All ages past record, all countries now
In various kinds such equal beauties show,

That ev'n judge Paris would not know
On whom the golden apple to bestow;
Though Goddesses t' his sentence did submit,
Women and lovers would appeal from it:
Nor durst he say, of all the female race,

This is the fovereign face.

And fome (though these be of a kind that 's rare, 'That 's much, ah, much less frequent than the fair) So equally renown'd for virtue are,

That it the mother of the Gods might pose,

When the best woman for her guide she chose.

But if Apollo should design
A woman. Laureat to make,.

Without dispute he would Orinda take,
Though Sappho and the famous Nine
Stood by, and did repine.

To be a princess, or a queen,
Is great; but 'tis a greatness always feen:
The world did never but two women know,
Who, one by fraud, th' other by wit, did rise
To the two tops of spiritual dignities;
One female pope of old, one female poet now.

Of female poets, who had names of old,

Nothing is shown, but only told, And all we hear of them perhaps may be Male-flattery only, and male-poetry.

}

Few

Few minutes did their beauty's lightning waste,
The thunder of their voice did longer last,

But that too foon was past.

The certain proofs of our Orinda's wit
In her own lasting characters are writ,
And they will long my praise of them survive,

Though long perhaps, too, that may live.

The trade of glory, manag'd by the pen,
Though great it be, and every where is found,
Does bring in but small profit to us men;
'Tis, by the number of the sharers, drown'd.
Orinda, on the female coafts of Fame,
Ingrosses all the goods of a poetic name;
She does no partner with her fee;
Does all the business there alone, which we
Are forc'd to carry on by a whole company.

But wit's like a luxuriant vine-;

Unless to virtue's prop it join,

Firm and erect towards heaven bound;

Though it with beauteous leaves and pleasant fruit

be crown'd,

It lies, deform'd and rotting, on the ground.
Now shame and blushes on us all,
Who our own sex fuperior call!
Orinda does our boasting sex out-do,
Not in wit only, but in virtue too:
She does above our best examples rife,
In hate of vice and fcorn of vanities.

}

}

Never did spirit of the manly make,
And dip'd all o'er in Learning's facred lake,
A temper more invulnerable take.
No violent paffion could an entrance find
Into the tender goodness of her mind :

Through walls of stone those furious bullets may
Force their impetuous way;

}

When her foft breast they hit, powerless and dead they

lay!

The fame of Friendship, which so long had told
Of three or four illustrious names of old,

Till hoarfe and weary with the tale she grew,
Rejoices now t' have got a new,

A new and more furprizing story,
Of fair Lucasia's and Orinda's glory.
As when a prudent man does once perceive
That in fome foreign country he must live,
The language and the manners he does strive
To understand and practice here,

That he may come no stranger there :

So well Orinda did herself prepare,
In this much different clime, for her remove
To the glad world of Poetry and Love.

VOL. I.

P

HYMN.

F

HYMN то LIGHT.

IRST-born of Chaos, who so fair didit come
From the old negro's darksome womb !
Which, when it saw the lovely child,

The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smil'd;

Thou tide of glory, which no rest dost know,

But ever ebb and ever flow!

Thou golden shower of a true Jove!

[love!

Who does in thee defcend, and heaven to earth make

Hail, active Nature's watchful life and health!

Her joy, her ornament, and wealth !

Hail to thy husband Heat, and thee !

[he!

Thou the world's beauteous bride, the lusty bridegroom

Say from what golden quivers of the fky

Do all thy winged arrows fly ?

Swiftness and power by birth are thine:

From thy great fire they came, thy fire the Word Divine.

'Tis, I believe, this archery to show,

That so much cost in colours thou,

And skill in painting, dost bestow,

Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heavenly bow.

Swift as light thoughts their empty career run,

Thy race is finish'd when begun;

Let a post-angel start with thee,

And thou the goal of earth shalt reach as foon as he.

Thou

Thou in the moon's bright chariot, proud and gay,
Dost thy bright wood of stars survey;

And all the year dost with thee bring

Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal spring.

Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above
The fun's gilt tent for ever move,

And still, as thou in pomp dost go,

:

The shining pageants of the world attend thy show.

Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn

The humble glow-worms to adorn,
And with those living spangles gild

(O greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field.

Night, and her ugly subjects, thou dost fright,

And Sleep, the lazy owl of night;
Afham'd, and fearful to appear,

They skreen their horrid shapes with the black hemisphere.
With them there hastes, and wildly takes th' alarm,

Of painted dreams a busy swarm :
At the first opening of thine eye

The various clusters break, the antic atoms fly.
The guilty ferpents, and obscener beafts,

Creep, confcious, to their secret refts:
Nature to thee does reverence pay,

Ill omens and ill fights removes out of thy way.
At thy appearance, Grief itself is faid

To shake his wings, and rouze his head:
And cloudy Care has often took

A gentle beamy smile, reftected from thy look.