And you th' Advent'rous sons of fame,
You that would sleep in honours bed
With glorious Trophies garnished;
You that with living labours strive
Your dying Ashes to survive;
Pay your Tributes to Astræa's name,
Her Works can spare you immortality,
For sure her Works shall never dye.
Pyramids must fall and Mausolean Monuments decay,
Marble Tombs shall crumble into dust,
Noisie Wonders of a short liv'd day,
That must in time yield up their Trust;
And had e'er this been perisht quite
Ith' ruines of Eternal night,
Had no kind Pen like her's,
In powerfull numbers powerfull verse,
Too potent for the gripes of Avaritious fate,
To these our ages lost declar'd their pristine State.
VIII.
But time it self, bright Nymph, shall never conquer thee,
For when the Globe of vast Eternity;
Turns up the wrong-side of the World,
And all things are to their first Chaos hurl'd,
Thy lasting praise in thy own lines inroll'd,
With Roman and with the British Names shall Equal honour hold.
And surely none 'midst the Poetick Quire,
But justly will admire
The Trophies of thy wit,
Sublime and gay as e'er were yet
In Charming Numbers writ.
Or Virgil's Shade or Ovid's Ghost,
Of Ages past the pride and boast;
Or Cowley (first of ours) refuse
That thou shouldst be Companion of their Muse.
And if 'twere lawfull to suppose
(As where's the Crime or Incongruity)
Those awfull Souls concern'd can be
At any sublunary thing,
Alas, I fear they'll grieve to see,
That whilst I sing,
And strive to praise, I but disparage thee.
By F. N. W.
To Madam Behn, on her Poems.
When th'Almighty Powers th'Universe had fram'd,
And Man as King, the lesser World was nam'd.
The Glorious Consult soon his joys did bless.
And sent him Woman his chief happiness.
She by an after-birth Heaven did refine,
And gave her Beauty with a Soul divine;
She with delight was Natures chiefest pride,
Dearer to Man than all the World beside;
Her soft embraces charm'd his Manly Soul,
And softer Words his Roughness did controul:
So thou, great Sappho, with thy charming Verse,
Dost here the Soul of Poetry rehearse;
From your sweet Lips such pleasant Raptures fell,
As if the Graces strove which shou'd excell.
Th'admiring World when first your Lute you strung.
Became all ravisht with th' immortal Song;
So soft and gracefull Love in you is seen,
As if the Muses had design'd you Queen.
For thee, thou great Britannia of our Land,
How does thy Praise our tunefull Feet command?
With what great influence do thy Verses move? }
How hast thou shewn the various sense of Love? }
Admir'd by us, and blest by all above. }
To you all tribute's due, and I can raise
No glory but by speaking in your praise.
Go on and bless us dayly with your Pen,
And we shall oft return thee thanks again.
H. Watson.