'd her Art,
But now Revenge must act a tragick Part;
Medea feigns a mortal Quarrel bred
Betwixt her, and the Partner of her Bed;
On this Pretence to Pelia 's Court she flies,
Who languishing with Age and Sickness lies:
His innocent Daughters, with inveigling Wiles,
And well-dissembled Friendship, she beguiles:
The strange Atchievements of her Art she tells,
With Æson 's Cure, and long on that she dwells;
Till them to firm Perswasion she has won,
The same for their old Father may be done:
For him they court her to employ her Skill,
And put upon the Cure what Price she will
At first she's mute, and with a grave Pretence
Of Difficulty, holds 'em in Suspense;
Then promises, and bids 'em, from the Fold
Chuse out a Ram, the most infirm and old;
That so by Fact their Doubts may be remov'd,
And first, on him, the Operation prov'd.
A wreath-horn'd Ram is brought, so far o'er-grown
With Years, his Age was to that Age unknown;
Of Sense too dull the piercing Point to feel,
And scarce sufficient Blood to stain the Steel
His Carcass she into a Cauldron threw,
With Drugs whose vital Qualities she knew;
His Limbs grow less, he casts his Horns and Years,
And tender Bleatings strike their wondring Ears.
Then instantly leaps forth a frisking Lamb,
That seeks (too young to graze) a suckling Dam.
The Sisters, thus confirm'd with the Success,
Her Promise with renew'd Entreaty press;
To countenance the Cheat, three Nights and Days
Before Experiment th' Inchantress stays;
Then into limpid Water, from the Springs,
Weeds, and Ingredients of no Force she flings;
With antique Ceremonies for Pretence,
And rambling Rhymes without a Word of Sense.
Mean while the King with all his Guards lay bound,
In Magick Sleep, scarce that of Death so sound;
The Daughters now are by the Sorc'ress led
Into his Chamber, and surround his Bed
Your Father's Health's concern'd, and can ye stay?
Unnat'ral Nymphs, why this unkind Delay?
Unsheath your Swords, dismiss his lifeless Blood,
And I'll recruit it with a vital Flood:
Your Father's Life and Health is in your Hand,
And can ye thus like idle Gazers stand?
Unless you are of common Sense berest,
If yet one Spark of Piety is left,
Dispatch a Father's Cure, and disengage
The Monarch from his toilsome Load of Age:
Come — drench your Weapons in his putrid Gore,
'Tis Charity to wound, when Wounding will restore.
Thus urg'd, the poor deluded Maids proceed,
Betray'd by Zeal, to an inhumane Deed,
And, in Compassion, make a Father bleed.
Yes, she who had the kindest, tend rest Heart,
Is foremost to perform the bloody Part.
Yet, tho' to act the Butchery betray'd,
They could not bear to see the Wounds they made;
With Looks averted, backward they advance,
Then strike, and stab, and leave the Blows to Chance.
Waking in Consternation, he essays
(Weltring in Blood) his feeble Arms to raise:
Environ'd with so many Swords — from whence
This barb'rous Usage? what is my Offence?
What fatal Fury, what infernal Charm,
'Gainst a kind Father does his Daughters arm?
Hearing his Voice, as Thunder-struck, they stopt,
Their Resolution, and their Weapons dropt:
Medea then the mortal Blow bestows,
And that perform'd, the tragick Scene to close,
His Corpse into the boiling Cauldron throws.
Then, dreading the Revenge that must ensue,
High mounted on her Dragon-Coach she flew;
And in her stately Progress thro' the Skies,
Beneath her shady Pelion first she spies,
With Othrys , that above the Clouds did rise;
With skilful Chiron 's Cave, and neighb'ring Ground,
For old Cerambus ' strange Escape renown'd,
By Nymphs deliver'd when the World was drown'd;
Who him with unexpected Wings supply'd,
When delug'd Hills a safe Retreat deny'd
Æolian Pisane on her Left Hand
She saw, and there the statu'd Dragon stand;
With Ida 's Grove, where Bacchus , to disguise
His Son's bold Theft, and to secure the Prize,
Made the stoln Steer a Stag to represent;
Cocytus ' Father's sandy Monument;
And Fields that held the murder'd Sire's Remains,
Where howling Maera frights the startled Plains.
Euryphilus ' high Town, with Tow'rs defac'd
By Hercules , and Matrons more disgrac'd
With sprouting Horns, in signal Punishment,
From Juno , or resenting Venus sent.
Then Rhodes , which Phaebus did so dearly prize,
And Jove no less severely did chastize;
For he the Wizzard Native's pois'ning Sight,
That us'd the Farmer's hopeful Crops to blight,
In Rage o'erwhelm'd with everlasting Night.
Cartheia 's ancient Walls come next in view,
Where once the Sire almost a Statue grew
With Wonder, which a strange Event did move;
His Daughter turn'd into a Turtle-Dove.
Then Hyrie 's Lake, and Tempe 's Field o'er-ran,
Fam'd for the Boy who there became a Swan;
For there enamour'd Phyllius , like a Slave,
Perform'd what Tasks his Paramour would crave.
For Presents he had Mountain-Vultures caught,
And from the Desart a tame Lion brought;
Then a wild Bull commanded to subdue,
The conquer'd Savage by the Horns he drew;
But, mock'd so oft, the Treatment he disdains,
And from the craving Boy this Prize detains.
Then thus in Choller the resenting Lad;
Won't you deliver him? — You'll wish you had;
Nor sooner said, but, in a peevish Mood,
Leapt from the Precipice on which he stood:
The Standers-by were struck with fresh Surprize,
Instead of falling, to behold him rise
A snowy Swan, and soaring to the Skies.
But dearly the rash Prank his Mother cost,
Who ignorantly gave her Son for lost;
For his Misfortune wept, till she became
A Lake, and still renown'd with Hyrie 's Name.
Thence to Latona 's Isle, where once were seen,
Transform'd to Birds, a Monarch, and his Queen.
Far off she saw how old Cephisus mourn'd
His Son, into a Seele by Phaebus turn'd;
And where, astonish'd at a stranger Sight,
Eumelus gaz'd on his wing'd Daughter's Flight.
Ætolian Pleuron she did next survey,
Where Sons a Mother's Murder did essay,
But sudden Plumes the Matron bore away.
On her Right Hand, Cyllene , a fair Soil,
Fair, till Menephron there the beauteous Hill
Attempted with fowl Incest to defile.
Her harness'd Dragons now direct she drives
For Corinth , and at Corinth she arrives;
Where, if what old Tradition tells, be true,
In former Ages Men from Mushrooms grew.
But here Medea finds her Bed supply'd,
During her Absence, by another Bride;
And hopeless to recover her lost Game,
She sets both Bride and Palace in a Flame.
Nor could a Rival's Death her Wrath asswage,
Nor stopt at Creon 's Family her Rage;
She murders her own Infants, in Despight
To faithless Jason , and in Jason 's Sight;
Yet e'er his Sword could reach her, up she springs,
Securely mounted on her Dragons Wings.
The Story of Aegeus
The Raven once in Snowy Plumes was drest,
White as the whitest Dove's unfully'd Breast,
Fair as the Guardian of the Capitol,
Soft as the Swan; a large and lovely Fowl;
His Tongue, his prating Tongue had chang'd him quite
To sooty Blackness from the purest White.
The Story of his Change shall here be told;
In Thessaly there liv'd a Nymph of old,
Coronis nam'd; a peerless Maid she shin'd,
Confest the Fairest of the fairer Kind
Apollo lov'd her, till her Guilt he knew,
While true she was, or whilst he thought her true
But his own Bird the Raven chanc'd to find
The false one with a secret Rival joyn'd.
Coronis begg'd him to suppress the Tale,
But could not with repeated Pray'rs prevail.
His milk-white Pinions to the God he ply'd;
The busy Daw flew with him, Side by Side,
And by a thousand teizing Questions drew
Th'important Secret from him as they flew.
The Daw gave honest Counsel, tho' despis'd,
And, tedious in her Tattle, thus advis'd.
" Stay, silly Bird, th'ill-natur'd Task refuse,
" Nor be the Bearer of unwelcome News
" Be warn'd by My Example: you discern
" What now I am, and what I was shall learn.
" My foolish Honesty was all my Crime;
" Then hear my Story. Once upon a Time,
" The two-shap'd Ericthonius had his Birth
" (Without a Mother) from the teeming Earth;
" Minerva nurs'd him, and the Infant laid
" Within a Chest, of twining Osiers made.
" The Daughters of King Cecrops undertook
" To guard the Chest, commanded not to look
" On what was hid within. I stood to see
" The Charge obey'd, perch'd on a neighb'ring Tree.
" The Sisters Pandrosos and Herse keep
" The strict Command; Aglauros needs would Peep,
" And saw the monstrous Infant in a Fright,
" And call'd her Sisters to the hideous Sight:
" A Boy's soft Shape did to the Waste prevail,
" But the Boy ended in a Dragon's Tail
" I told the stern Minerva all that pass'd,
" But for my Pains, discarded and disgrac'd,
" The frowning Goddess drove me from her Sight,
" And for her Fav'rite chose the Bird of Night.
" Be then no Tell-Tale; for I think my Wrong
" Enough to teach a Bird to hold her Tongue.
" But you, perhaps, may think I was remov'd,
" As never by the heav'nly Maid belov'd:
" But I was lov'd; ask Pallas if I lye;
" Tho Pallas hate me now, she won't deny:
" For I, whom in a feather'd Shape you view,
" Was once a Maid (by Heav'n the Story's true)
" A blooming Maid, and a King's Daughter too.
" A Crowd of Lovers own'd my Beauty's Charms;
" My Beauty was the Cause of all my Harms;
" Neptune , as on his Shores I wont to rove,
" Observ'd me in my Walks, and fell in Love.
" He made his Courtship, he confess'd his Pain,
" And offer'd Force when all his Arts were vain;
" Swift he pursu'd: I ran along the Strand,
" Till, spent and weary'd on the sinking Sand,
" I shriek'd aloud, with Cries I fill'd the Air
" To Gods and Men; nor God nor Man was there:
" A Virgin Goddess heard a Virgin's Pray'r.
" For, as my Arms I lifted to the Skies,
" I saw Black Feathers from my Fingers rise;
" I strove to fling my Garment on the Ground;
" My Garment turn'd to Plumes, and girt me round:
" My Hands to beat my naked Bosom try;
" Nor naked Bosom now nor Hands had I.
" Lightly I tript, nor weary as before
" Sunk in the Sand, but skim'd along the Shore;
" Till, rising on my Wings, I was prefer'd
" To be the chaste Minerva 's Virgin Bird:
" Prefer'd in vain! I now am in Disgrace:
" Nyctimene the Owl enjoys my Place.
" On Her incestuous Life I need not dwell,
" (In Lesbos still the horrid Tale they tell)
" And of her dire Amours you must have heard,
" For which she now does Penance in a Bird,
" That, conscious of her Shame, avoids the Light,
" And loves the gloomy Cov'ring of the Night;
" The Birds, where-e'er she flutters, scare away
" The Hooting wretch, and drive her from the Day.
The Raven, urg'd by such Impertinence,
Grew Passionate, it seems, and took Offence,
And curst the harmless Daw; the Daw withdrew:
The Raven to her injur'd Patron flew,
And found him out, and told the fatal Truth
Of false Coronis and the favour'd Youth.
The God was wroth; the Colour left his Look,
The Wreath his Head, the Harp his Hand forsook:
His Silver Bow and feather'd Shafts he took,
And lodg'd an Arrow in the tender Breast,
That had so often to his own been prest.
Down fell the wounded Nymph, and sadly groan'd,
And pull'd his Arrow reeking from the Wound;
And weltring in her Blood, thus faintly cry'd,
" Ah cruel God! tho I have justly dy'd,
" What has, alas! my unborn Infant done,
" That He should fall, and Two expire in One?
This said, in Agonies she fetch'd her Breath.
The God dissolves in Pity at her Death;
He hates the Bird that made her Falshood known,
And hates himself for what himself had done;
The feather'd Shaft, that sent her to the Fates,
And his own Hand, that sent the Shaft, he hates.
Fain would he heal the Wound, and ease her Pain,
And tries the Compass of his Art in vain.
Soon as he saw the lovely Nymph expire,
The Pile made ready, and the kindling Fite,
With Sighs and Groans her Obsequies he kept,
And, if a God could weep, the God had wept
Her Corps he kiss'd, and heav'nly Incense brought,
And solemniz'd the Death Himself had wrought.
But, lest his Offspring should her Fate partake,
Spight of th' Immortal Mixture in his Make,
He ript her Womb, and set the Child at large,
And gave him to the Centaur Chiron 's Charge:
Then in his Fury Black'd the Raven o'er,
And bid him Prate in his White plumes no more.
Upon the Author of the following Poem
Once more our awful poet arms, t' engage
The threat'ning hydra-faction of the age;
Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield,
And every Muse attends him to the field:
By art and nature for this task designed,
Yet modestly the fight he long declined,
Forbore the torrent of his verse to pour,
Nor loosed his satire till the needful hour.
His sovereign's right, by patience half betrayed,
Waked his avenging genius to its aid.
Blessed Muse, whose wit with such a cause was crowned,
And blessed the cause that such a champion found.
With chosen verse upon the foe he falls,
And black sedition in each quarter galls;
Yet like a prince with subjects forced t' engage,
Secure of conquest he rebates his rage;
His fury not without distinction sheds,
Hurls mortal bolts, but on devoted heads;
To less infected members gentle found,
Or spares, or else pours balm into the wound.
Such gen'rous grace th' ingrateful tribe abuse,
And trespass on the mercy of his Muse;
Their wretched doggerel rhymers forth they bring
To snarl and bark against the poet's King;
A crew that scandalize the nation more
Than all their treason-canting priests before.
On these he scarce vouchsafes a scornful smile,
But on their powerful patrons turns his style:
A style so keen, as ev'n from faction draws
The vital poison, stabs to th' heart their cause.
Take then, great bard, what tribute we can raise;
Accept our thanks, for you transcend our praise.
Whilst Shepherds Watch'd
Whilst Shepherds watch'd their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around.
Fear not, said he, for mighty dread
Had seized their troubled mind,
Glad tidings of great joy I bring
To you and all mankind.
To you in David's town this day
Is born of David's line
A Saviour, which is Christ the Lord;
And this shall be the sign.
The heavenly Babe you there shall find,
To human view display'd,
All meanly wrapt in swaddling bands
And in a manger laid.
Thus spake the Seraph, and forthwith
Appeared a heavenly throng
Of Angels praising God, and thus
Address'd their joyful song:
All glory be to God on high,
And to the earth be peace,
Good-will henceforth from Heav'n to men
Begin and never cease.
Hallelujah.
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