The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume VI

by Aphra Behn

Hail Sacred Wadham! whom the Muses Grace
And from the Rest of all the Reverend Pile;
Of Noble Pallaces, design'd thy Space:
Where they in soft retreat might dwell.
They blest thy Fabrick, and said—Do thou,
Our Darling Sons contain;
We thee our Sacred Nursery Ordain,
They said and blest, and it was so.
And if of old the Fanes of Silvian Gods,
Were worshipt as Divine Abodes;
If Courts are held as Sacred Things,
For being the Awful Seats of Kings.
What Veneration should be paid,
To thee that hast such wondrous Poets made.
To Gods for fear, Devotion was design'd,
And Safety made us bow to Majesty;
Poets by Nature Aw and Charm the Mind,
Are born not made by dull Religion or Necessity.

The Learned Thirsis did to thee belong,
Who Athens Plague has so divinely Sung.
Thirsis to wit, as sacred friendship true,
Paid Mighty Cowley's Memory its due.
Thirsis who whilst a greater Plague did reign,
Then that which Athens did Depopulate:
Scattering Rebellious Fury o're the Plain,
That threaten'd Ruine to the Church and State,
Unmov'd he stood, and fear'd no Threats of Fate.
That Loyal Champion for the Church and Crown,
That Noble Ornament of the Sacred Gown,
Still did his Soveraign's Cause Espouse,
And was above the Thanks of the mad Senate-house.
Strephon the Great, whom last you sent abroad,
Who Writ, and Lov'd, and Lookt like any God;
For whom the Muses mourn, the Love-sick Maids
Are Languishing in Melancholly Shades.
The Cupids flag their Wings, their Bows untie,
And useless Quivers hang neglected by,
And scatter'd Arrows all around 'em lye.
By murmuring Brooks the careless Deities are laid,
Weeping their rifled power now Noble Strephon's Dead.

Ah Sacred Wadham! should'st thou never own
But this delight of all Mankind and thine;
For Ages past of Dulness, this alone,
This Charming Hero would Attone.
And make thee Glorious to succeeding time;
But thou like Natures self disdain'st to be,
Stinted to Singularity.
Even as fast as she thou dost produce,
And over all the Sacred Mystery infuse.
No sooner was fam'd Strephon's Glory set,
Strephon the Soft, the Lovely and the Great;
But Daphnis rises like the Morning-Star,
That guides the Wandring Traveller from afar.
Daphnis whom every Grace, and Muse inspires,
Scarce Strephons Ravishing Poetic Fires
So kindly warm, or so divinely Cheer.
Advance Young Daphnis, as thou hast begun,
So let thy Mighty Race be run.
Thou in thy large Poetick Chace,
Begin'st where others end the Race.
If now thy Grateful Numbers are so strong,
If they so early can such Graces show,
Like Beauty so surprizing, when so Young,
What Daphnis will thy Riper Judgment do,
When thy Unbounded Verse in their own Streams shall flow!
What Wonder will they not produce, }
When thy Immortal Fancy's loose; }
Unfetter'd, Unconfin'd by any other Muse! }
Advance Young Daphnis then, and mayst thou prove
Still sacred in thy Poetry and Love.
May all the Groves with Daphnis Songs be blest,
Whilst every Bark is with thy Disticks drest.
May Timerous Maids learn how to Love from thence
And the Glad Shepherd Arts of Eloquence.
And when to Solitude thou would'st Retreat,
May their tun'd Pipes thy Welcome celebrate.
And all the Nymphs strow Garlands at thy Feet.
May all the Purling Streams that murmuring pass,
The Shady Groves and Banks of Flowers,
The kind reposing Beds of Grass,
Contribute to their Softer Hours.
Mayst thou thy Muse and Mistress there Caress,
And may one heighten to 'thers Happiness.
And whilst thou so divinely dost Converse,
We are content to know and to admire thee in thy Sacred Verse.

To Mrs. W. On her Excellent Verses (Writ in Praise of some I had made on the Earl of Rochester) Written in a Fit of Sickness.

Enough kind Heaven! to purpose I have liv'd,
And all my Sighs and Languishments surviv'd.
My Stars in vain their sullen influence have shed,
Round my till now Unlucky Head:
I pardon all the Silent Hours I've griev'd,
My Weary Nights, and Melancholy Days;
When no Kind Power my Pain Reliev'd,
I lose you all, ye sad Remembrancers,
I lose you all in New-born Joys,
Joys that will dissipate my Falling Tears.
The Mighty Soul of Rochester's reviv'd,
Enough Kind Heaven to purpose I have liv'd.
I saw the Lovely Phantom, no Disguise,
Veil'd the blest Vision from my Eyes,
'Twas all o're Rochester that pleas'd and did surprize.
Sad as the Grave I sat by Glimmering Light,
Such as attends Departing Souls by Night.
Pensive as absent Lovers left alone,
Or my poor Dove, when his Fond Mate was gone.
Silent as Groves when only Whispering Gales,
Sigh through the Rushing Leaves,
As softly as a Bashful Shepherd Breaths,
To his Lov'd Nymph his Amorous Tales.
So dull I was, scarce Thought a Subject found,
Dull as the Light that gloom'd around;
When lo the Mighty Spirit appear'd,
All Gay, all Charming to my sight;
My Drooping Soul it Rais'd and Cheer'd,
And cast about a Dazling Light.
In every part there did appear,
The Great, the God-like Rochester,
His Softness all, his Sweetness everywhere.
It did advance, and with a Generous Look,
To me Addrest, to worthless me it spoke:
With the same wonted Grace my Muse it prais'd,
With the same Goodness did my Faults Correct;
And careful of the Fame himself first rais'd,
Obligingly it School'd my loose Neglect.
The soft, the moving Accents soon I knew
The gentle Voice made up of Harmony;
Through the Known Paths of my glad Soul it flew;
I knew it straight, it could no others be,
'Twas not Alied but very very he.
So the All-Ravisht Swain that hears
The wondrous Musick of the Sphears,
For ever does the grateful Sound retain,
Whilst all his Oaten Pipes and Reeds,
The Rural Musick of the Groves and Meads,
Strive to divert him from the Heavenly Song in vain.
He hates their harsh and Untun'd Lays,
Which now no more his Soul and Fancy raise.
But if one Note of the remembred Air
He chance again to hear,
He starts, and in a transport cries,—'Tis there.
He knows it all by that one little taste,
And by that grateful Hint remembers all the rest.
Great, Good, and Excellent, by what new way
Shall I my humble Tribute pay,
For this vast Glory you my Muse have done,
For this great Condescension shown!
So Gods of old sometimes laid by
Their Awful Trains of Majesty,
And chang'd ev'n Heav'n a while for Groves and Plains,
And to their Fellow-Gods preferr'd the lowly Swains,
And Beds of Flow'rs would oft compare
To those of Downey Clouds, or yielding Air;
At purling Streams would drink in homely Shells,
Put off the God, to Revel it in Woods and Shepherds Cells;
Would listen to their Rustick Songs, and show
Such Divine Goodness in Commending too,
Whilst the transported Swain the Honour pays
With humble Adoration, humble Praise.

The Sence of a Letter sent me, made into Verse; To a New Tune.

I.

In vain I have labour'd the Victor to prove
Of a Heart that can ne'er give Admittance to Love:
So hard to be won
That nothing so young
Could e'er have resisted a Passion so long.

II.