Classic Poem

Sherburn, I greet thee next, nor can decide
Whether thou more art my delight, or pride.
O my defence and sweetest Ornament!
Whose flame inspires me, now my owne is spent.
Kind was the storm, which both for shelter drave,
Like Dido and Æneas, to one Cave.
By fortune our acquaintance there begot;
Confirm'd by choice, up into friendship shot;
Our willing spirits quickly understood
The double Ty of Sympathy and Blood.
Thy share in publick griefs thou didst allay
By Conversation then with Seneca:
That great Philosopher, who had design'd
To life the various passions of the mind,
Did wrong'd Medea's jealousy prefer
To entertain the Romane Theater,
Both to instruct the Soule and please the Sight,
At once begetting horrour and delight.
This Cruelty thou didst once more expresse,
Though in a strange, no lesse becoming dresse,
And her Revenge did'st rob of half its pride
To see it selfe thus by it selfe out-vy'd;
Whil'st boldest Ages past might say, our Times
Could speak, as well as act their highest Crimes.
Nor was't enough t'afford his Scene this due,
But what thou gav'st to us, as kindly too
Thou wou'd'st bestow on him, nor wert more just
Unto the Authors work, then to his Dust;
Thou didst make good his Title, aid his Claim,
Both vindicate his Poem and his Name,
So shar'st a double wreath; for all that wee
Unto the Poet ow, he owes to thee.
Tho' change of Tongues stol'n praise to some afford,
Thy Version has not borrow'd, but restor'd.
Next I remember well, thou didst distill
The Prose of Seneca through thy smooth Quill
Into soft Numbers, such as might preferre
The Poet high as the Philosopher;
And thy great Master was well pleas'd to see
His Epicedium writ by Loyall Thee.
He dead, Thou did'st withdraw from thence, an air
More innocent choosing with me to share,
Begg'ring the place guilty of Royall Blood,
By bringing from it all was left of good.
There thy retirement, suiting with their strain,
French and Italian Poets entertain;
And lest such strangers should converse alone,
Didst Civilly mix with their songs thy own,
Till Ravish'd thence by a desire to view
The happy Regions where those Laurells grew:
Where haveing gather'd all the learned store
Which scatter'd lay in severall Lands before,
Back to thy longing Country didst thou come,
And gratefully unlade thy freight at home.
To this great end Manilius, who had long
The Spheres oblig'd and rivalld by his song,
Was chosen by his thankfull starrs to be
The subject of a sweeter Harmony.
But first (as to great Seneca before)
The Author to his work thou didst restore;
And Marcus, if not Noble, Free at least,
Of what the Bondman seiz'd is repossest.
His Poem then thou didst sing o're again
In such a Noble, yet so sweet a strain
As might at once his pride and envy raise,
To hear himselfe out-sung in his owne Laies.
Yet (as in Rivers, where they smiling creep
Gently along, the waters are most deep)
All who, till now, on the smooth surface sail'd,
To fathom the vast depth dispair'd, or fail'd.
This thou hast done, whose Notes like Sea-marks stand
To guide us to the new discover'd Land;
Upon the Author's Triumph all the rest
Attend, who e're Astronomy possest,
Of whom the more obscure are proud to bee
Crown'd by thy hand with Immortality,
And they who were from death secur'd by fame
Congratulate th'accession of thy Name.