A PINDARICK POEM, TO HIS GRACE CHRISTOPHER Duke of Albemarle, &c.
LATELY ELECTED CHANCELLOUR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE.
LONDON, Printed for Randal Taylor, 1682
TO HIS GRACE CHRISTOPHER Duke of Albemarle, &c. A POEM.
(I.)
YE sacred Powers! that inspire
The breasts of happy
Bards with vocal fire,
Do not ye sacred Powers! disdain
The meanest of your Train.
Ye who the sweet
Dircean Swan did upward bear;—
Methinks I see him now, —methinks he there,
Sails o're the bosom of the liquid Air,
See with what sweet consent his wings do play,
How evenly they cut his noble way,
How he the distant Earth surveys on every side;
And wonders at himself with decent pride.
How swift blest Swan thy Wings do move;
Swifter than Light, than Death, than Love;
Nor may thy reason call in vain,
How swift blest Swan thou'rt here again;
Do wonder from afar,
Do wonder thus to see thee soar,
Where winds could never fly before;
But much more wonder when we hear,
In what melodious notes you break the tunefull air:
Yet did thy numbers onely tell
What youth at
Nemea, Pisa did excell;
Had
ALBEMARLE been e're among
The deathless subjects, of thy winged song;
Thou'dst held
Ismenus stream with far more sweet delay;
Nay thou hadst forc'd thy airy way,
Above the happy mansions of Eternal Day.
(II.)
Beauteous
Albion! happy Isle!
On whom kind Heavens ever smile,
Fairest spot of all below!
Of all cold
Neptunes arms around do flow,
Great Parent of Great Arts, and Men!
When did any Hero, when
Any so Illustrious shine,
Beauteous
Albion! of thine;
Quickly His active Soul attain'd its prime,
Too swift for the dull measurer Time;
None e're so soon Virtues fair race begun,
None e're the prize so early won;
Unless the silver-footed
Thetis Son;
The future fate of perjur'd
Troy:
O're Rocks, which heightned by eternal Snow,
Familiar with the Clouds did grow;
O're savage Vales the sporting Youth would go;
He toy'd with Pain, with Danger play'd,
And Death His recreation made:
Should some fierce Beast, who long did reign,
The dreaded Monarch of the neighbouring Plain,
Should it by chance but strike His eye;
Forth the swift-footed Youth did fly,
With His young foot his neck He prest,
With His young hands He rent the Beast,
In vain he strove, In vain did roar;
In vain the senseless Earth he tore;
With dreadfull pleasure the bold Youth would smile,
And to His frighted Guardian panting bear the spoil.
(III.)
To
ALBEMARLE bring back thy wandring song,
To
ALBEMARLE the Great, the Valiant, & the Young:
In whom most distant Virtues are,
In whom with mingled grace appear,
The softness of mild Peace, and fierceness of rough War:
Good, Loyal, Bounteous, Hospitable, Brave,
Yet not the Courts, nor Fortunes slave;
So Good, so easie of access,
His height but makes Him seem the less;
From those His conversation held,
None e're so secretly excell'd:
Whilst with delight insensible they grew▪
And scarce the present blessing knew:
So when the Earth swelling with humble pride,
Its well dissembled height would hide;
To the pleas'd Traveller no rise appears,
When He walks wrapt in Clouds, Companion of the Stars.
So Bounteous; His Plenty was not given
With greater easiness by willing Heaven,
Then the large-hearted Youth bestows,
Then it to wanting Virtue flows;
So Hospitable;
Jove himself ne're found
Plenty, with greater Freedom crown'd,
When He vouchsafes to be a Guest,
At some just, blameless
Aethiopians Feast.
'Twas His Great FATHER clear'd our Earth,
Of ev'ry pestilent birth;
But 'tis He past Virtues rough streight,
And her
non ultra fixt unpassable by Fate.
(IV.)
How did our wretched Island labour! How
Sedition did all o'reflow!
Like some enraged Torrent whose Impetuous course
Disdains the mean restraint of mortal force;
While he o're all does Victor reign,
And meditates destruction to the Plain;
Onely in dismal noise the rebel Waves agree,
And carry war, not tribute to the Sea.
'Twas
ALBEMARLE did first oppose its way,
'Twas He did the loud ruine stay;
How did it shrink! How did it all!
Its scatter'd waters homeward call,
And in the deep, low channel, of Obedience fall.
How did the abject Many fear!
When
ALBEMARLE did first appear,
When He lift up His awfull head,
All storms of Mutiny fled,
Religions airy blasts did cease,
And the calm Multitude slid gently into Peace.
(V.)
As the blest Sun doth his fair beams display,
When with returning light,
From the cold Pole he dissipates the winter, and the night.
Shedding kind heat, and doubling day;
Such did our much-wish'd CHARLES return,
With such mild Influence, such gentle Lustre burn.
Like the fair dawn to His bright day,
Like the fair Star which did prepare its way,
The comly'st of the fires above,
The beauteous Favourite of the Queen of Love;
Conspicuous even in CHARLES's noon,
Then did each gentle
Muse take wing,
(For He the
Muses too set free,
From Ignorances slavery:
More shall they ow to His Posterity.)
And of much-suffering
Charles, of
Charles triumphant sing.
And so they sung, as when above,
Their numbers charm'd returning
Jove,
When the bold Sons of Earth, to Hell were driven,
By the Great
ALBEMARLE of Heaven.
(VI.)
How much do we of Thy Great FATHER see,
God-like
ALBEMARLE in Thee;
Thô now ascrib'd to the blest Gods above,
He drinks Immortal Nectar, with Immortal
Jove;
Yet could not envious Death prevail,
Hereditary Worth should fail;
Soon didst Thou fill His place, soon Thou
Didst Thy great Lineage show:
While He like
Virgil's sacred Bough,
Thô pluck'd by Fate, still His rich line does hold;
And still survives in Thy succeeding gold.
With Thee our pious PRINCE secure shall go,
By Monsters worse than those below,
Monsters, which from the lees of Peace, and dregs o'th' Rabble grow.
By the reviving
Hydra of the
Leman lake.
Free from
Furies thô th' agree,
From the
Briarean Many free,
No harm from thence His height invades,
With His own light He dissipates those empty shades:
'Till He (but late, late let it be!) shall come
To the blest
Elyzium,
'Till He shall reach the Happy Quire;
And there consult our Good, there with His Martyr'd Sire.
(VII.)
But who shall now best o're the
Muses reign,
Whose Empire will not they disdain,
'Tis
ALBEMARLE, 'tis He alone,
Who all His Great Fore-Fathers, Greater has outgon;
'Tis He, the God-like He,
Shall hold the
Muses Monarchy;
For who so soon, for who so young,
Who shall so much, so late, so long,
Give deathless matter to the
Muses Song.
How much those Arts to Him shall ow!
Which with His Fathers Victories did grow,
How much the
Muses flourish too!
Thô with Ambiguous Ills beset,
Sullen Perverseness, intricate Deceit,
From Double
Rome, from Dull
Geneva threat,
Their innocent, and humble Seat:
This too still Silence shows it near,
As if they onely would the signal hear:
So when two Clouds their dismal shock prepare,
On the vast plains o'th gloomy Air,
A sudden silence damps the World below,
Onely the frighted Winds through every Grove,
In distant hollow murmurs, or dry whistlings move;
And Natures self, some fear does seem to show.
Yet shall no Thunder e're the
Muses peace invade,
Beneath your Lawrells happy shade;
While they through You sweet, soft repose enjoy;
You shall their choicest Verse employ,
Thy Virtues their immortal subject be,
While vocal
Cam flows all to Thee.
(VIII.)
Great the alliance is of Wit and Arms,
The
Muse the Warrior to just Valour warms;
Numbers do first the Soul engage,
Then temper, and rebate its rage:
The
Grecian Youth had Plough'd in vain
The surges of the untry'd Main;
Had not Sweet
Orpheus charm'd the Noble Train:
'Twas He their active spirits did raise,
(For well tun'd Souls a part in consort bear,
And strike themselves the Note they hear;
Nor wonder is't they so agree
For Souls themselves are harmony)
She whom in some exalted thought,
Jove on his teeming Brain begot;
And thence presides o're Mortal Wit below,
O're gentle Arts, which from soft Peace do flow;
Yet She the fatal spear does weild,
Yet bears the Petrifying Shield;
Nay did so brave, so valiant prove,
She ev'n in Heaven did envy move,
When She secur'd the doubtfull Throne of
Jove.
(IX.)
Vain were all Worth, all Virtue vain,
Should Lifes poor circle the short good contain,
Should it like us too die,
Like us too unregarded, undiscover'd lie;
Yet would it die, yet would decay,
Yet like us too would melt away.
Did not the
Muses tunefull breath
Raise equal to the Gods immortal Man,
Exempt from Chance, secure of Death,
Stretch to Eternity his wretched span,
And envy him to the shades beneath:
Much Virtue was there, many Actions done
Actions worthy of renown;
E're scorched
Xanthus purple flood,
Vainly Great
Peleus greater Son withstood,
Yet are not they, nor are their actors known;
Where dull Oblivion drags its lazy stream below:
For they no
Muse, no living
Muse did know.
Some happy Favourite of the Nine,
Some
Spencer, Cowley, Dreyden shall be Thine:
(Happy
Bards who erst did dream,
Near thy own
Cam's inspiring stream:)
He midst the records of immortal Fame,
He midst the Starrs shall fix Thy Name,
The
Muses safety, and the
Muses Theam.
FINIS.