Three Poems Related to the Destruction of London by Fire, Poem 3 – To the reader
The AUTHOR to the GRAVER. Ʋpon occasion of a Draught expressing London in Flames, designed to have been prefixed as a Frontispice to the Poem; but forborn upon second thoughts.
HOld Graver, hold! In vain thou dost engage
To crowd the Book into the Title-page.
Thy Plate too much beneath thy Project falls.
For, though it shew us Flames, and tottering Walls,
If that be all, thy Title thou'lt bely:
None takes the Scene to be the Tragedy.
No; Londons Flames should so be set to view,
That those who see, in part may feel 'em too;
And even those that cannot see, may find
Th' eye's not th' onelyonly Glass that burns the mind.
Say then; canst thou express the shriekes and cryes,
That rent the Clouds, and pierc'd the melting Skies?
Can thy Descriptions accent Babels Voyces,
Or give due Ecchoes to confused Noyses?
Canst thou express the bawlings of a Croud,
Wherein none's heard, 'cause every one is loud?
Or the Extortions, Thefts, and cozening feats
Of Porters, Carters, Water-men, and Cheats?
Canst thou describe the sounds of tuneless Bells,
Whose awkward Musick tolls their Steeples Knells?
The cracks of tumbling Houses, and the greeting
Of tottering Roofs, and battering Cannons meeting?
Canst thou to view present the hissing steams
Of melted Metals check'd with cooling streams?
Or draw the medley of compounded smells,
Forc'd, some from fragrant, some from nasty Cells?
Canst reach the Horrors of distracted minds,
Where ghastly fear with woful grief combines?
Grief, which expression from amazement borrows,
Whiles Tears are stifled by profounder sorrows.
Or th' Hurrey which distemper'd Fancies fills,
Where Thought stabs Thought, and Project, Project kills?
Where what to save, 's in doubt, till all be lost,
And slow Resolves by speedy Fates are crost?
Canst draw the Misers Passions, while he lags
In midst of Flames, hugging his darling Bags;
Whom, loath to lose, and loath to give, divide,
Neer sacrific'd to what he deifi'd?
Or a just Love 'twixt equal Children parted,
Where one must be preferr'd, th' other deserted?
Or, whiles both Goods and Childrens danger scares,
The Mothers bowels, and the Fathers cares?
Or labouring throws, and Births precipitate,
Where the Fright's Midwife, and the Nurse is Fate?
If none of these within thy Picture come,
Confess it short, and give the Poet room.
Poetry is an Intellectual Mint,
That stamps a Picture with a spirit in't;
Whose secret Magick Senses want supplyes,
And makes Spectators where it finds no Eyes.
Thus that old Bard doth in his Iliad draw
Battels to th' life, 'tis said, he never saw:
And makes those Hector and Achilles see,
Whose outward Organs are as blind as He.
'Tis sacred Flame, whose subtil Influence
Can melt the Soul, and never scorch the Sence.
'Tis the Minds Microscope, that helps the Eye
To the least insect-thought's Anatomy:
That secret'st motions through their symptomes traces;
And renders Souls as visible as Faces.
This, this. can Londons Fate most lively shew,
That paints its inside-Flames, and outside, too.
And such an Artist, London, wish I thee;
And next, would wishing do't, That I were He.
Which, Graver, though I'm not, my Draught of thine
Hath th' odds, which better Poems have of mine.
Barr Emulation then, and try thy Art;
The Poets Zany is the Graver's part.
Thy Preface-Lines, I grant, may somewhat do
To stead the Stationer, and Poem too.
For oft the Book's turn'd for the Baby-Letter,
And sorry Cuts helps Ballads off the better.
In Legends too, some say, (nor is't deny'd)
Some are by th' painted Saints best edify'd:
For Lyes in Picture, with their Art delight,
Which, told for Truth, the Hearers Faith affright.
Yea, perhaps, thou may'st wiser Readers draw,
To greet a Muse, till now, they never saw.
For 'tis the Bush, that leads us to the Wine;
And men know where the Sight is, by the Sign.
On therefore, but with my advice comply,
And thus thy Scene fit to the Tragedy.
Conceit Troy's Flames, and those that Nero made,
To symbolize with the sad Tune he play'd:
Or those he caus'd, whose*Brennus Name did Burning bear,
When Jove and Rome to Geese obliged were.
With those that laid Jerusalem in dust:
And those of Foreign Vulcans, tan'e on Trust
From Travellers; t' impregnate thy Design,
And make thy Fancy more resemble mine.
Then from some ghostly Father get a Spell,
To view the Cave, they say, joyns next to Hell:
From that Original thy Fancy fill,
(For that's pure Fancy) and then try thy skill.
Or, lastly, antedate the general Fire
In thought, and thy Invention thence inspire.
Thus arm'd, take Londons situation right,
And spread a Mantle o're 't of blackest Night.
Take Lights and Shades from its Blaze: Lookers on
Were satisfi'd, it might supply the Sun.
Next, place in stead of th' often-changing Dame,
A black Cloud, big with sheets of Oyly Flame;
Ruffled by Eurus, puffing out o'th' East
Aetnean Vapours from's incensed Breast.
Let them drop melted Starres, toss'd up and down
To scatter ruines through the scared Town.
Out of the Skies, (to shew from whence it came)
Stretch out an Hand arm'd with a Rod of Flame.
Bound with a Scrowle, which let this Motto fill,
England amend, his hand is stretcht out still.
Let Flames, on march, a mile in front appear,
Brought up with Ruines smothering in the Rear:
I'th' Van, express me Pauls, as yet entire,
But let its Roof run from th' approaching Fire.
Some dwellings charg'd by scouting Heats, let smoak;
And others, stand forlorn t'expect the shock.
On top of some, thick Crowds with Buckets arm
For Charge; but flying at the first Alarm.
Let ruining Hooks others exposed shake;
And gaping Chasmes let Warlike Engines make.
Express me Roofs blown up into the Aire;
And Flames they flye beneath let meet 'em there.
Next, draw a reeking Thames, and Barges flying
With singed Sayles, and stifled Fishes dying.
This done, a Jesuit place in view o'th' whole,
At Faux's bo-peep in some sneaking hole,
Laughing in's sleeve: and let this be the Mot,
Ha! this hits better then the Powder-plot.
Then on the top of Pauls let be exprest,
A melting Phoenix in a flaming Nest.
Hope will expound the Emblem; though I fear
Few hope, 'twill soon be verified there.
Lastly, If any nook remain unfill'd,
(He's loath an whole Page for his Face be spill'd)
The Poet in a Cypress-wreath insert;
(The Lawrel is a badg of a Desert,
Which he pretends not to: besides, he wears
An heart more suiting to an Age of Tears:)
Pale, like the City's Ashes, make his Looks,
(Too many wear its Fires:) by, let his Books
(Jeremy's Threnes, Salvian, Gildas, and
The Tristia of the banish'd Poet) stand:
Let his Eyes drop into his Ink, and thence
Supply his Quill, and mingle with his sense.
But ne're ask, Who He is: Find any He
That's such an one, and let him stand for Me.
FINIS.
LONDINI quod RELIQƲƲM.
OR, LONDONS REMAINS: IN LATIN and ENGLISH.
LONDON, Printed for Sa: Gellibrand, 1667.
The Stationer to the Reader.
THat the Author of these Poems sends them forth without his Name or Face, or Commendatory Verses of his Friends, (all which are usually affixed to those mens Essayes who desire to be known to the World, under the Character of Ingenioso's;) is not because he knows any cause to be ashamed of them; but because he is of a Profession to which Poetry is commonly thought, (though not, by any sober Persons, an unlawful or disparaging, yet) no accumulative or honorifick accession: And upon that account indeed, he is willing (with the known Painter) rather to hear the worlds censures behind the Curtain, than either to tempt the petulancy of the envious, or discourage the Liberty of the Ingenuous Critick, by a publick owning these recreative products of his fancy; which as it ows its first Birth to the potent Impression of the late dismal Conflagration, and present doleful Ruines of this Famous City; so desires to spend its last Breath in Congratulating its Restitution. After which, if he can by any means get himself rid of this Itch of versifying, (a disease, in common experience, not so easily cured as caught,) he resolves for the future, to be known only by the more proper Issues of his Function, which he may Father with more confidence.