Their afhes no diftinction had;

Too truly all by death are equal made.

The ghosts of those great heroes that had fled

From Athens, long fince banished,

Now o'er the city hovered;

Their anger yielded to their love,

They left th' immortal joys above,
So much their Athens' danger did them move.
They came to pity, and to aid,

But now, alas! were quite dismay'd,
When they beheld the marbles open lay'd,
And poor men's bones the noble urns invade;
Back to the bleffed feats they went,

And now did thank their banishment,

By which they were to die, in foreign countries fent.

XXXI.

But what, great Gods! was worst of all, Hell forth its magazines of luft did call,

Nor would it be content

With the thick troops of fouls were thither fent ;

Into the upper world it went.

Such guilt, fuch wickedness,

Such irreligion did increase,

That the few good which did furvive

Were angry with the plague for fuffering them to live,: More for the living than the dead did grieve.

Some robb'd the very dead,

Though fure to be infected ere they fled,
Though in the very air fure to be punished.

Some nor the fhrines nor temples fpar'd,

Nor Gods nor Heavens fear'd,

Though fuch example of their power appear'd.
Virtue was now efteem'd an empty name,
And Honefty the foolish voice of fame;

For, having paft thofe torturing flames before, They thought the punishment already o'er,

Thought heaven no worse torments had in store; Here having felt one hell, they thought there was no more.

Upon the Poems of the English Ovid, Anacreon, Pindar, and Virgil, ABRAHAM COWLEY,

L

in Imitation of his own Pindaric Odes.

I.

ET all this meaner rout of books stand by

The common people of our library ;

Let them make way for Cowley's leaves to come,
And be hung up within this facred room :
Let no prophane hands break the chain,
Or give them unwish'd liberty again,
But let his holy relick be laid here,
With the fame religious care
As Numa once the target kept,
Which down from heaven leapt ;
Juft fuch another is this book,

Which its original from divine hands took,

And brings as much good too, to those that on it look.

But

But yet in this they differ. That could be
Eleven times liken'd by a mortal hand;

But this which here doth stand
Will never any of its own fort fee,
But muft ftill live without fuch company.
For never yet was writ,

In the two learned ages which Time left behind,
Nor in this ever fhall we find,

Nor any one like to it,

Of all the numerous monuments of wit.

II.

Cowley! what God did fill thy breast,
And taught thy hand t' indite

(For God 's a poct too,

He doth create, and fo do you?)

Or elfe at least

What angel fat upon thy pen when thou didst write? There he fat, and mov'd thy hand,

As proud of his command,

As when he makes the dancing orbs to reel
And fpins out poetry from heaven's wheel.
Thy hand too, like a better sphere,

Gives us more ravishing music made for men to hear.
Thy hand too, like the fun which angels move,
Has the fame influence from above,

Produces gold and silver of a nobler kind;

Of greater price, and more refin'd.

Yet in this it exceeds the fun, 't has no degenerate race, Brings forth no lead, nor any thing so base.

The madness which great Solon did of late
But only counterfeit

For the advantage of the state,
Now his fucceffors do too truly imitate.

XXIII.

Up ftarts the foldier from his bed,

He, though death's fervant, is not freed. Death him cashier'd, 'cause now his help she did not need. He that ne'er knew before to yield,

Or to give back, or leave the field,

Would fain now from himself have fled.
He fnatch'd his fword now rufted o'er,
Dreadful and fparkling now no more,
And thus in open streets did roar ;
How have I, Death, fo ill deferv'd of thee,
That now thyself thou should'st revenge on me?
Have I fo many lives on thee bestow'd?

Have I the earth so often dy'd in blood?
Have I, to flatter thee, fó many flain?
And must I now thy prey remain ?

Let me at least, if I must die,
Meet in the field fome gallant enemy.
Send, gods, the Perfian troops again :
No, they're a base and a degenerate train ;

They by our women may be flain.

Give me, great heavens, some manful foes,

Let me my death amidst some valiant Grecians choose, Let me furvive to dye at Syracuse,

Where my dear country shall her glory lofe. For you, great Gods! into my mind infuse,

What

What miferies, what doom,

Muft on my Athens fhortly come !
My thoughts infpir'd prefage,

Slaughters and battles to the coming age:
Oh! might I dye upon that glorious stage:
Oh! that! but then he grafp'd his fword, and death
concludes his rage.

XXIV.

Draw back, draw back thy fword, O Fate!
Left thou repent when 'tis too late.
Left, by thy making now fo great a waste,
By fpending all mankind upon one feast,
Thou ftarve thyfelf at last :

What men wilt thou referve in store,
Whom in the time to come thou may'ft devour,
When thou fhalt have deftroyed all before?
But, if thou wilt not yet give o'er,

If yet thy greedy ftomach calls for more,
If more remain whom thou must kill,
And if thy jaws are craving ftill,

Carry thy fury to the Scythian coafts,
The northern wilderness and eternal frofts!
Against thofe barbarous crowds thy arrows whet,
Where arts and laws are ftrangers yet;

Where thou may'st kill, and yet the lofs will not be great.
There rage, there fpread, and there infect the air,
Murder whole towns and families there,
Thy worst against thofe favage nations dare,
Those whom mankind can spare,

Those whom mankind itself doth fear;