THE EAGLE.
Tis madness sure; and I am in the fit,
To dare an eagle with my unfledg'd wit.
For what did ever Rome or Athens sing
In all their lines, as lofty as his wing?
He that an eagle's powers would rehearse
Should with his plumes first feather all his verse.
I know not, when into thee I would pry,
Which to admire, thy wing first, or thine eye;
Or whether Nature at thy birth design'd
More of her fire for thee, or of her wind.
When thou in the clear heights and upmost air
Dost face the sun and his dispersèd hair,
Ev'n from that distance thou the sea dost spy
And sporting in its deep, wide lap, the fry.
Not the least minnow there but thou canst see:
Whole seas are narrow spectacles to thee.
Nor is this element of water here
Below of all thy miracles the sphere.
If poets ought may add unto thy store,
Thou hast in heav'n of wonders many more.
For when just Jove to earth his thunder bends,
And from that bright, eternal fortress sends
His louder volleys, straight this bird doth fly
To Ætna, where his magazine doth lie,
And in his active talons brings him more
Of ammunition, and recruits his store.
Nor is't a low or easy lift. He soars
'Bove wind and fire; gets to the moon, and pores
With scorn upon her duller face; for she
Gives him but shadows and obscurity.
Here much displeas'd, that anything like night
Should meet him in his proud and lofty flight,
That such dull tinctures should advance so far,
And rival in the glories of a star,
Resolv'd he is a nobler course to try,
And measures out his voyage with his eye.
Then with such fury he begins his flight,
As if his wings contended with his sight.
Leaving the moon, whose humble light doth trade
With spots, and deals most in the dark and shade,
To the day's royal planet he doth pass
With daring eyes, and makes the sun his glass.
Here doth he plume and dress himself, the beams
Rushing upon him like so many streams;
While with direct looks he doth entertain
The thronging flames, and shoots them back again.
And thus from star to star he doth repair,
And wantons in that pure and peaceful air.
Sometimes he frights the starry swan, and now
Orion's fearful hare, and then the crow.
Then with the orb itself he moves, to see
Which is more swift, th' intelligence or he.
Thus with his wings his body he hath brought
Where man can travel only in a thought.
I will not seek, rare bird, what spirit 'tis
That mounts thee thus; I'll be content with this,
To think that Nature made thee to express
Our soul's bold heights in a material dress.
TO MR. M. L. UPON HIS REDUCTION OF THE PSALMS INTO METHOD.
Sir,
You have oblig'd the patriarch, and 'tis known
He is your debtor now, though for his own.
What he wrote is a medley: we can see
Confusion trespass on his piety.
Misfortunes did not only strike at him,
They chargèd further, and oppress'd his pen;
For he wrote as his crosses came, and went
By no safe rule, but by his punishment.
His quill mov'd by the rod; his wits and he
Did know no method, but their misery.
You brought his Psalms now into tune. Nay all
His measures thus are more than musical;
Your method and his airs are justly sweet,
And—what's church music right—like anthems meet.
You did so much in this, that I believe
He gave the matter, you the form did give.
And yet I wish you were not understood,
For now 'tis a misfortune to be good!
Why then you'll say, all I would have, is this:
None must be good, because the time's amiss.
For since wise Nature did ordain the night,
I would not have the sun to give us light.
Whereas this doth not take the use away,
But urgeth the necessity of day.
Proceed to make your pious work as free,
Stop not your seasonable charity.
Good works despis'd or censur'd by bad times
Should be sent out to aggravate their crimes.
They should first share and then reject our store,
Abuse our good, to make their guilt the more.
'Tis war strikes at our sins, but it must be
A persecution wounds our piety.