Dear woman, now, and I will be to you
The faithfull'st slave that ever mistress serv'd;
Never poor soul shall be more dutiful,
To do whatever you command, than I.
No toil will I refuse, so that I may
Keep this poor body clean and undeflower'd,
Which is all I will ever seek. For know,
It is not fear of death lays me thus low,
But of that stain will make my death to blush."
All this would nothing move the woman's
heart,
[sought;
Whom yet she would not leave, but still be-
"Q woman, by that infant at your breast,
And by the pains it cost you at the birth,
Save me, as ever you desire to have
Your babe to joy and prosper in the world:
Which will the better prosper sure, if you
Shall mercy shew, which is with mercy paid!"
Then kisses she her feet, then kisses too
The infant's feet; and "Oh, sweet babe,"
(said she)
[me,
"Could'st thou but to thy mother speak for
And crave her to have pity on my case,
Thou might'st perhaps prevail with her so
much,
[speak."
Although I cannot; child, ah, could'st thou
T'he infant, whether by her touching it,
Or by instinct of nature, seeing her weep,
Looks earnestly upon her, and then looks
Upon the mother, then on her again,
And then it cries, and then on either looks:
Which she perceiving; "blessed child," (said
she)
[cry

And there this woeful maid for two years'
space

Did serve, and truly serve, this captain's wife,
(Who would not lose the benefit of her
Attendance, for her profit otherwise)
But daring not in such a place as that
To trust herself in woman's habit, crav'd
That she might be apparel'd like a boy;
And so she was, and as a boy she serv❜d.
At two years' end her mistress sends her forth
Unto the port for some commodities, [down,
Which, whilst she sought for, going up and
She heard some merchantmen of Corinth talk,
Who spake that language the Arcadians did,
And were next neighbors of one continent.
To them, all rapt with passion, down she
kneels,

Tells them she was a poor distressed boy,
Born in Arcadia, and by pirates took,
And made a slave in Egypt and besought
Them, as they fathers were of children, or
Did hold their native country dear, they would
Take pity on her, and relieve her youth
From that sad servitude wherein she liv'd :
For which she hoped that she had friends alive
Would thank them one day, and reward them
too;

If not, yet that she knew the heav'ns would do.
The merchants, mov'd with pity of her case,
Being ready to depart, took her with them,
And landed her upon her country coast:
Where, when she found herself, she prostrate
falls,

"Although thou can'st not speak, yet dost thou
Unto thy mother for me. Hear thy child,
Dear mother, it's for me it cries,
It's all the speech it hath. Accept those cries,
Save me at his request from being defil'd:
Let pity move thee, that thus moves thy child."
The woman, tho' by birth and custom rude,
Yet, having veins of nature, could not be
But pierceable, did feel at length the point
Of pity enter so, as out gush'd tears,
(Not usual to stern eyes) and she besought
Her husband to bestow on her that prize,
With safeguard of her body at her will.
The captain, seeing his wife, the child, the A chaste, and spotless maid."

Kisses the ground, thanks gives unto the gods,
Thanks them who had been her deliverers,
And on she trudges through the desart woods,
Climbs over craggy rocks, and mountains steep,
Wades thorough rivers, struggles thorough
Sustained only by the force of love, [bogs,
Until she came unto her native plains,
Unto the fields where first she drew her breath.
There she lifts up her eyes, salutes the air,
Salutes the trees, the bushes, flow'rs and all:
And, "Oh, dear Sirthis, here I am," said she,
"Here, notwithstanding all my miseries,
the same I ever was to thee; a pure,

nymph,

All crying to him in this piteous sort,
Felt his rough nature shaken too, and grants
His wife's request, and seals his grant with
tears;

And so they wept all four for company :
And some beholders stood not with dry eyes;
Such passion wrought the passion of their prize.
Never was there pardon, that did take
Condemned from the block, more joyful than
This grant to her. For all her misery
Seem'd nothing to the comfort she receiv'd,
By being thus saved from impurity;
And from the woman's feet she would not part,
Nor trust her hand to be without some hold
Of her, or of the child, so long as she remain'd
Within the ship, which in few days arrives
At Alexandria, whence these pirates were ;

I am,

$ 90.

The Praise of Poetry. COWLEY
"Tis not a pyramid of marble stone,
Though high as our ambition;
'Tis not a tomb cut out in brass, which can
Give life to th' ashes of a man,
But verses only; they shall fresh appear
Whilst there are men to read or hear,
When time shall make the lasting brass decav,
And eat the pyramid away,

Turning that monument wherein men trust
Their names to what it keeps, poor dust;
Then shall the epitaph remain, and be
New graven in eternity.

Poets by death are conquer'd, but the wit
Of poets triumphs over it.
[took
What cannot verse? When Thracian Orpheus
His lyre, and gently on it strook,

The learned stones came dancing all along,
And kept time to the charming song.
With artificial pace the warlike pine,
The elm and his wife the ivy twine,

Where thousand beauteous shes about you

move,

And by high fare are pliant made to love.
We all ere long must render up our breath;

With all the better trees, which erst had stood No cave or hole can shelter us from death.

Unmov'd, forsook their native wood.
The laurel to the poet's hand did bow,
Craving the honour of his brow;
And ev'ry loving arm embrac'd, and made
With their officious leaves a shade.

The beasts, too, strove his auditors to be,
Forgetting their old tyranny:

The fearful hart next to the lion came,
And the wolf was shepherd to the lamb.
Nightingales, harmless syrens of the air,

Since life is so uncertain and so short,
Let's spend it all in feasting and in sport.
Come, worthy sir! come with me, and partake
All the great things that mortals happy make.
Alas! what virtue hath sufficient arms
T'oppose bright honour and soft pleasure's

charms?

What wisdom can their magic force repel?
It draws this rev'rend hermit from his cell.
It was the time, when witty poets tell,

And muses of the place, were there; [found" That Phoebus into Thetis' bosom fell:
Who, when their little windpipes they had
Unequal to so strange a sound,
O'ercome by art and grief, they did expire,
And fell upon the conqu'ring lyre.
Happy, O happy they! whose tomb might be,
Mausolus! envied by thee!

§ 91. The Country Mouse. COWLEY.
AT the large foot of a fair hollow tree,
Close to plough'd ground, seated commodiously,
His ancient and hereditary house,
There dwelt a good substantial Country Mouse,
Frugal, and grave, and careful of the main.
A City Mouse, well coated, sleek, and gay,
A mouse of high degree, which lost his way,
Wantonly walking forth to take the air,
Had arriv'd early, and belighted there
For a day's lodging. The good hearty host
(The ancient plenty of his hall to boast)
Did all the stores produce that might excite,
With various tastes, the courtier's appetite :
Fitches and beans, peason, and oats, and wheat,
And a large chestnut, the delicious meat
Which Jove himself, were he a mouse, would

eat.

And for a hautgout, there was mix'd with these
The swerd of bacon, and the coat of cheese,
The precious relics which at harvest he
Had gather'd from the reaper's luxury.
Freely (said he) fall on, and never spare,
The bounteous gods will for to-morrow care.
And thus at ease on beds of straw they lay,
And to their genius sacrific'd the day:
Yet the nice guest's Epicurean mind [kind)
(Though breeding made him civil seem and
Despis'd this country feast, and still his
thought

Upon the cakes and pies of London wrought.
Your bounty and civility (said he)
Which I'm surpris'd in these rude parts to see,
Shews that the gods have given you a mind
Too noble for the fate which here you find.
Why should a soul so virtuous and so great
Lose itself thus in an obscure retreat?
Let savage beasts lodge in a country den,
You should see towns, and manners know,

She blush'd at first, and then put out the light,
And drew the modest curtains of the night."
Plainly, the truth to tell, the sun was set,
When to the town our weary'd trav❜llers get.
To a lord's house, as lordly as can be,
Made for the use of pride and luxury,
They come; the gentle courtier at the door
Stops, and will hardly enter in before;
But 'tis, sir, your command, and being so,
I'm sworn t' obedience; and so in they go.
Behind a hanging in a spacious room,
(The richest work of Mortlake's noble loom)
They wait awhile, their weary'd limbs to rest
Till silence should invite them to their feast,
"About the hour that Cynthia's silver light
Had touch'd the pale meridies of the night."
At last, the various supper being done,
It happen'd that the company was gone
Into a room remote, servants and all,
To please their noble fancies with a ball.
Our host leads forth his stranger, and does find
All fitted to the bounties of his mind.
Still on the table half-fill'd dishes stood,
And with delicious bits the floor was strew'd.
The courteous mouse presents him with the
And both with fat varieties are bless'd: [best,
Th' industrious peasant ev'ry where does range,
And thanks the gods for his life's happy
change.

Lo! in the midst of a well-freighted pie
They both at last, glutted and wanton, lie:
When,-see the sad reverse of prosp'rous fate,
And what fierce storms on mortal glories wait-
With hideous noise, down the rude servants
come,

Six dogs before run barking into the room;
The wretched gluttons fly with wild affright,
And hate the fulness which retards their
flight.

Our trembling peasant wishes now, in vain,
That rocks and mountains cover'd him again.
Oh how the change of his poor life he curs'd'
This of all lives, said he, is sure the worst.
Give me again, ye gods! my cave and wood;
With peace, let tares and acorns be my food.

92. Drinking. CoWLEY.
THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again.

§ 97. Pathetic Farewell of Leonidas to his | Its strong compunction. Down the hero's

Wife and Family.

I SEE, I feel thy anguish, nor my soul
Has ever known the prevalence of love,
E'er prov'd a father's fondness, as this hour;
Nor, when most ardent to assert my fame,
Was once my heart insensible to thee.
How had it stain'd the honors of my name
To hesitate a moment, and suspend
My country's fate, till shameful life preferr'd,
By my inglorious colleague left no choice,
But what in me were infamy to shun,
Not virtue to accept! Then deem no more
That, of my love regardless, or thy tears,
I haste uncall'd to death. The voice of fate,
The gods, my fame, my country, bid me bleed.
O thou dear mourner! wherefore streams
afresh
[renew'd
That flood of woe? Why heaves with sighs

That tender breast? Leonidas must fall.
Alas! far heavier misery impends
O'er thee and these, if, soften'd by thy tears,
I shamefully refuse to yield that breath,
Which justice, glory, liberty, and Heaven
Claim for my country, for my sons, and thee.
Think on my long unalter'd love. Reflect
On my paternal fondness. Has my heart
E'er known a pause of love, or pious care?
Now shall that care, that tenderness, be prov'd
Most warm and faithful. When thy husband
dies

cheek,
[woe,
Down flows the manly sorrow. Great in
Amid his children, who enclose him round,
He stands indulging tenderness and love
In graceful tears, when thus, with lifted eyes,
Address'd to Heaven: Thou ever-living Pow'r,
Look down propitious, Sire of gods and men!
And to this faithful woman, whose desert
May claim thy favor, grant the hours of peace.
And thou, my great forefather, son of Jove,
SO Hercules, neglect not these thy race!
But, since that spirit I from thee derive
Now bears me from them to resistless fate,
Do thou support their virtue! Be they taught,
Like thee, with glorious labor life to grace,
And from their father let them learn to die!

98. Characters of Teribazus and Ariana.
AMID the van of Persia was a youth
Nam'd Teribazus, not for golden stores,
Not for wide pastures travers'd o'er with herds,
With bleating thousands, or with bounding
steeds;

Nor yet for pow'r, nor splendid honors, fam'd.
Rich was his mind in ev'ry art divine,
And through the paths of science had he
The votary of wisdom. In the years [walk'd
When tender down invests the ruddy cheek,
He with the Magi turn'd the hallow'd page
Of Zoroaster; then his tow'ring soul
High on the plumes of contemplation soar'd,
And from the lofty Babylonian fane [sphere,
With learn'd Chaldeans trac'd the mystic
There number'd o'er the vivid fires that gleam
Upon the dusky bosom of the night.
Nor on the sands of Ganges were unheard
The Indian sages from sequester'd bow'rs,
While, as attention wonder'd, they disclos'd
The pow'rs of nature; whether in the woods,
The fruitful glebe or flow'r, or healing plant,
The limpid waters, or the ambient air,
[hearts Or in the purer element of fire.

For Lacedæmon's safety, thou wilt share,
Thou and thy children, the diffusive good.
Should I, thus singled from the rest of men ;
Alone intrusted by th' immortal gods
With pow'r to save a people; should my soul
Desert that sacred cause, thee too I yield
To sorrow and to shame for thou must weep
With Lacedæmon, must with her sustain
Thy painful portion of oppression's weight.
Thy sons behold, now worthy of their names,
And Spartan birth. Their growing bloom
must pine

In shame and bondage, and their youthful
Beat at the sound of liberty no more.
On their own virtue and their father's fame,
When he the Spartan freedom hath confirm'd,
Before the world illustrious shall they rise,
Their country's bulwark, and their mother's
joy.

Here paus'd the patriot. With religious awe
Grief heard the voice of virtue. No complaint
The solemn silence broke. Tears ceas'd to
flow;

Ceas'd for a moment, soon again to stream.
For now, in arms before the palace rang'd,
His brave companions of the war demand
Their leader's presence; then her griefs re-
new'd,

Too great for utt'rance, intercept her sighs,
And freeze each accent on her falt'ring tongue.
In speechless anguish, on the hero's breast
She sinks. On ev'ry side his children press,
Hang on his knees, and kiss his honor'd hand.
His soul no longer struggles to confine

The fertile plains where great Sesostris reign'd,
Mysterious Egypt, next the youth survey'd,
From Elephantis, where impetuous Nile
Precipitates his waters to the sea,
Which far below receives the sevenfold stream.
Thence o'er th' Ionic coast he stray'd: nor
pass'd

Miletus by, which once enraptur'd heard
The tongue of Thales; nor Priene's walls,
Where wisdom dwelt with Bias; nor the seat
Of Pittacus, along the Lesbian shore.
Here too melodious numbers charm'd his ears,
Which flow'd from Orpheus, and Musæus old,
And thee, O father of immortal verse,
Mæonides, whose strains through every age
Time with his own eternal lips shall sing.
Back to his native Susa then he turn'd
His wand'ring steps. His merit soon was dear
To Hyperanthes, generous and good:
And Ariana, from Darius sprung
With Hyperanthes, of th' imperial race
Which rul'd th' extent of Asia, in disdain