The Fathers Tears over his Daughters Remains, Floating text 4
On the Incomparable Mr. Waller.
HAIL chaſte Urania! thy Aſſiſtance bring,
And fire my Breaſt while I attempt to Sing,
In artleſs Layes, Waller the Poets King.
Waller, the tuneful Name my Soul inſpires,
And kindles in thy Breaſt poetic Fires.
Hail mighty Genius! Favourite of the Nine!
Thy Merits in four Reigns diſtinguiſh'd ſhine.
Country and Court, alternate, you enjoy,
One claims thy nobler Tho'ts, and one thy Muſe employ.
Chaſte is thy Muſe, and lofty is her Song,
Softer than Ovid and like Virgil ſtrong.
Much thee thy Country, more its Language owe,
All that adorns it it receiv'd from you.
What weighty Senſe does in thy Works abound!
And ſterling Lines are in thy Poems found.
In ſweeteſt Numbers you your Tho'ts expreſs,
The juſteſt Standard of our Engliſh Verſe.
A tender Paſſion every Boſom warms,
When 'ere you Sing of Sachariſſa's Charms,
O lovely Maid! mild as the morning Light,
When firſt its Beams ſalute our longing Sight.
As Virgin Fountains in their Baſons rowl,
So calm, ſo bright is Sachariſſa's Soul.
As the fierce Sun, by his meridian Rayes,
Exhales the Moiſture from this lower Earth;
Again at Might by Dews the Fields repays,
That Nature labours with a double Birth:
So you engroſs in your capacious Soul
All that the World Polite and Learned call,
But in your Works you do repay the whole,
With large Additions of your own to all.
O happy Iſle that bare a Son ſo bright,
Of whom the Ages ſince have learnt to Write.
An Invitation into the Country, in Imitation of Horace, left only in a rough Copy.—
FROM the ſoft Shades, and from the balmy Sweets
Of Medford's flow'ry Vales, and green Retreats,
Your abſent Delia to her Father ſends
And prays to ſee him 'ere the Summer ends.
Now while the Earth's with beauteous Verdure dy'd,
And Flora paints the Meads in all her Pride;
While laden Trees Pomonian's Bounty own,
And Ceres Treaſures do the Fields adorn.
From the thick Smokes, and noiſy Town, O come,
And in theſe Plains a while forget your Home.
Tho' my ſmall Incomes never can afford,
Like wealthy C…lſus to regale a Lord;
No Ivory Tables groan beneath the Weight
Of ſumptuous Diſhes, ſerv'd in maſſy Plate:
The Foreſt ne'r was ſearch'd for Food for me,
Nor from my Hounds the timerous Hare does flee:
No leaden Thunder ſtrikes the Fowl in Air,
Nor from my Shaft the winged Death do fear:
With ſilken Nets I ne're the Lake deſpoil,
Nor with my Bait the larger Fiſh beguile.
No luſcious Sweet-Meats, by my Servants plac'd
In curious Order, 'ere my Table grac'd:
To pleaſe the Taſte, no rich Burgundian Wine,
In chryſtal Glaſſes on my Side-board ſhine;
The luſcious Sweets of fair Canaries Iſle
Ne'r fill'd my Casks, nor in my Flaggons ſmile:
No Wine, but what does from my Apples flow,
My frugal Houſe on any can beſtow:
Except when Caeſar's Birth-day does return,
And joyful Fires throughout the Village burn;
Then moderate each takes his chearful Glaſs,
And our good Wiſhes to Auguſtus paſs.
But tho' rich Dainties never ſpread my Board,
Nor my cool Vaults Calabrian Wines afford;
Yet what is neat and wholſome I can ſpread,
My good fat Bacon, and our homely Bread,
With which my healthful Family is fed.
Milk from the Cow, and Butter newly churn'd,
And new freſh Cheeſe, with Curds and Cream juſt turn'd.
For a Deſert upon my Table's ſeen
The Golden Apple, and the Melon green;
The bluſhing Peech and gloſſy Plumb there lies,
And with the Mandrake tempt your Hands and Eyes.
This I can give, and if you'l here repair,
To ſlake your Thirſt a Cask of Autumn Beer,
Reſerv'd on purpoſe for your drinking here.
Under the Spreading Elms our Limbs we'll lay,
While fragrant Zephires round our Temples play.
Retir'd from Courts, and Crouds, ſecure we'll ſet,
And freely feed upon our Country Treat.
No noiſy Faction here ſhall dare intrude,
Or once diſturb our peaceful Solitude.
No ſtately Beds my humble Roofs adorn
Of coſtly Purple, by carv'd Panthers born.
Nor can I boaſt Arabia's rich Perfumes,
Diffuſing Odours thro' our ſtately Rooms.
For me no fair Egyptian plies the Loam,
But my fine Linnen all is made at Home.
Tho' I no Down or Tapeſtry can ſpread,
A clean ſoft Pillow ſhall ſupport your Head,
Fill'd with the Wool from off my tender Sheep,
On which with Eaſe and Safety you may ſleep.
The Nightingale ſhall lull You to your Reſt,
And all be calm and ſtill as is your Breaſt.
I might add to theſe ſome Pieces of Wit and Humour, which if publiſh'd would give a brighter Idea of her to ſome ſort of Readers; but as her Heart was ſet upon graver and better Subjects, and her Pen much oftner employ'd about them, ſo I chuſe to omit them, tho' innocent enough, and to preſerve the Memory of her Ingenuity only by the foremention'd, and two or three more Occaſional Pieces, that will be inſerted in their Place.
(2) We come now to Things more ſerious and profitable, in Proſe, tho' many of them very melancholy, being writ under the more immediate Cares and Diſtreſſes of her Mind about her Spiritual State.
I ſhall firſt inſert a long and broken Letter to her Father, in which you will ſee (as her Father expreſſes it) the Natural Workings of a broken contrite Spirit, in the Depths of Humiliation, Shame and Fear and Grief; yet in the lively Efforts of Faith, Hope, Deſire and gracious Love.