Classic Poem

Apollo (Poets say) his Beam
On all that court his Name bestows;
And knowledg in his vales smooth stream,
Into their quickned Spirits flows;
But our chaste Muse is unbeguil'd,
Phaebus eternally exil'd
From her sublimer Poesy;
Those Temples now are overthrown,
And all the Daemons they did own
In their dumb ruines buried ly.

Those dark Impostors shall no more
Intrap us in their dangerous snares;
A Power Celestial We implore,
Enthron'd above the highest Starres:
From this Divinity alone
(The Bound of all Devotion)
Have I receiv'd a hallowed flame,
Which learns my humble Soul to rise,
And bids her aim at such a Prize,
As may inherit deathlesse Fame.

Then we an Image so divine
Of his bright Glories will reherse,
That Heav'n it self shall gladly joyn,
To justifie our sacred Verse.
For next the Altar, at whose fire
Falls prostrate the Seraphick Quire,
And Eccho their harmonious Layes,
We with a thought as innocent,
To a chaste Beauty may present
The fragrant Incense of our Praise.

Thus Sylvia from the just presage
Of my unspotted vows, shall claim
The lasting sound, which every Age
To come, a second Life will name,
But if cross Fate my verse cast down,
Ecclipsing by some Potent frown
The sacred Reliques of her Glory,
These Waters, every Rock, and Grove,
Assuming Soul, and Speech, will prove
Faithful Recorders of her Story.

If Trees that were of old renown'd
By impious Adoration, took
New spirit, and articulate sound,
From weak Diana's sickly look;
If Rivers, as along they glide,
Spoke in the Murmurs of their Tide,
What Fauns, or Fairies did inspire;
If Stubborn Rocks and senseless Stones,
Could melt with Pitty, and in Grones
Keep Time with Orpheus charming Lyre.

What stranger hardness must possess
The object of my Princess grac'd,
If quickned by that happiness,
To voice its Joyes it do not haste?
Through this proud structures daz'ling Hight,
Through this sweet Walks secure delight,
What Marble can so solid be,
But is transparent to her Eye?
What Trees and Fountains stealing by,
But own her for a Deity?

Those Oaks that most obdurate are,
Shall willingly their arms unwind;
And by themselves ungraven wear
My verse upon their Leaves, and Rind:
And every Tree, whose Top prefers
To Heaven these sacred Characters,
No storms shall offer to invade.
For whilst thus charm'd, the rough Winds may
Hope with more ease, to snatch away
Their fastned Roots, or fleeting shade.

These floating Mirrours, on whose Brow
Their various figures gently glide,
For love of her shall gently grow,
In faithful Icy fetters ty'd.
This cheerful Brooks unwrinkled face,
Shall smile within its Christal case,
To see it self made permanent,
And from Times rage secur'd, the deep
Impression of my Cyphers keep,
And my fair Princess form present.

But her unequal Praise requires
More Pens then ours to set her forth:
Behold how Heaven it self conspires
O're all the World to paint her forth!
In the bright Sun her eyes are drawn;
In the fresh Beauties of the Dawn,
Those of her blushing cheek appear:
No Power her Vertues can deface,
Until the Heavens forsake their place,
And darkned Stars drop from their sphear.

One evening, when the Azure Main
Its softer Litter did prepare
For the bright Steeds which draw the Wain
Of weary Day's declining Star,
By chance the Bed I did survey
Whereon a sleeping Naiad lay,
And Sylvia angling in the Brook:
There I beheld the Fishes strife,
Which first should sacrifice its life,
To be the Trophey of her Hook.

Whilst with one hand the Line she cast,
Commanding Silence with the other,
Her signe the Day obeying, past
More slily by her dusky Brother.
The doubtful Sun with equal awe,
Fear'd to approach or to withdraw:
The intentive Stars suspend their glowing.
No Rage the quiet Billows swell'd,
Favonius his soft breath withheld,
The listning Grass refrain'd from growing.

Her sparkling Eyes, a subtle fire
Through the undreaded streams transmit:
Whose radiant flame the waves admire,
Not daring to extinguish it.
These warring Elements (their wild
Dissention gladly reconcil'd)
Submit to her imperious Eye:
Her anger fearing to excite,
Lay down their own, forgetting quite
Their old inherent Enmity.

Soon as the Tritons her bright face
Did through their fluid windows view,
The flaming object did displace
Their humid forms, to give them new,
Whilst, with amazement extaside,
About them creeps a Stags rough hide,
And their devested figure vails:
Now wondring whence their young horns sprout,
Or how their rugged coat buds out,
Through the smooth hardness of their scales.

Griev'd at this Fate unkindly strange,
Which fixing branches on their brows,
These Deities to Beasts doth change,
And down their bashful foreheads bows;
The treacherous water they forsake,
And to the Land themselves betake,
Where trees their gloomy lodging shade,
There walk with discontented look,
Their shadow onely to that Brook
Now trusting, which themselves betray'd.

The Suns bright sister, Poets say,
Nature with newer power enclosed;
And in this figure did array
Acteon , his old shape depos'd.
The same inglorious punishment
Which to a Man, a Goddess sent,
For his profanely curious sight,
The Gods themselves have suffer'd here;
Who with bold eyes ventur'd too near
Our chaste Dianas greater light.

These dear pursued by fear, and shame,
Which from the walks and alleys drive them,
Their own deceitful fortunes blame,
That of their wonted cold deprive them.
Their hearts are now of moisture drain'd,
Nor but with timerousness restrain'd,
Look they to Heaven, or on Earth tread:
For oft as Sylvia passeth by,
She lightning darts from her black eye,
Threatning the war which still they dread.

Yet happy, and o'rejoyd are they,
To breath the air which she respires;
Living subjected to her sway,
Fate now exceeds their proud desires.
The Princess, when she did devest
Their ancient forms, of new possest,
A snowy whiteness made them bear:
Kindly bestowing on their grief,
The priviledge of this relief,
They alwayes should her livery wear.

Here a close Valley Trees protect,
With twisted branches overlai'd:
To which the Sun bears such respect,
He never violates their shade.
To wait on whom, on either side,
Two purling Rivers gently glide.
A lazy Lake sleeps at his feet,
Rous'd from his sluggish dreams by these
Self-chasing sister-Naiades,
Who kindly in his Bosom meet.

A thousand little Cupids here,
Aside their Bows and Quivers laid,
When Night is by their eyes made cleer,
Into the glittering Water wade.
Hither the Neriids resort,
To bath their purer Limbs, to sport,
And with the Loves raise harmless wars,
Diana from her silver Wain
Descending, leaves her drowsie Swain,
To swim amongst these naked Stars.

Ith'midst is plac'd a little Isle,
Crownd by an Arbours shady Crest,
Where Spring eternal seems to smile,
With flowers by careful Nature drest.
Hither each morn, and night, repair
The featherd Choristers oth'air,
To give their various passions vent:
The Nightingale above the rest,
Her joyes in this soft language drest,
Doth to fair Sylvias ear present.

I, who so oft the Eastern Bowers
Visit, my sacred Hymns to sing;
And view the spicy sweets, the Flowers,
With all the rich Embellishing
Of Gold, Pearls, Rubies, which the Morn
Takes her fair Tresses to adorn;
And that bright flame with which she dies
(Stoln from the Sun) her pale Cheeks,
When she to seem most lovely seeks
In her deer Cephalus his Eyes.

Daily the Woods fair Queen I see
With nimble feet the Thickets trace,
Who, list'ning to my Harmony,
Stands often still, and leaves the Chace.
But I the Heavens, and Gods attest,
By whom with Life and Musick blest;
Thy Eyes, in their least glance, disclose
More Beauties, a diviner fire,
And in my Song more Life inspire,
Then all the Grace that either owes.

Enough, enough, sweet Philomel !
We now this happy Park must leave;
In every part such Beauties dwell,
As our too bold attempt deceive.
Each drop that from these Fountains flows,
Each Flower that in these Gardens grows,
The fruit on every Tree or Wall,
Are the just subject of all praise:
What then must be the glorious raies,
Of Sylvias Eyes, that guild them all.