Alexander Pope

IMMITATION OF ENGLISH POETS. COWLEY

Fain would my Muse the flowery treasures sing, And humble glories of the youthful Spring; Where opening roses breathing sweets diffuse, And soft carnations shower their balmy dews; Where lilies smile in virgin robes of white, The thin undress of superficial light, And varied tulips show so dazzling gay, Blushing in bright diversities of day. Each painted floweret in the lake below Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow; And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain Transformèd, gazes on himself again. Here aged trees cathedral walks compose, And mount the hill in venerable rows: There the green infants in their beds are laid, The garden's hope, and its expected shade. Here orange-trees with blooms and pendants shine, And vernal honours to their autumn join; Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store, Yet in the rising blossom promise more. There in bright drops the crystal fountains play, By laurels shielded from the piercing day: Where Daphne, now a tree, as once a maid, Still from Apollo vindicates her shade, Still turns her beauties from the invading beam, Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream. The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves, At once a shelter from her boughs receives, Where summer's beauty midst of winter stays, And winter's coolness spite of summer's rays.

Here rests a woman, good without pretence, Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense: No conquests she, but o'er herself, desired, No arts essay'd, but not to be admired. Passion and pride were to her soul unknown, Convinced that virtue only is our own. So unaffected, so composed a mind; So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined; Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried; The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, May truly say, Here lies an honest man: A poet, blest beyond the poet's fate, Whom Heaven kept sacred from the proud and great: Foe to loud praise, and friend to learnèd ease, Content with science in the vale of peace. Calmly he look'd on either life, and here Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear; From Nature's temperate feast rose satisfied, Thank'd Heaven that he had lived, and that he died.

HARCOURT, AT THE CHURCH OF STANTON HARCOURT, IN OXFORDSHIRE, 1720.

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear: Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he died.

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak! If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. Oh, let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone, And, with a father's sorrows, mix his own!

Lest you should think that verse shall die, Which sounds the silver Thames along, Taught, on the wings of truth to fly Above the reach of vulgar song;

Though daring Milton sits sublime, In Spenser, native Muses play; Nor yet shall Waller yield to time, Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay.

Sages and chiefs long since had birth Ere Caesar was, or Newton named; These raised new empires o'er the earth, And those, new heavens and systems framed.

Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride! They had no poet, and they died. In vain they schemed, in vain they bled! They had no poet, and are dead.

Here, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind, Thy country's friend, but more of human kind. Oh, born to arms! oh, worth in youth approved! Oh, soft humanity, in age beloved! For thee the hardy veteran drops a tear, And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere. Withers, adieu! yet not with thee remove Thy martial spirit, or thy social love! Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage, Still leave some ancient virtues to our age: Nor let us say (those English glories gone) The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.

When Eastern lovers feed the funeral fire, On the same pile the faithful pair expire. Here pitying Heaven that virtue mutual found, And blasted both, that it might neither wound. Hearts so sincere, the Almighty saw well pleased, Sent his own lightning, and the victims seized.

NEAR THIS PLACE LIE THE BODIES OF JOHN HEWET AND SARAH DREW, AN INDUSTRIOUS YOUNG MAN,

AND VIRTUOUS MAIDEN OF THIS PARISH; WHO, BEING AT HARVEST-WORK (WITH SEVERAL OTHERS), WERE IN ONE INSTANT KILLED BY LIGHTNING, THE LAST DAY OF JULY 1718.

Think not, by rigorous judgment seized, A pair so faithful could expire; Victims so pure Heaven saw well pleased, And snatch'd them in celestial fire.

Live well, and fear no sudden fate; When God calls virtue to the grave, Alike 'tis justice soon or late, Mercy alike to kill or save.

Virtue unmoved can hear the call, And face the flash that melts the ball.

Again? new tumults in my breast? Ah, spare me, Venus! let me, let me rest! I am not now, alas! the man As in the gentle reign of my Queen Anne. Ah, sound no more thy soft alarms, Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms. Mother too fierce of dear desires! Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires, To Number Five direct your doves, There spread round Murray all your blooming loves Noble and young, who strikes the heart With every sprightly, every decent part; Equal, the injured to defend, To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend. He, with a hundred arts refined, Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind; To him each rival shall submit, Make but his riches equal to his wit. Then shall thy form the marble grace, (Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face: His house, embosom'd in the grove, Sacred to social life and social love, Shall glitter o'er the pendant green, Where Thames reflects the visionary scene: Thither, the silver-sounding lyres Shall call the smiling Loves, and young Desires; There, every Grace and Muse shall throng, Exalt the dance, or animate the song; There, youths and nymphs, in consort gay, Shall hail the rising, close the parting day. With me, alas! those joys are o'er; For me, the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu! fond hope of mutual fire, The still believing, still-renew'd desire; Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl, And all the kind deceivers of the soul! But why? ah, tell me, ah, too dear! Steals down my cheek th' involuntary tear? Why words so flowing, thoughts so free, Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee? Thee, dress'd in fancy's airy beam, Absent I follow through th' extended dream; Now, now I seize, I clasp thy charms, And now you burst (ah, cruel!) from my arms; And swiftly shoot along the Mall, Or softly glide by the canal, Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray, And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.