HERO's Complaint to LEANDER.
OR com'ft thou yet, my flothful Love! nor yet Leander! Oh my Leander! can't thou forget Thy Hero? Leander, why doft thou stay,
Who holds thee! Cruel! what hath begot delay ?
Too foon alas! the Rofey-finger'd Morn
Will chase the darkfome Night, Ah me! I burn
And die in this my languishing Defire.
See fee! the Taper waftes in his own Fire,
Like me; and will be spent before thou come.
Make hafte shen my Leander, prethee come.
Behold the Winds and Seas, deaf and enrag'd,
My Imprecations have in part afswag'd;
Their Fury's paft; but thou more deaf than they,
More mercilefs, torment'ft me with delay.
If far from hence, upon thy Native Shoar,
Such high Delight thou tak'ft, why didst thou more
Incite my hot Defires with faithlefs Lines,
Flatt'ring me with Promise, that when the Winds
Became lefs high, and Shores had some Repose,
If I did but the friendly Torch expofe
To be thy Guide, thou would'ft not fail to come?
The Shores have Peace, the Winds and Seas are dumb,
Thy Hero here attends thee, and the Light
Invades the Horror of the fable Night;
Come quickly then, and in these Arms appear,
That have been oft thy chiefest Calm, thy Sphear,
Wretch that I am! 'tis fo, you Gods! 'tis fo!
Whilft here I vent to Heav'n and Seas my Woe,
He at Abydos in a newer Flame
Forgets that e'er he heard poor Hero's Name.
Ah! lighter than Bloffoms, or the fleeting Air
That sheds them; How! O how can't thou repair
Thy broken Faith! Is this the dear Respect
Thou bear'ft to Oaths and Vows, thus to negle&t
Both Cytherea and her Nun! Is this
Th'inviolable Band of Hymen! This
That knot, before the facred Altar made
Of Sea-born Venus! Heav'ns lend your Aid,
And arm your felves in Thunder! Oh! but ftay,
What vain Fear tranfports thee, Hero, away
With jealous Fury? Leander's thine, thou his;
And the poor Youth at home lamenting is
The wary Eyes of his old Parents; now
Steals from them apace unto the Shoar, now
With hafty hand doth fling his Robes from him,
And even now bold Boy attempts to fwim,
Parting the fwelling Waves with Iv'ry Arms,
Born up alone by Love's all-powerful Charms.
You gentler peaceful Winds, if ever Love
Had Dow'r in you, if ever you did prove
Leaft fpark of Cupid's Flame, for pity's fake
With fofter Gales more fmooth and eafie make
The troubled Flood unto my Soul's Delight.
You Show'rs, you Storms and Tempests black as Night,
Retire your Fury, 'till my Love appear,
And bless these Shears in safety, and I here
Within these Arms enfold my only Treasure ;
Then all in Rage and Horror fend at Pleafure
The frothy Billows high as Heaven, that he
May here be ever forc'd to dwell with me.
But hark! O wonder! what, fudden Storm is this?
Seas menace Heav'n, and the Winds do hifs,
In fcorn of this my juft Request. Retire,
Retire, my too too vent'rous Love, retire,
Tempt not the angry Seas.. Ah me! ah me!
The Light, the Light's blown our! O Gods ! O deadly
Night! Neptune, plus, ye pow'rful Deities,
Spare, O fpare my Jewel pity the Cries
And Tears of wretched Hero! 'Tis Leander
Trufts you with his Love and Life, fair Leander,
Beauty of thefe Shoars. See! fee the bashful Morn,
For forrow of my fad Laments, hath torn
Through cloudy Night a paffage to my Aid,
And here beneath amidst the horrid Shade,
By her faint Light, something methinks I fee
Refembling my Soul's Joy. Woe's me! 'tis he!
Drown'd by th' impetuous Flood. O difmal Hour!
Curft be these Seas, these Shoars, this Light, this
In fpite of Fates, dear Love, to thee I come, [Tow'r!
Leander's Bofom fhall be Hero's Tomb.
What art thou Love? whence are those Charms,
That thus thou bear'ft an univerfal Rule?
For thee the Soldier quits his Arms,
The King turns Slave, the Wifeman Fool.
In vain we chafe thee from the Field,
And with cool Thoughts refift thy Yoke;
Next Tide of Blood, alas! we yield,
And all those high Resolves are broke,
Can we e'er hope thou should't be true,
Whom we have found so often base?
Cozen'd and cheated, ftill we view
And fawn upon the treacherous Face,
In vain our Nature we accufe,
And doat because the fays we muft, This for a Brute were an Excufe, Whofe very Soul and Life is Luft.
To get our Likeness, what is that?
Our Likeness is but Mifery:
Why should I toil to propagate
Another thing as vile as I
From Hands divine our Spirits cames
And Gods that made us did inspire
Something more noble in our Frame,
Above the Dregs of earthly Fire.
Ould you know how we meet o'er our jolly
full Bowls?
As we mingle our Liquors, we mingle our Souls ;
The Sweet melts the Sharp,the Kind fooths the Strong,
And nothing but Friendship grows all the Night long:
We drink, laugh, and celebrate ev'ry Defire,
Love only remains, our unquenchable Fire.
On Mr. MILTON's Paradife Loft.
By Andrew Marvell, Efq;
Hen I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold,
In flender Book his vaft Design unfold,
Meffiah Crown'd, God's reconcil'd Decree,
Rebelling Angels, the forbidden Tree,
Heav'n, Hell, Earth, Chaos, All; the Argument
Held me a while mif-doubting his Intent,
That he would ruin (for I faw him strong).
The facred Truths to Fable and old Song,
(So Sampfon group'd the Temple's Posts in spight)
The World o'erwhelming to revenge his Sight.
Yet as I read, foon growing lefs fevere,
I lik'd his Project, the Success did fear;
Through that wide Field how he his way should find
O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind;
Left he perplext the things he would explain,
And what was eafie he should render vain.
Or if a Work fo infinite he spann'd,
Jealous I was, that fome lefs skilful Hand
(Such as difquiet always what is well,
And by ill imitating would excel)
Might hence prefume the whole Creation's day
To change in Scenes, and how it in a Play..
Pardon me, mighty Poet, nor defpife
My causeless, yet not impious, Surmife.
But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare
Within thy Labours to pretend a Share.
Thou haft not miss'd one Thought that could be fit,
And all that was improper doft omit :
So that no room is here for Writers left,
But to detect their Ignorance or Theft.
That Majefty which through thy Work doth reign
Draws the Devout, deterring the Profane.
And things divine thou treat'st of in such state-
As them preferves, and thee, inviolate.
At once Delight and Horror on us feize,
Thou fing'ft with fo much Gravity and Eafe;,
And above humane flight doft foar aloft,
With Plume fo ftrong, fo equal, and fo soft.
The Bird nam'd from that Paradise you fing
So never flags, but always keeps on Wing.
Where couldst thou Words of fuch a compass find
Whence furnish fuch a vaft expence of Mind?
Juft Heav'n thee, like Tirefias, to require,
Rewards with Frophefie thy lofs of Sight.
Well mightft thou fcorn thy Readers to allure With tinkling Rhime, of thy own Senfe fecure; While the Town-Bays writes all the while and fpells, And like a Pack-horse tires without his Bells. Their Fancies like our bushy Points appear, The Poets tag them; we for fashion wear. I too transported by the Mode offend,
And while I meant to Praise thee, muft commend. Thy Verfe created like thy Theme fublime,
In Number, Weight, and Measure, needs not Rhime,
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