Poems, Poem 3
ARCADES.
Part of an Entertainment preſented to the Counteſs Dowager of Darby at Harefield, by ſome Noble Perſons of her Family, who appear on the Scene in Paſtoral Habit, moving toward the ſeat of State, with this Song.
1. SONG.
LOok Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
What ſudden blaze of Majeſty
Is that which we from hence deſcry
Too divine to be miſtook:
This this is ſhe
To whom our vows and wiſhes bend,
Heer our ſolemn ſearch hath end.
Fame that her high worth to raiſe,
Seem'd erſt ſo laviſh and profuſe,
We may juſtly now accuſe
Of detraction from her praiſe,
Leſs then half we find expreſt,
Envy bid conceal the reſt.
Mark what radiant ſtate ſhe ſpreds,
In circle round her ſhining throne,
Shooting her beams like ſilver threds,
This this is ſhe alone,
Sitting like a Goddes bright,
In the center of her light.
Might ſhe the wiſe Latona be,
Or the towred Cybele,
Mother of a hundred gods;
Juno dare's not give her odds;
Who had thought this clime had held
A deity ſo unparalel'd?
As they com forward, the Genius of the Wood appears, and turning toward them, ſpeaks.
GEn. Stay gentle Swains, for though in this diſguiſe,
I ſee bright honour ſparkle through your eyes,
Of famous Arcady ye are, and ſprung
Of that renowned flood, ſo often ſung,
Divine Alpheus, who by ſecret ſluſe,
Stole under Seas to meet his Arethuſe;
And ye the breathing Roſes of the Wood,
Fair ſilver-buskin'd Nymphs as great and good,
I know this queſt of yours, and free intent
Was all in honour and devotion ment
To the great Miſtres of you princely ſhrine,
Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,
And with all helpful ſervice will comply
To further this nights glad ſolemnity;
And lead ye where ye may more near behold
What ſhallow ſearching Fame hath left untold;
Which I full oft amidſt theſe ſhades alone
Have ſate to wonder at, and gaze upon:
For know by lot from Jove I am the powr
Of this fair Wood, and live in Oak'n bowr,
To nurſe the Saplings tall, and curl the grove.
With Ringlets quaint; and wanton windings wove.
And all my Plants I ſave from nightly ill,
Of noiſom winds, and blaſting vapours chill.
And from the Boughs bruſh off the evil dew,
And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blew,
Or what the croſs dire-looking Planet ſmites,
Or hurtfull Worm with canker'd venom bites.
When Ev'ning gray doth riſe, I fetch my round
Over the mount, and all this hallow'd groun'd,
And early ere the odorous breath of morn
Awakes the ſlumbring leaves, or taſſeld horn
Shakes the high thicket, haſte I all about,
Number my ranks, and viſit every ſprout
With puiſſant words, and murmurs made to bleſs,
But els in deep of night when drowfines
Hath lock't up mortal ſenſe, then liſten I
To the celeſtical Sirens harmony,
That ſit upon the nine enfolded Sphears,
And ſing to thoſe that hold the vital ſhears,
And turn the Adamantine ſpindle round,
On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
Such ſweet compulſion doth in muſickly,
To lull the daughters of Neceſſity,
And keep unſteddy Nature to her law,
And the low world in meaſur'd motion draw
After the heavenly tune, which none can hear
Of human mould with groſs unpurged ear;
And yet ſuch muſick worthieſt were to blaze
The peerles height of her immortal praiſe,
Whoſe luſtre leads us, and for her moſt fit,
If my inferior hand or voice could hit
Inimitable ſounds, yet as we go,
What ere the skill of leſſer gods can ſhow,
I will aſſay, her worth to celebrate,
And ſo attend ye toward her glittering ſtate;
Where ye may all that are of noble ſtemm
Approach, and kiſs her ſacred veſtures hemm.
2. SONG.
O'Re the ſmooth enamel'd green
Where no print of ſtep hath been,
Follow me as I ſing,
And touch the warbled ſtring.
Under the ſhady roof
Of branching Elm-Star-proof.
Follow me,
I will bring you where ſhe ſits
Clad in ſplendor as befits
Her deity.
Such a rural Queen
All Arcadia hath not ſeen.
3. SONG.
NYmphs and Shepherds dance no more
By ſandy Ladons Lillied banks,
On old Lycaeus or Cyllene hoar,
Trip no more in twilight ranks,
Though Erymanth your loſs deplore,
A better ſoyl ſhall give ye thanks.
From the ſtony Maenalus,
Bring your Flocks, and live with us,
Here ye ſhall have geater grace,
To ſerve the Lady of this place.
Though Syrinx your Pans Miſtreſs were,
Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.
Such a rural Queen
All Arcadia hath not ſeen,