BY SIR JOHN DENHAM.
URE there are poets which did never dream Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream
Of Helicon; we therefore may fuppofe Those made not poets, but the poets those : And as courts make not kings, but kings the court, So where the Muses and their train refort, Parnassus stands; if I can be to thee A poet, thou Parnassus art to me: Nor wonder, if (advantag'd in my flight, By taking wing from thy aufpicious height) Through untrac'd ways and airy paths I fly, More boundless in my fancy than my eye; My eye, which swift as thought contracts the space That lies between, and first falutes the place Crown'd with that facred pile, so vast, so high, That whether 'tis a part of earth, or sky, Uncertain feems, and may be thought a proud Afpiring mountain, or descending cloud.
Paul's, the late theme of such a Muse * whose flight Has bravely reach'd and foar'd above thy height: Now shalt thou stand, tho' fword, or time, or fire, Or zeal more fierce than they, thy fall confpire, Secure, whilst thee the best of poets fings, Preferv'd from ruin by the best of kings. Under his proud survey the city lies, And like a mist beneath a hill doth rife; Whose state and wealth, the business and the crowd, Seems at this distance but a darker cloud;
And is to him who rightly things esteems, No other in effect than what it seems :
Where, with like haste, tho' sev'ral ways, they run, Some to undo, and some to be undone; While luxury and wealth, like war and peace, Are each the others ruin, and increase; As rivers lost in seas, some secret vein Thence re-conveys, there to be lost again, Oh, happiness of sweet retir'd content! To be at once secure, and innocent. Windfor the next (where Mars with Venus dwells, Beauty with strength) above the valley swells. Into my eye, and doth itself present With such an easy and unforc'd ascent, That no stupendous precipice denies Access, no horror turns away our eyes; But such a rise, as doth at once invite A pleasure and a reverence from the fight, Thy mighty master's emblem, in whose face Sate meekness, heighten'd with majestick grace; Such seems thy gentle height, made only proud To be the basis of that pompous load, Than which, a nobler weight no mountain bears, But Atlas only which supports the spheres. When Nature's hand this ground did thus advance, 'Twas guided by a wiser pow'r than chance; Mark'd out for fuch an use, as if 'twere meant T' invite the builder, and his choice prevent. Nor can we call it choice, when what we chuse, Folly or blindness only cou'd refuse, A crown of such majestick tow'rs does grace: The gods great mother, when her heav'nly race Do homage to her, yet she cannot boaft Among that num'rous, and celestial host, : More heroes than can Windfor, nor doth fame's Immortal book record more noble names.
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Not to look baek so far, to whom this isle Owes the first glory of so brave a pile, Whether to Cæfar, Albanact, or Brute, The British Arthur, or the Danish Knute, (Tho' this of old no less contest did move, Than when for Homer's birth sev'n cities strove) (Like him in birth, thou should'st be like in fame, As thine his fate, if mine had been his flame) But whosoe'er it was, Nature design'd First a brave place, and then as brave a mind. Not to recount those sev'ral kings, to whom It gave a cradle, or to whom a tomb; But thee, great Edward *, and thy greater son, (The lilies which his father wore, he won) And thy Bellona †, who the confort came Not only to thy bed, but to thy fame, She to thy triumph led one captive king 1, And brought that son, which did the second bring. Then didst thou found that order (whether love Or victory thy royal thoughts did move) Each was a noble cause, and nothing less Than the design, has been the great success; Which foreign kings, and emperors esteem The fecond honour to their diadem. Had thy great destiny but giv'n thee skill To know, as well as pow'r to act her will, That from those kings, who then thy captives were, In after-times should spring a royal-pair Who should poffefs all that thy mighty pow'r, Or thy defires more mighty, did devour: To whom their better fate referves whate'er The victor hopes for, or the vanquish'd fear;
That blood, which thou and thy great grandfire shed,
And all that fince these sister nations bled,
Had been unspilt, had happy Edward known
That all the blood he spilt, had been his own. When he that patron chose in whom are join'd
Soldier and martyr, and his arms confin'd Within the azure circle, he did seem
But to foretel, and prophesy of him,
Who to his realms that azure round hath join'd, Which Nature for their bound at first design'd. That bound, which to the world's extremest ends, Endless itself, it's liquid arms extends. Nor doth he need those emblems which we paint, But is himself the soldier and the faint.
Here should my wonder dwell, and here my praise, But my fix'd thoughts my wand'ring eye betrays, Viewing a neighb'ring hill, whose top of late A chapel crown'd, till in the common fate. Th' adjoining abbey fell: (may no such storm Fall on our times, where ruin must reform!) Tell me, my Muse, what monstrous dire offence, What crime could any Christian king incense To fuch a rage? Was't luxury, or luft? Was he so temperate, so chaste, so just? Were these their crimes? They were his own much more: But wealth is crime enough to him that's poor, Who having spent the treasures of his crown, Condemns their luxury to feed his own. And yet this act, to varnish o'er the shame Of facrilege, must bear devotion's name. No crime so bold, but would be understood A real, or at least a seeming good: Who fears not to do ill, yet fears the name, And free from conscience, is a slave to fame : Thus he the church at once protects, and spoils: But princes swords are sharper than their styles.
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