by Homer
The blood so from their faces that it left
A greenish paleness; all their hands it reft
Of all their weapons, falling thence to earth;
And to the common mother of their birth,
The city, all fled, in desire to save
The lives yet left them. Then Ulysses gave
A horrid shout, and like Jove’s eagle flew
In fiery pursuit, till Saturnius threw
His smoking lightning ’twixt them, that had fall
Before Minerva, who then out did call
Thus to Ulysses: ‘Born of Jove! Abstain
From further bloodshed. Jove’s hand in the slain
Hath equall’d in their pains their prides to thee.
Abstain, then, lest you move the deity.’
Again then ’twixt both parts the seed of Jove,
Athenian Pallas, of all future love
A league compos’d, and for her form took choice
Of Mentor’s likeness both in limb and voice.
The end of the twenty-fourth book
So wrought divine Ulysses through his woes,
So crown’d the light with him his mother’s throes,
As through his great renowner I have wrought,
And my safe sail to sacred anchor brought.
Nor did the Argive ship more burthen feel,
That bore the care of all men in her keel,
Than my adventurous bark; the Colchian fleece
Not half so precious as this soul of Greece,
In whose songs I have made our shores rejoice,
And Greek itself vail to our English voice.
Yet this inestimable pearl will all
Our dunghill chanticleers but obvious call,
Each modern scraper this gem scratching by,
His oat preferring far. Let such let lie.
So scorn the stars the clouds, as true-soul’d men
Despise deceivers. For, as clouds would fain
Obscure the stars, yet (regions left below
With all their envies) bar them but of show,
For they shine ever, and will shine, when they
Dissolve in sinks, make mire, and temper clay:
So puff’d impostors (our muse-vapours) strive,
With their self-blown additions, to deprive
Men solid of their full, though infinite short
They come in their compare, and false report
Of levelling or touching at their light,
That still retain their radiance, and clear right,
And shall shine ever, when, alas, one blast
Of least disgrace tears down th’ impostor’s mast,
His tops and tacklings, his whole freight, and he
Confiscate to the fishy monarchy,
His trash, by foolish Fame brought now, from hence
Giv’n to serve mackerel forth, and frankincense.
Such then, and any too soft-eyed to see,
Through works so solid, any worth, so free
Of all the learn’d professions, as is fit
To praise at such price, let him think his wit
Too weak to rate it, rather than oppose
With his poor pow’rs ages and hosts of foes.
To the ruins of Troy and Greece
Troy rac’t, Greece wrack’t, who mourns? Ye both may boast,
Else th’ Iliads and Odysseys had been lost!
Ad Deum
The Only True God (betwixt Whom and me
I only bound my comfort, and agree
With all my actions) only truly knows,
And can judge truly, me, with all that goes
To all my faculties. In Whose free Grace
And Inspiration I only place
All means to know (with my means, study, prayer,
In and from His Word taken) stair by stair,
In all continual contentation, rising
To knowledge of His Truth, and practising
His Will in it, with my sole Saviour’s Aid,
Guide, and Enlight’ning; nothing done, nor said,
Nor thought, that good is, but acknowledg’d by
His Inclination, Skill, and Faculty.
By which, to find the way out to His Love
Past all the worlds, the sphere is where doth move
My studies, pray’rs, and pow’rs; no pleasure taken
But sign’d by His, for which, my blood forsaken,
My soul I cleave to, and what (in His Blood
That hath redeem’d, cleansed, taught her) fits her good.
Deo Opt. Max. gloria
Finis