IF the creating pencil in thy hand
Can even portents and prodigies command,
If thy aspiring industry can find
The art to color thoughts, and paint the wind.
If thou Apelles glory canst benight,
And drovvn his fame it'h Ocean of thy light,
If colours thou nevv qualities canst give,
And goe beyond all that did ever live.
If other Artists toyle, and toyle in vaine
To that, vvhich costs thee nothing, to attaine;
If thou canst draw the whispers of the aire,
And bring them to our eye, as well as eare.
If Billowes feign'd by thee in cloth do roar,
And quarrel with the Rocks, and tear the shoar;
If painted tempests rage, and swell so high,
That the true Sun therein may hidden lie.
If thou on linnen canst Ideas shew,
Which wee but by Imagination know;
If pure and sublimated Fancies be,
Drawn to the life, and visible by thee.
If amaz'd Nature challenge thee, and swear,
These things are none of thine, but done by her:
If she mistake thy hand for hers, and grow
In love with thee, who hast deceiv'd her so.
Thy Pencil would have spoil'd Deucalions trade,
That he with stones had never Nations made:
Thy strokes had done that mighty businesse then,
And the world peopled, when there were no Men.
Blest Prospective! thou dost so far excel
All wonder, that thou hast no parallel.
Though the drown'd Universe were now to trace,
And Painters stood in the Creator's place.
If by thy Pencil, buried Ages may
Be brought again to life, and see the day,
As thou canst raise their fame, this victory
Will give immortall fame, and life to thee.
A victory, the like was never known,
In Persia, nor in Rome, nor Macedon;
Which has outdone all victories before,
To which Pharsalia's nothing, Actium poor.
Which th'Ottoman Moon has brought into her wane,
And to her former, added this new stain;
And with full sails, upon the Eastern flood,
Has drunk revenge in unbeleever's blood.
Which passing story, and th'exactest pen,
Has dryed up Lethe, which devowers them:
From which the Thracian sails so proudly spread
Beyond the mountains, and the seas are fled.
Which in the bosome of the Turk dismaid
With horrour, such a Tragedy has plaid,
As made the angry Gulf of Ella swell
With sighs and tears, which from the conquer'd fell.
In which Gods words are now accomplished,
Thou on the Asp and Basilisk shall tread.
His children's feet no force nor art can stay,
Who thorough opposition make their way.
Do thou new breath in those dead bodies put,
Open those eyes again, which Fate has shut:
Cut off the wings of Time, and make him stand,
That what is past, by thee may be at hand.
The fabulous Jove two nights together made,
When he unseen with mortall beauty plaid,
And the true God did once prolong the day,
For Joshua's sake, the Sun his course did stay.
Thy hand which does distribute life, and can
Re-animate the body of a man
By thy designing, shall do more then they,
And make eternall this victorious day.
Let Art be heightned to an extasy,
And when 'tis made divine, descend on thee;
Then paint the ruine of the Turkish name,
And their ships taken, sunk, or on a flame:
In Balm thy azure and vermilion steep,
And in the raies o'th'Sun thy yellow dip;
Look out for Quintessences never known,
And fly beyond all that was ever done.
A sea of storms and showers be thy Scene,
As when the winds & waves at war have been.
And neer this tempest on the shore hard by,
Thy pallet, colours, and thy pencil lie.
'Twixt sky and water a third colour find,
Which may amaze, and yet delight the mind:
Let it not Azure, nor Cerulean be,
But imitate and mock the foam oth' sea.
In forming waves, some crooked make, some, flow
Some knock the stern, whilst others shake the prow;
And raise & sink alternately the keel,
That in dead cloth, the ship may motion feel.
The aire a mixture be of clouds and light,
Let it successively be dark and bright:
Now let the brightnesse to the darknesse yield,
Then let light chafe the dark, and win the field.
Bring in some horrour, which at first surprise
May please us, even when it terrifies.
Employ thy wits, shew what thy art can do,
Delight the world, and make it wonder too.
Apply thy skill, till the beholder be
Amaz'd, and doubt, whether he dream or see;
Whether Art or Nature the advantage have,
And swear that Truth is but Appearance slave.
There in the Hellespont, where yet is known,
Leanders swimming, and fair Heroes moan;
Where Xerxes brought such mighty Hosts in vain,
Only to soil with corps the Argive plain.
There sits the wicked Tyrant on his Throne,
And rules an hundred Kingdoms all alone.
There met the Fleet, which the woods naked made
And left the forrest bare without a shade.
Now was the Canon seen to thunder death,
To lighten ruine, and destruction breathe;
One shot an hundred to the grave did send,
One moment put to many years an end.
From cruell Bowes with force and malice bent,
Slaughters, and many feather'd dea
[...]s were sent:
Shafts kill'd & spar'd, as they did chance to light,
Some wounded were, and some were slain outright.
The blewer forehead of the Sea was dy'd
With streaks of blood, which did her face divide:
The Miscreants rashly did o're bodies wade,
Of which from ship to ship they bridges made.
When Mars grown jealous for his native place,
Arm'd all his Furies to defend his Thrace,
And as the Trumpets sounded the Alarme,
Power and Art did strive which most should harm.
But generous Lion, what can thee resist,
Who conquer'st all opposers as thou list?
The Heavens and Seas for thee the Zodiaks are,
When God incites, and rowses thee to war.
Thy naked hand St. Mark long since did write,
Whē there was need to spread the Gospels light.
That very hand now arm'd takes up the rod,
To scourge the Foes of Venice and of God.
Thy pen did once his glorious name dilate,
Who conquer'd death, and triumph'd over fate:
That pen does now the place oth' sword supply,
To carve us out a way to victory.
Let this glad newes o're all the earth be brought
Dictate to me some high immortall thought:
Let these my lines in marble written be,
And give this history eternity.
The winds were mines, to whose rich treasure we
Do owe the purchase of the Victory,
They wing'd our files, and made our squadrons fly,
With force against the barbarous Enemy.
That Spirit, which upon the waters face,
Before the world was made did gently passe,
From the Egean coasts, breath'd on our sails,
And gave our vessells still succesfull gales.
Of Sulphur mixt with Nitre, many a shoure
The Christians on the Infidells did poure.
And torn with shot, and storms of burning lead,
Thousands of Macon's followers lay dead.
The shocks, assaults, and cries so loud and shrill,
Did Grecian woods, and Asian vallies fill,
Which ecchoes from dark caves, and hollow ground
In sad & mournful accents did resound.
The famous Tomb of Mecca, which is yet
So much ador'd, did drops of poyson swet.
This Victory does reach the Lybian sand,
And tempests cause in the Numidian land.
Our Gallies pointed prowes do now prevail,
The foaming billowes of the sea they scale:
We shots and blowes continually renew,
That we those hatefull monsters may subdue.
Unconquered courages of noble hearts,
Who did perform your own, and others parts!
Nothing did more than your example then,
Pointing the way to glory to your men.
Fortune and Death were both together here,
Where either serv'd unpress'd a Volunteer.
And hid the Turkish Army, in despight
Of the Moons Empire, in eternall night.
One of our men would with a daring hand
Have stopt the flying Fleet, and made it stand;
Alone he durst the Turkish Hoste defie,
So much their courage he did vilifie.
The hand cut off, which held his threatning sword,
Falling ith' Sea, did a strange sight afford:
It brandish'd still the sword, and grasp'd it fast,
Till hand and sword together sunk at last.
Heads sever'd, as they fell, were heard to cry,
Let Venice live in long prosperity.
They who thus fall against the Infidel,
For Christ and for their Prince, are safe from Hell.
When Turks despairing on the other side,
Their foul erroneous faith blaspheming dy'd:
And angry now that they were circumcis'd,
They would too late alas! have been baptiz'd.
A Turk, upon whose aged chin did grow
A beard, which thence unto his waste did flow,
As he approch'd to the precinct of death
This sad complaint was over-heard to breathe.
How oft has this been whispered in my ear,
Fly to the streams of Jordan, wash thee there?
Humble thy self to Jesus, in him trust,
Who is a guard and buckler to the just.
But as he spoke, an arrow from among
The Christian Vessels came, which pierc'd his tongue,
When almost dead, thus to himself he cries,
He who a Rebell lives, despairing dies.
Those blessed Names my breath does but prophane,
Natures so high and infinite disdain,
That I should take them in my mouth, who die,
Confirm'd and hardned in impiety.
This said, a shot from a great Gun him took,
Which all his members into pieces broke:
'Twas hard to say, the wretch was torn so small,
If he were dead, or ne're had been at all.
Saleyards in pieces, Masts by the board shot,
Sails swimming, Rudders burning, cordage cut:
The prows oth' Gallies batter'd noselesse shew,
And the whole Navy pierced through & through.
Horrors, black shades of smoak, and flakes of light
Present a skie, that's neither day nor night.
Stones, bullets, arrowes, slaughters still increase;
Toils, flights, cries, shocking not a moment cease.
Vext with a thousand wounds, a soul's in doubt,
Which way to leave her prison, and get out.
Water and blood both suffocate mens breaths:
Troubles are endlesse, without number deaths.
At boarding, longer weapons laid aside,
Daggers and ponyards, hands and teeth are tri'd.
Death and amazement, hatred, cries, and fear,
Together mixt make one confusion here.
Down from mens batter'd breasts, and wounded sides
A stream of blood a purple torrent glides,
The winds and waves do all astonish'd grow,
The light does languish, and the day goes low.
Some as they stand, some going wounded be,
No posture is exempted, no place free:
Sōe wring their hands, some stamp their feet, some tear
Their hair, and are all pale with rage or fear.
Planks, cables, bodies, limbs in pieces rent,
A Chaos in the water represent:
Whilst slaughter does on every side invade,
And to new dangers still a way is made.
Here scimiters, there broken arrowes lie,
Rich vests of silk, and pretious pillage by.
Such different things by fate together brought
Shew spoils and riches are with danger bought.
One rich with spoils, is with a pike run through,
Before the value of his prey he know:
Then is he slain, who feizeth his estate,
And with his wealth inheriteth his fate.
A Renegade, who swimming, made his feet
And hands in circles in the water meet
A Christian caught, who as he fighting stood,
Had newly slipt, and fall'n into the flood.
Upon this dancing and unstable Scene,
A strange unwonted kind of fight was seen,
When with a spear, which on the waves did float,
The Christian cut the proud Barbarian's throat.
Pitty and wonder every where do reigne,
With tears and grief attending in their train.
The Christian hands do miracles dispence,
And carry home a glorious harvest thence.
The sword, the sea, and the devouring flame,
Each in the Victory a part did claim.
And of the conquer'd Fleet, burnt, drown'd, and slain,
Three Theaters of horrour did remain.
Amongst a thousand raies, bright as the Morn,
Which the Venetian Triumph did adorn,
One was a number of afflicted Poor,
Who chains about their necks and ankles wore.
Distrest Believers, whom the Turks had caught,
And various Fates into the Gallies brought,
Who deform'd slavery did with patience take,
Though us'd like beasts, for their Redeemers sake.
This happy day did them new life afford,
Restor'd to long'd for freedom by our sword;
Who now forgetting all their past annoy,
Could hardly speak, they were so fil'd with joy.
Of eleven hundred, one old man was found,
Who lift his hands, but bow'd his knees to th' ground,
And pouring out his soul at his glad eyes,
To see himself freed from such miseries;
Said, Lord, behold these limmes of vigour reft,
The reliques servitude, and pain have left;
Of which my flesh the cruell marks does wear,
Freedom and chains alike to th'dying are.
A fading monument of this day am I,
A fruitlesse Trophy of thy Victory:
Forsook by fortune, and redeem'd by thee,
That in the pangs of death I might be free.
An age of life I do almost attain,
But sufferd have eternities of pain.
These howers I give thee, thou art pleas'd to lend,
My Tragedy has had a joyfull end.
This said, the bloody hurts he had receiv'd,
With other weaknesse, him of speech bereav'd:
And th'tyrant Time, more mercilesse then they,
Had sunk his jawes, and eat his teeth away.
So that he mutterd, what I cannot tell,
But to the ground incontinently fell;
And groaning out his spirit in a trice,
Mounted a Martyr into Paradise.
Redundant joyes upon his heart did seize,
Too narrow to contain such joyes as these.
His body died, the sea his wounds did lave,
And the next sands afforded him a grave.
Mean while the Turkish Multitude does fall,
The Sea is covered with their funerall.
Their fear's so great, they will not stay for graves,
But hide themselves in the Egean waves.
One from his ship into the water fled,
To seek for shelter from the flames which spread.
But senslesse waves no pitty understood,
But soon invelop'd him in foam and blood.
Another hopelesse caught a flaming brand,
Which floated by him, with his wounded hand,
And flying seas, which would devour him streight
Committed to the wood his dying weight.
'Twixt fire and water, Death the spoil divides,
The one consumes that, which the other hides.
Thus went the Turkish Nation down amain,
The Sea was small such ruines to contain.
A weeping mother on the shoar was sate,
With her small children, waiting upon Fate,
To see what of their father it resolv'd,
In whom their hopes and beeing were involv'd.
But the Fleet scattered, and the father drown'd,
She dash'd the childrens brains against the groūd,
Lest they should fall into the Christians hands,
And end their daies in bonds in forraign lands.
Death now was almost spent, and weary growed,
His sythe was blunted with the lives it mowed.
Our Captain never weary, still insists,
And kills as long as any thing resists.
The Turkish Generall, he now beheld
Packing away, and yielding him the field;
Those broken Troops and fragments which were there,
Having no Guide nor Leader left, but fear.
He does command, pursue, incite, and presse,
And to the height improveth his successe.
Ah God! when an unthought of bullet came,
Which ends his life, and elevates his fame.
Thou dyedst Marcellus, whose unvanquish'd name
Shall reap applause, and be the Muses Theam.
Great Pompey's fate and thine are parallel,
He on the sea, which he had conquer'd, fell.
Ignoble mettall thee of life did reave,
And from thy ruine honour did receave.
But Destiny relents, and after-times,
O Fates, will count his end among your crimes.
But that decrees cannot repealed be,
Which were ordain'd from all eternity;
It ne're had been in second causes power,
Our hopes in thee untimely to devower.
What cruelty to kill a Hero so?
The Sisters should have warded that sad blow,
And sav'd his life, who for his Saviour fought,
And on his foes such sad confusion brought.
And if from black privation were a way
Left, to return to habit, then as day
Succeeds the gloomy darknesse of the night,
Thou wouldst again return into the light.
Most pretious dust! may a whole Heaven be,
Made an apartment and an urne for thee.
Let Honour mourn at thy sad obsequies.
And us not sin, if we thee idolize.
The winged Lion shall for ever roar
The losse of thee, which time can ne're restore.
The sea religiously, and faithfull shoar,
Thy blest remains, thy reliques shall adore.
Marcellus! thee within his golden line,
The Sun invites, to make a thirteenth Signe:
No Panegyrick is enough for thee,
Whose death is the reproach of Destiny.
Be to thy Country a new Star, dispence
To us thy light, and welcome influence:
And from thy Country in exchange accept,
Endlesse returns of honour and respect.
The pious Trojan, who a journey made,
To seek his Sire in the Elizian shade,
Found a Marcellus there. In Heaven we
'Mongst those bright lights shall a Marcellus see.
Thee our sea-Cards and Sailers, as they go,
With th'Cynosure, and other signes, shall show.
Twixt the fix'd Stars and Planets is thy place,
Where all ingenious minds on thee shall gaze.
Those Gentlemen, whom Fate intends for brave,
Shall thee the Star in their Ascendent have.
That Geniture must highly hopefull be,
And they who have it, generous like thee.
Astronomers new Astrolabes shall get,
Such as Copernicus had never yet,
To take thy altitude, who evermore
Shalt blast the Thracian fields, and Asian shoar.
Blest Star! live, flourish, and be ever bright,
And dazle the beholders with thy light.
Thy raies for good Prognosticks shall be took,
On which with pleasure we will alwaies look.
Mean while the Vessels burn, and greedy flames
Scarce leave so much as ashes of their names:
The Sea insults, and all within her power,
Though thousand lives, does ravenously devour.
Flames, wounds, and water, every one do vie,
Through whose occasion, most that day should die.
Whilst Fortune drunk with slaughter, does deride,
And turn her back upon the vanquish'd side.
Souls doom'd to ruine vowes to heaven make,
If they the fury of the flames do scape.
But still pursu'd by fire, no way is found
To shun that fate, but onely to be drown'd.
The black Abyss sets open all her gates,
Impatient to attend the lingring fates:
And sucks down men to her Dominions still,
As if the flames alas were slow to kill.
Many sad Ohs and Cries did rise in throngs,
From mens oppressed hearts unto their tongues:
But cruell seas soon interrupt their groans,
And drown at once the Mourner and his moans.
But the arch-Traitor scapes the fate oth'day,
And from his broken Army gets away:
Swells like a toad, fumes, execrates and bans,
And off himself can scarce with-hold his hands.
To his own rage a prey, himself does hate,
His Nation shame, and is his Prince his fate.
The Villain to Bizantium makes amain,
Scorn'd, mortifi'd, alone, without a train.
To paint him, LIBERI, take some face that's dead,
And put me eyes of Serpents in his head:
Such burning, murdering eyes, as may inspire
Charms and destruction, terror, plagues, and fire.
Make black Despair upon his forehead sit,
And let his teeth with green Disdain be whet;
Upon his knee in twists his hands enfold,
Or let his hand his leaning head uphold.
Psyche for fear of Venus went to hell,
That dreadfull place, where shades and darknesse dwell:
She can instruct thy pencil what to do,
And how the anguish of the Damn'd does show.
When thou wouldst draw his checks, let there appear
The face of sadnesse, sadnesse drest in fear:
That when we would expresse a horrid look,
This piece for the example may be took.
Make me a Troop of Tritons chacing him,
Making of mouths, and hissing as they swim:
Then let the sea-Nymphs following in a flock,
In jeering Sonnets the foul Covvard mock.
Then change thy pencil, lest his figure shoud
Infuse some damn'd infection in thy bloud.
That devillish Basha vvill do mischief still,
His breath is poyson, and his eyes vvill kill.
When thou thy hand hast cleansed, let me see
The Hero painted, who Eternity
In high immortall actions seeks, whom Fame
Gives but one eye, that he may surer aim.
Paint him me like the Sun return'd from rest,
When with new splendour he salutes the East;
Then let thy subtle Art it self surpasse,
And as thou drawest him, make the Stars thy glasse.
You understand what Greatnesse is, you know
The bounds of Honour, and how far they go.
In him make all great qualities appear,
Cheerfull, and grave, and lovely, and severe.
Make him me so, that on his single breast,
His Countries fate and fame may seem to rest:
Make Marble envious, Brasse ambitious be,
To represent us Objects such as he.
Upon his sword our Faith and Freedom stand,
And take their hopes from his victorious hand.
Make him defend us, in the midst oth'Deep,
His vertue wall us in, and safely keep.
Incompasse him with Trumpets, in his face
Such happy lines and signatures enchase,
That men may see who do those lines behold,
His looks do second, what the stars have told.
Let antient now to modern times give place,
And the old Heroes deeds in silence passe.
On a new Theam let Fame her breath employ,
And with her Trumpet, Mocenico cry.
Remember Bembo too unvanquished,
By his high Genius to great actions led;
Which will make his from others glory known,
He hath a stock of glory of his own.
The noble sword w
ch that brave hand does wed,
Which was to Battails born, and conquests bred,
Has made illustrious the Egean coast,
Which Neptune now of all his Seas shall boast.
For that great Warriour draw a Grove of bayes,
Of fame and glory him a Trophy raise:
And when you would present him his own face,
Let glittering swords and helmets be the Glass.
Th'other Marcellus, who, if there were need,
Atlas might choose in great Alcides steed;
To whom so much of our successe we ovve,
Who 'gainst the Tyrant did such vvonders doe.
Put me in some conspicuous place, vvhere he
From other Heroes may distinguish'd be
By some knovvn difference, vvhilst busie Fame,
Seeks for nevv titles to adorn his name.
Who did receive our dying Captain's breath,
And grieving followed to the shades of death,
If death may properly be said to shade
One, who so bright and brave an end has made.
To Barbaro and Badoaro next,
See thou some lasting monument erect'st,
Which to their vertues may have due regard,
That merit once may reap its just reward.
Delineate in their faces all that's brave,
The taking meen, which power and valour have.
And prostrate at their feet let the Turks seem
Content, & proud that they have conquer'd them.
The routs, confusions, tumults, flights, and all
Dysasters, which on th'Infidel did fall:
Assaults and wounds, which made so many bleed,
Make from their hands and counsells to proceed.
Let Morosini, whose deserving worth,
Might take Fame wholly up to set it forth,
Whose valour others did to Battle heat,
Which Fame in spite of Time will ne'r forget.
Let him new graces to thy pencil give,
And in his image let thy colours live:
Let him adorn thy touches with his light,
And make the lustre of thy name more bright.
Let young Farnese, who with fortune blest
Of vintages of vertue is possest,
Who marching o're the bodies of the dead,
Did honour out of death and danger tread.
Who to great Ancestors no honour owes,
Since by his noble deeds their honour growes:
'Tis they by him, he not by them appears,
Darkning their noon ith'morning of his years,
Be he the top of all thy Art can do,
The scope of what thy thoughts can reach unto.
Here let thy mind work wonders, whilst his worth
Like gems does dresse, and set thy glory forth.
Next in thy work that noble Chief enrole,
Who Malta's Crosse did to the sky extoll,
Whence military Fame does fetch renown,
And makes her honour by their actions known.
His dazling countenance let his helmet shroud,
As when the Sun is shaded with a cloud:
Then let me see collected in his face,
The grace and beauty of Caraffi's race.
'Twas a fit match the shining silver Cross,
To black Tartarean darknesse to oppose.
'Twas fit the furious Infidell should yield,
When by such force attaqu'd, and quit the field.
Borri, thou breath of Mars, 'tis hard to say,
Whether thy sword or with did more that day.
Thy name is fatall, and thy vertue rare,
And wonders of thy prowess extant are.
In lasting colours thou, by LIBERI's hand,
Which triumphs o're devouring Time, shal stand.
Vertue and honour LIBERI are the Poles,
Round which thy pencil like a Heaven roles.
In Mountain tops, the Muses do delight,
Those lovely solitudes makes Poets write.
But when Bellona thunders, thou canst draw,
And give that goddesse sweetnesse with her awe.
Record those brave immortall souls, who raise
Their Countries name, and dresse her with their bayes,
In thy eternall works, and let them flie,
And wing thy pencil when thou soar'st on high.
In the dark croud, which hides deservers fames,
Draw thou resemblances, and learn their names,
And them distinguish, who have bravely done,
Let them be gay and glorious as the Sun.
But 'tis not just, LIBERI, we should be blam'd,
That all who fought & conquer'd are not nam'd.
The milky way that's full of stars does shine,
Though single stars which make it, are not seen.
Whole Troops and Companies did bravely do,
And great examples of high vertue show.
Time, to whose rage all other things must yield,
Shall tell their deeds, and celebrate this field.
A Grecian Painter with a vail did dresse,
That which no Art could figure or expresse,
So what those others famous actions were,
Shall now be left to Silence to declare.
We see the Mute can with his gesture speak,
And Silence has her Rhetorick, which does take.
My pen conceals, for whom my soul's on fire,
Whom in unspeaking rimes I do admire.
But what, must fair Cleina lie forgot
In dark oblivion, by thee heeded not?
Scorn'st thou that flame, which will to pitty move
All hearts, that ever had a sense of love?
Cleina was a fair Arabian Maid,
Nature a brighter beauty never made:
But sorrow now her darkned face besets,
And turns her Lillies into Violets.
This charming beauty had from Regions far
Followed her servant Mustapha to war;
And all in black, disconsolate, alone,
Fill'd all the Eastern Countries with her moan.
On a steep cliff she stood to view the storm,
To see what Mustapha did there perform:
She saw him fight, and fate in vain oppose,
Provoking his own ruine with his blowes.
No danger him approach'd, but cost her tears,
With a divided soul 'twixt grief and fears;
When with her fortune and her self displeas'd,
Her heart afflicted with such words she eas'd.
Thou fightst, my Mustapha, and I in vain
With tears would heal the wounds thou dost sustain.
O Heavens, are my sighs so much despis'd,
And mighty love by you so little priz'd?
Ah dear alas! too dear to me has been
The preparation of this bloody Scene.
The purple streaks which on that helmet shine,
Do lead to death this wounded heart of mine.
I would usurp those blowes, I fain would have
You hurt Cleina, but Mustapha save.
Ah! that curst sword two lives does kill in one,
For how can mine remain, when his is gone?
Me, Christians, me alone assault, let me
The mark and center of your fury be.
My constant heart Fate cannot overthrow,
I scorn your Nation, and your fortune too.
Stay, my dear heart, my treasure stay, and take
These Tresses, which swathes for thy wounds wil make,
Hold, bind thē with my hair my Idol, hold,
And set the rubies of thy blood in gold.
Here grief with her cold snowy hand did seize
Cleina, and her blood to gelly freeze:
The lively roses in her cheeks did fade,
And with one painfull sigh an end she made.
Cleina died, her soul made haste away,
To be an Harbinger for Mustapha.
But he immediately departed too,
And both descended to the Deeps below.
But since united souls can know no hell,
But make it heaven wheresoe're they dwell:
They soon were separated, to receive
The pains are doom'd to those, who not believe.
Charon had now almost worn out his Oar,
And his boat founder'd with the weight it bore,
And the black Monarch of the shades begun
To be with pitty touch'd for what was done.
But they who for the Faith had shed their blood,
Blest souls in th' Empyrean heaven stood,
Full of eternall joyes, and endlesse blisse,
'Mongst the beatified Hierarchies.
And looking on those ruines here below,
Those legs and arms which floated too and fro;
Those scattered spoils of death, they smil'd to see,
Those prisons torn, from which themselves were free.
'Tis but a sleight mishap to want a grave,
Unburied bones for cover heaven have.
Thirsty Oblivion cannot them destroy,
Who made for Blisse Eternity enjoy.
Now LIBERI grow warm, take in new flame,
Occasion serves, immortalize thy name:
Use all thy wit, temper thy colours so,
That they may live for after-times to know.
The Picture here shall with the Painter strive,
Which of the two shall make the other live:
Thou in the work eterniz'd canst not die,
And thou shalt give thy work eternity.
That blood which from the Christians sides did streā,
Shal make thy work as noble as its Theam.
Thou dost exceed all that the Antients did,
And in thy glory shalt their glory hide.
That very linnen's happy, which must be
The field, on which thou drawest this History.
If betwixt thee and others, there's such ods,
That shaming men, thou dost approach the gods.
I who perswade thee to this enterprise,
With thy abundance, feel my Genius rise.
To sing thy vertues I ambitious grow,
Which this affront to eating Time will do.
Joyn nights to daies, take no repose, but strive
In spight of Destiny two lives to live:
Let both them long, and both them glorious be.
One life's too little for thy work and thee.
This armed cloth, this martiall picture vvill
With envy war, and be victorious still.
And against hatred in thy company,
My Muse perchance shall fill her sails, and flie.
Our hands are us'd such vvorks as these to do,
I can in numbers draw, in colours you.
But let our flights be modest as they vvill,
We meet with censure and accusers still.
But a good conscience is a calm, and knowes
No storms, nor vexes at the wind that blowes.
Let envious tongues my name with slander tear,
I am at peace within, and do not hear.
But let my pen unto thy pencil bow,
To thy bright colours inke is dark and low.
This is a bare Idea I have took,
Do thou it cloathe, and make it handsom look.
Then draw thy self in heat of Battail, wrought,
With the same air and looks, as they that fought,
That thy own Figure done by thy own hand,
May over Death it self triumphing stand.
FINIS.