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POEMS

ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS,

COMPOSED AT SEVERAL TIMES.

BACCARE FRONTEM

CINGITE, NE VATI NOCEAT MALA LINGUA FUTURO.

Virgil, Eclog. 7.

POEMS

ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

I.

ANNO ETATIS XVII.

ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT, DYING OF A COUgh.

O FAIREST flower, no sooner blown but blasted,
Soft silken primrose fading timelessly,

Summer's chief honor, if thou hadst outlasted
Bleak Winter's force that made thy blossom dry!
For he, being amorous on that lovely dye

That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss,
But kill'd, alas! and then bewail'd his fatal bliss.

For since grim Aquilo, his charioteer,
By boisterous rape the Athenian damsel got,
He thought it touch'd his deity full near,
If likewise he some fair one wedded not,
Thereby to wipe away the infamous blot

Of long-uncoupled bed, and childless eld,
Which 'mongst the wanton gods a foul reproach was held,

So, mounting up in icy-pearléd car,

Through middle empire of the freezing air

He wander'd long, till thee he spied from far:
There ended was his quest, there ceased his care.
Down he descended from his snow-soft chair,

But all unawares with his cold-kind embrace,
Unhoused thy virgin soul from her fair biding place.

Yet art thou not inglorious in thy fate;
For so Apollo, with unweeting hand,
Whilome did slay his dearly-lovéd mate,

Young Hyacinth, born on Eurotas' strand,-
Young Hyacinth, the pride of Spartan land;

But then transform'd him to a purple flower: Alack, that so to change thee Winter had no power!

Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead,
Or that thy corse corrupts in earth's dark womb,
Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed,
Hid from the world in a low, delvéd tomb;
Could Heaven for pity thee so strictly doom?

Oh no! for something in thy face did shine
Above mortality, that show'd thou wast divine.
Resolve me then, O soul most surely blest!
(If so it be that thou these plaints dost hear,)
Tell me, bright spirit, where'er thou hoverest,
Whether above that high first-moving sphere,
Or in the Elysian fields, (if such there were ;)

Oh say me true, if thou wert mortal wight,
And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy flight.

Wert thou some star which from the ruin'd roof
Of shaked Olympus by mischance didst fall;
Which careful Jove in nature's true behoof
Took up, and in fit place did reinstall?
Or did of late earth's sons besiege the wall

Of sheeny Heaven, and thou some goddess fled
Amongst us here below to hide thy nectar'd head?

Or wert thou that just maid who once before
Forsook the hated earth, oh tell me sooth,
And cam'st again to visit us once more?
Or wert thou that sweet smiling youth?

Or that crown'd matron sage, white-robéd Truth?
Or any other of that heavenly brood

Let down in cloudy throne to do the world some good?

Or wert thou of the golden-wingéd host,
Who having clad thyself in human weed,
To earth from thy prefixéd seat didst post,
And after short abode fly back with speed,
As if to show what creatures Heaven doth breed,
Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire

To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heaven aspire?

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